1312 – Dickens Pickwick Read
Old Chuck D dazzles Scooter with a chapter from a book about a paper filled with merriment, bells, and cozy barrels.
-
Read With Me / Holiday / Seasonal
The Big Lebowski
https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/a43042514/the-big-lebowski-25-year-anniversary/
Pickwick Papers
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1876/08/dickens-and-the-pickwick-papers/631015/
https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/04/14/the-sam-weller-bump/
Snapdragon game
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/what-is-snapdragon
https://recollections.biz/blog/snapdragon-extreme-victorian-parlour-game/
Gabriel Grub
https://familychristmasonline.com/stories_other/dickens/gabriel_grub.htm
DOWN TO BUSINESS
I’m here to make your long winter’s nights as short as possible
PLUGS
Sleep With Me Plus; SleepPhones; Rusty Biscuit Links; Emily Tat Artwork; NAPAWF; Anti-Racism Resources; Ukraine Relief; Crisis Textline
SPONSORS
Helix Sleep; Zocdoc; Progressive; Lumen; Uncommon Goods
INTRO
Thoughts on your mind that you’re thinking about
Do they say Emotional Feelings?
Emotions? I’m feeling them
How does the Dude react to my feelings?
A holiday version of the Dude
Feelings, Man
The Jeff Lebowski Barely Accurate Podcast
He’s definitely Santa-esque
No offense, but Santa is a little disheveled
Put a little Lebowsk in your season
Macy’s could do a parade of him, too
The Jeff Lebowski Holiday Special
I’d trust the Coen Brothers with that
I know Ernest saved Christmas
A 12 hour special, watching Jeff Lebowski deliver gifts
Actionable Things throw me off
Borer In Charge
Adjusting your palate to a sleep podcast
We’ve been meandering about for a while, huh
I crumble into overthinking
I don’t know what tonight’s episode will be
Ok, let’s look up The Big Lebowski
It’s an independent movie, what does that mean?
The Coen Brothers said they’d never make a sequel
But a holiday special isn’t a sequel
STORY
We did this last year
The Christmas chapter from Pickwick Papers
Chapter XXVIII
Christmas was close at hand
The season of open-heartedness
Pure and Unalloyed Delight
We write this many years later, looking back
The hands we grasped
All different kinds of hands
Some people are sleeping in their beds
The old house, not This Old House
We always remember that old house
Luggage have been stowed away
A huge codfish, packed into the foreboot
And oysters
All the property of Mr. Pickwick
“I’ve got a codfish in my boot”
The long history of that song
Please never put a codfish in my boot
The Unsmotherable Delight of all standers-by
Pickwick gives a tip to the guard
And the coach is finally off
They rumble through the streets
They eventually reach a level road
The driver is showing off with ease
They’re going to change horses directly
People watch the coach as it rattles by
Stopping at the inn
The rider grabs a package
They discuss the gray mare
Shouting for a missing gentleman
Pickwick and Tupman struggle back into the coach
On the way to Dingleydale
They arrive at the steps of the Blue Lion
Counting the barrels of oysters and codfish
Mr. Pickwick sees the page Bud
Bud has been asleep in front of the Taproom fire
Bud and Mr. Weller now size each other up
A nice specimen of a kid
What makes Bud so happy?
He offers Bud a drink as thanks
Sam drives Bud to the house
Bud sleeps on the codfish and oyster barrel
Bud is my new hero
PIckwick and his friends are walking
The rapid approach of the great twilight
They’re playful and joyous and merry
They run into a group waiting for them
Old Whartle, Bella, and Emily!
There’s gonna be a wedding tomorrow!
Frolicking in the fields
They need some help climbing over a fence
They’d just been down to inspect the new house
Mr. Snodgrass, the modest genius
Whartle’s mother has no care to meet Pickwick
She could be nicer to herself
She sounds like my Inner Nana
Let’s dance a minuet
Old Whartle starts crying on her granddaughter
A very mirthful night
Snodgrass has eye for Emily Whartle
Loud footsteps wake Pickwick the next morning
Such multitudinous demands for hot water and thread
Oh yeah, there’s a wedding the next day
Advancing to after the wedding
Peals of laughter on every side
Playing Hidey Hide Buff
A great game of Snapdragon after
A mighty bowl of wassail
This is, indeed, comfort
Waiting for the clock to strike Christmas
Time for a song, which Scooter will say like a poem
3 Cheers for This Christmas Auld
Everyone loves the song
Again, the wassail goes around
How it snows!
Remembering Old Whartle who is in the Big Farm now
A kind of bawdy story
The Snickles of Bells
What is this story?
Gabriel Grub could be morose and melancholy
He kind of reminds me of Scooter
Gabriel headed to the Old Churchyard
He prefers a sullen, gloomy atmosphere
Frowny Face Lane
He sees a young boy, singing in the street
He’s grumpy towards the kid
Then he got to work
And he started digging in the graveyard
He sat to have a couple nips on the bottle
He heard someone else say, “Ho, ho, ho!”
It’s not an echo
Nearby was a handful of Snickles of Bells
A real life elf on a shelf
Gabriel is stunned into silence
Why work on a night like tonight?
Follow our bells across the lane
Follow our jingles and jangles
You hear his joyous caroling, but he’s not around
When you compliment someone’s caroling, you hear Gabriel Grubb
Have a happy holiday season
Good cheer to all and to all a good cheer
SUMMARY:
Episode: 1312
Title: Dickens Pickwick Reading
Plugs: Sleep With Me Plus; SleepPhones; Rusty Biscuit Links; Emily Tat Artwork; NAPAWF; Anti-Racism Resources; Ukraine Relief; Crisis Textline
Sponsors: Helix Sleep; Zocdoc; Progressive; Lumen; Uncommon Goods
Notable Language:
- Emotional Feelings
- Feelings, Man
- Santa-esque
- Crumble Into Overthink
- Pure and Unalloyed Delight
- “I’ve got a codfish in my boot”
- A nice specimen of a kid
- This is, indeed, comfort
- The Snickles of Bells
- Frowny Face Lane
Notable Culture:
- The Big Lebowski
-
- The Jeff Lebowski Barely Accurate Podcast
- Macy’s Parade
- Coen Brothers
- The Santa Clause
- Ernest Saves Christmas
-
- Tim Allen
- The Pickwick Papers
-
- Christmas
- Charles Dickens
- Frozone / The Incredibles
- This Old House
- The Dickens Fair
- “I’ve got a codfish in my boot” song
- Emmet Otter
- Blind Man’s Buff
- Elf on a Shelf
Notable Talking Points:
- Thoughts on your mind that you’re thinking about
- Do they say Emotional Feelings?
- Emotions? I’m feeling them
- How does the Dude react to my feelings?
- A holiday version of the Dude
- Feelings, Man
- The Jeff Lebowski Barely Accurate Podcast
- He’s definitely Santa-esque
- No offense, but Santa is a little disheveled
- Put a little Lebowsk in your season
- Macy’s could do a parade of him, too
- The Jeff Lebowski Holiday Special
- I’d trust the Coen Brothers with that
- I know Ernest saved Christmas
- A 12 hour special, watching Jeff Lebowski deliver gifts
- Actionable Things throw me off
- Borer In Charge
- Adjusting your palate to a sleep podcast
- We’ve been meandering about for a while, huh
- I crumble into overthinking
- I don’t know what tonight’s episode will be
- Ok, let’s look up The Big Lebowski
- It’s an independent movie, what does that mean?
- The Coen Brothers said they’d never make a sequel
- But a holiday special isn’t a sequel
- The Unsmotherable Delight of all standers-by
- We did this last year
- The Christmas chapter from Pickwick Papers
- Chapter XXVIII
- Christmas was close at hand
- The season of open-heartedness
- Pure and Unalloyed Delight
- We write this many years later, looking back
- The hands we grasped
- All different kinds of hands
- Some people are sleeping in their beds
- The old house, not This Old House
- We always remember that old house
- Luggage have been stowed away
- A huge codfish, packed into the foreboot
- And oysters
- All the property of Mr. Pickwick
- “I’ve got a codfish in my boot”
- The long history of that song
- Please never put a codfish in my boot
- The Unsmotherable Delight of all standers-by
- Pickwick gives a tip to the guard
- And the coach is finally off
- They rumble through the streets
- They eventually reach a level road
- The driver is showing off with ease
- They’re going to change horses directly
- People watch the coach as it rattles by
- Stopping at the inn
- The rider grabs a package
- They discuss the gray mare
- Shouting for a missing gentleman
- Pickwick and Tupman struggle back into the coach
- On the way to Dingleydale
- They arrive at the steps of the Blue Lion
- Counting the barrels of oysters and codfish
- Mr. Pickwick sees the page Bud
- Bud has been asleep in front of the Taproom fire
- Bud and Mr. Weller now size each other up
- A nice specimen of a kid
- What makes Bud so happy?
- He offers Bud a drink as thanks
- Sam drives Bud to the house
- Bud sleeps on the codfish and oyster barrel
- Bud is my new hero
- PIckwick and his friends are walking
- The rapid approach of the great twilight
- They’re playful and joyous and merry
- They run into a group waiting for them
- Old Whartle, Bella, and Emily!
- There’s gonna be a wedding tomorrow!
- Frolicking in the fields
- They need some help climbing over a fence
- They’d just been down to inspect the new house
- Mr. Snodgrass, the modest genius
- Whartle’s mother has no care to meet Pickwick
- She could be nicer to herself
- She sounds like my Inner Nana
- Let’s dance a minuet
- Old Whartle starts crying on her granddaughter
- A very mirthful night
- Snodgrass has eye for Emily Whartle
- Loud footsteps wake Pickwick the next morning
- Such multitudinous demands for hot water and thread
- Oh yeah, there’s a wedding the next day
- Advancing to after the wedding
- Peals of laughter on every side
- Playing Hidey Hide Buff
- A great game of Snapdragon after
- A mighty bowl of wassail
- This is, indeed, comfort
- Waiting for the clock to strike Christmas
- Time for a song, which Scooter will say like a poem
- 3 Cheers for This Christmas Auld
- Everyone loves the song
- Again, the wassail goes around
- How it snows!
- Remembering Old Whartle who is in the Big Farm now
- A kind of bawdy story
- The Snickles of Bells
- What is this story?
- Gabriel Grub could be morose and melancholy
- He kind of reminds me of Scooter
- Gabriel headed to the Old Churchyard
- He prefers a sullen, gloomy atmosphere
- Frowny Face Lane
- He sees a young boy, singing in the street
- He’s grumpy towards the kid
- Then he got to work
- And he started digging in the graveyard
- He sat to have a couple nips on the bottle
- He heard someone else say, “Ho, ho, ho!”
- It’s not an echo
- Nearby was a handful of Snickles of Bells
- A real life elf on a shelf
- Gabriel is stunned into silence
- Why work on a night like tonight?
- Follow our bells across the lane
- Follow our jingles and jangles
- You hear his joyous caroling, but he’s not around
- When you compliment someone’s caroling, you hear Gabriel Grubb
- Have a happy holiday season
- Good cheer to all and to all a good cheer
-
Episode 1312 – Dickens Pickwick Read
[START OF RECORDING]
SCOOTER: Friends beyond the binary, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s time for the podcaster who is here to make your long winters’ nights short as possible, ideally 'cause you say, well, I don't even…I don't know what he was talking about, and I don't know remember. I’m just waking up this morn, getting ready for whatever. I slept good. That’s the goal of Sleep With Me, is to be your friend in the deep, dark night, a mild distraction, a friendly voice, a bore-bud, a bore-sib, a bore-bestie, a neigh-bore, a bore-bor, a Borbie, your bore-bud. I’ll tell you more about it later. But, basically, just take your mind off of stuff and keep you company so you could fall asleep.
This show’s a bit different, so if you’re new…the show’s a bit different. It takes some getting used to, but I’m really glad you’re here, because…let’s see how it goes. I’m here to…well, I guess I already said it. I’m here to get mixed up for your benefit, to go off topic for your benefit, kinda like providing a service where someone talks and goes off topic, can barely put…you’re right, barely put words together, but it’s here to keep you company in the deep, dark night. So, let’s just see how it goes. Sometimes I have more than this, but, I don't know, I guess I’m out of words. I’m more full of rambles. So, welcome to Sleep With Me. It’s a podcast to put you to sleep.
What we got coming up is a little bit of support so paying for the show is optional, then a long, meandering intro meant to ease you into bedtime, and then our bedtime story after that. So, yeah, I’m really glad you’re here, and we’re able to do this thanks to the people that support the show directly, support the sponsors, or the people that support the show with their good will or spreading the word about the show…their kindness, or just the people that are falling asleep that I never hear from. I love putting you to sleep. I wouldn't do it if I wasn’t putting you to sleep. So, it’s okay if you’re just falling asleep in the background. Welcome to Sleep With Me, the podcast that puts you to sleep.
INTRO: [INTRO MUSIC] Hey, are you up all night tossing, turning, mind racing? Trouble getting to sleep? Trouble staying asleep? Well, welcome. This is Sleep With Me, the podcast that puts you to sleep. We do it with a bedtime story. Alls you need to do is get in bed, turn out the lights, and press Play. I’m gonna do the rest. What I’m going to attempt to do is create a safe place where you could set aside whatever’s keeping you awake. It could be thoughts on your mind that you’re thinking about, thoughts about the past, the present, the future…thoughts, man…it could be physical sensations, anything keeping you awake there, it could be feelings, physical feelings, or emotions. They don’t say ‘emotional feelings’, do they? But I’m feeling…I guess I feel…it used to be my hobby not to feel emotions.
But at bedtime, I would say, emotions, I’m feeling them, and ones that are not appropriate for bedtime. Or, they say, wouldn't it be better if I felt that emotion tomorrow, or we…I had thoughts and then feelings about my lack of emotions during the day, or you describe to me my emotional shortcomings? Is that a thing? I mean, internally, it is. I don't actually believe it is. I say, well, they’re just feelings, man. If someone like The Dude would say…has anyone…? Here’s a question; has anyone played a holiday version of Jeff Lebowski? How come Jeff Lebowski…I mean, The Big Lebowski is a Coen Brothers film, but why isn't there some sort of holiday season…?
It could be any…it could be for Hanukkah, it could just be for the holiday season, it could be for anything, like a general holiday…I mean, so, the movie The Big Lebowski…I don't know if it has any holiday…it has lights at the beginning of it, but it seems like the wisdom of Jeff Lebowski…he’d say, feelings, man, around the holidays…yeah. A White…Jeff Lebowski liked White Russians. What is this, The Jeff Lebowski Barely-Accurate Podcast? No, this is Sleep With Me, actually. It’s a podcast to put you to sleep. But Jeff Lebowski just popped in my head, seemingly trying to help me with my feelings about my feelings. I said, what a nice holiday gift, the presence of Jeff Lebowski in my brain. Then I thought, well, he is…he’s not…he’s Santa-esque.
I wouldn't say he’s Santa-like, but I would say they’re in the same general appearance; comfortable clothing, somewhat disheveled, and when…I’m not saying it in a negative way. No offense, Santa, but you’re usually working, so you’re slightly…if you’re in a sleigh all night long, you’re gonna be disheveled. I mean, let’s just be…if you’re up all night. I don't know what Santa drinks, but…and I have NA eggnog, but that was my point, is Jeff Lebowski likes White Russians, and that’s a drink that has a cream-based…a creamy, alcoholy drink, and eggnog also is that. I mean, it could fit that. So, do any of those things ring true to anyone else?
Putting a little Lebowski in the season…I mean, you could have a balloon, Macy’s, and…I think this is…we’ve got about one-eighth of a decent idea here, I believe, but maybe more because we have Jeff’s calmness…I mean, if he’s…here’s the thing; having Jeff Lebowski as a third-party resident in your mind prob…mostly handy. As long as you’re not getting into any hijinx like in the film, he’s gonna be helpful to say, whatever, man. I’m not…I don't do a exact Jeff Lebowski. But he’d say, don't worry about it, man. Those are just feelings. So, that’s a nice thing to have around the holidays, creamy drinks whether they have alcohol or not, or non-dairy, creamy drinks, that’s nice, someone comfortably-robed. I would say Santa’s outfits are robe-like.
Someone’s already probably done…how come Jeff Lebowski doesn't have a holiday special? I mean, I don't think it’s that…other than the actual logistics, the reality of it, I think it could be…I mean, I would trust the Coen Brothers. I’m sure they would come up with something, but I don't know if they would be interested. I mean, Jeff Bridges is probably busy. So, those are a couple limitations. You could do it animated. The Big Lebowski…I don't know. Again, like I said…okay, one-seventh of an idea. Where was I, though? Oh, thoughts, feelings, physical sensations…you could be having all of those about that. I mean, what if…? They had those movies with Tim Allen, right, where Tim Allen took over for Santa Claus…? And also Ernest P. Whorrell took over for Santa Claus, I believe. I’m not exactly positive.
I don't think I saw the Tim Allen movies, and I’m pretty sure if I saw the…Ernest saved Christmas…but if the cover of the…if the movie poster’s anything, Ernest was delivering…flying the sleigh, at least. I think the Tim Allen ones were called The Santa Claus, which meant somehow he was legally binded into being Santa Claus. I mean, that would be pretty funny. Here’s not a movie idea but a form of sleepy entertainment idea, watching Jeff Lebowski deliver presents for a few hours. Even at one…it probably would take him eight hours just to deliver presents to one…there’s the special. It’s a twelve-hour special, and it’s called…because maybe you wouldn't…I guess…I don't know. That would be one thing. So, I don't think Jeff Lebowski should take over for Santa.
Anyway, you’re right, we should move on to the sleep podcast I’m supposed to make. So anyway, thoughts, feelings, physical sensations, changes in time, temperature, routine, guests, you could be going through something or having something come up. Whatever it is that’s keeping you awake, I’m here to take your mind off of stuff and keep you company because you deserve a good night's sleep. You deserve a place you could rest, and I know how it feels. So do a lot of other people who are listening here. We know how it is, man, and whatever brought you here to this podcast…you were searching for something or you heard about it and you’re having trouble sleeping…that’s important, right?
So, I’m really glad you’re here, and I really hope this show can help you fall asleep, because…and take your mind off of stuff and keep you company so you could fall asleep. So, yeah. What I do is I send my voice across the deep, dark night. I use lulling, soothing, creaky, dulcet tones, pointless meanders, and superfluous tangents. I go off topic, I get mixed up, I forget what I was saying, like I said, then I talk about some nonsense that doesn't make total…it makes partial sense, or it’s like, hey, you’re not halfway there, but you have an idea. It’s just not necessarily coherent or useful. Or, you know what they say to me all the time; not actionable. I say, perfect, 'cause I’m not…nothing…actionable things throw me off, anyway. So…oh, what am I gonna do here?
Send my voice…oh, the thing is…a couple things to know about this podcast; it’s a podcast you can just barely listen to, kinda like a out-of-focus picture or background noise or something on in the other room. It’s here to just keep you company like a out-of-focus picture or a friend talking to you that you’re not really paying attention to. It’s also a podcast that doesn't really put you to sleep. I’m here to keep you company while you fall asleep. As I said earlier, I’m really here…there’s no pressure to fall asleep with this show. That’s why it’s over an hour. I’m here to keep you company whether you’re awake or asleep. There’s people who are listening who need a break during the day or people who can't sleep at all.
So, I’m here to the very end whether you’re awake or asleep, whether you’re listening or not, or you wake up and you need something to listen to. That’s what my job is; bore-friend, bore-bae, bore-sib, bore-bud, neigh-bore, Borbie, bores, borie, borer in charge or whatever, your best bore-friend f’eva, your bore-bruh. I’m here to be your company whether you’re paying attention to me or not, just to talk for your…not even for your pleasure, but for your mild, barely entertainment. Now, the other thing is this show is…it’s an…a taste you can acquire. It’s not an acquired taste. That sounds a little bit fancy, you know? But it’s a taste at first…you say…you do that thing with your mouth that I can't do 'cause it’s a sleep podcast where you clear your palate and then you say, I’m not so sure about this. Give me another bite.
Then you taste it again. You say, oh, okay, okay, I get it now. Usually, it takes two or three tries to get used to the show. That’s just what…probably in the eleven years I’ve made the show, over a million people have said it; first I didn’t like you, I didn’t like the show, or I found the show, I was really frustrated, I expected something different, I thought it would be something more calm or soothing or about bedtime, but it’s just you rambling. But the people on two or three tries that realize…holy cow, I fell asleep to this…it’s what I’ve been looking for. It’s a friend in the deep, dark night to keep me company. That’s what I’ve been looking for. I didn’t even realize something like this could be out there.
So, give it a few tries and see how it goes, and here’s the deal; I have a website set up, sleepwithmepodcast.com/nothankyou, so if you get to the show and you loathe it or you loathe me, you still deserve a good night's sleep. There’s other sleep podcasts and sleepy stuff on there. You’ll find…maybe you’ll find something that helps you out. The other thing I should tell you about is the structure of the show, right? The structure of the show can throw people off. As well, it’s very…designed in a very specific way, and…but it is adjustable. So, let me just explain it to you in case you want to adjust it. If you want to adjust me, like a chiropractor without experience or something, just check out sleepwithmepodcast.com/nothankyou. But if you say, oh, okay, I kinda…I like the show, but…but, I’ll tell you what.
So, the show starts off with a greeting. All our shows at this point start off with a geeting; friends beyond the binary, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, so you feel seen and welcomed in and you say, okay, I might check that podcast out. Then there’s support so paying for the podcast is optional. Most people prefer this ad-supported version of the show, and they listen to it linearly. But if you prefer something without ads, you can get that on Sleep With Me+. After that is a long, meandering intro, which we’ve been meandering about for a while, and that’s meant to ease you into bedtime, not to put you to sleep.
It does put some people to sleep, but for most people, they’re winding down, getting ready for bed, doing a chill activity, petting their pets, looking out the window, doodling, playing with blocks or playing some chill game, and easing into bedtime, or in bed getting comfortable. So, just see how it goes. But if you don’t like the intros, they’re a show within a show. They’re kinda built into the strategy of the podcast to ease you into bedtime. If you just want stories, Bedtime Stories Only…or Bedtime Stories From Sleep With Me is a free podcast or ad-supported podcast you can get in any podcast app that has the stories and not the intros. Or if you’re a member of Sleep With Me+, you get all the stories and all the…the full episodes and the story-only episodes. So, just see how it goes at first, though.
But there’s a reason we do this, and it’s just what worked for me personally and what most sleep research says, is, hey, ease into bedtime. Have a routine to wind down. It’s a gift to yourself. But no pressure to do that, because the other thing is…with sleep stuff, if there’s pressure, for me, I crumb…I don't crumble and fall asleep, unfortunately. I crumble and overthink. So, just see how it goes. What else do you need to know? Structure of the show…oh, I don't even know what the story-only portion of the show will be tonight, because…it could be two things. I’m not sure if we already recorded an intro. We’re either gonna be reading from the Pickwick Papers — they’re a little holiday stuff — or it’ll be a Dreaming of Newhart episode.
I think it’s…I get the feeling I already recorded the Pickwick Papers intro, but I can't…I don't know. So, we’ll both be surprised. That’ll be fun. Yeah, so, that’s the structure of the show. That’s why I make the show. Let me just look up The Big Lebowski just to see what the Wikipedia page says. 1998, so, it’s really not…a lot of you are like, what are you…? It is a very popular film, but…I would say timeless, but my…I haven't…I told my daughter we should watch it, but we haven't watched it yet. Okay, I just want to see what else it’s…okay, it’s a independent movie. I don't know what that means. Let’s see. It came out January 18th, 1988 at Sundance, and then March 6th, it started getting distributed. $15 million to make; $47 million at the box office. It’s somewhat of a noir comedy, I guess. Legacy…so, yeah, very…it’s very popular.
Oh, there was a Lebowski Fest. It’s still a thing. Huh. I know I’ve seen things and I went to a party once where people were performing, and I’m just trying to see if there’s anything else. Like, hey, we decide…spin-off…they will never make a sequel to The Big Lebowski, the Coen Brothers said. Okay, this isn't a sequel, though. This is a holiday special. John Turturro said he would like to reprise his role, and that…the Coen Brothers won't be involved in that, but they did grant the rights. So, I don't know. I don't know. I guess…yeah, the rug under me has been…really brings this sleepy podcast together. So, anyway, that’s…I’m just here to keep you company and take your mind off of stuff.
If you’re new, I’m really glad you’re here. I really hope we can help you out. Myself and a team of people work really hard on this show, 'cause we believe in it, man. We believe you need some company and a little bit of silliness in the deep, dark night if you want it. If this works for you, great. You’re welcome to be a part of our crew of nodders or whatever. If it doesn't work for you, it’s not for you, that’s cool, too, man. I’m really glad you’re here. I work really hard. I yearn and I strive. I really hope I can help you fall asleep. Thanks again for coming by, and here’s a couple ways we’re able to do it for you for free twice a week.
Alright everybody, this is Scoots here, and we did this last year, and in October I think we released…I was reading the novel Frankie, one chapter, and we’re doing that on Sleep With Me+. We’re gonna read the whole novel. Some of that comes out as part of Subscriber Summer or the Subscriber Holidays, and some of that is at the Bore-Friends and Bore-Besties. But this is another Dickens…this is a chapter from a Dickens story, the Pickwick Papers. I think I’m gonna be recording this whole book, because it’s serialized. I’m thinking about doing more of the serialized content. So, we’ll see how it goes. It may be a slightly different style of narration. I don't know, this one will be a test. So, yeah, let’s see how this goes. This is Pickwick Papers from Charles Dickens, or as we like to call him, Chuck Dix, with an X. Chapter XXVIII. So, twenty-five…eight…twenty-eight.
A good-humored Christmas chapter containing an account of a wedding and some other sports besides, which, although in their way, even as good customs as marriage itself, are not so quite kept up in these times. As brisk as bees if not altogether as light as fairies did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December in the Year of Grace in which these, their fatefully recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, and all his bluff and hardy honesty. It was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness. The old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and admits…and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry, to pass gently and calmly away.
Gay and merry was the time, and the right level of celebration where at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming. Numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide in the restless struggles of life are then reunited and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, numbered among the first joys of future for those who haven't done it yet provided for people that enjoy it? How many old recollections and how many dormant sympathies does the holiday time awaken?
We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts that throbbed so much then have…you know, they’re…not everybody gets to enjoy it. Some people are also enjoying it on the big holiday stage in the sky, but many have looks that shone so brightly then have…they’ve dimmed but then been reignited in another stage. So brightly they’re glowing now, different from their glowing whence…hence I speak of. The hands we grasped, hands that may have had mittens or gloves or may have been cold from the air, only from the air…maybe warm, maybe clammy, maybe warm and moist, maybe dry.
Maybe they had those gloves that Scooter wished he had so much that changed color when they got cold, called Frosties or Frozies or something like that. Hence, I wonder what Frozone’s hand would feel like. Probably soft in that glove, and probably warm underneath the glove, as such we talk. But there are cold hands and eyes we sought, some opened, some closed, some in various states of open or closed, with lustre of various degrees, 'cause some people are sleeping in their beds, and some people are traveling over that rainbow bridge, which apparently, according to this, you do with your eyes closed.
Before you get to run through that big farm and go on the big sleigh to the great thing that's waiting…and yet, the old house…not this old house; the old house, the room, the merry voices, the smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday. Happy, happy Christmas, as they say at the Dickens Fair. That can win us back to the delusions of our childish days. That can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth. That can transport the sailor and the traveler thousands of miles away, back to their own fireside and quiet home.
But we were so taken up and preoccupied with the good qualities of the holidays that we were keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends waiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they have just attained, well wrapped up in great coats, shawls, and comforters. The portmanteaus and luggage has been stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavoring to insinuate — insinuate? — into the foreboot a huge codfish several sizes too large for it, which is snuggly packed up in a long, brown basket with a layer of straw over the top, which has been left to the last in order that he may repose in safety on a half-dozen barrels of oysters, all the property of Mr. Pickwick, which has been arranged in regular order at the bottom of the receptacle.
He’s good at finding someone that’s good at spatial organization. By the way, the interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance is the most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to get that codfish in the boot. It reminds me of the song, I Got A Codfish in My Boot. It’s been redone since autos and then with boots. The boots of carriages, the boots of vehicles in your time, and the boots dear…you could say it, even…dear Delilah, I’ve got a codfish in my boot, once will maybe…never been performed by Emmett Otter and that sweet jug band. It was a jug band, but it was only one person…there was only one other band member. Don’t know if Scooter’s ever pointed that out before. But you’re trying to get that codfish in the boot.
Don’t put…also, that could be a bumper sticker; ‘Don’t put a codfish in my boot, ever, please. Never. No fish in my boots or the boot of my car. Period. Full stop. Ever. No fish in the boot. Any boot…no fish…we’re all agreed’. But they did try. Head, tail, top upward, bottom upward, sideways, long ways, all of which artifices the implacable codfish sturdily resists until it finally gets in there. Into the boot it goes. The guard falls in after it, so sillily to thus of us watching, who, himself, not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the codfish, experiences a very unexpected surprise to the unsmotherable delight of all stander-bys. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good humor, and, drawing a shilling from his waistcoat’s pocket, begs the guard as he picks himself out of the boot.
There’s a guard in my boot, too, right now, would say Mr. Pickwick if he was here. He picks himself out of the boot to drink to his health a glass of hot brandy and water, at which the guard smiles, too, and Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman all smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller appear…disappear for five minutes, most probably to get some hot brandy and water, for they smell very strongly of it. When they return, the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, and the Pickwickians hold their coats around their legs and their shawls over their noses. The helpers pull the horse cloths off, and the coachman shouts a cheery ‘alright’, and away they go. They’ve rumbled through the streets and jostled over the stones, and at length, they reach the wide and open country.
The wheels skim over the hard and frosty ground, and the horses, bursting into canter at a smart ‘hey-ho, keep it moving’, step along the road as if the load behind them, coach, passengers, codfish, oysters, and all, were but a feather at their heels. They’ve descended a gentle slope and enter upon a level as compact and dry as a solid block of marble two miles long. On they go at a smart gallop, the horses tossing their heads and rattling their harnesses as if exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion, while the coachman takes off his hat and rests it on his knees, pulls out a handkerchief, and wipes off his forehead, partly because he has a habit of doing it and partly 'cause it’s his well to show the passengers how cool he is and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand when you’ve had as much practice as he.
Having done this very leisurely — otherwise the fact would be materially impaired — he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat, and adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, and says, hey, ho, horsie, ho, keep it moving, yo, yo, yo. Ho, ho, ho. On they speed more merrily than before, a few small houses scattered on either side of the road betoken the entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guards key bugle vibrate in the clear, cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carefully letting down the window sash halfway and standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out and then carefully pulls it up again, informing the other side they’re going to change directly, on which the other inside wakes himself up and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage.
Again, the bugle sounds lustily forth and rouses the cottager’s wife and children, who peep out at the horse door and watch the coach ‘til it turns a corner, when they once more crouch around the blazing fire and throw on a log of wood against father comes home. Father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman and turned around to take a long, good stare at the vehicle as it whirls away. Now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the ill-paved streets of a country town, and the coachman, undoing the buckle which keeps his rib bands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar and looks about him with great curiosity.
Perceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town and tells him it was market day yesterday, both which is…both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick tells his fellow passengers, whereupon they emerge from their coat collars, too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge with one leg dangling in the air, is precipitated into the street as the coach twists around the sharp corner by the cheesemongerer’s shop, and turns into the marketplace before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm. They pull up at the innyard, where the fresh horses with cloths on are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets off and down, and the other side…outside passengers drop down also, except those who have no great confidence in their ability to get back up again.
They remain where they are and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them, looking with longing eyes at the red noses, at the bright fire in the inn, the bar, the springs of holly with red berries which ornament the window. But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop the brown packet he took out of his little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern strap, and has seen the horses carefully put to and has thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the coach roof, and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the gray mare who they took good care of last Tuesday.
He and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window down a full two inches at this time, has pulled it up again. The cloths are off, and they’re all ready for staring, except for the two gentlemen whom the coachman inquires after some impatience. Hereupon, the coachman and the guard, Sam…and Samwell are Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass and the hostlers and every one of the idlers who are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the missing gentleman as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down to it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale apiece.
Mr. Pickwick’s fingers are so cold, it has been a full five minutes before he could find a sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an admonitory, now then, gentlemen. The guard re-echoes it, and the old gentleman inside thinks it is a very extraordinary thing, that people will get down when they know there isn't time for it. Mr. Pickwick struggles up one side, and Tupman up the other. Mr. Winkle cries, alright, and off they are, shawls put up, collars adjusted, and the pavement ceases and the horses disappear. They’re once again dashing along the open road with fresh, clear air blowing in their faces and gladdening their very hearts within them. Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton telegraph on their way to Dingley Dell.
At 3:00 that afternoon, they all stood high, dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters and weaving its beautiful network upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disternment…disinternment of the codfish, which he himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat. Looking ‘round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’s favorite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history by his nickname, Bud. Ah, said Mr. Pickwick. Ah, said Bud.
As he said it, he glanced from the codfish to the oyster barrels and chuckled joyously. Bud was happy to see them. Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend, said Mr. Pickwick. I’ve been asleep in front of the taproom fire, replied Bud, who had heeded himself to the color of a new chimney pot in the course of an hour’s nap. They sent me over to the chaise cart to carriage luggage up to the house. He’d sent me home some saddlehorses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day. Yes, yes, Mr. Pickwick said hastily, for he remembered how they had traveled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. Yes, we’d rather walk. Here, Sam. Sir? Said Mr. Weller. Help Mr. Wardles, Bud, to put the packages in the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.
Having given this direction and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck across a footpath into the fields and walked briskily away, leaving Mr. Weller and Bud, who, together, were together for the first time. Sam looked at Bud with great astonishment without saying a word. Bud was a legend; that’s why. He began to stow away the luggage rapidly away in the cart while Bud stood quietly by and seemed to think it was a very interesting thing seeing Mr. Weller working by himself. There, said Sam, throwing in the last piece of luggage. There they are. Yes, said Bud in a very satisfied tone. There they are. Well, young, twenty stun…you’re a nice specimen of a kid you are. Thank you, said Bud. You ain’t got nothing on your mind as makes you worry, said Sam.
Not as I know, said Bud. Well, I’d rather say, to look at you…do you have a…are you in love? Do you have a unrequited attachment to a young woman? Bud shook his head. Well, I’m glad to hear it. You ever drink anything? I prefer a meal, said Bud. Aye, said Sam. I suppose that. But what I mean is would you like a drop of anything as to warm you? I suppose you were never cold with all those…work you had to do. Sometimes I like a drop of something when it’s good, said Bud. Oh, do you? Said Sam. Well, come this way, then. The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and Bud swallowed a glass of liquor without so much as winking, a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller, having transacted a similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart. Can you drive? Said Bud.
I rather think so, replied Sam. There, then, said Bud, putting the reins in his hand and pointing at the lane. It’s as straight as you can go. You can't miss it. With these words, Bud laid himself affectionately down on the side of the codfish — I’m not making this up — and, placing an oyster barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously. Bud, you may be my hero now. Somebody remind me one day to get an ornament with Bud snuggled up with a codfish, and to see if I…I guess I’m going to the Dickens Fair, though Bud’s my reimagining. Well, said Sam, of all the cool boys I ever set my eyes on, this young gentleman is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy. Wow, this is…I gotta…sorry to break character, but…wow.
But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller set himself down in front of the cart and, starting the old horse, saying, come on, let’s get moving, bud, they jogged steadily on towards the manor farm. Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, having walked theirselves into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard, the grass was crisp and frosty. The air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness, and the rapid approach of the gray twilight — slate-colored is a better term in frosty weather — made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them or hospitable entertainers.
It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple of older gents in a lonely field to take off their greatcoats and play at leapfrog in pure lightness of heart and gaeity, and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman had a moment proferred aback, Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity. However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears, and before they even had time to form a guess as to who they belonged, they walked into the very center of the party, who were expecting their arrival, a fact which was notified to the Pickwickians by a loud hurrah, which burst from the old Wardle’s lips when they appeared in sight.
First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more jolly than ever. Then there was Bella and her fateful Trundle, and lastly there was Emily and some eight or ten young ladies who had all come down to the wedding, which was to take place the next day, and who were in as happy and important state as young ladies usually are in such momentous occasions. They were, one and all, startling at the fields and lanes far and wide with their laughter and frolic. The ceremony of introduction under such circumstances was very soon performed. Or, we should rather say that the introduction was soon over without any ceremony at all, and two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the young ladies who wouldn't come over to the style.
While he looked, or who having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles preferred standing on top of the rail for five minutes or so, delcaring that they did not want to move with as much ease in absence of reserve or constraint as if he had known them for life. It is worth even a remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than the surprises of the style that allow people but not animals to climb over a fence or a wall. Although, it was a full three feet high. So, a fence…stairs over a fence, full three feet high, and only had a couple of stepping stones. It would seem to require a young…one young person in a very nice pair of boots with fur ‘round the top…was observed to shout loudly when Mr. Winkle offered to help her over.
All this was very snug and pleasant, and when the difficulties of the style or steel were…the steps…stones over the fence were at last surmounted, they once more entered on the open field. Old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick that they had all been down in a body to inspect the furniture and fitting-ups of the house, which the young couple were to tenant after the Christmas holidays, at which communication Bella and Trumble — Trundle; not…sorry, Trundle. I called you Trumble — both colored up red as Bud was after the taproom fire. The young lady with the eyes and the round…fur ‘round the boots whispered something in Emily’s ear and glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass, to which Emily responded that she was a foolish girl, but turned very red notwithstanding.
Mr. Snodgrass, who was as modest as all great geniuses are, usually, felt the crimson rising to the crown of his head and devoutly wished in the inmost recesses of his young heart that the lady aforesaid with her eyes and her archness and her boots with the fur ‘round the top were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county. But if they were happy and social outside the house, what was warmth and cordiality of the reception when they reached the farm? The very servants grinned with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Pickwick, and Emma bestowed a half-demure…demure, half-imprudent, and all-pretty look of recognition on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of Bonaparte and the passage unfold his arms and clasp her within them.
The lady of the house was seated with customary state in the front parlor, but she was rather cross, and by consequence, not listening. She never went out herself, and like a great many other wise family members of the same stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic forbadence if anybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn’t. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as she could, and in her chair, looked as fierce as might be, and that was benevolent after all. Mother? Said Wardle. Mr. Pickwick, you recollect him? Never mind, replied the lady of the house, the mother, with great dignity. Don’t trouble Miss Pickwick about a old creature like me. So, she’s saying it about herself, but it doesn't…say, you could be a little bit nicer to yourself. Nobody cares about me now.
You sound a bit like the nana that lives in my mind. It’s very natural they shouldn't. Here, she tossed her head and smoothed down her lavender-colored…by the way, it’s a beautiful lavender-color silk dress, ma’am, Scooter did say to her, doth breaking many of the third and fourth walls. She smoothed her dress with trembling hands. Come, come, madam, said Mr. Pickwick, I can't let you cut…oh, my gosh, Pickwick, you’re channeling me. I can't let you cut an old friend in this way. I’ve come down expressly to have a long talk and another rubber with you, and we’ll show these boys and girls how to dance a minute…minuet before they’re eight and forty hours older. So, a slow, steady, stately ballroom dance for two in triple time.
She was rapidly giving away, but she did not like to do it all at once, so she only said, ah, I can barely hear you. Nonsense, mother, said Wardle. Come, come, don’t be cross. There’s a good soul. Recollect Bella. Come. You must keep her spirits up, poor girl. The good lady did hear this, for her lip quiz…quivered as her son said it. But age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite browned yet. So, again, she smoothed down the lavender-colored dress and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said, ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people were very different when I was a girl. No doubt about that, said Mr. Pickwick, ma’am, and that’s the reason why I would make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock.
In staying…this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, bestowing a kiss upon her forehead, and bade her sit down at the little stool at her grandmother’s feet. Whether the expression of her countenance as it was raised towards the face of the lady called up a thought of old times or whether the lady was touched by Mr. Pickwick’s affectionate good nature or whatever was the cause, she was fairly melted. So, she threw herself on her granddaughter’s neck, and all the ill humor evaporated in a gush of silent tears. A holiday party they were that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together. Uproarious was the mirth of the round, long table.
Long after the ladies had retired did the hot elder wine, well-qualified with brandy and spice, go round and round and round again, and sound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact that those Mr. Snodgrasses bore constant reference to Emily Wardle, and that the principle figure in Mr. Winkle’s visions was a young lady with beautiful eyes and an arched smile and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur ‘round the top. Mr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning by a hum of voices and a pattering of feet sufficient to round even Bud from his heavy slumbers. He sat up in bed and listened.
The servants and visitors were running constantly to and fro, and there was such multitudinous demands for hot water, such repeated demands for needles and thread, and so many half-suppressed entreaties of, oh, do come and tie me up — my dress, that is — that Mr. Pickwick, in his innocence, began to imagine that this was a busy, busy place. But when he grew more awake, he remembered the wedding. The occasion being an important one, he dressed himself with particular care and descended to the breakfast room. We’ll advance a little bit to late in the evening after the wedding. It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the center of the group, now pulled this way and then that, kissed on the chin, then on the nose, then on the spectacles, to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side.
But it was still a more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick up against the wall, scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of hide…hiding, hide bluff, with utmost relish for the game, until last he caught one of the poor relations and then had to play himself, a bit like hide-and-seek, you’d say, but even Pickwick did this with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations who were the seekers, not the hiders, they found the people who thought they would like it, and then the game kinda petered out, and then they got caught themselves. When they were all tired of playing it, there was a great game of Snapdragon.
When fingers enough burned with that and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire blazing logs to a substantial supper and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash house copper, in which the hot apples were histling and bubbling with a rich look and a jolly sound that were perfectly irresistible. This, said Mr. Pickwick, looking ‘round him, this is indeed comfort. Our invariable custom, replied Wardle. Everybody sits down with us on Christmas Eve as you see them now, servants and all, and here we wait until the clock strikes twelve to usher Christmas in and beguile the time which forfeits in old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire. Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred.
The deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow that penetrated into the furthest corners of the room and cast its cheerful tent on every…tint on every face. Come, said Wardle, a song, a Christmas song. I’ll give you one in default of a better. Bravo, said Mr. Pickwick. Fill up, cried Wardle. It’ll be over two hours of good before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep, rich color of the wassail. Fill up all around, and now for the song, but Scooter will say it more like a poem. Thus saying, the merry, old gentleman and the good, round, sturdy voice commenced without much do, a Christmas carol. I care not for spring on his fickle wing. Let the blossom and buds be born. He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, and he scather them…scatters them ere the morn.
An inconsistent elf, he knows not himself, nor his own changing mind and hour. He’ll smile on your face, and with raw grimace, he’ll wither your youngest flower. Let the summer sun to a bright…to his bright home run. He shall never be sought by me. When he’s dimmed by a cloud, I can laugh aloud and care not how sulky he be. For his darling child is the madness wild that sports in fierce fever’s train, and when love is too strong, it don’t last long, as many have found to their pain. A mild harvest night by the tranquil light of the modest and gentle moon has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween, than the broad and unblushing noon. Every week…every leaf awakens my grief and leath beneath the tree…as it layeth beneath the tree. So, let the autumn air be never so fair. It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out for Christmas stout, the hardy, the true, and the bold. A bumper I drain, and with might and main give three cheers for this Christmas old. We’ll usher him in with a merry din. That shall gladden his joyous heart, and we’ll keep him up while there’s bite or sup, and in fellowship good, we’ll part. As fine on his pride, he scorns to hide one jot of his hard-weathered scars. There’s no disgrace, for there is much the same trace on cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing ‘til the roof doth ring, and it echoes from wall to wall, to the stout, old, white, fair welcome tonight, and the king of the seasons all. The song was tulmentulously applauded, a clear version, clearly, than Scooter would give.
For friends and dependents make a capital audience, and the poor relations especially were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again, the fire was replenished, and again, the wassail went around. How it snows, said one of the men in a low tone. Snows, does it? Said Wardle. Rough, cold night, sir, replied the man, and there’s a wind got up that drifts it around the fields in a thick, white cloud. What does Jim say? Inquired the grandmother. There aint anything the matter, is there? No, no, mother, replied Wardle. He says there’s a snow drift and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that by the way it rumbles in the chimney. Ah, she said. There’s such a wind, just such a small fall of snow. Reminds me of a good many years back, I recollect, just five years before your father went to the great holiday beyond.
It was a Christmas Eve, too, and I remember that on that very night, he told us a story, a story that’s not particularly appropriate, but it was about Gab…old Gabriel Grub and, you know, those…the Snickels of Bells…wait, this is a story about what? Said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, nothing, nothing, replied Wardle. About an old sexton that the good down…people here suppose…danced away with the Snickels of Bells, following their bells. Suppose, ejaculated the old lady, is there anybody hardy enough to disbelieve it? Suppose. Haven't you ever heard since you were a child that he did dance away with the Snickels of Bells, and don’t you know he was? Very well, mother, he was…if you like, said Wardle, laughing. He was dancing away with the Snickels of Bells, Pickwick, and that’s the end of the matter.
No, no, no, said Mr. Pickwick, that’s not the end of it, I assure you. I gotta hear this story, the how and the why and all about it. Wardle smiled, and every head was bent forward to hear, and the filling out of the wassail with no delay nodded health to Mr. Pickwick and began as follows; well, bless our editorial heart. What a long, meandering story we’ve gotten into. We had quite forgotten all the petty restrictions such as chapters, we solemnly declare, but here it goes, to give the Snickels a fair start and a new one. A clear stage and no favor, but…so, now we gotta read this one, quickly. It was a old abbey town, but meandering, part…a while ago, so, the story must be true.
There was somebody out there named Gabriel Grub, and he lived out there. He could be morose and melancholy, not necessarily the most…merriest fellow in the world, but someone once knew him. He could be as comical if…he could chirp out a song without a delay, made up on the spot, or drain a good, stiff glass without stopping for breath. But Gabriel Grub was also ill-conditioned, cross-grained, and surly, morose, lonely, who consorted with nobody but himself and an old, wicker bottle. Could have been a bit like Scooter. But it was before twilight one Christmas Eve. Gabriel headed out to the old churchyard, and wasn’t in the great…things, but he thought he might raise his spirits if he got to work.
He went up the street and he saw the lights of cheerful blazing fires through the old casement, heard the sounds of laughter and cheerful shouts of those assembled, 'cause they were making preparations. Hence, it was Christmas Eve. They were ready for the next day’s cheer. He even smelled the numerous savory odors steaming out the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub, or Gabriel Grub, children bounding out of their houses, curly-headed little rascals crowded around everybody flocked upstairs, play their Christmas games. Gabriel smiled grimly and headed out. In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning to…a sullen growl to the good-humored greetings of his neighbors as he passed them.
He had been looking forward to flying solo, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy place where no one else hung out, especially in the evening. He didn’t want to hear any jolly Christmas tunes. The fact this road even had a name…Frowny-Faced Lane, he liked to call it. It had been known as that since the old days. But he walked on, and then he heard a voice…drew near, a small boy hurtling along to go to a party and…prepare himself…was singing at the top of his lungs. Gabriel waited and then hid and then said, hey, kid, don’t quit your day job. The kid said, I’m just…and he said, go sing your carols to somebody who cares. He put a frowny face frown on this kid’s…old Gabriel Grub really did it on that Frowny-Face Lane.
Then he got to work and took off his coat, and got to digging, for he was supposed to dig for a project later that week. He was pretty pleased with himself insulting that kid’s Christmas singing, and he sang himself songs as he worked to pass the time. Then he sat down and had a couple nips off his bottle, his old, wicker bottle. Said, frowny faces at Christmas…ho, ho, ho. But then he heard somebody else say, ho, ho, ho. He was like, wait, what was that? He felt cold, you know, because he had heard somebody say ‘ho, ho, ho’ after he had said it. Was it an echo? He didn’t know. It was an echo, he said, and he had another drink. Not an echo, said a friend in the night. Gabriel got up and looked around. What’s up with that? Nearby, it wasn’t just one but a handful of Snickels of Bells, who jingled and jangled, a bit like elves.
They had long legs, maybe like that Elf on a Shelf, but more green and stuff like that. He said, what, what? He didn’t believe his eyes, for he had never seen the Elf on the Shelf or any elves in real lives, even though these were the Snickels of Bells. Each had a hat garnished with a single feather. Their hair, white as frost, and they sat never still, constantly moving and jingling and jangling and smiling at Gabriel Grub with a grin only the Snickels of Bells could do. It was not the echoes, said the Bells…the Snickels of Bells. But Gabriel couldn't reply, 'cause he thought it was a dream, but now they were speaking. What are you even doing out here on Christmas Eve? They said. Working. Who’s out here on a night like this? Why work? Gabriel Grub…I’m working, man. What’s in the bottle? They said. Hollands, he said.
Who drinks Hollands alone at work? Gabriel Grub does. But he didn’t say that; he heard it. They said, well, what’s going on here? What are you gonna do later? Were you the one that criticized that kid’s caroling? He was caroling for the joy of caroling, for no one else but himself. Then he heard more and more singing borne upon his ears upon a wild wind, and then it passed. But then he heard his name, Gabriel Grub, Gabriel Grub. Well, what do you think, Gabriel? The Snickels of Bells said. What do I think? Yeah, what do you think, Gabriel? They said. They smiled and they danced. Well, it’s curious, curious. I like your hats, but I’m working. They said, work? What work? Digging. Well, why would you dig and work in a night for merriment and pleasure? Who does that? They said, Gabriel Grub. Well, I don't know, man.
They said, well, why don’t you follow us across the lane, and when you hear our bells, you could follow our bells and go to a land where you’ll learn to sing carols and let joy fill your heart, or you could stay here in the cold. Just follow our jingles and our jangles. So, Gabriel Grub sent off…set off, following their jingles, following their jangles. Hence, he became a legend rarily told of the holiday…that Gabriel Grub returned, much like other people return on the morning of Christmas morrow or whatever. Every time he passed a home where any carols were being sung at all, he said, huzzah, huzzah, happy Christmas. What joyful singing I doth hear. But when you open your door to say, who compliments our singing so kindly? I’d like to share our cheer with you, there would be no one there.
That’s the legend of Gabriel Grub. Whenever you compliment someone’s caroling, you could do it, and a matter of fact, some people have never heard of this, but they go around even now when people are caroling, and they stand at a distance from the carolers and they say, who doth carols so finely as those I hear on my ears? Happy Christmas to all. So, from Scooter and everybody, I hope you’re having a happy holiday season however…'cause Gabriel Grub could…you can invoke the spirit of Gabriel Grub wherever or however you wish, and just bring good cheer to all, and to all a good cheer. Goodnight.
[END OF RECORDING]
(Transcription performed by LeahTranscribes)
Listen on your favorite app
