A Feel In The Chris'mas-Air

A poem by James Whitcomb Riley

They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run ag'in! -
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I swear
They's a goneness somers I can't quite state -
A kind o' feel in the air.

They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man lives at! -
It gives a feller a' appetite -
They ain't no doubt about that! -
And yit they's somepin' - I don't know what -
That follers me, here and there,
And ha'nts and worries and spares me not -
A kind o' feel in the air!

They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest
As blame-don sad as sweet! -
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my feet,
They's allus a kind o' sort of a' ache
That I can't lo-cate no-where; -
But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake! -
A kind o' feel in the air.

Is it the racket the childern raise? -
W'y, no! - God bless 'em! - no! -
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze -
Like my own wuz, long ago? -
Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat
O' the little toy-drum and blare
O' the horn? - No! no! - it is jest the sweet -
The sad-sweet feel in the air.

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