Twas the night before Christmas and all through 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 sugarplums danced in their heads. And Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter's nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my 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. When what to my wondering eye should appear but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. With a little old driver, so lively and quick. I knew in a moment it must be St Nick. And he whistled and shouted and called them by name. Now, Dasher. Now Dancer. Now Prancer and Vixen. On Comet, on Cupid. On Donner and Blitzen. He sprang 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.

Not Even A Mouse: Jarod