Oh, what a wealth of joy is here
To thrill the soul of Slason dear!
Touch not a thing, but leave them all
Within this sock upon the wall;
So when he wakes and comes, he may
Find all these toys and trinkets gay,
And thank old Santa that he came
Up all these stairs with all this game.
If I have succeeded in conveying any true impression of Eugene Field's nature, the reader can imagine the pleasure he derived from this game, in planning it, in providing the old-fashioned sock, toys, and eatables, and in toiling up six flights of stairs after he knew I was asleep, to see that everything was arranged so as to attract the attention of the passing traveller. The success of his game was fully reported to him by his friend, the night clerk—now one of the best known hotel managers in Chicago—and mightily he enjoyed the report that I had been routed out by the early wayfarer before the light of Christmas broke upon the slumbering city.