When the toys are growing weary;
And the twilight gathers in,
When the nursery still re-echoes
With the children's merry din;
Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed,
Comes an old man up the stair,
Lightly to the children passes,
Lays his hand upon their hair.
Softly smiles the good old Dustman,
In their eyes the dust he throws,
Till their little heads are falling
And their eyelids gently close.
Then the Dustman very gently
Takes each little dimpled hand,
Leads them through the sweet green shadows,
Far away to Slumberland.
— Fred E. Weatherly