MET a chap the other night, down on Halsted Street,

Holdin' up Mike Kelley's bar, sippin' mint an' rye;

I'd just hit the Stock Yards with a cattle-train o' meat,

Loped around to Kelly's place, singein' hot an' dry.

This here chap was somethin' rare; Henglish tweeds an' gloves,

Stripey collar round his neck, sparks to throw away,

He was givin' 'em a song, 'bout the town he loves,

How they hit "the pace that kills," down on old Broadway.

Heaved a wistful, weepy sigh 'twould make a bay steer groan

When he told us what a spangled, rompin' time he'd had

Christmas Eve a year ago, just before he'd blown

Out into the "Woolly," where we don't know shrimps from shad.

Claimed along 'bout three a. m. they found an apple girl

Sleepin' in a doorway; stole her fruit to raise a fuss,

Then they made her do a Midway Turkish dancin' whirl

'Fore they'd pay the damage—an' he called that generous!

Awful homesick yarn it was. 'Peared he couldn't find

Nothin' in the whoopin' line warm enough out West.

Made me sort o' weary, so, to ease my mind,

I dug up a Christmas tale an' let him take a rest.

Mind the Northwest homestead boom, twenty-odd years back,

When Dakota stuck her nose above the waves o' fame?

I was pottin' coyotes from a Brule County shack,

Burnin' hay an' eatin' pork an' holdin' down my claim.

Not a strictly stirrin' life; quite a lot less gay

Than workin' in a grave-yard, a-plantin' of remains.

Notion hit me Christmas time to take a holiday;

Roped the cayuse, strapped my guns, an' struck across the plains.

Galloped into Kimball 'long 'bout milkin' time,

Wind a-whoopin' from the North, cold as billy hell—

Ever known a prairie town in its infant prime?

Kimball was a corker an' I've seen some pretty swell.

Just a bunch o' dry goods boxes dumped along a rise,

Cracks plugged up with pitch an' tar, stove-pipes stickin' through,

But, you bet, that little burg was sure enough the prize

Fer stirrin' up a tinted time an' startin' it to brew.

Thought I'd have a quiet night; Lord, it wa'n't no use!

First bumped into Billy Stokes, up from Bijou Hills,

We wandered into "Rancher's Rest," spang onto "Shorthorn" Bruce,

Charlie Gates an' "Doc" Lemar, curin' of their chills.

Well, that closed the "quiet" act; things was due to burn.

Dabbled with the red-eye till the lamp-lights ringed an' soared.

Then Lemar got wealthy an' thought he'd take a turn

Spinnin' out his sinkers on the racy roulette board.

Oh, the time was lovely (fer the man behind the wheel!)

Stokes an' "Shorthorn" joined the game, just to try their luck,

Charlie, landin' on the bar, started off a reel;

Then the banker "rolled the roll"—an' the blame thing stuck!

"Fixed!" yells Bill an' "Shorthorn," whippin' out their pipes;

Banker backed ag'in the wall, huntin' fer a crack,

Air just pink with cuss-words, runnin' round in stripes,

Doors an' winders full o' folks, none a-comin' back.

"Doc" was just a-prancin' round, gettin' things in range,

So's to shoot the whole joint up without no undue pause,

When we heerd a little voice, thin an' mighty strange,

Pipin' up from somewheres, "Mister, is you Santa Claus?"

Well, I swan, if that there shack had gathered up an' r'ared

An' galloped off across the street, we'd not been more knocked out

Than when we seen that little girl, blue-eyed an' curly-haired,

A-standin' in the bar-room, half-way 'twixt a smile an' pout.

Say, we ducked them guns o' ours underneath our hats

'S if the Sheriff's deputies had just come jumpin' in.

We sure was worse kerflummuxed than a lot o' sneakin' rats,

Caught a-stealin' barley in some feller's stable-bin.

That there little lady stood an' looked around a spell,

Then she toddled to Lemar an' looked up in his eyes:

"Oo's the big, long-whiskered man I'se heard my Mama tell,

'At brings nice fings to everyone what's good an' never cries.

"Mama's good; I'se tried to be"—her eyes began to fill—

"But she says 'at Santa Claus can't come this Christmas Day.

I don't see why; since Papa's in that still place on the hill

She never gets no p'itty clo'es, nor me nice toys for play.

"She told me, though, 'at Santa Claus was here in town to-night

An' so I fought I'd dess slip out an' find him if I could

An' see if he's dot sump'n left—I fought, perhaps, he might—

An', mister, if you's Santy, tan we have it, if we's good?"

I've seen "Doc" get ditched an' wrecked with forty cars o' steers

An' take it like a mallard duck, paradin' in the rain;

Never thought he'd learned to know there was such things as tears,

Which shows it's hard to figger how a feller works his brain.

He turned round an' raked his stakes from off that roulette board,

An' the whiskey wasn't guilty for his huskiness o' voice:

"Boys," says he, "I pass this deal right here an', by the Lord,

I blow my wad on somethin' else—you all kin take yer choice.

"It's well enough to whoop things up an' get a gorgeous head

But mighty wise to recolleck yer coin's just gone to grass.

I'm a-goin' to take a whirl at Santy Claus, instead,

Wish that toys was in my line, but maybe these'll pass."

Every cent he skirmished, from his hat-band to his pants,

Went into the apron that the little one held out;

Rest of us, we follered suit, scrappin' fer the chance,

Then we took her to the door an' finished with a shout.

But, before we let her go—shameful sort o' trick!—

Made her kiss us all good-night; "Doc" took his right slow.

I just sucked my breath all in an' hustled through it quick;

Still, she didn't seem to mind; guess she didn't know.—

"Now," says I, "my homesick friend" (to him on Halsted Street),

"You're a painful sort o' sight, crackin' up Broadway.

Kimball, Brule County, was an ace-high flush to beat

An' I'd backed her to the limit fer a winner in the play.

"But the beauty-spot on Kimball an' the boys that made her hum

Was the fact that rye an' roulette didn't petrify their souls;

Simply tip 'em to the theory that yer luck was on the bum

An' they'd cut the game instanter an' deliver up their rolls.

"An' if I'd a wife an' children an' was billed fer Canaan's Strand

I'd take a sight more pleasure in a-turnin' up my toes

If I left 'em to the mercies o' that old Dakota land

Than in your plug-hat city where the money-grubber grows."

Original