By Jeanni Ritchie
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the bayou,
Not a critter was stirring — except a gator or two.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
So Boudreaux the boxer wouldn’t chew through the pair.
The children were piled in Mom and Dad’s bed,
While toy-building instructions made ole Papa see red.
The gumbo for Santa had sloshed on the floor,
And Boudreaux was licking it, begging for more.
When out in the yard rose a racket so loud,
I leapt off the porch and pushed through the crowd.
The moon on the water was shining so bright,
It turned every cypress to silver that night.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a pirogue of toys pulled by eight Cajun deer.
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than egrets his paddlers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Thibodeaux! Now Guidry! Now Trosclair and Guillot!
On, Landry! On, Fontenot! On, Bubba and Michot!
To the top of the levee! To the porch, to the dock!
Now paddle away, paddle away, don’t you dare stop!”
