The U.S. gets a lot of grief from the rest of the world over our love affair with guns (and using them to kill innocent children) but at least we don’t sing about dead kids like the French do at Christmas time. Or force our rug rats to either. But if you are gonna jive to the Danse Macabre for the holidays, France is where you want to be. And the gruesome strains of La légende de Saint Nicolas are what deck the halls in the land of the Tricolor. Because nothing says Merry Christmas like a tale of cannibalism.

France’s popular Christmas carol is an ode to that jolly old elf himself. But this one is about the Greek version of Santa, Nikolaos Thaumaturgos (aka Nicholas the Miracle Worker), who like the Dutch version is credited with being the original St. Nick and who was, as FOX News’ Megyn Kelly will tell you, a real man. Though probably not quite as white as Miss Megyn would have you believe. The song dates back to the 16th century, the saintly Santa quite a few centuries before that. And like any saint worth his salt, it’s not enough that he was canonized, today he continues to be saint-like as his remains are believed to exude a fragrant liquid – often said to smell like roses – with miraculous properties; body fluids which are drawn forth by the faithful every year on Christmas (to be then sold at a nearby shop). And you thought egg nog was vile stuff.

A useful as his human remains have proved to be, Nicholas gained his original fame for the miracles he performed while alive, among which included feeding his entire city on but a small portion of wheat during a period of famine. His generosity too is fabled, with the story of his providing gold coins to a destitute family to save the clan’s daughters from a life of prostitution among the more famous. But the tale the French have zeroed in on is that of The Pickled Boys. Which you’d think would be the origin of hanging pickles as ornaments on Christmas Trees, but it turns out that was just an American marketing ploy. The pickled boys, however, were about a different kind of ploy.

As with every good legend, there are variation of the story. But the basics are always the same. The good saint finds himself at an inn where the inn keeper (sometimes called a butcher, which all things considered is an apt moniker) offers Nicky a bit of supper. In the song’s version it is first a slice of ham, and then a bit of veal. In others it’s not Nikita but some fellow travellers who are offered the meal. Regardless, either the Nickster himself or his hungry friends decline the food having sussed out that it isn’t pork or beef but rather the cooked remains of three boys whom the inn keeper/butcher had killed, gutted, dismembered, and pickled. Which really is a miracle because in those days meat was rare and children were not.

Less believable is the follow-through, even if it is the official miracle Nickolai is credited with. British composer Benjamin Britten, in his 1948 cantata, Saint Nicolas, has Nicolas call to the dead (and gutted, dismembered, and pickled) boys, “Timothy, Mark, and John, put your fleshly garments on!” and the boys come back to life, singing “Alleluia!” Which just goes to show you that the Brits with their fondness for boiling meat should not be trusted as cooks. Or with writing holiday songs. Older versions of the tale have He Who Shall Become Santa Claus bring the kiddies back to life by making the sign of the cross over their remains. La légende de Saint Nicolas – ‘cuz the French aren’t big on happy endings – bypasses the possibility of restored life in favor of the kids then being quite fine with remaining dead but getting to ascend to heaven. Even if it is in pieces. All of which is dispensed with in a singular stanza. While the actual murders and the visions of cannibalism take up the other eight.

So the next time someone forces you to join in singing Christmas carols – once the noise has died down ‘cuz no one can remember the words to the third verse of Jingle Bells – give the French a tip of your chapeau and bellow out these joyous words:

The butcher seized a knife straitway,
And did the little creatures slay.
He put them in a tub of brine,
In pieces small as they were swine.

It’ll be the last time anyone invites you to join in on their holiday singing. And that’s a miracle I can get behind.

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