Santa and the Leprechauns

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‘Twas once upon a Christmas Eve, an Arctic wind blew foul.

And all things, living, lay in fear beneath the dreadful howl.

Forgotten was the age, when last, such cruel winds had erupted.

And left the northern countryside so viciously corrupted.


For all around great trees were felled and limbs lay everywhere.

And as the storm persisted, great debris flew through the air.

Now, in his workshop, Santa kept a watch all morning long.

And shook his head in disbelief to see a gale so strong.


He watched all through the afternoon with apprehensive fear.

And as the darkness brought no calm he felt his fate draw near.

And so, with dread, he called his crew to hence prepare the sleigh.

And, with his reindeer, then proceeded grimly on his way.


But instantly the sleigh tipped back and rocked from side to side.

For it was flying much too low, “Pull up, now!” Santa cried.

Then Dasher started upward with a quick but gentle lift.

And did his best not to disrupt and cause a cargo shift.


The sleigh was nearly vertical as hooks and ropes were strained,

But leveled soon above the storm with steadiness regained.

For many miles the reindeer held this uneventful flow,

Until they saw fair Ireland shine in splendor down below.


But they did not suspect the Arctic gale still raged beneath.

And soon would menace once again and bare its icy teeth.

Then sure enough, on their descent, the wind quickly increased.

And those brave travelers knew their short tranquility had ceased.


Back in the storm the sled began to toss about and flail.

It leaped and climbed and dropped and spun inside the dreadful gale.

Then suddenly the ropes gave way and ruptured from the strain.

And out the treasures flew and scattered, falling down like rain.


Then Santa cried, “We’ve lost the load, quick, Dasher, get us down!”

And straight away they landed in a tiny Irish town.

The lovely houses all were hushed while every person slept.

As Santa stepped down to the street and anxiously he crept.


He lifted up a present, then another one or two.

And frantically he labored, but recovered just a few.

Then peering at the countryside around that Irish town,

He glimpsed the many places where the treasures had come down.


He saw them lying in the fields and in the steams and rills.

And down in ditches, up in trees and high upon the hills.

He stood and stared in disbelief, then bowed his desperate head.

And treaded sadly toward his sleigh now that all hope had fled.


But suddenly he halted as he heard a curious sound.

It echoed like a thousand footsteps clamoring around.

And then emerging in a mist a multitude appeared.

And Santa’s hopes returned as that enchanted vapor cleared.


For as he stared he saw a thousand little Irish folk.

While suddenly, upon a hill, there came a plume of smoke.

And standing tall with hands on hips there stood a regal king.

Who shouted to his multitude, “Commence recovering!”


Then instantly the leprechauns gave heed to his command.

And gathered up the treasures that were scattered through the land.

They used their magic to mend gifts and dry those that were wet.

And placed the Christmas presents in a large and sturdy net.


And as they lay the net upon the sleigh with skill and care,

The king looked up and raised his arms, then shouted to the air.

“Enough!” he roared. “This storm must cease! Give up now, I command!”

And instantly, the wind died down and calmness filled the land.


Then Santa looked upon the king and cried, “Conor, my friend!”

“You’ve granted this calamity a merry, joyful end!

Alas, my friend, I must depart and journey on my way.

But come and celebrate with me, tomorrow, Christmas Day.”


King Conor said “We all will come, each woman, child and man.

And celebrate the day like no one but the Irish can.”

And with that, Santa said goodbye and went upon his way.

And carried out his task before the dawning of the day.


Yet no one else upon the earth knew what occurred that night.

As children rose on Christmas, unaware of Santa’s plight.

Now Santa and the leprechauns unite each Christmas morn.

They sing and laugh as they recall that Arctic winter’s scorn.


And tell the grand old story of that Christmas Eve when they,

The little folk from Ireland rose, and rescued Christmas Day.

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- Total nr. of readings: 8,017 Copyright © The author [2020] All Rights Reserved. This story may not be reproduced without the express written permission of the author except for personal use.

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