I look for the time when we shall wish one another a Merry Christmas every morning; when roast turkey and plum-pudding shall be the staple of our daily dinner, and the holly shall never be taken down from the walls, and everyone will always be kissing everyone else under the mistletoe.  And what is right as regards Christmas is right as regards all other so-called anniversaries.  The time will come when we shall dance round the Maypole every morning before breakfast—­a meal at which hot-cross buns will be a standing dish—­and shall make April fools of one another every day before noon.  The profound significance of All Fool’s Day—­the glorious lesson that we are all fools—­is too apt at present to be lost.  Nor is justice done to the sublime symbolism of Shrove Tuesday—­the day on which all sins are shriven.  Every day pancakes shall be eaten, either before or after the plum-pudding.  They shall be eaten slowly and sacramentally.  They shall be fried over fires tended and kept for ever bright by Vestals.  They shall be tossed to the stars.

I shall return to the subject of Christmas next week.

A SEQUELULA TO “THE DYNASTS"[7]

By

TH*M*S H*RDY

[Footnote 7:  This has been composed from a scenario thrust on me
  by some one else.  My philosophy of life saves me from sense of
  responsibility for any of my writings; but I venture to hold
  myself specially irresponsible for this one.—­TH*M*S H*RDY.]

  The Void is disclosed.  Our own Solar System is visible,
    distant by some two million miles.

  Enter the Ancient Spirit and Chorus of the Years, the Spirit
    and Chorus of the Pities, the Spirit Ironic, the Spirit
    Sinister, Rumours, Spirit-Messengers, and the Recording Angel.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

Yonder, that swarm of things insectual
Wheeling Nowhither in Particular—­
What is it?

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

          That?  Oh that is merely one

Of those innumerous congeries
Of parasites by which, since time began,
Space has been interfested.

SPIRIT SINISTER.

What a pity
We have no means of stamping out these pests!

SPIRIT IRONIC.

Nay, but I like to watch them buzzing round,
Poor little trumpery ephaeonals!

CHORUS OF THE PIETIES (aerial music).

Yes, yes!
What matter a few more or less?
Here and Nowhere plus
Whence and Why makes Thus.
Let these things be.
There’s room in the world for them and us.

Nothing is,
Out in the vast immensities
Where these things flit,
Irrequisite
In a minor key
To the tune of the sempiternal It.