Christmas morning though it is, Mr. MCLAUGHLIN is summoned from his
family-circle of pigs, to mount the Ritualistic church and see what can
be done; and while a small throng of early idlers are staring up at him
from Gospeler's Gulch, Mr. BUMSTEAD, with his coat on in the wrong way,
and a wet towel on his head, comes tearing in amongst them like a
congreve rocket.

"Where's them nephews?--where's MONTGOMERIES?--where's that umbrella?"
howls Mr. BUMSTEAD, catching the first man he sees by the throat, and
driving his hat over his eyes.

"What's the matter, for goodness sake?" calls the Gospeler from the
window of his house. "Mr. PENDRAGON has gone away on a walking-match. Is
not Mr. DROOD at home with you?"

"Norrabit'v it," pants the organist, releasing his man's throat, but
still leaning with heavy affection upon him: "m'nephews wen 'out with 'm
--f'r li'lle walk--er mir'night; an' 've norseen'm--since."

There is no more looking up at Saint Cow's steeple with a MCLAUGHLIN on
it now. All eyes fix upon the agitated Mr. BUMSTEAD, as he wildly
attempts to step over the tall paling of the Gospeler's fence at a
stride, and goes crashing headlong through it instead.

(_To be Continued_.)

[Footnote 1: In the original English story there is, considering the
bitter time of year given, a truly extraordinary amount of solitary
sauntering, social strolling, confidential confabulating,
evening-rambling, and general lingering, in the open air. To "adapt"