Twas the knife before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Blade-Tech Mouse.
The scabbards were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that knives of nickel silver soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma with her Kershaw, and I looking for my Loveless painter’s cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s knap.
When out near the forge there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the workbench to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a SOG 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 blades below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny sambar deer.
With a little old bit driver, so lively and slick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nail Nick.
More rapid than Al Mar Eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Trapper! now, Whittler! now, Lobster and Slim Jack!
On, Muskrat! On, Canoe! on Tickler and Swayback!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now cut away! cut away! cut away all!”
As wood chunks before the bowie fly,
When they meet with a sharp edge, pieces multiply.
So up to the knife shop they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nail Nick too.
And then, in a stropping, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I turned on the grinder and listened for the sound,
It was obvious ol’ St. Nail Nick had come to ground.
He was dressed in overalls, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of knives he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a bladesmith, just opening his pack.
The bolsters how they twinkled! The quillons how merry!
The scrimshaw like roses, the pommel like a cherry!
The knife exhibited just the right amount of “flow,”
And the blade’s belly was full as the BLADE Show.
The body of the knife held tight in the sheath,
And the guard encircled the tang like a wreath.
It had a sharp edge and was a perfect cutter,
That whisked when it cut like a hot knife through butter!
It was keen and useful, a right sprightly tool,
And I laughed when I saw it, me being an ol’ fool!
A honing of its edge and a twist of my wrist,
Soon gave me to know it was on St. Nail Nick’s list.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the scabbards, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his Sharpfinger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whittle,
And away they all flew, not one blade brittle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-knife!”
On behalf of the staff of BLADE® Magazine, the BLADE Show and F+W Media, it is my honor to wish you all a Merry Christmas and/or whichever holiday you are celebrating at this most special time of year.
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