very improper one, particularly in a story. We all know how every
little boy in a story-book spends the Christmas holidays.

First, there is the large hamper of good things sent by grandpapa,
which is as inexhaustible as Fortunatus's purse, and contains
everything, from a Norfolk turkey to grapes from the grandpaternal
vinery.

There is the friend who gives a guinea to each member of the family,
and sees who will spend it best.

There are the godpapas and godmammas, who might almost be fairy
sponsors from the number of expensive gifts that they bring upon the
scene. The uncles and aunts are also liberal.

One night is devoted to a magic-lantern (which has a perfect focus),
another to the pantomime, a third to a celebrated conjuror, a fourth
to a Christmas tree and juvenile ball.

The happy youth makes himself sufficiently ill with plum-pudding, to
testify to the reader how good it was, and how much there was of it;
but recovers in time to fall a victim to the negus and trifle at
supper for the same reason. He is neither fatigued with late hours
nor surfeited with sweets; or if he is, we do not hear of it.

But as this is a strictly candid history, I will at once confess the
truth, on behalf of my hero and his brothers and sisters. They had
spent the morning in decorating the old church, in pricking holly
about the house, and in making a mistletoe bush. Then in the afternoon
they had tasted the Christmas soup and seen it given out; they had put