There is such a gathering of
kindred on this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is
no place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all
its kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced
selfish. Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like
me, with no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on
the day of all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer,
I'm without an invitation.
"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer," said the bachelor, sharply,
interrupting my attempt to speak, "that I hate holidays. If I were an
infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and
have some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate
to be in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate
holidays because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays and can't.
"Don't tell me," he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; "I
tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their
bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with
merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and
laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any
pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the
show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have
their uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those
places; so, if I go, I must go alone.
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