A Budget of Christmas Tales by Charles Dickens and Others. Коллектив авторов

      A story, my child? Well, there's none that I know

      As good as the story about little Joe.

      He lived with his mother, just under the eaves

      Of a tenement high, where the telegraph weaves

      Its highway of wire, that everywhere goes,

      And makes the night musical when the wind blows.

      Their home had no father – the two were bereft

      Of all but their appetites – those never left!

      Joe's grew with his thought; a day never passed

      He spent not in hunger to make the food last;

      And days when his mother silently went

      And stood by the windows – Joe knew what it meant.

      They'd nothing for supper! The words were so sad

      That somehow they drowned all the hunger he had.

      And surely God's miracles never have ceased —

      Joe's hunger grew less when his sorrows increased.

      When the coal ran out in winter's worst storm,

      The fire burnt the harder that kept their hearts warm.

      Their windows revealed many wonderful sights,

      Long acres of roofing and high-flying kites;

      At sunset, the great vault of heaven aglow,

      The lining of gold on the clouds hanging low,

      The cross on the top of St. Mary's high tower

      Ablaze with the light of that magical hour;

      And still, as the arrows of light slanted higher,

      The last thing in sight was the great cross of fire.

      Each day, as it vanished, the history old

      Of Christ's crucifixion was reverently told;

      To Him the boy learned to confide all his woes,

      But oftenest prayed for a new suit of clothes,

      Since those that he wore didn't fit him at all —

      The coat was too large and the trousers too small,

      And Joe looked so queer, from his head to his feet,

      It grieved his proud soul to be seen in the street.

      And sometimes he cherished a secret desire

      To own a hand-sled, or to build a bonfire;

      But reached one conclusion by various routes —

      He could have better fun with a new pair of boots.

      He thought how the old pair, when shiny and whole.

      Had squeaked in a way that delighted his soul,

      And remembrance grew sad as he strutted around

      And tried hard, but vainly, to waken that sound.

      The day before Christmas brought trouble for Joe,

      A thousand times worse. 'Twas a terrible blow

      To hear that old Santa Claus, god of his dreams.

      Would not come that year with his fleet-footed teams.

      He'd seen them. Why, once, of a night's witching hour

      He saw them jump over the cross on the tower

      And scamper away o'er the snow-covered roofs,

      His heart beating time to the sound of their hoofs.

      Not coming this year? Santa Claus must be dead,

      He thought, as with sad tears he crept into bed.

      And, as he lay thinking, the long strings of wire

      Sang low in the wind like a deep-sounding lyre,

      And Joe caught the notes of this solemn refrain —

      "He'll not come again! no, he'll not come again!"