Old Merry’s Christmas Party.
PREPARATIONS.
“Rebecca, I am going to give a party to some young folks on Christmas Eve, and so you must hold yourself in readiness for the occasion.”
Rebecca is my housekeeper, the best-hearted old soul that ever lived; she perfectly agrees with my arrangements in the main, but feels bound, for some reason which I have never attempted to fathom, invariably to object to them at the first start, and then to fall into them enthusiastically afterwards.
“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties—”
I must here say that Rebecca despises the English Grammar; next to Baron Munchausen, who she somewhat irreverently calls the “father of lies,” she objects to Lindley Murray.
It was not very often that she was really “put out” about anything, but when she was her grammar was much worse than at other times. Just as when a foreigner, who has lived in England for years, and knows the language perfectly, gets into a rage, he instinctively falls back upon his native tongue for expression.
“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties,” said Rebecca, “is a getting too much of a good thing, if I may make so bold as to say it. It’s always parties at this time of the year. You’ll excuse me a mentioning of it, Mr. Merry,” she continued, “but if I might make so bold again, I should say why don’t you keep a school, or a sylum, or a hinn, and so you could have the young people, as you call ’em, always about you?”