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The Cricket on the Hearth. Charles Dickens

And this light, bursting on a certain person who, on the instant, approached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, ′Welcome home, old fellow! Welcome home, my boy!′

This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire. Mrs. Peerybingle then went running to the door, where, what with the wheels of a cart, the tramp of a horse, the voice of a man, the tearing in and out of an excited dog, and the surprising and mysterious appearance of a baby, there was soon the very What′s-his-name to pay.

Where the baby came from, or how Mrs. Peerybingle got hold of it in that flash of time, _I_ don′t know. But a live baby there was, in Mrs. Peerybingle′s arms; and a pretty tolerable amount of pride she seemed to have in it, when she was drawn gently to the fire, by a sturdy figure of a man, much taller and much older than herself, who had to stoop a long way down, to kiss her. But she was worth the trouble. Six foot six, with the lumbago, might have done it.

′Oh goodness, John!′ said Mrs. P. ′What a state you are in with the weather!′

He was something the worse for it, undeniably. The thick mist hung in clots upon his eyelashes like candied thaw; and between the fog and fire together, there were rainbows in his very whiskers.

′Why, you see, Dot,′ John made answer, slowly, as he unrolled a shawl from about his throat; and warmed his hands; ′it—it an′t exactly summer weather. So, no wonder.′

′I wish you wouldn′t call me Dot, John. I don′t like it,′ said Mrs. Peerybingle: pouting in a way that clearly showed she DID like it, very much.

′Why what else are you?′ returned John, looking down upon her with a smile, and giving her waist as light a squeeze as his huge hand and arm could give. ′A dot and′—here he glanced at the baby—′a dot and carry—I won′t say it, for fear I should spoil it; but I was very near a joke. I don′t know as ever I was nearer.′

He was often near to something or other very clever, by his own account: this lumbering, slow, honest John; this John so heavy, but so light of spirit; so rough upon the surface, but so gentle at the core; so dull without, so quick within; so stolid, but so good! Oh Mother Nature, give thy children the true poetry of heart that hid itself in this poor Carrier′s breast—he was but a Carrier by the way—and we can bear to have them talking prose, and leading lives of prose; and bear to bless thee for their company!

It was pleasant to see Dot, with her little figure, and her baby in her arms: a very doll of a baby: glancing with a coquettish thoughtfulness at the fire, and inclining her delicate little head just enough on one side to let it rest in an odd, half-natural, half-affected, wholly nestling and agreeable manner, on the great rugged figure of the Carrier. It was pleasant to see him, with his tender awkwardness, endeavouring to adapt his rude support to her slight need, and make his burly middle-age a leaning-staff not inappropriate to her blooming youth. It was pleasant to observe how Tilly Slowboy, waiting in the background for the baby, took special cognizance (though in her earliest teens) of this grouping; and stood with her mouth and eyes wide open, and her head thrust forward, taking it in as if it were air.

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