Scrooge sat at his desk in the counting-house. He tried in desperation to block out the sounds he could hear trickling in through the thin windows and small cracks in the door: children laughing in the streets, clanging bells and people exuberantly exchanging wishes of good fortune. It was the night before Christmas, and Scrooge hated Christmas. In fact, he despised it! He despised it more than anything in the world.
While many people were bustling about London like mice being chased by cats in preparation for the next day, Scrooge was working. He was always working. He didn’t take one day off. After all, money was the most important thing to Scrooge. It wasn’t spending money that gave Scrooge pleasure: it was collecting it and saving it all for himself, only spending money on basic necessities and never sharing it with others. For heaven's sake, he thought. If others needed money, they would have to earn it themselves! There would be no charity from him, most definitely not. Scrooge wasn’t one to waste a dime on anything: he wouldn’t even waste a penny.
Scrooge was so busy trying to block out the merry noises coming from outside his office that he almost didn’t hear the knock at the door. Alas, he did hear it. Scowling, Scrooge got up and opened the door to a young man holding a clipboard .“Hello there Mr. Scrooge! How are you this fine evening?” Scrooge’s scowl grew even deeper: it was impressive really, how deep one could scowl. Scrooge’s scowl was as sharp as a butcher’s knife: it often made people turn in the opposite direction or look away nervously. “What do you want?” Scrooge grunted. The young man looked taken aback for a moment: his face scrunching slightly around the eyes. Clearly, he was not expecting to be greeted in this way. Scrooge didn’t care: he just wanted the man to go away. Recovering quickly, the man explained how he was collecting donations for the poor during Christmastime. He explained how the poor were struggling to get by with the workhouse system in effect and all, and asked Scrooge if he would be so kind as to make a donation to help those in need. Scrooge was incredibly displeased at being asked for money. “Humbug!” he growled, and slammed the door in the man’s face.
Scrooge walked home in the bitter night air. The cold had never bothered Scrooge: he himself was as cold as ice. Besides, frigid weather meant more people stayed inside their homes, and that was perfectly fine with Scrooge. People never talked to him anyways, barely even acknowledged his presence. He had a reputation in London as being cold-hearted; without a kind word or gesture to spare. Thus, people tended to avoid him. He thought about what the young man had said about the poor. What nonsense! The Poor Law was in place to save those that couldn’t provide for themselves: without it, where would they go? Surely the workhouses were a better option than scavenging on the streets like a frail bird.
Children sang on stoops and people rushed around Scrooge carrying baskets full of food as he continued on his way. Many of the people on the street were dressed in rags; their faces were as dirty as linen that hadn’t been scrubbed in a month’s time. It was most peculiar to Scrooge how people could be so poor yet so merry. He seemed to be the only melancholy bloke on the street. Oh Christmastime! How Scrooge wished it would be over so everyone could forget their cheery emotions; instead regain a sense of reality by focusing on their work again. As children were called inside to share their evening meal with family, Scrooge opened the door to his building and trudged up the stairs: back to his dark, lonely and dismal apartment…
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