 Trotty Vec and his daughter Meg. From Charles Dickens' children's stories, retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cadastra. Dickens' children's stories, retold by his granddaughter, Trotty Vec and his daughter Meg. Trotty seems a strange name for an old man, but it was given to Toby Vec because of his always going at a trot to do his errands, for he was a porter, and carried letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to send them by the post. He did not earn very much, and had to be out in all weathers and all day long. But Toby was of a cheerful disposition, and looked on the bright side of everything. His greatest joy was his daughter Meg, who loved him dearly. One cold day Toby had been trotting up and down in his usual place before the church, when the bells chimed twelve o'clock, which made Toby think of dinner. There's nothing, he remarked, more regular and coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular and coming round than dinner. That's the great difference between him. He went on talking to himself, never noticing who was coming near to him. Why, Father, Father! said a pleasant voice, and Toby turned to find his daughter's sweet, bright eyes close to his. Why, pet, said he, kissing her, what's to do? I didn't expect you to day, Meg. Neither did I expect to come, Father, said Meg, smiling. But here I am, and not alone, not alone. Why, you don't mean to say, observed Trotty, looking curiously at the covered basket she carried, that you— smell it, Father, dear, said Meg, only smell it, and guess what it is? Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket. Why, it's hot, he said. But to Meg's great delight, he could not guess what it was that smelled so good. At last he exclaimed in triumph, Why, what am I thinking of? It's tripe, and it was. Just as Toby was about to sit down to his dinner on the doorsteps of a big house close by, the chimes rang out again, and Toby took off his hat and said, Amen. Amen to the bells, Father? They broke in like a grace, my dear, said Trotty. They'd say a good one if they could, I'm sure. Many's the kind thing they say to me. How often have I heard them bells say, Toby-vek, Toby-vek, keep a good heart, Toby? A million times? More. Well, I never, cried Meg. While Toby ate his unexpected dinner with immense relish, Meg told him how her lover Richard, a young blacksmith, had brought his dinner to share with her, and had begged her to marry him on New Year's Day, the best and happiest day of the whole year. So went on, Meg. I wanted to make this a sort of holiday to you, as well as a dear and happy day to me, Father, and I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you. Just then Richard himself came up to persuade Toby to agree to their plan, and almost at the same moment a footman came out of the house and ordered them all off the steps, and some gentleman came out who called up Trotty and gave him a letter to carry. Toby trotted off to a very grand house where he was told to take the letter into the gentleman. While he was waiting he heard the letter read. It was from Alderman Cute to tell Sir Joseph Bowley that one of his tenants named Will Fern, who had come to London to try and get work, had been brought before him charged with sleeping in a shed, and asked if Sir Joseph wished him to be dealt leniently with or otherwise. To Toby's great disappointment the answer was given that Will Fern might be sent to prison as a vagabond, though his only fault was poverty. On the way home Toby ran against a man dressed like a countryman, carrying a fair-haired little girl. The man asked him the way to Alderman Cute's house. It's impossible, cried Toby, that your name is Will Fern. That's my name, said the man. Thereupon Toby told him what he had just heard and said, don't go there. Poor Will told him how he could not make a living in the country, and had come to London with his orphan niece to try and find a friend of her mother's and to endeavor to get some work, and wishing Toby a happy New Year was about to trudge wearily off again when Trotty caught his hand saying, Stay! The New Year can never be happy to me if I see the child and you go wandering away without a shelter for your heads. Come home with me. I'm a poor man living in a poor place, but I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it. And, lifting up the pretty little one, he trotted towards home, and rushing in, he set the child down before his daughter. The little girl ran into her arms at once, while Trotty ran round the room, saying, Here we are, and here we go. Here, Uncle Will, come to the fire. Meg, my precious darling, where's the kettle? Here it is, and here it goes, and it'll bile in no time. Why, Father, said Meg, you're crazy tonight, I think. Poor little feet, how cold they are. Oh, they're warmer now, exclaimed the child. They're quite warm now. No, no, no, said Meg. We haven't rubbed him half enough, and when they're done, we'll brush out the damp hair, and we'll bring some color to the poor pale face with fresh water, and then we'll be so gay and brisk and happy. The child sobbing, clasped her round the neck, saying, Oh, Meg, oh, dear Meg. Good gracious me, said Meg presently. Father's crazy. He's put the dear child's bonnet on the kettle and hung the lid behind the door. Trotty hastily repaired this mistake, and went off to find some tea and a rasher of bacon he fancied he had seen lying somewhere on the stairs. He soon came back and made the tea, and before long they were all enjoying the meal. After tea Meg took Lillian to bed, and Toby showed Wilfern where he was to sleep. Then he went to sit by the fire and read his paper, and fell asleep to have a wonderful dream so terrible and sad, that it was a great relief when he woke to find Meg sitting near him, putting some ribbons on her simple gown for her wedding, and looking so happy and young and blooming, that he jumped up to clasp her in his arms. But somebody came rushing in between them crying, No, not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year. A life of happy years, my darling life. Then in came Lillian and Wilfern, and a band of music with a flock of neighbors burst into the room shouting, A happy New Year, Meg. A happy wedding. Many of them. And the drum stepped forward and said, Trotty-Vec, it's got about that your daughter is to be married tomorrow, and there ain't a soul that knows you both, that don't wish you both all the happiness New Year can bring. And here we are to play it in and dance it in accordingly. Then Mrs. Chickenstocker came in. A good-humored cuddly woman, who to the delight of all turned out to be the friend of Lillian's mother for whom Wilfern had come to look, to wish Meg joy. And then the music struck up, and Trotty, making Meg and Richard, second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstocker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since, founded on his own peculiar trot. End of Trotty-Vec and His Daughter Meg, Recording by Cadastra There was once a man who did not like Christmas. His name was Scrooge, and he was a hard, sour-tempered man of business, intent only on saving and making money, and caring nothing for anyone. He paid the poor, hard-working clerk in his office as little as he could possibly get the work done for, and lived on as little as possible himself alone in two dismal rooms. He was never merry or comfortable or happy, and he hated other people to be so, and that was the reason why he hated Christmas, because people will be happy at Christmas, you know, if they possibly can. Well, it was Christmas Eve, a very cold and foggy one, and Mr. Scrooge, having given his poor clerk unwilling permission to spend Christmas Day at home, locked up his office, and went home himself in a very bad temper. After having taken some gruel, as he set over a miserable fire in his dismal room, he got into bed, and had some wonderful and disagreeable dreams, to which we will leave him, whilst we see how, tiny Tim, the son of his poor clerk spent Christmas Day. The name of this clerk was Bob Cratchit. He had a wife and five other children beside Tim, who was a weak and delicate little cripple, gentle and patient and loving, with a sweet face of his own, which no one could help looking at. It was Mr. Cratchit's delight to carry his little boy out on his shoulder to see the shops and the people, and today he had taken him to church for the first time. Whatever has got your precious father and your brother, tiny Tim, exclaimed Mrs. Cratchit, here's dinner all ready to be dished up. I've never known him so late on Christmas Day before. Here he is, mother, cried Belinda, and here he is, cried the other children. As Mr. Cratchit came in, his long comforter hanging three feet from under his threadbare coat. For cold as it was, the poor clerk had no topcoat. Tiny Tim was perched on his father's shoulder. And how did Tim behave, asked Mrs. Cratchit. As good as gold and better, replied his father, he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people in church, who saw he was a cripple, would be pleased to remember on Christmas Day who it was who made the lame to walk. Bless his sweetheart, said the mother in a trembling voice. Dinner was waiting to be dished up. Mrs. Cratchit proudly placed a goose upon the table. Belinda brought in the applesauce, and Peter the mashed potatoes, the other children set chairs, Tim's as usual close to his father's, and Tim was so excited that he wrapped the table with his knife, and carried, hurrah! After the goose came the pudding, all ablaze, with its sprig of holly in the middle, and was eaten to the last morsel. Then apples and oranges were set upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. And Mr. Cratchit served round some hot sweet stuff out of a jug as they closed round the fire, and said, A merry Christmas to us all, my dears, God bless us. God bless us every one, echoed Tiny Tim, and then they drank each other's health, and Mr. Scrooge's health, and told stories and sang songs. Now, in one of Mr. Scrooge's dreams on Christmas Eve, a Christmas spirit showed him his clerk's home. He saw them all, heard them drink his health, and he took special note of Tiny Tim himself. How Mr. Scrooge spent Christmas Day, we do not know. But on Christmas night he had more dreams, and the spirit took him again to his clerk's poor home. Upstairs, the father, with his face hidden in his hands, sat beside a little bed, on which lay a tiny figure white and still. Tiny Tim died because his father was too poor to give him what was necessary to make him well, you kept him poor, said the dream spirit to Mr. Scrooge. The father kissed the cold little face on the bed, and went downstairs, where the sprays of holly still remained about the humble room, and taking his hat, went out with a wistful glance at the little crutch in the corner as he shut the door. Mr. Scrooge saw all this. But, wonderful to relate, he woke the next morning feeling as he had never felt in his life before. Why, I am as light as a feather, and as happy as an angel, and as merry as a schoolboy, he said to himself, I hope everybody had a merry Christmas, and here's a happy New Year to all the world. Poor Bob Cratchit crept into the office a few minutes late, expecting to be scolded for it. But his master was there with his back to a good fire, and actually smiling, and he shook hands with his clerk, telling him heartily he was going to raise his salary, and asking quite affectionately after Tiny Tim. And mind you make up a good fire in your room before you set to work, Bob, he said, as he closed his own door. Bob could hardly believe his eyes and ears, but it was all true. Such doings as they had on New Year's Day had never been seen before in the Cratchit's home. Nor such a turkey as Mr. Scrooge sent them for dinner. Tiny Tim had his share too, for Tiny Tim did not die, not a bit of it. Mr. Scrooge was a second father to him from that day. He wanted for nothing, and grew up strong and hearty. Mr. Scrooge loved him, and well he might, for was it not Tiny Tim, who had unconsciously, through the Christmas dream spirit, touched his hard heart, and caused him to become a good and happy man? End of Tiny Tim, Recording by Cadastra Little Dombie from Trowell Stickins Children's Stories, Retold by His Granddaughter Little Dombie was the son of a rich city merchant, a cold stern and pompous man, whose life and interests were entirely absorbed in his own business. He was so desirous of having a son to associate with himself in the business, and make the house once more Dombie and son, in fact, as it was in name, that the little boy, who was at last born to him, was eagerly welcomed. There was a pretty little girl, six years old, but her father had taken little notice of her, of what use was a girl to Dombie and son, she could not go into the business. Little Dombie's mother died when he was born, but the event did not greatly disturb Mr. Dombie, and, since his son lived, what did it matter to him that his little daughter Florence was breaking her heart and loneliness for the mother who had loved and cherished her? During the first few months of his life, Little Dombie grew and flourished, and as soon as he was old enough to take notice, there was no one he loved so well as his sister Florence. In due time the baby was taken to church, and baptized by the name of Paul, his father's name. A grand and stately christening it was, followed by a grand and stately feast, and little Paul was declared by his godmother to be an angel, and the perfect picture of his own papa. But from that time Paul seemed to waste in pine, his healthy and thriving babyhood had received a check, and as for illnesses, there never was a blessed dear so put upon, his nurse said. By the time he was five years old, though he had the prettiest sweetest little face in the world, there was always a patient, wistful look upon it, and he was thin and tiny and delicate. He soon got tired, and had such old-fashioned ways of speaking and doing things, that his nurse often shook her head sadly over him. When he sat in his little arm chair with his father after dinner, they were a strange pair, so like and so unlike each other. What is money, papa? asked Paul on one of these occasions, crossing his tiny arms as well as he could, just as his fathers were crossed. Why, gold, silver, and copper, you know what it is well enough, Paul? answered his father. Oh yes, I mean, what can money do? Anything, everything, almost, replied Mr. Dombie, taking one of his son's wee hands. Paul drew his hand gently away. It didn't save me my mama, and it can't make me strong and big, said he. Why, you are strong and big, as big as such little people usually are, returned Mr. Dombie. No, replied Paul, sighing. When Florence was as little as me, she was strong and tall, and did not get tired of playing as I do. I am so tired sometimes, papa. Mr. Dombie's anxiety was aroused, and the doctor was sent for to examine Paul. The child is hardly so stout as we could wish, said the doctor. His mind is too big for his body. He thinks too much. Let him try, see air. See air does wonders for children. So it was arranged that Florence, Paul, and Nurse should go to Brighton, and stay in the house of a lady named Mrs. Pipchin, who kept a very select boarding-house for children. There is no doubt that, apart from his importance to the house of Dombie and son, little Paul had crept into his father's heart, cold though it still was towards his daughter, colder than ever now, for there was in it a sort of unacknowledged jealousy of the warm love lavished on her by Paul, which he himself was unable to win. Mrs. Pipchin was a marvelously ugly old lady, with a hook nose and stern cold eyes. Well, Master Paul, how do you think you will like me? said Mrs. Pipchin, seeing the child intently regarding her. I don't think I shall like you at all, replied Paul, shaking his head. I want to go away. I do not like your house. Paul did not like Mrs. Pipchin, but he would sit in his armchair and look at her. Her ugliness seemed to fascinate him. As the weeks went by, little Paul grew more healthy looking, but he did not seem any stronger, and could not run about out of doors. A little carriage was therefore God for him, in which he could be wheeled down to the beach, where he would pass the greater part of the day. He took a great fancy to a queer, crab-faced old man, smelling of seaweed, who wheeled his carriage and held long conversations with him. But Florence was the only child companion whom he ever cared to have with him, though he liked to watch other children playing in the distance. I love you, Floyd, he said one day to her. Florence lay her head against the pillow and whispered how much stronger he was growing. Oh yes, I know, I am a great deal better, said Paul, a very great deal better. Listen, Floyd, what is it the sea keeps saying? Nothing, dear, it is only the rolling of the waves you hear. Yes, but they are always saying something, and always the same thing. What places over there, Floyd? She told him there was another country opposite, but Paul said he did not mean that. He meant somewhere much farther away. Oh, much farther away! And often he would break off in the midst of their talk to listen to the sea and gaze out towards that country farther away. After having lived at Brighton for a year, Paul was certainly much stronger, though still thin and delicate. And in one of his weekly visits, Mr. Dombie explained to Mrs. Pipchin, with pompous condescension, that Paul's weak health, having kept him back in his studies, he had made arrangements to place him at the educational establishment of Dr. Blumber, which was close by. Florence was, for the present, to remain under Mrs. Pipchin's care and see her brother every week. Dr. Blumber's school was a great hot-house for the forcing of boys' brains, and Dr. Blumber promised speedily to make a man of Paul. Shall you like to be made a man of, my son? asked Mr. Dombie. I'd rather be a child and stay with Floyd, answered Paul. Ms. Blumber, the doctor's daughter, a learned lady in spectacles, was his special tutor, and from morning till night his poor brains were forced in cram till his head was heavy and always had a dull ache in it, and his small legs grew weak again. Every day he looked a little thinner and a little paler, and became more old-fashioned than ever in his looks and ways. Old-fashioned was a distinguishing title which clung to him. He was gentle and polite to everyone, always looking out for small kindnesses which he might do to any inmate of the house. The oddest and most old-fashioned child in the world, Dr. Blumber would say to his daughter, but bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on. And Cornelia did bring him on, and Florence, seeing how pale and weary the little fellow looked when he came to her on Saturdays, and how he could not rest from anxiety about his lessons, would lighten his labours a little and ease his mind by helping him to prepare his week's work. But one day, when his lessons were over, little Paul laid his weary and aching head against the knee of a school fellow of whom he was very fond, and the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was that the window was open, his face and hair were wet with water, and that Dr. Blumber and the usher were both standing looking at him. Ah, that's well, said Dr. Blumber, as Paul opened his eyes, and how is my little friend now? Oh, quite well, thank you, sir,' answered Paul, but when he got up there seemed something the matter with the floor, and the walls were dancing about, and Dr. Blumber's head was twice its natural size. He was put to bed, and presently the doctor came and said he was not to do any more lessons for the present. In a few days Paul was able to get up and creep about the house. He wondered sometimes why everyone looked at it and spoke so very kindly to him, and was more than ever careful to do any little kindnesses he could think of for them. Even the rough, ugly dog diogenes, who lived in the yard, came in for a share of his attentions. There was a party at Dr. Blumber's on the evening before the boys went home. Paul sat in a corner of the sofa all evening, and everyone was very kind to him indeed. It was quite extraordinary, Paul thought, and he was very happy. He liked to see how pretty Florence was, and how everyone admired and wished to dance with her. After resting for a night at Mrs. Pipchin's house, little Paul went home and was carried straight upstairs to his bed. He lay in his bed day after day, quite happily and patiently, content to watch and talk to Florence. He would tell her his dreams, and how he always saw the sunlit ripples of a river rolling, rolling fast in front of him. Sometimes he seemed to be rocking in a little boat on the water, and its motion lulled him to rest, and then he would be floating away, away to that shore farther off, which he could not see. One day he told Florence that the water was rippling brighter and faster than ever, and that he could not see anything else. My own boy, cannot you see your poor father? asked Mr. Domby, bending over him. Oh yes, but don't be so sorry, dear Papa. I am so happy. Goodbye, dear Papa. Presently he opened his eyes again and said, Floyd, Mama is like you. I can see her. Come close to me, Floyd, and tell them, whispered the dying boy, that the face of the picture of Christ on the staircase at school is not divine enough, the light from it is shining on me now, and the water is shining too, rippling so fast, so fast. The evening light shone into the room, but little Paul's spirit had gone out on the rippling water, and the divine face was shining on him from the farther shore. The Runaway Couple, from Charles Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cadastra. Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. The Runaway Couple. Supposing a young gentleman not eight years old was to run away with a fine young woman of seven, would you consider that a queer start? That there is a start as I, the boots at the Holly Tree Inn, have seen with my own eyes, and I clean the shoes they ran away in, and they was so little that I couldn't get my hand into him. Master Harry Walmer's father, he lived at the Elms, away by Shooters Hill, six or seven miles from London. He was uncommon proud of Master Henry, as was his only child, but he didn't spoil him neither. He was a gentleman that had a will of his own, and an eye of his own, and that would be minded. Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the fine bright boy, still he kept the command over him, and the child was a child. I was under Gardner there at the time. I, and one morning, Master Harry, he comes to me and says, Cobbs, how should you spell Nora, if you were asked? And he took out his little knife, and began cutting that name and primped all over the fence. The next day, as it might be, he stops, along with Miss Nora, where I was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says, speaking up, Cobbs, I like you. Why do I like you, do you think, Cobbs? Because Nora likes you. Indeed, sir, says I, that's very gratifying. Gratifying, Cobbs, says Master Harry, it's better than a million of the brightest diamonds to be liked by Nora. You're going away, ain't you, Cobbs? Then you shall be our head Gardner when we're married. And he tucks her and her little sky blue mantle under his arm and walks away. I was the boots at this identical holly-tree inn, when one summer afternoon the coach drives up, and out of the coach gets these two children. The young gentleman gets out, hands his lady out, and gives the guard something for himself, says to my governor, the landlord. Where to stop here tonight, please? Sitting room and two bedrooms will be required. Mutton chops and cherry-putting for two, and tucks her under his arm and walks into the house, much bolder than brass. I had seen him without their seeing me, and I gave the governor my views of the expedition they was upon. Cobbs says to the governor, if this is so I must set off myself and quiet their friend's minds, in which case you must keep your eye upon him, and humor him, until I come back. But before I take these measures, cops, I should wish you to find out from themselves whether your opinion is correct. So I goes upstairs, and there I finds Master Harry on an enormous sofa, drying the eyes of Miss Nora with his pocket-hanker-chief. Their little legs was entirely off the ground, of course, and it really is not possible to express how small them children looked. It's gobs! It's gobs! cried Master Harry, and he comes running to me. And catching hold of my hand, Miss Nora, she comes running to me on the other side, and catching hold of my other hand, and they both jump for joy. And what I had took to be the case was the case. We're going to be married, Cobbs, and Gretna Green, says the boy, we've run away on purpose. Nora has been in rather low spirits, Cobbs, but she'll be happy now we have found you to be our friend. I give you my word in honor upon that, by way of luggage the lady had got a parasol, a smelling bottle, a round and a half of cold buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a doll's hairbrush. The gentleman had got about a dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets of writing paper folded up surprisingly small, an orange, and a shaney mug with his name on it. What may be the exact nature of your plans, sir, says I. To go on replies the boy in the morning and be married tomorrow. Just so, sir, well, sir, if you will excuse my having the freedom to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I'm acquainted with a pony, sir, which would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmer's junior to the end of your journey in a very short space of time. I am not altogether sure, sir, that the pony will be at liberty tomorrow, but even if you had to wait for him it might be worth your while. They clapped their hands and jumped for joy and called me good Cobbs and dear Cobbs, and says I, is there anything you want at present, sir? We should like some cakes after dinner, answers Mr. Harry, and two apples and jam. With dinner we should like to have toast and water. But Nora has always been accustomed to half a glass of current wine at dessert, and so have I. They shall be ordered, sir, I answered, and away I went, and the way in which all the women in the house went on about that boy and his bold spirit was a thing to see. They climbed up all sorts of places to get a look at him, and they peeped, seven deep, through the keyhole. In the evening, after the governor had set off for the Elms, I went into the room to see how the runaway couple was getting on. The gentleman was on the window seat, supporting the lady in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and was lying very tired and half asleep, with her head upon his shoulder. Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior fatigued, sir? Yes, she's tired, Cobbs. She's been in low spirits again. She isn't used to being in a strange place, you see. Could you bring a Norfolk Biffin, Cobbs? I think that will do her good. Well, I fetched the Biffin, and Master Harry fed her with a spoon, but the lady being heavy with sleep and rather cross, I suggested bed, and called a chambermaid, but Master Harry must need escort her himself and carry the candle for her. After embracing her at her own door he retired to his room, where I softly locked him in. They consulted me at breakfast, they had ordered sweet milk and water and toast and current jelly overnight, about the pony, and I told them that it did unfortunately happen that the pony was half clipped, but that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that tomorrow morning at eight o'clock he would be ready. My own opinion is that Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior, was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it herself, and it getting into her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Mr. Harry. He sat behind his breakfast cup, tearing away at the jelly, as if he'd been his own father. In the course of the morning Master Harry rung the bell. It was surprising how that their boy did carry on, and said in a sprightly way, Cobbs, is there any good walks in the neighborhood? Yes, sir, there is love lane. Get out with you, Cobbs. That was there the mites expression. You're joking. Begging your pardon, sir, there really is a love lane, and a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior. Well, I took him down love lane to the water meadows, and there Master Harry would have drowned himself in another minute to getting out a water lily for her. But they was tired out. All being so new and strange to them, they were as tired as tired could be, and they laid down on a bank of daisies and fell asleep. They woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty clear to me, namely that. Mrs. Harry Walmers, junior's temper was on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said he teased her so, and when he says Nora, my young May Moon, your Harry teased you, she tells him, yes, and I want to go home. A boiled fowl, and baked bread and butter pudding, brought Mrs. Walmers up a little, but I could have wished I must privately own to have seen her more sensible to the voice of love and less abandoning herself to the currents in her pudding. However, Master Harry, he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday, and Master Harry did o' repeated. About eleven at night comes back the governor in a chaise, along of Master Harry's father and an elderly lady. And Master Harry's door being unlocked by me, Master Harry's father goes in, goes up to the bedside, bends gently down, and kisses the little sleeping face. Then he stands, looking at it for a moment, looking wonderfully like it, and then he gently shakes the little shoulder. Harry, my dear boy, Harry! Master Harry starts up and looks at his pa, such is the honour of that might, that he looks at me too, to see whether he has brought me into trouble. I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home. Guess pa! Master Harry dresses himself quick. Please, may I, please, dear pa, may I kiss Nora before I go? Master Harry's father, he takes Master Harry in his hand, and I leads the way with the candle to that other bedroom where the elderly lady is seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers Jr. is fast asleep. There the father lifts the boy up to the pillow, and he lays his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers Jr. and gently draws it to him. And that's all about it. Master Harry's father drove away in the chaise, having hold of Master Harry's hand. The elderly lady, Mrs. Harry Walmers Jr., that was never to be, she married a captain long after and went to India, went off next day. End of The Runaway Couple, Recording by Cadastra Poor Joe, from Charles Dickens' children's stories, retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, Recording by Cadastra Dickens' children's stories, retold by his granddaughter. Poor Joe Joe was a crossing sweeper. Every day he swept up the mud and begged for pennies from the people who passed. Poor Joe wasn't pretty and he wasn't clean. His clothes were only a few poor rags that hardly protected him from the cold and the rain. He had never been to school, and he could neither write nor read, could not even spell his own name. Poor Joe, he was ugly and dirty and ignorant, but he knew one thing—that it was wicked to tell a lie, and knowing this he always told the truth. One other thing Poor Joe knew too well, and that was what being hungry means, for little Joe was very poor. He lived in Tom all alone, one of the most horrible places in all London. The people who live in this dreadful den are the poorest of London poor. All miserably clad, all dirty, all very hungry. They know and like Joe, for he is always willing to go on errands for them, and does them many little acts of kindness. No one in Tom all alone is spoken of by his name. Thus it is that if you inquired there for a boy named Joe, you would be asked whether you meant carrots, or the kernel, or gallows, or young chisel, or terrier tip, or lanky, or the brick. Joe was generally called toughy, although a few superior persons who affected a dignified style of speaking called him the tough subject. Joe used to say he had never had but one friend. It was one cold winter night, when he was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, that a dark-haired, rough-bearded man turned to look at him, and then came back and began to talk to him. Have you a friend, boy? he asked presently. No, never had none. Neither have I, not one. Take this, and good night. And so saying the man, who looked very poor and shabby, put into Joe's hand the price of a supper and a night's lodging. Often afterwards the stranger would stop to talk with Joe and give him money Joe firmly believed whenever he had any to give. When he had none he would merely say, I am as poor as you are today, Joe, and pass on. One day Joe was fetching away from his crossing to a public house, where the coroner was holding an inquest. An inquitch, Joe called it. Did the boy know the deceased? asked the coroner. Indeed, Joe had known him, it was his only friend who was dead. He was very good to me he was, was all poor Joe could say. The next day they buried the dead man in the churchyard hard by, but that night there came a slouching figure through the court to the iron gate. It stood looking in for a little while. Then with an old broom it softly swept the step and made the archway clean. It was poor Joe, and as he went away he softly said to himself, he was very good to me, he was. Now there happened to be at the inquest a kind-hearted man named Snagsby, and he pitied Joe so much that he gave him half a crown. Joe was very sad after the death of his one friend, the more so as his friend had died in great poverty and misery, with no one near him to care whether he lived or not. A few days after the funeral, while Joe was still living on Mr. Snagsby's half-crown, he was standing on his crossing as the day closed in when a lady, closely veiled and plainly dressed, came up to him. Are you the boy Joe who was examined at the inquest? she asked. That's me, said Joe. Come farther up the court I want to speak to you. What? About him as was dead? Do you know him? How dare you ask me if I knew him? No offence, my lady, said Joe humbly. Listen and hold your tongue. Show me the place where he lived, then where he died, then where they buried him. Go in front of me, don't look back once and I'll pay you well. Joe takes her to each of the places she wants to see. Then she draws off her glove, and Joe sees that she has sparkling rings on her fingers. She drops a coin in his hand and is gone. Joe holds the coin to the light and sees to his joy that it is a golden sovereign. But people in Joe's position in life find it hard to change a sovereign, for who will believe that they can come by it, honestly? So poor little Joe didn't get much of the sovereign for himself, for, as he afterwards told Mr. Snagsby, I had to pay five bob down in Tom All alone's before they'd square it for to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five while I was asleep, and a boy he thieved nine pence. In the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more of it. As time went on Joe's troubles began in earnest. The police turned him away from his crossing, and wheresoever they met him they ordered him to move on. Once a policeman, angry to find that Joe hadn't moved on, seized him by the arm and dragged him down to Mr. Snagsby's— What's the matter, Constable? asked Mr. Snagsby. This boy's as obstinate a young gone off as I know, although repeatedly told to, he won't move on. I'm always a moving on, cried Joe. Oh, my eye, where am I to move to? My instructions don't go to that, the Constable answered. My instructions are that you're to keep moving on. Now the simple question is, sir, turning to Mr. Snagsby, whether you know him, he says you do. Yes, I know him. Very well, I'll leave him here, but mind you keep moving on. The Constable then moved on himself, leaving Joe at Mr. Snagsby's. There was a little tea-party there that evening, and when Joe was at last allowed to go, Mr. Snagsby followed him to the door and filled his hands with the remains of the little feast they had had upstairs. And now Joe began to find life harder and rougher than ever. He lost his crossing altogether, and spent day after day in moving on. He remembered a poor woman he had once done a kindness to, who had told him she lived at St. Albans. And that a lady there had been very good to her. Perhaps she'll be good to me, thought Joe, and he started off to go to St. Albans. One Saturday night Joe reached that town very tired and very ill. Happily for him the woman met him and took him into her cottage. While he was resting there, a lady came in and asked him very kindly what was the matter. I'm a being frozen, then burnt up, and then frozen, burnt up again, ever so many times over in an hour, and my head's all sleepy, and all a-going round like, and I'm so dry, and my bones is nothing half so much bones as pain. Where are you going? Somewhere, replies Joe. I'm a being moved on, I am. Well, tonight you must come with me, and I'll make you comfortable. So Joe went with the lady to a great house not far off, and there they made a bed for him, and brought him tempting wholesome food. Everyone was very kind to him, but something frightened Joe, and he felt he could not stay there, and he ran out into the cold night air. Where he went he could never remember, for when he next came to his senses he found himself in a hospital. He stayed there for some weeks, and was then discharged, though still weak and ill. He was very thin, and when he drew a breath his chest was very painful. It draws, said Joe, as heavy as a cart. Now a certain young doctor, who was very kind to poor people, was walking through Tom all alone's one morning, when he saw a ragged figure coming along, crouching close to the dirty wall. It was Joe. The young doctor took pity on Joe. Come with me, he said, and I will find you a better place than this to stay in. For he saw that the lad was very, very ill. So Joe was taken to a clean little room, and bathed, and had clean clothes, and good food, and kind people about him once more, but he was too ill now, far too ill, for anything to do him any good. Let me lie here quiet, said poor Joe, and be so kind to anyone as his pass and nigh where I used to sweep, as to say to Mr. Snag's bee as Joe, what he knew once is a moving on. One day the young doctor was sitting by him, when suddenly Joe made a strong effort to get out of bed. Stay, Joe, where now? It's time for me to go to that there burying ground. What burying ground, Joe? Were they laid him as was very good to me, very good to me indeed he was. It's time for me to go down to that there burying ground, sir, and ask to be put along of him. I wants to go there and be buried. Will you promise to have me took there and laid along with him? I will indeed. Thank you, sir. There's a step there as I used to sweep with my broom. It's turned very dark, sir. Is there any light coming? It's coming fast, Joe. Then silence for a while. Joe, my poor fellow, I can hear you, sir, in the dark. Joe, can you say what I say? I'll say anything you say, sir, for I know as it's good. Our father. Our father, yes, that's very good, sir. Which art in heaven, art in heaven, is the light coming, sir? It's close at hand. Hallowed be thy name. Hallowed be thy. The light had come. Oh, yes, the light had come for Joe was dead. End of Poor Joe. Recording by Cadastra. The little Ken Wigs of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. The Little Ken Wigs. Mrs. Ken Wigs was the wife of an ivory turner, and though they only had a very humble home of two rooms in a dingy-looking house in a small street, they had great pretensions to being gentile. The little Miss Ken Wigs had their flaxen hair plaited into pigtails and tied with blue ribbons, and wore little white trousers with frills around their ankles, the highest fashion of that day. Besides being dressed with such elegance, the two eldest girls went twice a week to a dancing school. Mrs. Ken Wigs, too, had an uncle who collected the water rate, and she was therefore considered a person of great distinction, with quite the manners of a lady. On the eighth anniversary of their wedding day, Mr. Mrs. Ken Wigs invited a party of friends to supper to celebrate the occasion. The four eldest children were to be allowed to sit up to supper, and the uncle, Mr. Lilavik, had promised to come. The baby was put to bed in a little room, lent by one of the lady guests, and a little girl hired to watch him. All the company had assembled when a ring was heard, and Marlena, whose name had been invented by Mrs. Ken Wigs especially for her, ran down to open the door and lead in her distinguished great-uncle. Then the supper was brought in. The table was cleared. Mr. Lilavik established in the armchair by the fireside. The four little girls arranged on a small farm in front of the company with their flaxen tails towards them. Mrs. Ken Wigs was suddenly dissolved in tears and subbed out, They're so beautiful. Oh, dear, said all the ladies, so they are. It's very natural you should feel proud of that, but don't give way, don't. I can help it, and it don't signify, sobbed Mrs. Ken Wigs. Oh, they're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful. On hearing this dismal prophecy, all four girls screamed until their light flaxen tails vibrated again and rushed to bury their heads in their mother's lap. At length she was soothed and the children calmed down. While the ladies and gentlemen all said they were sure they would live for many, many years, and there was no occasion for their mothers to stress. And as the children were not so remarkably lovely, this was quite true. Then Mr. Lilavik talked to the company about his niece's marriage, and said graciously that he had always found Mr. Ken Wigs a very honest, well-behaved, upright, and respectable sort of man, and shook hands with him. And then Morellina and her sisters kissed their uncle and most of the guests. Then Miss Patalker, who could sing and recite in a way that brought tears to Mrs. Ken Wigs' eyes, remarked, Oh, dear Mrs. Ken Wigs, while Mr. Nox is making that punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morellina go through that figure dance before Mr. Lilavik. Well, I'll tell you what, said Mrs. Ken Wigs, Morellina shall do the steps if uncle can persuade Ms. Patalker to recite us the blood drinker's burial afterwards. Everyone clapped their hands and stamped their feet at this proposal. But Miss Patalker said, You know I disliked doing anything professional at private parties. Oh, but not here, said Mrs. Ken Wigs. You might as well be going through it in your own room, besides the occasion. No, I can't resist that, interrupted Ms. Patalker. Anything in my humble power I shall be delighted to do. In reality, Mrs. Ken Wigs and Ms. Patalker had arranged all the entertainment between them beforehand, but had settled that a little pressing on each side would look more natural. Then Ms. Patalker hummed a tune and Morellina danced. It was a very beautiful figure with a great deal of work for the arms and gained much applause. Then Ms. Patalker was entreated to begin her recitation, so she let down her back hair and went through the performance with great spirit and died raving mad in the arms of a bachelor friend who was to rush out and catch her at the words, in death expire, to the great delight of the audience and the terror of the little Ken Wigs's who were nearly frightened into fits. Just as the punch was ready and knock at the door startled them all, but it was only a friend of Mr. Noggs who lived upstairs, and it would come down to say that Mr. Noggs was wanted. Mr. Noggs hurried out, saying he would be back soon, and presently startled them all by rushing in, snatching up a candle and a tumbler of hot punch, and darting out again. Now it happened, unfortunately, that the tumbler, punch, was the very one that Mr. Lilavik was just going to lift to his lips, and the great man, the rich relation, who had it in his power to make more Lena and her sister's heiresses, and whom everyone was most anxious to please, was offended. Poor Mr. Ken Wigs endeavored to soothe him, but only made matters worse. Mr. Lilavik demanded his hat and was only induced to remain by Mrs. Ken Wigs' tears and the entreaties of the entire company. There, Ken Wigs, said Mr. Lilavik, and let me tell you, to show you how much out of temper I was that if I had gone away without another word, it would have made no difference respecting that pound or two which I shall leave among your children when I die. More Lena Ken Wigs, cried her mother, go down on your knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his life through, for he's more an angel than a man, and I've always said so. Just as all were happy again, everyone was startled by a rapid succession of the loudest and shrillest shrieks, apparently coming from the room where the baby was asleep. My baby! My blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby! My own darling, sweet, innocent Lilavik, let me go! screamed Mrs. Ken Wigs. Mr. Ken Wigs rushed out and was met at the door of the bedroom by a young man with the baby upside down in his arms, who came out so quickly that he knocked Mr. Ken Wigs down. Hending the child to his mother, he said, Don't be alarmed, it's all out, it's all over. The little girl, being tired, I suppose, fell asleep and set her hair on fire. I heard her cries and ran up in time to prevent her sending fire to anything else. The child is not hurt. I took it off the bed myself and brought it here to convince you. After they had all talked over this last excitement and discussed little Lilavik's deliverer, the collector pulled out his watch and announced that it was nearly two o'clock, and as the poor children had been for some time obliged to keep their little eyes open with their little forefingers, the company took leave, declaring they had never spent such a delightful evening, and that they wished Mr. and Mrs. Ken Wigs had a wedding day once a week. Many years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poor gentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money, was brought to the Marshall C. prison. As there seemed no prospect of being able to pay his debts, his wife and their two younger children came to live there with him. The elder child was a boy of three, the younger a girl of two years old, and not long afterwards another little girl was born. The three children played in the courtyard and were happy on the whole, for they were too young to remember a happier state of things. But the youngest child, who had never been outside the prison walls, was a thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world could be like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather, became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk, he bought a little armchair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, and coaxed her with cheap toys to come and sit with him. One day she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the sky through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time, said, Thinking of the fields, ain't you? Where are they? she asked. Why, they're over there, my dear, said the turnkey, waving his key vaguely. Just about there. Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked? Well, so the turnkey, discomfited, not in general. Are they pretty, Bob? She called him Bob because he wished it. Lovely, full of flowers, there's buttercups, and there's daisies, and there's—here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many flowers. There's dandelions, and all manner of games. Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob? Prime, said the turnkey. Was father ever there? Cough! Cough the turnkey. Oh yes, he was there sometimes. Is he sorry not to be there now? Not particular, said the turnkey. Nor any of the people, she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. Oh, are you quite sure and certain, Bob? At this point Bob gave in and changed the subject. But after this chat the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sunday afternoons to some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died, and the poor father was more helpless and broken down than ever, and as Fanny was a careless child, an Edward Idol—the little one, who had the bravest and truest heart—was inspired by her love and unselfishness to be the little mother of the Forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education for herself and her brother and sister. She went as often as she could to an evening school outside, and managed to get her brother and sister sent to a day school at intervals, during three or four years. At thirteen she could read and keep accounts. Once, amongst the deaders, a dancing master came in, and as Fanny had a great desire to learn dancing, little Amy went timidly to the new prisoner and said, If you please, I was born here, sir. Oh, you are the young lady, are you? said he. Yes, sir. And what can I do for you? Nothing for me, sir. Thank you. But if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap. My child, I'll teach her for nothing, said the dancing master. Fanny was a very apt pupil, and the good-natured dancing master went on giving her lessons even after his release. And Amy was so emboldened with the success for attempt that, when a milliner came in, she went to on her own behalf and begged her to teach her. I am afraid you are so weak, you see, the milliner objected. I don't think I am weak, ma'am. And you are so very, very little, you see, the milliner still objected. Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed, returned the child, and began to sob, so that the milliner was touched, and took her in hand, and made her a clever workwoman. But the father could not bear the idea that his children should work for a living. So they had to keep it all secret. Fanny became a dancer, and lived with a poor old uncle, who played the clarinet at the small theater where Fanny was engaged. Amy, or little Dorot, as she was generally called, her father's name being Dorot, earned small sums by going out to do needlework. She got Edward into a great many situations, but he was an idle, careless fellow, and always came back to be a burden and care to his poor little sister. At last she saved up enough to send him out to Canada. God bless you, dear Tip. His name had been shortened to Tip. Don't be too proud to come and see us when you have made your fortune, she said. But Tip only went as far as Liverpool, and appeared once more before his poor little second mother, in rags, and with no shoes. In the end, after another trial, Tip returned telling Amy that this time he was one of the regulars. Oh, don't say you're a prisoner, Tip. Don't. Don't! But he was, and Amy nearly broke her heart. So with all these cares and worries struggling bravely on, little Dorot passed the first twenty-two years of her life. Then, the son of a lady, Mrs. Clenum, to whose house Amy went to do needlework, was interested in the pale, patient little creature, and, learning her history, resolved to do his best to try and get her father released, and to help them all. One day, when he was walking home with little Dorot, a voice was heard calling, little mother, little mother, and a strange figure came bouncing up to them and fell down, scattering her basketful of potatoes on the ground. Oh, Maggie, said little Dorot, what a clumsy child you are. She was about eight and twenty, with large bones, large features, large hands and feet, large eyes and no hair. Little Dorot told Mr. Clenum that Maggie was the granddaughter of her old nurse, and that her grandmother had been very unkind to her and beat her. When Maggie was ten years old she had a fever, and she has never grown older since. Ten years old, said Maggie. But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Such a heavenly place. Such beds there is there. Such lemonades. Such oranges. Such delicious broth and wine. Such chicken. Oh, ain't it a delightful place to stop at? Then when she came out, her grandmother did not know what to do with her and was very unkind. But after some time Maggie tried to improve and was very attentive and industrious and now she can earn her own living entirely, sir. Little Dorot did not say who had taken pains to teach and encourage the poor half-witted creature, but Mr. Clenum guessed from the name Little Mother and the fondness of the poor creature for Amy. Thanks to Mr. Clenum a great change took place in the fortunes of the family, and not long after this wretched night it was discovered that Mr. Dorot was the owner of a large property, and they became very rich. When, in his turn, Mr. Clenum became a prisoner in the Marshall Sea, Little Dorot came to comfort and console him, and after many changes of fortune she became his wife, and they lived happily ever after. The Blind Toymaker of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dickens' Children's Stories retold by his granddaughter, The Blind Toymaker. Caleb Plummer and his blind daughter lived alone in the little crack-nut shell of a house. They were toymakers, and their house was stuck like a toadstool on to the premises of Messer's Gruff and Tackleton, the toy merchants for whom they were, the latter of whom was himself both Gruff and Tackleton and one. I am saying that Caleb and his blind daughter lived here. I should say Caleb did. His daughter lived in an enchanted palace, which her father's love had created for her. She did not know that the ceilings were cracked, the plaster tumbling down, and the woodwork rotten, that everything was old and ugly, and poverty-stricken about her, and that her father was a gray-haired, stooping old man, and the master for whom they worked a hard and brutal taskmaster. Oh, dear gnome! She fancied a pretty, cozy, compact little home full of tokens of a kind Master's Care, a smart, brisk, gallant-looking father, and a handsome and noble-looking toy merchant who was an angel of goodness. This was all Caleb's doings. When his blind daughter was a baby, he had determined in his great love and pity for her that her deprivation should be turned into a blessing, and her life be as happy as he can make it. And she was happy. Everything about her she saw, with her father's eyes, in the rainbow-colored light with which it was his care and pleasure to invest it. Bertha sat busily at work, making a doll's frock, whilst Caleb bent over the opposite side of the table, painting a doll's house. You went out in the rain last night, and your beautiful new gray coat, said Bertha. Yes, and my beautiful new gray coat, answered Caleb, glancing to where a roughly-made garment of sat cloth was hung up to dry. How glad I am you bought it, father! And of such a tailor, white a fashionable tailor, a bright blue cloth with bright buttons. It's a deal too good a coat for me. Too good, cried the blind girl, stopping to laugh and clap her hands, as if anything was too good for my handsome father, with his smiling face and black hair and his straight figure. Caleb began to sing a rollicking song. What? You are singing, are you? growled a gruff voice, as Mr. Tackleton put his head in at the door. I can't afford to sing. I hope you can afford to work, too. Oddly time for both, I should say. You don't see how the master is winking at me? whispered Caleb in his daughter's ear. Such a joke, pretending to scold, you know. The blind girl laughed and nodded, and taking Mr. Tackleton's reluctant hand kissed it gently. What is the idiot doing? grumbled a toy merchant, pulling his hand roughly away. I am thanking you for the beautiful little tree. Replied Bertha, bringing forward a tiny rose-tree in Blossom, which Caleb had made her believe was her master's gift, though he himself had gone without a meal or two to buy it. Is bedlam broke loose? What does the idiot mean? snarled Mr. Tackleton, and giving Caleb some rough orders, he departed without the politeness of a farewell. If you could only have seen him winking at me all the time, pretending to be so rough to escape thanking, exclaimed Caleb when the door was shut. Now a very sad and curious thing had happened. Caleb, in his love for Bertha, had so successfully deceived her as to the real character of Mr. Tackleton that she had fallen in love, not with her master, but with what she imagined him to be, and was happy in an innocent belief in his affection for her. But one day she accidentally heard he was going to be married, and could not hide from her father the pain and bewilderment she felt at the moose. Bertha, my dear, said Caleb at length, I have a confession to make to you. Hear me kindly, though I have been cruel to you. You, cruel to me, cried Bertha, turning her sightless face towards him. Not meaning it, my child, and I never suspected it till the other day. I have concealed things from you which would have given pay. I have invented things to please you and have surrounded you with fancies. But living people are not fancies, father. You cannot change them. I have done so, my child. God forgive me. Bertha, the man who is married today, is a hard master to us both, ugly in his looks and in his nature, and hard and heartless as he can be. Oh heavens, how blind I have been! How could you, father, and I so helpless? Poor Caleb hung his head. Answer me, father, said Bertha, what is my home like? A poor place, Bertha, a very poor and bare place, indeed as little able to keep out wind and weather as my sackcloth coat. And the presents that I took such care of that came at my wish and were so dearly welcome, Caleb did not answer. I see, I understand, said Bertha, and now I am looking at you at my kind, loving, compassionate father. Tell me what is he like? An old man, my child, thin, bent, gray head, worn out with hard work and sorrow, a weak, foolish, deceitful old man. The blind girl threw herself on her knees before him and took his gray head in her arms. It is my sight. It is my sight restored, she cried. I have been blind, but now I see. I have never till now truly seen my father. Father, there is not a gray hair on your head that shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to heaven. My Bertha, sob, Caleb, and the brisk, smart father in the blue coat, he's gone, my child. Dearest father, no, he's not gone, nothing is gone. I have been happy and contented, but I shall be happier and more contented still now that I know what you are. I am not blind, father, any longer. End of THE BLIND TOYMAKER Little Nell of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jen Broda. Dickens' Children's Stories, retold by his granddaughter. Little Nell. The house was one of those receptacles for old and curious things, which seemed to crouch in odd corners of the town, and in the old, dark, murky rooms, there lived alone together an old man and a child, his grandchild, Little Nell. Solitary and monotonous as was her life, the innocent and cheerful spirit of the child found happiness in all things, and through the dim rooms of the old curiosity shop, Little Nell went singing, moving with gay and lightsome step. But gradually, over the old man, to whom she was so tenderly attached, there stole a sad change. He became thoughtful, dejected, and wretched. He had no sleep or rest but that which he took by day in his easy chair. For every night and all night long, he was away from home. At last a raging fever seized him, and as he lay delirious or insensible through many weeks, Nell learned that the house which sheltered them was theirs no longer, that in the future they would be very poor, that they would scarcely have bread to eat. At length the old man began to mend, but his mind was weakened. As the time drew near when they must leave the house, he made no reference to the necessity of finding other shelter. But a change came upon him one evening, as he and Nell sat silently together. Let us speak softly, Nell, he said, Hush, for if they knew our purpose they would say that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop here another day. We will travel afoot through the fields and woods, and trust ourselves to God in the places where he dwells. The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. To her it seemed that they might beg their way from door to door in happiness, so that they were together. When the day began to glimmer they stole out of the house, and passing into the street stood still. Which way? asked the child. The old man looked irresolutely and helplessly at her and shook his head. It was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no doubts or misgivings, and putting her hand in his led him gently away. They passed through the long, deserted streets until these streets dwindled away, and the open country was about them. They walked all day and slept that night at a small cottage where beds were let to travelers. The sun was setting on the second day of their journey, when following a path which led to the town where they were to spend the night, they fell in with two traveling showmen bound for the races at a neighboring town. They made two long days' journey with their new companions. The men were rough and strange in their ways, but they were kindly too. And in bewildering noise and movement of the race course, where she tried to sell some little nose-gaze, now would have clung to them for protection, had she not learned that these men suspected that she and the old man had left their home secretly, and that they meant to take steps to have them sent back and taken care of. Separation from her grandfather was the greatest evil Nell could dread. She seized her opportunity to evade the watchfulness of the two men, and hand in hand she and the old man fled away together. That night they reached a little village in a woody hollow. The village schoolmaster, attracted by the child's sweetness and modesty, gave them a lodging for the night, nor would he let them leave him until two days more had passed. They journeyed on when the time came that they must wander forth again by pleasant country lanes. The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they came to a caravan drawn up by the road. It was a smart little house upon wheels, and at the door sat a stout and comfortable lady taking tea. The tea things were set out upon a drum, covered with a white napkin, and there as if the most convenient table in the world sat this roving lady taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. Of this stout lady Nell ventured to ask how far it was to the neighboring town, and the lady, noticing that the tired child could hardly repress a tear at hearing that eight weary miles lay still before them, not only gave them tea, but offered to take them on in the caravan. Now this lady of the caravan was the owner of a waxwork show, and her name was Mrs. Jarley. She offered Nell employment in pointing out the figures in the waxwork show to the visitors who came to see it, promising in return both board and lodging for the child and her grandfather, and some small sum of money. This offer Nell was thankful to accept, and for some time her life in that of the poor, vacant, fond old man, passed quietly and almost happily. One night Nell and her grandfather went out to walk. A terrible thunderstorm coming on, they were forced to take refuge in a small public house where men played cards. The old man watched them with increasing interest and excitement, until his whole appearance underwent a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his teeth set. He seized Nell's little purse, and in spite of her entreaties joined in the game, gambling with such a savage thirst for gain, that the distressed and frightened child could almost better have borne to see him dead. The night was far advanced before the play came to an end, and they were forced to remain where they were until the morning. And in the night the child was awakened from her troubled sleep to find a figure in the room. It was her grandfather himself, his white face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally bright, counting the money of which his hands were robbing her. Evening after evening, after that night, the old man would steal away, not to return until the night was far spent, demanding wildly money. And at last there came an hour when the child overheard him, tempted beyond his feeble powers of resistance, undertake to find more money to feed the desperate passion which had laid upon his weakness by robbing Mrs. Jarley. That night the child took her grandfather by the hand and led him forth, sustained by one idea, that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely upon her firmness. The old man following as though she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him where she would. They slept in the open air that night, and on the following morning some men offered to take them a long distance to their barge. These men, though they were not unkindly, drank and quarreled among themselves to Nell's ear-expressible terror. It rained too heavily, and she was wet and cold. At last they reached the great city whither the barge was bound, and here they wandered up and down, being now penniless, and watched the faces of those who passed to find among them a ray of encouragement or hope. They laid down that night, and the next night too, with nothing between them in the sky. A penny loaf was all they had had that day, and when the third morning came it found the child much weaker, yet she made no complaint. Faint and spiritless as they were, the streets were insupportable, and the child, throughout the remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to press on, that they might reach the country. Evening was drawing on, they were dragging themselves through the last street. Seeing a traveler on foot before them, she shot on before her grandfather, and began in a few faint words to implore the stranger's help. He turned his head, the child uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. It was the village schoolmaster who had been so kind to them before. The good man took her in his arms and carried her quickly to a little inn hard by, where she was tenderly put to bed, and where a doctor arrived with all speed. The schoolmaster, as it appeared, was on his way to a new home, and when the child had recovered somewhat from her exhaustion, it was arranged that she and her grandfather should accompany him to the village whether he was bound, and that he should endeavor to find them some humble occupation by which they could subsist. It was a secluded village, lying among the quiet country scenes Nell loved, and here her grandfather, being tranquil and at rest, a great peace fell upon the spirit of the child. Often she would steal into the church and sit down among the quiet figures carved upon the tombs. What if the spot awakened thoughts of death? It would be no pain to sleep here, for the time was drawing mirror every day when Nell was to rest indeed. She never murmured or complained, but faded like a light upon a summer's evening and died. Day after day and all day long the old man broken-hearted with no love or care for anything in life would sit beside her grave with her straw hat and the little basket she had been used to carrying, waiting till she should come to him again. At last they found him lying dead upon the stone, and in the church where they had often prayed and mused and lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. End of Little Nell. Recording by Jen Broda Pip's Adventure All that little Philip Pirate, usually called Pip, knew about his father and mother and five little brothers was from seeing their tombstones in the churchyard. He was taken care of by a sister who was twenty years older than himself. She had married a blacksmith named Joe Gargery, a kind, good man, while she, unfortunately, was a hard, stern woman, and treated her little brother and her amiable husband with great harshness. They lived in a marshy part of the country, about twenty miles from the sea. One cold, raw day towards evening, when Pip was about six years old, he wandered into the churchyard and trying to make out what he could of the inscriptions on his family tombstones and the darkness coming on, he felt very lonely and frightened and began to cry. Oh, your noise! cried a terrible voice, and a man started up from among the graves close to him. Keep still, you little ample, I'll cut your throat. He was a dreadful-looking man, dressed in coarse gray cloth with a great iron on his leg, wet, muddy, and miserable, his teeth chattered in his head as he seized Pip by the chin. Oh, don't cut my throat, sir, cried Pip in terror. Does your name, said the man, quick. Pip, sir. Once more, said the man, staring at him. Give it mouth. Pip, Pip, sir. Show us where you live, said the man, point out the place. Pip showed in the village about a mile or more from the church. The man looked at him for a moment and then turned him upside down and emptied his pockets. He found nothing in them but a piece of bread, which he ate ravenously. Now, looky here, said the man. Where's your mother? There, sir, said Pip. At this the man started to run away, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. There, sir, explained Pip, showing them the tombstone. Oh, and is that your father along with your mother? Yes, sir, said Pip. Ha! muttered the man. Then who do you live with? Supposing you're kindly to let live, which I ain't made up my mind about. My sister, sir, misses Joe Gargory. Wife of Joe Gargory, the blacksmith, sir. Blacksmith, eh? said the man and looked down at his leg. Then he seized the trembling little boy by both arms and glaring down at him, he said. Now, looky here, the question being whether you're to be there to live. You know what a file is? Yes, sir. And do you know what widows is? Yes, sir. You get me a file, and you get me wills. You bring them both to me. All this time he was tilting poor Pip backwards till he was dreadfully frightened and giddy. You bring me, tomorrow morning early, that file and them wills. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person some ever, and you shall be led to live. Then he let him go, saying, You remember what you've undertook, and you get home. Pip ran home without stopping. Joe was sitting in the chimney corner and told him Mrs. Joe had been out to look for him and taken Tickler with her. Tickler was a cane, and Pip was rather depressed by this piece of news. Mrs. Joe came in almost directly, and after having given Pip a taste of Tickler, she sat down to prepare the tea, and cutting a huge slice of bread and butter, she gave half of it to Joe and half to Pip. Pip managed, after some time, to slip his down the leg of his trousers, and Joe, thinking he had swallowed it, was dreadfully alarmed and begged him not to bolt his food like that. Pip, old chap, you'll do yourself a mischief. It'll stick somewhere. You can't out-chute it, Pip. You know, Pip, you and me is always friends, and I'd be the last to tell upon you at any time, but such a, such a most uncommon bolt as that. Been bolting his food, has he? cried Mrs. Joe. You know, old chap, said Joe, I bolted myself when I was your age, frequent, and as a boy, I've been among many bolters, but I've never seen your bolting equal yet, Pip, and it's a messy you ain't bolted dead. Poor Pip passed a wretched night, thinking of the dreadful promise he had made, and as soon as it was beginning to get light outside, he got up and crept downstairs. As quickly as he could, he took some bread, some cheese, about half a jar of minced meat, he tied up with a handkerchief, with a slice of bread and butter, some brandy from a stone bottle, a meat bone with very little on it, and a pork pie, which he found on an upper shelf. Then he got a file from among Joe's tools and ran for the marshes. Pip found the man waiting for him, half dead with cold and hunger, and he ate the food in such a ravenous way that Pip, in spite of his terror, was quite pitiful over him and said, I'm glad you enjoy it. Thank ye, my boy, I do. Pip watched him trying to file the iron off his leg, and then, being afraid of stopping longer away from home, he ran off. Pip passed a wretched morning, expecting every moment that the disappearance of the pie would be found out, but Mrs. Joe was too much taken up with preparing the dinner, for they were expecting visitors. Just at the end of dinner Pip thought his time had come to be found out, for his sister said graciously to her guests, You must taste the most delightful and delicious present I have had. It's a pie, a savory pork pie. Pip could bear it no longer and ran for the door, and there he ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to him saying, Hey you ah, look shop, come on. But they had not come for him. They only wanted Joe to mend the handcuffs, for they were on the search for two convicts who had escaped and were somewhere hidden in the marshes. This turned the attention of Mrs. Joe from the disappearance of the pie, without which she had come back in great astonishment. When the handcuffs were mended, the soldiers were off, accompanied by Joe and one of the visitors, and Joe took Pip and carried him on his back. Pip whispered, I hope Joe, we shan't find them. And Joe answered, I'd give a shilling if they had cut and run Pip. But the soldiers soon caught them, and one was Pip's miserable acquaintance, and once when the man looked at Pip, the child shook his head to try and let him know he had said nothing. But the convict, without looking at anyone, told the sergeant he wanted to say something to prevent other people being under suspicion, and said he had taken some whittles from the blacksmiths. It was some broken whittles, that's what it was, and a drum of liquor, and a pie. Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith? inquired the sergeant. My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. So, said the convict, looking at Joe, you're the blacksmith, are you? Then I'm sorry to say I've eaten your pie. God knows you're welcome to it, said Joe. We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it. Poor miserable fellow creature, would us Pip. Then the boat came, and the convicts were taken back to prison, and Joe carried Pip home. Some years after, some mysterious friend sent money for Pip to be educated and brought up as a gentleman, but it was only when Pip was quite a grown-up that he discovered this mysterious friend was the wretched convict who had frightened him so dreadfully that cold, dark Christmas Eve. End of Pip's Adventure End of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories Retold by His Granddaughter by Charles Dickens Jenny Wren From Charles Dickens' Children's Stories Retold by His Granddaughter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cadastra Charles Dickens' Children's Stories Retold by His Granddaughter Jenny Wren One day, a great many years ago, a gentleman ran up the steps of a tall house in the neighborhood of St. Mary Acts. The gentleman knocked and rang several times before anyone came, but at last an old man opened the door. What were you up to that you did not hear me? said Mr. Fledgby irritably. I was taking the air at the top of the house, sir, said the old man meekly, it being a holiday. What might you please to want, sir? Holiday indeed, grumbled his master, who was a toy merchant amongst other things. He then seated himself and gave the old man, a Jew and Rhea by name, directions about the dressing of some dolls, and as he rose to go, exclaimed, By the by, how do you take the air? Do you stick your head out of a chimney-pot? No, sir, I have made a little garden on the roof. Let's look at it, said Mr. Fledgby. Sir, I have company there, returned Rhea, hesitating. But will you please come up and see them? Mr. Fledgby nodded, and the old man led the way up flight after flight of stairs, till they arrived at the housetop. Seated on a carpet and leaning against a chimney-stack, were two girls bending over books. Some creepers were trained round the chimney-pots, and evergreens were placed near the roof, and a few more books, a basket of gaily-coloured scraps, and bits of tinsel lay near. One of the girls rose on seeing that Rhea had brought a visitor, but the other remarked, I'm the person of the house downstairs, but I can't get up, whoever you are, because my back is bad and my legs are queer. This is my master, said Rhea, speaking to the two girls, and this, he added, turning to Mr. Fledgby, is Miss Jenny Wren. She lives in this house, and is a clever little dressmaker for little people. Her friend Lizzie, continued Rhea, introducing the second girl. They are good girls, both, and as busy as they are good. In spare moments they come up here and take to book-learning. Said Mr. Fledgby, looking round. Humpf! He was so much surprised that apparently he couldn't get beyond that word. Lizzie, the elder of these two girls, was strong and handsome, but the little Jenny Wren, whom she so loved and protected, was small and deformed, though she had a beautiful little face, and the longest and loveliest golden hair in the world, which fell about her like a cloak of shining curls as though to hide the poor little misshapen figure. The Jew Rhea, as well as Lizzie, was always kind and gentle to Jenny Wren, who called him Godfather. She had a father, who shared her poor little rooms, whom she called her child, for he was a bad, drunken, disreputable old man, and the poor girl had to care for him, and earn money to keep them both. Sometimes the two girls, Jenny helping herself along with a crutch, would go and walk about the fashionable streets. As they walked along, Jenny would tell her friend of the fancy she had when sitting alone at her work. I imagined birds till I can hear them sing, she said one day, and flowers till I can smell them. And, oh, the beautiful children that come to me in the early mornings. They are quite different to other children, not like me, never cold or anxious or tired or hungry, never any pain, they come in numbers, in long bright slanting rows, all dressed in white, with shiny heads. Who is this in pain, they say, and they sweep around and about me, take me up in their arms, and I feel so light and all the pain goes. I know they are coming a long way off, by hearing them say, who is this in pain? And I answer, oh, my blessed children, it's poor me, have pity on me, and take me up and then the pain will go. Lizzie sat stroking and brushing the beautiful hair, when they were at home again, and as she kissed her good night a miserable old man stumbled into the room. How's my Jenny ran, best of children, he mumbled, as he shuffled unsteadily towards her. But Jenny pointed her small finger towards him, exclaiming, Go along with you, you bad, wicked old child, you troublesome, wicked old thing, I know where you have been. Ain't you ashamed of yourself, you disgraceful boy? Yes, my dear, yes, stammered the tipsy old father, tumbling into a corner. One day when Jenny was on her way home with Rhea, they came upon a small crowd of people. A tipsy man had been knocked down and badly hurt. Let us see what it is, said Jenny. The next moment she exclaimed, Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, he is my child, he belongs to me, my poor, bad old child. Your child belongs to you, repeated the man, who was about to lift the helpless figure onto a stretcher. Ah, it's old dolls, tipsy old dolls, cried someone in the crowd, for it was by this name that they knew the old man. He's her father, sir, said Rhea, in a low tone to the doctor who is now bending over the stretcher. So much the worse, answered the doctor, for the man is dead. Yes, Mr. Dolls was dead, and many were the dresses which the weary fingers of the sorrowful little worker must make, in order to pay for his humble funeral and buy a black frock for herself. Often the tears rolled down onto her work. My poor child, she said to Rhea, my poor old child, and to think I scolded him so. You were always a good, brave, patient girl, returned Rhea, always good and patient, however tired. And so the poor little person of the house was left alone, but for the faithful affection of the kind Jew and her friend Lizzie, her room grew pretty comfortable, for she was in great request in her profession, as she called it. And there was now no one to spend and waste her earnings. But nothing could make her life otherwise than a suffering one till the happy morning, when her child angels visited her for the last time and carried her away to the land, where all such pain as hers is healed, for evermore. End of Jenny Wren, Recording by Cadastra Pip's Adventure Of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories, Retold by His Granddaughter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dickens' Children's Stories, Retold by His Granddaughter Pip's Adventure All that little Philip Pirith, usually called Pip, knew about his father and mother, and five little brothers, was from seeing their tombstones in the churchyard. He was taken care of by his sister, who was twenty years older than himself. She had married a blacksmith named Joe Gargery, a kind, good man, while she, unfortunately, was a hard, stern woman, and treated her little brother and her amiable husband with great harshness. They lived in a marshy part of the country, about twenty miles from the sea. One cold, raw day towards evening, when Pip was about six years old, he wandered into the churchyard, and trying to make out what he could of the inscriptions on his family tombstones and the darkness coming on, he felt very lonely and frightened, and began to cry. Oh, your noise! cried a terrible voice, and a man started up from among the graves close to him. Keep still, you little impo, I'll cut your throat. He was a dreadful-looking man, dressed in coarse gray cloth, with a great iron on his leg. Wet, muddy, and miserable, his teeth chattered in his head as he seized Pip by the chin. Oh, don't cut my throat, sir, cried Pip in terror. Tell us your name, said the man. Quick! Pip, sir. Once more, said the man, stirring at him. Give it mouth. Pip, Pip, sir. Show us where you live, said the man. Point out the place. Pip showed in the village about a mile or more from the church. The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned him upside down and emptied his pockets. He found nothing in them but a piece of bread, which he ate ravenously. Now, looky here, said the man. Where's your mother? There, sir, said Pip. At this the man started to run away, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. There, sir, explained Pip, showing them the tombstone. Oh, and is that your father along with your mother? Yes, sir, said Pip. Mothered the man, the nude you live with, supposing you're kindly to let live, which I ain't made up my mind about. My sister, sir, misses Joe Gargory. Wife of Joe Gargory, the blacksmith, sir. Blacksmith, eh? said the man, and looked down at his leg. Then he sees the trembling little boy by both arms, and glaring down at him, he said. Now, looky here, the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is? Yes, sir. And do you know what Windows is? Yes, sir. You get me a file, and you get me wills. You bring them both to me. All this time he was tilting poor Pip backwards till he was dreadfully frightened and giddy. You bring me, tomorrow morning early, that file, and them wills. You do it, and you never dare to say a word, or dare to make a sign concerning you having seen such a person as me, or any person some ever, and you shall be let to live. Then he let him go, saying, You remember what you've undertook, and you get home. Pip ran home without stopping. Joe was sitting in the chimney corner, and told him misses Joe had been out to look for him, and taken Tickler with her. Tickler was a cane, and Pip was rather depressed by this piece of news. Misses Joe came in almost directly, and after having given Pip a taste of Tickler, she sat down to prepare the tea, and cutting a huge slice of bread and butter, she gave half of it to Joe, and half to Pip. Pip managed, after some time, to slip his down the leg of his trousers, and Joe, thinking he had swallowed it, was dreadfully alarmed, and begged him not to bolt his food like that. Pip, old chap, you'll do yourself a mischief. It'll stick somewhere. You can't have chewed it, Pip. You know, Pip, you and me is always friends. And I'd be the last to tell upon you at any time. But such a, such a most uncommon bolt is that. Been boating his food, has he? cried Misses Joe. You know, old chap, said Joe, I bolted myself when I was your age. Frequent. And as a boy, I've been among many bolters. But I've never seen your boating equal yet, Pip. And it's a mercy you ain't bolted dead. Poor Pip passed a wretched night thinking of the dreadful promise he had made, and as soon as it was beginning to get light outside, he got up and crept downstairs. As quickly as he could, he took some bread, some cheese, about half a jar of minced meat, he tied up with a handkerchief, with a slice of bread and butter, some brandy from a stone bottle, a meat bone with very little on it, and a pork pie, which he found on an upper shelf. Then he got a file from among Joe's tools and ran for the marshes. Pip found the man waiting for him, half dead with cold and hunger, and he ate the food in such a ravenous way that Pip, in spite of his terror, was quite pitiful over him and said, I'm glad you enjoy it. Thank ye, my boy, I do. Pip watched him trying to file the iron off his leg, and then, being afraid of stopping longer away from home, he ran off. Pip passed a wretched morning, expecting every moment that the disappearance of the pie would be found out, but Mrs. Joe was too much taken up with preparing the dinner, for they were expecting visitors. Just at the end of dinner Pip thought his time had come to be found out, for his sister said graciously to her guests, You must taste the most delightful and delicious present I have had. It's a pie, a savory pork pie. Pip could bear it no longer, and ran for the door, and there he ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to him saying, Hey you ah, look shop, come on. But they had not come for him. They only wanted Joe to mend the handcuffs, for they were on the search for two convicts who had escaped and were somewhere hid in the marshes. This turned the attention of Mrs. Joe from the disappearance of the pie, without which she had come back in great astonishment. When the handcuffs were mended the soldiers were off, accompanied by Joe and one of the visitors, and Joe took Pip and carried him on his back. Pip whispered, I hope Joe, we shan't find them. And Joe answered, I'd give a shilling if they had cut and run Pip. But the soldiers soon caught them, and one was Pip's miserable acquaintance, and once when the man looked at Pip the child shook his head to try and let him know he had said nothing. But the convict, without looking at anyone, told the sergeant he wanted to say something to prevent other people being under suspicion, and said he had taken some wills from the blacksmiths. It was some broken wills, that's what it was, and a drama of liquor, and a pie. Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith, inquired the sergeant. My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. So, said the convict looking at Joe, you're the blacksmith they follow you. You know, I'm sorry to say, I've eaten your pie. God knows you're welcome to it, said Joe. We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it. Poor miserable fellow creature, would us Pip. Then the boat came, and the convicts were taken back to prison, and Joe carried Pip home. Some years after, some mysterious friend sent money for Pip to be educated and brought up as a gentleman. But it was only when Pip was quite a grown-up that he discovered this mysterious friend was the wretched convict who had frightened him so dreadfully that cold, dark Christmas Eve. End of Pip's Adventure. End of Charles Dickens' Children's Stories. Retold by his granddaughter, by Charles Dickens.