Jocund may thy Xmas be!"
Then, with a little sigh, he leans back, satisfied that for him the holiday intermission had not rusted the fine edge of originality. "Jocund" proved that.
Behind him perhaps sits a maiden like Fate, who with abhorred shears fashions strange shapes and borderings of foliage unknown to mere nature. And further still, in yonder obscure and shadowy corner, is one who by her art can penetrate the future and outstrip the foot of Time himself. For see, upon her cards, there is already written—
"With every blessing good and true
May the New Year be packed,
And 1917 bring to you
What 1916 lacked."
I wonder—how does their work seem to Them upon this morning after Boxing-day?