Oliver Twist

If you had walked down the damp cobblestone streets of a certain English town in the year 1837, you might have heard the bitter wind rattling the iron gates of the parish workhouse. Inside those gray stone walls, a baby boy was born. His mother, a young woman found exhausted in the street, lived just long enough to kiss her newborn son and slip away into death, leaving behind no name or money. It was in this dark industrial era that the great writer Charles Dickens first set down this tale to show how easily the poor could be swept into the shadows, and how a single spark of goodness might still survive. Tonight, let us step together into that chilly town and find the boy who was left behind. Because the child had no name, the parish beetle, a pompous official named Mr. Bumble, invented one. He named the orphans in alphabetical order. The last had been an S, so this boy became Oliver Twist. The workhouse was run by well-fed gentlemen who believed they were wonderfully charitable, while spending as little money as possible. The boys were fed only three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week. They scraped their bowls with their spoons until they shone like mirrors. After months of this slow starvation, the desperate boys drew straws to decide who would walk up to the master after supper and ask for another spoonful of gruel. The short straw fell to Oliver Twist. That evening, as the gruel disappeared, the boys nudged Oliver. Rising from the table, his heart hammering, he walked up to the master, held out his small bowl, and spoke the most dangerous sentence in all of England. "Please, sir, I want some more." The master turned pale, clinging to the copper pot. "What?" he gasped. "Please, sir," Oliver repeated, "I want some more." The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with his ladle and shrieked for Mr. Bumble. The board of gentlemen was instantly summoned. To these wealthy men, asking for more was a rebellion. Deciding Oliver was a deeply wicked child who would surely meet a bad end, they locked him in a dark room and posted a bill offering 5 pounds to anyone who would take him as an apprentice. Before long, Oliver was sold to Mr. Sowerberry, the local undertaker. While Sowerberry was not cruel, his wife was cold-hearted, and his lazy apprentice, Noah Claypole, delighted in making Oliver's life miserable. One afternoon, Noah went too far, calling Oliver's dead mother a common beggar who deserved her fate. A strange, fierce heat rushed through Oliver's veins. Forgetting his fear, he struck Noah to the ground and shook him by the throat. When Mrs. Sowerberry and Mr. Bumble arrived, they beat Oliver severely and locked him in the cellar. That night, alone in the dark among the half-finished coffins, Oliver made a decision. He could not stay where his mother's name was dragged through the dust. In the quiet hours before dawn, he packed his few belongings into a handkerchief, slipped the bolt of the back door, and stepped out into the cold morning. He did not look back. He set his face toward London, a great city 70 miles away, where a boy might lose himself and find a fortune. For seven days, Oliver walked. He slept under haystacks, shivering beneath the stars, and begged for crusts of bread until his feet were blistered and his strength was nearly gone. He had just reached the town of Barnet on the outskirts of London, when a strange-looking boy stopped to stare at him. This boy was Oliver's age, but had the swagger of a grown man, wearing a coat that reached his heels and a battered top hat cocked jauntily on his head. "Hello, my cove, what's the row?" the boy asked. Oliver, who didn't understand this London slang, replied that he was starving and had been walking for a week. The boy introduced himself as Jack Dawkins. His friends called him the Artful Dodger. He kindly bought Oliver a meal of ham and bread. When he learned Oliver had no money or place…

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