which is decorated for Christmas, and straightway forgetfulness
on Bob's part of everything but that magnificent scene. The
enormous edifice is all decorated for Bob and Christmas. The
stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts, statues, splendours,
are all crowned for Christmas. The delicious negro is singing
his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob. He has scarcely
done, when, Tootarootatoo! Mr Punch is performing his surprising
actions, and hanging the beadle. The stalls are decorated. The
refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains
"Mulled Claret" is written up in appetizing capitals. "Mulled
Claret -- oh, jolly! How cold it is!" says Bob; I pass on.
"It's only three o'clock," says Bob. "No, only three," I say
meekly. "We dine at seven," sighs Bob, "and it's so-o-o coo-
old." I still would take no hints. No claret, no refreshment,
no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for Bob. At last I am obliged to
tell him all. Just before we left home, a little Christmas bill
popped in at the door and emptied my purse at the threshold. I
forgot all about the transaction, and had to borrow half-a-crown
from John Coachman to pay for our entrance into the palace of
delight. Now you see, Bob, why I could not treat you on that
second of January when we drove to the palace together; when the
girls and boys were sliding on the ponds at Dulwich; when the
darkling river was full of floating ice, and the sun was like a
warming-pan in the leaden sky.

One more Christmas sight we had, of course; and that sight I
think I like as well as Bob himself at Christmas, and at all
seasons. We went to a certain garden of delight, where, whatever
your cares are, I think you can manage to forget some of them,
and muse, and be not unhappy; to a garden beginning with a Z,