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… Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy…hissing hot. Master Peter mashed potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce… 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 in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board…Hurrah!
Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone to take the pudding up, and bring it in. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered with the pudding, like a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half a quartern of ignited brandy. Oh, what a wonderful pudding! …nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.
There was nothing of high mark in this; they were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed, their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scant; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a Pawnbroker’s. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time.
Then Bob proposed: “A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!” Which all the family re-echoed. “God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
