other provender for his ass. In the morning the eager children find the food and provender gone, but in their place all kinds of beautiful toys. Mr. Cremer is our St. Nicholas, and does the business of the old monk without any mystery, but in an equally satisfactory manner.
A STORY-TELLING PARTY.
BEING A RECITAL OF CERTAIN MISERABLE DAYS AND NIGHTS PASSED, WHEREWITH TO WARM THE HEART OF THE CHRISTMAS SEASON.
We are six—seven would have made the announcement a poetical quotation; but one is wanting, and we remain a prosy half-dozen, not unwilling to be jolly, but waiting for the occasion.
We are at an inn, of course. Outside it is wintry weather, and a great log fire beams on us like a cheerful president.
Lawyer Spence and Mr. Selby belong to the neighbourhood. Of the other gentlemen, one speculates in hops, and has a fine appreciation of the punch; one is of the Indian Civil Service; the last is a servant of the public of Great Britain.
How we came together here, would interest you but slightly. People are always flying about at Christmas, and accidents will happen. Enough that we cry out with clown, “Here we are!”
Now Christmas is such a season for telling stories, that, I give you my word, and I am confirmed in my attestation of the fact by the after assurance of every gentleman present, we had no idea of amusing each other; we thought only of drinking our punch and toddling to bed: and to bed we should have gone, with nothing to laugh over, had not Mr. Lorquison said suddenly:
“Ha! ‘cold weather! We’re comfortable here, eh? How did you spend the autumn, sir?” And that began it.
H.E.I.C.S. was addressed, and replied:
“Oh, down in Scotland.”
The conversation was relapsing; we had almost lost it; when H.E.I.C.S. appeared to remember something, and laughed.
Mr. Lorquison immediately turned a conversational side-face to him: Mr. Spence lifted his head from his glass: Mr. Selby smacked his knee: and the dealer in hops inquired what tickled his fancy.
“Nothing particular,” said the Indian. “I was on the moors in a friend’s hut, and was only laughing at a miserable night I passed there.”
A DREADFUL NIGHT IN A HUT ON THE MOORS.
He paused, as if to hint there was really nothing remarkable in his experience, and pursued:
“My friend hires a shepherd’s hut for the shooting season. The shepherd’s wife is his cook, and does the work in primitive fashion. You shoot a blackcock—it’s presented to you boiled, a pheasant—boiled! everything’s boiled! I believe she would boil a boar’s head. I suffered a little, of course, but that was nothing. She made tolerable hare soup. The animal is skinned, and then stewed down—blood, entrails, and all. I once brought her a hare: she rejected it with scorn: there wasn’t ‘bluid enoo’.’ Well, we shot some game—blackcock rather plentiful this season—tried our hands at spearing salmon, and sought what amusement we could find among a scanty but lively population. One night my friend, who had established relations with some neighbouring Scotch—I suppose I must say farmers—invited them to dine with him; and as these gentry have to come some distance over the hills, an invitation of this sort involves the offer of a bed, or, at least, some place for them to stretch their limbs. I forget how many glasses of whiskey-toddy I consumed in their society. I was the first to move to bed; but my departure did not at all disturb them. In my first sleep I was aroused by the sound of a heavy fall on the floor. I rose in bed. My friend was at my feet, trying to open the window. ‘Only one of the Scotchees,’ he said, and informed me that it was impossible to quarter him down stairs, as the door would not shut, and the wind blew cold.
“ ‘There he is,’ he added, laughing “toddily,” if I may be allowed the word. ‘He said when be last spoke, that he preferred a good floor to a bed. You’ll find him strong; so I open the windows.’
“Complaint was of no use, so I lay down again: my friend went off to his Scotchee, and all seemed at peace. By and bye I felt the cold, and decided to rise quietly and exclude the wind. I had one foot out of bed, when a low growl suprised me, and made me draw it in again quickly. Looking over on one side, I perceived a dog. I have no doubt he was of the ordinary size of shepherds’ dogs in general, but to me he appeared enormous. He had evidently come to watch over his master, and was determined to tear the leg of any one moving in the room. I thought it better to try and bear the cold than come to a tussle with him, and rouse the savage nature of the beast. There’s something in presenting a naked leg to a dog, which is, I assure you, not pleasant. But the cold increased. I got out of bed. He growled a moment, and then up he jumped and made a rush