He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair; He never guessed they`d miss him, or he`d surely have been there; He couldn`t see his mother or the lump that filled her throat, Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note; And he couldn`t see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb, Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn`t come. He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made, And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed. He didn`t know how hungry had the little mother grown Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own. He didn`t guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day Or he never would have written that he couldn`t get away. He couldn`t see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink, And the silver in the tresses; and he didn`t stop to think How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see. He didn`t think about it — I`ll not say he didn`t care. He was heedless and forgetful or he`d surely have been there. Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you`ll be there? Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care? Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad? If you`re not I hope there`ll never come a time you`ll wish you had. Just sit down and write a letter — it will make their heart strings hum With a tune of perfect gladness — if you`ll tell them that you`ll come.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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