by A. A. Milne
* * *
"So!" she said, "Santy Claus is back yet once!"
* * *
"What's that?" asked the man suspiciously.
* * *
"I say, what it is you want?" said Mrs. Gratz.
* * *
"Oh!" said the man. "Well, I ain't a-goin' to fool with you no longer, Mrs. Gratz. I'm a-goin' to tell you right out what I am and who I am. I'm a detective of the police, and I'm looking up a mighty bad character."
* * *
"I guess I know right where you find one," said Mrs. Gratz politely.
* * *
"Now, don't be funny," said the thin Santa Claus peevishly. "Mebby you noticed I didn't say nothing when you spoke about that padlock being busted? Mebby you noticed how careful I looked over your chicken coop, and how I looked over the fence into the next yard? Well, I won't fool you. I ain't no chicken-yard inspector, and I ain't no chicken buyer--them was just my detective disguises. I'm out detecting a chicken thief--just a plain, ordinary chicken thief--and what I come for is clues."
* * *
"Yes?" said Mrs. Gratz. "And what is it, such cloos? I haven't any clooses."
* * *
The thin Santa Claus seemed provoked.
* * *
"Now, look here!" he said. "You may think this is funny, but it isn't. I have got to catch that chicken thief or I'll lose my job, and I can't catch him unless I have some clues to catch him with. Now, didn't you have some chickens stolen last night?"
* * *
"Chickens?" asked Mrs. Gratz. "No, I didn't have chickens stolen. Such toober-chlosis bugs eat them. With fedders, too. And bones. Right off the hoofs, ain't it a pity?"
* * *
It may have been a blush of shame, but it was more like a flush of anger, that overspread the face of the thin Santa Claus. He stared hard at the placid German face of Mrs. Gratz, and decided she was too stupid to mean it--that she was not teasing him.
* * *
"You don't catch on," he said. "You see, there ain't any such things as toober-chlosis bugs. I just made that up as a sort of detective disguise. Them chickens wasn't eat by no bugs at all--they was stole. See? A chicken thief come right into the coop and stole them. Do you think any kind of a bug could pry off a padlock?"
* * *
Mrs. Gratz seemed to let this sink into her mind and to revolve there, and get to feeling at home, before she answered.
* * *
"No," she said at length, "I guess not. But Santy Claus could do it. Such a big, fat man. Sure he could do it."
* * *
"Why, you--" began the thin man crossly, and then changed his tone. "There ain't no such thing as Santy Claus," he said as one might speak to a child--but even a chicken thief would not tell a child such a thing, I hope.
* * *
"No?" queried Mrs. Gratz sadly. "No Santy Claus? And I was scared of it, myself, with such toober-chlosis bugs around. He should not to have gone into such a chicken coop with so many bugs busting up all over. He had a right to have fumigated himself, once. And now he ain't. He's all eat up, on the hoof, bones, and feet and all. And such a kind man, too."
* * *
The thin Santa Claus frowned. He had half an idea that Mrs. Gratz was fooling with him, and when he spoke it was crisply.
* * *
"Now, see here," he said, "last night somebody broke into your chicken coop and stole all your chickens. I know that. And he's been stealing chickens all around this town, and all around this part of the country, too, and I know that. And this stealing has got to stop. I've got to catch that thief. And to catch him I've got to have a clue. A clue is something he has left around, or dropped, where he was stealing. Now, did that chicken thief drop any clues in your chicken yard? That's what I want to know--did he drop any clues?"
* * *
"Mebby, if he dropped some cloos, those toober-chlosis bugs eat them up," suggested Mrs. Gratz. "They eats bones and fedders; mebby they eats cloos, too."
* * *
"Now, ain't that smart?" sneered the thin Santa Claus. "Don't you think you're funny? But I'll tell you the clue I'm looking for. Did that thief drop a pocketbook, or anything like that?"
* * *
"Oh, a pocketbook!" said Mrs. Gratz. "How much should be in such a pocketbook, mebby?"
* * *
"Nine hundred dollars," said the thin Santa Claus promptly.
* * *
"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Gratz. "So much money all in one cloos! Come out to the chicken yard once; I'll help hunt for cloos, too."
* * *
The thin Santa Claus stood a minute looking doubtfully at Mrs. Gratz. Her face was large and placid and unemotional.
* * *
"Well," he said with a sigh, "it ain't much use, but I'll try it again."
* * *
When he had gone, after another close search of the chicken yard and coop, Mrs. Gratz returned to her friend, Mrs. Flannery.
* * *
"Purty soon I don't belief any more in Santy Claus at all," she said. "Purty soon I have more beliefs in chicken thiefs than in Santy Claus. Yet a while I beliefs in him, but, one more of those come-agains, and I don't."
* * *
"He'll not be comin' back any more," said Mrs. Flannery positively. "I'm wonderin' he came at all, and the jail so handy. All ye have t' do is t' call a cop."
* * *
"Sure!" said Mrs. Gratz. "But it is not nice I should put Santy Claus in jail. Such a liberal Santy Claus, too."
* * *
"Have it yer own way, ma'am," said Mrs. Flannery. "I'll own 'tis some different whin chickens is stole. 'Tis hard to expind th' affections on a bunch of chickens, but, if any one was t' steal my pig, t' jail he would go, Santy Claus or no Santy Claus. Not but what ye have a kind heart anyway, ma'am, not wantin' t' put th' poor fellow in jail whin he has already lost nine hundred dollars, which, goodness knows, ye might have t' hand back, was th' law t' take a hand in it."
* * *
"So!" said Mrs. Gratz. "Such is the law, yet? All right, I don't belief in chicken thiefs, no matter how much he comes again. I stick me to Santy Claus. Always will I belief in Santy Claus. Chicken thiefs gives, and wants to take away again, but Santy Claus is always giving and never taking."
* * *
"Ye 're fergettin' th' chickens that was took," suggested Mrs. Flannery.
* * *
"Took?" said Mrs. Gratz.
* * *
"Tooken," Mrs. Flannery corrected.
* * *
"Tooked?" said Mrs. Gratz. "I beliefs me not in Santy Claus that way. I beliefs he is a good old man. For givings I beliefs in Santy Claus, but for takings I beliefs in toober-chlosis bugs."
* * *
"An' th' busted padlock, then?" asked Mrs. Flannery.
* * *
"Ach!" exclaimed Mrs. Gratz. "Them reindeers is so frisky, yet. They have a right to kick up and bust it, mebby."
* * *
Mrs. Flannery sighed.
* * *
"'T is a grand thing t' have faith, ma'am," she said.
* * *
"Y-e-s," said Mrs. Gratz indolently, "that's nice. And it is nice to have nine hundred dollars more in the bank, ain't it?"
Santa Claus’ Assistants
Ernest Vincent Wright
Santa Claus’ Assistants
DID you ever wonder, children dear,
How Santa always knows
Just what to bring you Christmas Eve?
Did you for once suppose
He comes around throughout the year
To watch the girls and boys
And find out what they want the most
In the way of dolls and toys?
* * *
Ah, no indeed! Old Santa is
A very busy elf,
And has no time to go around
And find out for himself;
And so he sends his son—what’s that?
You think
that isn’t true?
Oh, yes! He has a little son,
And a little daughter too!
* * *
This little son, when Christmas time
Draws nearer, day by day,
Goes driving all around the world
In a tiny golden sleigh.
’Tis drawn by twenty wee white mice;
And, scampering o’er the ground,
They stop at every chamber where
A good boy’s to be found.
* * *
And then young Santie skips about
And peeps in every nook
Where toys are kept; and scans them all,
Each top, ball, bat, or book;
Examines all the sleds and skates,
And when one’s worn or old
He writes it down on a crystal slate
With a pencil made of gold.
* * *
Then back he drives to Santa Claus
At the greatest rate of speed,
And tells what toys these boys have got
And what he thinks they need.
So Santa’s workmen make the things,
And pack them in his sleigh,
All ready for his midnight ride
On the eve of Christmas Day.
* * *
But Santa’s daughter! My! oh, my!
How she does travel round!
From north to south or east to west,
Where good little girls are found.
Her sleigh is made of glistening frost,
And whew! How she does go!
For she drives a hundred whirling flakes
Of the purest, whitest snow.
* * *
She visits rooms of little girls,
And hunts around to see
If she’d better order another doll
To hang on the Christmas-tree.
She rummages through the bureau drawers,
The closets, and everywhere,
To see what things like gloves and lace,
Or trinkets, are needed there.
* * *
So, children, bear this fact in mind,
That Santa Claus has spies
Who watch you all, throughout the year,
With sharp, all-seeing eyes;
And if you’re naughty, those who drive
The snowflakes and the mice
Will simply peep inside your room
And scoot off in a trice!
Christmas Eve
Eugene Field
Christmas Eve
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,---
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
* * *
Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.
* * *
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.
* * *
A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.
* * *
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
Christmas Treasures
Eugene Field
Christmas Treasures
I count my treasures o'er with care,---
The little toy my darling knew,
A little sock of faded hue,
A little lock of golden hair.
* * *
Long years ago this holy time,
My little one---my all to me---
Sat robed in white upon my knee,
And heard the merry Christmas chime.
* * *
"Tell me, my little golden-head,
If Santa Claus should come to-night,
What shall he bring my baby bright,---
What treasure for my boy?" I said.
* * *
And then he named this little toy,
While in his round and mournful eyes
There came a look of sweet surprise,
That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
* * *
And as he lisped his evening prayer
He asked the boon with childish grace;
Then, toddling to the chimney-place,
He hung this little stocking there.
* * *
That night, while lengthening shadows crept,
I saw the white-winged angels come
With singing to our lowly home
And kiss my darling as he slept.
* * *
They must have heard his little prayer,
For in the morn, with rapturous face,
He toddled to the chimney-place,
And found this little treasure there.
* * *
They came again one Christmas-tide,---
That angel host, so fair and white;
And, singing all that glorious night,
They lured my darling from my side.
* * *
A little sock, a little toy,
A little lock of golden hair,
The Christmas music on the air,
A watching for my baby boy!
* * *
But if again that angel train
And golden-head come back for me,
To bear me to Eternity,
My watching will not be in vain.
Jest 'fore Christmas
Eugene Field
Jest 'fore Christmas
Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,
Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!
Mighty glad I ain't a girl---ruther be a boy,
Without them sashes, curls, an' things that 's worn by Fauntleroy!
Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake---
Hate to take the castor-ile they give for bellyache!
'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,
But jest 'fore Christmas I 'm as good as I kin be!
* * *
Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;
First thing she knows she does n't know where she is at!
Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,
'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!
But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,
He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,
An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"
But jest 'fore Christmas I 'm as good as I kin be!
* * *
Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,
I 'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,
As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,
Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!
But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,
Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she 'd know
That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me!
Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I 'm good as I kin be!
* * *
And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemnlike an' still,
His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"
The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become
Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!
But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz,
That mother says to fat
her: "How improved our Willie is!"
But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me
When, jest 'fore Christmas, I 'm as good as I kin be!
* * *
For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys,
Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;
So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,
An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;