A Christmas Story.


CHAPTER I.

The last strain of the grand old Christmas hymn had just been warbled
forth from the throats and hearts of a number of happy folks, who were
seated around the blazing log one Christmas eve; and on the face of each
one of that family circle the cheering light revealed the look of
happiness; the young--happy in the present, and indulging in hopeful
anticipations for the future; the old,--equally happy as the young, and
revelling in many a darling memory of the past.

"Come, Uncle John!" said a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired beauty, over whose
head not more than ten Christmas days had passed,--"Come, uncle, _do_
tell us a story; you know that we always expect one from you."

"Well, my pretty little niece," he replied, "I fear that I have
exhausted all my store of ghosts and hobgoblins, and if I tell you a
story now, it must be from the cold, stern world of fact, which, I fear,
will be less interesting to you than the romantic fictions I have
rehearsed on former occasions."

"Oh dear, no! tell us a story, a true story--we shall be all the more
delighted to know that we are listening to an account of what has really
occurred. Do begin at once, please".

Knocking the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and having carefully
reared it against the hob, he commenced:--