It is Christmas day in the morning. There is no doubt about it. The
shine of the sun, the frost on the trees, the voice of the birds,
and the unusual crow, and cackle and clatter and confusion outside
the house can leave no doubts upon the subject, to say nothing of
the inside of the house. Here it is Christmas day and no mistake. On
what other day is the larder so full?--Full is not expressive enough;
crammed, rammed, jammed full is more like the actual condition of
things, so tightly wedged are pheasants and partridges, grouse and
quail, great roasts of beef and haunches of venison, pork and pasty,
mutton and fowl. On what other day is the still-room so alluring,
where cordials are at their liveliest of brown and amber, and the
white fingers of the lady of the house gleam in and out of the
piling of herbs and the stirring of compounds--both innocent and
inebriating? On what other day is the kitchen so important? Why, the
cook is actually thinner than she was the yesterday! Christmas day
in the morning is taking it out of her. "No men cooks about me",
growls Sir Humphrey Desart, "we'll keep Sarah." So Sarah is kept,
and though she be fat, aye, and getting on to three score, yet her
strength faileth not, as you may observe. Somewhat of a martinet,
yet kindly withal and leading the hubbub in the kitchen with all the
gusto of twenty years ago. My lady will descend presently to see if
all goes on properly, and Sarah must lose no time. Heavens, how many
eggs is she going to break? What are they all for? Will not the
resources of the farmyard fail her? This, then, explains all the
crow and cackle outside. Now what is she at? Lemons this time, and
anon giving a fine stimulus with her master-hand to the lumpy yellow
contents of a smooth yellow bowl. Ah! No lumps now; one turn and all
resolved into a perfect cadence. Anyone is an artist and a great one
who can so resolve a discordant measure. And now she is busy with