In your composition, use as many of the words and phrases of the poem as you can.
* * * * *
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.