A Hearth's Warming Carol

by Professor_Blue

First published 24th of December, 2011

Faithful MLP adaptation to Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

So entrenched is the miser McIntosh McCrooge in his mire of avarice. Could the chance of hope and joy procured by the Ghost of Derpy Hooves bring about his appreciation in the celebration of a Merry Hearth's Warming?

(This fiction uses faithful adaptation of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol and uses Victorian english.)

Chapter 1

Inspired by the works of Charles Dickens & Lauren Faust.
In prose being the nature of a ghost story of Christmas.
Dedicated to those whose charity is great, and those whose need is greater.

Chapter I. DERPE'S GHOST

Hoovton was dead, to begin with. Irrevocably it had been conferred by the chief mourner, coroner, his assistant and an investigative medical professional of whom mortality was a well-researched knowledge; of these members there was no doubt of the fact. Derpe Hoovton was dead as a doornail.

The fact thereof, McCrooge knew well to be true but uncruel. The old business partner had traded well by their mutual service to the Firm which they ran, dedicating every day of work hard and fast, for the provision to their investors and the repayment from their debtors. Still, the name bewrit the sign above the Office's door still read "Hoovton & McCrooge". McIntosh McCrooge had not endeavoured nor intended to labour about removing one of the names. "Derpe & Hoovton", "McCrooge", "Hoovton & McCrooge", it was all the same to him. The matter of Hoovton's death did not trouble him in the slightest.

But oh the stallion McCrooge was! An unbecoming creature of wiry contrivance, driven by resolute indifference to any weather or sympathy, colder than the starkest frost of night and unreachable as the highest wispy cloud for emotional intent was he, so determined to remove himself from the commonpony. A creature whose millstone of career tied at the neck drove his mind and matter every moment either by hand or by spirit. Ever interested in his own aloof service, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old scallop with a brain of avarice, whom in comparison the widest most harrowing tundra offered more charity. Foul weather knew not where to have him, for he never paid mind to the most glorious glowing day or most reprehensible blowing storm.

Once upon a Hearth's Warming Eve, McCrooge sat in his office, a separate chamber from the entirety of the room of his enterprise. A glass pane window resided in the fixture of the door, which he had kept open in order to keep a leery eye on his apprenticing clark, the young Rupert Right. A studious and tentative spirit whose desire was to serve his family above all else, even if it meant living in the employ of a miserly stallion such as was McCrooge. His marine-like blue mane shivered at the low cold of the office, the entirety of the bookkeeper's room warmed by a single coal burning in the space of the cast iron stove in the corner. His white coat did nothing to retain any semblance of warmth. The stallion raised his hooves to warm them on the illuminating candle that sat upon his desk, as he copied letters in a writ that looked so round and bland. Perchance might he gather the courage to stand himself up and walk into McCrooge's office to have another lump of coal or two to improve his station from the lack of warmth which it was, his employer would find the young pony liberated of his situation quite quickly.

"A Merry Hearth's Warming, Uncle! Celestia save you!" exuberated the rambunctious voice of one Cripe Caramel, a young and vehemently vivacious stallion. It was McCrooge's nephew, of that he was aware. His face was ruddy and handsome, eyes sparkling with gaiety and breath pouring of the mist of his body's hearty warmness that complimented his cheery brownish hair. He was standing in the doorway that separated McCrooge's office from the main of the establishment, now suddenly having appeared being the third soul in the whole of the building, having left the door open.

"Bah! said McCrooge, "Humbug!"

The nephew had so heated himself with rampant merry-making, trotting ever-free through slough and snow that it was completely evident nothing could despair or destroy is endearable bout of seasonal joy.

"Hearth's Warming a humbug? Oxcarts!" he replied. "Surely you don't mean that, uncle."

"Of course I do." said McCrooge. "'Merry Hearth's Warming' indeed! What reasons have you to be merry, what right? You're poor enough as it is."

"You're rich enough as it is!" returned the nephew with insurmountable cheer. "What right have you to be so dismal on an occasion that only comes about once a year?"

McCrooge having no better answer at the moment simply punctuated his annoyance with another "Humbug."

"Don't be angry, uncle."

"What else can I be?" returned the uncle. "When I live in a world of foals such as this one? Merry Hearth's Warming, indeed! Out upon a merry Hearth's Warming Eve, indeed! All manner of mares and stallions out upon the streets finds themselves giving their hard earned toil away for some simpleton's friendship, a time when everypony finds themselves many days older and no hour richer." He said emphatically with much frustration crafted into his words. "If I could have my way with every idiot on the street with "Merry Hearth's Warming" on their lips would be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!"

"Uncle!" Protested the nephew.

"Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly. "Keep the day in your own way and I will keep it in mine."

"Keep it! But you don't keep it at all, uncle." Pleaded Caramel.

"Well then let me leave it. Much good may it do you, as it's ever done!" Retorted McCrooge spitefully.

"I daresay that there have been a great many things by which I never profited that I might have derived good from, uncle." returned the nephew. "Hearth's-Warming among them. But I am sure I have always thought of the holiday with specific veneration because of how it is regarded by all as a time of kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant festivity, when in consent of every filly, colt, mare and stallion to be gathering themselves to open shut-up hearts and free to think of each other as unified beings of friendship, and not another race of creatures bound on other intangible journeys which we shouldn't regard, or passengers to the grave. It's never brought a bit of gold or silver to line my pocket, but every year its filled my cusp to the brim with delight and happiness, and do me good to say Luna bless it and Celestia keep it!"

The clark in the room just past the doorway involuntarily applauded with his hooves against the wood floor. Becoming aware of the impropriety, he accidentally bumped the stove as he returned to his stool, extinguishing the lonely coal in the fireplace. He gazed back down to the letter he was writing.

"Another sound from you," said McCrooge, "and you'll spend your Hearth's Warming as penniless as the paupers of the square!" he directed at Rupert, before setting his attention back to Caramel. "You're quite the speaker, nephew. A wonder you don't try for Parliament. A bunch of who-hooing is all I hear."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come, I invite you to dine with us tomorrow at my house."

McCrooge reiterated his opinions of pudding and holly.

"But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew in earnest. "Why?"

"Why did you get married?" said the uncle.

"Because I fell in love."

"Love!" growled McCrooge, as if it were the only thing more ridiculous than the merriness of the season in all of the causative annoyances he perceived. "Good afternoon, Cripe."

"I want nothing from you, I ask nothing of you, all I do is invite. Why can't we be friends, uncle?"

"Good afternoon." Said McCrooge, his voice deepening, embittered.

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you being so resolute. But regardless of what quarrel you may have with it, I will keep my spirit to the last!" He finalized the remainder of what he said by jovially doffing his hat, and then placing it on the head of his uncle. "So a Merry Hearth's Warming, uncle!"

In exasperation McCrooge's hooves flailed about his head, knocking the hat off, he staring back up at the nephew.

"HUMBUG!"

"And a happy new year!" he said lastly, as he exited the door of the office. A smile still winked his face to spite the anger of his uncle.

"Good afternoon!" bellowed McCrooge. He bent forward to return to his work when he noticed a gust at his hooves, looking up to see the front door was still open.

"Right, get the door please." Said the miser, returning to his paperwork. Rupert said a subservient nothing as he stood and quietly but quickly trotted to the door, about to shut it as a portly stallion in a relatively meagre hat and fluffily eager face, conjunct with small but kept and comfortable-looking beard, greeted him as if he were about to knock.

"Hoovton & McCrooge, this is?" he inquired.

"I-i-it is." Replied the clark somewhat nervously but more becoming uncomfortable in direct exposure to the snipping wind of the street. "Please," gestured Rupert, holding the door open. The stallion stepped inside, clopping the snow off his hooves in order to prevent traipsing it further inside. The arrival was wearing a stout hat and had a dark gray mane that contrasted his lightish hair. He wore an embroidered red scarf with a shield-shaped pin on it.

McCrooge looked up indignantly at the sudden arrival of the gentlepony as he entered into his office in front of his large desk.

"Am I speaking to one of the proprietors, Derpe Hoovton or McIntosh McCrooge?"

"Hoovton died yet this very day seven years ago. But you have the address correct."

"Well, we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner." Said the gentlepony in a sincere politeness, presenting a folder of documents that accredited the foundation which he represented. McCrooge's brow furrowed at the word "Liberality", as he took the credentials, handing them back without examination.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. McCrooge, it is common and desirable that we should make some provision for the less fortunate and destitute, who suffer greatly at present time." He placed a pen upon his desk alongside a form from the folder. "Hundreds of thousands are without comforts or even common necessities. We-"

"Are there no prisons" Replied McCrooge in a callous tone.

"There are. Plenty to be sure." Returned the stallion in a hopeful approach.

"Are there no workhouses; are they not still in operation?"

"I wish I could say they were not, good sir. But as I know, they are."

"The grindstone and the Poor Law are in full vigor, are they not?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Oh!" said McCrooge in a falsely enjoyed tone of sarcastic delight. "I was afraid from what you said at first that something had happened to them to prevent their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it."

"Under the mindset that they hardly enjoy sensible cheer or health to anypony. A few of us are endeavouring to fund some meal and drink to the Poor, and means of warmth. We choose this time, when want is easily seen and felt, and blessing flows. What shall I put you down for?"

"Nothing!" McCrooge barked.

"You wish to remain anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone!" said McCrooge. "You asked me what I wished and I told you! I don't make merry at Hearth's Warming and I wouldn't dare pour myself into merry-making of those who's hooves are idle. I support the establishments I've mentioned and if anypony is badly off then they should go there themselves."

"Many would rather die!" protested the gentlepony.

"If they'd rather die then they'd better do it!" claimed McCrooge adamantly. "And decrease the surplus population. The affairs of how merry one is, is not my business, my business is my own."

"But-!"

"Good day, sir." Said McCrooge, returning his eyes to his work. The stallion realized that any further discourse would see him nowhere but thrown out, so he retired despondently through the front door. Rupert saw him out and closed the door after and returned to his desk.

A grand clock somewhere beyond the sight of above the buildings struck five with a grand chime. McCrooge stood and readied himself for the walk home, fearing nor appraising anything. Upon the floor still sat the hat of his nephew. He picked it up and placed it on his head again, looking into a mirror that sat on the wall. It did not suit him at all. He picked up his other hat, absent-mindedly placing it on top of the other hat, which made him realize and look back at the mirror, adorned by a pillarous tower of two black hats. He looked like some stupid Irish gentlepony.

"Ridiculous." He said to himself, removing the hats and returning his own to his head by itself.

Stepping outside his office and locking it, he saw Rupert Right the clark, already having packed up his work into a shelf and wearing his cheap derby and a somewhat tattered scarf, lovingly patched repeatedly until it actually resembled some variety of enjoyable tiling. He held out McCrooge's cloak for him to put on. Wordlessly he took it and began fitting it to himself.

"I suppose you'll be wanting the day then." Said McCrooge, aware of Rupert's silent and fearful curiosity. He spoke up.

"If it's not too much to ask sir. Please, Mr. McCrooge sir, it's only one day of the year."

"One day on which I must forego my enterprise for your personal enjoyment, and deprive us both of a shilling earned?" said the miser, not looking back at him. Rupert shrank at the response. McCrooge sighed.

"You may have it." Right perked up dramatically, but maintained his employee's reverence. "But all the earlier you will show up on the day after, Rupert Right." Finished the employer. Rupert struggled to maintain his composure in front of his ecstatic joy.

"T-t-thank you Sir, Mr. McCrooge!" he said, as he exited the door not far from where they stood.

"You're welcome. The day after, remember of it, Right." Replied McCrooge neutrally, as he exited himself and locked the door, placing the key in the pocket of his cloak. Rupert began down the street, slowly accelerating as the gravity of his happiness drew greater and greater appreciation. He yelled back,

"And a Merry Hearth's Warming, Sir!"

"Humbug!" retorted McCrooge.

Rupert disappeared into the people milling about the street, doubtlessly clicking his heels in happiness and even less doubtless would be enjoying a blessed morrow with his wife and child. He was an incredibly hard worker for someone who's life was lived for an adorable filly and enamouring mare. Any lesser-dedicated stallion would not be able to have the state of mind away from beings such as Rarity Right and their daughter named Sweetie.

The streets above and down below looked black and white, the disordination of wood structures being disdained by moist cold, making them look dark to the eye, versus the decoration of snow that settled on any surface that forbore the sky. The sky itself, locked in a gray stupor of overcast. Neither said anything of the coloration of the ponies milling in the streets, energetic and hectic from preparation for the gaiety of the day to follow. Garlands, tinsels, wreathes and fixtures were bore on every door and window, everypony wearing festive colors and brightly designed jackets and coverings, hats of every shape and size made the square look a sight reminiscent of a carnival, but more-so with the happiness of the hours that so rarely graced the year. Despite the light already having faded from the day, noponie's seasonal mood dispersed, held aloft by the lamplighters plying their trade to every fixture on the roadway. Although some ponies might have mistook McCrooge for a partyer because of his red coloration of hair and jovious mane when not obscured by his hat or cloak, his reputation preceded him and folks moved out of the way so not as to cause mutual discomfort of being bumped into.

The Lord Mayor partook amongst a grand feast in the city roundel in front of the church that held the great clock tower. Varieties of ponies young and old were having their share of all sorts of goods and goodies given free by the honesty of farmers and businessmen, some of whom wore the crisply maroon coloured scarves which McCrooge recalled were worn by the gentlepony that he dismissed not much earlier.

Even the poor of the alleyway and those without hats or shoes or clothing of any sort to protect them from the weather, held themselves in high spirits, warming their hooves over a barrel filled with burning wood and pleasant conversation of eras be, to come or had past.

Fog drifted in as he continued out of the city center and out to the quieter part of the city, overshadowed by a great viaduct that spanned the harbour. A chorus sang in front of a small shoppe, in perfect harmony, much to the discontent of Mr. McCrooge.

"Lay rest ye merry gentlecolt, let nothing you dismay

Remember our six ponies by whose friendship on this day,

To save us all from winter's pow'r

when we had gone astray,"

"Humbug." He muttered to himself. The chorus carried on, and somehow its ethereal effects blended with time into the flat moroseness of a distant fog-horn. And then, something odd happened. A, discordant, distinct and disturbingly familiar voice called through the night.

"McCroooooge….."

"Who's there?" said McCrooge aloud, annoyed at the intrusion of his loneliness, looking around.

"McCrooooooooge…!" said the mysterious voice-like sound again, piercing yet elusive at the same time, from no direction in particular.

"Speak again! Where are you?" demanded McCrooge, stopping and turning around, trying to spot where the anomaly had sprung from. A group of passers-by eyed him curiously as he stood there, flabbergasted.

Silence, and the distant carrying-on of the choir, was all that was heard. Beset with the oddity in his mind, McCrooge simply muttered to himself and carried on home.

The home of his was less than a modest place. An army barracks seemed cheerier, being simply bought, simply owned and simply adorned save for one element that was a remnant of the previous owner, an elaborate and relatively large brass door knocker. As McCrooge stepped up to his home on the small set of stairs and extracted his key from his cloak, he noticed that imperceptibly the knocker had changed into the statue-like face of an all too familiar pony, eyes focusing in opposite directions and mouth held embitteringly closed.

"…Derpy Hoovton?"

"McCROOOOOOOOGE!" bellowed the bronze face, scaring the stallion half to death and set him stumbling backwards. McCrooge regained his composure as he stood up again to confront the apparition of his door. The door knocker was as it always had been, resting idly and unchanged, as if the face were never there. Ponyfolk looked at him from the street with minor concern but obviously had not sensed anything apart from possibly an old pony slipping on his front stoop. It was apparent that no one had heard what he had. He looked at it from the side, and reasoned that it must have been just some kind of hallucination.

"Humbug." And he opened the door.

McCrooge checked through some of the rooms of his home in order to investigate if there had been some kind of mischief being had by an intruder of his home, that had caused the knocker to change as it did, but a glance in every doorway and gaze in every closet yielded nothing but empty rooms and furniture gathering dust from neglect. And a dismal looking stuffed toy, shrouded in an obscure shelf, which he entirely ignored in his determination of silence and mongering of the possessed knocker. Eventually it put itself out of his mind and he relaxed somewhat, retiring to his bed chamber. His supper was a simple one of a bit of cheese and bread, as well as some tea to calm his nerves about the door knocker nonsense, and the sound he thought he heard by the harbour. But his calm never came. As he was about to stand up from his chair to extinguish the fire from his mantle and go to bed, the small bell mounted above the mantle place where a picture should have been hung, rang.

*Ring-a-ling!*

He instantly looked at it. It was far too high for anypony to reach, even for his stature. It had no strings attached to it, so the pendulum could not swing. In fact he was quite sure that the old bell was iron-cast and had rusted before he ever moved in. He must have been hearing things.

*Ring-a-ling!* it chimed again.

Before any coherent thoughts formed, it rang again.

*Ring-a-ling-a-ling a-ling a-ling a-ling!*

Loud and violent and hard as the metal from which it was cast, admitting nothing but a steely, vibrant, repetitious, foreboding tone. McCrooge opened his mouth as he tried to think, but then without a sound and without a wisp of wind his fire went out. As if the life of it was sucked away in a moment. The room was bathed in darkness save for a candle on the table beside his chair. He froze, not knowing what to do or what to think. He looked around the room, seeing the other chair, his bed, a bed stand, the two far windows, the chandelier above him and he turned to look back at the mantelpiece when his view was interrupted by a Phantom. He gasped.

There before him stood a ghost, gray but entirely see-through, the eyes looking off not towards him but someplace else, emotionless and unfeeling, expression as damnably depressed, or more, than imaginable. It was a Pegasus, that much was certain, but it was bound in chains and covered with an enormous saddle of safe-boxes, purses, keys, padlocks and lengths and lengths and lengths of chain, bound and tied back again of cold steel and knotted metal, gritty and chafing.

The apparition said nothing, as one of its eyes slowly focused on McCrooge, and then the other. The miser did recognize the face, but was not seeing his mind through.

"W-wwhat do you want with me?" Said McCrooge, almost beside himself with fear and misunderstanding.

"Much!-" Said the Spirit in a voice, which removed all doubt of his identity in McCrooge's mind.

"Who are you?"

"Who was I." corrected the Spirit.

"Who were you then?"

"In life I was your partner, Derpe Hoovton." The Spirits voice echoed as if it were a gas flowing every place it could reach, then drifting back as if it wanted to be thunder. Ghastly and unlovable is what it was.

"Can y-you sit down?"

"I can."

"Then do it, sit." Commanded McCrooge, trying to affirm whether or not the being which he beheld was capable of interacting with matter as he knew of it. As the Ghost of Hoovton rested on the cushion of the chair, it depressed and McCrooge saw right through the ghost's body to see it happening. This made him feel even more nervous than before, disproving his assumption of the ghost's intangibility.

"You don't believe in me." Observed the ghost.

"W-why should I?" justified McCrooge, "You're a ghost. Ghosts aren't real."

"What evidence does one have beyond their senses, and what they make of those?"

"Be-because, the slightest thing can make them cheat. A bit of indigestion or sickness is all it takes.-"

McCrooge lost his concentration of reasonability and began staring at Hoovton, who's atmosphere was entirely its own, as if simultaneously existing in two different ways of the room and the chair. One way being unseen, seemed to have cold air and no light, and a thick aura of some unspeakable thing. He held up a toothpick, firstly to divert the attention of the Ghost away from his eyes, as the sensation felt like the very action of the Ghost was peeling his mind out.

"You see this toothpick?"

"I do." Replied the ghost, if anything, patiently.

"You're not looking at it."

"But I see it, notwithstanding." Replied the ghost, not relinquishing its stare beyond the eyes of McCrooge.

"If I were to swallow this, I'd be possessed all my days in my mind with legions of goblins! Habha ha I tell you this ghost n-nonsense is Humbug!" he said, losing his constitution and what remained of his sanity of the mention. The Spectre loosened a bandage wrapped around its head that held under its jaw in one jarring motion. Untied, the jaw flapped downwards against the neck showing a black empty hole where the bottom of the mouth should have been, and it let loose from its parched lips a ghastly wail louder and more horrifying than anything McCrooge had ever heard in his entire life. He doubled over, falling back on his chair, splaying out his legs, now in the visible shelter of hiding behind the overturned chair. He poked his head up, to see that the Ghost of Hoovton was still there, watching and not changing focus whatsoever, just as dismal and dreadful as ever, having tied the bandage back up above its head and jaw returned to place.

"Horrible beastly spirit!" he said. "Why do you trouble me so!"

"Stallion of a worldly mind!" it wailed. "Do you believe in me or not?"

"I do I do!" said McCrooge. "But why must spirits walk the world and why must they come to me, what have I done?"

"Be it required of every stallion and mare," said the ghost "that the willing spirit of friendship within them should travel far and wide between and among the spirits of his fellow ponyfolk. If he does not do so in life, he must do so in death. Doomed, to wander through the world, and witness what it cannot chare, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness! But nevermore can do so, oooOO!" and it trailed off again into another horrifying wail, trying to pull against some of the chains but only causing itself to become more tangled, and falling to the floor with its front hooves crossed. It moaned a dreadful moan, indescribably dreadful and sad, lying in nothing's pity before it stood up again on all four legs.

McCrooge watched the display in fear. He ventured to ask

"What are these that you're wearing, Derpe?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I crafted it link by link, fathom by fathom, padlock, key and box. I girded it on my own free will, and of my own free will I crafted it and kept it, and now it is to be mine, forevermore. Woe to me, oh woe."

McCrooge could barely even keep himself upright for how hard he was trembling, still trying to shelter himself with the overturned chair.

"Would you rather know," pursued the ghost "the length and weight of the chains you yet craft yourself that you shall bear? As long as heavy as mine it was, seven Eves of the Hearth ago. Regard it well, McCrooge."

The miser looked down at his own hooves, thinking the feeling that he had been wearing chains not a moment ago, but now there was no such feeling.

"Derpe, can you not speak of anything good? Is there no comfort you have to say?"

"None." Said the ghost. "That comes from other regions, McIntosh McCrooge. Of whom, I am not such a minister. Nor can I tell you what I would, for a very little more can I say before I must depart and move on; oh woe is me that I will be forever going and coming but never staying. In life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow ways of our life and naught farther from our money-changing hole, and weary journeys lie before me, evermore!"

His curiosity trying to make a conversation with a long dead friend got the better of him, and McCrooge asked,

"You travel fast?"

"On the wings of the wind." Said the Pegasus ghost, not moving its wings, for they were still burdened by the fathoms of metal.

"Must have been slow only to travel so short in seven years?" replied McCrooge.

Again the ghost wailed a cry that made his blood curdle and his mind freeze, McCrooge almost falling over again.

"So small is the mind and perceptiveness of mortal creatures on this little sphere. They know not that their stake in their life is of consequence to all of eternity, and squander it on themselves in ignorance! Not to know that no vast regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I, oh such was I!" moaned the Spectre.

"But you were always a good gentlepony of business, Derpe," faltered McCrooge, who now began to apply what the ghost said to himself.

"Business!" cried the ghost, wringing its ears with its hooves in mournful frustration. It stood straight again and stood closer to McCrooge, who had stood up and in front of the chair. "Ponykind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

McCrooge quaked, his knees knocking together in realization of the gravity of the words.

"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is almost gone."

"I will." Said McCrooge. "But don't be hard and don't be soft, I want to hear it straight, pray Derpe."

"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat beside you invisible many a day."

McCrooge did not like the sound of that.

"That is no part of my penance," it continued. "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, McIntosh."

"Thank you, Pray Derpe, you were always a good friend." Said McCrooge, starting to become relieved.

"You will be haunted by Three Spirits." Finished the ghost.

McCrooge's countenance immediately sank lower than it was ever before.

"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Derpe?"

"It is."

"I- -I don't-"

"Suffer them to pass or suffer the path I tread!" declared the spirit in a terrible voice as irreproachable as his wails before. McCrooge collapsed from his fear.

"Expect the first ghost at the toll of the hour of One, and the second at Two, followed by the third at Three. There may yet be hope for you, McIntosh McCrooge."

The apparition began walking, its pace stifled by the the chains, making an unbearable racket as it approached the wall, and simply walked through it. McCrooge galloped to the window and looked out, seeing thousands of spirits much like Hoovton, transitioning in and out of houses, up and down the sky, all tied down with burdens and restraints of various forms, some many casks of wood, some metal safes, one with a skeleton. McCrooge tried to open his mouth to bellow "Humbug!" at the scene of horror but all that came out was a vague squeak before he passed out overwhelmed by what he had seen.

A little while later, he gathered himself up and put on his nightcap, still recalcitrant to the things that had happened to him in sight and mind. He lay down on the mattress of his bed and muttered,

"Humbug."

And closed the bed-curtains.

Chapter 2

Chapter II. THE FIRST OF THREE SPIRITS

He slept soundly and quietly, although demented thoughts bothered him from it being a completely still slumber. His mind reeled with what had transpired, although it resulted in not a stir of motion. Eventually he was forced upright in the bed to look around and comprehend the status of his night, while in some faint distance the rumming of a bell faded away. The pocket-watch of his which sat on the small table nearest his bed read the third quarter past midnight. The ring he heard must have been the quarter's chime.
Still astounded by the things the ghost's mouth, and frustrated at the very notion, McCrooge elected to return to the space of his bed and return to slumber, angry with the message he remembered. Hooves clenched and eyes screwed shut he was determined to fall back asleep, when he recalled with a start-

"The first ghost."

Frozen at himself, he sat upright unmoving, conflicted by his temperament that he was convinced it would be nothing, and convinced that he should be so curious as to remain awake to seek out the hour and see what would happen. He remained, consternated for several minutes, until he resolved to wait until the hour.

The hour struck, with the chime, and followed by a One. The one faded, but up and not out. Louder and louder the One resonated, until he couldn't bear to hear the sweet ring of the time, shutting his eyes and putting his hooves over his ears. And as soon as it came, it faded. He opened his eyes and saw that his bed-curtains were as dawn, a brilliant light shining all around the room just out of sight. He pulled away the curtain to gaze into whatever source it might be, until the glare summarized itself into a tiny dot, which flashed again and became a small, paled pegasus, the complexion of the fairest glass sand's color, but beautifully smooth. The tenderest bloom of a surface it wore, as if to simultaneously hold the weathering of many a century, yet as fresh as a newborn. Her pinkish hair flowed by its own volition, held out of the eyes by a single sprig of holly and mistletoe arranged into a tiny crescent. She was adorned by a flowing pink dress that needed no ruffles, as it ebbed and waved as her hair did, as if the two were one medium. The expression upon her face was patience, understanding and more than all, kindness, evoked in mountains-full by just by the merest glance, and she stared as intently and deeply as the Ghost of Hoovton had done, but so much grace and unstoppable happiness beheld were they. The gaze of her eyes was as piercing as the glacial color they bore. McCrooge could barely tolerate the feeling of gladness that soaked him so, that he tried mightily hard to shut out, with little avail.

"Are you the Spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" He said.

"I am!" The voice was soft and gentle, caressing concern and adoration with every word, spoken almost as lyrics to some unspoken song of peace.

"Who are you then? What are you?" Asked McCrooge.

"I am the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Past."

"Long past?" Inquired McCrooge. He became aware in that moment that the Ghost was very small, although she looked a full mare, she was naught but the size of a filly.

"No. Your past." Said the Spirit.

McCrooge knew not what to think. If mayhaps this being only existed because he did, or mayhaps the creature would assume different forms to suit different indications of others pasts. But either way it mattered not.

"What purpose has brought you to me, oh Spirit?" asked McCrooge politely.

"Your welfare."

"My welfare is of my own concern," said McCrooge. "That much I would like to be, if it's all the same to you, Spirit."

"Your salvation, then." she amended. "Take heed." She extended one of her legs as she floated there, pointing out and away from the bed, and McCrooge followed her. They came to one of the windows, which opened at once by itself. McCrooge needed not to look down to know that it was a perilous drop of two flights of stairs all the way to the ground from his bedroom window.

"Forgive me spirit, but I am mortal, and liable to fall." He said, withdrawing from the opening. The cool of the night suddenly struck him.

"A touch of my hoof, and you shall fly." Said the Spirit. She extended one of her hoofs and McCrooge took it, lifting away from the space of his room, out the window and up away from his home. Immediately he was far above the city, looking down upon cobbled streets, tree tops and chimneys, and he felt none of the freezing of the sky, yet there was still snow falling. A bright light seemed to approach from the horizon beyond the mountains, and do so with terrible speed.

"Spirit," asked McCrooge. "What is that light? It can not be dawn."

"It is the past." Said she, and they were soon enveloped by the bright light. They appeared to somehow come out of some trees onto a small dirt road nearest a stone-built building. Small ponies darted this way and that in the nearby courtyard and onto the road, throwing snowballs at each other and various excitations of little fillies and colts.

"This is my old school! I was young when last I tread here!" exclaimed McIntosh. Thousands of smells and sights flooded back to his recollection, and a tear emerged into his eye, as he covered his mouth with his hoof looking at all the wonderment he had forgotten. The Spirit noticed but McIntosh tried to hide it by turning his head as if to look off in another direction.

"You recollect the way?" asked the Spirit.

"Remember it!" replied McIntosh. "I could walk it blindfold and bound I could. So many days…" he reminisced.

"Strange that you might have forgotten it so well, if so warm you recall it." observed the Ghost. "Let us go on."

Every gate post and tree, every plant and every stone harkened a memory for McIntosh, and no doubt of it that it all was real. He then realized how close a colt came to dashing him about the leg as he ran by. McCrooge felt spited by the action in conjunction with the laughter in the air and mirth of the place.

"That imp-!"

"These are only shadows of the past, they are not conscious of us." said the Spirit.

The door of the school sat idly closed, but definitely not neglected, and a light still yet emanated from inside.

"The school is not deserted. A solitary young one, neglected by his friends, remains there still." Said the Spirit. McCrooge knew all too well of whom she spoke, his eyes wetting again with painful memory. The door opened before them, and in the far corner of the schoolroom sat a small red colt, nose entrenched in a book.

"It is I! Myself as a child!" expounded McCrooge. "And I remember that book!"

A mystical form suddenly took the shape of a ruffian-looking stallion with a peg-leg and parrot atop its mane, and an eyepatch and thick tangled beard.

"Treasure Island! And it's Long Latch Silver, the pirate!" Other apparitions appeared and danced around in their piratey dance as the young McCrooge read on. The old stallion looked on as the colt's imagination fed on and on from the words of the pages, until interrupted by a bark of joy amongst the laughter of the foals outside, and punctuated by a snowball hitting a window pane. The young McCrooge looked up at the window, and the stallion could not read his expression but knew the animosity of its confusion once more, tearing up again. He was about to utter

"I wish," before the scene dissolved, and they were in some lightless place.

"Please Spirit…" Said McCrooge, unbecome by grief.

"What is the matter?" Asked the Spirit. McCrooge said nothing for a moment as he tried to collect himself and hold back his tears.

"Nothing." Said he.

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hoof, saying as it did so.

"Let us see another Hearth's Warming!"

And the room returned, looking slightly dirtier and faded, one of the windows having been boarded up, preventing entry of air through a broken pane. Still, sat a young McIntosh, but older than before, writing on a paper with a quill.

Suddenly from the opposite end of the room ran a little filly with a pale yellow tonality and hair as strongly red as the coat of,

"Brother McIntosh!"

"Bloom!" said both the shadow of the young McIntosh, and the present stallion McIntosh in unison. The filly jumped and hugged the colt.

"I have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the foal, clapping her tiny hooves and barely containing herself with mirth. "Home!" She repeated.

"Home, little Bloom?" replied the colt, his state of mind changing.

A terrible voice in the hall spoke up with the care of stone.

"Bring down Master McCrooge's box, there." And there appeared the schoolmaster, with stoic condescension in his eyes. He shook hooves with the young colt McIntosh, which in unison with the appearance of the schoolmaster's face threw his emotions in a confounded spin. He conducted them both to a small parlour just aside from his office, which was attached to the main study room. There he gave them a surprisingly heavy cake that was not much larger than a bread roll. He picked up a bottle of some sort that had a clear liquid and a greenish label in friendly letters, and ushered the young ponies out of his parlour and to the door, giving the bottle to his assistant who was pulling the trunk. The schoolmaster's expression had not changed, but nonetheless he bade them farewell and waved as they set on their way to a carriage on the road. The assistant loaded the trunk onto the carriage, which then traveled down the road, leaving the assistant alone with his bottle, and he returned inside the schoolhouse.

"Home for good and all, McIntosh! Father is so much kinder than he used to be, and home's like heaven! He spoke so gently one night that I felt I could do: I asked if we could be having you home for Hearth's Warming, and he said yes!" she was beginning to melt from feelings that seemed to pain her so, into exuberance again as she continued. "Now we shall be together all season long, and you shant have to return here."

"You are quite a filly, little Bloom!" exclaimed the colt.

She clapped her hooves together and laughed, and tried to rub his head but ended up pulling him down by the neck and embracing him, as the carriage rode on.

"Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the Spirit, "But she had a heart ever so large."

"So she had," cried McCrooge, looking on, the car of the foal's transport disappearing into a faded memory again.

"She died a wonderful mare," said the Spirit, "and as I think, she had foals of her own, did she not?"

"One colt." Returned McCrooge.

"True," said the Spirit, "Your nephew."

McCrooge felt uneasy with this truth all of a sudden, when he answered briefly,

"Yes…"

The shadows faded into a new location, being a festive party at a barn, all manner of surfaces, from the deckposts to the joists with all manner of decorations and adornments, candles and lights and shining things gleamed all over, and oh how many ponies there were, enjoying a fantastic party. Mostly guests of young mare and young stallion's age were present, all in fine clothing. Outside the night governed but none could tell, the jubilation and brightness of lanterns and dancing carried on as if it were day.

"Do you know this place?"

"Know it!" said McCrooge. "I was apprenticed here!"

They went in, seeing two large stallions, inexplicably even larger than the old McCrooge himself, each almost spitting images of each other with curly manes and thick glasses, their faces the very idols of cheer, one holding a modest glass of some brown sparkling drink which was dwarfed by his face and moreso by their grand auras of charismatic happiness. They were almost overwhelming gentleponies.

"Why it's old Fezzdale! And Clydeswig! Bless their hearts, they're alive again!"

One of the two enormously gracious hosts noticed a stallion approaching. It was McIntosh, again older than before, and alongside another, of nearly the same size in a deep green coat and matching blazer.

"Clydeswig!" recognized the youngish McCrooge.

"Yo ho, there, McIntosh!" his voice was oily, rich, fat and jovial as could be.

"Limback! It's Griswald Limback to be sure, my old friend!" said McCrooge to the Spirit, pointing out the friend adorned in his sheen-covered blazer that made him stand out yet fit in with the evergreen tree near the barn door.

"My handsome colts! Set about keeping the party and come back." said Clydeswig to the two young apprentices. "Then we'll set ourselves about enjoying this holiday, hmm?"

Before you could say Jack Robinson, the two young stallions dashed away all over the nearby square and all over the barn, closing shutters from the cold, trimming and filling lamps, cleaning anything that had managed onto the floor and forming the party spick and span, putting their youthful energy to service impeccably and with wonderful agility and politeness. Fuel packed on to the fire, drinks provided to the musicians on the band stand and anything that could be done from turning a growing party into the best there could be of a ball-room upon a winter's night.

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away with Clydeswig or Fezzdale looking on, and anything that could possibly have removed the attention from the festivity was gone in the bat of a lash and packed away from public eye.

The Master of Ceremonies and head of the business, Fezzdale, continued to entertain the guests with his hearty talk of his farm and the town where they lived. In a corner still stood Clydeswig, remaining as inconspicuous as he could be, managing the provisions and food as the night went on. Limback and McCrooge returned to him, no less dirtied or upset by their chores and entirely excited to soon be part of the soiree of their own maintaining.

Before they could come within any short distance of the stallion from behind a table, Clydeswig exhorted them.

"Gentleponies, be off with you and have fun with the night!"

At that, the fiddler in the band began playing a dizzying song that opened up the middle of the crowd into a large circle as couples began dancing therein. More mares and more stallions began joining into the flurry of movement and rhythm.

In a curt gesture of humour and hope, Limback gave McCrooge a shove and the young stallion found himself among the other dancers, suddenly taken by a partner and in the harmonious flow of the dance. McCrooge did his best to give an irked glare at Limback, who simply laughed as the shoved stallion and a young mare sank deeper into the cloud of mirth and passage with a spin. It was not long before the looks from the eyes of the mare that the young McCrooge found himself embraced and chivalry-bound to by the dance, less and less resistant to the continuous suggestion of "just one more song".

The night went on and the gaiety seemed to never end. Even when the fiddler, who saw himself spent even after several hiatuses of slower songs, and slowly trod out of the barn to rest, he was replaced by another pony who was obviously intent to do him one better, or die trying. Even more than anypony ever was at the party, a real sight to see was Fezzdale and his petite wife the Mrs., whom seemed to outshine anypony at any dance, with grace and speed and strength that seemed to best any resort of nature. The sight was as ridiculous as it was eloquent and graceful.

The clock struck eleven, and the domestic ball began to dissolve. Fezzdale, Clydeswig and their wives stood on either side of the door and shook hands with everypony that departed, their smiles beaming and infatigued, personally wished all a Merry Hearth's Warming. When all had gone, Limback had begun to clean things up, and with no small protest of delight, McCrooge separated himself from the young mare by making some sort of quiet promise, and joined Limback in beginning to sweep the floor, until Fezzdale and Clydeswig approached them.

"My little ponies," said Fezzdale, ironically with their mutual bodily enormity and a tad fuzzed by the humour of the drinks and night, said "go about your Hearth's Warming, go home!"

McCrooge and Limback consented and it was long before the cheer of the night faded away, the two bachelor stallions walking off into the night.

During this whole time, McCrooge had interposed the entire scene with what he remembered, and every moment corroborated perfectly, enjoying every sight and sound and smell, and he underwent the strangest agitation. Only after gazing a long time at the faces of himself, the young mare, and his friend Limback, that he noticed a light seemed to burn on the back of his head, and he turned to see the Spirit still looking upon him and his reaction.

"A small matter," said the Spirit, "to make these silly folk so full of gratitude."

"Small!" echoed McCrooge.

The Spirit signed him to listen to the apprentices, how they poured their hearts out in praise of the service and generosity of Fezzdale and Clydeswig, and when he had done so, said,

"Why? Is it not? They had spent but a few bits of your mortal money, and otherwise paid themselves in time and due of attention to their fellow pony, that most might offer themselves and their own charity to the creation of the party. Is that so much that they deserve this praise?"

"It can't be that," said McCrooge, heated by the remark and speaking unconsciously like his former miser, "It isn't that, Spirit. They had the power to make us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or toil. Say that their power lie in their words, and then his charity costs a- - fortune…" McCrooge stopped speaking, suddenly considering his words more carefully. He felt the Ghost looking on him intently.

"What is the matter?" Asked the Spirit.

"Nothing particular." Said McCrooge.

"But something nevertheless?" The Spirit insisted.

"No," replied McCrooge, "I think I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clark just now. That's all."

"My time grows short." Said the Spirit. The scene of the barn and celebratory square were suddenly as smoke, and disappeared from sight. Soon the lightlessness melded into the scene of a bridge beset by fog, near a knoll and stone wall. On the bridge stood a mare, identical to the one which he remembered from Fezzdale's Party, but her gown was not jovial or gay; it bore dark, mourning colors. Near to the bridge, the miser could see himself again, older than his last self, and showing the lines of his face that identified him being of his prime years in the middle of his life. They were not wrinkly but they seemed to have the grasp in them of the seeds of avarice and his newer shape, eyes containing a motion of restlessness.

The mare's eyes were wet with tears, streaming down her face, and moonlight shone through them, more brilliantly than the eminence of the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Past, and it was evident to McCrooge that his younger self did not see it. The sight was agonizing to behold, that the young McCrooge was so blind to the pain of the weeping mare.

"It matters little," she said, softly, "To you, very little, that an idol has replaced me and that you find such great satisfaction with it- as I would have tried to fulfill. Were it not, I would have no cause to grieve!"

"What idol has displaced you?" he rejoined.

"A golden one."

"There is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing with which it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!"

"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the concern to be above the threats of the world. I have seen your other aspirations wither and die from the strangling of your hunger from that which you think will protect you!"

"What then?" he retorted sharply. "Even if I have grown much wiser, I am not changed towards you."

She shook her head.

"Am I?"

"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to remain so, until time would grant us blessing, which we would be patient for even if it never came because we had each other. You are changed. When it was received, you became a different stallion entirely."

"I was just a foal," He said impatiently.

"What if we had never been in love now? Would you still have sought me out? Would you still have pursued me as you once did? Ah, no!" she cried.

He seemed to yield to the justice of the supposition in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle, "You think not."

"I would gladly think otherwise if I could." she answered. "Celestia knows! When I have learned a truth like this, how irresistible it can be with the reproof of money. Compared to that of the longing after a dowerless filly- -you, who in your very confidence, weigh everything by gain, or choosing her, risk all for something you don't understand and cannot measure. I see you well enough to know that regret has replaced the consideration and you with a full heart choose away from mine; and I release you, for the love of him who you once were."

He was about to speak, but she continued facing away.

"I pray that some day you might recall this and have pain by it. Either be it a very, very brief moment and you waive it as unprofitable, or some hopeful other consideration of it. May you be happy in the life you've chosen!"

She threw down a small silver ring which she had been holding, and ran away crying, blinded by tears off into the night. The mature McCrooge walked up the bridge and picked up the ring, but before he could see what became of that action, the sight disappeared into nothing again. McCrooge and the Spirit were alone.

The miser was without words, and the Spirit looked upon him, seeing his eyes wetted dreadfully.

"We shall go on." Said she. McCrooge had a mind to protest but did nothing.

They found themselves in a darkened room, where they could see Bloom, lying quite infirmed upon a bed, presided over by a doctor and another pony whom McCrooge could not recognize. The door was pushed open and in came McCrooge, not very much older than he was at the bridge. Immediately he removed his hat and sat down at the bedside of his sister. Her breath was weak and pitiable, and her eyes stayed closed, but her head turned towards the arrival.

"I'm here, Bloom. I came at once when you summoned me, I'm here." Cooed McCrooge softly.

"McIntosh." Said her feeble voice.

"Yes, Bloom."

"McIntosh… promise me…"

"Yes, Bloom. I promise you anything, I'll promise you anything." He uttered purely.

"Promise…" and her strength failed her, her lips closing and going limp and silent. Impatient and engrossed by his mind, McCrooge's hoof went for hers, and with his other hoof held her head gently.

"Bloom, you'll become well. We'll see to your health, we'll see you live yet. You cannot die, you mustn't die! You're going to be better, Bloom!" his pleas became more and more frustrated, and he cried on her bedside. He wept until a hoof upon his shoulder suggested he relinquish by the gesture of the doctor. McCrooge's eyes burned shut with agony, and violently he shrugged off the hoof, before returning to a stand and storming out of the room in impertinent anguish, taking his hat.

The stallion and the doctor looked at each other with vexed expressions of worry. A small cough by the sickened mare returned their undivided attention to her. Her eyes opened ever so slightly, and she saw that McCrooge had departed, and a trickle of a tear appeared in her eye.

"McIntosh…" she whispered.

"Take care of my colt. Please, promise you'll raise my Cripe." She said at last, before her body seemed to unnaturally relax. And she expired.

McCrooge could bear it no longer as he watched the shadows of his past, and bellowed a horrid wail of mourning.

"Bloom, forgive me! Forgive me my sister, forgive me!" McCrooge cried at the scene, before it ceased to be, and darkness enveloped him and the Spirit once more.

"Spirit." said McCrooge. "No more, I don't wish to see any more, it breaks me so!"

"One more shadow." Said the Spirit.

"No more!" cried McCrooge, his leg held above his head in protest.

They were suddenly in a new scene. A room, not very large or handsome, not particularly fancy or decorated, but charming nonetheless. Near the fire sat the beautiful mare from the bridge, her mane done up with a fine braid and with no finery adorning herself. She sat in a chair across from a filly who looked much like her, and McCrooge had to take a moment to even recognize the probable mother. Terrible sound came from the chaos of many young colts who rummaged around. McCrooge could count but only five or so, but they conducted themselves as fifty. The uproarious brood seemed replete with the joviality of the most chaotic sort that ever manifested itself in young foals upon the eve of such a holiday as Hearth's Warming, Soon the Mare and filly joined themselves amongst the young brigands humor, and all laughed so heartily in the complex.

McCrooge almost cringed at how negligent the fun seemed, with coming so close to crushing the grace that still contained itself in the mare's form, mingling with the younglings. Her eyes seemed to retain the hope and happiness of years past, but they began to look downcast by time robbed by a falsified pursuit.

Knocking at the door came a stallion, buried in himself from carrying packages and boxes, laden with Hearth's-Warming toys and gifts. It was not long before his unbearable load became encased in the eager and insatiable curiosity and excitement of all the young foals, which made him collapse to the floor as they climbed all over. All the colts and the filly began opening the gifts, but the mare tread through them and graced the neck of the stallion, wordlessly expressing appreciation and adoration while they stood in their embrace.

And now McCrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, with his daughter fondly resting between his legs as he sat by the fireside, his sight dimmed and face straightened.

"Speckle," said the husband, turning to his wife. "I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon."

"Who was it?"

"Mr. McCrooge."

Speckle said nothing, her face changing to an unreadable expression.

"McCrooge it was. I passed his office window, and it was not closed. He had a candle inside, and I could scarcely see him. His partner lies upon the threshold of death I hear, and he sat alone. Quite alone in this world I believe."

"Spirit!" said McCrooge, his voice cracking from sorrow and losing coherency. "Remove me from this place."

"I told you that these are shadows of the past," said the Spirit. "Blame me not, for they are what they are."

"Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer, you ghastly Spirit!"

McCrooge flailed at the Ghost, with no visible resistance of its own. The shadow seemed intent to carry on but it began to melt and streak as he swung at the aether in front him in the aim of the Spirit's body. The struggle seemed to have no real adversary apart from the growing intolerance of McCrooge and his thoughts. He sought to grab and pull the Spirit into doing what he willed but nothing seemed to hold, and he jumped upwards out of his bed, awarding himself with a light bump on the head. Seeming to have come awake as if he were asleep, he looked around.

It was night still, and nothing seemed to have moved. His sheets seemed disarrayed and night cap was loose, but the bed-curtains seemed even undisturbed.

He considered declaring the instance "Humbug." but it occurred to him not to react to it so, and resolved to resume his slumber, for his eyes grew heavy.

Chapter 3

Chapter III. THE SECOND OF THREE SPIRITS

His slumber returned and time passed, no consideration given for what remained of the warning forebode by Derpe Hoovton. However something in him piqued and he jerked awake again, remembering what had been said. With the nobility of being driven through by a length of rail, he recalled all that had been said and seen not very much long ago, and McCrooge trembled. He scrambled out of his bed to grab his pocket-watch again, and saw that it even then only read barely a minute and the hour. It had not even passed the quarter of One and yet it was evident to him that the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Past had shown him transpirations of almost a day's length collected. He put on his night gown and reaffixed his sleeping cap, sitting down upon his chair before the cold fireplace, and waited.

In the distance the quarter rung, and he realized that he was beginning to feel cold, so he relit the fire, and it roared to full gust as if it had forgotten how half way through a lick of flame. McCrooge soon felt warm again, but still haunted. His mind, now becoming wary of the beings that these Ghosts were, began to expect anything. His mind plumed any variety of behaviority from a game of pitch-and-toss to ponyslaughter, and thus if newborn or rhinoceros or anything between appeared in his room, it would not have surprised him in the slightest.

He continued to sit, alone with the thoughts of what the Spirit had said, and recalling the shadows so vividly, as well as all of the interpolated memories which he had shut out so fervently in all the years past and between. Minutes flew, and eventually his concentrated stare at the fire and consideration of the past, snuck the half and third quarter past his consideration. He began to doze off, and in doing so he did not hear the strike of Two from the distant clock outside. A pop! From the fire awoke him, and he stood to return to his bed, when he heard an exuberant giggle from just outside the door to his bedroom. The giggle quickly devolved from the subtlety of its mirth into an enormous bout of laughter as mighty as a landslide and inviting as the greatest bequeath of a rich queen. McCrooge rose to find the source of the sound.

He opened the door a crack, and the door swung wide, possibly from the effort of the hinges themselves to beckon closer to the mare that stood in the room. Impossibly, the door seemed to open into his bedroom again from the opposite side, as if he were exiting his closet. McCrooge looked back and saw that his closest still was closed, and returned his mystified eyes to the appearance of the new room which he entered into.

It was his own room, no doubt of it. But it had undergone a surprising festive transformation, beheld by every surface above head-level covered in ivy, mistletoe and holly. Their crisp leaves reflected light all over, and in the middle of the room beside the bed sat a throne built of a feast, of breads, cakes, puddings, drinks and sweets of all kinds, and upon it sat a pink mare wearing a thick robe of blue and vaguely green stripes, bordered by white fur, and a crown sat on its head, made of bunches of berries and gemmed by a star in the middle. Its mane and hair seemed appropriate to be some sort of decoration in of itself, as crimson and inflated as velvet and rounded as if they were unwound wool, an entirely delightful mess.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in and know me better, you couth colt!" It laughed some more with the warmth that seemed to melt even the realm's weather outside the window.

McCrooge was timid as he entered, barely knowing if the personality of this being should have been better bound by a giant, or a swarm of mannerless fillies. As usual per the natural ways of the world, the way in which the unexpected revealed itself, was itself unexpected. The Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, and McCrooge did not like to meet them.

"I am the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present!" said the Spirit. "See me and hear me."

The demeanour of the Ghost could be described as unconstrained, comedic, and unutterably pleased with the moment.

"Never have you seen the likes of me!" exclaimed the Spirit.

"Never." McCrooge answered.

"Ever have you walked with my older siblings, my friend?"

"I do not think so." replied He. "Are there many?"

"More than two thousand before me." Said the Spirit. Her voice still retained enormous sparkle despite being factual.

"Quite the bill of food to be feeding them, then." Joked McCrooge. In kind, the Spirit laughed melodiously, and from the tremor of joy he feared the house might collapse on them. She rose to her feet and walked towards the stallion.

"Spirit," said McCrooge submissively, "Conduct me where you will. I went forth last of it by compulsion, and I seem to be learning. Thus may I profit by what you show me, if it's what you are to do."

"Alrighty then!" ushered the Spirit. "Grab my robe!"

McCrooge did so and the exploded upwards though the roof, feeling no sensation of seeming to materialize through the ceiling, and followed by a trail of a glowing sort made of a spinning arrangement of colors.

Onwards and upwards they spun and flew through the clouds of the sky, flinging sparkles into the night until they seemed to shoot through the tiled top of a humble townhouse. The two appeared in the darkened spiral staircase of the house, the halls being adorned with clean white paint and modest marble, with a chandelier that had been put out, resting at eye level for they stood at the top of the staircase.

"Fun, was it not?" chortled the Spirit rhetorically. McCrooge did not answer.

Near to them was a door that rested ever so slightly open, and a familiar voice called out in blest laughter.

"Ha ha ha!" an irresistibly contagious laugh, as well-met and lusty lark was his voice as it called amongst the guffaws of other members of the party just behind the door. McCrooge entered in, alongside the Spirit. The Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present seemed to be exercising an incredible amount of restraint of body over her tempted eyes to jump out and partake of the joviality.

There among many ponies enjoying snacks and jokes, stood one stallion and one mare, the male of which McCrooge so easily identified as the possessor of the voice and the laugh which he heard so well.

"Ha! He said that Hearth's Warming was a humbug, as I live!" cried the nephew.

"All the more that shames him, Cripe." Said the mare, resting on the couch nearest him. Some mares, who sat adjacent, consented her opinion. Her gown was ever lovely as her own face, both in vivid shade as slightly as the sun bearing the color of cream and buttercups.

"A humbug, he said? Cock and bull, what nonsense of an old man you befriend, Caramel, such thinking would be the death of us all!" replied a stallion with tightly combed hair.

"It's a wonder no ice raps his office year round from his coldness!" replied another pony, wearing a paper hat.

"Well of course there's no ice." said Cripe. "He scrapes it up and sells it full price!" Another raucous bout of laugher was summoned at the joke.

"He's a comical old fellow," continued the nephew. "That's the truth: and not so pleasant compared to that of your commonpony. However his offenses carry their own punishment and I have nothing to say against him."

"He's rich." said his wife on the couch. "At least that's what you tell us so."

"What of it, my dear Crepe?" said McCrooge's nephew. "His wealth is of no use to him, he neither uses it to comfort his own self, and, Ha ha, doesn't seem inclined to be benefitting us with it."

"I have no patience for him. You have hope that his greed will fade, but I think it a foal's errand." Again, the mares and fillies that sat nearest Crepe agreed to her thoughts.

"I feel sorry for him. Who else suffers but himself at his ill whims? Here, even I took it upon myself to invite him to our fine party, and yet he declined to be staying at home alone, and he only does himself a disservice." Said Cripe.

"Well he didn't miss much of a dinner." Quipped one of the larger stallions. Laughter abounded in the recollection of the delightful plenty that still evidenced itself with remains upon the table along the side of the room.

"I should very much hope to someday share some of this merriness with him some day. Is it not our motive to be spreading such cheer to all on a season like this, in celebration of the birth of this era?" said the nephew poignantly. Those who still were reverberating in the humour of the moment stood still in consideration of the stallion's good will.

"Tear it, he does." Said the niece. "I love it so when you speak such truth, Cripe. If only I had your patience." She grabbed him and pulled him to the couch in an embrace. Conversation and jolly spirit continued through the party some time more.

McCrooge's repose standing near the wall was one of consideration, having his remembrance of the world around him thoroughly shaken, and now a new perspective being presented. He looked up to see that the Spirit continued to observe him, although some remnant of candied goodies traced themselves around her lips, most prominently chocolate. McCrooge ignored it and continued to watch the party unfold.

Most present seemed of a musical inclination, and soon hearty melodies resounded in harmony the entire city over as instruments were procured and played. Crepe proved herself well with a harp while other ponies set themselves in unison with piano, guitar, bass and flute. McCrooge saw his nephew with no instrument but had never seen him sing so well. Harkened high or low he hit every note with reverberation and delicacy. From carols to small dances and then simple airs, the night wore on and McCrooge enjoyed himself immensely even if only watching and unable to partake, curious of every moment, every word and every note. After the music, tea and other drinks began to be served alongside smart china cups on saucers with little spoons.

"I have it!" said a voice, as conversations began to wind after the tea was served. "Let's play a game of Yes and No." Crepe suggested, and some other present ponies took her up on her suggestion. Several questions and answers came and went, until it was suggested upon that Cripe had to think of something for them to guess.

He came up with an idea which the other party guests had to figure out for themselves what it was, using only yes or no questions, and he declared himself ready for their investigation.

The questions led them to believe that it was some sort of animal, a live animal with four legs, and quite disagreeable, savage at that, which growled and grunted, lived within the city, talked sometimes, walked about on the streets, wasn't lead by anyone, didn't live on a farm and was never killed in the market (but perhaps might kill in a market), and it wasn't a mad ass, a bull, a tiger or a bear.

Suddenly Crepe burst into a fit of laughter, inexpressibly tickled and slumped over on the couch. Cripe's realization of her notice caused a similar reaction almost on top of her, until she was able to reconstitute herself.

"I've found it, Cripe!" She said with eyes wetted from mirth.

"And?" Replied the nephew.

"It's your Uncle McCrooge!"

"Yes!"

Which it certainly was. Admiration and hilarity were the effect, as Caramel's addictive laughter rang out again. Some objected to the answer, having preferred a Bear, but nonetheless the game brought about more jovious fun, spirited hoots and dancing hooves.

"He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure." said Cripe, "and it would be ungrateful of me not to drink to his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready at our hoof at the moment; and I say, To Uncle McCrooge! Bless him, the old foal."

"Well! To Uncle McCrooge!" They cried.

Uncle McCrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart that he would have pledged unconscious company in return and thanked them an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time. But the scene passed like breath out of sight, by the word of the Spirit,

"Our time grows short. Come."

Again they traversed through the deep hue of the night, passing over the snow-covered city, until they found themselves a new environ, an empty street, cold and dark in-between two factories. The factories stood next to tall smoke stacks, and behind tall iron fences held many carts and wagons. McCrooge identified them as being Firms which he had attended to in years past, and that they operated or serviced bakeries.

"Spirit?" asked McCrooge. "Why do we stop here?"

"I am not sure, I planned on travelling further yet." The Spirit seemed puzzled, half in-between chasing after her own tail and trying to examine the interior of her robe. The sight was oddly dizzying, and McCrooge elected to change his focus lest he confuse himself into instability. He looked up at the factories, in how they had gone entirely solid and stoic from disuse for the holiday. Even their smokestacks had gone silent and cold, resonating that the furnaces deep within had stopped for the season. McCrooge noticed the signboard of one of the factory, which declared in post writing that no work was to be observed on the coming Sunday, whereas no such board existed on the other factory. He plucked up to ask the Ghost a question.

"Spirit?-"

"Ancient matters and muffin tins!" uttered the Spirit, and suddenly off they went again, into the sky in a high arcing path away from the factories.

They appeared upon the street of a row of smallish town-houses, small fillies and colts still running about occasionally with a facetious snowball that was all the matter of laughter, regardless if it struck right or flew wrong. Although nothing was partaken as cheerful from the appearance of the poor-like stone and brick houses, the cheer emitted still, from the nature of folks still greeting each other from window and doorway. The night was of the same one McCrooge had seen out the window of his home, but the feeling of the air was shut out by the environ of his own nature, and by the glass of the windows, he recalled.

A creature which he identified all too easily, was the appearance of Rupert Right, his office clark; walking home with a few bundles, a bottle wrapped in brown paper and a pair of candles slung over his neck, tied together by their overlong wicks. His derby looked slightly muddied and covered with snow, and the expression on his face was of pure, unadulterated exhaustion, but shut out by a joy stronger than anything McCrooge could imagine tolerable to be. As he approached, Rarity Right burst through the door of their home, dressed out in brave ribbons and a well-suited apron, which appeared to put a Prince's robe to shame despite only being afforded by likely a sixpence. Her hooves flung around his and it brought a tear to McCrooge's eye, recalling the appearance of the husband and wife from before that bought him so much dismay at the happy fate of his once-engaged so long ago.

Following behind Rarity was their daughter, the filly Sweetie Belle, whom walked with a limp, and paid her embrace to her father with coughing in some sort of sickened pain. McCrooge's eyes went wide seeing the condition of the filly.

The three entered into their home, and they began indulging in the trials of the effort of Rarity, being a delightful meal of sweet-bread however modest, and small glasses of cider, illuminated by candles as red as strawberries that smelled of cinnamon, obviously a merry-making indulgence only afforded thrice a year if anything, McCrooge calculated based upon what he estimated Right spent versus what he paid him.

The miser bit his lip as he regarded the might of their cheer despite the most of their impoverishedness.

The presents consisted of two yards of a cotton fabric that McCrooge's untrained eye could tell were quite cheap, but they were in a purple that somewhat resembled the mane of his wife, for which she was extremely happy. Along with it, he revealed an embroidered silk handkerchief. She toppled over him in adoration, which was cut short by Sweetie Belle's intention not to miss out on the love of the moment. With that, Rupert handed Sweetie a small music box. The box was cylindrical, unpainted and its inlaid carving was very simple in the shape of a cut gemstone, but it was obvious that the filly gazed at it in luxurious wonder. Rupert then showed her winding it, and it played a very simple and short tune, which entranced the young filly with thoughts of grace and wonder. She tried to sing along with it, but more coughing prevented her from doing so, and she retired the effort until later.

As the night wore on, they conversed about the cheer of the night, friends, family, and often shying away from the consideration of work. Their humble happiness wore into McCrooge and the thoughts he had for his dear employee he realized had never run so deep ever before, and deeper still should they have run if he had anything to say about it. Then a toast was proposed by Rupert.

"Let's drink. To Mr. McCrooge, the founder of our feast, and giver of our plenty."

"To McCrooge!" said Rarity indignantly. "The founder of the feast, indeed. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I'd hope he'd have a good appetite for it."

"My dear," returned Rupert. "Our daughter and our livelihood we owe him, should we not even pay him the slightest in our gratitude for what he's provided?"

"On only Hearth's Warming would I even consider it, to pay anything to such an odious, stingy, unfeeling stallion as McCrooge." Snorted Rarity.

"And badly dressed." Finished Sweetie-Belle quietly, before coughing again. Rupert's mouth went agape, but Rarity reprimanded,

"Sweetie Belle."

"Hearth's Warming, my dears." encouraged Rupert. "It is the spirit of the season." He said, his charity entirely unspoiled by his resolution.

"I will drink to his health for your sake and the day's, darling." said Rarity. "But not for his."

"May Celestia & Luna bless us all." Finished Sweetie Belle.

The three drank the toast they held, and the night continued for some time until the three retired to a single bedroom on another floor of the house, leaving the single-roomed kitchen, dining and fireplace alone to the Spirit and McCrooge. Above, the miser could hear still the gaiety of the night that carried on in stillness, interrupted only by another cough from Sweetie Belle within the house.

The emptiness of the chamber forced a question into the mind of the stallion.

"Spirit," said McCrooge. "What will come of little Sweetie-Belle?" the recollection of her poor constitution and breathing haunted him. The Spirit's glee seemed to die like a fire having ash cast upon it, as her eyes closed and gazed upwards.

"In the soon to be, I foresee an empty chair." She said, just as McCrooge gazed upon the stool that the filly had been sitting upon. His face became abject shock and his look snapped back to the Spirit. "And carefully, it will be preserved in memory of joys had, forever discontinued."

The look of the stool changed and it began to shift as if to represent what was to be instead of what was, and it sat gathering dust beside the fireplace, alone and abandoned.

"No, no!" said McCrooge. "Oh no, kind Spirit! Say that she will be spared; say that there is refuge or resource to have her attended to prevent such a calamity as that? Anything but such as that!"

"Are there no prisons?" Said the Spirit.

The tone mortified McCrooge, sounding as if the hearth of joy that the ghost had, became as black coal and cold as quarry of the frozen north. The sprightliness of the Spirit then looked like the loathing degradation of a pony gone mad with iron-faced gravity.

"Are there no workhouses?" She said. McCrooge could not bring himself to move.

"Spirit!" said McCrooge, as if to berate a stupid fool, "Far be it, she would die!"

"If she's going to die, then she'd better do it! And decrease the surplus population."

The mind of McCrooge reeled with the implication of his words being reused so, and he felt so faint with anger and monstrosity that he lashed out towards the Spirit, and yet he found himself no closer, the perspectives of the scene becoming bent and elongating. Fury burned, but sorrow was its core, at his own thinking.

"Sweetie Belle will die." said the Spirit, "And so one more will rid us a disservice of unprofitability, you would have us think." and with tears of hate in his eyes McCrooge dove towards the Spirit in blind fury and rational detest of his past thoughts that he jumped forwards and his eyes opened to see that he was by himself again, resting upon the chair of his room, looking at the fire and with dried tear trails emblazoned in feeling upon his cheeks.

He wailed without regard of who it might awaken or disturb, deathly afraid of the words which he had so mightily wielded not even a days' half past. He leaned and cried into his hooves.

He knew not how long he had sat there, forlorn in his own considerations and sadness, until he looked up and saw that there still sitting was the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present in the chair, watching over him. Rage in him wanted to well up, but it was not long before he realized that the feeling was of his own creation, not by the doings of the Spirit. His expression changed on this notice, and with that, the expression so changed as well of the Spirit. Her fluffy mane poofed outwards again, and her smile grinned wider than thinkable. McCrooge wanted to say something, but no words were said by either of them. In a gentle and grand gesture she stood.

"Better be it said that now you know You better, couth colt." said the Spirit. She walked towards the door and opened it, being met by a gust of streamers as plentiful as snow in a blizzard, which she walked straight into, and shut the door behind her. McCrooge gazed back at the fire again, ignoring the coloured paper strewn on the floor, sat and pondered more.

Chapter 4

Chapter IV. THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS

McCrooge only sat for a few minutes thinking, before the time struck Three in the distance, and his heart jumped up into his throat. He turned around and found himself gazing into blackness, and he jumped backwards in surprise. At the small distance his leap registered, he took greater stock in the apparition, although his sight was inhibited by the shadow cast by his body from the hearth of the fireplace.

The ghost was in the shape of a pony, yes. But it was covered in a black cloak from eartip to heel, registering nothing but a silhouette, and the hood overhung atop the snout, letting no light upon its face. The shroud permitted only visibility of the tiniest tip of one of its front hooves, showing a grisly grayed surface that seemed to have treaded on nothing good before. Growing used to being afraid at these things, but more accustomed to their strangeness, McCrooge felt courage to be able to speak to the opening where a face should have been.

"Then I must be in the presence of the final one that was foretold to me. You are the Ghost of Hearth's Warming of Yet to Come?" asked he.

The Spirit slowly nodded but said nothing.

"You are about to show me shadows of things that will be?"

The Spirit answered not. It pointed with the leg that showed the tip of the hoof, outwards away from the chairs. McCrooge stood and walked to where it pointed, and then noticed that the only remainder in addition of visibility from the cloak was the bare pastern of its leg. The Spirit wore no flesh over the bone, and he quickly distracted himself from staring at the fearful instance by looking forwards at the wall which the Spirit had beckoned him to. It began walking forwards, and McCrooge followed step, not knowing what was to come. The world of the bedroom around them seemed to bend and twirl like it were the surface of water going around a drainpipe, before they found themselves walking down a forsaken cool street in some part of the city McCrooge recognized well from business he conducted from his work. It seemed to be morning, but as usual the sky was overcast.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, McCrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him. The Spirit paused for a moment, giving him time to recover. But McCrooge was all the worse for this, knowing with uncertain horror that behind the shadow of its cloak were ghostly eyes looking upon him, yet to his utmost effort he could see nothing inside the shroud.

"Ghost of the Future." Said McCrooge. "More than any Spectre I've seen yet, I fear you the most. But I know your purpose is to do me good, as I hope to live as another stallion come these shadows to pass. I'm prepared for your company and bear it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"

It said nothing, and then pointed down the street to continue straight. McCrooge made the best of himself to continue any sound except the wind.

"Lead on then, Spirit. The night is waning fast and time precious to me and us,

I know. Do lead us, Spirit."

They continued for some time down the street, and various ponies seemed to be of the seasonal nature, although more attentive to matters of their work or trade. The buildings seemed quite well to do and adorned stately. The city's clock tower jetted out from on top of a tall building with a great silver dome on top, but McCrooge could see beyond its dome and behind the building, a great steepled cathedral still cast its shadow upon both the domed building and the street below it. The hustle and bustle soon were quite pronounced in his notice, for as they walked, the crowds seemed to become denser, until they reached an open square near the domed building, with an obelisk in the middle, surrounded by benches. Around them were marketers, bankers and merchants of every kind in the financial concern of the city. All over, coin chinked, watches sat either bestowed in pockets or upon the gaze of someone's need of information. Gold seals and letters exchanged in the bustle of business. McCrooge recognized some of the faces of owners, traders and proprietors of enterprises similar to his own.

"No," he overheard a fat stallion say, one with a large chin. "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead."

"When did he die?" Inquired another. The small assembly of buisnessponies stood in a corner of the square near a post box, roughly in a circle amongst themselves.

"Last night as I understand." said a gentlepony, making use of a snuff-box. "I thought he'd never die."

"Luna knows. Pathetic gripe he was." said another with a yawn.

"What has he done with his money?" said the second stallion.

"I haven't heard." said the first. "Left it to his company in all likelihood. All I know is he didn't leave it to me."

The pleasantry was met with a general laugh.

"Likely to be a cheap funeral. I don't know anypony who would attend, do you?"

"I would-!" said one of them, to which slightly confused looks returned. "If lunch is provided!" the jibe was met with haughty laughs and snorts, before the discourse fluttered as the assembly of the few dispersed amongst other groups of financially minded mares and stallions in the square of the marketplace. Their frivolous banter cut into a hypothesis that McCrooge held. Such cruel conduct upon the soul which they referred to, whoever it was they were referring to.

McCrooge knew most of the stallions there, and looked to the Spirit for an explanation, but none came. The phantom glided onto a street and down it, and shadows grew long as the sky changed. Snow seemed to find itself poured onto surfaces but only lightly, and then stopped. In reverent silence McCrooge still set his mind about the matter of the spirit rather than the distortion of the world around him, for McCrooge's consideration led him to believe that anything may become of the world, and what he personally would make of it would be of more importance.

The phantom stopped and it pointed to two persons meeting under a lamppost. Their faces were earnest, ones was almost fearful but they both had ample hope in their eyes. The appearance was underscored by their cheap-looking scarves and tattered hats. One of them was a stallion, and he looked to be wearing his best clothing if of anything.

"Is it good news," she said. "Or bad?"

"Bad." He answered. She raised her hooves to her mouth in frightened consternation, but he moved to steady her.

"There is hope yet, Caroline."

"If he should relent, or give extension to-"

"He is past relenting." interrupted the stallion. "He is dead." If her face marked a true identifier of her soul, she was an honest and mild creature, and thankful for the hand of fate that brought the words of her husband, and merciful in pity for the forgiveness that such gratitude demanded of those dead.

"To whom will our debt be transferred?" said the mare.

"I don't know. But before the time which we'll know, we shall be ready with the money. Even if we aren't, any successor of a creditor should be a bad fortune to be anything but more merciful than the one who's passed. We may sleep tonight with light hearts, Caroline."

Their faces softened, and in the gentle lean of love, they walked down the street concerned only with themselves and the tenderness of that moment. Their household, happy because of a stallion's death! The only emotions that seemed to be able to be presented by the Spectre's shadows were ones of pleasure in the spite of death. McCrooge felt slighted by having such a bizarre presentation come before him: tenderness because of pony's mortality. He opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent as the Phantom led them on down some more streets, twisting and turning past boulevard and alleyway. Every face imaginable seemed to present itself to the eyes of McCrooge. Miners, whose lot in life was to dig in the ground with no bearing of night or day until told to stop. Fishing ponies, trading their freedom over the waves for the attending to capture small things in water, and peddle it to the passerby. Bakers who crafted the glean of grain into food to eat, assuming their art could be appetising to look upon. Locksmiths who tuned and cracked intricacies of metal to safeguard what wasn't trusted to the world.

"What life and what death they all led?" pondered McCrooge. The only landmark which he had recognized on their travel since the clock tower was the viaduct that spanned the harbour. Even so, it was from a side he had never been on before.

The streets now looked destitute and grungy. The Spirit directed them wordlessly into a shop on a corner. On the floor were stacked up high iron, old rags, bottles, heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights and all sorts of whatnot of various value. The room was of red brick but the walls were covered in dust and oil, and the ceiling was hidden by cobwebs and broken lanterns strung from spikes in the wood beams. No indication seemed to be present whatsoever of Hearth's Warming at all. Out from the back of the shop was a shifty-eyed stallion with a suspecting chip of a mouth, wearing a black and egregiously well-appointed bicone hat upon his dishevelled mane. He was pacing and looking outside occasionally with a minor agitation, before he grabbed a bottle from one of the shelves and took a swig from it, placing it back with a thud. The floor about his feet seemed frosted but it was apparent the creature cared not.

Two mares in housekeeper's adornments entered into the shop, seemingly experienced in knowing how to enter through the space without tracing themselves with grease or dirt from the haphazard placement of assorted junk. As they did, the stallion looked up and grinned a curious grin from ear to ear. He beckoned them with a simple hoof-gesture to behind a small screen of rags that obscured a thick wood door. Inside the space of the door was a small lit chamber, illuminated by a kerosene lamp which showed several different trunks with locks on them. The stallion sat on a stool and gesticulated broadly.

"Ms. Wilber, Ms. Force!" said he. "Welcome, what have we for me this time?"

"I trust you'll do us well, Joe. A sporting lot we have." Said the first mare.

"Aye, fair more than just a bit of sport." Replied the second.

"Let's have it then, let's have it." Said Joe.

The first mare that entered brought forth a bundle wrapped in a gray sheet, which she undid and presented. Inside it were a pair of boots, some silver candlesticks, a folded blanket and a pair of green cufflinks. Joe examined the boots with a sneer before placing them on a small wood box just beside the outlaid sheet. He did similar to the candlesticks, although he seemed to be enjoying holding those more than the boots. He procured an ill-fitting monocle as he examined the cufflinks in one hoof with a leering eye, the other closed.

"Em'rald it is. Fine find, Ms. Force. Very fine indeed." Said Joe, placing the cufflinks on a napkin. Ms. Force's smile grew as she heard this, but both of the mares seemed happily confident.

"Who's doing wers it?" erred Joe, as he extracted from another box a small chalkboard and began writing something. "The sour goat was it?"

"Sour goat was he ever such a state." Said Ms. Wilber.

"If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked screw," continued Ms. Force. "Why wasn't he natural with 'em in his lifetime? Graspy coot he is."

"Truest word that ever was spoke." said Ms. Wilber. "Judgement' that be on him."

"Well let's have it then," changed Ms. Force. "What's worth it?"

"Reckon I, twen'y bits and not a penny less." said Joe, finishing up his writing. "Fine, Ms. Force, that's your account."

She bunched together her sheet and collected it into a sack that sat on her belt, as the other mare began to spread out her bundle before the stallion. In it was thick ruffled dark stuff with fine line-work upon it."

"What's this then?" said Joe, holding up the bunch with his hooves. "Bed-curtains!"

"Bed-curtains!" returned Ms. Wilber.

"You don't mean you say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" Said Joe, wide-eyed.

"Well why not? Wasn't so hard." Replied the mare. Joe looked at her for a moment in awed humour, before continuing through the bundle and finding a silver teaspoon (placing it among the cufflinks) a clean white sheet and quite well appointed stallion's suit.

"You're born to make a fortune, Ms. Wilber."

"I don't reach any farther than what I can take back with a hoof-full, Joe. And don't be spilling oil onto them blankets, it was deals enough to be getting them out of his place without you bein' fool enough to ruin them."

Joe went wide-eyed more than before.

"You mean these are his blankets and suit?"

"Whose else's do you think?"

"I hope he didn't die of catching anything. Eh?" said Joe, holding still as he stopped examining the suit.

"Don't be afraid of that, Joe. I'd not loiter his things if I knew he did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. Would'a been wasted on his corpse if it hadn't been for me."

Joe's eyes became as gratefully sneaky as any thief's could be and lept up at Ms. Wilber, giving false dance to her around the small chamber.

"Oh Miss Wilber you'll be me treasure and me death!" he exclaimed in jubilation.

McCrooge listened and watched the scene in horror. As they grouped about their spoil in the scanty light of the lamp, he viewed them with detestation and disgust if they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself.

"Spirit!" said McCrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "I see the case of this unhappy man might have been my own. Good is it that I wish to be more liberating of my gains than to monger them, lest it be pecked at by cocked crooks as those."

He looked up and saw the eerie vacancy of the Spirit's shroud, before it looked away from the chamber and pointed. They walked forwards and the scene changed into a slightly more familiar part of the city away from the darkened doldrums. Eventually they came upon a road which he recognized, the same row of townhouses that the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present had shown him, where Rupert Right lived.

They entered into the room, and saw Rarity sitting by herself sewing a quilt with needle and thread. The quilt looked wondrous for something made of such elementary components and fibres, and McCrooge suspected if the madam sold her textiles for artistic fashion. She seemed intent on focusing on her work, more in the effort to remain distracted from something else than to be zoned in on her craft. Eventually she gave in and looked up at a clock above the door, which read near about midday. Her eyes drifted from the face of the clock to a simple pencil drawing that had been tacked to the wall, with child-like scribbles that inscribed three pony-like figures with large eyes and hats. A stallion, a mare, and a filly, and they were endearable to be sure. The portrayal by a child, although no true masterpiece, was entirely obvious that the strenuous attention of the picture was the sentiment of it, not its technical appraisability. As if insulted, her eyes darted back to her work before closing, lids pressed hard as if to prevent an emotion, which seemed to be welling up in her hoofs, the needle becoming less steady as she wielded it. Soon the effect faded and it seemed as if it was to be cyclic as her posture returned to near what it had been before, fighting some invisible thing to keep her mind on her task.

She longed to gaze upon the picture, but longed still that it were not there, for it was obvious she found it unbearable to both have it existing, and not mourn.

Only then did McCrooge notice the stool, eerily identical to how it had been shown to him earlier. His vision became obscured by tears welling at the base of his eyes but he held his depression down. It bore the dust and disuse as it sat beside the fire's hearth, just as he had seen it before, and it scraped his thoughts.

Presently the door opened and Rupert entered. His hat looked as well-worn as ever and his expression looked like it was tired from the effort of stoicism. He placed his hat on a rack and sat down in front of the fireplace, as Rarity watched on, looking desperate for words as they both uttered a void.

McCrooge and the Spirit stood for a long while; they watched the husband and wife sit, thinking and feeling. The miser had never considered such matters as these before now, and here it was being conflated the thoughts which he so violently protested to, not very long ago.

"You went today then, Rupert?" said Rarity.

"Yes, my dear," returned the husband. "I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green the place is. It overlooks the pond, where the ducks are, and it's in the shadow of a great cherry tree. Wrap-winter we'll go see it, and there will be blossoms…" His mouth quibbled and sank, unable to bear the weight of it no longer.

"My little pony, my sweet filly!" He cried, and broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were. Rarity put aside her quilt and hugged her husband, joining in his agony. For what seemed an intolerable moment, nothing happened except their sadness in their embrace.

Time went on and they reconstituted themselves and began to prepare a meal for their dinner of Hearth's Warming Eve. Their tears dried and faces reformed to smiles as they began recalling things of days past, dwelling on the cherished memories they still had of their daughter, and in doing so, honouring her. Occasionally the mirth would spout despondency again, but it would direct itself to the joy that still could be had for they still had each other and the holiday of the moment. The topic changed pertaining to other things they had done that day, and Rupert commented on the extraordinary kindness of Mr. McCrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely met a few times.

"He intercepted me in the street today. He seemed somewhat down, you know, but worded himself not so. He is such a pleasantly-spoken gentlepony, my dear. He told me 'I am heartily sorry for your loss and that much moreso for your good wife.' By the bye how he ever knew of that, I don't know."

"Knew what, darling?"

"Why, that you were such a good wife." Replied Rupert. Rarity batted her eyelashes at the flattery, smiling a gesture most dear.

"He said," continued Rupert. "'Heartily sorry for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, this is where I live. Pray come to me' and gave me his card." The stallion held up a small piece of card paper with a printed identity on it.

"For the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, he offers his kind way. It really seemed as if he felt with us as if he had known our Sweetie Belle."

"I'm sure he's a good soul." Said Rarity.

"You'd be surer of it if you met him, Rarity. If you saw him and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were to get us a better situation for us." said Rupert. "Maybe more, if we were to try again."

"Plenty of time for that." Said Rarity, seeming hope into her words more than any other thing. They kissed, and sat down at their table ready to begin a prayer for them to eat.

The reproach of their grace in the opposition of continued sadness burned in McCrooge. Their comfort while mourning was a hope far too expensive to be bought by a fight or an anger he realized, and thought hard about what he had seen, almost forgetting the presence of the Spirit. Then the shadows changed again and they found themselves looking upon the front of the office of McCrooge's enterprise, his small office, from the street. Expecting for the Spirit to guide him home (for it was night now), the miser started in one direction, until the Spectre pointed in the other direction, further down the way.

"The house is yonder," McCrooge exclaimed. "Why do you point away?"

The inexorable hoof underwent no change.

McCrooge hastened into the window of his office, but saw nothing through the windows, being far too dark and layered by ice. He turned to see that the Phantom had not moved in the slightest, and still pointed elsewhere. He joined it and walked down the street and wondering why and wither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate that prevented a churchyard.

Here then, they entered into. Walled by houses and buildings the yard of the church was somewhat large and was overgrown by grass and weeds. The growth obdurate by the fat and worth of that which lay below it, interrupted by gravestones covered in vines. In the distance a crow called out. The darkness of the night only offered so much sight to give McCrooge a safe path to traverse but little farther could he spot detail of anything. The Spirit lead on, blacker than anything ever before by the occlusion of the Eve.

It stopped and pointed down to one grave. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

"Before I draw nearer to the stone which you point," said McCrooge. "Answer me one question. Are these things the shadows of what must be, or are they the shadows of things that may be, only?"

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave which it stood by.

"Ponies courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which if preserved in, they must lead." said McCrooge. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. May it be thus that you show me, Spirit."

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

McCrooge had made a point of distancing himself from where it stood but the demand of the time told him to approach, and he crept closer, continuously slowing until he found himself stopped again. He made hesitant, conscious and intentional strides, shaking more and more until he read the hoof down to a stone covered with snow. He raised his hoof and wiped it, which bore to his eyes the gravestone of his own name, McINTOSH McCROOGE.

"No…" whispered the stallion.

The hoof subtly pointed to he, and then to the grave.

"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" he cried. "Spirit!" McCrooge clutched the robe of the Phantom. "Hear me! I am not the pony I once was; I shall not, I will not be the creature of this intercourse! Why show me this if I am past all hope!"

The Spirit was unmoved, as if made of bitter rock.

"I will honour Hearth's Warming with my heart and let the Fire of Friendship burn as hot as any star! I shall live in Hearth's Warming by the spirits all three, past, present and future. I will not shut out the lessons they teach. Oh tell me I might crack the words upon this stone!"

In his agony, he sought to grab the hoof of the Spirit, but it repulsed his reach.

"Spirit, I implore you!" he cried. "Have mercy on me!"

McCrooge became unable to speak, weeping and gnashing his teeth in trembling and transition, pulling at the cloak as if it were a rope from which he dangled over a precipice. The Spirit seemed to shake, like it was crumbling. Deep roaring seemed to be all about them. And suddenly, McCrooge fell.

Chapter 5

Chapter V. THE END OF THINGS

Fabric seemed to be his world as he found himself tangled in a muddle of cloth. He struggled with it until he found himself awake in his bedroom, alone and sitting on the floor. Outside the windows, light shone through and snow lightly drew downwards, the only hindrance of a glorious sun pouring into the place.

He sat in awesome wonder of where he was and what he was thinking.

YES! The room was his own, the bed-curtains were his own, and the chairs and his suit and his body and his mind were all to his own, and he exclaimed triumphantly.

"I shall live in Hearth's Warming by the spirits all three, past, present and future! Oh Derpy Hooves you old goat, bless you! Derpe and Hearth's Warming and the Fire be praised, what a glorious day!" he bounded about his room in exaltation of so many years bottled cheer that had waited so long to explode.

"I don't know what to do!" cried McCrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath, making a foal of himself with his nightgown. "I'm as light as a feather! I'm as happy as an angel! As giddy as a filly!"

He stopped then and noticed how the chair had still be overturned, and how his watch rested outside its usual place in a drawer.

"There's the chair I jumped, and My stars, my watch! It all did happen so, it was not just a dre-!" he slipped on what appeared to be a remnant square of blue party paper on the floor near the door. In excitement he threw open the door to see if the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present was there, but she was not. Through it showed the same stairwell that had always been, McCrooge was not despondent by the revelation. He still picked up the paper and threw it in the air as if it were a hearty thrust of flower pedals to be thrown at a wedding, laughing as he did it.

"Ha ha! Ha ha ha!"

For a stallion who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid, most illustrious laugh. The father in all likelihood of a long line of brilliant laughs, which his nephew inheireted.

His laughter stopped when he heard the choir of bells that rang out the city. He skipped and trotted to the window and threw up the pane to hear its glory. The lustiest peals he had ever heard, resonating in bold and full and in every color and timbre imaginable, from all directions. The heavenly sky, the golden sun, the sweet fresh air of the morning, merry bells and the feel of so much joy to be had in the day's rise, oh glorious he regarded it.

Suddenly, McCrooge realized that he knew not what day it was. He had no idea the time or the year because of his time with the Spirits. A small colt ran by, adorned by a glengarry and in a green scarf, and the stallion called out to him.

"You there! You, foal!"

The colt stopped and looked up.

"What, me?"

"Yes you! What day is today?"

"Today is Hearth's Warming! Where've you been at!" he said in a facetious hark.

It was Hearth's Warming Day! McCrooge hadn't missed it, and of course any Spirit could do as they wished in a single night only. Of course they could! And then the stallion several ideas all at the same time, which tickled him pink.

"Do you know the Confectioners in the next street at the corner?"

"'Torteys', That I do sir!"

"A remarkable colt, an intelligent lad." commended McCrooge honestly. "Do you know if they've sold the grand cake in the window?"

"The one as big as me? It's still there."

"It is? Go and buy it!"

"Nuts!" said the colt, and started to run.

"No, no, I'm serious my lad! I'll pay you for your trouble! Buy it and bring it here so I can have it brought where I wish to take it. Come with the baker and I'll give you half a Cent-bit! Come back in five minutes and I'll give you two full!"

The colt dashed away in the blink of an eye and was off like a shot. McCrooge rubbed his hooves with mischievous delight.

"I'll send it to Rupert Right's!" he said, splitting a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's thrice the size of Sweetie Belle!"

The hand which wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did somehow, and he readied himself in his best clothes, finest stovepipe top hat and a gray scarf. He exited his front door and turned to lock it before noticing the door knocker. It had never struck him how well made it was, with intricate detail woven into its crests and a shape of a wreath of olive branches.

"A marvellous device! I shall love it as long as I live!" cried McCrooge, patting it with his hoof. "A wonderful knocker. Merry Hearth's Warming!"

Then came the colt with two lanky looking yellow ponies with him, carrying an enormous cake. It seemed to be incarnate jove and zoe of a party, detailed with every conceivable frill, stripe and puff of cream and coating, and the two stallions carrying it made it just rise over the top of McCrooge's head.

"Why it's impossible to carry that to Caspian Town. You'll need a cab, that much is certain." Said McCrooge, examining the cake.

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle which he paid for the cake, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the colt (with generous disregard for if the cake had arrived in five minutes or not), were only to be exceeded by the chuckle that came when he sat down on the stair of his house, and chuckled until he cried.

He started down the street towards a new destination, and well-met everypony he saw on the street, heartily encouraging a "Merry Hearth's Warming and a Happy New Year!" Those who recognized his face were taken with surprise greater than any gift could bestow when the expression on his face was one they had never seen before, he liable to crack a self grinning thusly. He walked past his old counting house, the office of his enterprise, and said.

"Hoovton & McCrooge?" It sent a pang across his heart to think how the old gentlepony would regard him now, or how they would meet were his now-self to greet the Hoovton he knew before he died. But McCrooge knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it. It was not long until he saw a group of stallions in red scarves and among them was the portly gentlepony from the day before that had the courage and pluck to enter his office. Without wasting a moment, McCrooge trotted up to him and shook his hoof vigorously.

"How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you, Merry Hearth's Warming."

"m-Mr. McCrooge?"

"Yes," said McCrooge. "That is my name and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon, and, er, would you have the goodness to…-" and McCrooge whispered in his ear. The gentlepony was taken aback with eyes widened.

"Bless't Celestia!" he exclaimed.

"And I won't have it not a bit less." said McCrooge, his face searing with joy. "I great many back-payments are included, I assure you. Would you have it then?"

They talked to themselves some before returning their gaze upon McCrooge in awe.

"Dear sir," said one other stallion. "I don't know what to say to such munif-" His reply interrupted by a strong shake of the hoof by McCrooge.

"We'll talk of it later then?"

"Shall we!" said the portly one.

"Oh there is one thing…-" said McCrooge, extricating his scarf. "May I?"

He traded it then with another one of the stallions, feeling none the warmer but all the merrier for his worn decoration of the rich red scarf.

"Thank ye," said McCrooge. "I am much obliged to you, I thank you a hundred times. Bless you!"

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched people hurrying to and fro, patted the heads of young colts and fillies, questioned beggars, looked down the kitchens of houses and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never imagined that such a simple walk could give him such happiness. By afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash and did it:

"Is your master at home, my dear?" Said McCrooge to the servant that attended the door. A very nice filly, he noticed.

"Yes sir."

"Where is he? He knows me, I'm his uncle."

"This way, sir." And she led him to the door of the dining room, wonderous décor reminiscent of the party he recalled from the room at the top of a stair, and then he looked up, seeing the same chandelier. McCrooge smiled and returned looking forwards to the door. He turned the knob gently and slowly with all of the hesitation of times past coming to bear on the effort of that moment, which seemed all defeated by the simple constancy of his joy.

"Cripe!" said McCrooge.

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started at the surprise. If he had but known her timidity in reaction, he would not have bellowed so, but the deed was already done.

"Why bless my soul!" cried Cripe. "Uncle McCrooge!"

"I hope you can forgive an old codger like me, Cripe. I'd very much like to be able to take up your invitation t-!" In seemingly one deft motion, Caramel had left his handkerchief and cutlery at the table, jumped up and dove over to his beloved Uncle and it was a mercy he didn't shake his hoof off!

He was at home in five minutes, and no party could have been heartier. Wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, friendship, singing, drinks and treats and it lasted all of the day until the festive ending upon which they lit a grand fire in the house's hearth with logs of pine and blessed by their merriment. All didn't know and all did not care, least of which Cripe, as to what had become of the greedy coot which they knew of McCrooge, and why this new rambunctious stallion had taken his place. But now oh so appropriately he bore the red of his coat that now seemed so festive.

But he was early at the office the next morning, oh how early was he. If he could be there first, and catch Rupert Right coming late, that would be such of the best things. If he were late! That was what McIntosh had set his heart upon.

Time ticked by, and presently it came the third quarter of eight. No Right. Then came the nine, and Right still had not arrived. At this, McCrooge giggled himself silly as a filly, knowing that in his former state he would feel just to have been retiring Rupert, but oh no, such mirth had McIntosh. A quarter past. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time when a very quiet push of the door came. McIntosh was subtle with his effort to look up without being noticed that Rupert was trying to sneak in undetected, until Rupert realized that he must either stamp his hooves to remove the snow from them, or risk tracking them indoors.

"Late, Rupert Right?" growled McCrooge in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

"I'm very sorry, sir." said Rupert. "I am behind my time."

"Indeed you are," repeated McCrooge. "Step this way, Mr. Right."

Very sullen and shamefully, Rupert walked to the doorway of his employer's office as McIntosh stood and stepped right into being face to face with the young stallion.

"Please sir, it's only once a year. It shan't be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."

"Now I'll tell you what, my friend," said McCrooge, his tone raising with disagreement. "I am not going to stand for this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he bent forward, intimidating Right mightily. "I have no choice but to raise your salary!"

Rupert's face was locked in fear until he stopped to comprehend the words his master had just said. He became flummoxed as to if his employer was having him be a toy to his emotions for the sarcastic jibe, and confused to whether or not he was serious. This took but a moment until McIntosh burst out laughing, which confused Rupert all the more.

"Merry Hearth's Warming, Rupert!" said McIntosh with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped the fellow on the back. "A merrier Hearth's Warming than I've ever given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and shall endeavour to assist your struggling family and we shall discuss the affairs this afternoon over a hearty box of some turkish delight and cocoa. I think I'd much like to help your station, my friend, and your lovely daughter and wife."

Rupert's face seemed incapable of expressing what he felt, in utter surprise and joy. Insuch he seemed frozen with happiness, before he was able to make a very weak and ecstatic,

"T-thank you sir!" and he shook McIntosh's hoof energetically.

"And you look cold in there, my young clark. Buy another coal scuttle, go and hurry! Before you dot another i, Rupert Right!"

McCrooge was better than his word. He did it all and infinitely more; and to the young Sweetie Belle, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a stallion as the old city knew, or any other city, town or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits but lived on in total abstinence ever afterwards, and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Hearth's Warming well, if any pony possessed such the knowledge. May it be truly said of any pony and all of us! Celestia bless it and Luna keep it how he came to be such a good creature in all the land.

The End.

Afterword

AFTERWORD

Firstly, thank you for your endeavor to take it upon yourself to read this work of fiction. I am grateful my efforts were worth your glance or peruse.

This fiction was undertaken in a conjunct decision to read the original Charles Dickens novella A Christmas Carol for personal intrigue as well as to see how well I could adapt myself to writing in a manner that was similar to Dickens' work and if I could match the pace at which it seemed he wrote. I impressed myself in being able to type over 20,000 words in less than five days. Originally the chapters were named Staves, in order to fit in with the titular motif of a Carol, or song.

The original book was written over the course of two months and released on December 17th, 1843. All copies of the first print sold out before Christmas Eve and the book has been popular ever since. The book now falls under the realm of Public Domain works and can be downloaded and distributed for free at the Gutenberg organization website. gutenberg dot org/ebooks/46

At many points in the story it can be observed that actions, scenes or dialogue was mixed from the original work with inspiration from Brian Henson's The Muppets Christmas Carol (1992) starring Michael Caine, and from what I could remember from Brian Desmond Hurst's Scrooge (1951) starring Alistair Sim.

In chapter 1 it is established that "Derpe Hoovton" is the name that replaces the original Jacob Marley. Originally this was to be Ditzy Doo and the ghost being the Ghost of Doo. However chapter 1 was written before the release of the My Little Pony season 2 episode 11 (Hearth's Warming Eve), which made canon the name Derpy, therefore necessitating change. Derpy is called Derpe because I did not think the story could be taken seriously if the name was retained in its original form.

In chapter 1 "Who-hooing" is mentioned because the collective noun for owls is a "Parliament".

In chapter 1 and 5, ponies described wearing the red scarves is a reference to the charity organization The Salvation Army. While in the book the donation character (the "portly gentlepony") is only one figure, in the book there are two but one never speaks. This amalgamation was to compensate for the fact that the character Fezziwig in chapter 2 became two characters in this version. (Fezzdale & Clydeswig).

In chapter 1 McCrooge wears two hats stacked on top of each other "like a pillar". This is a reference to the Towering Pillar of Hats hat in Team Fortress 2.

In chapter 2 McCrooge's young self is observed reading Treasure Island. In the original book he read Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves but this was changed to make it more recognizable. Robert Lewis Stephenson wrote his book more than forty years after Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol.

In chapter 2, the character Limback was named as the replacement of the character from the original, Richard 'Dick' Wilkins. Limback is a reference to the American idiom for money 'greenbacks'. (Lime-back)

In chapter 2, Limback pushing McCrooge into the dance is a reference to a similar action done by Frodo to Samwise in the film adaptation by Peter Jackson Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring (2001).

In chapter 3, the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present saying "Alrighty then!" is a reference to the behaviourism of Jim Carrey, a Canadian actor who voiced and acted the role of Scrooge in the 2009 motion-capture animated movie adaptation of Dickens' novel. "Grab my robe!" is a reference to the DeviantArt comic meme "Grab my X" followed by being catapulted into the sky.

In chapter 3 the factories scene is a reference to the small discourse given by Scrooge and The Ghost of Christmas Present where they talk of Sabbatarianism (the political concern of whether or not the observance of the Sabbath should be tolerated) in the original book. The possible concern, having entirely moved on in modern culture, is dismissed as "ancient matters".

In chapter 4 there is mention of a character named Caroline. This is in the original book, and not an intentional redirection to Portal 2. However, the mention of an obelisk in the square is a reference to the Train-station square in Half Life 2.

In chapter 4 originally the characters that meet the peddler Joe are "Mrs. Dilber" and two other unnamed people, another housekeeper and a coroner. In this version they are made into two characters, Ms. Wilber and Ms. Force, a reference to the British politician William Wilberforce, who abolished slavery in the British Empire in 1833.

In chapter 5 the bakery which is referred to as "Torteys" replaces the Poulterers in the book, since we don't see meat being eaten in My Little Pony except for the minor implication of eggs occasionally (in baked goods). Torteys is a reference to Torte, a very rich cake style that comes from the German word for cake.

In chapter 5 "Liable to crack a self [verb]ing thusly" is a quotation from the character Huff in Evan Dahm's Rice-Boy. rice-boy dot com /see/index dot php?c=304

In chapter 5 "bowl of smoking bishop" is changed to "turkish delight and cocoa" to be something more agreeable to ponies, but also because I don't know what smoking bishop is. This is also a reference to the interaction of two characters in the book by C.S. Lewis' The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this fan-fiction as much as I enjoyed writing it, perhaps even more so. Merry Christmas and God Bless.

-Professor Blue

December, 2011