The snail's on the thorn:
God's in his heaven--
All's right with the world!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE FEZZIWIG BALL.

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed
to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious
waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of
benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial
voice: "Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!"

A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a young man, came
briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-prentice.

"Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas eve,
Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up, before a man can
say Jack Robinson! Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't
have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute.
Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life
forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel
was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug and warm and dry
and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.