Just as the moon was fading
Amid her misty rings,
And every stocking was stuffed
With childhood’s precious things,
Old Kriss Kringle looked round,
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.
