For my part I confess that I never have seen a paterfamilias with his coat tails raised, basking himself before his fire, and prating about the delights of winter, and the healthy glow which is caused by a sharp frost, without feeling an irresistible desire to transplant him stark naked to the highest peak of Mont Blanc, in order to teach by experience what winter means to thousands of his fellow-creatures.

We are not having a "merry Christmas," and we are not likely to have a happy new year.

Christmas is not here the great holiday of the year, as it is in England.

Still, everyone in ordinary times tries to have a better dinner than usual, and usually where there are children in a family some attempt is made to amuse them.

Among the bourgeoisie they are told to put their shoes in the grate on Christmas-eve, and the next morning some present is found in them, which is supposed to have been left during the night by the Infant Jesus.
Since the Empire introduced English ways here, plum-pudding and mincepies have been eaten, and even Christmas-trees have flourished.
This year these festive shrubs, as an invention of the detested foe, have been rigidly tabooed.