Shall we, then, wish as many as possible As merry Christmases as possible And charge the limitation up to thought? No, be the Christmas card with which we greet: A Merry Christmas to the World in Full. And as for happiness not being bought -- Remember how two babes were on the street -- And so were many fathers out on strike, The vainest of their many strikes in vain, And lost already as at heart they knew. But the two babes had stopped alone to look At Christmas toys behind a window pane, And play at having anything they chose. And when I lowered level with the two And asked them what they saw so much to like, One confidentially and raptly took His finger from his mouth and pointed, "Those!" A little locomotive with a train. And where he wet the window pane it froze. What good did it do anyone but him -- His brother at his side, perhaps, and me? And think of all the world compared with three! But why like the poor fathers on the curb Must we be always partizan and grim? No state has found a perfect cure for grief In law or gospel or in root or herb. 'Twas in this very city thoroughfare I heard a doctor of the Kickapoo By torch light from a cart-tail once declare: The most that any root or herb can do In suffering is give you Good Relief. |