A Feel In the Christmas Air

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, whiles I gain in weight

And general 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 blamed-on sad as sweet.

In the same ra-sho as I feel the best

And am the spryest on my feet

They’s allus a kind o’ sort of a ache

That I can’t locate nowhere,

But it comes with Chris’mas, and no mistake—

A kind o’ feel in the air.

Is it the racket the children raise?

Why, 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 the sweet—

The sad-sweet feel in the air.