I see it through the lapse of years--
This picture, ofttimes blurred with tears.
No tiny hands in mine are held,
No sweet brown eyes my pulses wake--
Only in memory a voice
E'er bids me stay for love's sweet sake.


* * * * *



HANG UP YOUR STOCKING.

Laugh, little bright-eyes, hang up your stocking;
Don't count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
Knocking,
Knocking at the door.

Through the key-hole slyly peeping,
Down the chimney careful creeping,
When the little folks are sleeping,
Comes he with his pack of presents.
Such a grin! but then so pleasant
You would never think to fear him;
And you can not, _must_ not hear him.
He's so particular, you know,
He'd just pick up his traps and go
If but one little eye should peep