Old Santa Claus sat alone in his den,
With his leg crossed over his knee;
While a comical look peeped out at his eyes,
For a funny old fellow was he.
His queer little cap was tumbled and torn,
And his wig it was all awry;
But he sat and mused the whole day long,
While the hours went flying by.
He had been busy as busy can be,
In filling his pack with toys;
He had gathered his nuts and baked his pies,
To give to the girls and boys.
There were dolls for the girls, and whips for the boys,
With wheelbarrows, horses and drays,
And bureaus and trunks for Dolly's new clothes;
All these in his pack he displays.
Of candy too, both twisted and striped,
He had furnished a plentiful store,
While raisins and figs, and prunes and grapes,
Hung up on a peg by the door.
"I am almost ready," quoth he, quoth he,
"And Christmas is almost here;
But one thing more--I must write a book,
And give to each one this year."
So he clapped his specs on his little round nose,
And seizing the stump of a pen,
He wrote more lines in one little hour
Than you ever could write in ten.
He told them stories all pretty and new,
And wrote them all out in rhyme;
Then packed them away with his box of toys
To distribute one at a time.
And Christmas Eve, when all were in bed,
Right down the chimney he flew;
And stretching the stocking-leg out at the top,
He clapped in a book for you.