Abe Peter’s Christmas

                       I.

You hev heard of ol’ Abe Peters, he who lived in Lonesome Lane?

He was called the meanest pusson ever swung an ugly cane;

No one ever called to see him, if they did they didn’t stay,

‘Cuz he would have charged ‘em storage ‘fore they could have got away.

He was called the village miser, he was called the village bear,

He would never talk like others, but would want to rip and tear,

An’ the children would cross over when they met him on the road,

Which was comfortin’ to Peters as his manner allus showed.

                                      II.

Once there come an awful blizzard not many years ago

An’ the home of ol’ Abe Peters was most buried up in snow,

An’ the men an’ boys they shoveled clear from town to Lonesome Lane,

An’ he tried to sue for trespass when he got around again.

There was many woeful stories which the people used to tell,

An’ the hearers all believed ‘em ‘cause they fitted him so well;

An’ no wonder he was livin’ all alone in Lonesome Lane,

While the story’s common knowledge, I will tell it once again.

                                      III.

Ol’ Abe Peters once was married, but his wife she couldn’t stay,

She just couldn’t stan’ his actions so she died to git away.

He’d a boy come nearin’ twenty, weak an’ spindlin’ as a rail,

Whom ol’ Peters used to wallop with a seasoned oaken flail.

But one day the boy was missin’, an’ a week or so went by

When his dad was seen a nursin’ of a damaged head an’ eye.

Gossip said the boy had mauled him, Peters never said a word,

But ‘twas sure the boy was missin’, where he went they never heard.

                                      IV.

So upon a Christmas mornin’ some the women folks was sad

‘Cause the cruel ol’ Abe Peters looked so lonesome like, an’ bad.

So they fixed a temptin’ basket full of Christmas things to eat,

An’ got someone then to take it to ol’ Peter’s retreat.

When he found what they had fetched him he jest raised an awful sow,

Said he knew the stuff was pizened, wouldn’t eat it anyhow.

Then he threw it in the highway an’ with his ol’ crooked cane

Chased the frightened boy who fetched it up and out of Lonesome Lane.

                                                              V.

Abe Peters sat in Lonesome Lane,

His ol’ hard face convulsed in pain;

His room was cold, the fire was low,

Without there came light gusts of snow.

Last year he’d thrown into the street

The Christmas things they sent to eat

This year no goodies found their way

To Lonesome Lane on Christmas day.

No timid knock, no signal came

An’ he sat there bowed down with shame;

If only they would bring once more

Some Christmas cheer unto his door,

But no, he’d driven with his cane

All love an’ hope from Lonesome Lane.

                       VI.

Abe Peters he was bent an’ old,

An’ down his wrinkled cheek there rolled

A tear for happy days long past

When he was young and love was vast.

He got his dead wife’s picture down,

So faded out, so dull an’ brown,

An’ squinted with his poor eyesight

Until he could distinguish quite

The girlish face, the laughin’ eyes

That once had been his paradise.

An’ then he dusted from the pile

A card that held a baby’s smile;

An groanin’ deep he settled there

To grieve in his ol’ kitchen chair.

                       VII.

He didn’t hear the winds that blew

The snow against the pane, nor knew

The sun had clouded in the skies

So full of sorrow were his eyes.

He didn’t hear the chuggin’ strain

That woke the pales of Lonesome Lane

Nor saw the big red tourin’ car

That fought, like some great man o’ war,

Its way adown the narrow road,

A-puffin’ chuggin’ ‘neath its load,

Through drifts of snow, with hiss an’ roar,

Until it reached his great front door.

He didn’t hear the voices clear

That filled the air with Christmas cheer.

                       VIII.

A moment later came a tap

Which roused him from his dismal nap;

He seized his cane from off the floor

An’ hobbled to the kitchen door.

“Who’s there?” He yelled in trembling tones

While hunger filled his very bones;

An’ then a voice piped loud an’ free:

“Don’t be afraid, grandpa, it’s me!”

Abe Peters swung the creakin’ door

An’ on the threshold stood before,

Him, with a face lit up with joy,

A tiny, golden-headed boy,

Who held by all their dainty strings

Some Christmas wreaths an’ other things.

                       IX.

Abe Peters stood with eyes agleam,

Like someone in a mystic’ dream;

He thought his spirit had awoke

Among a far-off angel folk.

An’ he jest looked an’ partly smiled

Upon the seemin’ angel child.

An’ finally he broke the spell

An’ asked the little one to tell

Him who he was, an’ whence he came,

An’ what might be his papa’s name,

An’ as he sought the door to close

From out the whirlin’ snow there rose

Another voice which brought a trace

Of wonder on Abe Peter’s face.

                       X.

There stood his son, who years before

Had left his father’s dismal door;

Beside him stood a woman fair

Who gave the boy his golden hair.

They seized the old man by the hand,

Who was too over-come to stand,

An’ set him in his kitchen chair

An’ smoothed his face an’ stroked his hair.

He mumbled for forgiveness; they

Jest laughed his sorrow all away,

An’ put the boy upon his knee

An’ filled the house with Christmas glee.

                       XI.

Abe Peters’ house was ne’er so gay

As on that blessed Christmas day.

The heart once selfish an’ defiled,

Was melted with a little child.

A Christmas tree from grandpa’s wood,

Within the spacious parlor stood,

An’ presents from that red machine

Beat anything he’d ever seen.

An’ ol’ Abe Peters blessed the day

That he had learned the better way;

He blessed the Christmas morning when

He felt a good will toward men,

An’ never more he viewed with pain

A Christmas morn in Lonesome Lane.

Dec. 7, ‘09