Very pleasant, we fancy, it must be of a Christmas Eve when one is, as aforesaid, toasting one’s toes at the fire over a favorite book, or hanging up the children’s stockings, let us say, or peering through the curtains out over the moonlit snow, and wondering how cold it is out-doors with that little perfunctory shiver which is comfort’s homage to itself—there should always be snow upon the ground at Christmas, for then Nature
“With speeches fair
Woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow”;
but let us have no wind, since
“Peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the world began.
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,