Dry leaves before the wild hurricane...

Today's temperatures have been a pleasant change from recent experiences, even though my windshield may now be perpetually road-muck covered. The wind though has been ripping many of the remaining leaves from the local oak trees and sending them whirling around the yard and down the road. They make interesting patterns on the snow out back.

snow with oak leaf clusters              © harrington

They also make it obvious where someone has been walking (as if the snow didn't do the job). I think these are my oak-leaf filled foot prints from a trip to the compost pile, mixed in with those from a deer who wandered through (perhaps thinking the compost pile is a feeding station).

But leaf-filled footprints  look best, I think, when they can be photographed from a high angle in a single line disappearing into the brush. From the drag marks, I'm guessing these are deer tracks (plus, I'm pretty sure none of the human occupants of the property, or their dogs, have been walking in this location).

If it didn't get much colder than today for the rest of Winter, and the wind died down, and the sun actually shone, I could enjoy our Winter weather. Maybe for Christmas? (But not the night before.)

Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas

By Major Henry Livingston, Jr. 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ 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 danc’d in their heads,

And Mama 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 the 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 mid-day to objects below;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,

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 call’d them by name:

“Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,

“On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;

“To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

“Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the house-top 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 was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:

He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys was flung on his back,

And he look’d like a peddler 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 of 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 laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laugh’d 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 fill’d all the stockings; then turn’d with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprung 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.

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