purse; and
you must be reasonable. Don't you see?"

"Well, father--" began the boy; but his father interrupted him. He
knew the unvarying beginning of a long grumble, and dreading the
argument, cut it short.

"I have decided. You must amuse yourself some other way. And just
remember that young Brown's is quite another case. He is an only son."

Whereupon Paterfamilias went off to his study and his sermon; and his
son, like the Princess in Andersen's story of the Swineherd, was left
outside to sing,

"O dearest Augustine,
All's clean gone away!"

Not that he did say that--that was the princess' song--what he said
was,

"_I wish I were an only son!_"

This was rather a vain wish, for round the dining-room fire (where he
soon joined them) were gathered his nine brothers and sisters, who, to
say the truth, were not looking much more lively and cheerful than
he. And yet (of all days in the year on which to be doleful and
dissatisfied!) this was Christmas Eve.

Now I know that the idea of dulness or discomfort at Christmas is a
very improper one, particularly in a story. We all know how every
little boy in a story-book spends the Christmas holidays.

First, there is the large hamper of good things sent by grandpapa,
which is as inexhaustible as Fortunatus's purse, and contains
everything, from a Norfolk turkey to grapes from the grandpaternal
vinery.

There is the friend who gives a guinea to each member of the family,
and sees who will spend it best.

There are the godpapas and godmammas, who might almost be fairy
sponsors from the number of expensive gifts that they bring upon the
scene. The uncles and aunts are also liberal.

One night is devoted to a magic-lantern (which has a perfect focus),
another to the pantomime, a third to a celebrated conjuror, a fourth
to a Christmas tree and juvenile ball.

The happy youth makes himself sufficiently ill with plum-pudding, to
testify to the reader how good it was, and how much there was of it;
but recovers in time to fall a victim to the negus and trifle at
supper for the same reason. He is neither fatigued with late hours
nor surfeited with sweets; or if he is, we do not hear of it.

But as this is a strictly candid history, I will at once confess the
truth, on behalf of my hero and his brothers and sisters. They had
spent the morning in decorating the old church, in pricking holly
about the house, and in making a mistletoe bush. Then in the after