more; Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking, Knocking, Knocking at the door.
Through the key-hole slyly peeping, Down the chimney careful creeping, When the little folks are sleeping, Comes he with his pack of presents. Such a grin! but then so pleasant You would never think to fear him; And you can not, must not hear him. He's so particular, you know, He'd just pick up his traps and go If but one little eye should peep That he thought was fast asleep. Searching broomstick, nails, and shelf, Till he finds the little stocking— Softly lest you hear his knocking— Smiling, chuckling to himself, He fills it from his Christmas store, And out he slips to hunt for more.
Then laugh, little bright-eyes, and hang up your stocking; Don't count the days any more; Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking, Knocking, Knocking at the door.
OPENING THE GATE FOR PAPA.
Hurrying out to the gateway Go two little pattering feet; Eagerly out through the palings Peer two eyes bright and sweet.
A footstep as eager is answering The sweet eyes that patiently wait And papa is kissing, and blessing The baby that opens the gate.
And every day all the long Summer, At noontime and evening late, The little one's watching for papa— Waiting to open the gate.
And now the bright Summer is ended, And Autumn's gay mantle unrolled; The maple leaves wooing the breezes Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.
At noonday the face at the gateway Is flushed with a feverish glow, At night the bright head on the pillow Is tossing in pain to and fro.
The father kneels down in his anguish, And stifles the sobs with groan; He knows that his idol is going— Going out in the midnight alone.
He buries his face in the pillow, Close, close, to the fast failing breath; A little arm clasps his neck closely, A voice growing husky in death
Says pleadingly, half in a whisper: "Please, darling papa, don't cry; I know Birdie's going to Heaven— I heard doctor say he will die;
"But I'll ask God for one of the windows The pretty star-eyes look out
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