A CHRISTMAS CAROL (IN PROSE BEING, A Ghost Story of Christmas)<\/p>\n
by Charles Dickens<\/p>\n
(OCF editing – Part 15)<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in<\/strong><\/p>\n showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind,<\/strong><\/p>\n generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor<\/strong><\/p>\n men, that led him straight to Scrooge’s clerk’s; for there he<\/strong><\/p>\n went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and<\/strong><\/p>\n on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped<\/strong><\/p>\n to bless Bob Cratchit’s dwelling with the sprinkling of his<\/strong><\/p>\n torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen “Bob” a-week<\/strong><\/p>\n himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his<\/strong><\/p>\n Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present<\/strong><\/p>\n blessed his four-roomed house!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out<\/strong><\/p>\n but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons,<\/strong><\/p>\n which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and<\/strong><\/p>\n she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of<\/strong><\/p>\n her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter<\/strong><\/p>\n Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and<\/strong><\/p>\n getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob’s private<\/strong><\/p>\n property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the<\/strong><\/p>\n day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly<\/strong><\/p>\n attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks.<\/strong><\/p>\n And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing<\/strong><\/p>\n in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the<\/strong><\/p>\n goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious<\/strong><\/p>\n thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced<\/strong><\/p>\n about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the<\/strong><\/p>\n skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked<\/strong><\/p>\n him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up,<\/strong><\/p>\n knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and<\/strong><\/p>\n peeled.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “What has ever got your precious father then?” said Mrs.<\/strong><\/p>\n Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha<\/strong><\/p>\n warn’t as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour?”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Here’s Martha, mother!” said a girl, appearing as she<\/strong><\/p>\n spoke.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Here’s Martha, mother!” cried the two young Cratchits.<\/strong><\/p>\n “Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Martha!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!”<\/strong><\/p>\n said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off<\/strong><\/p>\n her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “We’d a deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the<\/strong><\/p>\n girl, “and had to clear away this morning, mother!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Well! Never mind so long as you are come,” said Mrs.<\/strong><\/p>\n Cratchit. “Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have<\/strong><\/p>\n a warm, Lord bless ye!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “No, no! There’s father coming,” cried the two young<\/strong><\/p>\n Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. “Hide, Martha,<\/strong><\/p>\n hide!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father,<\/strong><\/p>\n with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe,<\/strong><\/p>\n hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned<\/strong><\/p>\n up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his<\/strong><\/p>\n shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and<\/strong><\/p>\n had his limbs supported by an iron frame!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking<\/strong><\/p>\n round.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Not coming!” said Bob, with a sudden declension in his<\/strong><\/p>\n high spirits; for he had been Tim’s blood horse all the way<\/strong><\/p>\n from church, and had come home rampant. “Not coming<\/strong><\/p>\n upon Christmas Day!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, if it were only<\/strong><\/p>\n in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet<\/strong><\/p>\n door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits<\/strong><\/p>\n hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house,<\/strong><\/p>\n that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit,<\/strong><\/p>\n when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had<\/strong><\/p>\n hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he<\/strong><\/p>\n gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the<\/strong><\/p>\n strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home,<\/strong><\/p>\n that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he<\/strong><\/p>\n was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember<\/strong><\/p>\n upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind<\/strong><\/p>\n men see.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and<\/strong><\/p>\n trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing<\/strong><\/p>\n strong and hearty.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back<\/strong><\/p>\n came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by<\/strong><\/p>\n his brother and sister to his stool before the fire; and while<\/strong><\/p>\n Bob, turning up his cuffs–as if, poor fellow, they were<\/strong><\/p>\n capable of being made more shabby–compounded some hot<\/strong><\/p>\n mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round<\/strong><\/p>\n and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter,<\/strong><\/p>\n and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the<\/strong><\/p>\n goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose<\/strong><\/p>\n the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a<\/strong><\/p>\n black swan was a matter of course–and in truth it was<\/strong><\/p>\n something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made<\/strong><\/p>\n the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot;<\/strong><\/p>\n Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour;<\/strong><\/p>\n Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted<\/strong><\/p>\n the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny<\/strong><\/p>\n corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for<\/strong><\/p>\n everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard<\/strong><\/p>\n upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest<\/strong><\/p>\n they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be<\/strong><\/p>\n helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was<\/strong><\/p>\n said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs.<\/strong><\/p>\n Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared<\/strong><\/p>\n to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the<\/strong><\/p>\n long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of<\/strong><\/p>\n delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim,<\/strong><\/p>\n excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with<\/strong><\/p>\n the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n