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Updated: May 15, 2025
Morgridge, after his usual fashion, replied with a "God bless you!" He seldom got the compliment in return, however, as in his case the blessing would have become so common as to be quite worthless. Mr. Morgridge then inquired into Peter's sales, and with that his regular conversation ended.
Peter valued this watch-tower above all his possessions, and here every night he sat perched, and counted the fly-specks on the ceiling, or fished up things from the floor by means of a hook and line which he kept by him. To-night, however, after he had climbed into the chair, he broke the usual silence by putting the following question to Mr. Morgridge: "Mr.
Quickly turns the kaleidoscope again, and now Mr. Morgridge, like a shadow in the dark that can see but not be seen, is in the room where he is now sleeping. But he is not on the bed, he is standing by the side of it, and the old cheery voice, though weaker now, of Solomon Mit comes from the pillow.
Peter Mit opened the door from the street and entered the shop; one solitary oil lamp stood upon the counter, behind which sat David Morgridge, the surviving partner of the firm of Morgridge and Mit Dealers in Tobacco. Solomon Mit, the uncle of little Peter had been dead five years, and on dying had bequeathed his orphan-nephew to his partner, and so as Mr.
Sir Walter Raleigh has taken so much snuff that his own voice is even more disagreeable, and so he has no right to complain. The nearest listener of all would be the Indian in front of Morgridge and Mit, dealers in tobacco, but he has gone to have a talk with Sir Walter Raleigh; so the Pump has it all its own way. Let us hear what the Pump said this night:
Morgridge used to say that it was because his name was Solomon, and that was the only thing Mr. Morgridge had ever said that came near being witty. All the court knew it, and the saying almost turned the corner at the head of the court. They divided the business between them Mr. Morgridge attending to the snuff department, Mr. Mit to the cigar and pipe branch. It was the intention of Mr.
Morgridge, as if he were a picture on the wall, is looking at a room which he knows well enough. It is the tobacco shop. There are two men in it; one sits on the bench and takes snuff, and does up little paper pellets; the other is just discoverable under a cloud of tobacco smoke, perched upon the top of a small observatory.
Peter turned the stocking inside out, but the muffler had gone after the rest of the things. The candy alone was faithful. Peter hastened down stairs. Mr. Morgridge was there getting breakfast ready. Peter eagerly told him of his good fortune. What a chuckle did the old fellow give! it was amazing to Peter. He had never before heard Mr. Morgridge make such a noise.
Morgridge, is this Christmas Eve?" to which David Morgridge, after taking a pinch of snuff cautiously replied: "It may be;" and then added, as if to explain his uncertainty of mind "I don't keep the run o' Christmas." "Does Santa Klaus really come down a chimney Christmas night and fill the stocking with presents?" proceeded Peter.
He had never seen his face so broken up into smiles and grins. He could hardly believe it was Mr. Morgridge. Nor was it it was Morgridge Klaus. While breakfast was in preparation, Peter climbed up into his watch-tower. Well done! there was a muffler in the chair! precisely like the one which he had seen enter the stocking the night before. How could it have found its way to his seat?
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