'A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle

moon, Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, Than the broad and

unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath

the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees

with me.

'But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS Stout, The hearty, the true,

and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three

cheers for this Christmas old! We'll usher him in with a merry din

That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we'll keep him up, while

there's bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we'll part. 'In his fine

honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars;

They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace On the cheeks of

our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ring And it echoes

from wall to wall - To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As

the King of the Seasons all!'

This song was tumultuously applauded - for friends and dependents

make a capital audience - and the poor relations, especially, were in

perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again

went the wassail round.

How it snows!' said one of the men, in a low tone.

Snows, does it?' said Wardle.

Rough, cold night, Sir,' replied the man; 'and there's a wind got up,

that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.'

'What does Jem say?' inquired the old lady. 'There ain't anything the

matter, is there?'

'No, no, mother,' replied Wardle; 'he says there's a snowdrift, and a

wind that's piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in

the chimney.'

Ah!' said the old lady, 'there was just such a wind, and just such a

fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect - just five years before

your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I remember

that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that

carried away old Gabriel Grub.'

The story about what?' said Mr Pickwick.

Oh, nothing, nothing,' replied Wardle. 'About an old sexton, that the

good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.'

The Pickwick Papers