'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a moss mouse;
The rods were hung in their racks with great care,
In hopes that next spring soon would be there.
The children were all nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of new crankbaits danced in their heads;
And Ma in her kerchief, and I in my bass cap,
Had just settled in for a long winter's nap.
When out on the pond, there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;
Away to the windows, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day on the bass down below;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Ranger all packed full of gear.
With a little ol' driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick;
More rapid that Rat-L-Traps, his courses they came,
As he whistled and shouted many baits names.
Now Zipper! Now JJs, Now Ragetail and Jitterbug!
On Pop-R! On Spinnerbait! On Senko and Mudbug!
To the back of the pads, where the big bass will fall,
Now cast away, cast away, cast away all.
(A variation of the story "Account of a Visit From St. Nicholas," by Clement Clarke Moore, 1779-1863.)
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