 This is a LibreVox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. That's librivox.org. Recorded by me, Glenn Halstrom, also known as Smoke Stack Jones. Smoke Stack Jones at gmail.com. You'll also find my blog at toomuchjohnson.blogspot.com. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Stay for the last of the three spirits. The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, a scrooge bent down upon his knee, for in the very air through which the spirit moved, it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of invisible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the spirit neither spoke nor moved. Am I in the presence of the ghost of Christmas yet to come? said Scrooge. The spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. You are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened but will happen in the time before us, Scrooge pursued. Is that so, Spirit? The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover. But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague, uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. Ghost of the future, he exclaimed. I fear you more than any spectre I have seen, but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?" It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. Lay down, said Scrooge. Lay down. The night is wailing fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lay down, spirit. The phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. They scarcely seemed to enter the city, for the city rather seemed to spring up above them and encompassed them of its own act. But there they were in the heart of it, on change amongst the merchants, who hurried up and down and chinkled the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups and looked at their watches and trifled thoughtfully with the great old seals, and so forth as Scrooge had seen them often. The spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen, observing that the hand was pointed to them. Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. No! said a great fat man with a monstrous chin. I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead. When did he die? inquired another. Last night, I believe. Why, what's the matter with him? asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuffbox. I thought he'd never die. God knows! said the first with a yawn. What has he done with his money? asked a red-faced gentleman with a pungent excretion on the end of his nose that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock. I haven't heard, said the man with the large chin yawning again. Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me, that's all I know. This pleasantry was received with a general laugh. It's very likely to be a very cheap funeral, said the same speaker. For upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. I suppose I'll make up a party and volunteer. I don't mind going if lunch is provided, observed the gentleman with the excretions on his nose. But I must be fed if I make one. Another laugh. I am the most disinterested among you, after all, said the first speaker, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch, but I'll offer to go if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that I was his most particular friend, for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye-bye. Speakers and listeners strolled away and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the man and looked towards the spirit for an explanation. The fatum glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here. He knew these two men also perfectly. There were men of business, very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem in a business point of view, that is, strictly in a business point of view. Oh, how are you, said one? Oh, how are you, returned the other? Well, said the first. Old Scratch has got his own at last, eh? So I am told. Returned the second. Gold, isn't it? Seasonable for a Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose. No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial, but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his own partner, for that was passed and the ghost's province was of the future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomever they applied, they had some latent moral for his own improvement. He resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw, and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared, for he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the resolution of these riddles easy. He looked about in the very place for his own image, but another man stood at his accustomed corner, and though the clock ported to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likenesses of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch. It gave him little surprise, however, for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his newborn resolutions carried out in this. Quiet and dark beside him stood the phantom with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turd of the hand and its situation in reference to himself, that the unseen eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder and feel very cold. They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of town where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognized its situation and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow, the shops and houses are wretched, the people half naked, drunken, slip-shod, ugly. Alleyes and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorge the offences of smell and dirt and life upon the straggling streets, and the whole quarter reeked with crime with filth and misery. Far in this den of infamous resort there was a low-browed, beatling shop, below a penthouse roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy oval were brought. Upon the floor within were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinize were bred in hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in by a charcoal stove made of bricks was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age, who had screamed himself from the cold air without by a frowsy curtaining in miscellaneous tatters, hugged up in a line, and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement. Scrooge and the phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slung into the shop. But she had scarcely entered with another woman, similarly laden, came in too, and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe enjoyed them, the all three burst into a laugh. Let the child woman alone to be the first, cried she who had entered first. Let the lordress is alone to be the second, and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, there's a chance if we have an all three met there without meeting it. You couldn't have met in a better place," said the old Joe, removing the pipe from his mouth. Coming to the parlor, you were made free for it long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. Shop till I shut the door to shop. Oh, how it streaks! There ain't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own inches, I believe. And I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. We're all suitable for our calling, we're matched. Coming to the parlor, coming to the parlor! The parlor was the space behind the screen of rags. The old man raked the fire together with an old stare on and, having trimmed his smoky lamp before it was nighed with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again. While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor and sat down in a floating manner on a stool, crossing her elbows on her knees and looking with bold defiance at the other two. What odds, what odds, Mrs. Dilba, said the woman. Every person had the right to take care of themselves. He always did. Now, that's true indeed, said the laundress. No more men so. Why then don't stand staring as if you were a frayed woman? Who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose. No indeed, said Mrs. Dilba and the man together. We should hope not. Very well then, cried the woman. That's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose. No indeed, said Mrs. Dilba, laughing. I wish it was a little heavy a judgment, replied the woman, and it shouldn't have been. You may depend on it. If I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open the bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, not afraid of anyone to see it. We know pretty well what we're helping ourselves. We're met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe. But the guarantee of her friends would not allow this, and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive, a seal or two, or a pencil case. A pair of sleeve buttons and a brooch of no great value were all. They were severally examined in a praise by old Joe, who chocked the sums as he was supposed to give for each upon the wall, and added them up to a total when he found there was nothing more to come. But ask your account," said Joe, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I were to be bore for not doing it. Who's next?" Mrs. Dilbaugh was next. Sheets and towels, a little-wearing apparel, two-old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and it's the way I've ruined myself," said her Joe. That's your account. If you asked me for another petty and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal and knock off half the ground. And now I'll undo my bundle, Joe," said the first woman. Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. What do you call rage? said Joe. Big curtains! Ah! returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward in her crossed arms. Big curtains! You don't mean to say you took them down rinks at all with him lying there, said Joe. Yes, I do, replied the woman. Why not? You were born to make your fortune, said Joe, and you'll certainly do it. I certainly shan't hold my hand when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that all upon a blanket now. It's blanket? asked Joe. Well, who else do you think, replied the woman? Is it likely to go without him, I dare say? Well, I hope he didn't die of anything catching, eh? said old Joe, stopping in his work and looking up. Don't you be afraid of that, returned the woman. I ain't so fond of his company I'd lord her about him for such things as he did. Ah! you may look through that shirt until you rise, eh, but you won't find a hole in it, not a threadbare place. It's the best he had in a fine one, too. They've wasted it, if it hadn't been for me. What do you call wasted it? asked old Joe. Put it on him to be buried in, for sure, replied the old woman with a laugh. Somebody was filled enough to do it, but I took it off again. If Calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite as becoming to the body. It can't look ugly that he didn't at one. Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil in the scanty light afforded by the own man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons marketing the corpse itself. Ha-ha! laughed the woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, towed out their several gains upon the ground. It's the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was allawed to profit us when he was dead. Ha-ha-ha! Spitted, said Scrooge, shattering from head to foot. I see. I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way. Merciful Heaven, what is this? He recalled in horror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bear, a bear, on curtain bed, on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, Scrooge glanced around it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light rising in the outer air fell straight upon the bed, and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. Scrooge glanced toward the phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do so, and long to do it, but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side. Oh cold, cold, rigid dreadful death set up thine altar here, and dress it with such tears as thou hast at thy command, for this is thy dominion. Of the loved Riviera and honoured head, thou cast not turn one hair to any dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy, or will fall down when released. It is not that the heart and pulse are still, but the hand was open, generous and true. The heart brave, warm and tender, and the pulse a man's. Strike, shadow strike, and see his good deed springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal. No voice pronounced these words and Scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Averse, heart-dealing, griping cares. They have brought him to a rich end truly. He lay in the dark empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child, to say that he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearthstone. What they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge did dare not think. Spirit, he said, this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Trust me, let us go." Still the ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. I understand you, Scrooge returned. And I would do it if I could, but I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power. Again it seemed to look at him. If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, said Scrooge quite agonized, show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you. Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment like a wing, and withdrawing it revealed a room by daylight where a mother and her children were. She was expecting someone, and with anxious eagerness, for she walked up and down the room, started at every sound, looked out from the window, glanced at the clock, tried but in vain to work with her needle, and could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play. At length, the long-expected knock was heard, she hurried to the door and met her husband, a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now, a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, she struggled to repress. He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire, and when she asked him faintly what news, which was not until after a long silence, he appeared embarrassed how to answer. Is it good? she said, or bad, to help him. Bad, he answered. We are quite rude. No, there is hope yet Caroline. If he relents, she said amaze, there is. Nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. Is past relenting, said her husband. He is dead. She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth, but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next moment and was sorry, but the first was the emotion of the heart. What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, it turns out to be of been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying then. To whom will our debt be transferred? I don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find some merciless creditor in his successor. We may sleep tonight with light hearts, Caroline. Yes, softened as they would, the hearts were lighter. The children's faces hushed and cloistered around to hear what they so little understood were brighter. And it was a happier house for this man's debt. The only emotion that the ghost could show him caused by the event was what a pleasure. Let me see some tenderness connected with the death since Groot, or that dark chamber spirit which we left just now will be ever present to me. The ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet, and as they went along, Groot looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house, the dwelling he had visited before, and found the mother and the children seated around the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing, but surely they were very quiet. And he took a child and set him in the midst of them, where hence Groot heard those words, and not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out as he and the spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on? The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hand up to her face. The color hurts my eyes, she said. The color? Poor tiny Tim. They're better now again, said Cratchit's wife. It makes them weak by candlelight, and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home for the world. It must be near his time. Past it rather, Peter answered, shutting up his book. But I think he walked a little slower than he used to these past few evenings, mother. They were very quiet again. At last she said in a steady cheerful voice that only faulted once. I've known him to walk with— I've known him to walk with tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed. And so have I, cried Peter, often. And so have I, exclaimed another. So had all. But he was very light to carry, she resumed, and turned upon her work, and his father loved him so, and it was no trouble, no trouble. And there is your father at the door. She hurried out to meet him in little Bob in his comforter. He had need of it, poor fellow, came in. His tea was ready for him on the harp, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchit's got up on his knees and laid each a child a little cheek against his face, and they said, Don't mind it, father, don't be grieved. He was very cheerful with them and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table as the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said. Sunday? You went to date then, Robert? He asked his wife. Yes, my dear, returned Bob. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child, cried Bob, my little child. He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were. He left the room and went upstairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of someone having been there lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what had happened and went down again quite happy. They drew about the fire and talked the girls and mother working still. He told them the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Scrooge's nephew, who we had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a little, just a little down, you know, said Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. On which, said Bob, for he is the pleasantest spoken gentleman you've ever heard. I told him, I am heartily sorry for Mr. Cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. By the by, how he ever knew that, I don't know. Knew what, my dear? Why, that you were a good wife, replied Bob. Everybody knows that, said Peter. Very well observed, my boy, cried Bob. I hope they do. Heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife, if I can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card. That's where I live, pray come to me. Now it wasn't, cried Bob, for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as, for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. He really seemed as if he had known our tiny Tim and felt with us. I'm sure he's a good soul, said Mrs. Cratchit. You would be sure of it, my dear, returned Bob, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised, Mark would I say, if he got Peter a better situation. Only hear that, Peter, said Mrs. Cratchit. And then, cried one of the girls, Peter will be keeping company with someone and setting up for himself. Get along with your retorted Peter-gritting. It's just as likely as not, said Bob. One of these days, though there's plenty of time for that, my dear, but however and whenever we part from one another, I'm sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we, or his first parting that there was among us. Never, Father, cried they all. And I know, said Bob, I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was, though he was a little, little child, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it. Now, never, Father, they all cried again. I am very happy, said little Bob. I am very happy. Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughter's kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God. Spectre, said Scrooge, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead. The ghost of Christmas yet to come conveyed him as before, though at a different time he thought, indeed, there seemed no horror to these latter visions, save that they were of the future, into the resorts of businessmen but showed him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on as to the end just now desired until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment. This court, said Scrooge, through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be in days to come. The Spirit stopped. The hand was pointed elsewhere. The house is yonder, Scrooge exclaimed. Why do you point away? The inexorable finger underwent no change. Scrooge hastened to the window of his office and looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same, and the figure and the chair was not himself. The phantom pointed as before. He joined it once again in wondering why and whether he had gone, accompanied it, until they had reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering. It was a worthy place, walled in by houses overrun by grass and weeds. The growth of vegetation's death, not life, choked up with too much bearing, fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place. The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one. He advanced toward it trembling. The fenter was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. Before I draw nearer to that stone in which you point, said Scrooge, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of things that will be, or the shadows of things that may be only? Still the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends to which, if preserved in, they must lead, said Scrooge. But if the courses be departed from the ends would change. Say it as thus with what you show me. The Spirit was as immovable as ever. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went, and following the finger read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name. Ebenezer Scrooge. Am I the man who lay upon the bed? He cried upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. No! Spirit! Oh no! No! The finger was still there. Spirit! he cried, tight clutching at his robe. Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been for this intercourse. Why show me this if I am past all hope? For the first time the hand appeared to shake. Good spirit, he pursued, as down on the ground he fell before it. Your nature precedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I may yet change the shadows you have showed me by an altered life. The kind hand trembled. I will put a Christmas in my heart and try and keep it all the year. I believe in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three will strive within me. I will not shout out the lessons that they teach. Tell me I may sponge away the writing of this story. In his agony he called the spectro-hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The spirit stronger yet repulsed him, holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his feet reversed. He saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bed-post. The End of Stage 4 of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens The End of Stage 5 Yes, and the bed-post was his own. The bed was his own. The room was his own. Best and happiest of all the time before him was his own to make amends in. I will live in the past, the present, and the future. Scrooge repeated as he scrambled out of bed. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob, molly, heaven in the Christmas time be praised for this. I see it on my knees, oh Jacob, on my knees. He was so fluttered and so glowing in his good intentions that his broken voice could scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the spirit and his face was wet with tears. They are not torn down, cried Scrooge, holding one of his bed curtains in his arms. They are not torn down, rings and all. They are here. I am here. The shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will. His hands were busy with his garments all this time, turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaving them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. I don't know what to do. He cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath, making a perfect leco-sin of himself with his stockings. I miss light as a feather. I miss happy as an angel. I miss many as a schoolboy. I miss giddy as a drunken man. I'm merry Christmas to everybody. A happy new year to all the world. Hello there, hoop, hello! He had frisked into the living room, and he was now standing there. Perfectly winded. There's the saucepan that the ghoul was in. He cried Scrooge, starting off again and going round the fireplace. There's the door by which the ghost of Jingamali entered. There's the corner where the ghost of Christmas presents sat. There's the window where I saw the wandering spirit. It's all right. It's all true. It all happened! Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh, the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs. I don't know what day of the month it is, Scrooge. I don't know how long I've been among the spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hello, hoop, hello there! He was checked in his transports by the churches, ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer, ding, dong, bell, dong, ding, hammer, clang, crash. Oh, glorious, glorious. Running to the window, he opened it and put out his head. No fog, no mist clear, bright jovial, stirring cold, cold piping for the blood to dance to. Golden sunlight, heavenly sky, sweet, fresh air, many bells. Oh, glorious, glorious. What's today? cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. I returned the boy with all his might and wonder. What's today, my fine fellow? said Scrooge. Did I? replied the boy. What, Christmas Day? It's Christmas Day, said Scrooge himself. I haven't missed it. The spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything that Ike, of course they can, of course they can. Hello, my fine fellow! Hello! returned the boy. Do you know the polters in the next street but quiet at the corner? Scrooge re-quired. What should help our dead? replied the lad. An intelligent boy, said Scrooge, a remarkable boy. Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey, the big one. What, what as big as me? returned the boy. What a delightful boy, said Scrooge. It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck! It's hanging there now, replied the boy. Is it? said Scrooge. Go and buy it! Oh, God! exclaimed the boy. No, no, said Scrooge. I am an earnest go buy it and tell him to bring it here that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you a heart for crown! The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who had got a shot off half so fast. I sent it to Bob Cratchit's, whispered, screwed, rubbing his hands and splitting with laugh. He shot no one who said that it's twice the size of Daddy Tim Joe. Miller never made such a joke as to get the bombs will be. The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but right it he did. He went downstairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the Polter's man. As he stood there waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. I shall love it as long as I live, cried Scrooge patting it with his hand. I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has on its face. It's a wonderful knocker. Here's the turkey. Hello, how are you? Merry Christmas. It was a turkey. He never could have stood upon his legs that bird. He would have snapped them short off in a minute like sticks of seeding wax. Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town since Scrooge, you must have a cab. The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down, breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much, and shaving requires attention even when you don't dance while you're at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking plaster over it, and been quite satisfied. He dressed himself all his best, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the ghost of Christmas present, and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistably pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, Good morning, sir, a merry Christmas to you, and Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blitest in his ears. He had not gone far when coming on towards him, he beheld the portly gentleman who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, Scrooge and Molly, as I believe, it sent a pen across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met, but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. My dear sir, said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands, how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday, it was very kind of you, a merry Christmas to you, sir. Mr. Scrooge? Yes, said Scrooge, that is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you, allow me to ask your pardon, will you have the goodness here Scrooge whispered in his ear? Oh, bless me, cried the gentleman as his breath were taken away. My dear Scrooge, are you serious? If you please, said Scrooge, and not a far thing less, a great many back payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour? My dear sir, said the other shaking hands with him, I don't know what to say to such munific, don't say anything, please, retorted Scrooge. Come and see me, will you come and see me? I will, cried the old gentleman, and it was clear he meant to do it. Thank you, said Scrooge, I much obliged you, thank you fifty times, bless you. He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars and looked down into the kitchens of houses and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed at any walk that anything could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house. He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock, but he made a dash and did it. He's your master at home, my dear, said Scrooge of the girl, nice girl, very. Yes, sir. Where is he, my love, said Scrooge? He's in the dining room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show upstairs, if you please. Thank ye, he knows me, said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining room block. I'll go in there, my dear. He turned it gently and cycled his face in round the door. They were looking at the table which was spread out in great array, for these young housekeepers were always nervous on such points, and liked to see that everything is right. Fred, said Scrooge, dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started. Scrooge had forgotten for the moment about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it on any account. Why bless my soul, cried Fred. Who's that? It is I, your uncle Scrooge. I've come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred? Let him in. It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Everything could be hardier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when he came. So did the plump sister when she came. So did everyone when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness. But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only be there first in catch-bomb-cratch-and-coming date, that was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it. Yes, he did it. The clock struck nine. No, Bob. A quarter past. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide-open that he might see him come into the tank. His hat was off before he opened the door. He's comforted, too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away at his pen as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. Hello, crowd Scrooge. It is a custom voice as near as he could feign it. What do you mean by coming in here at this time of day? I'm very sorry, sir, said Bob. I am behind my time. You are, repeated Scrooge. Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please. It's only once a year, sir, pleaded Bob, appearing from the tank. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir. Now, I'll tell you what my friend, said Scrooge. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore he continued leaping from his stool and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again. And therefore I'm about to raise your salary. Bob trembled, and he got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help in a straight waistcoat. A merry Christmas, Bob said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. A merry Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, that I've given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we'll discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a Christmas bowl of smoking Bishop Bob, make up the fires, and buy another cold skull before you dot another. I, Bob, crash it! Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. And to a tiny Tim who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them. For he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened in this globe for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter at the outset. And knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes and greens, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived on the total abstinence principle ever afterwards. And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us, and all of us. And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, everyone. End of Stay of Five of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. End of Book.