A Zombie Christmas Carol by Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens

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 on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. 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.
    He sat very close to his father’s side upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
    “Spirit,” said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, “tell me if Tiny Tim will live.”
    “I see a vacant seat,” replied the Ghost, “in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner.  If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die as will all the family here.”
    “No, no,” said Scrooge. “Oh, no, kind Spirit! say they will be spared.”
     
    “If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race,” returned the Ghost, “will find them here. What then? If he and the rest are like to die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
    Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.
    “Tell me Spirit, why will they die? I see that Tiny Tim is frail and vulnerable, but the rest of his family appear strong and they care for themselves as well as they ought.”
    “Man,” said the Ghost, “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, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!”
    Scrooge bent before the Ghost’s rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.
    “Mr. Scrooge!” said Bob; “I’ll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!”
    “The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. “I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it.”
    “My dear,” said Bob, “the children! Christmas Day.”
    “It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,” said she, “on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!”
    “My dear,” was Bob’s mild answer, “Christmas Day.”
    “I’ll drink his health for your sake and the Day’s,” said Mrs. Cratchit, “not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He’ll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!”
    The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn’t care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.
    After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter’s being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner’s, then told them what kind of