When a God-blown dream hangs over each sleeping curly head, and the vision gathers nightly of a day that's soon to come. Where little feet should patter in the music of the drum, there's an empty stocking hanging by many a wind-blown door. That must wait in vain for Christmas. In the gray shadows of the poor; and eyes that now shine brightly shall, through a rain of tears, see nothing there on Christmas, but the sorrow of the years. But out where splendor centers in the mansions of the great. No call will go unanched, no tot will vainly wait; the Christmas horn will summon the Christmas drum will roll the tide of joy in music through the gateway of each soul. But where the gift would brighten the dark of weary days, no reindeer's hoof will thunder over Poverty's drear ways; and so, for God's white season, for some wee dreamer's cause? To you, you think that you might whisper a word to Santa Claus.

Author unknown.

I remember at the farm. If I were a poet and could write in tuneful rhyme, with the rarest of words the posts use to charm. I would be prepared to tell you of the happy, happy time when a boy, I roamed about my father's farm. I could tell you of the old familiar scenes of long ago, which time nor change.  Can cause me to forget,
The barnyard and the meadow, and
the cornstalks in a row.
For the memories of my childhood
haunt me; yet.
I must tell you of my brothers, and
my little sisters, too.
Companions of the Joyous days of
yore:
Of things we used to talk about and
things we used to do. 