_Genoa._--Velvet? What's the good of velvet to JONES? Besides it is fabulously dear, something like attar of roses at so much a drop. Must give up even Genoa. _London._--Back again. Have bought a biscuit box and sent it to JONES. Since then have met JONES'S cousin, and SMITH, and JONES'S brother-in-law, and Mrs. ROBINSON, and a few other mutual friends. We disagree in many things, but in one we seem to be unanimous. We have all given him biscuit boxes! * * * * * [Illustration: A RULING PASSION. _Mr. Meenister MacGlucky_ (_of the Free Kirk, after having given way more than usual to an expression "a wee thing strong"--despairingly_). "OH! AYE! AH, W-E-EL! I'LL HAE TA GIE 'T UP!" _Mr. Elder MacNab._ "WHA-AT, MAN, GIE UP GOWF?" _Mr. Meenister MacGlucky._ "NAE, NAE! GIE UP THE MEENISTRY!"] * * * * * A PSALM OF (HOLIDAY) LIFE. _What the heart of the Small Boy said to the Dyspeptic Pessimist._ Tell me not, in Christmas Numbers, Yule is a dyspeptic dream, A tradition that but cumbers What smugs call "the social scheme." Yule is jolly, Yule is earnest! A sick-bed is _not_ its goal; Prig who rich plum-pudding spurnest, Thou art destitute of soul. Not mere "sapping," which means sorrow, Is youth's destined end or way: But--to think that each to-morrow Brings us nearer Christmas Day! Terms are long, and Vacs. are fleeting, And our "tums," though big and brave, Know that there's an end to eating When at lessons we must slave. Oh, the railway's welcome rattle! Oh, the feeling of fresh life! Oh, the Christmas Show of Cattle! Oh, the fun of fork and knife! Blow the Future! it's unpleasant; Put the Past clean out of head. What _I_ like's the (Christmas) Present, No mere ghost, as DICKENS said. All _his_ jolly books remind us Christmas is a glorious time. _Don't_ let bilious bogies blind us To its larks, which are sublime. Only wish there was another Coming--in a month--again! Stodge is bad for boys? Oh, bother! _I_ can stand it, right as rain! Let us, then, be up and doing, (With a knife and fork and plate,) All our tips at tuck-shops blueing, Learn to stodge, ere 'tis too late! * * * * * THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH. X.--THE CHAIR.