I HAD told him Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee
Holding fast his little stockings
Stuffed as full as full could be,
And attentive listening to me
With a face demure and mild,
That good Santa Claus, who filled them,
Does not love a naughty child.
“But we'll be good, won't we, Moder?”
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid,
While I turned me to my table
Where a tempting goblet stood
Brimming high with dainty egg-no
Sent me by a neighbour good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Slapping off the shining froth:
And in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.
Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled!
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing, by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.
“Come back, Harney!” called he loudly
As he held his apron white,
“You sall have my candy wabbit!”
But the door was fastened tight;
So he stood abashed and silent
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
Then as by some sudden impulse
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames go high and higher,
In a brave, clear key he shouted
Like some lordly little elf,
“Santa Caus! Come down de chimney
Make my Moder 'have herself!”
“I will be a good girl, Benny,”
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney
Mewing on the gallery-roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they played beneath the live-oaks
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim fire-lighted chamber
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my play-worn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer:
“God bess Fader—God bess Moder—
God bess Sister—” then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured—“God bess Santa Caus!”
He is sleeping—brown and silken
Lie the lashes long and meek
Like caressing, clinging shadows
On his plump and peachy cheek;
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O Undefiled!
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.
As he sat upon my knee
Holding fast his little stockings
Stuffed as full as full could be,
And attentive listening to me
With a face demure and mild,
That good Santa Claus, who filled them,
Does not love a naughty child.
“But we'll be good, won't we, Moder?”
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid,
While I turned me to my table
Where a tempting goblet stood
Brimming high with dainty egg-no
Sent me by a neighbour good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Slapping off the shining froth:
And in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.
Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled!
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing, by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.
“Come back, Harney!” called he loudly
As he held his apron white,
“You sall have my candy wabbit!”
But the door was fastened tight;
So he stood abashed and silent
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
Then as by some sudden impulse
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames go high and higher,
In a brave, clear key he shouted
Like some lordly little elf,
“Santa Caus! Come down de chimney
Make my Moder 'have herself!”
“I will be a good girl, Benny,”
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney
Mewing on the gallery-roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they played beneath the live-oaks
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim fire-lighted chamber
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my play-worn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer:
“God bess Fader—God bess Moder—
God bess Sister—” then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured—“God bess Santa Caus!”
He is sleeping—brown and silken
Lie the lashes long and meek
Like caressing, clinging shadows
On his plump and peachy cheek;
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O Undefiled!
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.