Page 58 - Poetry-Country

Dreaming, and faster asleep they are falling—
Mark is a soldier gone off to the wars—
Suddenly Cyril awakes him by calling,
“What a bad night for that poor Santa Claus!
‘Tis such a pity it’s turned so much colder,
Each year, you know, he grows older and older!

“Mark, if you only would rouse up and listen!
This time perhaps we may catch him at last;
Here by the firelight his white beard will glisten—
He is too old and too stiff to walk fast.
Maybe he’d ask us to help him unpacking,
Then we could tell him if anything’s lacking.

“There is your boat—that’s a heavy thing, rather—
Then there’s my sledge, to bring all through the snow!
Does Santa Claus get a letter from Father?
Else I can’t think how he always should know.
Mark, keep awake; I am getting quite creepy!
Oh, how I wish that I wasn’t so sleepy!”

Then his voice fails, and, as shadows grow deeper,
Someone steals in like a beautiful ghost—
Kisses the brow of each warm little sleeper,
Leaving the treasures each wanted the most.
“But we did see him!” next day cry the brothers—
“Santa Claus’ eyes are exactly like Mother’s!”

— Christian Burke (Girl’s Own Paper, 1902)

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