When out in the nuss’ry arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my sleep, crying, “What is the matter?”
I flew to each bedside—still half in a doze—
Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes,
While the light of the taper served clearly to show
The piteous plight of those objects below.
For what to the fond father’s eyes should appear
But the little pale face of each sick little dear,
For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick
I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.