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has come with his garment of snow and crown of hollies and icicles, with his jolly red face and lavishly-filled hands, and he has abode with us a little space, wielding his sceptre royally at feast and wassail; but now that the poor old year, the friend out of which he grew, is dying, and the new one in all its pride and pomp is dawning, he sweeps away from us sorrowfully, and we see his face no more. Jack and I, home for the holidays, have been literally obeying the golden mandate that bids mankind "Gather ye roses while ye may," and we have eaten plum-pudding and Christmas cakes galore, reaping the punishment of our unholy gluttony in aches and pains that we have had to take upon our backs and bear in silence, venturing on no complaint; for in the somewhat unique rules of our family there is a stringent one: "Thou shalt not be sick." Ill or well, faint, pain-stricken or bilious, in our places at table we must appear; and if unkind nature, refusing to be tutored, makes our faces pale and anxious, by angry looks and words are we made to feel the shamelessness and iniquity of our conduct. If either of us have a bout of real illness that refuses to be knocked on the head in deference to the governor's will, the culprit is placed under the ban of an awful and crushing displeasure below stairs, that person's name is never mentioned, and when the convalescent makes his appearance in public, white and attenuated, his presence is ignored; he is considered to have disgraced himself past all forgiveness. To call in Esculapius is a dangerous and most ticklish proceeding, and only ventured on in a case of extreme emergency; he knows his peril, and comes with reluctance and departs with alacrity. All things considered, we have had a stormy time of it lately. Over and above