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This collection of excerpts from Dickens' novels, first published in 1909, includes: Trotty Veck and Meg, Tiny Tim, The Runaway Couple, Little Dorritt, The Toy-Maker and His Blind Daughter, Little Nell, Little David Copperfield, Jenny Wren, Pip's Adventure, Todgers, Dick Sweviller and the Marchioness, Mr. Wadle's Servant Joe, and The Bravve and Honest Boy Oliver Twist.Charles Dickens was an English writer and social critic. He created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era. His works enjoyed unprecedented popularity during his lifetime, and by the twentieth century critics and scholars had recognised him as a literary genius. His novels and short stories enjoy lasting popularity.Born in Portsmouth, Dickens left school to work in a factory when his father was incarcerated in a debtors' prison. Despite his lack of formal education, he edited a weekly journal for 20 years, wrote 15 novels, five novellas, hundreds of short stories and non-fiction articles, lectured and performed extensively, was an indefatigable letter writer, and campaigned vigorously for children's rights, education, and other social reforms.A prolific 19th Century author of short stories, plays, novellas, novels, fiction and non-fiction; during his lifetime Dickens became known the world over for his remarkable characters, his mastery of prose in the telling of their lives, and his depictions of the social classes, morals and values of his times. Some considered him the spokesman for the poor, for he definitely brought much awareness to their plight, the downtrodden and the have-nots. He had his share of critics, like Virginia Woolf and Henry James, but also many admirers, even into the 21st Century.
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I. TROTTY VECK AND HIS DAUGHTER MEG
II. TINY TIM
III. THE RUNAWAY COUPLE
IV. LITTLE DORRIT
V. THE TOY-MAKER AND HIS BLIND DAUGHTER
VI. LITTLE NELL
VII. LITTLE DAVID COPPERFIELD
VIII. JENNY WREN
IX. PIP’S ADVENTURE
XI. DICK SWIVELLER AND THE MARCHIONESS
XII. MR. WARDLE’S SERVANT JOE
XIII. A BRAVE AND HONEST BOY, OLIVER TWIST
“TROTTY” SEEMS A STRANGE NAME for an old man, but it was given to Toby Veck because of his always going at a trot to do his errands; for he was a ticket porter or messenger and his office was to take letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to send them by post, which in those days was neither so cheap nor so quick as it is now. 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, and was grateful for any small mercies that came in his way; and so was happier than many people who never knew what it is to be hungry or in want of comforts. His greatest joy was his dear, bright, pretty daughter Meg, who loved him dearly. One cold day, near the end of the year, Toby had been waiting a long time for a job, trotting up and down in his usual place before the church, and trying hard to keep himself warm, when the bells chimed twelve o’clock, which made Toby think of dinner. “There’s nothing,” he remarked, carefully feeling his nose to make sure it was still there, “more regular in coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in coming round than dinner. That’s the great difference between ‘em.” He went on talking to himself, trotting up and down, and 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 and squeezing her blooming face between his hands, “what’s to-do? I didn’t expect you to-day, Meg.” “Neither did I expect to come, father,” said Meg, nodding and 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!” Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when she gaily interposed her hand. “No, no, no,” said Meg, with the glee of a child. “Lengthen it out a little. Let me just lift up the corner; just a lit-tle, ti-ny cor-ner, you know,” said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard by something inside the basket. “There, now; what’s that?” Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and cried out in rapture: “Why, it’s hot,” he said. But to Meg’s great delight he could not guess what it was that smelt so good. “Polonies? Trotters? Liver? Pigs’ feet? Sausages?” he tried one after the other. At last he exclaimed in triumph. “Why, what am I a-thinking of? It’s tripe.” And it was. “And so,” said Meg, “I’ll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth, there’s nobody to prevent me, is there father?” “Not that I know of, my dear,” said Toby; “but they’re always a-bringing up some new law or other.” “And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other day, father, what the judge said, you know, we poor people are supposed to know them all. Ha, ha! What a mistake! My goodness me, how clever they think us!” “Yes, my dear,” cried Trotty; “and they’d be very fond of any one of us that did know ‘em all. He’d grow fat upon the work he’d get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighborhood. Very much so!” “He’d eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt like this,” said Meg cheerfully. “Make haste, for there’s a hot potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle. Where will you dine, father—on the post or on the steps? Dear, dear, how grand we are! Two places to choose from!” “The steps to-day, my pet,” said Trotty. “Steps in dry weather, post in wet. There’s greater conveniency in the steps at all times, because of the sitting down; but they’re rheumatic in the damp.” “Then, here,” said Meg, clapping her hands after a moment’s bustle; “here it is all ready! And beautiful it looks! Come, father. Come!” [Illustration: “They Broke in Like a Grace, My Dear.” Page 13] And just as Toby was about to sit down to his dinner on the door-steps 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 Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!’ A million times? More!” “Well, I never!” cried Meg. “When things is very bad, then it’s ‘Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!’” “And it comes—at last, father,” said Meg, with a touch of sadness in her pleasant voice. “Always,” answered Toby. “Never fails.” While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his attack upon the savory meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about from tripe to hot potato, and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unfailing relish. But happening now to look all round the street—in case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window for a porter—his eyes, in coming back again, saw Meg sitting opposite him, with her arms folded, and only busy in watching his dinner with a smile of happiness. “Why, Lord forgive me!” said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork. “My dove! Meg! why didn’t you tell me what a beast I was?” “Father!” “Sitting here,” said Trotty, in a sorrowful manner, “cramming, and stuffing, and gorging myself, and you before me there, never so much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when–-“ “But I have broken it, father,” interposed his daughter, laughing, “all to bits. I have had my dinner.” “Nonsense,” said Trotty. “Two dinners in one day! It ain’t possible! You might as well tell me that two New Year’s days will come together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed it.” “I have had my dinner, father, for all that,” said Meg, coming nearer to him. “And if you will go on with yours, I’ll tell you how and where, and how your dinner came to be brought and—and something else besides.” Toby still appeared not to believe her; but she looked into his face with her clear eyes, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go on while the meat was hot. So Trotty took up his knife and fork again and went to work, but much more slowly than before, and shaking his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself. “I had my dinner, father,” said Meg, after a little hesitation, “with—with Richard. His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his dinner with him when he came to see me, we—we had it together, father.” Trotty took a little beer and smacked his lips. Then he said “Oh!” because she waited. “And Richard says, father—” Meg resumed, then stopped. “What does Richard say, Meg?” asked Toby. “Richard says, father—” Another stoppage. “Richard’s a long time saying it,” said Toby. “He says, then, father,” Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly, “another year is nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now? He says we are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then; but we are young now, and years will make us old before we know it. He says that if we wait, people as poor as we are, until we see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed—the common way—the grave, father.” A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his boldness largely to deny it. Trotty held his peace. “And how hard, father, to grow old and die, and think we might have cheered and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each other, and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and gray. Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh, father, dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without remembering one happy moment of a woman’s life to stay behind and comfort me and make me better!” Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily—that is to say, with here a laugh and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together: “So Richard says, father, as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as I love him and have loved him full three years—ah, longer than that, if he knew it!—will I marry him on New Year’s Day?” 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 gentlemen came out who called up Trotty, and asked a great many questions, and found a good deal of fault, telling Richard he was very foolish to want to get married, which made Toby feel very unhappy, and Richard very angry. So the lovers went off together sadly; Richard looking gloomy and downcast, and Meg in tears. Toby, who had a letter given him to carry, and a sixpence, trotted off in rather low spirits to a very grand house, where he was told to take the letter in to 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 to get work, and been brought before him charged with sleeping in a shed, and asking if Sir Joseph wished him to be dealt kindly with or otherwise. To Toby’s great disappointment, for Sir Joseph had talked a great deal about being a friend to the poor, the answer was given that Will Fern might be sent to prison as a vagabond, and made an example of, though his only fault was that he was poor. On his way home, Toby, thinking sadly, with his hat pulled down low on his head, ran against a man dressed like a country-man, carrying a fair-haired little girl. Toby enquired anxiously if he had hurt either of them. The man answered no, and seeing Toby had a kind face, he 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 to 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 never can 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. Come home with me! Here! I’ll take her!” cried Trotty, lifting up the child. “A pretty one! I’d carry twenty times her weight and never know I’d got it. Tell me if I go too quick for you. I’m very fast. I always was!” Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his tired companion, and with his thin legs quivering again beneath the load he bore. “Why, she’s as light,” said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as in his gait—for he couldn’t bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment’s pause—"as light as a feather. Lighter than a peacock’s feather—a great deal lighter. Here we are and here we go!” And, rushing in, he set the child down before his daughter. The little girl gave one look at Meg’s sweet face and 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, as she knelt before the child and pulled off her wet shoes, “you’re crazy to-night, I think. I don’t know what the bells would say to that. 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 ‘em half enough. We’re so busy. And when they’re done, we’ll brush out the damp hair; and when that’s done, we’ll bring some color to the poor pale face with fresh water; and when that’s done, we’ll be so gay and brisk and happy!” The child, sobbing, clasped her round the neck, saying, “O Meg, O 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. Trotty and Meg only took a morsel for form’s sake (for they had only a very little, not enough for all), but their delight was in seeing their visitors eat, and very happy they were—though Trotty had noticed that Meg was sitting by the fire in tears when they had come in, and he feared her marriage had been broken off. After tea Meg took Lilian to bed, and Toby showed Will Fern where he was to sleep. As he came back past Meg’s door he heard the child saying her prayers, remembering Meg’s name and asking for his. 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. “And whatever you do, father,” said Meg, “don’t eat tripe again without asking some doctor whether it’s likely to agree with you; for how you have been going on! Good gracious!” She was working with her needle at the little table by the fire, dressing her simple gown with ribbons for her wedding—so quietly happy, so blooming and youthful, so full of beautiful promise that he uttered a great cry as if it were an angel in his house, then flew to clasp her in his arms. But he caught his feet in the newspaper, which had fallen on the hearth, and somebody came rushing in between them. “No!” cried the voice of this same somebody. A generous and jolly voice it was! “Not even you; not even you. The first kiss of Meg in the New Year is mine—mine! I have been waiting outside the house this hour to hear the bells and claim it. Meg, my precious prize, a happy year! A life of happy years, my darling wife!” And Richard smothered her with kisses. You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this, I don’t care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in your life saw anything at all approaching him! He kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment, being—that’s the truth—beside himself with joy. “And to-morrow’s your wedding-day, my pet!” cried Trotty. “Your real, happy wedding-day!” “To-day!” cried Richard, shaking hands with him. “To-day. The chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!” They were ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they were ringing! Great bells as they were—melodious, deep-mouthed, noble bells, cast in no common metal, made by no common founder—when had they ever chimed like that before? Trotty was backing off to that wonderful chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half-dressed. “Why, here she is!” cried Trotty, catching her up. “Here’s little Lilian! Ha, ha, ha! Here we are and here we go. Oh, here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! And Uncle Will, too!” Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a flock of neighbors, screaming, “A Happy New Year, Meg!” “A happy wedding!” “Many of ‘em!” and other fragmentary good-wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty’s) then stepped forward and said: “Trotty Veck, my boy, it’s got about that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There ain’t a soul that knows you that don’t wish you well, or that knows her and don’t wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don’t wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are to play it in and dance it in accordingly.” Then Mrs. Chickenstalker came in (a good-humored, nice-looking woman who, to the delight of all, turned out to be the friend of Lilian’s mother, for whom Will Fern had come to look), with a stone pitcher full of “flip,” to wish Meg joy, and then the music struck up, and Trotty, making Meg and Richard second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since, founded on his own peculiar trot.
IT WILL SURPRISE YOU ALL very much to hear that there was once a man who did not like Christmas. In fact, he had been heard on several occasions to use the word humbug with regard to it. 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, and like to have a little money to make themselves and others comfortable. Well, it was Christmas eve, a very cold and foggy one, and Mr. Scrooge, having given his poor clerk permission very unwillingly to spend Christmas day at home, locked up his office and went home himself in a very bad temper, and with a cold in his head. After having taken some gruel as he sat 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 besides Tim, who was a weak and delicate little cripple, and for this reason was dearly loved by his father and the rest of the family; not but what he was a dear little boy, too, gentle and patient and loving, with a sweet face of his own, which no one could help looking at. Whenever he could spare the time, it was Mr. Cratchit’s delight to carry his little boy out on his shoulder to see the shops and the people; and to-day 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. In came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look just as well as possible; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! “Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. “Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Not coming!” said Bob, with a sudden dropping in his high spirits; for he had been Tim’s blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. “Not coming upon Christmas day!” Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out sooner than had been agreed upon from behind the closet-door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper kettle. “And how did Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit. “As good as gold and better,” replied his father. “I think, wife, the child gets thoughtful, sitting at home so much. 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 sweet heart!” said the mother in a trembling voice, and the father’s voice trembled, too, as he remarked that “Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty at last.” His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, led by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; while Bob, Master Peter, and the two young Cratchits (who seemed to be everywhere at once) went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a perfect marvel, to which a black swan was a matter of course—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with tremendous vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah! There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size, and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at that! Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onions to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take up the pudding and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose—a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed. Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’ next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the pudding like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of lighted brandy, and decorated with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was a small pudding for a large family. It would have been really wicked to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The hot stuff in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed: “A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!” Which all the family re-echoed. “God bless us everyone!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all. Now I told you that Mr. Scrooge had some disagreeable and wonderful dreams on Christmas eve, and so he had; and in one of them he dreamt that a Christmas spirit showed him his clerk’s home; he saw them all gathered round the fire, and heard them drink his health, and Tiny Tim’s song, and he took special note of Tiny Tim himself. How Mr. Scrooge spent Christmas day we do not know. He may have remained in bed, having a cold, but on Christmas night he had more dreams, and in one of his dreams the spirit took him again to his clerk’s poor home. The mother was doing some needlework, seated by the table, a tear dropped on it now and then, and she said, poor thing, that the work, which was black, hurt her eyes. The children sat, sad and silent, about the room, except Tiny Tim, who was not there. Upstairs the father, with his face hidden in his hands, sat beside a little bed, on which lay a tiny figure, white and still. “My little child, my pretty little child,” he sobbed, as the tears fell through his fingers on to the floor. “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, and many more things as strange and sad, the spirit took care of that; but, wonderful to relate, he woke the next morning feeling a different man—feeling as he had never felt in his life before. For after all, you know that what he had seen was no more than a dream; he knew that Tiny Tim was not dead, and Scrooge was resolved that Tiny Tim should not die if he could help it. “Why, I am as light as a feather, and as happy as an angel, and as merry as a schoolboy,” Scrooge said to himself as he skipped into the next room to breakfast and threw on all the coals at once, and put two lumps of sugar in his tea. “I hope everybody had a merry Christmas, and here’s a happy New Year to all the world.” On that morning, the day after Christmas poor Bob Cratchit crept into the office a few minutes late, expecting to be roundly abused and scolded for it, but no such thing; 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 Cratchits’ 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 without knowing it, through the Christmas dream-spirit, touched his hard heart and caused him to become a good and happy man?
THE BOOTS AT THE HOLLY
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