The Queen at Spithead: Review of the Fleet 110 The Rain; or, the Child, the Fairy, and the Magic Bird 156 The Regimental Goat 153 POETRY. The Electric Telegraph 169 The Owl 202 The Sailor’s Grave 5 The Willow Tree 152 Preface. [Illustration] Holiday faces! Aye, they are bright, shining, and beautiful as dewdrops glistening in the morning’s splendour—stars sparkling in a clear midnight sky—flowers lit up by the summer’s sun. It makes the heart of poor old PETER PARLEY glad when he sees them—whether they belong to young or old, to rich or to poor, it is one of my chief delights. I do assure you, my young friends, that a good deal of my _parleying_ has to do with HOLIDAY FACES. I see them again and again, year after year, and they make me feel young again; and, like the old rustic of the Suffolk poet, Bloomfield, I am often ready to jump with joy when I see the cabs and coaches, post-chaises and omnibuses, crowded, inside and outside, with school children, going home for the Holidays. Old as I am growing, I still feel that I belong to the order of light hearts and merry looks—to the heraldry of smiling faces—and my escutcheon is charged with “nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.” Hurrah, then, for the Holidays, say I! Be cheerful, my young friends—not more for the sake of being merry, than for the sake of being serious again at the proper time. Unbend the bow and loosen the string, that both string and bow may have more force when again brought into action! Make the air ring then, I say, with the Holiday Cheer of Merry Christmas time! Sing, and skip, and dance, and play, like “lambkins by the hill side,” and let love reign in all your hearts, a perpetual sunshine, from year to year, and from youth to age, until you are as old as your ever sincere And Affectionate Friend, _Peter Parley_. Story of an Anchorite.