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Show Friday, December 24, 1993 heads; And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, The Mon Who Gove Us Santa Claus Christmas Eve in Newport, Rhode Island, is spent celebrating an event that is a delight to every youngster from one to 100 years old. There they honor Clement C. Moore, the man who gave us the finest, jolliest Christmas present of all time: Santa Claus himself. Very few children would recognize Dr. Moore by name, but there is hardly anyone who cannot recite at least part of the poem he wrote, which he called A Visit From St. Nicholas, but which we know more fondly as "The Night Before Christmas. It is hard to imagine that the jolly Santa Claus we know today did not exist until the Christmas Eve of . 1822, when Dr. Moore set his quill pen to paper in a family mansion in the Chelsea area of New York ished writing that Christmas Eve, the Bishop had been replaced by a merry fet elf in a fur suit, and the horse's job had been taken over by Dancer, Prancer and company. Dr. Moore immediately gathered his own family about the fireplace and read for the first time the poem that has thrilled children of every generation since. The celebration in New' port is held in the home where Moore lived, during the latter years of his life. Usually one of the native sons of Newport, is togged out in proper costume, assisted by his wife and children, he then reads the poem before the fireplace, then later under floodlights in the yard, so that all the townspeople can join in the fun. There is usually a huge bonfire and singing of carols, and Santa will appear on a float with a sleigh full If it had not been for real gifts to be given later of ; Moore, we might still picthe local children's home. to ture St. Nicholas as the that originated in Europe Jimmy Van Aim orgacenturies ago, a gaunt old nized the first reading of the main in bishop's robes who poem in 1954, and the ijxjc about m a white horse town's enthusiasm has Vith igifts for good children grown at a pace that stagiijd a birch rod for bad ones. gers everywhere. They hope llWWhen Dr. 'Moore fin- - to gather in enough money to buy die Moore home as a shrine and a Christmas Museum. Out back in the coach house, they have a fine stall for each of the reindeer, Donner and Blitzen and all the rest Some may say Newport is too sentimental about Dr. Moore and his poem, but can you think of any other American who has given so much simple joy as Clement Moore? It is a fair question. One might possibly imagine the fig-U- ie -- Fourth of July without fireworks, or even Thanksgiving without turkey. But Christmas without Santa Claus never. Authorities disagree as to how much Santa was Moore's own invention. Some say he made him up almost from the word go, and others say he borrowed details from the Dutch legend. But the doctor certainly established his merry personality in such a winning way that all children have taken him to their hearts. As a matter of feet, one might say that Santa started out as a live person. His name was Jan Duyckinck, the Dutch caretaker at Moore's earlier home in k" New York. Jan was fat, jolly, and bewhiskered, and he smoked a "Stump of a Pipe. The author quite certainly had him in mind as he wrote. Dr. Moore (who, incidentally was a doctor of law and a theologian, not a physician) never intended that his poem should be printed. A friend of the family copied it down and secretly gave it to an editor of the Troy Sentinel. Once it appeared in that paper, its career was started as one of the most popular poems in history. It may have been reprinted more often than any other poem, and it has been translated in every land that knows Christmas. Strange to say. Dr. Moore was not at first pleased by its success. For years, he would not admit that he'd written it. He was a scholar of wide interests, and would much rather have gained feme for one of his more serious works, such as "A Compendious Lexicon of the Hebrew Language or his biography of King of Albania. In his latter years, however, he grew fonder of his wondrous jingle and drew from it the satisfaction that he so very Cas-tri- ot much deserved. Ssumita Claims Is Twim! T Cmmg Santa knows the greatest gifts are peace and lore. May your heart (e blessed with both. Flare Construction 336-288- 8 Coalville, Utah Jimmy Van Alen, who is so involved with Newport's celebration, and has been an editor, publisher, world traveler, national court tennis champion, writer, composer and poet, has dreamed up a modest little sequel to "A Visit From St. Nicholas, which has become a regular signature of the Christmas Eve ringing in Newport. He says, "When I was a kid, I almost thought the poem ended too soon, so I worked up a few more verses just to make the fun last longer. Besides, I used to worry about Father standing there by the open window as die poem closes. I was afraid he might catch cold, so now I've got him safely tucked into bed. I hope Dr. Moore isnt cross at me. A Visit The Summit County Bee From St. Nicholas Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house; Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of "sugar plums danced in their had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to die window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the snow, gave the lustre of mid-da- y to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted and called them by name. "Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixon, On Comet, on Cupit, on Donner and Blitzen. To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, new-fall- en dash away, dash away all As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so up to the housetop the coursers they flew, with a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney SL Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in 3A not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk and laying a finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod,, up. the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night I leant from the window, my hands on the sill, no sound broke the silence, die night was so still, 'twas hard to believe just one moment before, St. Nick and his reindeer had paced past my door. The air dear as crystal was frosty and crisp, it turned the warm breath from my lips to a whisp. Of cottony cloud just as white and as thick, as the smoke from the short stumpy pipe of St. Nick. I turned from the window and to my surprise found Mamma and the children'd not opened their eyes. I eased down the sash with the greatest of care, re fastened the shutters to foil the night air. Then softly as wildly Fd sprung from my bed, crept back, pulled the covers right up to my head. I lay in my bed, with the covers pulled high, while like troops on review each fresh mem'ry marched by. His lightness of foot and his quickness of motion. The prancing and pawing and sounds of commotion. The names of his coursers, the ash on his suit, his whistle shrill high and as clear as a flute. His twinkle and dimple, his nose like a cherry, his wink and his laugh, none was ever more merry. Then I thought, at the chimney I must take a view, to make doubly sure that Fd fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His checks were like roses, his witnessed was true. And the nose like a cherry! His droll fire's final flicker disclosed little mouth was drawn up to my eyes, the stockings like a bow, and the beard on slrechcd to three his chin was as white as the times their size. Yes, St. snow. The stump of a pipe Nick has been here, it has he held tight in his teeth, not been a dream, he had and the smoke it encircled cone and he's gone like a his head like a wreath; He phantom moonbeam. But had a broad face and a little where moonbeams that round belly, that shook vanish leave never a trace, when he laughed, like a clear proof of his visit hung howl full of jelly. He was by the fireplace. My heart full and happy, my cap chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed pulled on tight, I settled when I saw him, in spite of myself for the rest of the myself. A wink of his eye night And I whispered so and a twist of his head, soon only the good Lord would gave me to know I had hear. Bless my children, St nothing to dread. He spoke Nick, and his tiny reindeer. toy-fill- ed |