Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know That Buff'lo Bill an' cow-boys is good enough for me! Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be! And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! BEARD AND BABY I say, as one who never feared The wrath of a subscriber's bullet, I pity him who has a beard But has no little girl to pull it! When wife and I have finished tea, Our baby woos me with her prattle, And, perching proudly on my knee, She gives my petted whiskers battle. With both her hands she tugs away, While scolding at me kind o' spiteful; You'll not believe me when I say I find the torture quite delightful! No other would presume, I ween, To trifle with this hirsute wonder, Else would I rise in vengeful mien And rend his vandal frame asunder! But when her baby fingers pull This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure, My cup of happiness is full-- I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!