Twas The Night Before Christmas
A fly fishing themed version of a holiday classic.
Twas the night before Christmas, and down by the stream,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a bream.
The waders were hung in the cabin with care,
In hopes that a hatch would fill the cool air.
The anglers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of trout danced through their heads.
When out on the river, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my cot to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a reel,
Tore open the shutters, my heart full of zeal.
The moon on the riffles, so silvery bright,
Gave a luster of midday to the cold winter night.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a canoe made of cedar and eight prancing reindeer.
With a bearded old captain so lively and spry,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Fly.
More rapid than steelhead, his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Hardy! Now Orvis! Now Sage and St. Croix!
On TFO! On Loomis! On Winston, deploy!
To the top of the riffle! To the pool near the fall!
Now cast away! Drift away! Fish on for all!”
As dry flies that flutter when hooked fish take flight,
They danced on the surface, a magical sight.
So up to the bend the coursers they flew,
With the boat full of gear, and St. Fly too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the shore
The soft crunch of waders and tackle once more.
As I drew in my hand and was turning around,
Through the cabin door St. Fly came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fleece, from his hat to his boot,
And his vest was well-stocked with his favorite loot.
A bundle of fly boxes he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a guide just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like redfish, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a grin,
And his beard smelled faintly of whiskey and gin.
The cork of a rod he held tight in his hand,
And he looked like a master of waters unplanned.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the fly boxes, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod through the chimney, he rose.
He sprang to his drift boat and to his team gave a shout,
And away they all flew like like a large rising trout
But I heard him exclaim as he floated from sight,
"Happy fishing to all, and to all a good bite!"
“Happy fishing to all, and to all a good night!”