Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead: 
Couldn’t hardly keep awake, ner wouldn’t go to bed: 
Kittle stewin’ on the fire, and Mother settin’ here
Darnin’ socks, and rockin’ in the skreeky rockin’-cheer;
Pap gap’, and wunder where it wuz the money went,
And quar’l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment: 
And me a-dreamin’ sleigh-bells when the clock ’ud whir and buzz,
Long afore
I knowed who
“Santy-Claus” wuz!

Size the fire-place up, and figger how “Old Santy” could
Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would: 
Wisht that I could hide and see him—­wundered what he ’d say
Ef he ketched a feller layin’ far him thataway! 
But I bet on him, and liked him, same as ef he had
Turned to pat me on the back and say, “Look here, my lad,
Here’s my pack,—­jes’ he’p yourse’f, like all good boys does!”
Long afore
I knowed who
“Santy-Claus” wuz!

Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it ’peared to be—­
Truth made out o’ lies like that-un’s good enough far me!—­
Wisht I still wuz so confidin’ I could jes’ go wild
Over hangin’ up my stockin’s, like the little child
Climbin’ in my lap to-night, and beggin’ me to tell
’Bout them reindeers, and “Old Santy” that she loves so well
I’m half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his—­
Long afore
She knows who
“Santy-Claus” is!

DEAR HANDS.

The touches of her hands are like the fall
Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes ’gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

  Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
  The touches of her hands, and the delight—­
    The touches of her hands! 
  The touches of her hands are like the dew
  That falls so softly down no one e’er knew
  The touch thereof save lovers like to one
  Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

  O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
  As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
    Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs,
  Or—­in between the midnight and the dawn,
  When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—­
    Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

THIS MAN JONES.

  This man Jones was what you’d call
  A feller ’at had no sand at all;
  Kind o’ consumpted, and undersize,
  And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes,
  And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style,
  And a sneakin’ sort-of-a half-way smile
  ‘At kind o’ give him away to us
  As a preacher, maybe, er somepin’ wuss.

  Didn’t take with the gang—­well, no—­
  But still we managed to use him, though,—­
  Coddin’ the gilly along the rout’,
  And drivin’ the stakes ’at he pulled out—­
  Far I was one of the bosses then,
  And of course stood in with the canvasmen;
  And the way we put up jobs, you know,
  On this man Jones jes’ beat the show!