balancing himself on somebody's bed-rail.

Then there are, besides, the very young, or very conscientious
ghosts with a lost will or an undiscovered number weighing heavy on
their minds, who will haunt steadily all the year round; and also
the fussy ghost, who is indignant at having been buried in the
dust-bin or in the village pond, and who never gives the parish a
single night's quiet until somebody has paid for a first-class
funeral for him.

But these are the exceptions. As I have said, the average orthodox
ghost does his one turn a year, on Christmas Eve, and is satisfied.

Why on Christmas Eve, of all nights in the year, I never could
myself understand. It is invariably one of the most dismal of
nights to be out in--cold, muddy, and wet. And besides, at
Christmas time, everybody has quite enough to put up with in the
way of a houseful of living relations, without wanting the ghosts
of any dead ones mooning about the place, I am sure.

There must be something ghostly in the air of Christmas--something
about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts, like
the dampness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails.

And not only do the ghosts themselves always walk on Christmas Eve,
but live people always sit and talk about them on Christmas Eve.
Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on
Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories.
Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell
authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive