God rest you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas day, to save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray. Get away, get away I tell you, I want none of your singing here, now get away, before I take a stick to you, get away, all of you. It was I who said those words, may heaven help my soul. It was I who called them out into the London night on Christmas eve, and sent those children scampering into the fog with fear in their hearts, where but a moment before had been the love of fellow man and God. I have learnt a great deal since then, and my story bears telling. My name is Ebenezer Scrooge, and the time of which I speak was Christmas, in the year of our Lord 1843, it was cold, bleak, biting weather. In my counting house, where I sat working busily over my ledgers, the fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, but I remember noting with silent glee that it had been a good year, and I was a much richer man. The city clocks had just struck three, but already it was quite dark, and I had lit a candle to see by. My clerk had also lit a candle, the miserable wretch was warming his hands by it, wasting good time and money. I was just about to reprimand him, when the door opened with a clatter. Merry Christmas, Uncle, God save you. Close that door, do you want to freeze us out? I'm sorry, Uncle, Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, and what reason have you to be merry? Heaven knows you're poor enough. Then what right have you to be sour? You're rich enough. This is a place of business, nephew. I'll thank you to leave us alone. Now, now, don't be angry, Uncle. What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools? Merry Christmas, humbug. What does it mean but a time for paying bills without money, a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer? If I had my way, every fool who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. Now, get out. Uncle Ebenezer, if you'll only... Keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine. But that's just it, you don't keep it. I came to ask you to have dinner with us tomorrow. Thank you, nephew. I'll starve first. But why? We don't want anything from you. We ask nothing of you. Really? Not even a gift for your charming wife? A bauble for your pretty little child? Oh, come. I'm sorry you don't understand, uncle. I came here purely out of the Christmas spirit. And when you go, will you please take it with you? Good night, nephew. Good night, sir. Merry Christmas. Humbug. Mr. Scrooge, sir. Well, what is it? I was just wondering, sir, if... If you might leave for the night, eh? Well, say it. Yes, sir. And you'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose, Mr. Cratchit. If it's quite convenient, sir. It's not convenient and hardly reasonable. If I was to deduct half a crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, wouldn't you, Mr. Cratchit? Well, sir, half a crown... And yet, Mr. Cratchit, you see no reason why I shouldn't pay a day's wages for no work. It's only once a year, sir. Once a year. A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December. Well, I suppose you must have it. Lock all the windows when you leave. And mind you, be here all the earlier next morning. I felt no twinge of conscience that fateful Christmas Eve, no pang of remorse, no sense of guilt, for I had never known these weakling sentiments. Why then did my dark chambers seem darker than they ever had before? Why did I start in fear as I crossed the gloomy threshold of my house? What was there waiting for me? I stood in the blackness, suddenly shaken by a chill, as though an icy hand had clasped its fingers round my heart. Then slowly I mounted the stairs. Once in my room, I knew I would be safe. Once locked behind my heavy door, this nameless fear that clutched at me would be gone.