And then young Santie skips about
And peeps in every nook
Where toys are kept; and scans them all,
Each top, ball, bat, or book;
Examines all the sleds and skates,
And when one’s worn or old
He writes it down on a crystal slate
With a pencil made of gold.
Then back he drives to Santa Claus
At the greatest rate of speed,
And tells what toys these boys have got
And what he thinks they need.
So Santa’s workmen make the things,
And pack them in his sleigh,
All ready for his midnight ride
On the eve of Christmas Day.
But Santa’s daughter! My! oh, my!
How she does travel round!
From north to south or east to west,
Where good little girls are found.
Her sleigh is made of glistening frost,
And whew! How she does go!
For she drives a hundred whirling flakes
Of the purest, whitest snow.
