Seasonal Symptoms.

If your blood-pressure is so high that it blows off your hat, if your heart feels as strong as a sailor's thirst, if your head is as light as Bluebeard's love, if your temperature singes your eyebrows—don't rush to a doctor! It isn't appendicitis or peritonitis or liveritis, it's Yuletitis. If your pulse dances to a hot harmony jazzed on your heart with a goose's “drumstick,” if your red corpuscles are telegraph boys on motor cycles whisking tempestuous tidings from soul to soles, if your whole interior is a cauldron of simmering sunshine—soup from hat-hanger to trotter-cases—don't be anxious! Your condition is not serious; it calls for levity rather than gravity. You are elated, inflated, and all “lit” up. You have been bitten by the bug of ballyhoo; you glow with frivolity, you burn with the fever of folly, like a fire-fly with heartburn. You will do things that are sanely mad and things that are madly sane. You will commit all those wise futilities that familiarly never stales. You will undo all the futile expediencies that familiarity has staled beyond belief. You will unship the shackles of “shop” and shake a leg into the wide open spaces. You will kick carping Care into the middle of next January. You will challenge the Demon Dyspepsia with “eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we diet.” You will over-eat and under-sleep. You will be unwise, but happy. You will send all the wrong gifts to the right people, and will receive even as you give.