December 24, 1843
It is that wretched time of year again when all the folks go around being joyful when they haven't got the right to. "Merry Christmas!" they cry, so merry themselves; it's sickening. My own nephew is wishing me to be jovial when he himself is poorer than a mouse. He's married (what a thought) and supports his family on his minimal wages, not a spot of gold or silver to his name - bah! Humbug! He tries to convince me to be merry like him on this Christmas Eve, but I have no reason to be and neither has he. Two men came around, odd little men; one short and stout and the other long-limbed and fragile - and they implore me to pay for some poor humbugs to get themselves off the street. Now, no one sees me on the streets, and I put myself in my shop and with my riches, no help from anyone. The poor don't work to save themselves, so throw them into prison, that's what I say! Leave them to the factories. They earned it!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment