The Little Hottentot

There lived a little Hottentot Where winter-time was always hot And summers like a grill;— A Mission Lady taught a lot To him,—and many a dusky tot— And taught them with a will.

She managed to acquire enough Of syllables both soft and rough, Bright wonder-yarns to spin; Each little empty pate she'd stuff With fairy-folk, and pirates bluff And rhyme and song, and hymn.

She salted all she had to tell With lovely Bible lore as well, And ancient Jewish laws; But in December it befell Her homesick heart she tried to quell With tales of Santa Claus.

She pictured him so round and red, With whiskers, reindeer, bells, and sled And bag that bulged with toys. "On Christmas Eve he comes," she said, "And stockings hung up by each bed He fills for girls and boys!"

The small benighted Hottentot Stole home at last, with quite a lot Of fancies queer and quaint. He watched his mother stir the pot And sat and longed for what was not And dreamed of one old Saint.

He saw the sunset colors pass; Then found some nodding feathery grass And curled up with a sigh For he'd nothing to hang up—alas— But anklets made of beaten brass, When Santa Claus came by.

O nothing, nothing else at all To hang up where the trees were tall Above his soft green bed— Boys do not let their tear-drops fall, So he beat his breast,—'till like a pall Night covered up his head.

The Mission Lady might not be A beauteous dame of high degree But she kept the Yule-tide feast;— By the little dark one 'neath the tree She placed a horn and drum he'd see When pink came in the East.