for self and the young gentlemen; and Madame de Sainte-
Crinoline's respects to the young ladies, who encloses her
account, and will sent on Saturday, please; or we stretch our
hand out to the educational branch of the Christmas tree, and
there find a lively and amusing article from the Rev. Henry
Holyshade, containing our dear Tommy's exceedingly moderate
account for the last term's school expenses.

The tree yet sparkles, I say. I am writing on the day before
Twelfth Day, if you must know; but already ever so many of the
fruits have been pulled, and the Christmas lights have gone out.
Bobby Miseltow, who has been staying with us for a week (and who
has been sleeping mysteriously in the bath-room), comes to say he
is going away to spend the rest of the holidays with his
grandmother -- and I brush away the manly tear of regret as I
part with the dear child. "Well, Bob, good-bye, since you will
go. Compliments to grandmamma. Thank her for the turkey.
Here's ----" (A slight pecuniary transaction takes place at this
juncture, and Bob nods and winks, and puts his hand in his
waistcoat pocket.) "You have had a pleasant week?"

Bob. -- "Haven't I!" (And exit, anxious to know the amount of the
coin which has just changed hands.)

He is gone, and as the dear boy vanishes through the door (behind
which I see him perfectly), I too cast up a little account of our
past Christmas week. When Bob's holidays are over, and the
printer has sent me back this manuscript, I know Christmas will
be an old story. All the fruit will be off the Christmas tree
then; the crackers will have cracked off; the almonds will have