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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!" Then old Kriss Kringle, who loves A joke as well as the best, Dropped a handful of flakes In the oriole's empty nest. |