Sleigh rides

The excerpt below gives a great illustration of sleigh rides as well as the conclusion of the poem 'Twas the Night before Christmas.

There is generally snow on the ground at this time. If nature is amiable there is sure to be, and a Christmas sleigh-ride is one of those American delights that defy rivalry. There is no withstanding the merry chime of the bells, and a fleet passage over the snow-skirted roads. Town and country look as if they had arose in the morning in robes of unsullied white. Every house-top is spangled with the bright element; soft flakes are coquetting in the atmosphere; and a pure mantle has been spread on all sides, that fairly invites one to disport upon its gleaming surface.

We abide quietly within our pleasant home on either the eve or night of Christmas. How the sleighs glide by in rapid glee! the music of the bells and the songs of the excursionists falling on our ear in very tunefulness. We strive in vain tc content ourself. We glance at the cheerful fire, and hearken to the genial voices around us. We philosophize and struggle against the tokens of merriment without; but the restraint is torture. We, too, must join the revellers, and have a sleighride. Girls, get on your furs; wrap yourself up warmly in the old bear-skin; hunt up the light guitar! The sleigh is at the door, the moon is beaming, the bells tinkle, and away we go!

There is no such jollity on earth as a sleigh-ride. River excursions on the bluest of streams, pic-nics in the floweriest of dells, harvest-homes among the brownest of fields, days in the field or by the brook with trout, pickerel, and all the angler's heart could hope for, are all very well; but they seem monotonous and weary when compared with a dashing, old-fashioned, sleighing bout. If human kind ever made up its universal mind to be agreeable, certainly it has now. Thousands of sleighs of all patterns, like full-breasted swans, antelopes, Poonah bears, and cows of Juggernaut, filled with the gayest of lads and lasses, are skimming through the feathery avenues. A myriad bells on the fleetest horses, ring changes that could only denote an excess of merriment. The very air is palpitating with the music-throb wildly sounding far and near. The stars twinkling in a sky unclouded, shed a subdued light on a scene more vivid and joyous than our poor pen could hope to illustrate.

An old Flemish legend was transplanted many years ago on the shores of America, that took root and flourished with wonderful luxuriance, considering it was not indigenous to the country. Probably it was taken over to New-York by one of the primitive Knickerbockers, or it might have clung to some of the drowsy burgomasters who had forsaken the pictorial tiles of dear old Amsterdam about the time Peter de Laar—or II Samboccia, as the Italians called him—got into disgrace in Rome. However this may be, certain it is that Santa Klaus, or St. Nicholas, the kind patron-saint of the juveniles, makes his annual appearance on Christmas-eve, for the purpose of dispensing gifts to all good children. This festive elf is supposed to be a queer little creature, that descends the chimney viewlessly in the deep hours of the night, laden with gifts and presents, which he bestows with no sparing hand, reserving to himself a supernatural discrimination, that he seems to exercise with every satisfaction. Before going to bed, the children hang their newest stockings near the chimney, or pin them to the curtains of the bed. Midnight finds a world of hosiery waiting for favours, and the only wonder is that a single Santa Klaus can get around among them all. The story goes that he never misses one, providing it belongs to a deserving youngster, and morning is sure to bring no reproach that the Christmas wizard has not nobly performed his wondrous duties. We need scarcely enlighten the reader as to who the real Santa Klaus is. Every indulging parent contributes to the pleasing deception, though the juveniles are strong in their faith of their generous holiday patron. The following favourite lines graphically describe a visit of St. Nicholas, and being in great vogue with the young people of America, are fondly reproduced from year to year:

"'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 would soou be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads.
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
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 the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of noon-day 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! now, Vixen I
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blixen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away, all!'
As the leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,
So up to the house-tops the coursers they flew,
With the 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 turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in 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 pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses—his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly;
He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings—then turned with a jerk,
And laying his 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—
Away they all flew, like the down off a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
'Happy Christmas To All, And To All A Good-night !'"
Source: Dashes of American Humor ©1853