Not so the Ruggleses--for a strong man is nothing to a small
boy--and they kindled to the dessert as if the turkey had been a
dream and the six vegetables an optical delusion. There was
plum-pudding, mince-pie, and ice-cream, and there were nuts, and
raisins, and oranges. Kitty chose ice-cream, explaining that
she knew it "by sight," but hadn't never tasted none; but all the
rest took the entire variety, without any regard to consequences.
"My dear child," whispered Uncle Jack, as he took Carol an
orange, "there is no doubt about the necessity of this feast, but
I do advise you after this to have them twice a year, or
quarterly, perhaps, for the way they eat is positively dangerous;
I assure you I tremble for that terrible Peoria. I'm going to
run races with her after dinner."
"Never mind," laughed Carol, "let them eat for once; it does my
heart good to see them, and they shall come oftener next year."
The feast being over, the Ruggleses lay back in their chairs
languidly, and the table was cleared in a trice; then a door was
opened into the next room, and there, in a corner facing Carol's
bed, which had been wheeled as close as possible, stood the
brilliantly lighted Christmas-tree, glittering with gilded
walnuts and tiny silver balloons, and wreathed with snowy chains
of pop-corn.
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