I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
—Robert Louis Stevenson.
QUITE LIKE A STOCKING.
Just as morn was fading amid her misty rings,
And every stocking was stuffed with childhood’s precious things,
Old Kris Kringle looked round and saw on the elm tree bough
High hung, an oriole’s nest, lonely and empty now.
“Quite like a stocking,” he laughed, “hung up there in the tree,