Stokes an' "Shorthorn" joined the game, just to try their luck, Charlie, landin' on the bar, started off a reel; Then the banker "rolled the roll"--an' the blame thing stuck! "Fixed!" yells Bill an' "Shorthorn," whippin' out their pipes; Banker backed ag'in the wall, huntin' fer a crack, Air just pink with cuss-words, runnin' round in stripes, Doors an' winders full o' folks, none a-comin' back. "Doc" was just a-prancin' round, gettin' things in range, So's to shoot the whole joint up without no undue pause, When we heerd a little voice, thin an' mighty strange, Pipin' up from somewheres, "Mister, is you Santa Claus?" Well, I swan, if that there shack had gathered up an' r'ared An' galloped off across the street, we'd not been more knocked out Than when we seen that little girl, blue-eyed an' curly-haired, A-standin' in the bar-room, half-way 'twixt a smile an' pout. Say, we ducked them guns o' ours underneath our hats 'S if the Sheriff's deputies had just come jumpin' in. We sure was worse kerflummuxed than a lot o' sneakin' rats, Caught a-stealin' barley in some feller's stable-bin. That there little lady stood an' looked around a spell, Then she toddled to Lemar an' looked up in his eyes: "Oo's the big, long-whiskered man I'se heard my Mama tell, 'At brings nice fings to everyone what's good an' never cries. "Mama's good; I'se tried to be"--her eyes began to fill-- "But she says 'at Santa Claus can't come this Christmas Day. I don't see why; since Papa's in that still place on the hill She never gets no p'itty clo'es, nor me nice toys for play. "She told me, though, 'at Santa Claus was here in town to-night An' so I fought I'd dess slip out an' find him if I could An' see if he's dot sump'n left--I fought, perhaps, he might-- An', mister, if you's Santy, tan we have it, if we's good?" I've seen "Doc" get ditched an' wrecked with forty cars o' steers An' take it like a mallard duck, paradin' in the rain; Never thought he'd learned to know there was such things as tears, Which shows it's hard to figger how a feller works his brain. He turned round an' raked his stakes from off that roulette board, An' the whiskey wasn't guilty for his huskiness o' voice: "Boys," says he, "I pass this deal right here an', by the Lord, I blow my wad on somethin' else--you all kin take yer choice. "It's well enough to whoop things up an' get a gorgeous head But mighty wise to recolleck yer coin's just gone to grass. I'm a-goin' to take a whirl at Santy Claus, instead, Wish that toys was in my line, but maybe these'll pass." Every cent he skirmished, from his hat-band to his pants, Went into the apron that the little one held out; Rest of us, we follered suit, scrappin' fer the chance, Then we took her to the door an' finished with a shout.