Letters From Father Christmas by J.R.R. TOLKIEN

Again this year, my dear Priscilla,

when you’re asleep upon your pillow;

Bad rhyme!

That’s beaten you!

beside your bed old Father Christmas

[The English language has no rhyme

to Father Christmas: that’s why I’m

not very good at making verses.

But what I find a good deal worse is

that girls’ and boys’ names won’t rhyme either

(and bother! either won’t rhyme neither).

So please forgive me, dear Priscilla,

if I pretend you rhyme with pillow!]

She won’t.

As I was saying—

beside your bed old Father Christmas

(afraid that any creak or hiss must

How’s that?

Out!

wake you up) will in a twinkling

fill up your stocking, (I‘ve an inkling

that it belongs, in fact, to pater.

but never mind!) At twelve, or later,

he will arrive—and hopes once more

that he has chosen from his store

I did it.

the things you want. You’re half past nine;

She is not a clock!

but still I hope you’ll drop a line

for some years yet, and won’t forget

old Father Christmas and his Pet,

the North Polar Bear (and Polar Cubs

as fat as little butter-tubs),

and snowboys and Elves—in fact the whole

of my household up near the Pole.

Upon my list, made in December,

your number is, if you remember,

fifty six thousand, seven hundred,

and eighty five. It can’t be wondered

Weak!

at that I am so busy, when

you think that you are nearly ten,

and in that time my list has grown

by quite ten thousand girls alone,

even when I’ve subtracted all

the houses where I no longer call!

You all will wonder what’s the news;

if all has gone well, and if not who’s

to blame; and whether Polar Bear

has earned a mark good, bad, or fair,

for his behaviour since last winter.

Well—first he trod upon a splinter,

Just rhiming nonsens: it

was a nail—rusty, too

and went on crutches in November;

and then one cold day in December

he burnt his nose and singed his paws

upon the Kitchen grate, because

without the help of tongs he tried

to roast hot chestnuts. “Wow!” he cried,

I never did!

and used a pound of butter (best)

to cure the burns. He would not rest,

I was not given a chance.

but on the twenty-third he went

and climbed up on the roof. He meant

to clear the snow away that choked

his chimney up—of course he poked

his legs right through the tiles and snow

in tons fell on his bed below.

He has broken saucers, cups, and plates;

and eaten lots of chocolates;

he’s dropped large boxes on my toes,

and trodden tin-soldiers flat in rows;

You need not believe all this!

You need!

he’s climbed the cellar-stairs at least

five thousand times—the Dear Old Beast!

Paksu sends love and Valkotukka—

They are still with me, and they don’t look a

year older, but they’re just a bit

more wise, and have a pinch more wit.

The GOBLINS, you’ll be glad to hear,

have not been seen at all this year,

not near the Pole. But I am told,

they’re moving south, and getting bold,

and coming back to many lands,

and making with their wicked hands new mines and caves. But do not fear!

They’ll hide away, when I appear.

Christmas Day

Now Christmas Day has come round again—

and poor North Polar Bear has got a bad pain!

They say he’s swallowed a couple of pounds

of nuts without cracking the shells! It sounds

a Polarish sort of thing to do—

but that isn’t all, between me and you:

he’s eaten a ton of various goods

and recklessly mixed all his favourite foods,

honey with ham and turkey with treacle,

and pickles with milk. I think that a week’ll

be needed to put the old bear on his feet.

And I mustn’t forget his particular treat:

plum pudding with sausages and turkish delight

covered with cream and devoured at a bite!

And after this dish he stood on his head—

it’s rather a wonder the poor fellow’s not dead!

Absolute ROT:

I have not got

a pain in my pot.

Rude fellow!

I do not eat

turkey or meat:

I stick to the sweet.

Which is why

(as all know) I

am so sweet myself,

you thinuous elf!

Goodby!

He means fatuous

No I don’t, you’re not fat,

but thin and silly.

You know my friends too well to think

(although they’re rather rude with ink)

that there are really quarrels here!

We’ve had a very jolly year

(except for Polar Bear’s rusty nail);

but now this rhyme must catch the Mail—

a special messenger must go,

in spite of thickly falling snow,

or else this won’t get down to you

on Christmas day. It’s half past two!

We’ve quite a ton of crackers still

to pull, and glasses still to fill!

Our love to you on this Noel—

and till the next one, fare you well!

Father Christmas

Polar Bear

Ilbereth

Paksu and Valkotukka