The Cricket on the Hearth: A Fairy Tale of HomeDickens, Charles
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The Cricket on the Hearth: A Fairy Tale of Home
Dickens, Charles
Christmas stories, English; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Holidays -- Fiction
It happened opportunely, that Boxer, without receiving the proposed
stimulus, began to bark with great zeal. But as this implied the
approach of some new visitor, Caleb, postponing his study from the life
to a more convenient season, shouldered the round box, and took a
hurried leave. He might have spared himself the trouble, for he met the
visitor upon the threshold.
"Oh! You are here, are you? Wait a bit. I'll take you home. John
Peerybingle, my service to you. More of my service to your pretty wife.
Handsomer every day! Better too, if possible! And younger," mused the
speaker, in a low voice; "that's the Devil of it."
"I should be astonished at your paying compliments, Mr. Tackleton," said
Dot, not with the best grace in the world; "but for your condition."
"You know all about it then?"
"I have got myself to believe it, somehow," said Dot.
"After a hard struggle, I suppose?"
"Very."
Tackleton the Toy merchant, pretty generally known as Gruff and
Tackleton--for that was the firm, though Gruff had been bought out long
ago; only leaving his name, and as some said his nature, according to
its Dictionary meaning, in the business--Tackleton the Toy merchant, was
a man whose vocation had been quite misunderstood by his Parents and
Guardians. If they had made him a Money-Lender, or a sharp Attorney, or
a Sheriff's Officer, or a Broker, he might have sown his discontented
oats in his youth, and after having had the full-run of himself in
ill-natured transactions, might have turned out amiable, at last, for
the sake of a little freshness and novelty. But, cramped and chafing in
the peaceable pursuit of toy-making, he was a domestic Ogre, who had
been living on children all his life, and was their implacable enemy. He
despised all toys; wouldn't have bought one for the world; delighted, in
his malice, to insinuate grim expressions into the faces of brown-paper
farmers who drove pigs to market, bellmen who advertised lost lawyers'
consciences, moveable old ladies who darned stockings or carved pies;
and other like samples of his stock in trade. In appalling masks;
hideous, hairy, red-eyed Jacks in Boxes; Vampire Kites; demoniacal
Tumblers who wouldn't lie down, and were perpetually flying forward, to
stare infants out of countenance; his soul perfectly revelled. They were
his only relief, and safety-valve. He was great in such inventions.
Anything suggestive of a Pony-nightmare, was delicious to him. He had
even lost money (and he took to that toy very kindly) by getting up
Goblin slides for magic lanterns, whereon the Powers of Darkness were
depicted as a sort of supernatural shell-fish, with human faces. In
intensifying the portraiture of Giants, he had sunk quite a little
capital; and, though no painter himself, he could indicate, for the
instruction of his artists, with a piece of chalk, a certain furtive
leer for the countenances of those monsters, that was safe to destroy
the peace of mind of any young gentleman between the ages of six and
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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