Tiny T. Hurrah!
Bob. I don't believe there ever was such a goose as this cooked. It's more tender than a woman's love, and only cost two and sixpence. A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.
All. God bless us.
Tiny T. God bless us every one.
Scro. Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live?
Spir. I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
Scro. (Hangs his head.) My very words.
Spir. Man—if man you be in heart, not adamant—forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. It may be, in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh, Heaven! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers of the dust!
Mrs. C. Now, Martha and Belinda, change the plates, while I bring the nuts, apples and oranges.
Bob. (Rising and placing the punch-bowl on the table.) Here is what will remind us it is Christmas. (Fills three tumblers and custard-cup without a handle, and passes them to Mrs. C., Peter and Martha.) I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast.