'Go into the homes of the happy
Where pleasure stands page at the door,
Watch well how they live, and report what they give
To the hordes of God's suffering poor.
Keep track of each cent and each moment;
Yes, tell me each word, too, they use;
To silver line clouds for earth's suffering crowds,
And tell me, too, when they refuse.'
So into our homes flew the fairies,
Though never a soul of us knew,
And with pencil and book they sat by and took
Each action, if false, or if true.
White marks for the deeds done for others--
Black marks for the deeds done for self.
And nobody hid what he said or he did,
For no one, of course, sees an elf.
Well, Christmas came all in its season,
And Santa Claus, so I am told,
With a very light pack of small gifts on his back,
And his reindeers all left in the fold,
Set out on a leisurely journey,
And finished ere midnight, they say.
And there never had been such surprise and chagrin
Before on the breaking of day,
As there was on that bright Christmas morning
When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves
Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not in--
But wasn't it fun for the elves!
And what did I get? You confuse me--
I got not one thing, and that's true;
But had I suspected my actions detected
I would have had gifts, wouldn't you?
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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