Th’ little feller's gone! Since he was so big, him an’ I Have been like good old cronies, agreein’ on the sly To skip the years between. He was jest goin’ on five years — an’ I am “Grandpa Brown,”
Although he named me “Santa Claus” when fust he come to town — An’ my white beard he seen. But now it seems to me a'most As soon as he was born,
Th’ little feller's gone. He wo n't be standin’ by the gate to holler to me, “Hi! Wait fer me, Santy!” like he done when I went stumpin’ by T’ fetch the cows back home.
We'll never sit agin an’ argue which way we should go; Or figger if that bird was jest a blackwing er a crow, Nor through the meadows roam. Fer he has found a place up there
Where it is always dawn — Th’ little feller's gone. He was so full of fun I uster feel my heavy years Drop from me when I went with him. Sometimes he'd pull my ears
And say, “Hear dat Bob White? Dat is a quail a-whistlin’ in de woods, somewhere — le's go An’ ketch him — we can sprinkle salt upon his tail, you know!” And then he'd laugh outright;
But now, I do n't take int'rust in A thing that's goin’ on — Th’ little feller's gone. It must be right, but somehow I can n't look at it that way —
Why should he go, so young and good, and me — so worn out — stay? But mebbe up in heaven he will think of me and wait And holler “Hi!” when he sees me a-limpin’ to the Gate, And mebbe ( where is my old han'kerchief a-got to now? )
He'll say to Peter, “Let him in — I like him, anyhow!”
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