Cricket on the Hearth , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Charles Dickens

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

67 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Tired of the materialistic cynicism and cheerless hustle and bustle that seem to taint the holiday season these days? Hearken back to a simpler time and celebrate the true virtues of the season with this classic tale from Charles Dickens, master of the heartwarming Christmas parable.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2009
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775416838
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH
A FAIRY TALE OF HOME
* * *
CHARLES DICKENS

*

The Cricket on the Hearth A Fairy Tale of Home First published in 1845 ISBN 978-1-775416-83-8 © 2009 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - Chirp the First Chapter II - Chirp the Second Chapter III - Chirp the Third
Chapter I - Chirp the First
*
The kettle began it! Don't tell me what Mrs. Peerybingle said. Iknow better. Mrs. Peerybingle may leave it on record to the end oftime that she couldn't say which of them began it; but, I say thekettle did. I ought to know, I hope! The kettle began it, fullfive minutes by the little waxy-faced Dutch clock in the corner,before the Cricket uttered a chirp.
As if the clock hadn't finished striking, and the convulsive littleHaymaker at the top of it, jerking away right and left with ascythe in front of a Moorish Palace, hadn't mowed down half an acreof imaginary grass before the Cricket joined in at all!
Why, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows that. Iwouldn't set my own opinion against the opinion of Mrs.Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any account whatever.Nothing should induce me. But, this is a question of act. And thefact is, that the kettle began it, at least five minutes before theCricket gave any sign of being in existence. Contradict me, andI'll say ten.
Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should have proceeded todo so in my very first word, but for this plain consideration—if Iam to tell a story I must begin at the beginning; and how is itpossible to begin at the beginning, without beginning at thekettle?
It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill,you must understand, between the kettle and the Cricket. And thisis what led to it, and how it came about.
Mrs. Peerybingle, going out into the raw twilight, and clickingover the wet stones in a pair of pattens that worked innumerablerough impressions of the first proposition in Euclid all about theyard—Mrs. Peerybingle filled the kettle at the water-butt.Presently returning, less the pattens (and a good deal less, forthey were tall and Mrs. Peerybingle was but short), she set thekettle on the fire. In doing which she lost her temper, or mislaidit for an instant; for, the water being uncomfortably cold, and inthat slippy, slushy, sleety sort of state wherein it seems topenetrate through every kind of substance, patten rings included—had laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle's toes, and even splashed herlegs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with reason too) uponour legs, and keep ourselves particularly neat in point ofstockings, we find this, for the moment, hard to bear.
Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn'tallow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear ofaccommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it WOULD leanforward with a drunken air, and dribble, a very Idiot of a kettle,on the hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and splutteredmorosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs.Peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and then,with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, divedsideways in—down to the very bottom of the kettle. And the hullof the Royal George has never made half the monstrous resistance tocoming out of the water, which the lid of that kettle employedagainst Mrs. Peerybingle, before she got it up again.
It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then; carrying itshandle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly andmockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, 'I won't boil.Nothing shall induce me!'
But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good humour, dusted her chubbylittle hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle,laughing. Meantime, the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing andgleaming on the little Haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock,until one might have thought he stood stock still before theMoorish Palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame.
He was on the move, however; and had his spasms, two to the second,all right and regular. But, his sufferings when the clock wasgoing to strike, were frightful to behold; and, when a Cuckoolooked out of a trap-door in the Palace, and gave note six times,it shook him, each time, like a spectral voice—or like a somethingwiry, plucking at his legs.
It was not until a violent commotion and a whirring noise among theweights and ropes below him had quite subsided, that this terrifiedHaymaker became himself again. Nor was he startled without reason;for these rattling, bony skeletons of clocks are very disconcertingin their operation, and I wonder very much how any set of men, butmost of all how Dutchmen, can have had a liking to invent them.There is a popular belief that Dutchmen love broad cases and muchclothing for their own lower selves; and they might know betterthan to leave their clocks so very lank and unprotected, surely.
Now it was, you observe, that the kettle began to spend theevening. Now it was, that the kettle, growing mellow and musical,began to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulgein short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn'tquite made up its mind yet, to be good company. Now it was, thatafter two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivialsentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burstinto a stream of song so cosy and hilarious, as never maudlinnightingale yet formed the least idea of.
So plain too! Bless you, you might have understood it like a book--better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. With itswarm breath gushing forth in a light cloud which merrily andgracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney-corneras its own domestic Heaven, it trolled its song with that strongenergy of cheerfulness, that its iron body hummed and stirred uponthe fire; and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid—such isthe influence of a bright example—performed a sort of jig, andclattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never knownthe use of its twin brother.
That this song of the kettle's was a song of invitation and welcometo somebody out of doors: to somebody at that moment coming on,towards the snug small home and the crisp fire: there is no doubtwhatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it, perfectly, as she sat musingbefore the hearth. It's a dark night, sang the kettle, and therotten leaves are lying by the way; and, above, all is mist anddarkness, and, below, all is mire and clay; and there's only onerelief in all the sad and murky air; and I don't know that it isone, for it's nothing but a glare; of deep and angry crimson, wherethe sun and wind together; set a brand upon the clouds for beingguilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long dullstreak of black; and there's hoar-frost on the finger-post, andthaw upon the track; and the ice it isn't water, and the waterisn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought tobe; but he's coming, coming, coming! -
And here, if you like, the Cricket DID chime in! with a Chirrup,Chirrup, Chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus; with a voiceso astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with thekettle; (size! you couldn't see it!) that if it had then and thereburst itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim onthe spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it wouldhave seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it hadexpressly laboured.
The kettle had had the last of its solo performance. It perseveredwith undiminished ardour; but the Cricket took first fiddle andkept it. Good Heaven, how it chirped! Its shrill, sharp, piercingvoice resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in theouter darkness like a star. There was an indescribable littletrill and tremble in it, at its loudest, which suggested its beingcarried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intenseenthusiasm. Yet they went very well together, the Cricket and thekettle. The burden of the song was still the same; and louder,louder, louder still, they sang it in their emulation.
The fair little listener—for fair she was, and young: thoughsomething of what is called the dumpling shape; but I don't myselfobject to that—lighted a candle, glanced at the Haymaker on thetop of the clock, who was getting in a pretty average crop ofminutes; and looked out of the window, where she saw nothing, owingto the darkness, but her own face imaged in the glass. And myopinion is (and so would yours have been), that she might havelooked a long way, and seen nothing half so agreeable. When shecame back, and sat down in her former seat, the Cricket and thekettle were still keeping it up, with a perfect fury ofcompetition. The kettle's weak side clearly being, that he didn'tknow when he was beat.
There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp,chirp! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum—m—m! Kettle makingplay in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp!Cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum—m—m! Kettle sticking tohim in his own way; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp!Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum—m—m! Kettle slow andsteady. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket going in to finish him.Hum, hum, hum—m—m! Kettle not to be finished. Until at lastthey got so jumbled together, in the hurry-skurry, helter-skelter,of the match, that whether the kettle chirped and the Cri