Twas the night before a Chronicle
when all through the house
not a computer was stirring, not
even the mouse.
The articles were hung by the waxer
in hopes that St. Newton soon would
The reporters were nestled all snug
in their beds,
While visions of deer stories danced
in their heads.
And Helen in her ’kerchief, and Bill
in his cap,
had just settled their brains for a
long winter’s nap.
The town’s festive lights under
gave the luster of mid-day to
When, what to my wondering eyes
Christmas was coming, it was finally
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on
the prancing and pawing of each
As I drew in my head, and was
down the chimney the Chronicle staff
came with a bound.
Lisa and Linda dressed in fur from
head to foot,
And Bill all tarnished with ashes
A bundle of papers they had flung on
Robin looked like a peddler, just
opening her pack.
They spoke not a word, but went
straight to work,
while Penny filled the stockings,
the customers began to lurk.
And laying a finger on the keyboard
and giving a nod, up the chimney
Into St. Newton’s sleigh, which has
been broken as of late,
went the Chronicle staff because
December 24 was the date.
But I heard them exclaim, ’ere they
drove out of sight,
“A Chronicle Christmas to all, and
to all a good-night!”
(We express our
thanks to Maricia
and our apologies
to Clement Clarke Moore)