I listened, and looked at this wonderful sight,
Though I knew the old man in a minute;
Then opened the window, and called with delight,
"Come up, Mr. Santa Claus, out of the night,
To my room, there is nobody in it,-
For the good old times of Christmas cheer,
That visit our household every year.
The words were scarce out of my mouth, I declare,
When there seemed as of sleigh-bells a ringing,
And off like a shot he flew up in the air,
Down the chimney, and into my big easy-chair,
Where he seated himself with a grace that was rare,
All the while merrily singing,
"Roam the world over, wherever I call,
'Tis merry in cabin, 'tis merry in hall."
"Merry Christmas, my darling," he pleasantly said,
"And many returns of the same, ma'am!
So now, as the dear little folks overhead,.
Pretty Kate, and sweet Bessie and Nell, are in bed.
Let's prepare for a frolicsome day, ma'am,
For the good old times of Christmas cheer,
Which visit this household every year."
Then ranging the pretty things round on the floor,
He lifted his evergreen stick up,
Waved it above them three times and no more,
Heigh! Scampermus! off they go out of the door,
Each lot to its stocking according to law,
And there was a glorious kick-up,
To that good old tune, played far and near,
Of "Christmas cometh but once a year."
By this early dawn was beginning to break-
High again rang old chanticleer's trumpet.
"And now, kindest madam, before they awake,
One parting salute for dear memory's sake,
And because in a trice I must stump it,"
The old man whispered in my ear,
"For Christmas comes but once a year."
And his arm stole gently round my waist,
Or ever I might prevent him:
I could but overlook his haste,
To be thus tenderly embraced,
Though one did not content him;
And the old man bowed, polite as a peer,
"Ah! Christmas comes but once a year.'
Then the gallant old joker sat down to his prog,
And his little eyes twinkled with pleasure.
He ate the cold pastry, he drank the egg-nog,
Then lighted his pipe at the big back-log,
And was off in a whiff to the measure
Of "Roam the world over, wherever I call,
It is merry in cabin, and merry in hall."
“THEM YANKEE BLANKITS.” WHERE SUFFERING AND BROTHERLY KINDNESS BROUGHT HEARTS TOGETHER.
YES, John, I was down thar at Memphis,
A-workin' around at the boats,
A-heavin' o' cotton with emph'sis,
An' a loadin' her onter the floats.
I was comin' away from Ole Texas,
Whar I went, you know, arter the wah
'Bout it now I'll make no reflexes,
But wait till I git ter long taw.
Well, while I was down thar the fever,
As yaller an' pizen as sin,
Broke out; an' ef you'll beleeve her,
Wharever she hit she struck in!
It didn't take long in the hatchin',
It jes' fa'rly bred in the air,
Till a hosspitel camp warn't a patchin'
An' we'd plenty o' corpses to spare.
I volunteer'd then with the Howards, -
I thought thet my duty was clear,
An' I didn't look back'ards, but for'ards,
An' went ter my work 'ithout fear.
One day, howsomever, she got me
As quick as the shot of a gun,
An' they toted me off ter allot me
A bunk tell my life-race was run.
The doctor and nurses they wrestled,
But it didn't do me any good;
An' the drugger he poundid an' pestled,
But he didn't git up the right food.
"No blankits ner ice in the city!"
I heard 'em say that from my bed,
An' some cried, "O God! who'll take pity
On the dyin' that soon'll be dead?”
Next day, howsomever, the doctor
Come in with a smile on his brow.
"Old boy, jest as yit we hain't knocked her,"
Said he, "but we'll do fer her now!”
Fer, yer see, John, them folks ter the Nor'ward
Hed hear'd us afore we call'd twice,
An' they'd sent us a full cargo forward
Of them much-needed blankits an' ice!
Well, brother, I've been mighty solid
Agin' Yankees, yer know, since the wah,
An' agin' reconstrucktin' was stolid,
Not kearin' fer Kongriss ner law;
But, John, I got onder thet kiver,
That God-blessed gift o' the Yanks,
An' it sav'd me frum fordin' "the river,"
An' I'm prayin' 'em oceans o' thanks!
I tell yer, old boy, thar's er streak in us
Old Rebels an' Yanks thet is warm;
It's er brotherly love thet'll speak in us,
An' fetch us together in storm:
We may snarl about "niggers an' francheese,"
But whenever thar's sufferin' afoot,
The two trees'll unite in the branches
The same as they do at the root!
You see, that Jim Lane of the office
Had the keeping at Panamar Creek;
As fine and as noble a fellow
As ever translated the "click."
We were chums in the army together;
His signal I knew like a book;
And his nervous, crisp manner of working
A message could not be mistook.
Poor Jim! he was first to go under
When the Yellow Jack happened this way;
And a sorry time 'twas in the mountains
When we laid him away in the clay.
The boys the whole length of the line here
Made a purse for the widow and “
chick;
But we missed Jimmy Lane and his signal,
And the sharp, nervous way of his click.
Well, one midnight or near it, last season,
I was timing the "mail" from the West,
Sweeping on through the long narrow valley
Like a thunderbolt, doing its best;
Till the signal came from the last station,
And I knew in ten minutes the "mail
Would be past me, and climbing the grading
Between here and the Cumberland Vale;
When quick on the heels of the message
Came a signal with sharp, nervous click:
I'd have sworn that Jim Lane was a-working
The wires up at Panamar Creek.
Back my answer, and on came a message,
Quick, quick, change the further branch switch!"
I was out in a moment, and tearing
Down the track by that onery ditch,
Where I found that some wretch had been turning
The switch to demolish the train;
And a spike driven down on the timber
To render my efforts in vain.
I tell you now, stranger, no mortal
Ever worked as I did that night:
I believe other hands were a-helping,
Though you may conclude it was fright.
But that spike was pulled out in some manner,
And the switch-lever swung to its place,
Just as past swept the train on her metal,
Nip and tuck with her time in the race.
And, as I reeled back in my weakness,
In the last flying coach of the train
I saw Jimmy's widow and baby,
Looking out through a bright lighted pane!
ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.
A DRAMATIC SKETCH, ADAPTED FROM THE PLAY OF THAT NAME.
Characters: WILLIAM HOLDER, an old copyist; CONSTANCE BELMOUR, a favorite actress.
SCENE.MISS BELMOUR'S parlor: table with writing-materials and a bouquet of flowers upon it, L.; chair near it. Enter R. CONSTANCE.
CON. An open rupture at last! I have quarrelled with the manager, thrown down my part in disgust, and swept from the stage with all the grace and dignity befitting the public's favorite. A degenerate stage indeed, when a dramatic author presumes, before the whole company, to dictate the manner in which his piece is to be acted! Mr. Beaumont Fletcher actually stormed with rage, declaring I rehearsed to-day on purpose to turn the whole piece into ridicule. If I did, the piece deserved it. A father- a daughter the old story, old as the world. To be sure, the story is very touching, but I - I have never known a father. True art is to reproduce nature; and nature's first, best gifts, a father and a mother's love, have been denied me. I will refuse the part at once. (Sits at table.) Poor Mr. Fletcher! I have a little regard for him, after all, and he for me, else flowers? for they must have come from him.
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