up his whole face, and a mouth whose firm, strong lines reveal clearly the
beauty of character, and the happiness of disposition, which were Tiny
Tim's.

He was a rare little chap indeed, and a prime favourite as well. Ask the
Crachits old and young, whose smile they most desired, whose applause they
most coveted, whose errands they almost fought with one another to run,
whose sadness or pain could most affect the family happiness, and with one
voice they would answer, "Tim's!"

It was Christmas Day, and in all the suburbs of London there was to be no
merrier celebration than at the Crachits. To be sure, Bob Crachit had but
fifteen "Bob" himself a week on which to clothe and feed all the little
Crachits, but what they lacked in luxuries they made up in affection and
contentment, and would not have changed places, one of them, with any king
or queen.

While Bob took Tiny Tim to church, preparations for the feast were going
on at home. Mrs. Crachit was dressed in a twice-turned gown, but brave in
ribbons which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid
the cloth, assisted by Belinda, second of her daughters, also brave in
ribbons, while Master Peter Crachit plunged a fork into a saucepan full of
potatoes, getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private
property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his
mouth, but rejoiced to find himself so finely dressed, and yearning to
show his linen in the fashionable Parks.

Two smaller Crachits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that
outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own;
and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onions, these young Crachits