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m and took up a newspaper. By and by, Harry and Polly came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own affairs in a corner. The hot-tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, "Harry, my boy!" And Harry came up to him. "Show me your tongue, Harry," said he. "What for?" said Harry; "you're not a doctor." "Do as I tell you," said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as Harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. The hot-tempered gentleman sighed. "Ah!" he said, in depressed tones; "I thought so!--Polly, come and let me look at yours." Polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers. But the hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head. "What is it?" cried both the children. "What do you mean?" And they seized the tips of their tongues with their fingers, to feel for themselves. But the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, "Ah! Hum!" and nodding with an air of grave foreboding. Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head into the room. "Have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed?" he asked. "No!" cried the children with alarm. "Are they?" "If ever you find them becoming forked," said the gentleman in solemn tones, "let me know." With which he departed, gravely shaking his head. In the afternoon the children attacked him again. "_Do_ tell us what's the matter with our tongues." "You were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "Well, we forgot," said Polly. "We don't mean anything, you know. But never mind that now, please. Tell us about our tongues. What is going to happen to them?" "I'm very much afraid," said the hot-tempered gentleman, in solemn measured tones, "that you are both of you--fast--going--to--the--" "Dogs?" suggested Harry, who was learned in cant expressions. "Dogs!" said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. "Bless your life, no! Nothing half so pleasant! (That is, unless all dogs were like Snap, which mercifully they are not.) No, my sad fear is, that you are both of you--rapidly--going--_to the Snap-Dragons_!" And not another word would the hot-tempered gentleman say on the subject. CHRISTMAS EVE. In the course of
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