It’s guessing time at our house; every evening after tea
We start guessing what old Santa’s going to leave us on our tree.
Everyone of us holds secrets that the others-try to steal,
And that eyes and lips are plainly having trouble to conceal.
And a little lip that quivered just a bit the other night
Was a sad and startling warning that I mustn’t guess it right.
‘Guess what you will get for Christmas!’ is the cry that starts the fun.
And I answer: ‘Give the letter with which the name’s begun.’
Oh, the eyes that dance around me and the joyous faces there
Keep me nightly guessing wildly: ‘Is it something I can wear?’
I implore them all to tell me in a frantic sort of way
And pretend that I am puzzled, just to keep them feeling gay.
Oh, the wise and knowing glances that across the table fly
And the winks exchanged with mother, that they think I never spy;
Oh, the whispered confidences that are poured into her ear,
And the laughter gay that follows when I try my best to hear!
Oh, the shouts of glad derision when I bet that it’s a cane,
And the merry answering chorus: ‘ No, it’s not. Just guess again! ‘
It’s guessing time at our house, and the fun is running fast,
And I wish somehow this contest of delight could always last,
For the love that’s in their faces and their laughter ringing clear
Is their dad’s most precious present when the Christmas time is near.
And soon as it is over, when the tree is bare and plain,
I shall start in looking forward to the time to guess again.
