‘A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me. ‘But my song I troll out, for _Christmas _Stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old! We’ll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we’ll part. ‘In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ring And it echoes from wall to wall--To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!’ This song was tumultuously applauded--for friends and dependents make a capital audience--and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round. ‘How it snows!’ said one of the men, in a low tone. ‘Snows, does it?’ said Wardle. ‘Rough, cold night, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘and there’s a wind got up, that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.’ ‘What does Jem say?’ inquired the old lady. ‘There ain’t anything the matter, is there?’ ‘No, no, mother,’ replied Wardle; ‘he says there’s a snowdrift, and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.’ ‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘there was just such a wind, and just such a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect--just five years before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.’ ‘The story about what?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Wardle. ‘About an old sexton, that the good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.’ ‘Suppose!’ ejaculated the old lady. ‘Is there anybody hardy enough to disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven’t you heard ever since you were a child, that he _was _carried away by the goblins, and don’t you know he was?’ ‘Very well, mother, he was, if you like,’ said Wardle laughing. ‘He _was_ carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there’s an end of the matter.’ ‘No, no,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘not an end of it, I assure you; for I must hear how, and why, and all about it.’ Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as follows--