Angelina sentencing the owner of the pretty pug to take a very pretty young lady into the corner, and spell “op-por-tu-ni-ty”—a spell the Muff does not seem to know lies in taking the opportunity to kiss the fair one, though he has all the evening been admiring her vastly, and would have given anything for such a chance; but next, having to “lie the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby,” &c., he is eminently successful—yet, who shall say the ungainly cub may not one day be an ornament to society! Poor Muff! he has no mother or sisters—the only specimens of girlhood known to him are the maids at home, and the school-master’s daughter, that dines with the parlour-boarders at Addle House:—brave boy, thou art clever, but semi-civilized! More “pretty things” are being redeemed—fans, gloves, lockets, handkerchiefs, and chatelaines,—all their owners being appropriately “done to:”—the Boa condemned to “bite a yard off the poker;” and the Visite to “salute the one he likes best”—which Garters fancies will be her; so, she embraces the table-pillar, and he the Berthe, instead—kissing her, sadly to the mortification of Garters, who did think the honour worth some trouble. Jemima and Angelina, having disposed of the judicial pawn-brokering establishment, stroke down their skirts, and send round the currant-wine; whilst Master Tom and a few other daring youths consume lighted candle-ends, made of turnip, with almond wicks; and the merry little man, Lark, who can no more be quiet than a robin in a rat-trap, is now hopping with a paper tail, composed of this evening’s “Sun”—a sun that seems to be incombustible, for the boys are trying
to ignite it, but cannot,—only waxing Mr. Lark’s pantaloons very much in the rear, and putting the candles out—a trick that caused no end of diversion, not only to the performers, but to every one; who laughed immoderately, more particularly when Mr. Lark led down Mrs. Brown to supper, the antimacassar adhering to his trowsers—the wax, upon sitting down, causing it to stick there.
This brings us to the supper-table, and the Christmas tree, with its blossoms of light—a very peculiar species of shrub:—we have heard of box-trees, plane-trees, lady’s slippers, and sun-flowers, but never remember to have seen or heard of a toy and candle-tree, figured in any work on botany; nor should we have thought our little friends had ever beheld one before, for the brilliant supper seemed but small attraction compared with the illuminated fir—all eyes appeared attracted to the quarter in which it stood; and when the youthful company were introduced to it, after the banquet, we felt glad the lower boughs were out of the reach of the younger branches, or they might, in their eagerness, have pulled it out of the disguised tub. As it was, some of the recipients took the fruit intended for others:—for instance, Stephen Sharp ate all Miss Standby’s basket of sweets, and then demanded the story-book that had his name attached to it. All the fruit was not edible, for we saw an apple that tasted very much of the wood, being full of pips resembling doll’s tea-things; whilst, upon suction, the pears emitted musical sounds; and a biffin, like a pincushion, had the flavour of bran—probably it was bran-new.
The tree, now stript, is quite devoid of interest; for, upon Mr. Lark’s starting some fun in the corner, none lingered by, not even to listen to the bird-organ, that appeared to play under the table. Yes! there was Lark, at it again—doing anything to please!—Generous Lark!—his face covered with a white handkerchief, a portion tucked in his mouth, over all wearing a pair of spectacles, with pupils (currants abstracted
from a mince-pie) stuck thereon, causing the Lark to look very curious and odd—the children wondering what he will be at next!—for now, you must know, he has gone to prepare another excitement; being in the drawing-room, whilst the visitors are in the parlour—curious beyond all description,
beseeching the junior Mr. Brown, who is standing with his back against the door, to prevent egress, just to permit them to depart; which, after a slight contest, he does—they rushing, pell-mell, to the drawing-room, there to find an old birch-broom blazing in the grate, and the recess covered with two sheets suspended by forks. In front of the sheets is a table; whilst in front of that table, stand the wondering little crowd, speculating as to what the burning broom can have to do with it, when a dwarf old dame appears, through a slit in the drapery—as perfect a dwarf as ever breathed,—but three feet high, and so really true that no one for a moment doubts her identity or vitality. “She is a Witch!” cry all, that has come down the chimney. The dame bows acquiescence, with numberless courtseys, telling the little company of her immense age and adventures—recounting her history:—about the large family she kept in the shoe; about the refractory pig, that would not get over the stile; and her wonderful travels, to sweep cobwebs from