it is Christmas morning.

What a wonderful time you have at breakfast! There are a half-dozen
silver forks for ma, a new napkin-ring for you, and what astonishing
hay-wagons and crying dolls for the children! Jane, the house-maid, is
beaming with happiness in a new collar and black silk apron; and Bridget
will persist in wearing her silver thimble and carrying her new
work-basket, though they threaten utter destruction to the
beefsteak-plate.

You sit an unusually long time over your coffee that morning, and say an
unusual number of facetious things to everybody. You cover Jane with
confusion, and throw Bridget into an explosion of mirth, by slyly
alluding to a blue-eyed young dray-man you one evening noticed seated on
the kitchen steps. Perhaps you venture a prediction on the miserable
existence he is some day destined to experience,--when a look from the
little lady in the merino morning-wrapper checks you, and you confess to
yourself that you are feeling uncommonly happy.

At last the breakfast ends, and the children go out for a romp. Perhaps
you are a little taken aback when you are informed your easy-chair has
been removed to the library; but you see Bridget, still in secure
possession of her thimble and work-basket, with a huge china bowl in one
hand and an egg-beater in the other, looking very warm and very much
confused, and you take your departure to your own domain, to con over
the morning papers.

You hear an indistinct sound of the drawing of corks and beating of
eggs; of a great many dishes being taken out of the china-closet, and a
good many orders being given in an undertone,--why is it women always