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Draw The Curtains On These Street Urchins Peering In At Our Roast Goose Supper

These grubby little ragamuffins are drawn to a succulent goose like moths to a paraffin lamp. Shut the blinds at once!

This one’s espied our plump, crisp goose and set his jaw to fervent salivation. Close the drapes so he can’t ruin our supper.

That’s the sticky-fingered wastrel who tried to nick a currant pudding as it cooled on the sill not an hour ago! Back for more, then? Shut him out!

You’ve left a crack! Hurry, he’ll smear the windowpane with his back-lane grime!

A whole posse of the hellions must have caught a good whiff of Mother’s mince pie. Be a dear and pull the curtain closed!

That one looks familiar—could it be poor Tom O’Dartmoor’s boy, the deaf-mute who plays at marionettes ’round Milford quay? No matter, we need not concern ourselves with his unfortunate like.

He’s peeking through the mail slot! Probably sizing up our sterling tableware too, the little devil.

If the parish council had half a wit between them all, they’d pen these boys up and rap some restraint into them. Little wolves, they are! Close it up so we can have peace at last. It’s high time to tuck into some fine roast goose, with all the trimmings!