The snow lay deep round the castle keep, where, frozen to the bone
In his chamber chill, by the windowsill, the King sat on his throne.
He stared in vain through the frosted pane as the snow, heaped ever higher
By the blizzard’s rage, and he bade his Page throw wood upon the fire.
The pageboy sighed, and he faintly cried, "Ah, Sire, If I only could!
But although I’ve sought, I must report I canst find no more wood!"
At this the King did a tantrum fling and flew into a royal rage –
"Bring me the fool who tends the fuel!" he told the trembling Page.
Though aquake inside, the Page replied: "I cannot, Sire, for he
Went home on leave for Stephen’s Eve, this afternoon at three!"
Then the King did swear and tear his hair, his face with fury creased –
"How canst we cook the Royal Chook and hold Saint Stephen’s Feast?"
But then the lad a brainwave had: "Sire, though the kindling’s gone,
Mayhap we could – for firewood, chop up thy Royal Throne?"
The King disdained this thought harebrained, and out the door he went,
In the howling wail of the freezing gale, along the battlement.
He paused to stare in fierce despair into the icy blast.
Then saw below, in the moon’s bright glow, a peasant trudging past.
And he saw the load that the peasant towed piled high upon his sledge.
Twas kindling wood and it looked so good he nigh fell off the ledge.
"Oh, Page!" he cried, "Come step outside! Who is that serf out yonder?
Where doth he dwell, and wouldst he sell his load to me, I wonder?"
The Pageboy said, "Tis Firewood Fred, our local Forest Fence,
But his load I fear wouldst cost thee dear. He hath keen business sense!"
"Who cares for gold in this freezing cold!" the King cried with a shiver.
"Go, bring me wine and lamb-chops fine -- and half a pound of liver!"
The pageboy did as he was bid then joined the King below.
Then off they paced into the waste of deeply driven snow.
A league ahead, trudged Firewood Fred; his stamina now dwindling.
"Before I drop," thought he, "I’ll stop and burn my load of kindling.
I’ll thaw my feet before its heat, and count my wood well sold,
For where’s the sense in saving pence to die here in the cold?"
Not far behind, the pageboy whined and pleaded with his master.
"Sire, thou art strong, thy legs are long, thou walkest so much faster.
Whilst I am short, and much distraught. I cannot further follow!"
The King then said: "Look where I tread! I leave behind a hollow…
"So place thy foot in every rut, and cast aside thy fear…
And stop thy whine, thou little swine - or I shall box thine ear!"
So on they went, two figures bent against the cruel wind’s howl.
The monarch wore his ermine pure – the pageboy wore a scowl.
Then up ahead the sky flared red as Fred his fire did raise,
And the glowing flare soon led the pair up to the cheerful blaze.
"Who’s there?" Fred cried, his face half-fried from standing near the fire.
And from the smoke, the monarch spoke, his voice ablaze with ire!
"Tis Wenceslas, thou brainless ass! Why dost thou burn thy wood?
For we have crossed this waste storm-tossed to trade thee wine and food!
For in my castle there’s no vassal to bring me Yule logs hither…
I canst not eat of frozen meat, hence have we trailed thee thither!
"And now, alack, we must go back and gnaw on lamb-chops cold!"
But Firewood Fred replied, "Instead, Sire, might I make so bold
As to suggest thou take thy rest before my bonfire fine -
And let us roast thy meat, and toast Saint Stephen with thy wine?"
The King rejoiced and loudly voiced his monarchical delight,
And on Fred’s sled they sat and fed before his bonfire bright.
With fingers greased the three did feast, and drink of hot mulled wine,
And each did own they’d never known a finer way to dine!
Oh, how they chewed that sizzling food and how it warmed the gizzard,
Oh, How they slurped, and how they burped, amid the keening blizzard!
Then, on the sled, stout Firewood Fred both King and Page did lug
By Agnes’ Fount beneath the mount, to his hovel warm and snug.
And when, at last, the storm had passed, and all the snows had thawed,
Back home they went, and the Page was sent to fetch the monarch’s sword.
Then unto Fred, the good King said: "With thee are we delighted!"
Then he tapped him twice and cried: "Arise, SIR Fred - for thou art
knighted!"
Thus it came to pass that Wenceslas didst feast in warmth and laughter,
For good Sir Fred filled the castle’s shed with firewood to the rafter!
Well, there’s the fable – though I’m unable to say if it’s false or true…
But I’d like to feel it was all for real – that Blizzard Barbecue!
