Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Stave 2. First Of The 3 Spirits

Charles Dickens's Christmas classic about wealth, poverty, and generosity of spirit probably needs no introduction, so just relax and enjoy part two of this new version, abridged especially for Insight Timer by our very own Mandy Sutter.

In Stave Two, Scrooge is visited by The Ghost of Christmas Past, who takes him back to his own forlorn childhood and shows him influential scenes from his younger life. We begin to see the devastating effect of avarice upon his life. Scrooge sees it too and is greatly affected.

Music by William King

Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Now,

Dickens was a little bit unusual in being very successful during his own lifetime as a writer.

His success began with the 1836 serial publication of the Pickwick Papers.

It actually sparked Pickwick merchandise and spin-offs,

And this is as early as the beginning of the 19th century.

So it's quite something to think that merchandising was alive and well then.

But within a few years,

Dickens had become an international literary celebrity.

Famous for his humour,

Satire,

And keen observation of character and society.

We're going to be hearing tonight Stave II,

The first of the three spirits.

Before I begin,

Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Just relax your hands.

Relax your shoulders.

And finally,

Relax your jaw.

You might allow your eyes to gently close.

That's great.

When Scrooge awoke,

It was so dark that looking out of bed,

He could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber.

He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters,

So he listened for the hour.

To his great astonishment,

The heavy bell went on from six to seven,

And from seven to eight,

And regularly up to twelve,

Then stopped.

Twelve!

It was past two when he went to bed.

The clock was wrong.

An icicle must have got into the works.

Twelve!

He touched the spring of his repeater to correct this most preposterous clock.

Its rapid little pulse beat twelve and stopped.

Why,

It isn't possible,

Said Scrooge,

That I can have slept through a whole day.

It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun,

And this is twelve at noon.

This idea,

Being an alarming one,

He scrambled out of bed and groped his way to the window.

He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing gown before he could see anything,

And he could see very little then.

All he could make out was that he was in a dream,

And that he was asleep.

He was still very foggy and extremely cold,

And that there was no noise of people running to and fro and making a great stir,

As there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day and taken possession of the world.

This was a great relief.

Scrooge went to bed again,

And thought it over and over and over,

And could make nothing of it.

The more he thought,

The more perplexed he was,

And the more he endeavoured not to think,

The more he thought.

Marley's ghost bothered him exceedingly.

Every time he resolved,

After mature inquiry,

That it was all a dream,

His mind flew back again like a strong spring released to its first position,

And presented the same problem to be worked all through.

Was it a dream or not?

Scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three quarters more,

When he remembered on a sudden that the ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell told one.

He resolved to lie awake until the hour was past,

And considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to heaven,

This was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.

The quarter was so long that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously and missed the clock.

At length,

It broke upon his listening ear.

Ding dong.

A quarter past,

Said Scrooge,

Counting.

Ding dong.

Half past,

Said Scrooge.

Ding dong.

A quarter to it,

Said Scrooge.

Ding dong.

The hour itself,

Said Scrooge triumphantly,

And nothing else.

He spoke before the hour bell sounded,

Which it now did with a deep,

Dull,

Hollow,

Melancholy bong.

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant,

And the curtains of his bed were drawn aside by a hand.

Scrooge,

Starting up into a half-recumbent attitude,

Found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them as close to it as I am now to you.

It was a strange figure,

Like a child,

Yet also like an old man.

Its hair was white,

As if with age,

And yet its face had not a wrinkle in it,

And the tenderest bloom was on its skin.

The arms were long and muscular,

The hands the same,

As if its hold were of uncommon strength.

It wore a tunic of the purest white,

And round its waist was bound a lustrous belt,

The sheen of which was beautiful.

It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand,

And in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem,

Had its dress trimmed with summer flowers.

Are you the spirit,

Sir,

Whose coming was foretold to me?

Asked Scrooge.

I am.

The voice was soft,

Gentle,

Singularly low,

As if,

Instead of being so close beside him,

It were at a distance.

Who and what are you?

Scrooge demanded.

I am the ghost of Christmas past.

Long past,

Inquired Scrooge,

Observant of its stature.

No,

Your past.

Scrooge then made bold to inquire what business brought him there.

Your welfare,

Said the ghost.

Scrooge expressed himself much obliged,

But couldn't help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end.

The spirit must have heard him thinking,

For it said,

Immediately,

Your reclamation,

Then.

Take heed.

It put out its strong hand as it spoke,

And clasped him gently by the arm.

And clasped him gently by the arm.

Rise and walk with me.

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes,

That bed was warm and the thermometer a long way below freezing,

That he was clad but lightly in his slippers,

Dressing gown and nightcap,

And that he had a cold upon him at that time.

The grasp,

Though gentle as a woman's hand,

Was not to be resisted.

He rose,

But finding that the spirit made towards the window,

Clasped his robe in supplication.

I am a mortal,

Scrooge remonstrated,

And liable to fall.

Bear but a touch of my hand there,

Said the spirit,

Laying it upon his heart,

And you shall be upheld in more than this.

As the words were spoken,

They passed through the wall,

And stood upon an open country road,

With fields on either hand.

The city had entirely vanished.

Not a vestige of it was to be seen.

The darkness and the mist had vanished with it,

For it was a clear,

Cold winter day,

With snow upon the ground.

Good heaven,

Said Scrooge,

Clasping his hands together as he looked about him.

I was bred in this place.

I was a boy here.

The spirit gazed upon him mildly.

Its gentle touch,

Though it had been light and instantaneous,

Appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling.

He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air,

Each one connected with a thousand thoughts,

And hopes,

And joys,

And cares long,

Long forgotten.

Your lip is trembling,

Said the ghost,

And what is that upon your cheek?

Scrooge muttered,

With an unusual catching in his voice,

That it was a pimple,

And begged the ghost to lead him where he would.

You recollect the way,

Inquired the spirit.

Remember it,

Cried Scrooge with fervour.

I could walk it blindfold.

They walked along the road,

Scrooge recognising every gate,

And post,

And tree,

Until a little market town appeared,

With its bridge,

Its church,

And its winding river.

Some shaggy ponies trotted towards them,

With boys on their backs,

Who called to other boys in country gigs and carts driven by farmers.

All these boys were in great spirits,

And shouted to each other,

Until the broad fields were so full of merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it.

These are but shadows of the things that have been,

Said the ghost.

They have no consciousness of us.

The jocund travellers came on,

And as they came,

Scrooge knew and named them every one.

He rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them.

His cold eye glistened,

And his heart leapt as they went past.

Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas,

As they parted at crossroads and byways for their several homes?

What was Merry Christmas to Scrooge?

Out upon Merry Christmas!

What good had it ever done him?

The school is not quite deserted,

Said the ghost.

A solitary child,

Neglected by his friends,

Is left there still.

Scrooge said he knew it,

And he sobbed.

They left the high road by a well-remembered lane,

And soon approached a mansion of dull red brick,

With a little weathercock surmounted copula on the roof,

And a bell hanging in it.

It was a large house,

But one of broken fortunes.

Damp and mossy,

Windows broken,

Gates decayed.

Fouls clucked and strutted in the stables,

And the coach houses and sheds were overrun with grass.

Entering the dreary hall,

And glancing through the open doors of many rooms,

They found them poorly furnished,

Cold and vast.

There was a chill bareness in the place,

Which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candlelight,

And not too much to eat.

They went,

The ghost and Scrooge,

Across the hall to a door at the back of the house.

It opened before them,

And disclosed a long,

Bare,

Melancholy room,

Made bare as still by lines of plain deal forms and desks.

At one of these,

A lonely boy was reading,

Near a feeble fire,

And Scrooge sat down upon a form,

And wept to see his poor,

Forgotten self.

The spirit touched him on the arm,

And pointed to his younger self,

Intent upon his reading.

Suddenly,

A man in foreign garments,

Wonderfully real and distinct to look at,

Stood outside the window,

With an axe stuck in his belt,

And leading by the bridle,

An ass laden with wood.

Why,

It's Ali Baba,

Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy.

It's dear,

Old,

Honest Ali Baba.

Yes,

Yes,

I know.

One Christmas time,

When yonder solitary child was left here,

All alone,

He did come,

For the first time,

Just like that.

Poor boy.

And Valentine,

Said Scrooge,

And his wild brother,

Orson,

There they go.

To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature,

In a most extraordinary voice,

Between laughing and crying,

And to see his heightened and excited face,

Would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city,

Indeed.

And there's the parrot,

Cried Scrooge,

Green body and yellow tail.

There he is.

Poor Robin Crusoe,

He called him,

When he came home again after sailing around the island.

Poor Robin Crusoe.

Where have you been,

Robin Crusoe?

Then,

With a rapidity of transition,

Very foreign to his usual character,

He said,

In pity for his former self,

Poor boy,

And cried again.

I wish,

Scrooge muttered,

Drying his eyes with his cuff,

But it's too late now.

What is the matter?

Asked the spirit.

Nothing,

Said Scrooge,

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.

The ghost smiled thoughtfully,

And waved its hand,

Saying as it did so,

Let us see another Christmas.

Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words,

And the room became a little darker and more dirty.

The panels shrunk,

The windows cracked,

Fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling,

And the naked laths were shown instead.

But how all this was brought about?

But how all this was brought about?

Scrooge knew no more than you do.

He only knew that everything had happened so,

That there he was,

Alone again,

When all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

He wasn't reading now,

But walking up and down,

In despair.

The door opened,

And a little girl,

Much younger than the boy,

Came darting in,

And putting her arms about his neck,

And kissing him,

Addressed him as her dear,

Dear brother.

I have come to bring you home,

Dear brother,

Said the child,

Clapping her tiny hands,

And bending down to laugh,

To bring you home,

Home,

Home.

Home,

Little fan,

Returned the boy.

Yes,

Said the child,

Brimful of glee.

Home,

For good and all.

Home,

For ever and ever.

Father is so much kinder than he used to be,

That home's like heaven.

He spoke so gently to me one dear night,

When I was going to bed,

That I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home.

And he said,

Yes,

You should,

And he sent me in a coach to bring you.

And you're to be a man,

Said the child,

Opening her eyes,

And you're never to come back here.

But first,

We're to be together all Christmas long,

And have the merriest time in the world.

She clapped her hands and laughed.

A terrible voice in the hall cried,

Bring down Master Scrooge's box,

There.

And in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself,

Who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension,

And threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him.

Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied onto the top of the chaise,

The children bade the schoolmaster goodbye,

Right willingly,

And getting into it,

Drove gaily down the garden sweep,

The quick wheels dashing the hoarfrost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

Always a delicate creature,

Whom a breath might have withered,

Said the ghost,

But she had a large heart.

So she had,

Cried Scrooge.

You're right,

I will not gain say it spirit,

God forbid.

She died a woman,

Said the ghost,

And had,

As I think,

Children.

One child,

Scrooge returned.

True,

Said the ghost,

Your nephew.

Although they had,

But that moment left the school behind them,

They were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city,

Where shadowy passengers passed and repassed,

Where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way.

It was made plain enough by the dressing of the shops,

That here too it was Christmas time again.

But it was evening and the streets were lighted up.

The ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door and asked Scrooge if he knew it.

Know it,

Said Scrooge.

Why,

I was apprenticed here.

They went in.

At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig,

Sitting behind such a high desk,

That if he had been two inches taller,

He must have knocked his head against the ceiling,

Scrooge cried in great excitement.

Why,

Why,

It's old Fezziwig.

Bless his heart,

It's Fezziwig,

Alive again.

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen and looked up at the clock,

Which pointed to the hour of seven.

He rubbed his hands,

Adjusted his capacious waistcoat,

Laughed all over himself,

From his shoes to his organ of benevolence,

And called out in a comfortable,

Oily,

Rich,

Fat,

Jovial voice.

Yo ho there,

Ebenezer.

Dick,

Scrooge's former self,

Now grown,

A young man,

Came briskly in,

Accompanied by his fellow apprentice.

Dick Wilkins,

To be sure,

Said Scrooge to the ghost.

Bless me,

Yes,

There he is.

He was very much attached to me,

Was Dick.

Poor Dick.

Yo ho,

My boys,

Said Fezziwig.

No more work tonight,

Christmas Eve,

Dick.

Christmas,

Ebenezer.

Let's have the shutters up,

Cried old Fezziwig,

With a sharp clap of his hands,

Before a man can say Jack Robinson.

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it.

They charged into the street with the shutters,

One,

Two,

Three,

Had them up in their places,

Four,

Five,

Six,

Barred them and pinned them,

Seven,

Eight,

Nine,

And came back before you could have got to twelve,

Panting like racehorses.

Hilly ho,

Cried old Fezziwig,

Skipping down from the high desk.

Clear away,

My lads,

And let's have lots of room here.

Hilly ho,

Dick.

Cheer up,

Ebenezer.

The floor,

It was done in a minute.

The floor was swept and watered,

The lamps were trimmed,

Fuel was heaped upon the fire,

And the warehouse was as snug and warm and dry and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music book.

In came Mrs Fezziwig.

In came the three Miss Fezziwigs,

Beaming and lovable.

In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke.

In came all the young men and women employed in the business.

In came the housemaid with her cousin,

The baker.

In came the cook with her brother's friend,

The milkman.

In came the boy from over the way,

Who was suspected of not having bought enough from his master.

In they all came,

One after another,

Some shyly,

Some boldly,

Some gracefully,

Some awkwardly,

Some pushing,

Some pulling.

In they all came,

Anyhow and everyhow.

Away they all went,

Twenty couples at once,

Hands half round and back again the other way,

Down the middle and up again,

Round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping,

Old top couple always turning up in the wrong place,

New top couple starting off again as soon as they got there,

All top couples at last.

When this result was brought about,

Old Fezziwig,

Clapping his hands to stop the dance,

Cried out,

Well done,

And the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter,

Especially provided for that purpose.

But scorning rest upon his reappearance,

He instantly began again,

Although there were no dancers yet,

As if the other fiddler had been carried home exhausted on a shutter,

And he were a brand new man,

Resolved to beat him out of sight or perish.

There were more dancers,

And there were forfeits,

And more dancers,

And then there was cake,

And then there was a great piece of cold roast,

And there was a great piece of cold boiled,

And there were mince pies and plenty of beer.

The great effect of the evening came after the roast and boiled,

When the fiddler struck up Sir Roger de Covelly.

Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig.

Top couple too,

With a good stiff piece of work cut out for them,

Three or four and twenty pair of partners,

People who were not to be trifled with,

People who would dance and had no notion of walking.

But if there had been twice as many,

Nay,

Four times as many,

Old Fezziwig would have been a man.

Old Fezziwig would have been a match for them,

And so would Mrs Fezziwig.

As to her,

She was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term.

If that's not high praise,

Tell me higher and I'll use it.

A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves.

They shone in every part of the dance like moons.

You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would have become of them next.

And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all through the dance,

Advance and retire,

Both hands to your partner,

Bow and curtsy,

Corkscrew,

Thread the needle,

Back again to your place,

Fezziwig cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven,

This domestic ball broke up.

Mr and Mrs Fezziwig took to their stations,

One on either side of the door,

And shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out,

Wished him or her a Merry Christmas.

When everybody had retired but the two apprentices,

They did the same to them.

And thus the cheerful voices died away and the lads were left to their beds,

Which were under a counter in the back shop.

During the whole of this time,

Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits.

His heart and soul were in the scene and with his former self.

He remembered everything,

Enjoyed everything.

It was not until now,

When the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them,

That he remembered the ghost and became conscious that it was looking full upon him.

A small matter,

Said the ghost,

To make these silly folks so full of gratitude.

Small,

Echoed Scrooge.

The spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig.

And when he had done so,

Said,

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?

It isn't that,

Said Scrooge,

Heated by the remark and speaking unconsciously like his former,

Not his latter,

Self.

It isn't that,

Spirit.

He has the power to render us happy or unhappy,

To make our service light or burdensome,

A pleasure or a toil.

Say that his power lies in words and looks,

In things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count them up.

What then?

The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.

He felt the spirit's glance and stopped.

What is the matter?

Asked the ghost.

Nothing particular,

Said Scrooge.

Something,

I think,

The ghost insisted.

No,

Said Scrooge,

No.

I should just like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk,

Just now,

That's all.

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish,

And Scrooge and the ghost again stood side by side in the open air.

Might I be the one to say,

My time grows short,

Observed the spirit.

Quick,

Again,

Scrooge saw himself.

He was older now,

A man in the prime of life.

His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years,

But it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice.

There was an eager,

Greedy,

Restless motion in the eye,

Which showed the passion that had taken root.

He was not alone,

But sat by the side of a fair young girl in a morning dress,

In whose eyes there were tears.

It matters little,

She said softly.

Another idol has displaced me,

And if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come,

As I would have tried to do,

I have no just cause to grieve.

What idol has displaced you?

He rejoined.

A golden one.

This is the even-handed dealing of the world,

He said.

There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty.

You fear the world too much,

She answered gently.

All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach.

I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off,

One by one,

Until the master passion,

Gain,

Engrosses you.

Have I not?

What then?

He retorted.

Even if I have grown so much wiser,

What then?

I am not changed towards you.

She shook her head.

Am I?

Our contract is an old one.

It was made when we were both poor and content to be so,

Until,

In good season,

We could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry.

You are changed.

When it was made,

You were another man.

I was a boy,

He said impatiently.

Your own feeling tells you you were not what you are,

She returned.

I am.

That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery,

Now that we are two.

How often and how keenly I have thought of this,

I will not say.

It is enough that I have thought of it and can release you.

Have I ever sought release?

In words,

No,

Never.

In what then?

In a changed nature,

In an altered spirit,

In another atmosphere of life,

Another hope as its great end.

In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight.

If this had never been between us,

Said the girl,

Looking mildly but with steadiness upon him,

Tell me,

Would you seek me out and try and win me now?

Ah,

No.

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition,

In spite of himself.

But he said,

With a struggle,

You think not?

I would gladly think otherwise if I could,

She answered.

Heaven knows.

But if you were free,

I can't believe that you would choose a dowerless girl.

I release you,

With a full heart,

For the love of him you once were.

He was about to speak,

But with her head turned from him,

She resumed,

You may have pain in this.

A very brief time,

And you will dismiss the recollection of it gladly as an unprofitable dream,

From which it happened well that you awoke.

May you be happy in the life you've chosen.

She left him,

And they parted.

Spirit of the world,

Spirit,

Said Scrooge,

Show me no more.

Conduct me home.

Why do you delight to torture me?

One shadow more,

Exclaimed the ghost.

No more,

Cried Scrooge.

I don't wish to see it.

Show me no more.

But the relentless ghost pinioned him in both his arms,

And forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place,

A room not very large or handsome,

But full of comfort.

Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl,

So like that last,

That Scrooge believed it was the same,

Until he saw her,

Now a comely matron,

Sitting opposite her daughter.

The noise in this room was tumultuous,

For there were more children there than Scrooge in his agitated state.

Scrooge's agitated state of mind could count,

And every child was conducting itself like forty children.

The consequences were uproarious beyond belief,

But no one seemed to care.

On the contrary,

The mother and daughter laughed heartily,

And enjoyed it very much.

And the daughter,

Soon beginning to mingle in the sports,

Got pillaged by the young brigands,

Most ruthlessly.

But now,

A knocking at the door was heard,

And such a rush immediately ensued,

That she,

With laughing face and plundered dress,

Was borne towards it,

The centre of a flushed and boisterous group,

Just in time to greet the father,

Who came home,

Attended by a man,

Laden with Christmas toys and presents.

Then the shouting and the struggling and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter,

The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets,

Despoil him of brown paper parcels hauled on tight by his cravat,

Hug him around his neck,

Pommel his back,

And kick his legs in irrepressible affection,

The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received,

The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying pan into his mouth,

And was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey glued onto a wooden platter,

The immense relief of finding all this a false alarm,

The joy,

The gratitude,

The ecstasy,

They are all indescribable alike.

It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlour and by one stair at a time up to the top of the house where they went to bed and so subsided.

And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever when the master of the house having his daughter leaning fondly on him sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside,

And when he thought that such another creature quite as graceful and as full of promise might have called him father and been a springtime in the haggard winter of his life,

His sight grew very dim indeed.

Bell,

Said the husband,

Turning to his wife with a smile,

I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.

Who was it?

Guess.

How can I?

Tut.

Don't I know,

She added in the same breath,

Laughing as he laughed,

Mr Scrooge.

Mr Scrooge,

It was.

I passed his office window and as it wasn't shut up and he had a candle inside,

I could scarcely help seeing him.

His partner lies upon the point of death I hear,

And there he sat,

Alone,

Quite alone in the world,

I do believe.

Spirit,

Said Scrooge in a broken voice,

Remove me from this place.

Remove me from this place.

I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,

Said the ghost.

That they are what they are,

Do not blame me.

Remove me,

Scrooge exclaimed.

I cannot bear it.

He turned upon the ghost and it looked upon him with a face in which,

In some strange way,

There were fragments of all the faces it had shown him.

Leave me,

Take me back,

Haunt me no longer.

He was conscious of being exhausted and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness and further of being in his own bedroom.

He had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.

To be continued.

Reviews

Fabulous reading. Off to the next installment! 🙏 ❤️

This is so fun and what perfect holiday timing! Thanks a bunch from a steady fan in Flagstaff, Arizona, one hour from the Grand Canyon! You’re the best, Mandy!

Confession! A Christmas Carol has always really freaked me out. I have no idea why, I know it’s a classic enjoyed by most but it makes me anxious and I would actively avoid it. That’s until my favourite Insight Timer reader added it to her playlist! I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised and proud of myself for listening multiple times and conquering this irrational fear! Thanks Mandy, it’s a Christmas miracle! 😂

Hey, Mandy. Love all your reading (though I love it best when there's no music under your voice 💜 ). Thank you for the Dickens! Good spooky Victorian fun.

Fun to hear you read this classic! I am familiar with a number of the movies, but didn’t read the book (rather embarrassed to admit)! 🙏🏻👻🎄😊💤❤️