St. Nicholas Night

St. Nicholas Night

All us kids were wound up tight
Each cold St. Nicholas night.
A stocking we had worn that day
Was always hung in a very special way.
St. Nick could tell whose sock it was
By the individual smell and the fuzz.
Early in the morning we’d creep downstairs
Like three baby cub bears
To see what St. Nick might have left
In the form of a holiday gift.

There was often a silver dollar in the toe
Which, back in those days, was real dough.
There wasn’t just loot,
Sometimes an apple or tasty fruit.
But one thing there always was, was a note,
A personal one that St. Nicholas wrote.

He said he was proud of me
 for being good, not bad.
His writing looked a lot
 like that of my Dad.