The parodies of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” are numberless. Here is one from 1909 which tells us a good deal about the primitive state of car ownership over a century ago.
SANTA CLAUS – 1909 MODEL
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the streets
Not a copper was stirring. Asleep on their beats.
They dreamed of the footpads that might have been there.
Red-ribboned for Christmas, marked “Handle with Care.”
Our garage was locked; every window and door
Fast bolted and chained; on the level dirt floor
Stood our 1910 model, the car of the hour
Catalogued 40-horse – really 10-candle power.
The chauffeur had taken off stockings and shoes,
(‘T was really a clever professional ruse,)
The stockings were his – so his feet wouldn’t jar,-
But the shoes he’d removed from the 1910 car.
Now, the chauffeur was honest – for honesty pays,
But it doesn’t pay much in these motoring days,
So the story he tells we may praise or may blame,
The essential result of the case is the same.
He says just at midnight he heard such a chatter
He ran to the door to see what was the matter,
And there stood a car, almost covered with ice
He looked at the driver, and then in a trice
He saw ‘t was St. Nicholas, think Girls and boys!
The tonneau was crowded with toys upon toys.
St. Nick! Nick himself! and his fat little belly
Would have shook -if he’d laughed like traditional jelly.
But the Saint said: “My man, you can help me, no doubt.
For my spark-plug is bent and my muffler cut out:
One cylinder’s dead, and the others are weak;
Planetary transmission makes one fearful shriek;
There’s something gone wrong with the oiler, I fear
This ice has congealed all my new running gear.”
Now, the chauffeur was kind, and a friend of the boys
And the girls who delight in St. Nicholas’ toys;
So he hurried at once to my new model car,
Stripped off chain, oil-cups, batteries, plug, clutch, and bar,
All the movable parts, to the finest of wires,
And the pride of my heart, my detachable tires.
St. Nicholas sat with a smile on his face,
And watched my chauffeur, as with speed, case, and grace
He repaired, changed, and tinkered, connected and tested,
And worked like a Trojan – he never once rested
Until the Saint’s car was in perfect repair.
Ah! Would that St. Nicholas hadn’t been there
And lastly be cranked; then he stood, flushed with pride,
As the old benefactor, mirth shaking his side,
Retarded his spark, took a nip from a bottle
He pulled from his pocket, pushed over the throttle.
The car started slowly, it picked up, it flew,
And off went St. Nick my accessories, too.
The chauffeur stood watching, he saw the car pass,
Heard the roaring exhaust, smelled the scent of the gas,
Heard the good old man say, as he sped out of sight:
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
Well, my chauffeur is honest, for honesty pays,
So I can’t blame the fellow and yet I can’t praise,
I suppose it is true but next year I shall be
In the garage myself, so that maybe I’ll see,
And I’ll have my new rifle and shot-gun. I swear
There’ll be no merry Christmas for Nick if he’s there!
— Harold E. Porter.
