"Dick, Dick, the sleepy-head,
Dearly loves his little bed.
Here's a cure; 'twill work for sure,
Wind it tight. Set it right,
And then go ahead and
Blow out the light.
When morning comes, how the folks will stare,
To go to breakfast and find Dick there."
"That's poetry," said Dorothy much impressed. "I learned poetry once, all about Tit, Tiny and Tittens. Did you write a poetry plum for me, too, Aunt Peggy?"
"Yes, but I mustn't read you yours. That's a surprise, but you can hear grandpa's. You see, I'm going to give him a pen because he hates to have anybody else use his pens, and Dick's always doing it." Peggy cleared her throat. "This is grandpa's poem.
"Now, here's a pen for the best of men,
And I wish it were purest gold.
It could not write, in a whole long night,
Half the love my heart does hold.
Not for Dick's abuse, but for father's use,
Is the pen I here present.
May it long keep bright and continue to write,
As well as the maker meant."
"I'm going to write some poetry, too, for my Christmas presents," said Dorothy, fired to emulation. "I'm going to say,
"This is for Aunt Peggy
Because she's eggy."
"But I wouldn't be eggy, I hope," exclaimed Peggy, laughing with an abandon rare in the last ten days. "So your poetry wouldn't fit."
Dorothy's face fell. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with perhaps a glimmering appreciation of the truth that art is long. "Oh! I didn't know that poetry had to be true." She gave up her ambition for the time being. "What's grandma's poetry, Aunt Peggy?"
Peggy unfolded the slip of paper willingly. She was proud of that attempt.
"We could have a jolly Christmas though old Santa Claus should go.
We could do without a turkey at a pinch.
And to spare the cheerful holly and the festive mistletoe
Would be rather in the nature of a cinch.
There is only one thing needed, as you'll readily agree,
One essential that surpasses every other,
For of all absurd endeavors, the most imbecile would be,
Just to try to have Christmas without mother."