Claircy was "_Percilly_"-- (Schoolteacher 'lowed Me and her could act them two Best of all the crowd)-- Then--blame ef he didn't Git her Pap, i jing!-- To take the part o' "_Santy Clause_," To wind up the thing. Law! the fun o' practisun!-- Was a week er two Me and Claircy didn't have Nothin' else to do!-- Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, Kindo' here and there, Ever' night rehearsin'-like, And gaddin' ever'where! Game was wo'th the candle, though!-- Christmas Eve at last Rolled around.--And 'tendance jes Couldn't been surpassed!-- Neighbors from the country Come from Clay and Rush-- Yes, and 'crost the county-line Clean from Puckerbrush! Meetin'-house jes trimbled As "Old Santy" went Round amongst the childern, With their pepperment And sassafrac and wintergreen Candy, and "a ball O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, "Free fer each and all!" Schoolteacher suddently Whispered in my ear,-- "Guess I got you:--_Christmas-gift_!-- _Christmas is here_!" I give _him_ a gold pen, And case to hold the thing,-- And _Claircy_ whispered "_Christmas-gift_!" And I give her a _ring_. "And now," says I, "jes watch _me_-- Christmas-gift," says I, "_I'm_ a-goin' to git one-- '_Santy's_' comin' by!"-- Then I rech and grabbed him: And, as you'll infer, 'Course I got the old man's, And _he_ gimme _her_! REACH YOUR HAND TO ME. Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress-- Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness-- Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me. Sometime I may need it so, Groping somewhere in the night, It will seem to me as though Just a touch, however light, Would make all the darkness day, And along some sunny way Lead me through an April-shower Of my tears to this fair hour. O the present is too sweet To go on forever thus! Round the corner of the street Who can say what waits for us?-- Meeting--greeting, night and day, Faring each the self-same way-- Still somewhere the path must end.-- Reach your hand to me, my friend! THE ROSE. It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving frees With a passion all in vain,-- For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.