THE ANGEL AND THE AUTHOR--AND OTHERS

by Jerome K. Jerome




CHAPTER I



I had a vexing dream one night, not long ago: it was about a
fortnight after Christmas. I dreamt I flew out of the window in my
nightshirt. I went up and up. I was glad that I was going up.
"They have been noticing me," I thought to myself. "If anything, I
have been a bit too good. A little less virtue and I might have
lived longer. But one cannot have everything." The world grew
smaller and smaller. The last I saw of London was the long line of
electric lamps bordering the Embankment; later nothing remained but a
faint luminosity buried beneath darkness. It was at this point of my
journey that I heard behind me the slow, throbbing sound of wings.

I turned my head. It was the Recording Angel. He had a weary look;
I judged him to be tired.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "it is a trying period for me, your Christmas
time."

"I am sure it must be," I returned; "the wonder to me is how you get
through it all. You see at Christmas time," I went on, "all we men