Life — December 2, 1899 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“LIFE A Prayer to Santa Claus. SANTA CLAUS, Holy and wise of venerable redo, Filling the stockings of the human race With royal gifts or kicks and shaws, According to our meed, For what shall we, thy votists, make our bead, This year of grace? Alike on righteous folk in silken hoso And common persons with unstockinged toes, Godless thro’ lack of proper clo’s Or proper creed — On all, swoot saint, ropose, repose, Our sorest need! A high repose that is not indolence, But to our sordid game of poundsand penco Bringeth a messago far from hence, And giveth heed. Long time gone by Shephords beheld a radiance shining far And wise men to the eastward turned tholr face, Who now seeks guidance from tho sky ? So over-wise wo are Our souls aro for the world to make or mar, This year of grace! Ganged by our crucial test of gain and loss, What life to-day wero not accounted dross, Spent from a stable to a cross, Singing Abba, His brother’s burden to endoss With scathe and scar! Therefore, dear Santa of eternal snows, Give to our spirits all a blest repose, With vision of the east, where glows That undimmed star! Marguerite Merington, A Gentle Hint. 6¢7 THINK a book isa suitable present for » man to give his wife at Christmas." “Tt is—i€ it’s a pocket edition and filled with interesting matter.” An Unorthodox Christmas. WENT to spend the day with Roso, and then A Christmas greeting passed between as two; But ‘twas not “Peace on earth, good-will to men,” We only said, d'ye do?” Good morning,” “How And then to her I offered smilingly The present sho expected me to bring; There were no hanging hose—no Christ- mas treo— Tho box was string. Wo didn’t sit beside the Yulo-log’s blaze, Wo just turned on tho radiator’s steam. And dinner, unlike thoso of storied days, Gavo no plum pudding, but some bisque ico-cream. tied in paper with a Wo didn’t hear the church boils’ solemn toll; And when we had our Christmas evening lune, Wo didn’t havo a steaming wassail bowl, But just a jug of simplo claret punch, Wo trampled on traditions, I suppose; Yet one rite woobsorvad with care — but, no, Although I woll romombor kissing Roso, It wasn't under the mistletoe. Carolyn Wells, Not His. ENEATH tho miatlotoe he sat, B With simulated air Of hope, that maybe she might note That ho was aitting there. Sho camo, sho saw, and thon sho spoke, With timid, blushing faco: “How could you, sir! Do you nct seo You’ro sitting in my place?”