_Not drilled and herded, yet gregarious--_
_A wise yet frolicsome community?_

SPIRIT IRONIC.

_What are these "other times" though? I had thought_
_Those midgets whiled away the vacuous hours_
_After one war in training for the next._
_And let me add that my contempt for them_
_Is not done justice to by Mr. Hardy._

SPIRIT SINISTER.

_Nor mine. And I have reason to believe_
_Those midgets shone above their average_
_When we inspected them._

A RUMOUR (tactfully intervening).

_Yet have I heard_
_(Though not on very good authority)_
_That once a year they hold a festival_
_And thereat all with one accord unite_
_In brotherly affection and good will._

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).

_Can you authenticate this Rumour?_

RECORDING ANGEL.

_Such festival they have, and call it "Christmas."_

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

_Then let us go and reconsider them_
_Next "Christmas."_

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).

_When is that?_

RECORDING ANGEL (consults terrene calendar).

_This day three weeks._

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

_On that day we will re-traject ourselves._
_Meanwhile, 'twere well we should be posted up_
_In details of this feast._

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES (to Recording Angel).

_Aye, tell us more._

RECORDING ANGEL.

_I fancy you could best find what you need_
_In the Complete Works of the late Charles Dickens._
_I have them here._

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

_Read them aloud to us._

The Recording Angel reads aloud the Complete Works of Charles
Dickens.

RECORDING ANGEL (closing "Edwin Drood").

_'Tis Christmas Morning._

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

_Then must we away._

SEMICHORUS I. OF YEARS (aerial music).

_'Tis time we press on to revisit_
_That dear little planet,_
_To-day of all days to be seen at_
_Its brightest and best._

_Now holly and mistletoe girdle_
_Its halls and its homesteads,_
_And every biped is beaming_
_With peace and good will._

SEMICHORUS II.

_With good will and why not with free will?_
_If clearly the former_
_May nest in those bosoms, then why not_
_The latter as well?_
_Let's lay down no laws to trip up on,_
_Our way is in darkness,_
_And not but by groping unhampered_
_We win to the light._

The Spirit and Chorus of the Years traject themselves, closely