'Twas the night before Xmas, and all
through the shop
No printmaker was stirring, work was all at a
stop;
The tools were hung up in their places with
care,
The workbench was clean, on it nothing was
there;
The gouges were nestled all snug in their rack,
Carved blocks were beside them, piled up in a
stack;
The brushes on shelves, the chisels in a case,
The pigments in drawers, all was in place.
When up to my ears, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the
matter.
Down to the workshop I ran on the floor,
Turned the key in the lock, and flung open the
door.
The moon in the window threw light on the
scene;
I rubbed my eyes wildly, was all this a dream?
For my tools were all jumping, from rack and from
shelf,
They came running and dancing, each moving
himself!
On the bench stood the baren; to my disbelief,
He called them around him, he must be the
chief.
More rapid than lightning, the tools they all
came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by
name;
"Now 'washi', now 'sumi', now 'nomi'
and 'hake'!
On 'hangi', 'enogu', with 'nori' and 'take'!
To your place on the bench, from your place on the
wall,
Get to work! Get to work! Get to work all!"
I stood in amazement as they all started
working,
The scene was a bustle, not one tool was
shirking.
The knives and the chisels cut lines in the
block,
As the baren stood watching, one eye on the
clock.
While the carvers were busy, the others
prepared
The paper and pigments, the work was all
shared.
From the door where I stood I was able to see
all they were doing, no one looked up at me.
The woodchips were flying, two mallets were
busy,
Just watching the action made me feel a bit
dizzy.
Then the woodblock was ready, the chisels
adjourned,
The baren sprang up "Now it's time for my turn!"
His cover of bamboo was tight like a bow,
And the oil on it glistened as he walked to and
fro;
He was cocky and proud, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of
myself.
A brush ran on the block, mixing colour and
paste,
The paper then followed, lying down with no
haste.
Then up jumped the baren, his face a wide
smirk,
He spoke not a word, and went straight to his
work.
He slid to the left, and he slid to the right;
He pressed down the paper with all of his
might.
At last it was finished, the print was pulled
free;
The tools then all gathered, to inspect it with
glee.
But just then I coughed, the sound was a
boom;
Everybody froze solid, no one moved in the
room.
The baren then shouted "It's the end of the
game!"
And whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now 'washi', now 'sumi', now 'nomi'
and 'hake'!
On 'hangi', 'enogu', with 'nori' and 'take'!
From your place on the bench, to your place on the
wall,
Back with you! Back with you! Back with you all!"
The tools all ran back to their own proper
place,
Of the night's busy action there remained not a
trace.
In the space of a second, the bench it was
bare,
And nothing remained but the print that lay
there.
The work was well done and the printing was
clear,
My tools are well-trained, and their message
sincere.
On the paper I read, what a beautiful sight:
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
David Bull, December 1997
