Old Time Holiday Tales, An Anthology of Holiday 
Stories, Poems and Songs
Edited by David Reed

Contents

Preface
Christmas: A Definition Christmas in Ritual and Tradition  
by Clement A. Miles
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus Editorial Page, 
New York Sun, 1897 by Francis P. Church's
An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving by Louisa May Alcott 
A Christmas Carol In Four Staves by Charles Dickens
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
Dancing Dan's Christmas by Damon Runyon 
A Chaparral Christmas Gift by O. Henry 
The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry
The Thieves Who Couldn't Help Sneezing by Thomas Hardy 
Little Women Chapter 1 Playing Pilgrims by Louisa May Alcott
Little Women Chapter 2 A Merry Christmas by Louisa May Alcott
The Wind in the Willows  Chapter 5  DULCE DOMUM 
by Kenneth Grahame
In the Great Walled Country by Raymond MacDonald Alden.
The Other Wise Man byHenry Van Dyke 
To a Child by Robert Herrick.  
Before the Paling of the Stars by Christina Rossetti 
Heigh Ho, The Holly! By William Shakespeare.
Voices in the Mist by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 
Minstrels by William Wordsworth. 
The Night Before Christmas (A Visit From St. Nicholas)
by Clement Clarke Moore 
Jest 'Fore Christmas by Eugene Field 

Carols

O Come, All Ye Faithful
It Came Upon the Midnight Clear
O Little Town of Bethlehem
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Angels, From the Realms of Glory
The First Noel
Good Christian Men, Rejoice
Silent Night
What Child Is This?
God Rest You Merry Gentlemen
Angels We Have Heard on High
Away in a Manger
Auld Lang Syne
Gentle Mary Laid Her Child
Go, Tell it on the Mountain
Good King Wenceslas
I Saw Three Ships
Joy to the World
We Three Kings of Orient Are
Once in Royal David's City
God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen (different version)
All My Heart This Night Rejoices
Drummer Boy
O Holy Night
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
O Come All Ye Faithful
Away in a Manger
While Shepherds Watched
Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
Go Tell It On The Mountain
See In Yonder Manger Low
Thou Didst Leave Thy Throne
The Coventry Carol
Gentle Mary Laid Her Child
While By My Sheep I Watched At Night
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
Who Is He In Yonder Stall
From Heaven Above To Earth I Come
Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming
I Saw Three Ships
Do You Hear What I Hear?
The Huron Carol
Ding Dong! Merrily On High
In Excelsis Gloria
The Holly And The Ivy
As With Gladness
In The Bleak Mid-Winter
Infant Holy, Infant Lowly
Noel Nouvelet
O Come, Little Children
I Wonder As I Wander
Here We Come A-Wassailing
Gloucestershire Wassail
We Wish You A Merry Christmas


Preface

I have always enjoyed the stories, poems and carols of Christmas.
They are to me to be the best part of the season.  This collection
contains all of my favorites.  Some perhaps are very familiar to you, 
other may be not so.  I hope that you will get as much enjoyment
out of them as I and my family does.  Merry Christmas to you all.

David Reed


Christmas: A Definition Christmas in Ritual and Tradition 
by Clement A. Miles

Christmas is a microcosm of world religion. It reflects almost every phase
of thought and feeling from crude magic and superstition to the
speculative mysticism of Eckhart, from the mere delight in physical
indulgence to the exquisite spirituality of St. Frances. 

Ascetic and bon-vivant, mystic and materialist, learned and simple, noble
and peasant, all have found something in it on which to lay hold. it is a
river into which have flowed tributaries from every side, from Oriental
religion, from Greek and Roman civilization, from celtic, Teutonic, Slav
and probably pre-Aryan society, all mingling their waters so that it is often
hard to discover the far-away springs. 

At no time has so much been made of children as today, and because
Christmas is their feast its luster continues unabated in an age upon which
dogmatic Christanity has largely lost its hold, which laughs at the pagan
superstitions of its forefathers. 

Christmas is the feast of the beginnings, of instinctive happy childhood;
the Christian idea of the Immortal Babe renewing weary, stained
humanity. It blends with the thought of the New Year, with its hope and
promise, laid in the cradle of Time. 
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus Editorial Page, 
New York Sun, 1897
by Francis P. Church's

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication
below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful
author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: 

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, "If you see it in The Sun, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is
there a Santa Claus? 

Virginia O'Hanlon  

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the
scepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They
think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little
minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little.
In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect
as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the
intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.  

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  

He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you
know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.
Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It
would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no
childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this
existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The
external light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. 


Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You
might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas
eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming
down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no
sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are
those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies
dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not
there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen
and unseeable in the world.  

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but
there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor
even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear
apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and
view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah,
Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.  

No Santa Claus? Thank God he lives and lives forever. A thousand years
from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue
to make glad the heart of childhood.  

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!! 

Francis P. Church's editorial, "Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus" was
an immediate sensation, and became one of the most famous editorials
ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, almost a
hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper
went out of business.

Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O'Hanlon recalled
the events that prompted her letter:

"Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed
me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn't any
Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little
evasive on the subject.

"It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how
to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we
wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would
always say, 'If you see it in the The Sun, it's so,' and that settled the matter.

" 'Well, I'm just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,' I said
to father.

"He said, 'Go ahead, Virginia. I'm sure The Sun will give you the right
answer, as it always does.' "

And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents' favorite newspaper.

Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P.
Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for
The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20
years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic
man, had for his personal motto, "Endeavour to clear your mind of cant."
When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page,
especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given
to Church.

Now, he had in his hands a little girl's letter on a most controversial
matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.

"Is there a Santa Claus?" the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once,
Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer,
and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began
his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in
newspaper history.

Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April,
1906, leaving no children.

Virginia O'Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a
Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her
Master's from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York
City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired
as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail
about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive
printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O'Hanlon Douglas died on
May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.


An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving  
By Louisa May Alcott 

SIXTY YEARS  AGO, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer
Bassett, with a houseful of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about
him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide
acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock,
while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farmhouse a
very happy home.  

November had  come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and
bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's
hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the
great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands
of dried apples, onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone
crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison--for in those
days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished.
Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles,
and down among the red embers copper saucepans simmered, all
suggestive of some approaching feast.  

A white-headed  baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked
six other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like
a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly,
and suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys
sat on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking
out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had
gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser,
busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the
tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands.
Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were "chorin' 'round"
outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order
for that time-honored day.  

To and  fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett,
flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this
busy little hive should be.  

"Ido  like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind.
Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight
of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks," said the good
woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider
applesauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride at the fine
array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves.  

"Only one  more day and then it will be the time to eat. I
didn't take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall
have plenty of room when the nice things come," confided Seth
to Sol, as he cracked a large hazelnut as easily as a squirrel.

"No need  of my starvin' beforehand. I always have room enough,
and I'd like to have Thanksgiving every day," answered Solomon,
gloating like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by,
ready for roasting.  

"Sakes alive,  I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come but
once a year. I should be worn to a thread paper with all this extra
work atop of my winter weavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother,
as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread trough and began
to knead the dough as if a famine were at hand.  

Tilly, the  oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen,
was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and
not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and
the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms
ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will.  

"I think  it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm sorry
Gran'ma is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but I like to mess
'round here, don't you, girls?" asked Tilly, pausing to take a
sniff at the spicy pestle.  

"It will  be kind of lonesome with only our own folks." "I
like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing,
" cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run,
swim, coast, and shout as well as their brothers.  

"I don't  care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to
eat dinner together, warm and comfortable at home," said quiet
Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.  

"Come, girls,  fly 'round and get your chores done, so we can
clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the
oven," called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last
loaf of brown bread which was to feed the hungry mouths that seldom
tasted any other.  

"Here's a  man comin' up the hill lively!" "Guess it's Gad
Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if they warn't
too high!" shouted Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the
girls smacked their lips at the thought of this rare treat, and
Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting ready for a new cargo.

But all  were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad,
with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself
off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some
brief message that made the farmer drop his ax and look so sober
that his wife guessed at once some bad news had come; and crying,
"Mother's wuss! I know she is!" Out ran the good woman, forgetful of
the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most important
batch.  

The man  said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as
he passed, and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin'
fast, and she'd better come today. He knew no more, and having
delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked like snow and
he must be jogging, or he wouldn't get home till night.  

"We must  go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be ready
in less'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in
tears and lamentations, but pulling off her apron as she went in,
with her head in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow,
haste, and cider applesauce.  

A few  words told the story, and the children left their work
to help her get ready, mingling their grief for "Gran'ma" with
regrets for the lost dinner.  

"I'm dreadful  sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I couldn't
cook nor eat no way now, and if that blessed woman gets better
sudden, as she has before, we'll have cause for thanksgivin', and
I'll give you a dinner you won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs.
Bassett, as she tied on her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob
for the good old mother who had made it for her.  

Nota  child complained after that, but ran about helpfully,
bringing moccasins, heating the footstone, and getting ready
for a long drive, because Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and
there were no railroads in those parts to whisk people to and fro
like magic. By the time the old yellow sleigh was at the door,
the bread was in the oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her
camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.

"Now, Eph,  you must look after the cattle like a man and keep
up the fires, for there's a storm brewin', and' neither the children
nor dumb critters must suffer," said Mr. Bassett, as he turned
up the collar of his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, while
the old mare shook her bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene
to hauling wood all day.  

"Tilly, put  extry comfortables on the beds to-night, the wind
is so searchin' up chamber. Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin'
for dinner, and whatever you do, don't let the boys get at the
mince-pies, or you'll have them down sick. I shall come back the
minute I can leave Mother. Pa will come to-morrer anyway, so keep
snug and be good. I depend on you, my darter; use your jedgment,
and don't let nothin' happen while Mother's away."  

"Yes'm, yes'm--good-bye,  good-bye!" called the children,
as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the sleigh and driven away, leaving
a stream of directions behind her.  

Eph, the  sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his biggest
boots, assumed a sober, responsible manner and surveyed his little
responsibilities with a paternal air, drolly like his father's.
Tilly tied on her mother's bunch of keys, rolled up the sleeves
of her homespun gown, and began to order about the younger girls.
They soon forgot poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house
all alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family in
the good old-fashioned way. There were no servants, for the little
daughters were Mrs. Bassett's only maids, and the stout boys helped
their father, all working happily together with no wages but love;
learning in the best manner the use of the heads and hands with
which they were to make their own way in the world.  

The few  flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad weather
soon increased to a regular snowstorm, with gusts of wind, for
up among the hills winter came early and lingered long. But the
children were busy, gay, and warm indoors, and never minded the
rising gale nor the whirling white storm outside.  

Tilly got  them a good dinner, and when it was over the two
elder girls went to their spinning, for in the kitchen stood the
big and little wheels, and baskets of wool rolls ready to be twisted
into yarn for the winter's knitting, and each day brought its stint
of work to the daughters, who hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.

Eph kept  up a glorious fire, and superintended the small boys,
who popped corn and whittled boats on the hearth; while Roxy and
Rhody dressed corncob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the
brindled mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously warming his
old legs. Thus employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy
boys and girls, in their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or
tasks which most children nowadays would find very poor or tiresome.

Tilly and  Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro, drawing out
the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum of the great spinning
wheels. The little girls chattered like magpies over their dolls
and the new bedspread they were planning to make, all white dimity
stars on a blue calico ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The
boys roared at Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble games over
Bose, who didn't mind them in the least; and so the afternoon wore
pleasantly away.  

At sunset  the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in heaps
of wood, and lock up for the night, as the lonely farmhouse seldom
had visitors after dark. The girls got the simple supper of brown
bread and milk, baked apples, and a doughnut all 'round as a treat.
Then they sat before the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers
with books or games, for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never failed
to play a few games of Morris with barley corns, on the little
board they had themselves at one corner of the dresser.  

"Readout  a piece," said Tilly from Mother's chair, where
she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit
that month.  

"It's the  old history book, but here's a bit you may like,
since it's about our folks," answered Eph, turning the yellow
page to look at a picture of two quaintly dressed children in
some ancient castle.  

"Yes, read  that. I always like to hear about the Lady Matildy
I was named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa's great-great-great grandpa.
He's only a farmer now, but it's nice to know we were somebody
two or three hundred years ago," said Tilly, bridling and tossing
her curly head as she fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.

"Don't read  the queer words, 'cause we don't understand 'em.
Tell it," commanded Roxy, from the cradle, where she was drowsily
cuddled with Rhody.  

"Well, a  long time ago, when Charles the First was in prison,
Lord Bassett was a true friend to him," began Eph, plunging into
his story without delay. "The lord had some papers that would
have hung a lot of people if the king's enemies got hold of 'em,
so when he heard one day, all of a sudden, that soldiers were
at the castle gate to carry him off, he had just time to call his
girl to him and say: 'I may be going to my death, but I won't betray
my master. There is no time to burn the papers, and I can not take
them with me; they are hidden in the old leathern chair where I
sit. No one knows this but you, and you must guard them till I
come or send you a safe messenger to take them away. Promise me
to be brave and silent, and I can go without fear.' You see, he
wasn't afraid to die, but he was to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy
promised solemnly, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when
the men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner and
sent off to the Tower."  

"But she  didn't cry; she just called her brother, and sat down
in that chair, with her head leaning back on those papers, like
a queen, and waited while the soldiers hunted the house over for
'em: wasn't that a smart girl?" cried Tilly, beaming with pride,
for she was named for this ancestress, and knew the story by
heart.  

"I reckon  she was scared, though, when the men came swearin
in and asked her if she knew anything about it. The boy did his
part then, for he didn't know, and fired up and stood before his
sister; and he says, says he, as bold as a lion: 'If my lord had
told us where the papers be, we would die before we would betray
him. But we are children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of
you to try to fight us with oaths and drawn swords!'"  

As Eph  quoted from the book, Seth planted himself before Tilly,
with the long poker in his hand, saying, as he flourished it valiantly:

"Why didn't  the boy take his father's sword and lay about
him? I would, if any one was ha'sh to Tilly."  

"You bantam!  He was only a bit of a boy, and couldn't do anything.
Sit down and hear the rest of it," commanded Tilly, with a pat
on the yellow head, and a private resolve that Seth should have
the largest piece of pie at dinner next day, as reward for his
chivalry.  

"Well, the  men went off after turning the castle out of window,
but they said they should come again; so faithful Matildy was
full of trouble, and hardly dared to leave the room where the chair
stood. All day she sat there, and at night her sleep was so full
of fear about it, that she often got up and went to see that all
was safe. The servants thought the fright had hurt her wits, and
let her be, but Rupert, the boy, stood by her and never was afraid
of her queer ways. She was 'a pious maid,' the book says, and often
spent the long evenings reading the Bible, with her brother by
her, all alone in the great room, with no one to help her bear
her secret, and no good news of her father. At last, word came
that the king was dead and his friends banished out of England.
Then the poor children were in a sad plight, for they had no mother,
and the servants all ran away, leaving only one faithful old
man to help them."  

"But the  father did come?" cried Roxy, eagerly.  

"You'll see,"  continued Eph, half telling, half reading.
"Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the big chair, guarding
the papers, and no one could get her away, till one day a man came
with her father's ring and told her to give up the secret. She
knew the ring, but would not tell until she had asked many questions,
so as to be very sure, and while the man answered all about her
father and the king, she looked at him sharply. Then she stood
up and said, in a tremble, for there was something strange about
the man: 'Sir, I doubt you in spite of the ring, and I will not
answer till you pull off the false beard you wear, that I may see
your face and know if you are my father's friend or foe.' Off came
the disguise, and Matilda found it was my lord himself, come to
take them with him out of England. He was very proud of that faithful
girl, I guess, for the old chair still stands in the castle, and
the I name keeps in the family, Pa says, even over here, where some
of the Bassetts came along with the Pilgrims."  

"Our Tilly  would have been as brave, I know, and she looks
like the old picter down to Gran' ma's, don't she, Eph?" cried
Prue, who admired her bold, bright sister very much.  

"Well, I  think you'd do the settin' part best, Prue, you are
so patient. Till would fight like a wild cat, but she can't hold
her tongue worth a cent" answered Eph; whereat Tilly pulled his
hair, and the story ended with a general frolic.  

When the  moon-faced clock behind the door struck nine, Tilly
tucked up the children under the "extry cornfortables," and
having kissed them all around, as Mother did, crept into her own
nest, never minding the little drifts of snow that sifted in upon
her coverlet between the shingles of the roof, nor the storm that
raged without.  

As if  he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay down
on the mat before the door, and pussy had the warm hearth all to
herself. If any late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would
have seen the fire blazing up again, and in the cheerful glow the
old cat blinking her yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside
the spinning wheel, like some sort of household goblin, guarding
the children while they slept.  

When they  woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but up the
little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their jugs, and went down
with cheeks glowing like winter apples, after a brisk scrub and
scramble into their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly
soon had a great kettle of mush ready, which, with milk warm from
the cows made a wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.

"Now about  dinner," said the young housekeeper, as the pewter
spoons stopped clattering, and the earthen bowls stood empty.  

"Ma said,  have what we liked, but she didn't expect us to
have a real Thanksgiving dinner, because she won't be here to cook
it, and we don't know how," began Prue, doubtfully.  

"I can  roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as anybody,
I guess. The pies are all ready, and if we can't boil vegetables
and so on, we don't deserve any dinner," cried Tilly, burning
to distinguish herself, and bound to enjoy to the utmost her brief
authority.  

"Yes, yes!"  cried all the boys, "let's have a dinner anyway;
Ma won't care, and the good victuals will spoil if they ain't eaten
right up."  

"Pais  coming tonight, so we won't have dinner till late; that
will be real genteel and give us plenty of time," added Tilly,
suddenly realizing the novelty of the task she had undertaken.

"Did you  ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, with an air of
deep interest. 

"Should you  darst to try?" said Rhody, in an awe-stricken
tone.  

"You will  see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my judgment
about things, and I'm going to. All you children have got to do
is to keep out of the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I wish
you'd put a fire in the best room, so the little ones can play
in there. We shall want the settin-room for the table, and I won
t have them pickin' round when we get things fixed," commanded
Tilly, bound to make her short reign a brilliant one.  

"I don't  know about that. Ma didn't tell us to," began cautious
Eph who felt that this invasion of the sacred best parlor was a
daring step.  

"Don't we  always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings? Wouldn't
Ma wish the children kept safe and warm anyhow? Can I get up a
nice dinner with four rascals under my feet all the time? Come,
now, if you want roast turkey and onions, plum-puddin' and mince-
pie, you'll have to do as I tell you, and be lively about it."  

Tilly spoke  with such spirit, and her suggestion was so irresistible,
that Eph gave in, and, laughing good-naturedly, tramped away
to heat up the best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious
would happen to punish such audacity.  

The young  folks delightedly trooped away to destroy the order
of that prim apartment with housekeeping under the black horsehair
sofa, "horseback-riders" on the arms of the best rocking chair,
and an Indian war dance all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph,
finding the society of peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind
than that of two excited sisters, lingered over his chores in the
barn as long as possible, and left the girls in peace.  

Now Tilly  and Prue were in their glory, and as soon as the breakfast
things were out of the way, they prepared for a grand cooking time.
They were handy girls, though they had never heard of a cooking
school, never touched a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond
the samplers which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented with
a pink mourner under a blue weeping willow, the other with this
pleasing verse, each word being done in a different color, which
gave the effect of a distracted rainbow:  

This sampler  neat was worked by me, 
In my twelfth year, Prudence B.  

Both rolled  up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons,
and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they could find,
"so as to have everything handy," Prue said.  

"Now, sister,  we'll have dinner at five; Pa will be here by
that time, if he is coming tonight, and be so surprised to find
us all ready, for he won't have had any very nice victuals if Gran'ma
is so sick," said Tilly, importantly. "I shall give the children
a piece at noon" (Tilly meant luncheon); "doughnuts and cheese,
with apple pie and cider, will please 'em. There's beans for
Eph; he likes cold pork, so we won't stop to warm it up, for there's
lots to do, and I don't mind saying to you I'm dreadful dubersome
about the turkey."  

"It's all  ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy as
can be. I can baste first-rate. Ma always likes to have me, I'm
so patient and stiddy, she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility
of this great undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a
cheerful view of things.  

"I know,  but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said Tilly,
rubbing her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out
on a platter before her. "I don't know how much I want, nor what
sort of yarbs to put in, and he's so awful big, I'm kind of afraid
of him."  

"I  Aeneid!  I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at me.
I feel real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap,
" laughed Prue, patting her departed pet with an air of mingled
affection and appetite.  

"Well, I'll  get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it ought
to bile all day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is
clean, while I get ready."  

Prue obediently  tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks,
from which hung the iron teakettle and three-legged pot; then
she settled the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall
andirons, and put the dripping pan underneath, for in those days
meat was roasted as it should be, not baked in ovens.  

Meantime Tilly  attacked the plum pudding. She felt pretty sure
of coming out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so
many times, it looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all
sorts of spice, to be sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead
of wine. But she forgot both sugar and salt, and tied it in the
cloth so tightly that it had no room to swell, so it would come
out as heavy as lead and as hard as a cannonball, if the bag did
not burst and spoil it all. Happily unconscious of these mistakes,
Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly watched it bobbing about
before she put the cover on and left it to its fate.  

"I can't  remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said, when
she had got her bread well soaked for stuffing. "Sage and onions
and applesauce go with goose, but I can't feel sure of anything
but pepper and salt for a turkey."  

"Ma puts  in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether
it is spearmint, peppermint, or pennyroyal," answered Prue, in
a tone of doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of "yarbs,"
or, at least, of their names.  

"Seems to  me it's sweet majoram or summer savory. I guess
we'll put both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is
up garret; you run and get some, while I mash the bread," commanded
Tilly, diving into the mess.  

Away trotted  Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and wormwood,
for the garret was darkish, and Prue's little nose was so full
of the smell of the onions she had been peeling, that everything
smelt of them. Eager to be of use, she pounded up the herbs and
scattered the mixture with a liberal hand into the bowl.  

"It doesn't  smell just right, but I suppose it will when it
is cooked," said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach, that
seemed aching for food, and sewed it up with the blue yarn, which
happened to be handy. She forgot to tie down his legs and wings,
but she set him by till his hour came, well satisfied with her
work.  

"Shall we  roast the little pig, too? I think he'd look nice with
a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed him at Christmas," asked
Prue, elated with their success.  

"I couldn't  do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when he
was killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby," answered
Tilly, glancing toward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so
pink and pretty it certainly did seem cruel to eat him.  

It took  a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for, as
the cellar was full, the girls thought they would have every sort.
Eph helped, and by noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry
sauce, a good deal scorched, was cooking in the lean-to.  

Luncheon was  a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese vanished
in such quantities that Tilly feared no one would have an appetite
for her sumptuous dinner. The boys assured her they would be starving
by five o'clock, and Sol mourned bitterly over the little pig that
was not to be served up.  

"Now you  all go and coast, while Prue and I set the table
and get out the best chiny," said Tilly, bent on having her dinner
look well, no matter what its other failings might be.  

Out came  the rough sleds, on went the round hoods, old hats,
red cloaks, and moccasins, and away trudged the four younger Bassetts,
to disport themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by the
old mill, where the great wheel turned and splashed so merrily
in the summertime.  

Eph took  his fiddle and scraped away to his heart's content
in the parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set the table
and made all ready to dish up the dinner when that exciting moment
came. It was not at all the sort of table we see now, but would
look very plain and countrified to us, with its green-handled knives,
and two-pronged steel forks, its red-and-white china, and pewter platters,
scoured till they shone, with mugs and spoons to match, and a
brown jug for the cider. The cloth was coarse, but white as snow,
and the little maids had seen the blue-eyed flax grow, out of
which their mother wove the linen; they had watched and watched
while it bleached in the green meadow. They had no napkins and little
silver; but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding spoons were set
forth in state. Nuts and apples at the corners gave an air, and
the place of honor was left in the middle for the oranges yet to
come.  

"Don't it  look beautiful?" said Prue, when they paused to
admire the general effect.  

"Pretty nice,  I think. I wish Ma could see how well we can
do it," began Tilly, when a loud howling startled both girls,
and sent them flying to the window. The short afternoon had passed
so quickly that twilight had come before they knew it, and now,
as they looked out through the gathering dusk, they saw four small
black figures tearing up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming
at once: "The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! He's coming, he's
coming!"  

Eph had  dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun before the
girls could calm the children enough to tell their story, which
they did in a somewhat incoherent manner. "Down in the holler,
coastin', we heard a growl," began Sol, with his eyes as big
as saucers. "I see him fust lookin' over the wall," roared Seth,
eager to get his share of honor.  

"Awful big  and shaggy," quavered Roxy, clinging to Tilly,
while Rhody hid in Prue's skirts, and piped out:  

"His great  paws kept clawing at us, and I was so scared my
legs would hardly go."  

"We ran  away as fast as we could go, and he came growlin'
after us. He's awful hungry, and he'll eat every one of us if he
gets in," continued Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat.

"Oh, Eph,  don't let him eat us," cried both little girls,
flying upstairs to hide under their mother's bed, as their surest
shelter.  

"No danger  of that, you little geese. I'll shoot him as soon
as he comes. Get out of the way, boys," and Eph raised the window
to get good aim.  

"There he  is! Fire away, and don't miss!" cried Seth, hastily
following Sol, who had climbed to the top of the dresser as a good
perch from which to view the approaching fray.  

Prue retired  to the hearth as if bent on dying at her post
rather than desert the turkey, now "browning beautiful," as
she expressed it. But Tilly boldly stood at the open window, ready
to lend a hand if the enemy proved too much for Eph.  

All had  seen bears, but none had ever come so near before,
and even brave Eph felt that the big brown beast slowly trotting
up the dooryard was an unusually formidable specimen. He was growling
horribly, and stopped now and then as if to rest and shake himself.

"Get the  ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to keep
him off while I load again," said Eph, anxious to kill his first
bear in style and alone; a girl's help didn't count.  

Tilly flew  for the ax, and was at her brother's side by the
time the bear was near enough to be dangerous. He stood on his
hind legs, and seemed to sniff with relish the savory odors that
poured out of the window.  

"Fire, Eph!"  cried Tilly, firmly.  

"Wait till  he rears again. I'll get a better shot then"
answered the boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out the bang,
and the small boys cheered from their dusty refuge among the
pumpkins.  

But a  very singular thing happened next, and all who saw it
stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the ax, flung open
the door, and ran straight into the arms of the bear, who stood
erect to receive her, while his growlings changed to a loud "Haw,
haw!" that startled the children more than the report of a gun.

"It's Gad  Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried Eph, much disgusted
at the loss of his prey, for these hardy boys loved to hunt and
prided themselves on the number of wild animals and birds they
could shoot in a year.  

"Oh, Gad,  how could you scare us so?" laughed Tilly, still
held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, while the other drew a
dozen oranges from some deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and
fired them into the kitchen with such good aim that Eph ducked,
Prue screamed, and Sol and Seth came down much quicker than they
went up.  

"Wal, you  see I got upsot over yonder, and the old horse went
home while I was floundering in a drift, so I tied on the buffalers
to tote 'em easy, and come along till I see the children playin'
in the holler. I jest meant to give 'em a little scare, but they
run like partridges, and I kep' up the joke to see how Eph would
like this sort of company," and Gad haw-hawed again.  

"You'd have  had a warm welcome if we hadn't found you out.
I'd have put a bullet through you in a jiffy, old chap," said
Eph, coming out to shake hands with the young giant, who was only
a year or two older than himself.  

"Come in  and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have done
it all ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon," cried
Tilly, trying to escape.  

"Couldn't, no  ways. My folks will think I'm dead ef I don't
get along home, sence the horse and sleigh have gone ahead empty
I've done my arrant and had my joke; now I want my pay, Tilly,"
and Gad took a hearty kiss from the rosy cheeks of his "little
sweetheart," as he called her. His own cheeks tingled with the
smart slap she gave him as she ran away, calling out that she hated
bears and would bring her ax next time.  

"I ain't  afeared--your sharp eyes found me out: and ef you
run into a bear's arms you must expect a hug," answered Gad,
as he pushed back the robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly.

"I should  have known you in a minute if I hadn't been asleep
when the girls squalled. You did it well, though, and I advise
you not to try it again in a hurry, or you'll get shot," said
Eph, as they parted, he rather crestfallen and Gad in high glee.

"My sakes  alive--the turkey is all burnt one side, and the
kettles have biled over so the pies I put to warm are all ashes!"
scolded Tilly, as the flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner.

"Well, I  can't help it. I couldn't think of victuals when I
expected to be eaten alive myself, could I?" pleaded poor Prue,
who had tumbled into the cradle when the rain of oranges began.

Tilly laughed,  and all the rest joined in, so good humor was
restored, and the spirits of the younger ones were revived by sucks
from the one orange which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity
while the older girls dished up the dinner. They were just struggling
to get the pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out: "Here's Pa!"  
"There's folks  with him," added Rhody.  

"Lots of  'em! I see two big sleighs chock full," shouted Seth,
peering through the dusk.  

"It looks  like a semintary. Guess Gran'ma's dead and come
up to be buried here," said Sol, in a solemn tone. This startling
suggestion made Tilly, Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full
of dismay at such an ending of their festival.  

"If that  is a funeral, the mourners are uncommonly jolly,"
said Eph, dryly, as merry voices and loud laughter broke the white
silence without.  

"I see  Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty--and there's Mose and
Amos. I do declare, Pa's bringin' 'em all home to have some fun
here," cried Prue, as she recognized one familiar face after another.

"Oh, my  patience! Aeneid I glad I got dinner, and don't I hope
it will turn out good!" exclaimed Tilly, while the twins pranced
with delight, and the small boys roared:  

"Hooray for  Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin'!"  

The cheer  was answered heartily, and in came Father, Mother,
Baby, aunts, and cousins, all in great spirits; and all much surprised
to find such a festive welcome awaiting them.  

"Ain't Gran'ma  dead at all?" asked Sol, in the midst of the
kissing and handshaking.  

"Bless your  heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr. Chadwick's.
He's as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother
was mendin' fast, and she wanted me to come down today, certain
sure, he got the message all wrong, and give it to the fust person
passin' in such a way as to scare me 'most to death, and send us down
in a hurry. Mother was sittin' up as chirk as you please, and dreadful
sorry you didn't all come."  

"So, to  keep the house quiet for her, and give you a taste
of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to spend the evenin', and
we are goin' to have a jolly time on't, to jedge by the looks of
things," said Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing the tale when Mrs.
Bassett paused for want of breath.  

"What in  the world put it into your head we was comm', and
set you to gittin' up such a supper?" asked Mr. Bassett, looking
about him, well pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table.

Tilly modestly  began to tell, but the others broke in and sang
her praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears, pigs, pies, and
oranges were oddly mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by
all, and Tilly and Prue were so elated by the commendation of Ma
and the aunts, that they set forth their dinner, sure everything
was perfect.  

But when  the eating began, which it did the moment wraps were
off; then their pride got a fall; for the first person who tasted
the stuffing (it was big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to
bear) nearly choked over the bitter morsel.  

"Tilly Bassett,  whatever made you put wormwood and catnip
in your stuffin'?" demanded Ma, trying not to be severe, for all
the rest were laughing, and Tilly looked ready to cry.  

"I did  it," said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which caused
Pa to kiss her on the spot, and declare that it didn't do a mite
of harm, for the turkey was all right.  

"In ever  see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is well
done, and the dinner a credit to you, my dears," declared Aunt
Cinthy, with her mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised.

The pudding  was an utter failure in spite of the blazing brandy
in which it lay--as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on
Squire Dunkin's great gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight,
and all fell upon the pies, which were perfect. But Tilly and
Prue were much depressed, and didn't recover their spirits till
dinner was over and the evening fun well under way.  

"Blind-man's bluff,"  "Hunt the slipper," "Come, Philander,
" and other lively games soon set everyone bubbling over with
jollity, and when Eph struck up "Money Musk" on his fiddle, old
and young fell into their places for a dance. All down the long
kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs. Bassett at the top, the twins
at the bottom, and then away they went, heeling and toeing, cutting
pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a way that would convulse modern
children with their new-fangled romps called dancing. Mose and
Tilly covered themselves with glory by the vigor with which they
kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a chair, breathlessly
declaring that a very little of such exercise was enough for a
woman of her "heft."  

Apples and  cider, chat and singing, finished the evening, and
after a grand kissing all round, the guests drove away in the clear
moonlight which came out to cheer their long drive.  

When the  jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr. Bassett
said soberly, as they stood together on the hearth:  

"Children, we  have special cause to be thankful that the sorrow
we expected was changed into joy, so we'll read a chapter 'fore
we go to bed, and give thanks where thanks is due."  

Then Tilly  set out the light stand with the big Bible on it,
and a candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the firelight,
smiling as they listened with happy hearts to the sweet old words
that fit all times and seasons so beautifully.  

When the  good-nights were over, and the children in bed, Prue
put her arm round Tilly and whispered tenderly, for she felt her
shake, and was sure she was crying:  

"Don't mind  about the old stuffin' and puddin', deary--nobody
cared, and Ma said we really did do surprisin' well for such young
girls."  

The laughter  Tilly was trying to smother broke out then, and
was so infectious, Prue could not help joining her, even before
she knew the cause of the merriment.  

"I was  mad about the mistakes, but don't care enough to cry.
I'm laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I found him out.
I thought Mose and Amos would have died over it, when I told them,
it was so funny," explained Tilly, when she got her breath.  

"I was  so scared that when the first orange hit me, I thought
it was a bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as fast as I could.
It was real mean to frighten the little ones so," laughed Prue,
as Tilly gave a growl.  

Here a  smart rap on the wall of the next room caused a sudden
lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's voice was heard, saying warningly,
"Girls, go to sleep immediate, or you'll wake the baby."  

"Yes'm,"answered  two meek voices, and after a few irrepressible
giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an occasional snore from
the boys, or the soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their
part in this old-fashioned Thanksgiving.     


A Christmas Carol  In Four Staves
by Charles Dickens

This is Charles Dickens' own short version of A Christmas Carol
(The ful story first published in 1843).  Dickens gave public readings
of this special abridgement of Scrooge's tale on his lecture tours.

Stave 1: Marley's Ghost 

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about
that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the
clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it.
And Scrooge's name was good upon `Change for anything he chose
to put his hand to. 

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. 

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be
otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how
many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator,
his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole
mourner.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood,
years afterwards, above the warehouse door-- Scrooge and Marley.
The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people
new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes
Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him. 

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a
squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old
sinner! External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No
warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that
blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its
purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't
know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail,
and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one
respect. They often `came down' handsomely, and Scrooge never
did. 

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks,
`My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?'
No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him
what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life
inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the
blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him
coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts;
and then would wag their tails as though they said, `No eye at all is
better than an evil eye, dark master!' 

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge
his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human
sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call
`nuts' to Scrooge. 

Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas
Eve -- old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold,
bleak, biting foggy weather; and the city clocks had only just gone
three, but it was quite dark already.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep
his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of
tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the
clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal.
But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his
own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the
master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part.
Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm
himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong
imagination, he failed. 

`A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!' cried a cheerful voice.
It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so
quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. 

`Bah!' said Scrooge, `Humbug!' 

`Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Scrooge's nephew. `You don't
mean that, I am sure?' 

`I do.  Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you
but a time for paying bills without money, a time for finding
yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing
your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of
months presented dead against you? If I had my will, every idiot
who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be
boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly
through his heart.  He should!"

"Uncle!' 

`Nephew!' returned the uncle sternly, `keep Christmas in your own
way, and let me keep it in mine.' `Keep it!' `But you don't keep it.' 

`Let me leave it alone, then,' said Scrooge. `Much good may it do
you! Much good it has ever done you!' 

`There are many things from which I might have derived good, by
which I have not profited, I dare say,' `Christmas among the rest.
But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has
come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and
origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a
good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only
time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and
women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely,
and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-
travelers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on
other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a
scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me
good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!' 

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded.


`Let me hear another sound from you,' said Scrooge, `and you'll
keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a
powerful speaker, sir,' he added, turning to his nephew. `I wonder
you don't go into Parliament.' 

`Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.' 

Scrooge said that he would see him -- yes, indeed he did. He went
the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him
in that extremity first. 

`But why?' cried Scrooge's nephew. `Why?' 

`Why did you get married?' said Scrooge. 

`Because I fell in love.' 

`Because you fell in love!' growled Scrooge, as if that were the
only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry
Christmas. `Good afternoon!' 

`Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened.
Why give it as a reason for not coming now?' 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge. 

`I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be
friends?' 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge. 

`I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have
never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have
made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas
humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!' 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge. 

`And A Happy New Year!' 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge. 

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding.
The clerk, letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people
in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood,
with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers
in their hands, and bowed to him. 

`Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,' said one of the gentlemen,
referring to his list. `Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr.
Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?' 

`Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,' Scrooge replied. `He
died seven years ago, this very night.' 

`At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,' said the
gentleman, taking up a pen, `it is more than usually desirable that
we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute,
who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want
of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of
common comforts, sir.' 

`Are there no prisons?' asked Scrooge. But under the impression
that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the
multitude,' returned the gentleman, `a few of us are endeavouring
to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink. and means of
warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others,
when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I
put you down for?' 

`Nothing!'

`You wish to be anonymous?' 

`I wish to be left alone,' said Scrooge. `Since you ask me what I
wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at
Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to
support the establishments I have mentioned -- they cost enough;
and those who are badly off must go there.' 

`Many can't go there; and many would rather die.' 
`If they would rather die,' said Scrooge, `they had better do it, and
decrease the surplus population.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting- house arrived. With
an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted
the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed
his candle out, and put on his hat. 

`You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?' said Scrooge. 

`If quite convenient, sir.' 

`It's not convenient,' said Scrooge, `and it's not fair. If I was to stop
half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound?' 

"Yes, sir."

`And yet,' said Scrooge, `you don't think me ill-used, when I pay a
day's wages for no work.' 

"It was only once a year, sir."
`A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of
December!' said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. `But
I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next
morning.' 

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a
growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the
long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he
boasted no great-coat), went down a slide, at the end of a lane of
boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then
ran home as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff. 

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy
tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest
of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived
in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner.
They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building
up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could
scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young
house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten
the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for
nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as
offices.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the
knocker on the door, except that it was very large; also that
Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence
in that place; also, that Scrooge has as little of what is called fancy
about his as any man in the city of London. And yet Scrooge,
having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without
its undergoing any intermediate process of change, not a knocker,
but Marley's face. 

Marley's fac, with a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a
dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but it looked at Scrooge
as Marley used to look,-- ghostly spectacles turned up upon its
ghostly forehead.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker
again.  He said."pooh, pooh!" and closed the door with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room
above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's cellars below,
appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was
not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and
walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his
candle as he went. 

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap,
and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked
through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough
recollection of the face to desire to do that. 

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be.
Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the
grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel
(Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the
bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was
hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room
as usual. Old fire-guards, old shoes, two fish-baskets,
washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. 

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in;
double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured
against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown
and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take
his gruel. 

This was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if
some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the
wine merchant's cellar.

Then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then
coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. 

It came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room
before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as
though it cried `I know him; Marley's Ghost!'

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual
waistcoat, tights and boots. His body was transparent; so that
Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could
see the two buttons on his coat behind. 

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he
had never believed it until now. 

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom
through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he
felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the
very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin,;-
- he was still incredulous. 

`How now!' said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. `What do you
want with me?' 

`Much!'   Marley's voice, no doubt about it. 

`Who are you?' 

`Ask me who I was.' 

`Who were you then?'

`In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.' 

`Can you -- can you sit down?'

`I can.' 

`Do it, then.' 

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a
ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a
chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might
involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the
ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were
quite used to it. 

`You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost. 

`I don't.' said Scrooge. 

`What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your
senses?' 

`I don't know,'

`Why do you doubt your senses?' 

`Because,' said Scrooge, `a little thing affects them. A slight
disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an
undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a
fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of
grave about you, whatever you are!' 

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he
feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he
tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and
keeping down his horror.

But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off
the bandage round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors,
its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! 

`Mercy!' he said. `Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?' 
Why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?' 

`It is required of every man,' the Ghost returned, `that the spirit
within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel
far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is
condemned to do so after death. I cannot tell you all I would. A
very little more, is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay,
I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our
counting-house -- mark me! -- in life my spirit never roved beyond
the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys
lie before me!' 

`Seven years dead,' mused Scrooge. `And traveling all the time!' 
You travel fast?"

`On the wings of the wind,'

`You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven
years."

`O blind man, blind man! Not to know that ages of incessant
labour by immortal creatures for this earth must pass into eternity
before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed.  Not to
know that any Christian apirit working kindly in its little sphere,
whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast
means of usefulness.  Not to know that no space of regret can
make amends for one life's opportunities misused!  Yet I was like
this man; I once was like this man!"

`But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered
Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. 

`Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. `Mankind
was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity,
mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The
dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the
comprehensive ocean of my business!' 

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at
this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. 

`Hear me!' cried the Ghost. `My time is nearly gone.' 

`I will,' said Scrooge. `But don't be hard upon me! Don't be
flowery, Jacob! Pray!'

`I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and
hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring,
Ebenezer.' 

`You were always a good friend to me,' said Scrooge. `Thank `ee!' 

`You will be haunted by Three Spirits.' 

`Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?' I -- I think I'd
rather not,' said Scrooge. 

`Without their visits,' said the Ghost, `you cannot hope to shun the
path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls One.'
`Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third
upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to
vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake,
you remember what has passed between us!' 

It walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the
window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it
was wide open.

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the
Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with
his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say
`Humbug!' but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the
emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his
glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the
Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went
straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the
instant.

Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits 

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he
could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque
walls of his chamber, until suddenly the church clock tolled a
deep, dull, hollow,  melancholy ONE. 

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of
his bed were drawn aside by a strange figure.-- like a child: yet not
so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some
supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having
receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's
proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back,
was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it,
and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh
green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry
emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the
strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there
sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and
which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller
moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under
its arm. 

`Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to

`I am.' 

`Who, and what are you.'

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.' 

`Long Past?"

`No. Your past.'  The things that you will see with me are shadows
of the things that have been; they will have no consciousness of
us."

Scrooge then made bold to inquire what business brough him
there.

`Your welfare.'`Rise, and walk with me.' 

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather
and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was
warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he
was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap;
and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though
gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but
finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe
in supplication. 

`I am mortal, and liable to fall.' 

`Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon
his heart,' and you shall be upheld in more than this.' 

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood
in the busy thoroughfares of a city.  It was made plain enough by
the dressing of the shops that here, too, it was Christmas time. 
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge
if he knew it. 

`Know it! I apprenticed here.' 

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting
behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he
must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in
great excitement: `Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's
Fezziwig alive again.' 

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which
pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his
capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shows to
his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily,
rich, fat, jovial voice: `Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.' 

A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a young
man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-apprentice.

`Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night.
Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters
up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands,' before a
man can say Jack Robinson.' `Clear away, my lads, and let's have
lots of room here.

Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away,
or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It
was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were
dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and
watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire;
and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a
ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. 

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk,
and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In
came Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three
Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young
followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and
women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her
cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular
friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was
suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to
hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was
proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all
came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some
gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they
all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty
couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way;
down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages
of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the
wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got
there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.
When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his
hands to stop the dance, cried out,' Well done.' and the fiddler
plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for
that purpose.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances,
and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great
piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled,
and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect
of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler
(an artful dog, mind. The sort of man who knew his business better
than you or I could have told it him.) struck up Sir Roger de
Coverley.' Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs
Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out
for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who
were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no
notion of walking. 

But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times -- old
Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs
Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every
sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll
use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves.
They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't
have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of
them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all
through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner,
bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to
your place; Fezziwig cut -- cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink
with his legs.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and
Mrs Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door,
and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she
went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody
had retired but the two prentices, they did the same to them; and
thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their
beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop. 

"A small matter," said the Ghost,"to make these silly folks so full
of gratitude. He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money:-
- three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this
praise.?"

`It isn't that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking
unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. `It isn't that,
Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make
our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his
power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant
that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then. The
happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.' 

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped. 

"What is the matter.?"

`Nothing in particular,"

`Something, I think."

`No,' said Scrooge,' No. I should like to be able to say a word or
two to my clerk just now. That's all.' 

`My time grows short,' observed the Spirit. `Quick.' 

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could
see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw
himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. 

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a
mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears. 

`It matters little,' she said, softly to Scrooge's former self. `To you,
very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and
comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no
just cause to grieve.' 

`What Idol has displaced you.' he rejoined. 

`A golden one.' `You fear the world too much, I have seen your
nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion,
Gain, engrosses you. Have I not.' 

`What then.' he retorted. `Even if I have grown so much wiser,
what then. I am not changed towards you.' `Have I ever sought
release from our engagement?"

`In words? No. Never.' 

`In what, then?' 

`In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of
life; another Hope as its great end. If you were free to-day,
to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a
dowerless girl -- you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh
everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were
false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know
that your repentance and regret would surely follow. I do; and I
release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.' 

`Spirit! remove me from this place.' 

`I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,' said
the Ghost. `That they are what they are, do not blame me.' 

`Remove me.' Scrooge exclaimed,' I cannot bear it!`Leave me.
Take me back. Haunt me no longer!"

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost
with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any
effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning
high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over
him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action
pressed it down upon its head. 

As he struggled withe the Spirit he was conscious of being
exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and,
further, of being in his own bedroom. He had barely time to reel to
bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits 

Scrooge awoke in his own bedroom. There was no doubt about
that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls
and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect
grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened.
The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the
light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such
a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull
petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or
Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up
on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game,
poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of
sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot
chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,
immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made
the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this
couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see:, who bore a glowing
torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to
shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door. 

`Come in.'   `Come in. and know me better, man!' `I am the
Ghost of Christmas Present,' said the Spirit. `Look upon me.' `You
have never seen the like of me before.' exclaimed the Spirit. 

`Never,'

`Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family;
meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these
later years.' pursued the Phantom. 

`I don't think I have,' said Scrooge. `I am afraid I have not. Have
you had many brothers, Spirit.'
 
`More than eighteen hundred.'

`A tremendous family to provide for.'`Spirit,' conduct me where
you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a
lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach
me, let me profit by it.' 

`Touch my robe.' 

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. 

The room and its contents all vanished instantly and they stood in
the city streets on a snowy Christmas morning,

Scrooge and the Ghost passed on, invisible, straight to Scrooge's
clerk's; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and
stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinkling of his
torch. Think of that. Bob had but fifteen bob a-week himself; he
pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name;
and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed
house. 

Then up rose Mrs Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly
in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and
make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted
by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in
ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the
saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous
shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir
in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so
gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable
Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing
in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and
known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage
and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and
exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud,
although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the
slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to
be let out and peeled. 

`What has ever got your precious father then.' said Mrs Cratchit.
`And your brother, Tiny Tim. And Martha warn't as late last
Christmas Day by half-an-hour.' 

`Here's Martha, mother.' said a girl, appearing as she spoke. 

`Here's Martha, mother.' cried the two young Cratchits. `Hurrah.
There's such a goose, Martha!' 

`Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are.' said Mrs
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and
bonnet for her.

`We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl,' and
had to clear away this morning, mother!' 

`Well!. Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs Cratchit.
`Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless
ye!' 

`No, no. There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits,
who were everywhere at once. `Hide, Martha, hide!' 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at
least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down
before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to
look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny
Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron
frame. 

`Why, where's our Martha?' cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. 

`Not coming,' said Mrs Cratchit. 

`Not coming.' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high
spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church,
and had come home rampant. `Not coming upon Christmas Day!' 

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke;
so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran
into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and
bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding
singing in the copper. 

`And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs Cratchit, when she
had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter
to his heart's content. 

`As good as gold,' said Bob,' and better. Somehow he gets
thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest
things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the
people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it
might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who
made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.' 

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled
more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. 

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came
Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother
and sister to his stool before the fire; and while Bob, turning up his
cuffs -- as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more
shabby -- compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and
lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to
simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits
went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high
procession. 

Mrs Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little
saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with
incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce;
Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a
tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for
everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon
their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the
dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a
breathless pause, as Mrs Cratchit, looking slowly all along the
carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did,
and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one
murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim,
excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the
handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah. 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there
ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and
cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by
apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the
whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight
(surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate
it all at last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest
Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the
eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs
Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to
take the pudding up and bring it in. 

Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in
turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of
the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose
-- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All
sorts of horrors were supposed. 

Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A
smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a
laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a
minute Mrs Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with
the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing
in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with
Christmas holly stuck into the top. 

Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that
he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs Cratchit
since their marriage. Mrs Cratchit said that now the weight was off
her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the
quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large
family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit
would have blushed to hint at such a thing. 

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being
tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon
the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. 

Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob
Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's
elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a
custard-cup without a handle. 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming
looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily.
Then Bob proposed:  

`A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.' 

Which all the family re-echoed. 

`God bless us every one.' said Tiny Tim, the last of all. 

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool. Bob held
his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished
to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from
him. 

Scrooge raised his head speedily, on hearing his own name.

"Mr Scrooge!" said Bob' I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of
the Feast!"

"The Founder of the Feast indeed!"{ cried Mrs Cratchit,
reddening.  "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece opf my
mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it."

"My dear," said Bob, "the children!" Christmas day."

`It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,' said she, `on which one
drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as
Mr Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than
you do, poor fellow.' 

`My dear,' was Bob's mild answer, `Christmas Day.' 

`I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's,' said Mrs Cratchit,
`not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new
year. He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt.'
 
The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their
proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all,
but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the
family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party,
which was not dispelled for full five minutes. 

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before,
from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob
Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master
Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence
weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea
of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked
thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were
deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he
came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was
a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work
she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and
how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest;
to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had
seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord was
much about as tall as Peter;' at which Peter pulled up his collars so
high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All
this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and
by-and-bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the
snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it
very well indeed. 

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome
family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being
water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have
known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But, they
were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with
the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright
sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye
upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last. 

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, as this scene vanished, to hear a
hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to
recognise it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a bright,
dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side,
and looking at that same nephew. 

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while
there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the
world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour.
When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding his sides,
rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant
contortions: Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as
he. And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared
out lustily. 

`He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live.' cried Scrooge's
nephew. `He believed it too.' 

`More shame for him, Fred.' said Scrooge's niece, indignantly.
Bless those women; they never do anything by halves. They are
always in earnest. 

She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled,
surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed
made to be kissed -- as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots
about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and
the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head.
Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you
know; but satisfactory, 

`He's a comical old fellow,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that's the truth:
and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry
their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.' Who
suffers by his ill whims. Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his
head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the
consequence. He don't lose much of a dinner.' 

`Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted Scrooge's
niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to
have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner;
and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire,
by lamplight. 

`Well. I'm very glad to hear it,' said Scrooge's nephew, `because I
haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say,
Topper.' 

Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's
sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast,
who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat
Scrooge's niece's sister -- the plump one with the lace tucker: not
the one with the roses -- blushed. 

After tea, they had some music. For they were a musical family,
and knew what they were about, when they sung a Glee or Catch, I
can assure you: especially Topper, who could growl away in the
bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his
forehead, or get red in the face over it. 

But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while
they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and
never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a
child himself. Stop. There was first a game at blind-man's buff. Of
course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind
than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a
done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost
of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that plump
sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human
nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs,
bumping against the piano, smothering himself among the
curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where
the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had
fallen up against him (as some of them did), on purpose, he would
have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have
been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have
sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. 

`Here is a new game,' said Scrooge. `One half hour, Spirit, only
one.' 

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to
think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only
answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk
fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that
he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable
animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted
sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and
walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't
led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never
killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a
bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh
question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of
laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to
get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into
a similar state, cried out: 

`I have found it out. I know what it is, Fred. I know what it is.' 

`What is it.' cried Fred. 

`It's your Uncle Scrooge.' 

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment,
though some objected that the reply to `Is it a bear.' ought to have
been `Yes' 

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of
heart, that he would have drank to the unconscious company in an
inaudible speech.  But the whole scene passed off in the breath of
the last work spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were
again upon their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited,
but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds,
and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at
home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater
hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail,
in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief
authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he
left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts. Suddenly, as
they stood together in an open place, the bell struck twelve.

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last
stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old
Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom,
draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards
him. 

Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits 

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came,
Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through
which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. 

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its
head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one
outstretched hand. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke
nor moved. 

`I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.'
said Scrooge. The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its
hand. `Ghost of the Future!'' I fear you more than any spectre I
have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I
hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to
bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not
speak to me.' 

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. 

`Lead on.' said Scrooge. `Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it
is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit.' 

They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed
to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But
there they were, in the heart of it; on Change, amongst the
merchants.

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men.
Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to
listen to their talk. 

`No,' said a great fat man with a monstrous chin,' I don't know
much about it, either way. I only know he's dead.' 

`When did he die.' inquired another. 

`Last night, I believe.' 

`Why, what was the matter with him.I thought he'd never die.' 

`God knows,' said the first, with a yawn. 

`What has he done with his money.' asked a red-faced gentleman
with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook
like the gills of a turkey-cock. 

`I haven't heard,' said the man with the large chin, yawning again.
`Left it to his Company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I
know. By, By."

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should
attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but
feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set
himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely
be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old
partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was the Future. 

He looked about in that very place for his own image; but another
man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed
to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of
himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It
gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his
mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born
resolutions carried out in this. 

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the
town, to a low shop iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal,
were bought. A grey-haired rascal, of great age, sat and smoked his
pipe. Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man,
just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she
had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came
in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who
was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon
the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank
astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them,
they all three burst into a laugh. 

`Let the charwoman alone to be the first.' cried she who had
entered first. `Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the
undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a
chance. If we haven't all three met here without meaning it.' 

`You couldn't have met in a better place.  You were made free of it
long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers.  What have
you got to sell? What have you got to sell?"

"Half a minute's patience, Joe, and you shall see."
 
`What odds then. What odds, Mrs Dilber.' said the woman. `Every
person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did.'
Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these. Not a dead
man, I suppose.' 

`No, indeed,' said Mrs Dilber, laughing. 

`If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked old screw,'
pursued the woman,' why wasn't he natural in his lifetime. If he
had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was
struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone
by himself.' 

`It's the truest word that ever was spoke,' said Mrs Dilber. `It's a
judgment on him.' 

`I wish it was a little heavier judgment,' replied the woman;' and it
should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my
hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me
know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first,
nor afraid for them to see it.

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening
it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large
and heavy roll of some dark stuff. 

`What do you call this.' said Joe. `Bed-curtains.' 

`Ah. Bed-curtains! Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now.' 

`His blankets.' asked Joe. 

`Whose else's do you think.' replied the woman. `He isn't likely to
take cold without them, I dare say.' Ah. you may look through that
shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a
threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd
have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me.' 

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. 

`Spirit.'  I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my
own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this.' 

The scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare,
uncurtained bed. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight
upon the bed; and one it, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the
body of this plundered unknown man. 

"Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said
Scrooge;' or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now, will
be for ever present to me.' 

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his
feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find
himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob
Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the
mother and the children seated round the fire. 

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues
in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before
him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. But
surely they were very quiet. 

`And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.' 

Where had Scrooge heard those words. He had not dreamed them.
The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the
threshold. Why did he not go on. 

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to
her face. 

`The colour hurts my eyes,' she said. 

The colour. Ah, poor Tiny Tim. 

`They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. `It makes them
weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your
father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his
time.' 

`Past it rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. `But I think
he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings,
mother.' 

`I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny
Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.' 

`And so have I,' cried Peter. `Often.' 

`And so have I,' exclaimed another. So had all. 

`But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her
work,' and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no
trouble. And there is your father at the door.' 

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter -- he
had need of it, poor fellow -- came in. His tea was ready for him
on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then
the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a
little cheek, against his face, as if they said,' Don't mind it, father.
Don't be grieved.' 

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the
family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the
industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls. They would be
done long before Sunday, he said. 

`Sunday. You went to-day, then, Robert.' said his wife. 

`Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. `I wish you could have gone. It
would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll
see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday.
My little, little child.' cried Bob. `My little child.' 

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have
helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps
than they were. 

`Spectre,' said Scrooge,' something informs me that our parting
moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what
man that was whom we saw lying dead.' 

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him to a dismal,
wretched, ruinous churchyard.

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One.

`Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,' said
Scrooge, `answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the
things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be,
only.' 

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. 

`Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if
persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. `But if the courses be
departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you
show me.' 

The Spirit was immovable as ever. 

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the
finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name,
Ebenezer Scrooge. 

`Am I that man who lay upon the bed?`No, Spirit. Oh no, no.'
`Spirit! hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I
must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am
past all hope? Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you
have shown me, by an altered life.' 

The kind hand trembled. 

`I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.
I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all
Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that
they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this
stone.' 

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate aye reversed,
he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk,
collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room
was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his
own, to make amends in! 

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the
lustiest peals he had ever heard. 

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog,
no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, golden day.
 
`What's to-day.' cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in
Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. 

`Eh?'

`What's to-day, my fine fellow.'

`To-day! Why, Christmas Day.' 

`It's Christmas Day.' said Scrooge to himself. `I haven't missed it.
Hallo, my fine fellow.' 

`Hallo!'
`Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the
corner.'

`I should hope I did,' replied the lad. 

`An intelligent boy.' said Scrooge. `A remarkable boy. Do you
know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up
there -- Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?' 

`What, the one as big as me?'

`What a delightful boy.' said Scrooge. `It's a pleasure to talk to
him. Yes, my buck.' 

`It's hanging there now.'

`Is it. Go and buy it.' 

`Walk-er.' exclaimed the boy. 

`No, no, I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it
here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come
back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with
him in less than five minutes and I'll give you half-a-crown.' 

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a
trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast. 

`I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's.' whispered Scrooge, rubbing his
hands, and splitting with a laugh. `He shan't know who sends it. It's
twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as
sending it to Bob's will be.' 

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but
write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street
door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man.

It was a Turkey. He never could have stood upon his legs, that
bird. He would have snapped them short off in a minute, like sticks
of sealing-wax. 

Scrooge dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into
the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had
seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with
his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted
smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or
four good-humoured fellows said,' Good morning, sir. A merry
Christmas to you.' And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all
the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his
ears. 

In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. 

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go
up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it: 

`Is your master at home, my dear.' said Scrooge to the girl. Nice
girl. Very. 

`Yes, sir.' 

`Where is he, my love.' said Scrooge. 

`He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress.

' He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his hand already on the
dining-room lock. `I'll go in here, my dear.' 

`Fred.' said Scrooge. 

`Why bless my soul.' cried Fred,' who's that.' 

`It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me
in, Fred.' 

Let him in. It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at
home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked
just the same. So did Topper when he came. So did the plump
sister when she came. So did every one when they came.
Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity,
wonderful happiness. 

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early
there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit
coming late. That was the thing he had set his heart upon. 

And he did it; yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A
quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half
behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he
might see him come into the tank. 

Bob's hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too.
He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he
were trying to overtake nine o'clock. 

`Hallo.' growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he
could feign it. `What do you mean by coming here at this time of
day.' 

`I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. `I am behind my time.' 

`You are.' repeated Scrooge. `Yes. I think you are. Step this way,
sir, if you please.' 

`It's only once a year, sir,' pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank.
`It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.' 

`Now, I'll tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge,' I am not going to
stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,' he continued,
leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat
that he staggered back into the Tank again;' and therefore I am
about to raise your salary.' 

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. 

`A merry Christmas, Bob,' said Scrooge, with an earnestness that
could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. `A merrier
Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a
year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling
family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a
Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob. Make up the fires, and
buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit.' 

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely
more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father.
He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man,
as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or
borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the
alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for
he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this
globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of
laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be
blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle
up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.
His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. 

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total
Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of
him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive
possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of
us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One! 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the
season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a
pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning
papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a
wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and
disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in
several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose
of examination.   "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."  
"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results.
The matter is a perfectly trivial one" -- he jerked his thumb in the
direction of the old hat -- "but there are points in connection with it which
are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction."   I seated
myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for
a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals.
"I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely as it looks, this thing has some
deadly story linked on to it -- that it is the clue which will guide you in the
solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime."   "No, no.
No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of those whimsical
little incidents which will happen when you have four million human
beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid
the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible
combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little
problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without
being criminal. We have already had experience of such."   "So much so,"
l remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes,
three have been entirely free of any legal crime."   "Precisely. You allude
to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of
Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted
lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same
innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"   "Yes." 
 "It is to him that this trophy belongs." 

 "It is his hat." 

 "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon
it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as
to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with
a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in
front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on
Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow,
was returning from some small jollification and was making his way
homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the
gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white
goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street,
a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of
the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind
him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his
assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing
an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his
goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets
which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled
at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field
of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat
and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."   "Which surely he restored
to their owner?" 

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry
Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg,
and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible upon the lining of this
hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of
Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to
any one of them."   "What, then, did Peterson do?" 

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose
we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the
slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary
delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny
of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman
who lost his Christmas dinner."   "Did he not advertise?" 

"No." 

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"   "Only as much as
we can deduce." 

"From his hat?" 

"Precisely." 

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?"   

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as
to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"   I took the
tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very
ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for
wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured.
There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H.
B." were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a
hatsecurer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked,
exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to
have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them
with ink.   "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.   "On
the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason
from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences."  
"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"   He
picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which
was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have
been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences which are very
distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of
probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious
upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last
three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight,
but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which,
when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil
influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for
the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him."   "My dear
Holmes!" 

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair
which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with
lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from
his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas
laid on in his house."   "You are certainly joking, Holmes." 

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"   "I have no doubt
that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you.
For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?"   For
answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a question of cubic
capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain must have something in
it."   "The decline of his fortunes, then?" 

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in
then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and
the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat
three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone
down in the world."   "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about
the foresight and the moral retrogression?"   Sherlock Holmes laughed.
"Here is the foresight," said he putting his finger upon the little disc and
loop of the hat-securer. "They are never sold upon hats. If this man
ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out
of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that
he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious
that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some
of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that
he has not entirely lost his self-respect."   "Your reasoning is certainly
plausible." 

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it
has been recently cut, and that he uses limecream, are all to be gathered
from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens
discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the
barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of
lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, gray dust of the
street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been
hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the
inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could
therefore, hardly be in the best of training."   "But his wife -- you said that
she had ceased to love him."   "This hat has not been brushed for weeks.
When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust
upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I
shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's
affection."   "But he might be a bachelor." 

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird's leg."   "You have an answer to
everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in
his house?"   "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but
when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow --
walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering
candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gasjet. Are
you satisfied?"   "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since,
as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm
done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
energy."   Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door
flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
astonishment.   "The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.  
"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the
kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a
fairer view of the man's excited face.   "See here, sir! See what my wife
found in its crop!" He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of
the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in
size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point
in the dark hollow of his hand.   Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle.
"By Jove, Peterson!" said he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you
know what you have got?"   "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into
glass as though it were putty."   "It's. more than a precious stone. It is the
precious stone."   "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I
ejaculated.   "Precisely so. l ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I
have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward
offered of 1000 pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the
market price."   "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The
commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the
other of us.   "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she