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.'