Santa's First Song
Santa’s Village – March 1931
Something unusual drifted through the air.
It wasn’t the scent of Mrs. Claus’s famous blueberry scones — because she wasn’t there yet.
It wasn’t the crisp crack of elf hammers from the Toyworks, ringing out like tiny bells.
It was… a sound.
Soft. Sweet. Mournful. Joyful.
A harmonica.
Santa Claus, crouched in his workshop adjusting the sleigh’s dashboard compass, paused mid-turn of a tiny gear. He cocked his head. The sound floated in again — high, trembling, threaded with something old and tender. Curiosity lit his face.
Wiping his hands on a patchy towel, he stepped out into the snow-sparkled afternoon. He followed the tune across Candy Cane Lane, over the Rootbeer River Bridge, and past the garland-wrapped lampposts of central Santa’s Village.
There, just outside Kathy’s Candy Shop, a small crowd had gathered. And in the middle of it, perched atop an overturned peppermint barrel, sat Penny Tootle — a young True Elf whose curls bounced with each breath. Her cheeks puffed as she played, fingers fluttering over a gleaming metal harmonica.
Even the licorice cat that lived behind the candy shop was purring in time.
Santa folded his arms across his red vest and smiled, his eyes twinkling.
“That,” he murmured to no one in particular, “is a mighty fine sound.”
That night, long after the elves had returned to their cozy homes and the last peppermint cocoa was served, Santa sat in his study. A fire crackled. The melody lingered in his thoughts — not the notes exactly, but the feeling they carried.
He knelt by a heavy chest near the hearth — a box worn smooth from years of use. Inside were relics: an old gingerbread recipe penned by Neik Klass himself, a length of sleigh ribbon laced with Red Fairy Dust, a journal with faded maps from early delivery routes…
And tucked into a corner, beneath a note marked “Norway, 1894”, was a harmonica. It was small, slightly dented, its brass dulled by time. Santa held it gently.
He remembered the letter now — a young boy had written asking for “a music-maker for the road.” But the harmonica had never left the sleigh. A blizzard had redirected that route. The boy had received a hand-carved flute instead. Perhaps this gift had simply been waiting… for him.
Santa chuckled softly and polished it on his sleeve.
The first note was wheezy — like a tired toy whistle.
The second was worse — more reindeer sneeze than music.
The third made the fire hiccup.
From the hallway came Bernard’s voice:
“Everything all right in there, Boss?”
“Just testing something new,” Santa replied sheepishly.
Bernard peeked in, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “That wasn’t your workshop pipes exploding again, was it?”
Santa shook his head. “Harmonica.”
Bernard gave a small grin. “Well, keep at it. But maybe warn the fireplace first next time.”
Santa chuckled, then nodded. It was a lesson he’d shared often — persistence mattered more than perfection.
From then on, after every chore and before every bedtime tea, Santa practiced.
At first it was just sounds — uncertain, searching.
Then came single notes.
Then slow phrases.
He played near the hearth, by starlight in the reindeer barn, and once — quite unintentionally — during a toy-inventory meeting, where Bernard politely asked if he might not play during spreadsheet reviews.
The harmonica’s music gradually found its voice. And the Village listened.
It started with one elf — Tinsel McGinnis, the shoemaker — who brought his own harmonica to the workshop and tried to play during lunch. Then two more elves joined in, comparing notes and figuring out how to play together in harmony. Soon, Rudy Winters, the head reindeer wrangler, was practicing scales while brushing down Dasher, much to the reindeer's amusement.
The sound spread like snowflakes on warm mittens.
Work songs emerged in the Toyworks. Melody threaded through the kitchens. Elf children played duets while walking home from school. The harmonica had become something more than a novelty — it was a shared voice.
One evening, an elf choir added harmonicas as the background melody to a lullaby. Another time, a small ensemble accompanied a storyteller with soft background notes that made the tale feel like magic drifting on the wind.
When the midsummer Festival arrived that year, a stage was built beneath the Great Fir Tree. Lanterns dangled from branches like glowing fruit. Candy Cane Fields were lit with floating candles. The air hummed with anticipation.
Santa stepped onto the wooden platform, his boots polished, his red summer cloak fluttering. In his hands was that same harmonica — now burnished to a quiet shine, a tiny sprig of holly tied at its end.
He looked out at the gathered elves and smiled.
“I’m not a musician,” he said. “But sometimes, a heart has something to say.”
He lifted the harmonica and played.
First, a quiet tune — “Silent Night” — slow and heartfelt. The notes drifted like snow on a still pond.
Then he picked up speed — “Deck the Halls” bounced from his fingers with cheerful energy. The crowd clapped in time, boots thumping the ground in joyous rhythm.
When the final note faded, the Village erupted with cheers. Penny Tootle herself gave a proud nod from the front row.
From that day forward, it became tradition.
Every festival. Every gathering. Every unexpected snow day or elf birthday.
Santa would play — not because he had to,
not because he was perfect,
but because music was joy shared.
Sometimes simple. Sometimes silly. Always shining.
And high above, where the northern lights painted the sky in streaks of blue and green, the auroras sometimes shimmered in the shapes of musical notes — dancing slowly in time to a tune only the Village could hear.