For today's podcast, I've gotten together an amazing group of English learners from all
over the world to bring you a very special reading of A Visit from Saint
Nicholas, the iconic Christmas poem written by Clement Clark Moore in eighteen thirty seven.
They all did a super job on this, and without further ado,
let's begin twice. The night before Christmas went all through the house. That
the creature of us during not even a mouse. The stolkiens were hung by
the chimney, be scared and hope that Saint Nicholas soon will be there.
That children were nestled, all snacked in their beds, while visions of sugar
plums danced in their heads. And Mama and her kischief, and I in
my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter. Snap were now
on the lawn. There was had a quarter. I sprung from my bed
to see what was the matter? Ay to the window. I feel like
a flash to open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on
the breast of the new folds snow gave a last room. Mid day two
objects below. When you wake to my wandering eyes didn't appear, but a
minature sleigh and a tiny reindeer with a little old driver. So lively and
quick I knew in a moment he must be Saint Nick more rapid than eagles,
his courser. They came, and he wistened and shout and called them
by name. Now Danzel, now Denzil, now Pranza, and listen on
commers on Cuba, on Donna, and plassen to the top of the port,
to the top of the wall, now dejhway, dejhway, deshaway,
or as leaves that before the wild hurricane fly when they meet with the obstacle,
mount to the sky. So up to the house top. The courser
slave flew with a slave full of toys, and Saint Nicholas too. I'm
there in twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pouring of each
weatherproof. As I drew in my head and was turning around down the chimney,
Saint Nicholas came with a bone. He was dressed in fair from his
head to his foot, and his clothes were all tournished with ashis and suit.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked
like a pedlar, just opening his back his high How the tree is dent,
How mary his cheeks well le rosing, is his nose like a cherry.
He strolled, little mouth was drawn up like a bowl, and the
bed on his cheeld was as quiet as to snow. The stump of a
pipe he held tight in his teeth and smoked it encircled his head like a
wrist. He had a brow face and a little round belly that shook when
he laughed, like a bow full of Charlie. Oh, he was chubby
and plump, a right jolly old elf, and laughed when I saw him
in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his
head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not
a word, but went straight to his work and filled all the stockings.
Then turned with a jerk, and raining his finger or side off his nose,
and giving a nut of the chimney. He rose. He sprang to
his leg, to his team, give a whistle in a way. They
all flew like the down of the thistle. But I heard him exclaim here
he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and all orgognized Hopo, Hopole,