Puddings, as well as people, begin to go to _pot_; cooks, as well as
drunkards, get their _coppers hot_. Lemons excel hypocrites in getting
_candid_: currants, from house to house, like crooked legs, are
_bandied_. At moist sugar, instead of white, the busy servants jump; and
wisely begin to _like_ that which they cannot _lump_. Mothers who beat
their children, whenever the whim comes in their head, now actively
betake themselves to _beating eggs_ instead. The family assemble, but
it's no longer "my lovely Rose," or my sweet William, with his pretty
stock, the _flour_ of the Christmas pudding is now the _flower of the
flock_! Father, the only one who never would to their low obscurity
demur, is now just as anxious as any to join in a _general stir_.
Ambition, alive in his breast, awakens a mighty surprise, to think that
he, who was always _mincing matters_, should begin to _mince pies_! and
they prophesy, as he rakes the _plums_, in the bowl of China or delf,
that he'll live to a Christmas-day that shall see him worth a _plum_
himself. "How fond he is on 'em all," says nurse, meaning to be clever;
"I declare he's a _mixing with his family_ more than ever!" "Yes,
nurse," responds his spouse, who thought she could do no less, "your
master's acting the part of president of the _family mess_!" and so on—
nothing whatever their placid temper a-spoiling, until the pudding's
made, and tied up, and shut down, and in the copper a-boiling!
[Illustration:
Clock after Sun.
]