It's Not My Business," Scrooge Returned. "it's

Blackened Skeleton Arms Of Wood By The Wayside Pointed Upward To The Convent, As If The Ghosts Of Former Travellers, Overwhelmed By The Snow, Haunted The Scene Of Their Distress. Icicle-hung Caves And Cellars Built For Refuges From Sudden Storms, Were Like So Many Whispers Of The Perils Of The Place; Never-resting Wreaths And Mazes Of Mist Wandered About, Hunted By A Moaning Wind; And Snow, The Besetting Danger Of The Mountain, Against Which All Its Defences Were Taken, Drifted Sharply Down.

"we Will Wait," Answered Little Alice, Taking Nettie's Hand In Hers, And Looking Up To The Sky, "we Will Wait - Ever Constant And True - Till The Times Have Got So Changed As That Everything Helps Us Out, And Nothing Makes Us Ridiculous, And The Fairies Have Come Back. We Will Wait - Ever Constant And True - Till We Are Eighty, Ninety, Or One Hundred. And Then The Fairies Will Send Us Children, And We Will Help Them Out, Poor Pretty Little Creatures, If They Pretend Ever So Much."

Let Us Be Moral. Let Us Contemplate Existence.

Man Is But Mortal: And There Is A Point Beyond Which Human Courage Cannot Extend. Mr. Pickwick Gazed Through His Spectacles For An Instant On The Advancing Mass, And Then Fairly Turned His Back And-we Will Not Say Fled; Firstly, Because It Is An Ignoble Term, And, Secondly, Because Mr. Pickwick's Figure Was By No Means Adapted For That Mode Of Retreat-he Trotted Away, At As Quick A Rate As His Legs Would Convey Him;.

Christmas Is A Poor Excuse Every 25th Of December To Pick A Man's Pockets.