A Feel In The Chris'mas-Air

They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me. When the Chris'mas-times sets in. That's about as much of a mystery As ever I've run ag'in!— Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight And gineral health, I swear They's a goneness somers I can't quite state— A kind o' feel in the air. They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right To the spot where a man lives at!— It gives a feller a' appetite— They ain't no doubt about that!— And yit they's somepin'—I don't know what— That follers me, here and there, And ha'nts and worries and spares me not— A kind o' feel in the air! They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest As blame-don sad as sweet!— In the same ra-sho as I feel the best And am spryest on my feet, They's allus a kind o' sort of a' ache That I can't lo-cate no-where;— But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake!— A kind o' feel in the air. Is it the racket the childern raise?— W'y, no!—God bless 'em!—no!— Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze— Like my own wuz, long ago?— Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat O' the little toy-drum and blare O' the horn?—No! no!—it is jest the sweet— The sad-sweet feel in the air.