Western Prospecting Christmas Poem IP: 209.206.117.105 Posted on December 7, 2018 at 04:05:29 AM by Lanny
Old Santy Claus Came out One Night.
The miner bent sat in his shack
T’was Chrismas eve, the sky pitch black.
A blizzard roared outside his place,
A lonesome night for him to face.
Still, up he gits to hang his sock,
A nail he drives with played-out rock,
And hangs that stockin’ up with care
In hopes that Santy will be there.
Why--ain’t no cookies--nor no milk,
The finer things just ain’t his ilk.
No puddin’ pie, nor Christmas cake
The finer things ain’t his to make.
His money’s gone; his claim won’t pay,
The vein he chased has pinched away.
Upon this ground he’s toiled his best
Those four-score twenty years his test.
The things that always easy were
Just ain’t that way, not now, for sure.
Yet up he gits and hangs his sock,
He sez his prayers and winds the clock.
The storm, she smacks that shack about
But it’s built snug—the cold stays out.
So, off he goes to sleepy land
But comin' soon, a visit’s planned.
It seems a grizzly’s wide-awake,
He’s huntin’ hard for grub to take.
Then up he sneaks upon that shack.
(This ain’t no Santy with his pack!)
He checks the door and finds ‘er stout
It seems the miner’s locked him out.
That ain’t no Christmas way to awe
Twelve-hundred pounds of fur and claw!
So, Mr. Bear he checks the place
And sets himself a torrid pace.
He’s had no lunch since early fall . . .
He finds a weak spot in the wall--
(The stacked up rocks where shack met hill
That miner’d hid his mine with skill)--
Then Griz, he rips some stones away
And steps inside to eat and play.
He’s in a room, but not the shack
(This spot's fer grub and stores to pack)
His nose tells him, “The food’s in here.”
His stomach senses fun is near.
He finds a ham just hangin’ there
And chomps ‘er down without a care
He even finds a jug to try
He rips the cork, and drinks ‘er dry.
He’s feelin’ rather light of head
He staggers some, then off to bed.
The world she turns from night to day
The storm has purged itself away.
On Christmas morn the miner wakes
He checks his sock, his head he shakes.
No gifts therein, he feels right poor.
And hungry some, un-bars the door.
The storage room ain’t lookin’ fine,
A bruin’s there, he’s all supine. . .
If Santy Claus left him this brute,
Ol’ Santy thinks he’s mighty cute
Fer’ layin’ out this nasty gift,
That’s blockin’ up his minin’ drift!
Now, what to do? Well, that’s the trick
And thinkin’ thoughts he plans right quick
To tippy-toe around that bear,
And do it all with greatest care,
For if he slipped, or sneezed, or stomped
That miner’d get himself right chomped!
Then all at once, a brand-new plan.
He spies himself a blastin’ can.
He twists some fuse and strikes a light,
He’ll do this job, and do ‘er right.
A lengthy roll toward the bear,
Then thunder happens everywhere!
Now Mr. Bear is wide-awake--
An exit hole he sure does make.
The bear he's gone, but that there blast
Set things in motion mighty fast.
The ground and hill began to quake.
The living rock commenced to shake
The portals’ timbered rotting wood.
(His Christmas morn weren’t lookin’ good).
“Aw Durn”, he cussed, “She’s gonna’ give.
There ain’t much chance I'm gonna' live.
But he was wrong. And when t'was done
A Christmas gift that miner'd won.
For near the portal, to its right
He saw himself a golden sight.
A vein of quartz all laced with gold
His wondering eyes did there behold.
And in his mind he knew this was
His real gift from Santy Claus!
All the best,
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