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LARGER IMAGE
It grew late; the piano, which had been beating its life out all the evening over, “Oats, Pease, Beans, and Barley Grows” and “London Bridge is Falling Down, O My Lady!” began whispering a strange, old air, a marching tune with a pulse of marching feet, more and more loudly, until suddenly we all sang in lusty unison:
“Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wandering
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you—”
when in came the large and paunchy punch-bowl, borne by the stoutest of the waiters. All in line, singing and marching, old and young, we circled in a wide detour about the room, coming to a stand, our glasses high, about the wassail-bowl.
“Christmas! God bless us!” We drank the toast, and even the lip of the abstainer was touched with the foam of egg-nog.
When at last all was quiet for the night, the big room dark and empty, and the heavy line of forty stockings sagged and bulged in front of the fire, several sober rioters stole back for a few last words.