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Every
Christmas
Day
,
Mrs
.
Joe
replied
,
as
she
now
replied
,
"
O
,
Un
—
cle
Pum
-
ble
—
chook
!
This
is
kind
!
"
Every
Christmas
Day
,
he
retorted
,
as
he
now
retorted
,
"
It
’
s
no
more
than
your
merits
.
And
now
are
you
all
bobbish
,
and
how
’
s
Sixpennorth
of
halfpence
?
"
meaning
me
.
We
dined
on
these
occasions
in
the
kitchen
,
and
adjourned
,
for
the
nuts
and
oranges
and
apples
to
the
parlor
;
which
was
a
change
very
like
Joe
’
s
change
from
his
working
-
clothes
to
his
Sunday
dress
.
My
sister
was
uncommonly
lively
on
the
present
occasion
,
and
indeed
was
generally
more
gracious
in
the
society
of
Mrs
.
Hubble
than
in
other
company
.
I
remember
Mrs
.
Hubble
as
a
little
curly
sharp
-
edged
person
in
sky
-
blue
,
who
held
a
conventionally
juvenile
position
,
because
she
had
married
Mr
.
Hubble
—
I
don
’
t
know
at
what
remote
period
—
when
she
was
much
younger
than
he
.
I
remember
Mr
Hubble
as
a
tough
,
high
-
shouldered
,
stooping
old
man
,
of
a
sawdusty
fragrance
,
with
his
legs
extraordinarily
wide
apart
:
so
that
in
my
short
days
I
always
saw
some
miles
of
open
country
between
them
when
I
met
him
coming
up
the
lane
.
Among
this
good
company
I
should
have
felt
myself
,
even
if
I
hadn
’
t
robbed
the
pantry
,
in
a
false
position
.
Not
because
I
was
squeezed
in
at
an
acute
angle
of
the
tablecloth
,
with
the
table
in
my
chest
,
and
the
Pumblechookian
elbow
in
my
eye
,
nor
because
I
was
not
allowed
to
speak
(
I
didn
’
t
want
to
speak
)
,
nor
because
I
was
regaled
with
the
scaly
tips
of
the
drumsticks
of
the
fowls
,
and
with
those
obscure
corners
of
pork
of
which
the
pig
,
when
living
,
had
had
the
least
reason
to
be
vain
.
No
;
I
should
not
have
minded
that
,
if
they
would
only
have
left
me
alone
.
But
they
wouldn
’
t
leave
me
alone
.
They
seemed
to
think
the
opportunity
lost
,
if
they
failed
to
point
the
conversation
at
me
,
every
now
and
then
,
and
stick
the
point
into
me
.
I
might
have
been
an
unfortunate
little
bull
in
a
Spanish
arena
,
I
got
so
smartingly
touched
up
by
these
moral
goads
.
It
began
the
moment
we
sat
down
to
dinner
.
Mr
.
Wopsle
said
grace
with
theatrical
declamation
—
as
it
now
appears
to
me
,
something
like
a
religious
cross
of
the
Ghost
in
Hamlet
with
Richard
the
Third
—
and
ended
with
the
very
proper
aspiration
that
we
might
be
truly
grateful
.
Upon
which
my
sister
fixed
me
with
her
eye
,
and
said
,
in
a
low
reproachful
voice
,
"
Do
you
hear
that
?
Be
grateful
.
"
"
Especially
,
"
said
Mr
.
Pumblechook
,
"
be
grateful
,
boy
,
to
them
which
brought
you
up
by
hand
.
"
Mrs
.
Hubble
shook
her
head
,
and
contemplating
me
with
a
mournful
presentiment
that
I
should
come
to
no
good
,
asked
,
"
Why
is
it
that
the
young
are
never
grateful
?
"
This
moral
mystery
seemed
too
much
for
the
company
until
Mr
.
Hubble
tersely
solved
it
by
saying
,
"
Naterally
wicious
.
"
Everybody
then
murmured
"
True
!
"
and
looked
at
me
in
a
particularly
unpleasant
and
personal
manner
.
Joe
’
s
station
and
influence
were
something
feebler
(
if
possible
)
when
there
was
company
than
when
there
was
none
.
But
he
always
aided
and
comforted
me
when
he
could
,
in
some
way
of
his
own
,
and
he
always
did
so
at
dinner
-
time
by
giving
me
gravy
,
if
there
were
any
.
There
being
plenty
of
gravy
to
-
day
,
Joe
spooned
into
my
plate
,
at
this
point
,
about
half
a
pint
.
A
little
later
on
in
the
dinner
,
Mr
.
Wopsle
reviewed
the
sermon
with
some
severity
,
and
intimated
—
in
the
usual
hypothetical
case
of
the
Church
being
"
thrown
open
"
—
what
kind
of
sermon
he
would
have
given
them
.
After
favoring
them
with
some
heads
of
that
discourse
,
he
remarked
that
he
considered
the
subject
of
the
day
’
s
homily
,
ill
chosen
;
which
was
the
less
excusable
,
he
added
,
when
there
were
so
many
subjects
"
going
about
.
"
