What would you do with $280,000. A January $ challenge. No, the prize is not 280,000 dollars.

First, I have to say it is a really wonderful work of art.

Twas the Night before Christmas Poem

It Snows beautiful words!

Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas also called “A Visit from St. Nicholas" in 1822. It is now the tradition in many American families to read the poem every Christmas Eve.

The poem 'Twas the night before Christmas' has redefined our image of Christmas and Santa Claus. Prior to the creation of the story , St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, had never been associated with a sleigh or reindeers!

Clement Moore, the author of the poem, was a reticent man and it is believed that a family friend, Miss H. Butler, sent a copy of the poem to the New York Sentinel who published the poem. The condition of publication was that the author was to remain anonymous. The first publication date was 23rd December 1823 and it was an immediate success. It was not until 1844 that Moore claimed ownership when the work was included in a book of his poetry.

The poem

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the 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 the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I 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 laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement C. Moore wrote a most wonderfully beautiful poem. Priceless in it's execution. But which of us would spend such a sum, if we had it to spare. Many questions to answer...What if it were your poem and who profits from such a sale? Would Clement be happy with such an occurrence? Could you write such a gem for posterity...etc. etc.

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Challenge Directions:

A poem or a story will do. Any make or model. Reasonably short in length and exuberant, quarrelsome, argumentative or completely agreeable to the spending of said sum towards the purchase of a signed copy of a treasure.

Take all of January to argue the point. On the 31st, it ends. Results to follow quite soon thereafter.

Being not at all blessed with riches, $2 to two winners is all I can offer, and a few consolation/Honorable prizes of $1.

Post below, hopefully many more than Tiffy and I can possibly read. 😊BTW, Tiffany has no idea of the part she will (may) be playing here. 😊

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My poem:

The value of things

Of what value are things, possessions so rare, to our brief and fragile lives

To stand every day, peering at treasures upon our pristine unmoving walls

Beautiful memories dwell there, our children, family, friends, and treasured moments

Sometimes we add other rare gems which make our hearts proud

Like Mr. Moore's story, written long ago, when his heart sang a song of a dream, memorialized in words passed down through the ages

Invaluable was his happiness, paid probably not in riches or glory

But rather in the joy of it's creation

Moore wrote and signed his poem in 1860. It sold for $280,000 to a Manhattan CEO in 2006 who later read it to guests—in a protective plastic sleeve—at his holiday party.

To be fair, it WAS a handwritten copy of the classic poem.

Who am I to judge what one sacrifices for the words of a wonderful writer, long dead...May his soul rest peacefully through his long sleep.

Perhaps if I were rich enough to see that sum as 'trump' change, a flick of my wrist...akin to my grocery bill

I too, would hang such a treasure upon my wall

But for now, I sigh and see instead, a lovely house and a lush backyard garden

Or College funds, a gift to someone needy, or a brand new car and a vacation...and...well, the list goes on and on.

Let the rich hang their trophies, I wonder if dear Mr. Moore was ever made wealthy from his storied poetry.

I hope at least he was comfortable.

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Tiffany too, will write a poem and post it. Our entries will not be eligible to win the princely sum.

Here is Tiffany's wonderful poem