Then she rambled on to the Days that were gone, the good old Days, & so to the Days before the Flood—which plainly showed her old head to be little better than crazed & doited.
Day being ended, the Days called for their cloaks & great-coats & took their leaves.
Lord Mayor’s Day went off in a mist as usual; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog that wrapt the little gentleman all round like a hedgehog. Two Vigils—so watchmen are called in heaven—saw Christmas Day safe home—they had been used to the business before. Another Vigil—a stout, sturdy patrole, called the Eve of St. Christopher—
seeing Ash Wednesday in a condition little better than he should be—e’en whipt him over his shoulders, pick-a-back fashion, & Old Mortification went floating home singing—
“On the bat’s back do I fly,”
& a number of old snatches besides, between drunk & sober; but very few Aves or Penitentiaries {you may believe me} were among them. Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson & gold—the rest, some in one fashion, some in another; but Valentine & pretty May took their departure together in one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover’s Day could wish to set in.