forgetfulness on Bob’s part of everything but that magnificent scene.  The enormous edifice is all decorated for Bob and Christmas.  The stalls, the columns, the fountains, courts, statues, splendors, are all crowned for Christmas.  The delicious negro is singing his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob.  He has scarcely done, when, Tootarootatoo!  Mr. Punch is performing his surprising actions, and hanging the beadle.  The stalls are decorated.  The refreshment-tables are piled with good things; at many fountains “Mulled claret” is written up in appetizing capitals.  “Mulled Claret—­oh, jolly!  How cold it is!” says Bob; I pass on.  “It’s only three o’clock,” says Bob.  “No, only three,” I say, meekly.  “We dine at seven,” sighs Bob, “and it’s so-o-o coo-old.”  I still would take no hints.  No claret, no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls for Bob.  At last I am obliged to tell him all.  Just before we left home, a little Christmas bill popped in at the door and emptied my purse at the threshold.  I forgot all about the transaction, and had to borrow half a crown from John Coachman to pay for our entrance into the palace of delight.  Now you see, Bob, why I could not treat you on that second of January when we drove to the palace together; when the girls and boys were sliding on the ponds at Dulwich; when the darkling river was full of floating ice, and the sun was like a warming-pan in the leaden sky.

One more Christmas sight we had, of course; and that sight I think I like as well as Bob himself at Christmas, and at all seasons.  We went to a certain garden of delight, where, whatever your cares are, I think you can manage to forget some of them, and muse, and be not unhappy; to a garden beginning with a Z, which is as lively as Noah’s ark; where the fox has brought his brush, and the cock has brought his comb, and the elephant has brought his trunk, and the kangaroo has brought his bag, and the condor his old white wig and black satin hood.  On this day it was so cold that the white bears winked their pink eyes, as they plapped up and down by their pool, and seemed to say, “Aha, this weather reminds us of our dear home!” “Cold! bah!  I have got such a warm coat,” says brother Bruin, “I don’t mind;” and he laughs on his pole, and clucks down a bun.  The squealing hyaenas gnashed their teeth and laughed at us quite refreshingly at their window; and, cold as it was, Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, glared at us red-hot through his bars, and snorted blasts of hell.  The woolly camel leered at us quite kindly as he paced round his ring on his silent pads.  We went to our favorite places.  Our dear wambat came up, and had himself scratched very affably.  Our fellow-creatures in the monkey-room held out their little black hands, and piteously asked us for Christmas alms.  Those darling alligators on their rock winked at us in the most friendly way.  The solemn eagles sat alone, and scowled at us from their peaks; whilst little Tom Ratel tumbled over