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

“on a matter of business. The commodity which I vend is Pootles’ Patent Pudding Enlarger, samples of which I have in the bag. As a guarantee of good faith we are giving samples of our famous Enlarger away to all well-known puddin’-owners. The Enlarger, one of the wonders of modern science, has but to be poured over the puddin’, with certain necessary incantations, and the puddin’ will be instantly enlarged to double its normal size.” He took some sugar from the bag and held it up. “I am now about to hand you some of this wonderful discovery. But,” he added impressively, “the operation of enlarging the puddin’ is a delicate one, and must be performed in the open air. Produce your puddin’, and I will at once apply Pootles’ Patent with marvellous effect.”

“Of course it’s understood that no charge is to be made,” said the Possum, hurrying out.

“No charge whatever,” said Bunyip Bluegum.

So on the principle of always getting something for nothing, as the Wombat said, Puddin’ was brought out and placed on the ground.

“Now, watch me closely,” said Bunyip Bluegum. He sprinkled the Puddin’ with sugar, made several passes with his hands, and pronounced these words—

“Who incantations utters He generally mutters His gruesome blasts and bans. But I, you need not doubt it, Prefer aloud to shout it, Hey, Presto! Pots and Pans.”

Out sprang Bill and Sam and set about the Puddin’-thieves like a pair of windmills, giving them such a clip clap clouting and a flip flap flouting, that what with being punched and pounded, and clipped and clapped, they had only enough breath left to give two shrieks of despair while scrambling back into Watkin Wombat’s Summer Residence, and banging the door behind them. The three friends had Puddin’ secured in no time, and shook hands all round, congratulating Bunyip Bluegum on the success of his plan.

“Your noble actin’,” said Bill, “has saved our Puddin’s life.”

“Them Puddin’-thieves,” said Sam, “was children in your hands.”

“We hear you,” sang out the Possum, and the Wombat added, “Oh, what deceit! “

“Enough of you two,” shouted Bill. “If we catch you sneakin’ after our Puddin’ again, you’ll get such a beltin’ that you’ll wish you was vegetarians. And now,” said he, “for a glorious reunion round the camp fire.”

And a glorious reunion they had, tucking into hot steak-and-kidney puddin’ and boiled jam roll, which, after the exertions of the day, went down, as Bill said, “Grand.”

“If them Puddin’-thieves ain’t sufferin’ the agonies of despair at this very moment, I’ll eat my hat along with the Puddin’,” said Bill, exultantly.

“Indeed,” said Bunyip Bluegum, “the consciousness that our enemies are deservedly the victims of acute mental and physical anguish, imparts, it must be admitted, an additional flavour to the admirable Puddin’.”

“Well spoken,” said Bill, admiringly. “Which I will say, that for turning off a few well-chosen words no parson in the land is the equal of yourself.”

“Your health!” said Bunyip Bluegum.

The singing that evening was particularly loud and prolonged, owing to the satisfaction they all felt at the recovery of their beloved Puddin’. The Puddin’, who had got the sulks over Sam’s remark that fifteen goes of steak and kidney were enough for any self-respecting man, protested against the singing, which, he said, disturbed his gravy. “`More eating and less noise,’ is my motto,” he said, and he called Bill a leather-headed old barrel organ for reproving him.

“Albert is a spoilt child, I fear,” said Bill, shoving him into the bag to keep him quiet, and without more ado, led off with—

“Ho! aboard the Salt Junk Sarah, Rollin’ home around the Horn, The Bo’sun pulls the Captain’s nose For treatin’ him with scorn.

“Rollin’ home, rollin’ home, Rollin’ home across the foam. The Bo’sun goes with thumps and blows The whole way rollin’ home.

“But,” said Bill to Bunyip Bluegum, after about fifteen verses of the ‘Salt Junk Sarah’, “the superior skill, ingenuity an’ darin’ with which you bested them Puddin’-snatchers reminds me of a similar incident in Sam’s youth, which I will now sing you. The incident, though similar as regards courage an’ darin’, is totally different in regard to everythin’ else, and is entitled—

 

THE PENGUIN’S BRIDE

“‘Twas on the “Saucy Soup Tureen”, That Sam was foremast hand, When on the quarter-deck was see A maiding fit to be a Queen With her old Uncle stand.

“And Sam he chewed salt junk all Day with grief forlorn, Because the Hearl of Buncle, The lovely maiding’s Uncle, Regarded him with scorn.

“And Sam at once was sunk all In passion deep and grand, But this here aged Uncle He was the Hearl of Buncle And Sam a foremast hand.

“When sailin’ by Barbado, The Saucy Soup Tureen, Before she could be stayed-O Went down in a tornado, And never more was seen.

“The passengers were sunk all Beneath the ragin’ wave, The maiding and her Uncle, The Noble Hearl of Buncle, Were saved by Sam the Brave.

“He saved the Noble Buncle By divin’ off the poop. The maiding in a funk all He saved along with Uncle Upon a chicken coop.

“And this here niece of Buncle, When they got safe to land, For havin’ saved her Uncle, The Noble Hearl of Buncle, She offered Sam her hand.

“And that old Uncle Buncle, For joy of his release, On burgundy got drunk all Day in Castle Buncle, Which hastened his decease.

“The lovely maiding Buncle Inherited the land; And, now her aged Uncle Has gone, the Hearl of Buncle Is Sam, the foremast hand.”

“Of course,” said Sam modestly, “the song goes too far in sayin’ as how I married the Hearl’s niece, because, for one thing, I ain’t a marryin’ man, and for another thing, what she really sez to me when we got to land was, “You’re a noble feller, an’ here’s five shillin’s for you, and any time you happen to be round our way, just give a ring at the servant’s bell, and there’ll always be a feed waitin’ for you in the kitchen.” However, you’ve got to have songs to fill in the time with, and when a feller’s got a rotten word like Buncle to find rhymes for, there’s no sayin’ how a song’ll end.”

“The exigencies of rhyme,” said Bunyip Bluegum, “may stand excused from a too strict insistence on verisimilitude, so that the general gaiety is thereby promoted. And now,” he added, “before retiring to rest, let us all join in song,” and grasping each other’s hands they loudly sang—

 

THE PUDDIN’-OWNERS’ EVENSONG

“Let feeble feeders stoop To plates of oyster soup. Let pap engage The gums of age And appetites that droop; We much prefer to chew A steak-and-kidney stew.

“We scorn digestive pills; Give us the food that fills; Who bravely stuff Themselves with Duff, May laugh at Doctors’ bills. For medicine, partake Of kidney, stewed with steak.

“Let yokels coarse appease Their appetites with cheese. Let women dream Of cakes and cream, We scorn fal-lals like these; Our sterner sex extols The joy of boiled jam rolls.

“Then plight our faith anew Three puddin’-owners true, Who boldly claim In Friendship’s name The noble Irish stoo, Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurroo!”

SLICE THREE

“After our experience of yesterday,” said Bill Barnacle as the company of Puddin’-owners set off along the road with their Puddin’, “we shall have to be particularly careful. For what with low puddin’ thieves disguisin’ themselves as firemen, and low Wombats sneakin’ our Puddin’ while we’re helpin’ to put out fires, not to speak of all the worry and bother of tryin’ to get information out of parrots an’ bandicoots an’ hedgehogs, why, it’s enough to make a man suspect his own grandfather of bein’ a puddin’-snatcher.”

“As for me,” said Sam Sawnoff, practising boxing attitudes as he walked along. “I feel like laying out the first man we meet on the off-chance of his being a puddin’-thief.”

“Indeed,” observed Bunyip Bluegum, “to have one’s noblest feelings outraged by reposing a too great trust in unworthy people, is to end by regarding all humanity with an equal suspicion.”

“If you ask my opinion,” said the Puddin’ cynically, “them puddin’-thieves are too clever for you; and what’s more, they’re better eaters than you. Why,” said the Puddin’, sneering at Bill, “I’ll back one puddin’-thief to eat more in a given time than three Puddin’owners put together.”

“These are very treacherous sentiments, Albert,” said Bill, sternly. “These are very ignoble and shameless words,” but the Puddin’ merely laughed scornfully, and called Bill a bun-headed old beetle-crusher.

“Very well,” said Bill, enraged, “we shall see if a low puddin’ thief is better than a noble Puddin’-owner. When you see the terrible suspicions I shall indulge in to-day you’ll regret them words.”

To prove his words Bill insisted on closely inspecting everybody he met, in case they should be puddin’-thieves in disguise.

To start off with, they had an unpleasant scene with a Kookaburra, a low larrikin who resented the way that Bill examined him.

“Who are you starin’ at, Poodle’s Whiskers?” he asked.

“Never mind,” said Bill. “I’m starin’ at you for a good an’ sufficient reason.”

“Are yer? ” said the Kookaburra. “Well, all I can say is that if yer don’t take yer dial outer the road I’ll bloomin’ well take an’ bounce a gibber off yer crust,” and he followed them for quite a long way, singing out insulting things such as, “You with the wire whiskers,” and “Get onter the bloke with the face fringe.”

Bill, of course, treated this conduct with silent contempt. It was his rule through life, he said, never to fight people with beaks.

The next encounter they had was with a Flying-fox who, though not so vulgar and rude as the Kookaburra was equally enraged because, as Bill had suspicions that he was the Possum disguised, he insisted on measuring him to see if he was the same length.

“Nice goings on, indeed,” said the Flying-fox, while Bill was measuring him, “if a man can’t go about his business without being measured by total strangers. A nice thing, indeed, to happen to Finglebury Flying-fox, the well-known and respected fruit stealer.”

However, he was found to be six inches too short, so they let him go, and he hurried off, saying, “I shall have the Law on you for this, measuring a man in a public place without being licensed as a tailor.”

The third disturbance due to Bill’s suspicions occurred while Bunyip Bluegum was in a grocer’s shop. They had run out of tea and sugar, and happening to pass through the town of Bungledoo took the opportunity of laying in a fresh supply. If Bunyip hadn’t been in the shop, as was pointed out afterwards, the trouble wouldn’t have occurred. The first he heard of it was a scream of “Help, help, murder is being done!” and rushing out of the shop, what was his amazement to see no less a person than his Uncle Wattleberry bounding and plunging about the road with Bill hanging on to his whiskers, and Sam hanging on to one leg.

“I’ve got him,” shouted Bill. “Catch a holt of his other leg and give me a chance to get his whiskers off.”

“But why are you taking his whiskers off?” inquired Bunyip Bluegum.

“Because they’re stuck on with glue,” shouted Bill. “I saw it at a glance. It’s Watkin Wombat, Esquire, disguised as a company promoter.”

“Dear me,” said Bunyip, hurriedly, “you are making a mistake. This is not a puddin’-thief, this is an Uncle.”

“A what?” exclaimed Bill, letting go the whiskers. “An Uncle,” replied Bunyip Bluegum.

“An Uncle,” roared Uncle Wattleberry. “An Uncle of the highest integrity. You have most disgracefully and unmercifully pulled an Uncle’s whiskers.”

“I can assure you,” said Bill, “I pulled them under the delusion that you was a