ht
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.

'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