I Can't Understand Why You Pass Up The Toys That Santa Considered Just Right For Small Boys; I Can't Understand Why You Turn Up Your Nose At Dogs, Hobby-Horses, And Treasures Like Those, And Play A Whole Hour, Sometimes Longer Than That, With A Thing As Prosaic As Daddy'S Old Hat. The Tables And Shelves Have Been Loaded For You With Volumes Of Pictures - They're Pretty Ones, Too - Of Birds, Beasts, And Fishes, And Old Mother Goose Repines In A Corner And Feels Like The Deuce, While You, On The Floor, Quite Contentedly Look At Page After Page Of The Telephone Book.