Some two score years, and more ago,
A father gave his child away:
It was a Christmas gift, you know,
Because 'twas done on Christmas Day.
That little maid was given to me;
I took her then for weal or woe.
The years have passed so happily
It does not seem so long ago.
No other gift in any year
Has e'er excelled, or equaled this;
The others evanescent were
While this has shed perennial bliss.
For it has multiplied with time
And added blessings, year by year;
She came to me in youthful prime
And still remains, though in the sere.
Her children, and their children, too,
In number, just about a score,--
I count, as blessings, to her due:
May God repeat His gift once more.
My little wifey, always dear,
When Christmas comes, I think back then
And greet you with increasing cheer,
My Christmas Gift, returned again.
"It's a beautiful idea, Dick, but it won't do now. There's too much
pathos in it for this occasion. When I read the lines myself, I am
blinded with tears, for I realize all too keenly that we may not have
him another Christmas. Some time, it may be a great comfort to mother
to have it. Keep the idea in mind and work it out some day."
So the little poem was folded up and laid away for another year.