Sadly, it is nowhere to be found.
That is too bad, because I remember it as being lively and laugh-out-loud funny.
So I turned to A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas which is inscribed to me - in my mother's hand - from both my parents: Christmas 1987. This is a wee book with woodcuts by Ellen Raskin. It is the irresistible account of the poet's own
childhood Christmas in a small Welsh town. A story of Useful Presents - mufflers and mittens - and Useless Presents - colored jelly babies and a false nose. A a memory of mistletoe and snow, uncles and aunts, church bells and music, firesides and tall tales.
Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
And to all a goodnight!