“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!”
  “Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!”
Over, over, still I hear,
  “Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!”
Yit, like him, I’m goin’ to smile
And keep cheerful all the while: 
Allus Chris’mus There—­And here
“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!”

[Illustration]

TO THE JUDGE

A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township

Friend of my earliest youth,
  Can’t you arrange to come down
And visit a fellow out here in the woods—­
  Out of the dust of the town? 
Can’t you forget you’re a Judge
  And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend—­
  Can’t you arrange to come down?

Can’t you forget for a while
  The arguments prosy and drear,—­
To lean at full-length in indefinite rest
  In the lap of the greenery here? 
Can’t you kick over “the Bench,”
  And “husk” yourself out of your gown
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good—­
  Can’t you arrange to come down?

Bah! for your office of State! 
  And bah! for its technical lore! 
What does our President, high in his chair,
  But wish himself low as before! 
Pick between peasant and king,—­
  Poke your bald head through a crown
Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!—­
  Can’t you arrange to come down?

“Judge it” out here, if you will,—­
  The birds are in session by dawn;
You can draw, not complaints, but a sketch of the hill
  And a breath that your betters have drawn;
You can open your heart, like a case,
  To a jury of kine, white and brown,
And their verdict of “Moo” will just satisfy you!—­
  Can’t you arrange to come down?

[Illustration]

Can’t you arrange it, old Pard?—­
  Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!—­
Here we have “Breitmann,” and Ward,
  Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content! 
Can’t you forget you’re a Judge
  And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend—­
  Can’t you arrange to come down?

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS

Ho!  I’m going back to where
We were youngsters.—­Meet me there,
Dear old barefoot chum, and we
Will be as we used to be,—­
Lawless rangers up and down
The old creek beyond the town—­
Little sunburnt gods at play,
Just as in that far-away:—­
Water nymphs, all unafraid,
Shall smile at us from the brink
Of the old millrace and wade
Tow’rd us as we kneeling drink
At the spring our boyhood knew,
Pure and clear as morning-dew: