ISIGNS OF THE SEASON

THE time draws near the birth of Christ:The moon is hid; the night is still;The Christmas bells from hill to hillAnswer each other in the mist.Four voices of four hamlets round,From far and near, on mead and moor,Swell out and fail, as if a doorWere shut between me and the sound:Each voice four changes on the wind,That now dilate, and now decrease,Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.Alfred Tennyson

THE time draws near the birth of Christ:The moon is hid; the night is still;The Christmas bells from hill to hillAnswer each other in the mist.

THE time draws near the birth of Christ:

The moon is hid; the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,From far and near, on mead and moor,Swell out and fail, as if a doorWere shut between me and the sound:

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,

Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,That now dilate, and now decrease,Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.Alfred Tennyson

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease,

Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

Alfred Tennyson

An Hue and Cry after Christmas

"Any man or woman ... that can give any knowledge, or tell any tidings, of an old, old, very old gray-bearded gentleman, called Christmas, who was wont to be a verie familiar ghest, and visite all sorts of people both pore and rich, and used to appear in glittering gold, silk, and silver, in the Court, and in all shapes in the Theater in Whitehall, and had ringing, feasts, and jollitie in all places, both in the citie and countrie, for his comming: ... whosoever can tel what is become of him, or where he may be found, let them bring him back againe into England."

THAT curious little tract "An Hue and Cry after Christmas" bears the date of 1645; and we shall best give our readers an idea of its character by setting out that title at length, as the same exhibits a tolerable abstract of its contents. It runs thus: "The arraignment, conviction, and imprisoning of Christmas on St. Thomas day last, and how he broke out of prison in the holidayes and got away, onely left his hoary hair and gray beard sticking between two iron bars of a window. With an Hue and Cry after Christmas, and a letter from Mr. Woodcock, a fellow in Oxford, to a malignant lady in London. And divers passages between the lady and the cryer about Old Christmas; and what shift he was fain to make to save his life, and great stir to fetch him back again. Printed by Simon Minc'd Pye for Cissely Plum-Porridge, and are to be sold by Ralph Fidler Chandler at the signe of the Pack of Cards in Mustard Alley in Brawn Street."

Besides the allusions contained in the latter part of this title to some of the good things that follow in the old man's train, great pains are taken by the "cryer" in describing him, and by the lady in mourning for him, to allude tomany of the cheerful attributes that made him dear to the people. His great antiquity and portly appearance are likewise insisted upon. "For age this hoarie-headed man was of great yeares, and as white as snow. He entered the Romish Kallendar, time out of mind, as old or very neer as Father Mathusalem was,—one that looked fresh in the Bishops' time, though their fall made him pine away ever since. He was full and fat as any divine doctor of them all; he looked under the consecrated lawne sleeves as big as Bul-beefe,—just like Bacchus upon a tunne of wine, when the grapes hang shaking about his eares; but since the Catholike liquor is taken from him he is much wasted, so that he hath looked very thin and ill of late." "The poor," says the "cryer" to the lady, "are sorry for" his departure; "for they go to every door a-begging, as they were wont to do (good Mrs., Somewhat against this good time); but Time was transformed,Away, be gone; here is not for you." The lady, however, declares that she for one will not be deterred from welcoming old Christmas. "No, no!" says she; "bid him come by night over the Thames, and we will have a back-door open to let him in;" and ends by anticipating better prospects for him another year.

T. K. Hervey

The Doge's Christmas Shooting

AT certain fixed times the Doge was allowed the relaxation of shooting, but with so many restrictions and injunctions that the sport must have been intolerably irksome. He was allowed or, more strictly speaking, was ordered to proceed for this purpose, and about Christmastime, to certain islets in the lagoons, where wild ducks bred in great numbers. On his return he was obliged to present each member of the Great Council with five ducks. This was called the gift of the "Oselle," that being the name given by the people to the birds in question. In 1521, about five thousand brace of birds had to be killed or snared in order to fulfil this requirement; and if the unhappy Doge was not fortunate enough, with his attendants, to secure the required number, he was obliged to provide them by buying them elsewhere and at any price, for the claims of the Great Council had to be satisfied in any case. This was often an expensive affair.

There was also another personage who could not have derived much enjoyment from the Christmas shooting. This was the Doge's chamberlain, whose duty it was to see to the just distribution of the game, so that each bunch of two-and-a-half brace should contain a fair average of fat and thin birds, lest it should be said that the Doge showed favour to some members of the Council more than to others.

By and by a means was sought of commuting this annual tribute of ducks. The Doge Antonio Grimani requested and obtained permission to coin a medal of the value of a quarter of a ducat, equal to about four shillings or one dollar, and to call it "a Duck," "Osella," whereby it was signified that it took the place of the traditional bird.

F. Marion CrawfordinSalve Venetia!

Thursday Processions in Advent

The Eve of the festival of St. Nicholas, December 5, in mediæval days was the occasion when choir and altar boys met and in solemn mimicry of the procedure oftheir elders elected a boy-bishop and his prebendaries who remained in office and moreover exercised practically full episcopal functions until Holy Innocents Day.

In the full vestments of the church these minor clergy made "visitations" in the neighborhood usually on three successive Thursdays, and collected small sums of money known as the "Bishop's Subsidy." Says Barnaby Googe:—

"Three weeks before the day whereon was borne the Lorde of Grace,And on the Thursdays boyes and gyrles do runne in every placeAnd bounce and beat at every doore, with blowes and lustie snapsAnd crie the Advent of the Lord, not borne as yet perhaps,And wishing to the neighbors all, that in the houses dwell,A happy year, and everything to spring and prosper well;Here have they peares, and plumbs and pence, each man gives willinglie,For these three nights are always thought unfortunate to bee,Where in they are afrayde of sprites, cankred witches spight,And dreadful devils blacke and grim, that then have chiefest might.

*******

In these same dayes yong, wanton gyrles that meete for marriage bee,Doe search to know the names of them that shall their husbands beeFour onyons, five, or eight, they take, and make in every oneSuch names as they do fansie most and best do think upon;Thus neere the chimney them they set, and that same onyon than,That first doth sproute, doth surely beare the name of their good man."

In these same December nights it is that these "yong gyrles," according to Barnaby, creep to the woodpile after nightfall and at random each pulls out the first stick the hand touches.

"Which if it streight and even be, and have no knots at all,A gentle husband then they thinke shall surlie to them fall;But if it fowle and crooked bee, and knotties here and there,A crabbed churlish husband then they earnestly do feare."

In the last days before Christmas, says Lady Morgan, Italianpifferaridescend from the mountains to Naples and Rome in order to play their pipes before the pictures of the Virgin and the Child, and—out of compliment to Joseph—in front of the carpenters' shops.

Somewhat akin is the old English custom of the carrying about the images of the Virgin and Christ in the week before Christmas by poor women who expect a dole from every house visited.

In certain parts of Normandy the farmers give to their children, or to little ones borrowed from their neighbors, prepared torches, well dried; with which these little folk—no one over twelve is eligible for the office—run hither and yon, under the tree boughs, into fence corners, singing the spell supposed to command the vermin of the field. W. S. Walsh gives this translation of their incantation:—

Mice, caterpillars, and moles,Get out, get out of my field; orI will burn your blood and bones:Trees and shrubs,Give me bushels of apples.

Mice, caterpillars, and moles,

Get out, get out of my field; or

I will burn your blood and bones:

Trees and shrubs,

Give me bushels of apples.

Condensed fromSome Curiosities of Popular Customs.

The Glastonbury Thorn and other Plant Loreof Christmastide

THE legend of the Glastonbury Thorn is that after the death of Christ, Joseph of Arimathea came over to England and a few days before Christmas rested on thesummit of Weary-all Hill, Glastonbury. There he thrust into the ground his staff which on Christmas Eve was found to be covered with snow white blossoms; and until it was destroyed during the Civil wars the bush continued so to bloom, as cuttings from the original thorn are said to bloom in the same wonderful way even yet; but, with a fine disregard for the Gregorian reformation of the Calendar, the blossoms do not appear until the 5th of January.

The Sicilian children, so Folkard tells us, put pennyroyal in their cots on Christmas Eve, "under the belief that at the exact hour and minute when the infant Jesus was born this plant puts forth its blossom." Another belief is that the blossoming occurs again on Midsummer Night.

In the East the Rose of Jericho is looked upon with favour by women with child, for "there is a cherished legend that it first blossomed at our Saviour's birth, closed at the Crucifixion, and opened again at Easter, whence its name of Resurrection Flower."

Gerarde, the old herbalist, tells us that the black hellebore is called "Christ's Herb," or "Christmas Herb," because it "flowreth about the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Many plants, trees, and flowers owe their peculiarities to their connection with the birth or the childhood of Christ. TheOrnithogalum umbellatumis called the "Star of Bethlehem," according to Folkard, because "its white stellate flowers resemble the pictures of the star that indicated the birth of the Saviour of mankind." TheGalium verum, "Our Lady's Bedstraw," receives its name from the belief that the manger in which the infant Jesus lay was filled with this plant.

"The brooms and the chick-peas began to rustle andcrackle, and by this noise betrayed the fugitives. The flax bristled up. Happily for her, Mary was near a juniper; the hospitable tree opened its branches as arms and enclosed the Virgin and the Child within their folds, affording them a secure hiding-place. Then the Virgin uttered a malediction against the brooms and the chick-peas, and ever since that day they have always rustled and crackled." The story goes on to tell us that the Virgin "pardoned the flax its weakness, and gave the juniper her blessing," which accounts for the use of the latter in some countries for Christmas decorations,—like the holly in England and France.

"One Christmas Eve a peasant felt a great desire to eat cabbage and, having none himself, he slipped into a neighbour's garden to cut some. Just as he had filled his basket, the Christ-Child rode past on his white horse, and said: 'Because thou hast stolen on the holy night, thou shalt immediately sit in the moon with thy basket of cabbage.'" And so, we are told, "the culprit was immediately wafted up to the moon," and there he can still be seen as "the man in the moon."

Alexander F. Chamberlain

The Signs of the Season in the Kitchen

"THE cooks shall be busied, by day and by night,In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight,Their senses in liquor that's happy they'll steep,Though they be afforded to have little sleep;They still are employed for to dress us, in brief,Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef."Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke,'Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke;Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine,For all that are willing or ready to dine:Then haste to the kitchen for diet the chief,Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef."All travellers, as they do pass on their way,At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay,Themselves to refresh and their horses to rest,Since that he must be old Christmas's guest;Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for reliefPlum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef."FromEvans'Collection of English Ballads

"THE cooks shall be busied, by day and by night,

In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight,

Their senses in liquor that's happy they'll steep,

Though they be afforded to have little sleep;

They still are employed for to dress us, in brief,

Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef.

"Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke,'Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke;Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine,For all that are willing or ready to dine:Then haste to the kitchen for diet the chief,Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef.

"Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke,

'Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke;

Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine,

For all that are willing or ready to dine:

Then haste to the kitchen for diet the chief,

Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef.

"All travellers, as they do pass on their way,At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay,Themselves to refresh and their horses to rest,Since that he must be old Christmas's guest;Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for reliefPlum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef."FromEvans'Collection of English Ballads

"All travellers, as they do pass on their way,

At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay,

Themselves to refresh and their horses to rest,

Since that he must be old Christmas's guest;

Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief

Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd-pies, and roast beef."

FromEvans'Collection of English Ballads

Christmas in England

THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, andpartly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes—as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bonds of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, thereto grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature.

*******

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for some distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations and friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box—presents from distant friends for the impending feasts. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirits which I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of morevirtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take—there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.

They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, and he is particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents.

*******

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations:—"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton—must all die; for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be intune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers."

Washington Irving

Christmas Invitation

COME down to marra night, an' mindDon't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.We'll shiake a lag an' drink a cupO' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.An' let thy sister tiake thy yarm,The wa'k woont do 'er any harm:Ther's noo dirt now to spwile her frockVar 'tis a-vroze so hard's a rock.Ther bent noo stranngers that 'ull come,But only a vew naighbours: zomeVrom Stowe, an' Combe, an' two ar dreeVrom uncles up at Rookery.An' thee woot vine a ruozy fiace,An' pair ov eyes so black as sloos,The pirtiest oones in al the pliace.I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.We got a back bran', dree girt logsSo much as dree ov us can car:We'll put 'em up athirt the dogs,An' miake a vier to the bar,An' ev'ry oone wull tell his tiale,An' ev'ry oone wull zing his zong,An' ev'ry oone wull drink his yal,To love an' frien'ship al night long.We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a bal,We'll shiake the house, we'll rise the ruf,We'll romp an' miake the maidens squal,A catchen o'm at bline-man's buff.Zoo come to marra night, an' mindDon't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.We'll shiake a lag, an' drink a cupO' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.William Barnes

COME down to marra night, an' mindDon't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.We'll shiake a lag an' drink a cupO' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.

COME down to marra night, an' mind

Don't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.

We'll shiake a lag an' drink a cup

O' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.

An' let thy sister tiake thy yarm,The wa'k woont do 'er any harm:Ther's noo dirt now to spwile her frockVar 'tis a-vroze so hard's a rock.

An' let thy sister tiake thy yarm,

The wa'k woont do 'er any harm:

Ther's noo dirt now to spwile her frock

Var 'tis a-vroze so hard's a rock.

Ther bent noo stranngers that 'ull come,But only a vew naighbours: zomeVrom Stowe, an' Combe, an' two ar dreeVrom uncles up at Rookery.

Ther bent noo stranngers that 'ull come,

But only a vew naighbours: zome

Vrom Stowe, an' Combe, an' two ar dree

Vrom uncles up at Rookery.

An' thee woot vine a ruozy fiace,An' pair ov eyes so black as sloos,The pirtiest oones in al the pliace.I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.

An' thee woot vine a ruozy fiace,

An' pair ov eyes so black as sloos,

The pirtiest oones in al the pliace.

I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.

We got a back bran', dree girt logsSo much as dree ov us can car:We'll put 'em up athirt the dogs,An' miake a vier to the bar,

We got a back bran', dree girt logs

So much as dree ov us can car:

We'll put 'em up athirt the dogs,

An' miake a vier to the bar,

An' ev'ry oone wull tell his tiale,An' ev'ry oone wull zing his zong,An' ev'ry oone wull drink his yal,To love an' frien'ship al night long.

An' ev'ry oone wull tell his tiale,

An' ev'ry oone wull zing his zong,

An' ev'ry oone wull drink his yal,

To love an' frien'ship al night long.

We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a bal,We'll shiake the house, we'll rise the ruf,We'll romp an' miake the maidens squal,A catchen o'm at bline-man's buff.

We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a bal,

We'll shiake the house, we'll rise the ruf,

We'll romp an' miake the maidens squal,

A catchen o'm at bline-man's buff.

Zoo come to marra night, an' mindDon't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.We'll shiake a lag, an' drink a cupO' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.William Barnes

Zoo come to marra night, an' mind

Don't leave thy fiddle-bag behind.

We'll shiake a lag, an' drink a cup

O' yal to kip wold Chris'mas up.

William Barnes

THE HOLY NIGHT.C. Müller.

A Christmas Market

OUT of doors the various market-places are covered with little stalls selling cheap clothing, cheap toys, jewellery, sweets, and gingerbread; all the heterogeneous rubbish you have seen a thousand times at German fairs, and never tire of seeing if a fair delights you.

But better than the Leipziger Messe, better even than a summer market at Freiburg or at Heidelberg, is a Christmas market in any one of the old German cities in the hill country, when the streets and the open places are covered with crisp clean snow, and the mountains are white with it, and the moon shines on the ancient houses, and the tinkle of sledge bells reaches you when you escape from the din of the market, and look down at the bustle of it from some silent place, a high window, perhaps, or the high empty steps leading into the cathedral. The air is cold and still,and heavy with the scent of the Christmas trees brought from the forest for the pleasure of the children. Day by day you see the rows of them growing thinner, and if you go to the market on Christmas Eve itself you will find only a few trees left out in the cold. The market is empty, the peasants are harnessing their horses or their oxen, the women are packing up their unsold goods. In every home in the city one of the trees that scented the open air a week ago is shining now with lights and little gilded nuts and apples, and is helping to make that Christmas smell, all compact of the pine forest, wax candles, cakes, and painted toys, you must associate so long as you live with Christmas in Germany.

Mrs. Alfred SidgwickinHome Life in Germany

The Star of Bethlehem as Seen in Holland

THE Star of Bethlehem, as seen in Holland, is a pretty but a cheap sight, for it costs nothing. 'Tis the Harbinger of Christmas—a huge illuminated star which is carried through the silent, dark, Dutch streets, shining upon the crowding people, and typical of the star which once guided the wise men of the East.

The young men of a Dutch town who go to the expense of this star, which, carried through the streets, is the signal that Christmas has come once again, are swayed by the full intention of turning the Star of Bethlehem to account.

They gather money for the poor from the crowds who come out to welcome the symbol of peace, and having done this for the good of those whom fortune has not befriended, they betake them to the head burgomaster of the town, who is bound to set down the youths who form the Starcompany to a very comfortable meal. 'Tis a great institution, the Star of Bethlehem, in many Dutch towns and cities; and may it never die out, for it does harm to no man, and good to many.

Bow-Bells Annual

The Pickwick Club goes down to keep Christmasat Dingley Dell

AS brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.

*******

The portmanteaus and carpet-bags have been stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into the fore-boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it, which is snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose in safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr. Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order, at the bottom of the receptacle. Theinterest displayed in Mr. Pickwick's countenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and then top upwards, and then bottom upwards, and then side-ways, and then long-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot, and with him, the head and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish, experiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the porters and by-standers. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good humour, and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard, as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy and water, at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes, most probably to get the hot brandy and water, for they smell very strongly of it, when they return; the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coats round their legs, and their shawls over their noses; the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery "All right," and away they go.

They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind them, coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster barrels, and all, were but a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentleslope, and enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart gallop, the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness as if in exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion, while the coachman holding whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because it's as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on they speed, more merrily than before.

A few small houses scattered on either side of the road, betoken the entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard's key-bugle vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who carefully letting down the window-sash half way, and standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they're going to change directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up, and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager's wife and children, who peep out at the house-door, and watch the coach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against father comes home, while father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turnedround, to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.

And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks about him with great curiosity: perceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was market-day yesterday, both which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers, whereupon they emerge from their coat collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger's shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard, where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also, except those who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again, and they remain where they are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them; looking with longing eyes and red noses at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the window.

But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop, the brown paper packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern strap, and has seen the horses carefully put to, and has thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on thecoach-roof, and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the grey mare that hurt her off-fore-leg last Tuesday, and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the "two stout gentlemen," whom the coachman enquires after with some impatience. Hereupon the coachman and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an admonitory "Now, then, gen'l-m'n," the guard re-echoes it—the old gentleman inside, thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people will get down when they know there isn't time for it—Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other, Mr. Winkle cries "All right," and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.

Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o'clock that afternoon, they all stoodhigh and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful network upon the trees and hedges.

Charles Dickens

A Visit from St. Nicholas

'TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap—When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave a lustre of midday to objects below;When what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver, so lively and quickI knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas, too.And then in a twinkling I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head, and turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.He had a broad face and a little round bellyThat shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.He sprang in his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"Clement C. Moore

'TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap—

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas, too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;

And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang in his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement C. Moore

Crowded Out

NOBODYain't Christmas shoppin'Fur his stockin',Nobody ain't cotch no turkkey,Nobody ain't bake no pie.Nobody's laid nuthin' by;Santa Claus don't cut no figgerFur his mammy's little nigger.Seems lak everybody's rushin'An' er crushin';Crowdin' shops an' jammin' trolleys,Buyin' shoes an' shirts an' toysFur de white folks' girls an' boys;But no hobby-horse ain't rockin'Fur his little wore-out stockin'.He ain't quar'lin, recollec',He don't 'spec'Nuthin'—it's his not expectin'Makes his mammy wish—O Laws!—Fur er nigger Santy Claus,Totin' jus' er toy balloonFur his mammy's little coon.Rosalie M. Jonas

NOBODYain't Christmas shoppin'Fur his stockin',Nobody ain't cotch no turkkey,Nobody ain't bake no pie.Nobody's laid nuthin' by;Santa Claus don't cut no figgerFur his mammy's little nigger.

NOBODYain't Christmas shoppin'

Fur his stockin',

Nobody ain't cotch no turkkey,

Nobody ain't bake no pie.

Nobody's laid nuthin' by;

Santa Claus don't cut no figger

Fur his mammy's little nigger.

Seems lak everybody's rushin'An' er crushin';Crowdin' shops an' jammin' trolleys,Buyin' shoes an' shirts an' toysFur de white folks' girls an' boys;But no hobby-horse ain't rockin'Fur his little wore-out stockin'.

Seems lak everybody's rushin'

An' er crushin';

Crowdin' shops an' jammin' trolleys,

Buyin' shoes an' shirts an' toys

Fur de white folks' girls an' boys;

But no hobby-horse ain't rockin'

Fur his little wore-out stockin'.

He ain't quar'lin, recollec',He don't 'spec'Nuthin'—it's his not expectin'Makes his mammy wish—O Laws!—Fur er nigger Santy Claus,Totin' jus' er toy balloonFur his mammy's little coon.Rosalie M. Jonas

He ain't quar'lin, recollec',

He don't 'spec'

Nuthin'—it's his not expectin'

Makes his mammy wish—O Laws!—

Fur er nigger Santy Claus,

Totin' jus' er toy balloon

Fur his mammy's little coon.

Rosalie M. Jonas

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