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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Now, James, do you hear?" said the chambermaid; "I want you to get me now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters, and a muffin it's for a lady upstairs. Be as quick as you can." "I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns, but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself."
The faded blue letters, on a strip of wood nailed to the bricks over his door, tell us he is a dealer in "Imported and other liquors." Next door to Mr. Korner's tipsy looking grocery lives Mr. Muffin, the coffin-maker, who has a large business with the disciples who look in at Korner's. Mrs.
Send them to table hot, buttered and cut in half. Sift and mix together a pint and a half of yellow Indian meal, and a handful of wheat flour. Melt a quarter of a pound of fresh butter in a quart of milk. The whole must be beaten long and hard. Then butter some muffin rings; set them on a hot griddle, and pour some of the batter into each.
At the time Mr. Morton left the parlour, Sidney and Master Tom were therein, seated on two stools, and casting up division sums on their respective slates a point of education to which Mr. Morton attended with great care. As soon as his father's back was turned, Master Tom's eyes wandered from the slate to the muffin, as it leered at him from the slop- basin.
"Now I'm going to make mincemeat of you." "We all know the Muffin Man that lives in Crumpet Lane," sang Polly and Phronsie merrily, out on the grass-plot, as they danced away. "Where is Joel?" cried Polly, as they stopped to take breath. "Just once more," begged Phronsie, pulling her hand; "please, Polly." So down to see the Muffin Man again they danced.
At first Mrs. Winslow remonstrated. "Felicia, it is not your place to be out here doing this common work. I cannot allow it." "Why, Aunt? Don't you like the muffins I made this morning?" Felicia would ask meekly, but with a hidden smile, knowing her aunt's weakness for that kind of muffin. "They were beautiful, Felicia. But it does not seem right for you to be doing such work for us." "Why not?
And as quick as a shot he dropped Polly's hand and skipped off on the tips of his toes over the grass and around the back of the house. "Dear me!" cried Polly, "whatever can have happened to Joel?" "Do come on, Polly," begged Phronsie, pulling at her other hand, and lifting her flushed face pleadingly, "and let us see the Muffin Man once more." "So we will, dear," said Polly. "Now then!"
Crocker gasped and started from his seat, losing at once his cup, his muffin, and his manners. "By Jove, Miss Verplanck, Emma, it's my missing St. Michael. Where did you ever find it? I must have it." His toasted muffin rolled unconsidered beside the spoon at his feet. Emma retrieved the cup one of a precious six in old Meissen he retained the saucer painfully gripped in both hands.
That was the way things went all through their visit. Mrs. Bob took them shopping, with frequent intermissions for cakes and tea at queer little tea-rooms, with alluring names like "The London Muffin Room," or the "Yellow Tea-Pot."
With a faint grin on his fleshy face, he said: "Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?" "No, thanks," murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: "How's your mother?" "Thanks," said George; "so-so. Haven't seen you for ages. You never go racing. How's the City?"
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