Santa. No! no, there is nothing the matter with the child, only a little natural curiosity, that is all; but Kitty you would better remain content to know no man but your papa; he is an exceptional creature, I assure you.
Omnes. Yes, your papa is a model man.
Santa Claus sings
A MODEL MAN.
It is, my friends, quite difficulty to find a fault in me, I have in some queer way escaped total depravity. Though in unbroken line I trace descent from mother Eve, There is no sin in my make-up; I’m perfect, I believe.
Chorus. He is a perfect paragon, old Santa Claus. He never swears above his breath—unless he has a cause; Enumerate his virtues I think we hardly can, But taken all in all he is a perfect Model Man.
Our brightest plans in this vain world are apt to go amiss, But keep your temper; don’t destroy your hopes of future bliss; Don’t scold your wife, don’t kick your dog, let me your model be; I scold my wife? Not for my life! She’d surely wallop me.
Another thing:—Avoid conceit; quit blowing your own horn, But be like me, as modest as the blush of early morn, And when we’ve reached the end of life, with pride we look back Upon the wide swath we have cut, a broad and shining track.
Gus. Well now that’s clevah, deucedly clevah, by Jove. Methinks I’ll warble a little myself.
(starts down stage