Mr. Noddles concluded his part of the entertainment by the performance of the jumping rabbit—the rabbit on this occasion being made out of a lady's fur cuff tied up with a piece of string. This crude counterfeit of bunny he laid on the palm of his left hand, with one end resting against his fingers, as represented in the cut, while with the other hand he stroked and caressed it, saying at the same time, "Be still, bunny—don't run away; if you run away the dogs will catch you, and you will be made into chicken-pie, and your skin will be made into a fur cap and sold in the Bowery to—hallo! hold on! hi!" the latter exclamations being elicited by the rabbit jumping up his arm, while he struggled to capture it and bring it back with his right hand. The first jump made by the rabbit was produced by a sharp jerk of the fingers, which sometimes sends him flying into the middle of the room with a most lifelike effect.
But now a more imposing portion of the programme claims our attention. A subdued jingling of bells is heard at the door, a few spasmodic bumps, and in trots the patron saint of the day—good Santa Claus, sleigh, reindeer, red cap, and all. (See next page.) It may not have been polite, but we could not help it, and greeted the good saint with an unrestrained roar of laughter. Surely never before was seen out of Noah's Ark such a comical steed, such legs, such proportions, and such a dislocated style of locomotion. No matter, he amused us more than a whole troop of the veritable article from Spitzbergen; and, as a simple act of justice between man and beast, we must admit that he propelled Santa Claus and his turn-out in a most efficient, not to say intelligent, style around the room. This was the Merryweather substitute for a Christmas-tree. Santa Claus came to distribute the Christmas-gifts—a task he performed with a discretion beyond his years. It is pleasing to record that no one, not even the dullest in the company, recognised Master Georgy in his disguise; but one and all, with admirable tact, feigned to be completely taken in, and fully believed that they were receiving a visit from the good saint himself.
THE ARRIVAL OF SANTA CLAUS.—See page [214].
After the vulgaris pueris, the elephant, and other specimens of zoology, it is almost needless to explain how the reindeer was constructed. Our illustration seems almost superfluous; still, something may be made a little clearer by them; and to them we refer the reader who wishes to learn how to build a reindeer. In the case before us, the hide of the deer was made out of a pair of army blankets, purchased by Merryweather for five dollars in Chambers street—about the best material that could possibly be selected for the purpose. These he cut out and fitted himself, and had them sewed on his wife's sewing-machine. The head and horns were made of thick brown paper, and here is the most difficult part of the animal to describe—not the most difficult to make, bear in mind. We hate long explanations, and yet we feel puzzled now, as we have often been before, to tell you how to make this reindeer mask. However, here goes: You require two or three sheets of thick brown paper, a bowl of paste (flour and water boiled), and a block of wood, from the wood-pile, of about six or seven inches in diameter. (See annexed cut.) You moisten one sheet of the paper slightly, and then mould it over the block; having done this, you smear the entire surface with paste, and mould another sheet of paper over that; then you smear the second sheet over with paste, and mould a third sheet over all; then let them stand till dry. This, when dry, can be removed from the block, and will give you a hollow cone on which you can paint the eyes and mouth of the deer, and to which you can likewise paste the horns, as indicated in this diagram. It may strike you that the diagram looks more like a bottle-nosed shark than the face of any denizen of the forest. You must not, however, be discouraged on this account; it will look all right when you get it in its proper place.
Need we add, that after this we had supper; when good-humor culminated in the grand old song of "Auld Lang Syne," all singing and joining hands round the table, down even to the little two and a half year old Dolly, whose auld lang syne dated no further back than two strawberry seasons. The idea of taking a "richt gude wully wut" with such a wee mite of a thing was so very comic that we all laughed right merrily, while Mrs. Merryweather, with tears in her eyes, clasped the child to her bosom as though she would protect it from some impending danger, possibly the approach of the monster "richt gude wully wut."