Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/369

297 THE PICKWICK CLUB. 297

logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something" smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

'* This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, " this is, indeed, comfort."

"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. *• Every body sits down with us on Christmas eve, as you see them now — servants and all ; and here we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and while away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire."

Up ilew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

" Come," said Wardle, " a song — a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in default of a better."

" Bravo," said Mr. Pickwick.

" Fill up," cried Wardle. " It will be two hours good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail ; fill up all round, and now for the song."

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado —

a ar^fistmas OTarol

I CARE not for Spring ; on his fickle wing

Let the blossoms and buds be borne :

He woos them amain with his treacherous rain.

And he scatters them ere the morn.

An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,

Or his owTi changing mind an hour,

He'll smile in your face, and, with vrry grimace,

He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,

He shall never be sought by me ;

When he's dimmed by a cloud 1 can laugh aloud.

And care not how sulky he be ;

For his darling child is the madness wild

That sports in fierce fever's train ;

And when love is too strong, it don't last long,

As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light

Of the modest and gentle moon,

Has a far sveeter sheen for me, I ween.

Than the broad and unblushing noon.

But eveiy leaf awakens my grief,

As it licth beneath the tree ;

So let Autumn air be never so fair.

It by no means agrees with me.