When the ruddy autumn leaves
Flutter down on golden sheaves,
And on plum-trees one perceives
No more plums--
All the swallows have not fled,
Hardly is the summer dead--
Then, alas, it must be said
Christmas comes!

Christmas! Hang it all! But how
Can that be? 'Tis weeks from now.
What a fearful thought, I vow
That it numbs!
"Order Christmas papers" fills
Bookshops, bookstalls. With its bills,
Taxes, tips, fogs, frosts, coughs, chills,
Christmas comes!

Even Christmas-cards appear,
They are with us half the year,
I would banish them from here,
Say, to Thrums,
Or to any mournful place,
Where I'd never show my face,
For they tell one that, apace,
Christmas comes!

* * * * *

SEASONABLE CHRISTMAS MOTTO FOR WELL-KNOWN FINE-ART PUBLISHERS.--"TUCK