138 DECEMBER IN BROADLAND. 



6 broad Norfolk ' dispensed by the older ones, but space forbids. When grace 

 is said we * fall to ' with a gusto that bespeaks the quality of the spread and 

 the appetites that will speedily devastate it. First come Norfolk Dumplings. 

 We give them capitals, for they are unique. They are the simplest of puddings, 

 compounded of flour, water, yeast, and a dash of salt, ' biled twenty minnets 

 nayther more nor less.' Only Norfolk matrons can make the legitimate article 

 to see them knead, and roll into shape between their hands, nip off or add a pinch 

 of dough is a sight that impresses you. But to have them served up < dun tu a 

 nicety,' and swimming in gravy, is an episode in your existence. Our friends stow 

 away one apiece, some of them more, and then fall to a loin of pork that would 

 make a bilious man stand aghast. With it disappear turnips and potatoes. Next 

 follows * toad-in-the-hole 'pork sausages baked in batter. This fails to upset or 

 satisfy. Then comes pork and apple-pie, with a crust as thick as a policeman's 

 boot-sole; then pumpkin and apple-pie, and those who wish it may have their 

 turn at rice-pudding and giant custards. Lastly comes a monster plum-pudding, 

 of which, strange to say, but sorry fragments afterwards find themselves upon the 

 kitchen table. All this time there has been much uncorking of non-intoxicants, 

 and the ale-barrel has been running itself dry as well. 



We bid the party Good-night ! ere the evening's fun commences, which 

 finishes with a merry dance and light refreshments. Strolling along in the cold 

 crisp air we wander Broadwards for the last time in the old year. The frost-dust 

 sparkles in the moonlight. A slight rime has touched the tree-branches and the 

 hedges with whiteness. The Broad is frozen over. We hear no sounds but the 

 crackling of the ice, and the occasional cry of some awakened bird. Once we 

 notice the murmur of starlings roosting in the reed-bed ; then all is quiet again. 

 The report of a gun rings through the clear night air. It is a suspicious sound^ 

 and we doubt not some poacher is out upon the prowl. Presently a figure emerges 

 from a small wood ahead of us, but, as if our presence is simultaneously detected, 

 it disappears again. Once again, the man as if reassured of our neutrality, steps 

 out from a nearer thicket, and staring inquisitively at us, recognises us. It is 

 Nixey Lutkins at his old game again. We had hoped better of him, and we ven- 

 ture to tell him so. 



'Ah! 'bor, what's bred in the bone'll work itself out somewhere,' he replies, 

 6 a feller can't help his instincts ; why, when I wor only a nipper the sound of a 

 shot 'ud jest make me all excitement, an' it is only with a gun in my hands that 

 I am happy now. In spite of all it's browt me, I can't part myself from it. And 



