An' stove's 'most out—our Ma she rolled
Us in th'old feather-bed an' said,
"To-morry's Chris'mus—go to bed,
"An' thank yer blessed stars fer this—
We don't 'spect nothin' from Old Kriss!"
An' cried, an' locked the door, an' prayed,
An' turned the lamp down.... An' I laid
There, thinkin' in the dark ag'in,
"Ef wuz Old Kriss, he can't git in,
'Cause ain't no chimbly here at all—