Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Christmas Eve
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Bring up anything that will do to sit
upon—three-cornered bootmakers’ stools and empty
packing-cases. Bring out the torn old armchair without
a back, and the old racing sledge without runners,
and the ancient coach!
Drag out the old coach; it will do for the speaker’s
chair! Just look at it! one wheel is missing, and
the whole body of the carriage has disappeared, only
the driver’s seat remains, the cushion is ragged and
mouldy, and the leather is red with age. The crazy
old thing is as high as a house. Prop it up, prop it
up, or it will go over!
Hurrah! it is Christmas Eve at Ekeby!
Behind the silken hangings of the double bed
sleep the Major and his wife, sleep and believe that
the cavaliers’ wing is deep in slumber. The carters
and servant-girls may be asleep, overpowered by
porridge and strong Christmas ale, but not the
gentlemen in the cavaliers’ wing. How could any one
think it?
No bare-legged smiths turn the pieces of molten
iron, no sooty boys keep up the supply of coal; no
big hammer hangs like an arm with a clenched fist
from the ceiling—the anvil is bare, the furnace does
not open its red mouth to devour the coal, the
bellows do not creak. It is Christmas—the forge
slumbers.
Sleep, sleep! the cavaliers alone are awake. The
long pincers stand upright on the floor holding
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