Thursday, January 22, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

The Christmas stocking I remember
Wasn't made of red felt and gold,
But hung in all its humility
Without a definite shape of its own.
It carried no special name plate,
Such as “Jim” or “John” or “Joan”,
Just a thumb-tack inserted to hold it
Securely to the chimney-mold.
It was left in the darkening shadows
With only the glowing embers for light,
And the cold and snowy winter
Was a long and mysterious night!
How, on Christmas morning
What a wonderful sight to behold
The lonely little stocking
Had come upon its own!
Bulging with odd shapes and sizes,
Heavy with its weight of holiday surprises,
Hanging proudly, daring you to guess
What exciting toy would you pull out next?
To be explored by childish fingers
As far down as they would go,
Where an orange and Christmas candy
Snuggled in the stretched out toe.
Now limp, and carelessly cast aside
One was left with a child-like pride
Of memories, throughout one’s life,
Of the Eve before the Christ was born,
And that wonderful stocking on Christmas morn.