Scrooge's Diary

December 23, 1843. Christmas. Bah Humbug! The mere idea makes me want to spit. A time of year when the poor, without a reason in the world to be joyous, merrily walk the streets with rosy cheeks and wide grins, nearly skipping through the snow in their tattered old shoes. Tomorrow Christmas eve will be upon us. God have mercy! My assistant will come into the office asking for a day off. And he will expect payment! Every year this ratty young man has picked my pockets for money he does not deserve. I pay him a good fifteen shillings a week and the poor twit can't even manage to feed his wife and children. And yet he still wants a day off! And for what! Christmas! Such a lie. A false feeling of happiness once a year that disappears the moment january arrives. The poor Christmas loving fools of this town have yet to realize what I have known all of my life; happiness is desirable, but money is absolutely indispensable.