 I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Leah Reid Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Grey, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. A Christmas Letter by Helen Leah Reid Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Buckley I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Grey, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Leah Reid Read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Liverpool I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Grey, and all whose presents come to me from places far away, of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. And when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Grey, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Leah Reid I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if Mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter to Uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Grey, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean, to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I'd be dead, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Leah Reid Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham England GrahamScottAudio.com I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter to Uncle John and cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her, but when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter, that's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I'd be dead, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Lee Reed Read for LibreVox.com by Julie Burks I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter to Uncle John and cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her, but when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter. That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Lee Reed Read for LibreVox.org by Leanne Howlett I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother. She's so kind I would not fret her. But when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter. That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Lea Reid Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother. She's so kind, I would not fret her, but when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter. That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Letter by Helen Lea Reid I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better, if mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter, to Uncle John and cousin Kate and dear old Grand Aunt Gray, and all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, no little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter, for oh, my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, and when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother. She's so kind, I would not fret her, but when she says, stop playing, dear, come, write this Christmas letter. It's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I did, I wouldn't remember how to hold a pen. I'd make believe I couldn't. End of poem This recording is in the public domain.