Resting her curly head on my knee,

And slipping her small hand into mine,

My baby girl asks how many there’ll be

On Christmas day when we dine.

Though I’ve told her before, and she knows very well,

“There’ll be grandpa and grandma,” I repeat,

And Uncle Charlie and Aunt Estelle

And Cousin Marguerite.

And Uncle Philip and Cousin Kate,

And mamma’s old friend, Miss Madeline;

And—let me see—ah, yes, that is eight,

And Mr. Brownell makes nine!

As I close my story I hear a sigh,

The curly head closer nestles, and then,

In a sad little voice, “How many are I?”

“My darling! At least you are ten!”