thing of a grimace, and giving each other the wink;
but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were
exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at
their ease.

His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout
the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage;
gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters;
and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled the
sweets from all the rosy lips of the country around.

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and
affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gaiety
of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity
of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth,
and a kind word or a small pleasantry, frankly uttered by a patron,
gladdens the heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When the
Squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was much joking
and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced,
white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village; for I
observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts,
and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand
them.

The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. As I passed
to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small
court, and, looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived
a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tambourine; a
pretty, coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad,
while several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her
sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, colouring
up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion.

The Christmas Dinner

Lo, now is come the joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.

--WITHERS'S Juvenilia.

I had finished my toilet,