at emanating from the author of its being, and stirs up a torrent of
abuse from the maiden aunt, who thinks the laughter is directed at
her.

Why were punsters ever invented, or family parties either? They are
our thorns in the flesh, I suppose, and so must be endured.

After dancing attendance upon these lively old people during the day,
the least you expect is a good night's rest to support and invigorate
you for the battles on the following day. But no, at Christmas time
any repose is denied you.

You are just off to sleep, forgetful of all troubles and strife, when
you are rudely awakened and brought back to the present by the most
awful screechings under your window. Morpheus flies, he has a musical
ear has that god, and when once, "Oh, come let us adore him," with a
concertina accompaniment, both voices and instrument woefully out of
tune; when once these harmonious strains have started, that good old
deity goes, to return no more that night.

Where does the pleasure come in, I wonder? Certainly not to us fuming
inside; and surely not to those poor deluded people squalling outside!
It must be so cold, so raw; and they never get appreciated, these
so-called "waits"--oh, if they only would _not_ wait, but go away
somewhere else, how much more satisfactory for us all!

No, Christmas is not a soothing time. It does not altogether improve
your temper. How glad I am when the festive season draws to a close,
and the last petitioner for Christmas-boxes goes on his way rejoicing.
To me it always realizes that period so often referred to by the lower
classes, "a month o' Sundays." So much church and so few posts!

It certainly is a little more interesting when the presents come in.
There is a kind of excitement about them; and it is not until the
following day, when you find yourself with a dozen letters of
gratitude to indite, that you feel that perhaps, after all, you might
have done without them.

There is nothing so annoying as being obliged to write letters when
you do not feel inclined. It is a great art, this letter writing, and
very few possess it. People often think they do, and they write for
writing's sake; but these letters are most wearying to read. Between
every line you seem to see the words, "Is not this a charming letter?"
and in reality you are so bored it is all you can do to reach the end.
Then those dreadful persons who "cross and recross" their epistles in
every direction! Paper is not so dear