Guest
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the hills Not a sledder was stirring, not even for thrills. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But two professional riders in 509 gear.
