The stocking were hung … Traditional Cache

'Twas the night before Cachemas, when all thro' the land

Not a creature was stirring, not even a Gman;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that geocachers soon would be there;


The cachers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of blank logs danc'd in their heads,

And Species in his snuggies, and I in my cap,

Had just snuggled up for a long winter's nap —


When out on the desk there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the computer I flew on a bet,

Tore open the notebook, and threw up the net.


The light on the screen of the new cache page,

Gave the luster of mid-day to words on stage;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a brand new cache, just eight miles near,


With my heart all a flutter, so excited and nervous,

I knew in a moment, we must let nothing divert us.

More rapid than eagles other cachers they came,

And we whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:


"Now! Wiister, now! Cowboy,
now! Tn’A and Lil Devil,

"On! McBeer, on! Wyldreams,
on! Peek and Angel;
"
To the top of the tree!
To the top of the wall!

"Now cache away! Cache away!
Cache 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 tree-top the cachers they flew,

With their cars full of TOTTs — and their geodogs too:


And then in a twinkling, I heard on the wind

The prancing and pawing of each of us searchin’.

As I looked for the cache, and was turning around,

Down the chimney the cache hider came with a bound:


He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;

A bundle of swag was flung on his back,

And he look'd 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 laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly:


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

And I laugh'd 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 watched as we searched,

As I checked all the stockings; he knew it had worked,
Upon finding the cache down by the toes,

I gave a nod, and my smile arose.


I hollered out loud and sprung to my feet,

And I opened the cache, to find a blank log sheet:

Then I heard him exclaim, as he went to his next hide —

Happy caching to all, and to all a good find.

—Clement Clarke Moore with help from Paleopal