’Twas the night before Christmas

and all through the church

Not a creature was stirring

to halt my research.

As I sat in my study,

my sermon half done,

The electronic chimes struck

the hour of one,

When out in the narthex

there came such a clatter

I rushed through the nave

to see what was the matter.

As I dashed down the aisle it

began to be clear

That a crisis of major

proportions was here,

For out of the darkness

and down toward the choir

Came Santa Claus running,

his whiskers on fire.

With a presence of mind that

I blush to recall,

I seized the extinguisher

there on the wall,

And, directing the foam with

an aim sure and quick,

In the wink of an eye I

had put out St. Nick.

Over coffee and pie in

the kitchen downstairs

I tried to catch up with

the state of affairs,

While Santa was drying

the coat of his suit

And emptying foam frosting

out of his boot.

“Just how did it happen?”

I ventured to say,

“And why did you not throw

your whiskers away?

You’ll pardon my finding

this incident droll:

You nearly were carried

away with your role!”

But Santa replied with

a quizzical gaze,

While feeling the fringe that

remained from the blaze,

“Your little jest isn’t

without its appeal,

But what makes you think that

my beard is not real?”

Then laying his finger

aside of his nose,

He winked and was gone—to

his job, I suppose.

One must not prejudge

even foliage lush;

The alarm isn’t false when

there’s fire in the brush.

Don’t condemn all the holiday

sham equally, since

The flaming-haired beauty

may not use a rinse.



I fear November 8, 1960 was the U. S. A.’s darkest hour to date when a Roman Catholic became President of our beloved country. Not the man himself but the fact that we are now under the power of a foreign state (the Vatican) and as a result are, ...

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