Twas the night before Christmas in Suburbia-land, not a “For Sale” sign was stirring, not even a brand. Zillow was buzzing with listings so rare, in hopes that St. Nick the Realtor soon would be there.

The buyers, all cozy, dreamt of kitchens so grand, with countertops shiny, and islands so grand. And mamma in her PJs, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a real estate nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I leaped from my bed to see what was the matter. To the window I dashed, faster than email spam, tore open the shutters, and yelled, “What a jam!”

The moon on the breast of the new-cut grass scene, gave a glow of midday to the sign, so pristine. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a contract in hand and eight eager clients near.

With a spry little agent, so quick and so slick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick, the Realtor. Faster than market trends, his offers they flew, he chuckled, and shouted, and called out his crew:

“Now, Cash Bid! Now, Quick Close! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Commission! On, Contract! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the market! To the top of the wall! Now sell away! Sell away! Sell away all!”

Like flyers before the wild open house day, when they meet with an offer, they soar into the fray; So up to the housetop the inspectors they zoomed, with clipboards and gadgets, and the appraiser too, assumed.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little proof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nick came with a bound.

He was dressed all in Armani, from his head to his toe, his suit crisp and polished, a high-end show; A bundle of brochures he had flung on his back, and he looked like a salesman, opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the listings, then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight— “Happy house-hunting to all, and to all a good-buy!”