Santa's First Song
Something unusual drifted through the air.
It wasn’t the smell of Mrs. Claus’s famous blueberry scones.
It wasn’t the crisp crack of elf hammers from the Toyworks.
It was… a sound.
Soft. Sweet. Mournful. Joyful.
A harmonica.
Santa Claus, who was just finishing repairs on his sleigh’s dashboard compass, looked up from his workbench, puzzled.
He followed the notes through the village, past the cobbled paths of Candy Cane Lane, over the Rootbeer River, and straight to the little square outside Kathy’s Candy Shop.
There, perched on an overturned peppermint barrel, sat Penny Tootle — a young True Elf — her cheeks puffed out, fingers dancing over a shiny metal harmonica.
Around her, a small crowd of elves clapped and swayed to the music.
Santa stroked his snowy beard.
“That,” he said softly, “is a mighty fine sound.”
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and the northern lights shimmered, Santa found himself back in his study, unable to get the melody out of his head.
He opened an old chest of treasures — relics from his many Christmas adventures — and there, wedged between a gingerbread recipe and a spool of magical sleigh ribbon, he found it: A small, slightly battered harmonica from long ago. A gift he had once meant to deliver to a boy in Norway, who had asked for "a music-maker for the road." Somehow, it had never made the trip — perhaps meant for a different journey.
Practicing with the Harmonica
Santa brushed it off, polished it with his sleeve, and pressed it to his lips.
The first note was rough — a wheezy sigh.
The second was no better — more like a reindeer sneeze.
The third? Even the fireplace winced.
Mrs. Claus poked her head in from the kitchen, eyebrows arched. "Learning a new skill, dear?" she said with a grin.
Santa blushed. He wasn’t used to not being good at things. But something inside him — maybe the same spirit that kept Christmas alive, year after year — refused to give up.
Every evening after his chores, Santa practiced.
At first, it was simple:
One note
Then two
Then short phrases.
At night, he would sit by the fire, playing softly, the notes weaving through the warm air like invisible gifts.
The Elves Join In
The elves noticed. One by one, they began bringing their own harmonicas to the workshop. Soon, harmonica lessons became as common as toy-making tutorials. Even Rudy Winters, the head reindeer wrangler, practiced scales while brushing Dasher’s coat.
The music changed the village. Laughter grew louder. Smiles became bigger. Even the snowflakes seemed to fall in rhythm. Finally, one golden evening in midsummer, Santa stood atop the Great Fir Tree Stage in the center of the village.
In his hands was his old harmonica, newly polished, a tiny sprig of holly tied around its end.
He took a deep breath.
And played.
First a simple tune:
"Silent Night", slow and true.
Then a spirited reel:
"Deck the Halls", full of jumps and jigs.
The elves cheered, clapped, and stomped their boots in time.
From that day forward, it became tradition: Every festival, every gathering, Santa would play his harmonica.
Not because he had to,
Not because it was perfect,
But because it was joy —
shared and shining, a simple gift that everyone could give.
And somewhere, far above the snowy peaks of Evela, the northern lights twisted into the shapes of musical notes, dancing a slow, endless waltz across the sky.
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