In your composition, use as many of the words and
phrases of the poem as you can.
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*
66
themes her’ e sy ramp’ ant a chieved’
es cort ed po ta’toes trem’ u lous lux
u’ ri ous cre du’ li ty in cred’
i ble phe nom’ e non pre ma ture’ ly
[Illustration: Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit.]
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly
in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which
are cheap; 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 honor of the day)
into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly
attired. 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 onions, they 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 potatoes, bubbling up, knocked
loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.
“What has ever kept your precious father, then?”
said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother,
Tiny Tim? And Martha wasn’t as late last
Christmas Day by half an hour!”
“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, 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 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 limb 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
declension 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 prematurely
from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms,
while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and
bore him off to the wash-house, that he might hear
the pudding singing in the copper.
