This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both.

[Philosoraptor]

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment.

``Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,'' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, ``but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!''

``It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,'' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. ``Look here.''

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

``Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!'' exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

``Spirit! are they yours?'' Scrooge could say no more.

``They are Man's,'' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ``And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. ``Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!''

``Have they no refuge or resource?'' cried Scrooge.

``Are there no prisons?'' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. ``Are there no workhouses?''

The bell struck twelve.

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

Charles Dickens

[xchrom]

1. ya know there's a greater irony here --

if you think of the religious right wing as Ignorance and you think of the gated community americans{i.e. desperate housewives} as Want.

as wealthy and sophisticated{i use that term loosely} as we have become -- Ignorance still stalks us. it's impending violence right there.

even if the Ignorance is phony or trumped up -- it's some how working as the predator it is.

[zeemike]

2. I haven't read Dickens in years

And what a writer he was.
And the sadness is that it is still applicable today. We still pretend not to see and hear the cries of children that are innocent but suffering for our own sins.
Thanks for posting this it needs to be said.

[Philosoraptor]

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[DixieBlue]

4. Thank you.

Made me cry.

My mother, every Christmas Eve, would pull out her battered copy of A Christmas Carol and read it to us and that bit always gave me nightmares. I think it might be time to pull my own copy out.

[Philosoraptor]

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[Philosoraptor]

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