When the author of a dictionary tries to be frivolous he only
succeeds in making himself appear foolish.

I know not how it may be in the world at large, but in a hospital,
junket is a custard that by some subtle process has been denuded
of those ingredients which make a custard fascinating and exciting.
It tastes as though the eggs, which form its underlying basis, had
been laid in a fit of pique by a hen that was severely upset at
the time.

Hereafter when the junket is passed round somebody else may have
my share. I'll stick to the mince pie a la mode. And the first
cigar of my convalescence--ah, that, too, abides as a vivid
memory! Dropping in one morning to replace the wrappings Doctor Z
said I might smoke in moderation. So the nurse brought me a cigar,
and I lit it and took one deep puff; but only one. I laid it aside.
I said to the nurse:

"A mistake has been made here. I do not want a cooking cigar, you
understand. I desire a cigar for personal use. This one is full
of herbs and simples, I think. It suggests a New England boiled
dinner, and not a very good New England boiled dinner at that.
Let us try again."

She brought another cigar. It was not satisfactory either. Then
she showed me the box--an orthodox box containing cigars of a
recognized and previously dependable brand. I could only conclude
that a root-and-herb doctor had bought an interest in the business
and was introducing his own pet notions into the formula.