_Scrooge._ It is myself. (_A man dressed as_ ALI BABA, _with an axe across his shoulder, passes slowly and noiselessly across stage back of desk_, R. _to_ L.) Why, it's Ali Baba! It's dear, old, honest Ali Baba. Yes, yes; I know. One day, Christmas-time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he _did_ come here the first time, just like that poor boy. (ROBINSON CRUSOE, _with a parrot perched upon his finger, crosses from_ R. _to_ L. _For costumes, the performers can consult the picture-books._) There's Robinson. There's the parrot,—green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is. Poor Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home after sailing round the island. "Poor Robin Crusoe! Where have you been, Robin Crusoe?" Ah! poor boy, poor boy! (_Curtain closes._) I wish (_puts his hand in his pocket_)—but it's too late now. _Spirit._ What is the matter? _Scrooge._ Nothing, nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something. That's all. _Spirit._ Let us see another Christmas. (_Curtains are drawn, disclosing_ "FEZZIWIG'S _Dance_." R., _sits an old lady in cap and spectacles, her hands raised in admiration_; C., _is_ FEZZIWIG, _in the act of "cutting." He is a large man; white stockings, knee-breeches, shoes with buckles, long white waistcoat, brown coat, large white cravat, and wig. He stands upon his toes, with feet crossed, his countenance radiant with enjoyment. Opposite him_, MRS. F., _as though dancing, one hand on her waist, the other above her head; bright petticoat, dress tucked up, cap, and gray wig._ R. _and_ L. _of this couple, three young women and three young men; costumes same as_ MR. _and_ MRS. FEZZIWIG, _with the exception of the wig. They stand leaning forward, with their hands together, as though applauding. In front of_ FEZZIWIG, _a little boy, imitating_ FEZZIWIG. _Behind all, a musician, standing in a chair, in the act of fiddling; music (violin), "Sir Roger de Coverley." The characters should be all ready, and take their places, instantly the curtain falls on the previous picture, as the time is very short._) _Scrooge._ Why, it's Fezziwig,—bless his old heart!—my master Fezziwig alive again; and there's Dick Wilkins, to be sure. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear! those were happy times. How grateful we were! (_Curtains close on picture._) _Spirit._ A small matter, to make these silly people so full of gratitude. _Scrooge._ Small? _Spirit._ Why, is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money,—three or four, perhaps. Is that so much, that he deserves this praise?