SURE SYMPTOMS OF CHRISTMAS.
(By a Surly Old Bachelor.)
PUNCH,—I know Christmas is coming from certain well-known symptoms that never fail to present themselves at this time of the year:—
Because my landlady is so extremely civil to me, and brings me my shaving-water the moment I ring for it.
Because I have not had to complain for two weeks about my boots, and the coal-scuttle is generally pretty full of coals.
Because the breakfast is laid before I am up, and when I ask for toast with my tea in the evening, the kitchen fire has not once been out.
Because the impudent news-boy has been much earlier with the newspaper than usual.
Because, wherever I have called, I haven't had cold meat for dinner for ever so long—for two weeks at least.
Because I cannot get my bills in from my tradesmen—they smile, and scrape their feet in their vile sawdust, and murmur something about "any time will do, Sir," and present me with French plum and bonbon-boxes, and fancy I have nothing better to do than to lay in a plantation of Christmas trees.
Because the crossing-sweeper takes his hat off to me every time I pass.
Because the Beadle has been wonderfully profuse with his cocked hat, and the pew-opener, within the last fortnight, has nearly curtseyed me to death.
Because, wherever I have called, I have found all the servants smiling most unnaturally, and bringing me things I didn't want.
Because my little nephews have been so very affectionate to me lately.
Because my little nieces have run up to me, and kissed me in a way that was more flattering than agreeable, and I have had my great coat and hat and umbrella and goloshes pulled off me before I have had time to inquire whether my brother (he is only a clerk) was at home.
Because I have been bothered out of my life with so many inquiries about that "distressing cough" of mine, and have been recommended so many wonderful remedies that were sure to cure it,—which remedies, if I had only taken one half of them, I shouldn't be alive at the present moment.
Because the Waits wake me up at night, paying me the discordant compliment of playing opposite my window longer than anybody else's.
And because—but I think I have said enough of these symptoms, which luckily "come but once a year." After all, I don't know—perhaps they are not so disagreeable, for the attentions one receives at this period are as flattering to one's vanity as they are conducive to one's comfort. The worst is, one knows they all spring out of a Christmas Box—and these boxes, as I have learnt to my cost, are not to be had so cheaply as bandboxes. The enjoyment would be all the more enjoyable, if one hadn't to pay so dearly for it. During the Christmas month, my outgoings invariably exceed my incomings;—otherwise, I like it well enough, and shouldn't mind if the whole year were composed of nothing but Christmas months.