“I’m almost ready,” quoth he, quoth he,
“And Christmas is almost here;
But one thing more—I must write a book,
And give to each one this year.”
So he clapped his specks on his little round nose,
And seizing the stump of a pen,
He wrote more lines in one little hour
Than you ever could read in ten.
He told them stories all pretty and new,
And wrote them all out in rhyme;