
QS SS ESP FR SSS oP EEE? 
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 307 

verent conduct of my pretty cousins. While 
finding the Proper Lessons, &c., I regret to 
say that I overheard their whispers. 
Henrietta.—Look ! Mrs. Brown has a new 
bonnet. 
Mary.— What a fright ! 
Julia.—What are those mantles of the 
Misses Hobson ? 
Henrietta.—The old turned and 
trimmed. 
Mary.—Oh, no; surely —— 
Hlenrietia.—I tell you they are, though. 
Julia.—Jane Pimbury has got her sister’s 
shawl on. 
Henrietta.—Her own’s gone to be cleaned. 
Mary.—I think if Mr. Claxton had his 
surplice washed, it would not have done it 
any particular harm. 
Henrietta.—Perhaps he is waiting for New 
Year’s-day. It is only once in twelve 
months. 
But I will do my fair cousins the justice 
to say, that when the service commenced 
they assumed decorous attention. 
new- 
The little church was gaily and profusely 
decorated with evergreens. Every face in 
the congregation looked cheerful. Perhaps 
the knowledge of the fact that there was a 
feast preparing at home, of more than ordi- 
nary extent and delicacy, had some effect on 
the beaming countenances. Even the little 
ragamufiins of charity-boys raised their heads 
in dignity, on the strength of anticipated 
“roast beef and plum-pudding.” After 
church, we proposed a walk. The weather, 
although it was piercing cold, was clear and 
exhilarating. The crisp frozen grass crackled 
beneath our feet. The fieldfares and red- 
wings were scattered across the meadows, 
clamorously seeking their food ; whilst, high 
up in the blue cloudless sky, flew a phalanx 
of wild ducks, in a wedge-like form. A 
scared hare started from its resting-place, in 
the midst of decayed fern (almost of its own 
color), and scampered up the hedge-row, out 
of our reach. It stopped; and elevating 
itself on its haunch, gazed at us curiously. 
But what are these that come whirling round 
us like a flight of pigeons,—taking their 
circles, lower and lower? See! it is a flock 
of green plovers. 
But now turn homewards. Not one of 
the party has eaten a morsel of luncheon,— 
because no one chose to spoil their Christmas 
dinner. We are great epicures, and are as 
hungry as cormorants. Our dearly beloved 
aunt has detailed the niceties of her bill of 
fare. We retire to our rooms, to arrange 
our toilet ; andare now comfortably seated, 
cheerfully chatting, round the drawing-room 
fire. A huge log is burning: keen appetites 
are prepared to do full justice to the 
approaching meal; the wine has been de- 
canted ; and a capacious plate-warmer stands 



before the parlor-grate. All is indicative of 
speedy and luxurious enjoyment. But what 
is that bustling commotion below? What 
can be the matter? Are they quarrelling 
on Christmas-day in the kitchen? What is 
this strong smell ? 
One, of the housemaids, Jenny, opens the 
drawing-room door. In hurried accents, she 
begs to speak to her mistress. The dreadful 
mystery is solved !—THE KITCHEN-CHIMNEY 
IS ON Fire! 
My aunt implored me to fly down, and aid 
to extinguish the conflagration. I rushed 
below. Alas! alas! what a sight for a 
hungry person, who had refused luncheon! 
It took me some moments to recover myself. 
There was the fat cook, m despairing 
insanity! Her cap was torn off; it having 
been ignited by a fall of burning soot; and 
her hair was hanging loose. A large cod- 
fish, taken from the kettle and placed on the 
drain, was completely in gritty mourning, 
from head to tail. The boiled round-of beef, 
which had been cooked in the copper, was 
also dished before the fire, and covered with 
literally a hillock of smouldermg soot. The 
turkey on the spit had met with the same 
fate. It had been, ina moment of despera- 
tion, lifted bodily away, and was now reclin- 
ing in the sand, under the dresser. The 
fried sausages were lying about in lamentable 
confusion, the kitten patting one up into a 
corner ; the cat making wry faces in devour- 
ing another, as it was too hot. I trod on 
something soft and slippery. I found it was 
the oysters, out of the sauce. 
A boiled tongue, ejected from its bed of 
mashed turnips, was lying under the kitchen 
grate, licking up dust and soot. Everything 
was covered with black; and it was next to 
impossible to inhale the fetid and heated 
atmosphere. A damaged pig’s face, with a 
most melancholy contour of countenance, 
was on the floor. ‘The maids were trembling 
and screaming. ‘The man-servant was de- 
spatched to the roof of the house with a wet 
blanket—(O, what a wet blanket was this!) 
—to cover the chimney-top; and a boy— 
my aunt’s tiger—was hurried off for the 
parish engine. Fish, flesh, and fowl; sauces, 
soup, vegetables, ragouts, fricassees,—all, all 
were prostrated into a mass of irremediable 
ruin. 
I can no more. Instead of the piano 
playing, they are playing the fire-engine, 
which has arrived too late, as the engine- 
keeper had gone out toa Christmas party, 
at the Marquis of Granby’s Head, four 
miles off. We are hopeless, dinnerless, and, 
in all probability, shall be supperless ! 
- Was not this—a CHRISTMAS DISASTER? 
Oh, may WE all escape such a climax! Too 
well do we know,—that “there is many a 
slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.” 
