The Magic Pudding by Norman Lindsay (books for 9th graders .TXT) 📕

“To see the penguin at his ease Performing fearful larks With stingarees of all degrees, As well as whales and sharks ; The sight would quickly let you know The great contempt that penguins show For stingarees and sharks.

“O see the penguin as he goes A-turning Catherine wheels, Without repose upon the nose Of walruses and seals. But bless your heart, a penguin feels Supreme contempt for foolish seals, While he never fails, where’er he goes, To turn back-flaps on a walrus nose.”

“It’s all very fine,” said the Puddin’ gloomily, “singing about the joys of being penguins and pirates, but how’d you like to be a Puddin’ and be eaten all day long?”

And in a very gruff voice he sang as follows:—

“O, who would be a puddin’, A puddin’ in a pot, A puddin’ which is stood on A fire which is hot ? O sad indeed the lot Of puddin’s in a pot.

“I wouldn’t be a puddin’ If I could be a bird, If I could be a wooden Doll, I wouldn’t say a word. Yes, I have often heard It’s grand to be a bird.

“But as I am a puddin’, A puddin’ in a pot, I hope you get the stomachache For eatin’ me a lot. I hope you get it hot, You puddin’-eatin’ lot!”

“Very well sung, Albert,” said Bill encouragingly, “though you’re a trifle husky in your undertones, which is no doubt due to the gravy in your innards. However, as a reward for bein’ a bright little feller we shall have a slice of you all round before turnin’ in for the night.”

So they whistled up the plum-duff side of the Puddin’, and had supper. When that was done, Bill stood up and made a speech to Bunyip Bluegum.

“I am now about to put before you an important proposal,” said Bill. “Here you are, a young intelligent feller, goin’ about seein’ the world by yourself. Here is Sam an’ me, two as fine fellers as ever walked, goin’ about the world with a Puddin’. My proposal to you is—Join us, and become a member of the Noble Society of Puddin’-Owners. The duties of the Society,” went on Bill, “are light. The members are required to wander along the roads, indulgin’ in conversation, song and story, eatin’ at regular intervals at the Puddin’. And now, what’s your answer?”

“My answer,” said Bunyip Bluegum, “is, Done with you.” And, shaking hands warmly all round, they loudly sang.

THE PUDDIN’-OWNERS’ ANTHEM.

“The solemn word is plighted, The solemn tale is told, We swear to stand united, Three puddin’-owners bold.

“Hurrah for puddin’-owning, Hurrah for Friendship’s hand, The puddin’-thieves are groaning To see our noble band.

“When we with rage assemble, Let puddin’-snatchers groan; Let puddin’-burglars tremble, They’ll ne’er our puddin’ own.

“Hurrah, we’ll stick together, And always bear in mind To eat our puddin’ gallantly, Whenever we’re inclined.

“Having given three rousing cheers, they shook hands once more and turned in for the night. After such a busy day, walking, talking, fighting, singing, and eating puddin’, they were all asleep in a pig’s whisper.

The Society of Puddin’-Owners were up bright and early next morning, and had the billy on and tea made before six o’clock, which is the best part of the day, because the world has just had his face washed, and the air smells like Pears’ soap.

“Aha,” said Bill Barnacle, cutting up slices of the Puddin’, “this is what I call grand. Here we are, after a splendid night’s sleep on dry leaves, havin’ a smokin’ hot slice of steak-and-kidney for breakfast round the camp fire. What could be more delightful?”

“What indeed?” said Bunyip Bluegum, sipping his tea.

“Why, as I always say,” said Bill, “if there’s one thing more entrancin’ than sittin’ round a camp fire in the evenin’ it’s sittin’ round a camp fire in the mornin’. No beds and blankets and breakfast tables for Bill Barnacle. For as I says in my `Breakfast Ballad’—

“If there’s anythin’ better than lyin’ on leaves, It’s risin’ from leaves at dawnin’, If there’s anythin’ better than sleepin’ at eve, It’s wakin’ up in the mawnin’.

“If there’s anythin’ better than camp firelight, It’s bright sunshine on wakin’. If there’s anythin’ better than puddin’ at night, It’s puddin’ when day is breakin’.

“If there’s anythin’ better than singin’ away While the stars are gaily shinin’, Why, it’s singin’ a song at dawn of day, On puddin’ for breakfast dinin’.”

There was a hearty round of applause at this song, for, as Bunyip Bluegum remarked, “singing at breakfast should certainly be more commonly indulged in, as it greatly tends to enliven what is on most occasions a somewhat dull proceeding.”

“One of the great advantages of being a professional puddin’-owner,” said Sam Sawnoff, “is that songs at breakfast are always encouraged. None of the ordinary breakfast rules, such as scowling while eating, and saying the porridge is as stiff as glue and the eggs are as tough as leather, are observed. Instead, songs, roars of laughter, and boisterous jests are the order of the day. For example, this sort of thing,” added Sam, doing a rapid back-flap and landing with a thump on Bill’s head. As Bill was unprepared for this act of boisterous humour, his face was pushed into the Puddin’ with great violence, and the gravy as splashed in his eye.

“What d’yer mean, playin’ such bungfoodlin’ tricks on a man at breakfast?” roared Bill.

“What d’yer mean,” shouted the Puddin’, “playing such foodbungling tricks on a Puddin’ being breakfasted at?”

“Breakfast humour, Bill, merely breakfast humour,” said Sam, hastily.

“Humour’s humour,” shouted Bill, “but puddin’ in the whiskers is no joke.”

“Whiskers in the Puddin’ is worse than puddin’ in the whiskers,” shouted the Puddin’, standing up in his basin.

“Observe the rules, Bill,” said Sam hurriedly. “Boisterous humour at the breakfast table must be greeted with roars of laughter.”

“To Jeredelum with the rules,” shouted Bill. “Pushing a man’s face into his own breakfast is beyond rules or reason, and deserves a punch in the gizzard.”

Seeing matters arriving at this unpromising situation, Bunyip Bluegum interposed by saying, “Rather than allow this happy occasion to be marred by unseemly recriminations, let us, while admitting that our admirable friend, Sam, may have unwittingly disturbed the composure of our admirable friend, Bill, at the expense of our admirable Puddin’s gravy, let us, I say, by the simple act of extending the hand of friendship, dispel in an instant these gathering clouds of disruption. In the words of the poem—

`Then let the fist of Friendship Be kept for Friendship’s foes. Ne’er let that hand in anger land On Friendship’s holy nose.’”

These fine sentiments at once dispelled Bill’s anger. He shook hands warmly with Sam, wiped the gravy from his face, and resumed breakfast with every appearance of hearty good humour.

The meal over, the breakfast things were put away in the bag, Sam and Bill took Puddin’ between them, and all set off along the road, enlivening the way with song and story. Bill regaled them with portions of the “Ballad of the Salt Junk Sarah,” which is one of those songs that go on for ever. Its great advantage, as Bill remarked, was that as it hadn’t got an ending it didn’t need a beginning, so you could start it anywhere.

“As for instance,” said Bill, and he roared out—

“Ho, aboard the Salt Junk Sarah, Rollin’ home across the line, The Bo’sun collared the Captain’s hat And threw it in the brine. Rollin’ home, rollin’ home, Rollin’ home across the foam, The Captain sat without a hat The whole way rollin’ home.”

Entertaining themselves in this way as they strolled along, they were presently arrested by shouts of “Fire! Fire!” and a Fireman in a large helmet came bolting down the road, pulling a fire hose behind him.

“Aha!” said Bill. “Now we shall have the awe-inspirin’ spectacle of a fire to entertain us,” and, accosting the Fireman, he demanded to know where the fire was.

“The fact is,” said the Fireman, “that owing to the size of this helmet I can’t see where it is; but if you will kindly glance at the surrounding district, you’ll see it about somewhere.”

They glanced about and, sure enough, there was a fire burning in the next field. It was only a cowshed, certainly, but it was blazing very nicely, and well worth looking at.

“Fire,” said Bill, “in the form of a common cowshed, is burnin’ about nor’-nor’-east as the crow flies.”

“In that case,” said the Fireman, “I invite all present to bravely assist in putting it out. But,” he added impressively, “if you’ll take my advice, you’ll shove that Puddin’ in this hollow log and roll a stone agen the end to keep him in, for if he gets too near the flames he’ll be cooked again and have his flavour ruined.”

“This is a very sensible feller,” said Bill, and though Puddin’ objected strongly, he was at once pushed into a log and securely fastened in with a large stone.

“How’d you like to be shoved in a blooming log,” he shouted at Bill, “when you was burning with anxiety to see the fire?” but Bill said severely, “Be sensible, Albert, fires is too dangerous to Puddins’ flavours.”

No more time was lost in seizing the hose and they set off with the greatest enthusiasm. For, as everyone knows, running with the reel is one of the grand joys of being a fireman. They had the hose fixed to a garden tap in no time, and soon were all hard at work, putting out the fire.

Of course there was a great deal of smoke and shouting, and getting tripped up by the hose, and it was by the merest chance Bunyip Bluegum glanced back in time to see the Wombat in the act of stealing the Puddin’ from the hollow log.

“Treachery is at work,” he shouted.

“Treachery,” roared Bill, and with one blow on the snout knocked the Fireman endways on into the burning cinders, where his helmet fell off, and exposed the countenance of that snooting, snouting scoundrel, the Possum.

The Possum, of course, hadn’t expected to have his disguise pierced so swiftly, and, though he managed to scramble out of the fire in time to save his bacon, he was considerably singed down the back.

“What a murderous attack!” he exclaimed. “O, what a brutal attempt to burn a man alive!” and as some hot cinders had got down his back he gave a sharp yell and ran off, singeing and smoking. Bill, distracted with rage, ran after the Possum, then changed his mind and ran after the Wombat, so that, what with running first after one and then after the other, they both had time to get clean away, and disappeared over the skyline.

“I see it all,” shouted Bill, casting himself down in despair. “Them low puddin’-thieves has borrowed a fireman’s helmet, collared a hose, an’ set fire to a cowshed in order to lure us away from the Puddin’.”

“The whole thing’s a low put-up job on our noble credulity,” said Sam, casting himself down beside Bill.

“It’s one of the most frightful things that’s ever happened,” said Bill.

“It’s worse than treading on tacks with bare feet,” said Sam.

“It’s worse than bein’ caught stealin’ fowls,” said Bill.

“It’s worse than bein’ stood on by cows,” said Sam.

“It’s almost as bad as havin’ an uncle called Aldobrantifoscofornio,” said Bill, and they both sang loudly—

“It’s worse than weevils, worse than warts, It’s worse than corns to bear. It’s worse than havin’ several quarts Of treacle in your hair.

“It’s worse than beetles in the soup, It’s worse than crows to eat. It’s worse than wearin’ small-sized boots Upon your large-sized