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A poem by James Whitcomb Riley |
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Who Santy-Claus Wuz |
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Title: Who Santy-Claus Wuz Author: James Whitcomb Riley [More Titles by Riley] Jes' a little bit o' feller--I remember still--
Ust to wait, an' set up late, a week er two ahead; Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed; Kittle stewin' on the fire, an' Mother settin' here Darnin' socks, an' rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer; Pap gap', an' wonder where it wuz the money went, An' quar'l with his frosted heels, an' spill his liniment; An' me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir an' buzz,
Size the fire-place up an' figger how "Ole Santy" could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would; Wisht 'at I could hide an' see him--wunderd what he'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him thataway! But I _bet_ on him, an' _liked_ him, same as ef he had Turned to pat me on the back an' say, "Look here, my lad, Here's my pack,--jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"
Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be-- Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough fer me!-- Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child Climbin' in my lap to-night, an' beggin' me to tell 'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well I'm half sorry fer this little-girl-sweetheart of his--
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