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 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 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
less 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 before-hand
in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the
potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the