... The Sun Does Not

Come In, -- Come In! And Know Me Better, Man! I Am The Ghost Of Christmas Present. Look Upon Me! You Have Never Seen The Like Of Me Before!

God Bless Us, Every One!

The Man Who Now Confronted Gashford, Was A Squat, Thickset Personage, With A Low, Retreating Forehead, A Coarse Shock Head Of Hair, And Eyes So Small And Near Together, That His Broken Nose Alone Seemed To Prevent Their Meeting And Fusing Into One Of The Usual Size.

You May Be An Undigested Bit Of Beef, A Blot Of Mustard, A Crumb Of Cheese, A Fragment Of Underdone Potato. There's More Of Gravy Than Of Grave About You, Whatever You Are!

Can I View Thee Panting, Lying On Thy Stomach, Without Sighing; Can I Unmoved See Thee Dying On A Log Expiring Frog!