Yes, the boys home from school are all playing the fool With the house and its fittings from garret to basement. The girls, too, are back, and continual clack Goes on all day long, to home comfort's effacement. The pudding's as sticky, the holly as pricky, The smell of sour oranges awful as ever; Stuffed hamper-unpackers, and pullers of crackers, At making of litter and noise just as clever. The stairs are all rustle, the hall's full of bustle, Cold draughts and the banging of doors are incessant. They're nailing up greenery, putting up "scenery," Ready for plays; 'tis a process unpleasant! A strong smell of size, dabs of paint in one's eyes, And "rehearsals" don't add to the charm of one's drawing-room. My pet easy-chairs are all bundled down-stairs, To leave the young idiots stage-space and more jawing-room For "Private Theatricals." Wax on my hat trickles From "Christmas Candles," that spot all the passages. Heart-cheering youthfulness? Common-sense truthfulness Tell us, at Christmas, youth's crassest of crass ages. From kitchen to attic plates polychromatic, From some "Christmas Number," make lumber. Good Heavens! Ye young Yule-tide stuffers, _we_ know, we old buffers, The _true_ "Christmas Numbers" are--Sixes and Sevens! * * * * * SPORTING NOTES. [Illustration: Old Year.--"Over!"] [Illustration: New Year.--"Don't quite see my Way!"] * * * * * The Friendlies in "Mars."--We are beginning to know more and more about the planet _Mars_ every day. There are newspapers in _Mars_. Their journalists are going to communicate (by electric flash-light signals) news to Earth. Look out for "Pars from _Mars_." The Pa's probably intend having a good time of it when they get away for a Christmas holiday. * * * * * [Illustration: "DE MORTUIS." _Chatty Passenger._ "DEAD IS HE? POOR CHAP! HE USED TO DRIVE A CITY ATLAS, AND MANY'S THE TIME HE'S DRIVEN ME! HE WAS A GOOD FELLOW, BUT NOT MUCH OF A _WHIP_, EH?" _Driver._ "AH, WELL! WHAT D'Y'EXPECT? WHY, HE WAS A _GEN'L'MAN'S_ COACHMAN AFORE HE TOOK TO THE ROAD!"] * * * * * THE YOUNG GUARD. "_Old Sentry._ For this relief, much thanks; 'tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart."--_Hamlet._ First Sentry-go! Night, stars and snow! The air bites shrewdly, nipping, eager, As in old Denmark long ago. A long, long watch through storm and leaguer That dim, departing Sentinel Has held. He hails the Young Guard's entry-- "Who goes there?" "Friend!" "Pass, friend!" "All's well!" Tired age retreats--fresh youth's on sentry.