A Little Book of Christmas

Ten minutes later a passing taxi was hailed by a shivering gentleman carrying an iron pot full of pennies and nickels and an occasional quarter in one hand, and a turkey-red coat, trimmed with white cotton cloth, thrown over his arm. Strange to say, considering the inclemency of the night, he wore neither a hat nor an overcoat.A TOAST TO SANTA CLAUSWhene'er I find a man who don'tBelieve in Santa Claus,And spite of all remonstrance won'tYield up to logic's laws,And see in things that lie aboutThe proof by no means dim,I straightway cut that fellow out,And don't believe in him.The good old Saint is everywhereAlong life's busy way.We find him in the very airWe breathe day after day-Where courtesy and kindlinessAnd love are joined together,To give to sorrow and distressA touch of sunny weather."Where to, sir?" queried the chauffeur."The police-station," said Hetherington. "I don't know where it is, but the one in this precinct is the one I want.""Ye'll have to pay by the hour to-night, sir," said the chauffeur. "The station ain't a half-mile away, sir, but Heaven knows how long it'll take us to get there."

Autorentext
John Kendrick Bangs (May 27, 1862 - January 21, 1922) was an American writer, humorist, editor and satirist.