Mr. Bingle | Page 4

He mentioned
each by name and very gravely shook their red-mittened paws as they
sidled past him with eager, bulging eyes that saw only the Christmas
trappings in the room beyond.
"Merry Christmas," said the five, not quite in one voice but with
well-rehearsed vehemence, albeit two tiny ones, in rapt contemplation
of things beyond, quite neglected their duty until severely nudged by
Melissa, whereupon they said it in a shrill treble at least six times
without stopping.
"I am very pleased to see you all," said Mr. Bingle, beaming. "Won't
you take off your things and stay awhile?"
It was what he always said to them, and they always said, "Yes, thank
you," following out instructions received on the way down town, and
then, in some desperation, added, "Mr. Bingle," after a sententious
whisper from their aunt.
They were a rosy, clean-scrubbed lot, these little Sykeses. Their mother
may not have fared overly well herself, but she had contrived to put
flesh and fat on the bones of her progeny, and you would go a long way
before you would find a plumper, merrier group of children than those
who came to the Bingle flat on Christmas Eve in their very best
garments and with their very best appetites. The eldest was ten, the

youngest four, and it so happened that the beginning and the end of the
string were boys, the three in between being Mary, Maud, and Kate.
Mrs. Bingle helped them off with their coats and caps and mufflers,
then hugged them and lugged them up to the fire, while Melissa
removed her skunk tippet, her poney coat and a hat that would have
created envy in the soul of a less charitable creature than the mistress of
the house.
"And now," said Mr. Bingle, confronting the group, "who made you?"
"God, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, very much after the habit of a
dog that is ordered to "speak."
"And who was it that said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me?'"
"Jesus, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, eyeing the pile on the table.
"And where do you expect to go when you die?" demanded Mr. Bingle,
with great severity.
"Heaven!" shouted the perfectly healthy Sykeses.
"How is your mother, Mary?" asked Mrs. Bingle, always a rational
woman.
Mary bobbed. "She's working, ma'am," said she, and that was all she
knew about her mother's state of health.
"Are you cold?" inquired Mr. Bingle, herding them a little closer to the
grate.
"Yes," said two of the Sykeses.
"Sir," admonished Melissa.
"Sir!" said all of the Sykeses.
"Now, draw up the chairs," said Mr. Bingle, clearing his throat. "Mary,

you'd better take Kate and Georgie on your lap, and suppose you hold
Maud, Melissa. It will be more cosy." This was his way of overcoming
the shortage in chairs.
Now, it was Mr. Bingle's custom to read "The Christmas Carol" on
Christmas Eve. It was his creed, almost his religion, this heart-
breaking tale by Dickens. Not once, but a thousand times, he had
proclaimed that if all men lived up to the teachings of "The Christmas
Carol" the world would be sweeter, happier, nobler, and the churches
could be put to a better use than at present, considering (as he said) that
they now represent assembling places for people who read neither
Dickens nor the Scripture but sing with considerable intelligence. It
was his contention that "The Christmas Carol" teaches a good many
things that the Church overlooks in its study of Christ, and that the
surest way to make good men out of ALL boys is to get at their hearts
while their souls are fresh and simple. Put the New Testament and "The
Christmas Carol" in every boy's hand, said he, and they will create a
religion that has something besides faith for a foundation. One
sometimes forgets that Christ was crucified, but no one ever forgets
what happened to Old Scrooge, and as Mr. Bingle read his Bible quite
assiduously it is only fair to assume that he appreciated the relativeness
of "The Christmas Carol" to the greatest Book in all the world.
For twenty years or more, he had not once failed to read "The Carol" on
Christmas Eve. He knew the book by heart. Is it any wonder, then, that
he was a gentle, sweet-natured man in whom not the faintest symptom
of guile existed? And, on the other hand, is it any wonder that he
remained a bookkeeper in a bank while other men of his acquaintance
went into business and became rich and arrogant? Of course, it is
necessary to look at the question from both directions, and for that
reason I mention the fact that he remained a bookkeeper while those
who scorned "The Christmas Carol" became