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Ash Wednesday, being now called upon for a song, with his eyes fast stuck in his head, & as well as the Canary he had swallowed would give him leave, struck up a Carol, which Christmas Day had taught him for the nonce; & was followed by the latter, who gave “Miserere” in fine style, hitting off the mumping notes & lengthened drawl of Old Mortification with infinite humour.

[April Fool swore they had exchanged conditions;

but Good Friday was observed to look extremely grave;

& Sunday held her fan before her face, that she

might not be seen to smile.]

Shrove tide, Lord Mayor’s Day, and April Fool, next joined in a glee–

Which is the properest day to drink?

in which all the days chiming in, made a merry burden.

They next fell to quibbles & conumdrums.

The question being proposed, who had the greatest number of followers–the Quarter Days said, there could be no question as to that; for they had all the creditors in the world dogging their heels. But April Fool gave it in favour of the Forty Days before Easter; because the debtors in all cases outnumbered the creditors, & they kept lent all the year round.

All this while Valentine’s Day kept courting pretty May, who sate next him, slipping amorous billets-doux under the table, till the Dog Days {who are naturally of a warm constitution} began to bark and rage exceedingly.

April Fool, who likes a bit of sport above measure, & had some pretensions to the lady besides as being but a cousin once removed,–clapped & halloo’d them on; and as fast as their indignation cooled those mad wag’s, the Ember Days, were at it with their bellows, to blow it into a flame; & all was in a ferment: till old Madame Septuagesima {who boasts herself the Mother of the Days} wisely diverted the conversation with a tedious tale of the lovers which she could reckon when she was young; & of one Master Rogation Day in particular, who was for ever putting the question to her; but she kept him at a distance, as the chronicle wd: tell–by which I apprehend she meant the Almanack.

Then she rambled on to the Days that were gone, the good old Days, & so to the Days before the Flood–which plainly showed her old head to be little better than crazed & doited.

Day being ended, the Days called for their cloaks & great-coats & took their leaves.

Lord Mayor’s Day went off in a mist as usual; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog that wrapt the little gentleman all round like a hedgehog. Two Vigils–so watchmen are called in heaven–saw Christmas Day safe home–they had been used to the business before. Another Vigil–a stout, sturdy patrole, called the Eve of St. Christopher–seeing Ash Wednesday in a condition little better than he should be–e’en whipt him over his shoulders, pick-a-back fashion, & Old Mortification went floating home singing–

“On the bat’s back do I fly,”

& a number of old snatches besides, between drunk & sober; but very few Aves or Penitentiaries {you may believe me} were among them. Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson & gold–the rest, some in one fashion, some in another; but Valentine & pretty May took their departure together in one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover’s Day could wish to set in.