Punch (79.1880)

December 25, 1880.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

289

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It was Christmas-time in the Land of Queer Fancies, which borders
on the State of Indi-gestion, and Mr. Punch, who had been making
various purchases of illustrated books, Christmas Cards—“De la
LLue with a difference,” as he observed to himself, chuckling over the
misquotation—and all the illustrated papers, including the Showman,
edited by “ Codlin,” with a capital preface by “ G. A. S.,” was
wending his way back to his own home, situated on an eminence any
number of thousand feet above the sea, but never over the heads of
the people, among the Heights of Imagination.

“ A Merry Christmas to you ! ” said a tall man, dressed in an old-
-'ashioned style.

“Your name’s Smith, I believe,” said Mr. Punch, who is en-
dowed with the Royal faculty for remembering names and faces.

“ Tom,” replied that Gentleman.

“ True,” returned Mr. Punch ; “ but one hardly expects anything
true from you> as you are so celebrated for your ‘ Crackers.’ You ’re
fresher than ever this year. Why don’t you call your firm SMith
and Younger? Capital Fan Costume Crackers, those of yours. Very
ingenious. Good-night. A Merry Christmas to you! Where’s Toby!"
and he looked about for his faithful follower.

Where was he ? Careering far ahead, rolling over and over in the
-now, as jolly a dog as ever was seen—a gay young dog as ever was
heard of, going home for the holidays.

Growing colder and_colder. Mr. Punch, in one of his own Dicky-
Doyley wrappers, quickened his pace to increase his circulation,
starting new ideas from their lairs at every step.

Higher and higher Mr. Punch mounted, far from the “ madding

crowd,” as he drew nearer and nearer to his Shooting-Box, which
is the Noted Half-way House from Everywhere, situated on the
Joke-capped summit of one of the loftiest Heights of the Imaginative
Range. Thicker and thicker lay the snow.

Toby made a point. His tail became violently agitated.

What was that in the snow ? A man’s head ? His boots ! Heads
or tails ?

To dash at the head—to drag it out, and the body after it, was
with Mr. Punch the work of less than half a second.

“ All alive, 0 ! ” exclaimed the Benevolent Philosopher, cheerily.
And a faint voice issued from the lips of the man just rescued,—

“ All alive, are they ? Ah ! I hope so ! ”