it to recline easily on its side, and stuff it to bursting. (One
ounce of stuffing beforehand is worth a pound afterwards.)

The pudding must be unusually huge, and darkly, deeply,
lugubriously black in color. It must be stuck so full of plums
that the pudding itself will ooze out into the pan and not be
brought on to the table at all. I expect to be there by the
twentieth, to manage these little things--remembering it is the
early Bird that catches the worm--but give you the instructions
in case I should be delayed.

And Carol must decide on the size of the tree--she knows best,
she was a Christmas child; and she must plead for the
snow-storm--the 'clerk of the weather' may pay some attention to
her; and she must look up the boy with the dimple for me--she's
likelier to find him than I am, this minute. She must advise
about the turkey, and Bridget must bring the pudding to her
bedside and let her drop every separate plum into it and stir it
once for luck, or I'll not eat a single slice--for Carol is the
dearest part of Christmas to Uncle Jack, and he'll have
none of it without her. She is better than all the turkeys and
puddings and apples and spare-ribs and wreaths and garlands and
mistletoe and stockings and chimneys and sleigh-bells in
Christendom. She is the very sweetest Christmas Carol that was
ever written, said, sung or chanted, and I am coming, as fast as
ships and railway trains can carry me, to tell her so."

Carol's joy knew no bounds. Mr. and Mrs. Bird laughed like
children and kissed each other for sheer delight, and when the
boys heard it they simply whooped like wild Indians, until the