andfather's clock, which seemed to me
rather out of place amongst so much oak, but which, with slow dignity,
ticked off the time in one corner.

On the far side of the room, near the deeply recessed window, was the
Christmas-tree--a huge tree for that low room, and gay with glittering
glass ornaments in many grotesque shapes, brightly coloured toys, and
wax candles, as yet unlighted.

The younger members of the party were gathered near it in a little
group, whispering excitedly, and pointing out objects of delight with
every one of which each individual had made himself familiar hours
before.

Grandpa Goodenough, a hale old man of eighty, and to be distinguished
from Grand_father_ Goodenough, his son, smoked a long clay pipe from
his place on the settle near the hearth, and smiled on everybody. His
daughter-in-law, who looked much too young to be a grandmother, bustled
about in the scullery, being assisted in her activities by her eldest
daughter, Ruth, and her son Ben's wife, Susie, and obstructed by her
husband who, with a sincere desire to be useful, contrived to be always
in the most inconvenient place at the most awkward time.

Mother Hubbard and I had been invited to step into the parlour, but
preferred the more homely atmosphere of the kitchen, so we took our
seats on the settle, opposite to that occupied by Grandpa.

By and by tea was ready and we were instructed to "pull our chairs up"
and "reach to." What a time we had! If tables ever do groan that one
ought to have done so, for it had a heavy load which we were all
expected to lighten, but nobody seemed to think it might be necessary
to press anybody to eat.

"Now you know you're all welcome," said Farmer Goodenough heartily,
when the youngest grandchild had asked what I took to be a blessing.
"We're not allus botherin' folks to have some more when there's plenty
before 'em, an' all they've got to do is to reach out for 't; but if
you don't all have a good tea it's your own fault, an' don't blame
_me_. 'Let us eat, drink, an' be merry,' as t' Owd Book bids us."

The way the ham disappeared was a revelation to me. Farmer Goodenough
stood to carve, and after a while took off his coat, apparently in
order that he might be able to mop his face with his shirt sleeves and
so not seriously interrupt his operations. Plates followed each other
in unbroken succession, until at last the good man threw down the knife
and fork and pushed back his chair.

"