th was cleared, the hearth swept,
and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and pronounced
perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table and a shovelful of
chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Crachit family drew round the hearth,
Tiny Tim very close to his father's side, upon his little stool, while he
gave them a song in his plaintive little voice, about a lost child, and
sang it very well indeed.

At Bob Crachit's elbow stood the family display of glass; two tumblers and
a custard cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug,
however, as well as golden goblets would have done, and Bob served it out
with beaming looks, while the chestnuts sputtered and cracked noisily.
Then Bob proposed:

"_A merry Christmas to us all, my dears,--God bless us_!"

which was just what was needed to bring the joy and enthusiasm to a
climax. Cheer after cheer went up, over and over the toast was re-echoed,
and then one was added for the family ogre, Bob's hard employer, Mr.
Scrooge, and one for old and for young, for sick and for well, for Father
Christmas and for Father Crachit and for all the little Crachits;--for
everyone everywhere who had heard the holiday bells, there was a toast
given. Then when the uproar ceased for a moment, low and sweet spoke Tiny
Tim alone:

"_God bless us every one!"_

Clearly it rang out in the earnest childish voice. There was a sudden hush
of the merriment, while Bob's arm stole round his son with a firmer grasp
and for a moment the shadow of a coming Christmas fell upon him, when the
little stool would be vacant and the little crutch unused.

Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God! Thou didst not know
that in the benediction of lives like thine, is given the answer to such
prayers. Much did thy loved ones learn from thee; much can the world learn
of the nobility of patience from thy sweet child life. Unawares thou wert
thyself an answer to thy Christmas prayer:

"_God bless us every one!"_

OLIVER TWIST

[Illustration: OLIVER TWIST.]

Oliver Twist was the child of an unknown woman who died in the workhouse
of an English village, almost as soon as her babe drew his first breath.
The mother's name being unknown, the workhouse officials called the child
Oliver Twist, under which title he grew up. For nine years he was farmed
out at a branch poorhouse, where with twenty or thirty other children he
bore all the miseries consequent on