As the ranchman’s wife looked far away

To where the lights of the city burned.

Like feeble stars on that Christmas eve

Were the pulsing lights beyond the tide;

“Now play with your dolly and do not grieve,”

Said she to the wee one at her side.

“Good Santa Claus will come to you

This very night if you do not cry,”

And she wiped a tear like a drop of dew

From the rosy cheek and the anxious eye.