Christmas eve came at length. The moon shone serenely from between broken clouds. The air was clear, crisp and cold, and made great coats a necessity to comfort. The trees had lost their leafy robe, and now stood shivering or shaking in envy of their evergreen brethren, while all the green hedges had aged into withered brown. There was a flash of light from the parish church tower, and then the single pencil of light was increased by another and another, until every window of the old structure was ablaze with illumination in honour of the coming birthday of the Nazarene. Light after light appeared in cottage of peasant and mansion of gentleman, as if an answer to the summons of the old church to do honour to Him who is the "light of the world." Then on the night air came the song of choirs and carol of singers, mingled with the strains of musical instruments. From cottage and hall sounded the merry noise of revelry, the hearty laugh and general good cheer. Forth through the night, bubbling with good spirit and anticipated merriment, stalked the St. George Band of Christmas players, adorned in such a brave manner as even to make the redoubtable British champion, had he lived to see it, green with envy. What variable garments! What coats adorned with tinsel, red, and gold, and striped! What shields of brilliant paper or tin, spears of warlike hickory, and swords--not near so sharp as the Saracen blade, but still as sharp as wood could be whittled with a jack-knife; and caps of tall, many-hued tinsel; had the real St. George worn one of them the terrible, ripping, snorting, steam-breathing dragon would have bellowed in anguish, and have fallen down in a dead faint. But they were good enough for the occasion and their very form was sacred by ancestry. House after house was visited and the fun grew fast and furious. At very few places were they not given a ready entrance and hearty welcome. "Now les to the squire's!" exclaimed one, and the proposition was hailed with delight. The distance was not far, and the time was shortened by conversation and by a little warlike practice between St. George and his Mohammendan enemy, the Turk, in which practice the Turk received a terrific, broad sword slash, that made him pucker up his face like the picture of the Saracen's head at the village inn. The Turk was not gifted in the Turkish language, but made up for it by giving vent in broad Cornish dialect to his feelings.