relations, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did

with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and

applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who

they thought would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught

themselves. When they all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great

game at snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with

that, and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of

blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail,

something smaller than an ordinary wash- house copper, in which the

hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly

sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

This,' said Mr Pickwick, looking round him, 'this is, indeed, comfort.'

Our invariable custom,' replied Mr Wardle. 'Everybody sits down with

us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now - servants and all; and

here we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in,

and beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy,

rake up the fire.'

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The

deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest

corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

Come,' said Wardle, 'a song - a Christmas song! I'll give you one, in

default of a better.'

'Bravo!' said Mr Pickwick.

'Fill up,' cried Wardle. 'It will be two hours, good, before you see the

bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up

all round, and now for the song.'

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,

commenced without more ado -

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be

borne; He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he

scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,

Nor his own changing mind an hour, He'll smile in your face, and,

with wry grimace, He'll wither your youngest flower.

'Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought

by me; When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud And care not

how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wild That sports

in fierce fever's train; And when love is too strong, it don't last long, As

many have found to their pain.

The Pickwick Papers