A Literary Advent Calendar

  Winter Time Robert Louis Stevenson Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone J.K. Rowling One can never have enough socks. Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.

The Twelve Days of Christmas Anonymous The twelfth day of Christmas My true love sent to me Twelve fiddlers fiddling, Eleven ladies dancing, Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree.

  How the Grinch Stole Christmas!  Dr. Seuss Christmas doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more.

  December began with shopping L Kiew for the exotic: mint and apple sauce, imported rosemary, cranberries, candied peel and blocks of English butter. It began with baking, the Christmas cake drenched daily with dark brandy until it oozed from the lightest finger-flick and emptying jar after jar of Robertson’s mincemeat into pastry. Cinnamon gold-dusted everything. After the final Advent window, we opened all our doors, welcoming hungry occupants, their cars filling up the driveway, aunts and uncles, cousins in greater and lesser iterations, the generations dressed in batik, bearing gifts. The kitchen was ever at the heart of it. My parents cooked together. Crackling, perfection an inch thick on the side of pig that Dad roasted while Mum beatified the oven-pan, red wine gravy, bliss of roux. Cheerful, family sat where we could, plates heavy in heady heat, heaped meat, golden potatoes, peas, carrots too. Our hands were full. Still there was more, glasses, cups, Anchor beer and Sunki...

  Paris in Love Eloisa James I don’t want Christmas season to end, because it’s the only time I can legitimately indulge in one particular addiction: glitter.

[little tree] EE Cummings little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower