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.