SANTA CLAUS TO LITTLE ETHEL.
(IN ANSWER TO HER LETTER, GIVING HIM A LIST OF HER CHRISTMAS WANTS.)
My dear little Ethel,
I fear that the breath'll
Be out of our bodies before we get through;
Day in and day out
We are rushing about,
And you haven't a notion how much there's to do.
Ever since last December,
When you may remember
I paid you a visit at dear Elsinore,
There's not been a minute
With a resting-place in it,
And my nose has not once been outside of the door.
My shop has been going,
My bellows a-blowing,
My hammers and tongs and a thousand odd tools,
Never give up the battle,
But click, bang, and rattle
Like ten million children in ten thousand schools.
Dear me, but I'm weary!
And yet, my small deary,
I read all the letters as fast as they come;
If I didn't,—good gracious!
The house is not spacious,
And the letters would soon squeeze me out of my home.
"I would like a nice sled,
And a dolly's soft bed,
With a night-gown and bed-clothes of pretty bright stuffs,
And paints, and a case
Where my books I may place,
And besides all these things, Dolly's collars and cuffs."
That's a pretty big list!
But may I be kissed
On the back of my head by a crazy mule's hoof,
If the list I don't fill,
Though it takes all the skill
Of every stout workman beneath my broad roof.
"Hans, Yakob, and Karl!
Let me not hear a snarl,
Or a growl, or a grumble come out of your heads;
To work now, instanter!
Trot, gallop, and canter,
And finish this job ere you go to your beds!"
So I set them to work
With a jump and a jerk,
And everything's finished in beautiful style.
Christmas Eve's here again,
And I'm off with my train,
Every reindeer prepared for ten seconds a mile.
I shall slip down the flue
With this letter for you,
So softly, for fear I your slumbers might break.
Not a word will I speak,
But I'll kiss your soft cheek,
And be gone in a jiffy, before you awake.
Should you find I've forgot
Any part of the lot
That I ordered prepared and all marked with your name,
Let me just add a word,
So if that has occurred,
You will know just exactly how I was to blame.
The fact is, my dear,
As I go, year by year,
Up and down these straight chimneys, while you are in bed,
The bumps and the scratches
That Santa Claus catches
Have rubbed all the hair from the top of his head.
And my brain being bare
Of my cover of hair,
Is rapidly losing its power, my pet!
Sometimes, after all's fixed,
I get everything mixed,
And you must forgive if I ever forget.
Good-by, Ethel dear!
May the coming New Year
Bring all kinds of blessings to you from above;
Make you happier and better:
And so my long letter
Must close, with a great deal of Santa Claus's love.
Francis Wells.
The Season's Reveries.
"How many times have you sat at gaze
Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze,
Shaping among the whimsical coals
Fancies and figures and shining goals!"
Lowell.