[Nhcoll-l] Its that time of year again...

[John E Simmons]

Who Was that Reindeer I Saw You With Last Night?

(St. Entropy Throws Over the Reins)

December 2025—Number XXXVI





‘Twas the night before Christmas (or so we’d been told);

The museum, after hours, was now dark and cold.

Some stockings were hung in dioramas, no less,

But no creatures were stirring (that would be a mess).

All the collections were shut down and quiet,

After the annual staff holiday riot.

The curators were nestled down somewhere, I think,

Wherever they’d gone for their holiday drink.

The conservators field-tested the punch in the bowl,

And were singing an odd blend of blues, chant, and soul.

With the museum now deserted, with my bottle of port,

I had just finished taking a midwinter snort.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

I lurched to my feet to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew (okay, stumbled),

And tore open the shutters as I started to mumble.

Then, what to my wondering eyes should appear

But a miniature sleigh and what looked like reindeer.

With a little old driver so quick and so quaint,

I knew in a moment it must be the Saint.

(Every year, about this time, he comes down from the Pole

Making the season a little more droll.

And we needed some droll in this year, that is true,

As well as some courage to see the year through.)

On up to the rooftop the coursers they flew:

The Saint and the sleigh and all reindeer, too.

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

The punctures being made there by each sharp little hoof.

As I pulled in my head, hitting it with a bump,

Down the chimney came something that fell with a thump.

It was the dear Saint, now all covered in soot,

Who just sat there blinking, with a big bag of loot.

He got to his feet, then snorted and spoke,

Which left me wondering just what he had smoked.

“I’ve come down from the North Pole as usual,” he said,

Which soon gave me to know we had nothing to dread.

But hark! What was that? A loud knock on the door?

Then migration agents swarmed in on the floor.

As the room filled with tear gas and tactical gear,

I counted more visitors than we’d had all year.

The Saint was surrounded by agents demanding

His papers and visa and proof of his standing.

I tried to explain, without being coy,

That he’d come from the North Pole to spread seasonal joy.

Then I had to explain that the “joy” was a feeling,

Not a potion or substance that he had been dealing.

The agents were sure they’d found someone they’d sought,

But I realized there was one way that they could be bought.

The punch in the punchbowl was starting to glow,

And I knew in an instant what the way was to go.

I asked all the agents (even those on the roof)

To tell me if the punch was of illegal proof.

That’s all it took. Once they tested the potion,

And their eyes started making a rotary motion,

The agents decided that the Saint, in their view,

Was a traveler in transit, just passing through.

They needed to inspect what he had in his sack

But all were in need of a drink and a snack.

They decided the museum was just no place to party,

And, arm-in-arm, all took off, backslapping and hearty.

“But what of the reindeer?” I asked, in vexation,

And was told we could keep them all for our collection.

So, the reindeer and I, on the roof, in the snow,

Sat and opened the presents, then decided to go.

I sat in the sleigh and took hold of the reins,

And the reindeer sprang up as if freed from their chains.

And I heard me exclaim, as the museum shrank below,

“Happy Christmas to all! Now how fast can we go?”



*(Sally Shelton and John Simmons wish you a magic sleighride of your very
own.)*

*(Shirley Shelton provided edits. Once an English teacher…)*


John E. Simmons
Writer and Museum Consultant
Museologica
*and*
Research Associate, Earth and Mineral Sciences Museum & Art Gallery
Penn State University
*and*
Investigador Asociado, Departamento de Ornitologia
Museo de Historia Natural, Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Lima
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