Kriss Kringle

Just as the moon was fading

Amid her misty rings,

And every stocking was stuffed

With childhood's precious things,

Old Kris Kringle looked around,

And saw on the elm-tree bough,

High hung, an oriole's nest,

Silent and empty now.

"Quite like a stocking," he laughed,

"Pinned up there on the tree!

Little I thought the birds

Expected a present from me!"