“The pudding dish! Big platter!”
The white-hot spirit of the mischievous rice was just beginning his frolic.
“The pitcher!”
The steam giant was still rising, growing, dancing ever upward.
“Sugar bowl! Pour out the sugar on the table! All the plates.—O, dear, all the cups and saucers!”
“Don’t you want the teaspoons? Here, let’s stop this nonsense,” said Preston. And coming to the rescue, he swung off the kettle and poured the bewitched contents upon the grass at the back door.
“Oh, you extravagant creature! You’ve wasted three pounds of rice and half a pound of raisins, and killed the grass!”
Preston gazed in inward consternation at the ruinous white flood; but he was not going to confess his sins to cousin Lucy.
“That’s the proper way to serve rice pudding,” said he. “Always serve hot, and make it go as far as you can. Now let the children pick out the plums.”
“But our pudding’s gone.”