BOOK OF CHRISTMAS - online book

The Customs, Ceremonies, Traditions, Superstitions, Fun, Feeling,
And Festivities Of The Christmas Season.

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Good night! good night! when I have said good night for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor; Let her take 'em—they are her's,—I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set, About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet mother ! call me when it begins to dawn :
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New year,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear!"
And it is wholesome tljat the mournful reflections which the period suggests should be indulged—but not to the neglect of its more cheerful influences. The New Year's Eve is, in all quar­ters, looked upon as a time of rejoicing; and perhaps no night of this merry season is more universally dedicated to festivity. Men are, for the most part, met in groups, to hail the coming year with propitiatory honors; and copious libations are poured to its honor, as if to determine it to look upon us with a benignant as­pect. We generally spend our New Year's Eve in some such group ; but, we confess, it is not every class of wassailers that will suit us for the occasion. The fact is, after all our resolves to work up our minds to the pitch of gladness—aye, and notwith­standing our success, too,—there are other feelings that will in­trude, in spite of us ; and we like to find ourselves a party where their presence is not looked upon as a marrer of the revels. When fitly associated for such a night, we find the very feelings in question, for the most part, to harmonize very delightfully with the predominant spirit of the time,—producing a sort of mixed sensation which is full of luxury and tenderness. By-the-by, we have no great wish to have for our companion, at any time, those precisians who insist greatly on the external solemnities. " Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise," says Burns. But, for our­selves, gentlemen, our sympathies lie with those who can be made to understand that the garb of even folly may, by possibility, be at times worn by those who conceal beneath it more sickness of the heart, as well as more wisdom, than shall ever be dreamt of in your philosophy :—who know, in fact, that that same folly is,
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