The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner





(Adapted)



CHARLES DICKENS





SCROOGE and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood in the city streets on

Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a

rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow

from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of

their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come

plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little

snowstorms.



The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker,

contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with

the dirtier snow upon the ground, which last deposit had been ploughed

up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that

crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great

streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the

thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest

streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, halt frozen,

whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all

the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were

blazing away to their dear heart's content. There was nothing very

cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of

cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer

sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.



For the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and

full of glee, calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and

then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than

many a wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less

heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open,

and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great,

round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of

jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the

street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced,

broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth

like Spanish friars, and winking, from their shelves, in wanton slyness

at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up

mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustering high in blooming

pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop-keeper's

benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths

might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy

and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the

woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there

were Norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the

oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy

persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper

bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth

among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and

stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going

on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in

slow and passionless excitement.



The grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters

down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone

that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that

the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters

were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended

scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the

raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the

sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious,

the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the

coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that

the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in

modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything

was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all

so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day that they

tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets

wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back

to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best

humour possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh

that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind

might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for

Christmas daws to peck at, if they chose.



But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and

away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and

with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores

of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people,

carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor

revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood, with

Scrooge beside him, in a baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as

their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch.

And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there

were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each

other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their

good-humour was restored directly. For they said it was a shame to

quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!



In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was

a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their

cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven, where the

pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.



"Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?"

asked Scrooge.



"There is. My own."



"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge.



"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."



"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.



"Because it needs it most."



They went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of

the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had

observed at the baker's) that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he

could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood

beneath a low roof quite as gracefully, and like a supernatural

creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.



And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this

power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and

his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's

clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his

robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to

bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think

of that! Bob had but fifteen "bob" a week himself; he pocketed on

Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of

Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!



Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a

twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a

goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda

Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master

Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting

the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property,

conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth,

rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his

linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and

girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt

the goose, and known it for their own, and, basking in luxurious

thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the

table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not

proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the

slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let

out and peeled.



"What has ever got your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And

your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by

half an hour!"



"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.



"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's

such a goose, Martha!"



"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs.

Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet

for her with officious zeal.



"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and

had to clear away this morning, mother!"



"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye

down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"



"No, no! There's father coming!" cried the two young Cratchits, who were

everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"



So Martha hid herself, and 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

seasonable; 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 around.



"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.



"Not coming?" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits;

for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from the 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 prematurely 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.



"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had

rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his

heart's content.



"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,

sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever

heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the

church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to

remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men

see."



Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when

he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.



His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny

Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister

to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as

if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded

some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and

round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two

ubiquitous young Cratchits 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 feathered phenomenon, 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 incredible vigour; 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 into 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 flavour, 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 last! Yet every

one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were

steeped in sage and onion 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 the pudding up, 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 backyard 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.



Hallo! 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 pastry-cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's 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

ignited brandy, and bedight 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 thought or said it

was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat

heresy 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 compound in the jug being tasted, and

considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a

shovelful 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 reechoed.



"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.





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