CHRISTMAS NUMBER AND ALMANAC 



THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL. 



N the dreary month of November, — 

 that Avas the stereotyped commence- 

 ment of old tales.^as the two editors, 

 like two spiders, were cacli in his 

 appropriate nook — that's not a bad 

 simile, for editors, like spiders, have 

 to spread their webs to catch contributors 

 ^, - and make them buzz, and to catch readers 

 gni and l)lecd tliem ; but that's all, by the by. 

 ■c^ There the two editors sat, and the one 

 said to the other, " I wonder what that 

 proposition from our friend at Waterloo 

 will come to?" — not the Waterloo in 

 Belgium, although both the editors have 

 '; been there this year, and took care to let 

 their readers know it, but Waterloo in 

 England, and the proposition was in these 

 words: "Do you ever publish at Christ- 

 mas an extra special number for onr 

 Christmas hearth ? " 



Now, the piroposer of that question knew as well as the 

 editors did that tliey never had published such a special 

 number ; but he knew the nature of editors, and that if he 

 had dared to say, "Yon had better publish a Christmas 

 number," their superior knowledge would have felt smalled, so 

 the advice was masked and cunningly disguised by its querv 

 form. So the two spiders did notwithdraw as spiders do 

 when they hear an unwelcome noise, but tliey extended their 

 webs subtilely, and hoped to entangle many contributors— 

 and they had waited days but entangled no one— and this in- 

 duced the suggestive sentence aforesaid, "I wonder what that 

 proposition will come to ?" 



Now the other editor was not blithe that morning ; it was, 

 as has been said, in the dreary month of November, and it 

 was a morning of fog— fog such as only the dwellers in 

 London know— yellow, aud thick, and full flavoured ; so that 

 editor put the extinguisher on the prefatorial suggestion by a 

 cui t" I don't know." Now his brother editor never suspected 

 he did, for he knew he was not a medium ; but there was no 

 occasion for such a reply as that. Why did he not say, " I 

 think vjry satisfactorily?" for he did think so; and his 

 brother editor looked at him reprovingly, but like a wise 

 editor, as he is, replied nothing — 



^V^lIcll Is an unerring way 

 When people notlUng have to say. 



Nor was there any occasion for a replv, for one of the desired 

 contributors was announced— " a fellow of indnite jest"— a 

 fellow who lives to joke, and who one would think dreams 

 jokes, for he has some fresh eveiy morning. He was loud in 

 laudation of a Christmas number. "For," he added, "you 

 can have some jokes in it. I've got one or two already. 

 Here, now 's, 



AUTUltN PAYMENTS, 



Sounding thi-ough the hazy woodlands 



Fall the nuts about ; 

 Nature fc-om her fan- and good hands 



Now 's a shelling out. 



Bees have ceased their drowsy humming ; 



Blows the fitfid gust ; 

 Breezes on the roads are coming 



Down with their dust. 



" I've not got any further than that, but here's an ornitho- 

 logical article— capital, though I say it who shouldn't :— 



THE AVIAKT. 

 Tastes differ with regard to bii-ds. The infant delights in 

 crows, but hates the thrush ; some lunatics are raven mad ; 

 gluttons are fond of swallows ; artillerists are fond of Pan-ots ; 

 misers cultivate the golden eagles ; gamblers like pigeons and 

 guHs ; thieves go in for robin : and eveiT good husband loves 

 his duck of a wife." 



And the editors said " Good ; go home and finish those 

 happy beginnings." So he went, but they heard of him no 

 more, nor of his jokes either. 



Soon letters began to arrive, and tlie first needing mention 

 was one from that terrible Cornish woman. Miss Penelope 

 Pomeroy, of Cackleton Hall : it was not to be mistaken, 

 written on determined stiff paper with a broad-nibbed pen, 

 every stroke a dig. The editor hesitated over the missile, but 

 his co-suft'erer said, " Oh, never mind ! " though he well knew 

 that the contents would partake of the nature of what the 

 great boys at our school with grim irony called " giving case," 

 as thev rubbed the hairs of little boys up the wrong way, and 

 the editors were not wrongly anticipatory, for it began with- 

 out any prefatory address — " We have too many Christmas 

 numbers already ; a ' Michaelmas Medley,' or a ' Spring 

 Syringing,' might have had a semblance of novelty. You are 

 like our rOL'king stone, everlastingly moving ; you '11 be upset 

 some day." The editors rubbed their noses — that organ is 

 the index of mental irritation — and he who read this inky 

 snap said, "I'll tell her never to dare to write to us again, 

 and that she is only excusable because she '5 an old woman." 

 " Perhaps she may reply," said he of the other nook, "that 

 she is glad that she is not an old man, for that's worse !" So 

 the editors communed together, and were pacified, and then' 

 countenances radiated as they looked upon the next letter, for 

 it was from that blessed man the "Wiltshire Rector " — a man 

 strong in the Scriptures and in making things comfortable; 

 and thus began his drops of balm from his rectorial downs, 

 "Excellent! Capital! The plan may be carried out so as 

 to be cxti'cmely beneficial." And then he proceeded to show 

 that he would nnite about everything and one or two subjects 

 besides. Then the two editors looked benignly on one another 

 and nodded as if taking wine together ; but that was only 

 imaginary, unless they " made belief very ranch " more than 

 the little " marchioness," for they had not even her orange 

 peel and water. 



The third letter was on satin paper — pink and musky — 

 and the small, very pointed letters, written seemingly with a 

 crow quill ; in fact, it was not a full-grown letter, but a 

 darling little note, and began " Dear Editor ;" and the spiders 

 looked each at the other, and said within his inmost thoughts, 

 "She can't have thought him very attractive." Then the 

 reader proceeded with the note, and it said, " Have some 

 poetry in your Christmas number. I do love poetry, and 

 you know that you once wrote this" — 



THE THOKNLESS KOSE. 



That night the fairy Queen was led 



By Oberon to the nuptial bed. 



The elves with magic sleight conveyed 



Flowers of all seasons to the glade. 



Where, as in some enchanted zone, 



The royal lovers supped alone. 



Imperial blossoms fonned the dome 



Kaleidoscopic of their home — 



A small pavihoned area, bright 



With blossoms shedding living Ught. 



Of rose leaves was then couch — the groimd 



With lilies carpeted, aroimd 



Ambrosial odoiurs shed, to tell 



How high their state who there did dwell. 



While there in amorous folds they lay, 

 Attendant fairies bore away 

 The thorns that every rose-stem beara 

 To sjTnbolize a lover's cares ! 

 And piling them in one dark pyre. 

 To ashes burned with mystic fire. 

 Then offered up a lily, fUled 

 With honey-dew. by channs distilled, 

 To Cupid, that his radiant wing 

 Might ever wave around their King ; — 

 Since which that rose has never borne 

 On stem, or spray, or leaf — a thorn. 



And the Editor who had not written that shook his head ; 

 and the Editor who had written it said, " Ah ! your days for 

 poetry are gone." And then he took up another letter, and 

 opened that, and it was all about what the Christmas number 

 ought to be named, and urged that it should be " HoUy 

 Berries," because the northern soil cultivators hang up a 

 bunch of these berries at Christmas, and keep them through- 



