Because the crossing-sweeper takes his hat off to me every time I pass.
Because the Beadle has been wonderfully profuse with his cocked hat, and the pew-opener, within the last fortnight, has nearly curtseyed me to death.
Because, wherever I have called, I have found all the servants smiling most unnaturally, and bringing me things I didn't want.
Because my little nephews have been so very affectionate to me lately.
Because my little nieces have run up to me, and kissed me in a way that was more flattering than agreeable, and I have had my great coat and hat and umbrella and goloshes pulled off me before I have had time to inquire whether my brother (he is only a clerk) was at home.
Because I have been bothered out of my life with so many inquiries about that "distressing cough" of mine, and have been recommended so many wonderful remedies that were sure to cure it,—which remedies, if I had only taken one half of them, I shouldn't be alive at the present moment.
Because the Waits wake me up at night, paying me the discordant compliment of playing opposite my window longer than anybody else's.
And because—but I think I have said enough of these symptoms, which luckily "come but once a year." After all, I don't know—perhaps they are not so disagreeable, for the attentions one receives at this period are as flattering to one's vanity as they are conducive to one's comfort. The worst is, one knows they all spring out of a Christmas Box—and these boxes, as I have learnt to my cost, are not to be had so cheaply as bandboxes. The enjoyment would be all the more enjoyable, if one hadn't to pay so dearly for it. During the Christmas month, my outgoings invariably exceed my incomings;—otherwise, I like it well enough, and shouldn't mind if the whole year were composed of nothing but Christmas months.