They put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep;
I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep;
Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung;
While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.
I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten,
And went through all the alphabet, and then began again;
I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece--a poem called "Repose,"
And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose--
When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound,
'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around.
'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly,
And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely.
"Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking;
Twas daylight--brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!