An’ Sis she alluz say they wuz
  A’ Old Kriss—­an’ she alluz does. 
  But ef they is a’ Old Kriss, why,
  When’s Chris’mus, Ma she alluz cry?

  This Chris’mus now, we live here in
  Where Ma’s rent’s alluz due ag’in—­
  An’ she “ist slaves”—­I heerd her say
  She did—­ist them words thataway!

[Illustration]

  An’ th’other night, when all’s so cold
  An’ stove’s ’most out—­our Ma she rolled
  Us in th’old feather-bed an’ said,
  “To-morry’s Chris’mus—­go to bed,

  “An’ thank yer blessed stars fer this—­
  We don’t ’spect nothin’ from Old Kriss!”
  An’ cried, an’ locked the door, an’ prayed,
  An’ turned the lamp down....  An’ I laid

  There, thinkin’ in the dark ag’in,
  “Ef wuz Old Kriss, he can’t git in,
  ’Cause ain’t no chimbly here at all—­
  Ist old stovepipe stuck frue the wall!”

  I sleeped nen.—­An’ wuz dreamin’ some
  When I waked up an’ morning’s come,—­
  Fer our Ma she wuz settin’ square
  Straight up in bed, a-readin’ there

  Some letter ’at she ‘d read, an’ quit,
  An’ nen hold like she’s huggin’ it.—­
  An’ diamon’ ear-rings she don’t know
  Wuz in her ears tel I say so—­

  An’ wake the rest up.  An’ the sun
  In frue the winder dazzle-un
  Them eyes o’ Sis’s, wiv a sure-
  Enough gold chain Old Kriss bringed to ’er!

  An’ all of us git gold things!—­Sis,
  Though, say she know it “ain’t Old Kriss—­
  He kissed her, so she waked an’ saw
  Him skite out—­an’ it wuz her Pa.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “ALONG THE BRINK OF WILD BROOK-WAY.”]

* * * * *

A SONG OF SINGING

  Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
    Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
  Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
    And glinting little minnows leap! 
  Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
    And sets the foot-log quivering! 
  Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove—­
    Sing!  Sing!  Sing!

  Sing as you will, O singers all
    Who sing because you want to sing! 
  Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
    Or tree-toad by the trickling spring! 
  Sing! every bird on every bough—­
    Sing! every living, loving thing—­
  Sing any song, and anyhow,
    But Sing!  Sing!  Sing!

* * * * *

THE JAYBIRD

  The Jaybird he’s my favorite
    Of all the birds they is! 
  I think he’s quite a stylish sight
    In that blue suit of his: 
  An’ when he’ lights an’ shuts his wings,
    His coat’s a “cutaway”—­
  I guess it’s only when he sings
    You’d know he wuz a jay.