ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

The kindly Christmas tree, from which I trust every gentle reader has pulled a bonbon or two, is yet all aflame whilst I am writing, and sparkles with the sweet fruits of its season.  You young ladies, may you have plucked pretty giftlings from it; and out of the cracker sugarplum which you have split with the captain or the sweet young curate may you have read one of those delicious conundrums which the confectioners introduce into the sweetmeats, and which apply to the cunning passion of love.  Those riddles are to be read at your age, when I dare say they are amusing.  As for Dolly, Merry, and Bell, who are standing at the tree, they don’t care about the love-riddle part, but understand the sweet-almond portion very well.  They are four, five, six years old.  Patience, little people!  A dozen merry Christmases more, and you will be reading those wonderful love-conundrums, too.  As for us elderly folks, we watch the babies at their sport, and the young people pulling at the branches:  and instead of finding bonbons or sweeties in the packets which we pluck off the boughs, we find enclosed Mr. Carnifex’s review of the quarter’s meat; Mr. Sartor’s compliments, and little statement for self and the young gentlemen; and Madame de Sainte-Crinoline’s respects to the young ladies, who encloses her account, and will send on Saturday, please; or we stretch our hand out to the educational branch of the Christmas tree, and there find a lively and amusing article from the Rev. Henry Holyshade, containing our dear Tommy’s exceedingly moderate account for the last term’s school expenses.

The tree yet sparkles, I say.  I am writing on the day before Twelfth Day, if you must know; but already ever so many of the fruits have been pulled, and the Christmas lights have gone out.  Bobby Miseltow, who has been staying with us for a week (and who has been sleeping mysteriously in the bathroom), comes to say he is going away to spend the rest of the holidays with his grandmother—­and I brush away the manly tear of regret as I part with the dear child.  “Well, Bob, good-by, since you will go.  Compliments to grandmamma.  Thank her for the turkey.  Here’s—­” (A slight pecuniary transaction takes place at this juncture, and Bob nods and winks, and puts his hand in his waistcoat pocket.).  “You have had a pleasant week?”

Bob.—­“Haven’t I!” (And exit, anxious to know the amount of the coin which has just changed hands.)

He is gone, and as the dear boy vanishes through the door (behind which I see him perfectly), I too cast up a little account of our past Christmas week.  When Bob’s holidays are over, and the printer has sent me back this manuscript, I know Christmas will be an old story.  All the fruit will be off the Christmas tree then; the crackers will have cracked off; the almonds will have been crunched; and the sweet-bitter