I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as can be,
And attentive listening to me,
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.
"But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid.
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood,
Brimming high with a dainty custard,
Sent me by a neighbour good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Lapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.
Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing, by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.
"Come back Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You shall have my candy wabbit;"
But the door was fastened tight.
So he stood, abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look, alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames grow high and higher,
In a brave, clear key he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,
Make my mother 'have herself."
"I'll be a good girl, Bennie,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney,
Mewing on the galley roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks,
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim, fire-lighted chamber
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my play-worn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer:
"God bess fader, God bess moder,
God bess sister," then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured "God bess Santa Kaus."
He is sleeping: brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Like caressing, clinging shadows,
On his plump and peachy cheek;
And I bend above him, weeping,
Thankful tears; O undefiled;
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.