Wednesday 24th December, 2008
With Many Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore...
'Twas the night before Christmas, Mancamp on Lake X,
The wading socks were hung by the camp-fire with care,
The Loopers were nestled all snug in their beds,
And Paul in his polyprops, and Babus in her cap,
When out behind mancamp there arose such a clatter,
Out the back of the camper I flew like a flash,
The moon on the surface of the glassy calm pool,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
With a little old angler, so lively and quick,
More rapid than bonefish his coursers they came,
"Now, Krieger! now, Rajeff! now, O’Keefe and Gordon!
Up into the mountains! To the top of it all!
As dry flies that before the wild hurricane fly,
Then down to the put-in the coursers they flew,
And then into the water, the driftboat did slide,
As I picked myself up, and was turning around,
He was dressed in red polyprops, from his waist to his foot,
A bundle of tackle he had flung on his back,
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
The grip of the rod he held light in his hand,
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
But one look at the fly tied to Saint Nick’s long thread,
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
By laying his fly down then stripping it slow,
He landed the fish, to his team gave a whistle,
And I heard him exclaim, ere he soared out of sight,
If you don’t find anything in your stocking this year, don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. Saint Nick just decided to go fishing instead. I think we can all understand.
Copyright © 1998-2014