Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 24, 1892

He. A—don't you find Existence an awful Bore?
She. A—well, some People's existence—most decidedly!
And they made merry in the good old fashion. The pictures on the walls were covered with holly and mistletoe. They had come from British woods. Then the tables groaned with Christmas cheer. The baron of beef was flanked with plum-pudding and mince-pies. There never was a more jovial crew. The compliments of the season were passed round, and the Christmas Waits, singing their Christmas carols, were entertained right royally. For was it not a time of peace and good will? Then there was a mighty laugh. A huge joke had been perpetrated. Grandfather had been asleep, and he was telling the youngsters, who had been playing a round game, the character of his dream.
I give you my word it is true, said the old man. Yes, I actually forgot it was Christmas!
But it was only in your dreams, Grandpapa, urged one of his descendants.
Yes, but that was bad enough, cried the old man in a tone of self-reproach, fancy forgetting Christmas—even in one's dreams! Everything seems changing nowadays!
But the Grandfather was wrong—the Christmas bills were unchangeable. And ever will be!
And certainly it was dull enough in all conscience. Nowadays everything is dull. Although it was towards the end of December, the room was decorated with summer flowers. They had come from Algeria. Then the side-table was spread with a recherché repast, for they were all going to dine à la Russe . But the guests were sad and thoroughly bored. They had sent a policeman after the itinerant street-musicians, with the desired result. Inside and outside silence reigned triumphant. Was it not a time for moving on and threatening six weeks without the option of a fine ?
Then there was a deep groan. A young man—somebody's Grandson—suggested a round game. At first the suggestion was received with derision.
You can't get up a Missing Word Competition, said one. No, my Grandson, you can't.