A CHRISTMAS CAROL (IN PROSE BEING, A Ghost Story of Christmas)<\/p>\n
by Charles Dickens<\/p>\n
(OCF editing – Part 14)<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game,<\/strong><\/p>\n poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings,<\/strong><\/p>\n fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room,<\/strong><\/p>\n the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood<\/strong><\/p>\n in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the<\/strong><\/p>\n weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and<\/strong><\/p>\n not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the<\/strong><\/p>\n pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of<\/strong><\/p>\n their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see<\/strong><\/p>\n it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting<\/strong><\/p>\n into artificial little snow-storms.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows<\/strong><\/p>\n blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow<\/strong><\/p>\n upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground;<\/strong><\/p>\n which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by<\/strong><\/p>\n the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed<\/strong><\/p>\n and re-crossed each other hundreds of times where the great<\/strong><\/p>\n streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace<\/strong><\/p>\n in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy,<\/strong><\/p>\n and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist,<\/strong><\/p>\n half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended<\/strong><\/p>\n in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great<\/strong><\/p>\n Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away<\/strong><\/p>\n to their dear hearts’ content. There was nothing very cheerful<\/strong><\/p>\n in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of<\/strong><\/p>\n cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest<\/strong><\/p>\n summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops<\/strong><\/p>\n were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another<\/strong><\/p>\n from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious<\/strong><\/p>\n snowball–better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest–<\/strong><\/p>\n laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it<\/strong><\/p>\n went wrong. The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the<\/strong><\/p>\n fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There were great, round,<\/strong><\/p>\n pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats<\/strong><\/p>\n of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out<\/strong><\/p>\n into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were<\/strong><\/p>\n ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in<\/strong><\/p>\n the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking<\/strong><\/p>\n from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went<\/strong><\/p>\n by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were<\/strong><\/p>\n pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there<\/strong><\/p>\n were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers’ benevolence<\/strong><\/p>\n to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might<\/strong><\/p>\n water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy<\/strong><\/p>\n and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among<\/strong><\/p>\n the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered<\/strong><\/p>\n leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squat and swarthy, setting<\/strong><\/p>\n off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great<\/strong><\/p>\n compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and<\/strong><\/p>\n beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after<\/strong><\/p>\n dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among<\/strong><\/p>\n these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and<\/strong><\/p>\n stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was<\/strong><\/p>\n something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and<\/strong><\/p>\n round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The Grocers’! oh, the Grocers’! nearly closed, with perhaps<\/strong><\/p>\n two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such<\/strong><\/p>\n glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the<\/strong><\/p>\n counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller<\/strong><\/p>\n parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled<\/strong><\/p>\n up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended<\/strong><\/p>\n scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even<\/strong><\/p>\n that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so<\/strong><\/p>\n extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight,<\/strong><\/p>\n the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and<\/strong><\/p>\n spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on<\/strong><\/p>\n feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs<\/strong><\/p>\n were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in<\/strong><\/p>\n modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that<\/strong><\/p>\n everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but<\/strong><\/p>\n the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful<\/strong><\/p>\n promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other<\/strong><\/p>\n at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left<\/strong><\/p>\n their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to<\/strong><\/p>\n fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in<\/strong><\/p>\n the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people<\/strong><\/p>\n were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which<\/strong><\/p>\n they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own,<\/strong><\/p>\n worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws<\/strong><\/p>\n to peck at if they chose.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and<\/strong><\/p>\n chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in<\/strong><\/p>\n their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the<\/strong><\/p>\n same time there emerged from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and<\/strong><\/p>\n nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners<\/strong><\/p>\n to the bakers’ shops. The sight of these poor revellers<\/strong><\/p>\n appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with<\/strong><\/p>\n Scrooge beside him in a baker’s doorway, and taking off the<\/strong><\/p>\n covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their<\/strong><\/p>\n dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind<\/strong><\/p>\n of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words<\/strong><\/p>\n between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he<\/strong><\/p>\n shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good<\/strong><\/p>\n humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame<\/strong><\/p>\n to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love<\/strong><\/p>\n it, so it was!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and<\/strong><\/p>\n yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners<\/strong><\/p>\n and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of<\/strong><\/p>\n wet above each baker’s oven; where the pavement smoked as<\/strong><\/p>\n if its stones were cooking too.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from<\/strong><\/p>\n your torch?” asked Scrooge.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “There is. My own.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?”<\/strong><\/p>\n asked Scrooge.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “To any kindly given. To a poor one most.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Why to a poor one most?” asked Scrooge.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Because it needs it most.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Spirit,” said Scrooge, after a moment’s thought, “I wonder<\/strong><\/p>\n you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should<\/strong><\/p>\n desire to cramp these people’s opportunities of innocent<\/strong><\/p>\n enjoyment.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n