And Santa Claus smiled as he look’d on the faces
      Of all the good children asleep in their places,
      And laugh’d out so loud as to almost awaken
      One sharp little fellow who great pains had taken;
      His socks were too small—­for he’d hopes of great riches—­
      So, tying the legs, he had hung up his breeches! 
      And surely the tears almost came in his eyes
      As he open’d a letter with joy and surprise
      That he took from a stocking hung up to a bed,
      And surely they fell as the letter he read;
      ’Twas a little girl’s hand, and said, “Dear Santer Claws,
      Don’t fordit baby’s sox—­they’s hung up to the drors.”

But wasn’t there laughter and shouting and noise
From the boys and the girls, and the girls and the boys,
When they counted the good things the good Saint had brought
them,
And laid them all out on their pillows to sort them. 
Such wonderful voices, such wonderful lungs,
It was just like another confusion of tongues,
A Babel of chatter from master and miss—­
And I don’t think they’ve left off from that day to this.

Ah! good little people, if thus you shall find
Rich treasures provided, be grateful and mind,
In the midst of your pleasures, a moment to pause,
And think about Christmas and good Santa Claus!

      Remember, in weary and desolate places,
      With tears in their eyes and with grime on the faces,
      The children of poverty, sorrow and weep,
      With little to cheer them awake or asleep;
      And remember that you who have much and to spare,
      Can brighten their eyes and can lighten their cares,
      If you take the example and work to the cause
      Of your own benefactor, the good Santa Claus.

      You need not climb chimneys in tempest and storm,
      Nor creep into keyholes in fairy-like form;
      You’ve a magical key for the dreariest place
      In the light of your eyes and the smile of your face. 
      And remember the joy that you give to another
      Will gladden your own heart as well as the other;
      For troubles are halved when together we bear them,
      And pleasures are doubled whenever we share them.

THE IMPERIAL RECITER

“And we are peacemen, also; crying for
Peace, peace at any price—­though it be war! 
We must live free, at peace, or each man dies
With death-clutch fast for ever on the prize.” 
                               —­GERALD MASSEY.