Limby grew up big and strong; he had everything his own way. One day,
when he was at dinner with his father and mother, perched upon a double
chair, with his silver knife and fork, and silver mug to drink from, he
amused himself by playing drums on his plate with the mug.
'Don't make that noise, Limby, my dear,' said his father. 'Dear little
lamb,' said his mother, 'let him amuse himself. Limby, have some pudding?'
'No; Limby no pudding'--_drum! drum! drum!_
A piece of pudding was, however, put on Limby's plate, but he kept on
drumming as before. At last he drummed the bottom of the mug into the
soft pudding, to which it stuck, and by which means it was scattered all
over the carpet.
'Limby, my darling,' said his mother; and the servant was called to wipe
Limby's mug and pick the pudding up from the floor. Limby would not have
his mug wiped, and floundered about, and upset the cruet-stand and the
mustard on the table-cloth.
'O! Limby Lumpy; naughty boy,' said his father.
'Don't speak so cross to the child; he is but a child,' said his mother;
'I don't like to hear you speak so cross to the child.'
'I tell you what it is,' said his father, 'I think the boy does as he
likes; but I don't want to interfere.'
Limby now sat still, resolving what to do next. He was not hungry,
having been stuffed with a large piece of pound cake about an hour
before dinner; but he wanted something to do, and could not sit still.
Presently a saddle of mutton was brought on the table. When Limby saw
this he set up a crow of delight. 'Limby ride,' said he, 'Limby ride';
and rose up in his chair, as if to reach the dish.
'Yes, my ducky, it shall have some mutton,' said his mamma; and
immediately gave him a slice, cut up into small morsels. That was not
it. Limby pushed that on the floor, and cried out, 'Limby on meat! Limby
on meat!'
His mamma could not think what he meant. At last, however, his father
recollected that he had been in the habit of giving him a ride
occasionally, first on his foot, sometimes on the scroll end of the
sofa, at other times on the top of the easy chair. Once he put him on a
dog, and more than once on the saddle; in short, he had been in the
habit of perching him on various things; and now Limby, hearing this was
a _saddle_ of mutton, wanted to take a ride on it.
'Limby on--Limby ride on bone,' said the child, in a whimper.
'Did you _ever hear_?' said the father.
'What an extraordinary child!' said the mother; 'how clever to know it
was like a saddle--the little dear. No, no, Limby--grease frock, Limby.'
But Limby cared nothing about a greasy frock, not he--he was used enough
to that; and therefore roared out more lustily for a ride on the mutton.
'Did you ever know such a child? What a dear, determined spirit!'
'He is a child of an uncommon mind,' said his mother. 'Limby,
dear--Limby, dear--silence! silence!'
The truth was, Limby made such a roaring, that neither father nor
mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were
eating beef or mutton.
'It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton,' said his father:
'quite impossible!'
'Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy him;
you can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy.'
'Anything for a quiet life,' said the father. 'What does Limby
want?--Limby ride?'
'Limby on bone!--Limby on meat!'
'Shall I put him across?' said Mr. Lumpy.
'Just for one moment,' said his mamma: 'it won't hurt the mutton.'
The father rose, and took Limby from his chair, and, with the greatest
caution, held his son's legs astride, so that they might hang on each
side of the dish without touching it; 'just to satisfy him,' as he said,
'that they might dine in quiet,' and was about to withdraw him from it
immediately.
But Limby was not to be cheated in that way, he wished to feel the
saddle _under_ him, and accordingly forced himself down upon it; but
feeling it rather warmer than was agreeable, started, and lost his
balance, and fell down among the dishes, soused in melted butter,
cauliflower, and gravy--floundering, and kicking, and screaming, to the
detriment of glasses, jugs, dishes, and everything else on the table.
'My child! my child!' said his mamma; 'O! save my child!'
She snatched him up, and pressed his begreased garments close to the
bosom of her best silk gown.
Neither father nor mother wanted any more dinner after this. As to Limby,
he was as frisky afterwards as if nothing had happened; and, about half
an hour from the time of this disaster, _cried for his dinner_.
[5] This story and the one which follows it are not by Mrs. Fenwick.
'Limby Lumpy' is from _The Holiday Book_.