KARL KRINKEN, HIS CHRISTMAS STOCKING.
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
[Illustration: “‘A roast chicken!—Oh, Roswald!—How mother will like a
piece of that! How good it smells!’”—P. 161.
KARL KRINKEN.]
KARL KRINKEN,
HIS CHRISTMAS STOCKING.
BY THE AUTHORS OF
_“THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD,” “QUEECHY,”
“DIANA,” ETC. ETC._
LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.
MDCCCLXXVIII.
SUGGESTIVE.
I think it necessary to come to the help of the Public—
Lest Miss Wetherell should not have her dues, they are giving her the
dues of every one else; and whatever my hand may have to do on “Ellen
Montgomery’s Bookshelf,” there it is—even though “a discerning Public”
perceive it not. No matter for that—I had as lief be behind the books
as before them; but must enter my protest against facts which are no
facts.
Therefore kind Public, Messrs Editors, and friends in general, I
propose this division of the volumes; by which my sister and I will
each in turn have written them all. _Whatever book or part of a book
you particularly like, thank Miss Wetherell for it_; and let all those
pages which are less interesting be charged to the account of
AMY LOTHROP.
_New York. Dec. 13. 1853._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES 15
THE STORY OF THE RED CENT 35
THE STORY OF THE PURSE 60
THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES 113
THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE 181
THE STORY OF THE HYMN BOOK 206
THE STORY OF THE CORK BOAT 229
THE STOCKING’S STORY 233
THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.
Wherever Santa Claus lives, and in whatever spot of the universe he
harnesses his reindeer and loads up his sleigh, one thing is certain—he
never yet put anything in that sleigh for little Carl Krinken. Indeed
it may be noted as a fact, that the Christmas of poor children has
but little of his care. Now and then a cast-off frock or an extra
mince pie slips into the load, as it were accidentally; but in general
Santa Claus strikes at higher game,—gilt books, and sugar-plums, and
fur tippets, and new hoods, and crying babies, and rocking-horses,
and guns, and drums, and trumpets;—and what have poor children to do
with these? Not but they might have something to do with them. It is a
singular fact that poor children cut their teeth quite as early as the
rich,—even that sweet tooth, which is destined to be an unsatisfied
tooth all the days of its life, unless its owner should perchance grow
up to be a sugar-refiner. It is also remarkable, that though poor
children can bear a great deal of cold, they can also enjoy being
warm—whether by means of a new dress or a load of firing; and the glow
of a bright blaze looks just as comfortable upon little cheeks that are
generally blue, as upon little cheeks that are generally red; while not
even dirt will hinder the kindly heat of a bed of coals from rejoicing
little shivering fingers that are held over it.
I say all this is strange—for nobody knows much about it; and how can
they? When a little girl once went down Broadway with her muff and her
doll, the hand outside the muff told the hand within that he had no
idea what a cold day it was. And the hand inside said that for his part
he never wished it to be warmer.
But with all this Santa Claus never troubled his head—he was too full
of business, and wrapped up in buffalo skins besides; and though he
sometimes thought of little Carl, as a good-natured little fellow who
talked as much about _him_ as if Santa Claus had given him half the
world—yet it ended with a thought, for his hands were indeed well
occupied. It was no trifle to fill half a million of _rich_ little
stockings; and then—how many poor children had any to fill? or if one
chanced to be found, it might have holes in it; and if the sugar-plums
came rolling down upon such a floor——!
To be sure the children wouldn’t mind that, but Santa Claus would.
Nevertheless, little Carl always hung up his stocking, and generally
had it filled—though not from any sleigh-load of wonderful things; and
he often amused himself Christmas eve with dreaming that he had made
himself sick eating candy, and that they had a stack of mince-pies as
high as the house. So altogether, what with dreams and realities, Carl
enjoyed that time of year very much, and thought it was a great pity
Christmas did not come every day. He was always contented, too, with
what he found in his stocking; while some of his rich little neighbours
had theirs filled only to their heart’s _dis_content, and fretted
because they had what they did, or because they hadn’t what they didn’t
have. It was a woful thing if a top was painted the wrong colour, or if
the mane of a rocking-horse was too short, or if his bridle was black
leather instead of red.
But when Carl once found in his stocking a little board nailed upon
four spools for wheels, and with no better tongue than a long piece
of twine, _his_ little tongue ran as fast as the spools, and he had
brought his mother a very small load of chips in less than five
minutes. And a small cake of maple-sugar, which somehow once found its
way to the same depending toe, was a treasure quite too great to be
weighed: though it measured only an inch and a half across, and though
the maple-trees had grown about a foot since it was made.
* * * * *
“Wife,” said John Krinken, “what shall we put in little Carl’s stocking
to-night?”
“Truly,” said his wife. “I do not know. Nevertheless we must find
something, though there be but little in the house.”
And the wind swept round and round the old hut, and every cupboard-door
rattled and said in an empty sort of way, “There is not much here.”
John Krinken and his wife lived on the coast, where they could hear
every winter storm rage and beat, and where the wild sea sometimes
brought wood for them and laid it at their very door. It was a
drift-wood fire by which they sat now, this Christmas eve,—the crooked
knee of some ship, and a bit of her keel, with nails and spikes
rust-held in their places, and a piece of green board stuck under to
light the whole. The andirons were two round stones, and the hearth
was a flat one; and in front of the fire sat John Krinken on an old
box making a fish-net, while a splinter chair upheld Mrs. Krinken and
a half-mended red flannel shirt. An old chest between the two held
patches and balls of twine; and the crooked knee, the keel, and the
green board, were their only candles.
“We must find something,” repeated John. And pausing with his
netting-needle half through the loop, he looked round towards one
corner of the hut.
A clean rosy little face and a very complete set of thick curls rested
there, in the very middle of the thin pillow and the hard bed; while
the coverlet of blue check was tucked round and in, lest the drift-wood
fire should not do its duty at that distance.
John Krinken and his wife refreshed themselves with a long look, and
then returned to their work.
“You’ve got the stocking, wife?” said John, after a pause.
“Ay,” said his wife: “it’s easy to find something to fill it.”
“Fetch it out, then, and let’s see how much ’twill take to fill it.”
Mrs. Krinken arose, and going to one of the two little cupboards she
brought thence a large iron key; and then having placed the patches and
thread upon the floor, she opened the chest, and rummaged out a long
grey woollen stocking, with white toe and heel and various darns in
red. Then she locked the chest again and sat down as before.
“The same old thing,” said John Krinken with a glance at the stocking.
“Well,” said his wife, “it’s the only stocking in the house that’s long
enough.”
“I know one thing he shall have in it,” said John; and he got up and
went to the other cupboard, and fetched from it a large piece of cork.
“He shall have a boat that will float like one of Mother Carey’s
chickens.” And he began to cut and shape with his large clasp-knife,
while the little heap of chips on the floor between his feet grew
larger, and the cork grew more and more like a boat.
His wife laid down her hand which was in the sleeve of the red jacket,
and watched him.
“It’ll never do to put that in first,” she said; “the masts would be
broke. I guess I’ll fill the toe of the stocking with apples.”
“And where will you get apples?” said John Krinken, shaping the keel of
his boat.
“I’ve got ’em,” said his wife,—“three rosy-cheeked apples. Last
Saturday, as I came from market, a man went by with a load of apples;
and as I came on I found that he had spilled three out of his wagon. So
I picked them up.”
“Three apples—” said John. “Well, I’ll give him a red cent to fill up
the chinks.”
“And I’ve got an old purse that he can keep it in,” said the mother.
“How long do you suppose he’ll keep it?” said John.
“Well, he’ll want to put it somewhere while he does keep it,” said Mrs.
Krinken. “The purse is old, but it was handsome once; and it’ll please
the child any way. And then there’s his new shoes.”
So when the boat was done Mrs. Krinken brought out the apples and
slipped them into the stocking; and then the shoes went in, and the
purse, and the red cent—which of course ran all the way down to the
biggest red darn of all, in the very toe of the stocking.
But there was still abundance of room left.
“If one only had some sugar things,” said Mrs. Krinken.
“Or some nuts,” said John.
“Or a book,” rejoined his wife. “Carl takes to his book, wonderfully.”
“Yes,” said John, “all three would fill up in fine style. Well, there
is a book he can have—only I don’t know what it is, nor whether he’d
like it. That poor lady we took from an American wreck when I was mate
of the Skeen-elf—it had lain in her pocket all the while, and she gave
it to me when she died—because I didn’t let her die in the water, poor
soul! She said it was worth a great deal. And I guess the clasp is
silver.”
“O I dare say he’d like it,” said Mrs. Krinken. “Give him that, and
I’ll put in the old pine-cone,—he’s old enough to take care of it now.
I guess he’ll be content.”
The book with its brown leather binding and tarnished silver clasp was
dusted and rubbed up and put in, and the old sharp-pointed pine cone
followed; and the fisherman and his wife followed it up with a great
deal of love and a blessing.
And then the stocking was quite full.
* * * * *
It was midnight; and the fire had long been covered up, and John
Krinken and his wife were fast asleep, and little Carl was in the midst
of the hard bed and his sweet dreams as before. The stocking hung by
the side of the fire-place, as still as if it had never walked about in
its life, and not a sound could be heard but the beat of the surf upon
the shore and an occasional sigh from the wind; for the wind is always
melancholy at Christmas.
Once or twice an old rat had peeped cautiously out of his hole, and
seeing nobody, had crossed the floor and sat down in front of the
stocking, which his sharp nose immediately pointed out to him. But
though he could smell the apples plain enough, he was afraid that long
thing might hold a trap as well; and so he did nothing but smell and
snuff and show his teeth. As for the little mice, they ran out and
danced a measure on the hearth and then back again; after which one of
them squealed for some time for the amusement of the rest.
But just at midnight there was another noise heard—as somebody says,
“You could hear on the roof
The scraping and prancing of each little hoof,”—
and down came Santa Claus through the chimney.
He must have set out very early that night, to have so much time
to spare, or perhaps he was cold in spite of his furs: for he came
empty-handed, and had evidently no business calls in that direction.
But the first thing he did was to examine the stocking and its contents.
At some of the articles he laughed, and at some he frowned, but most of
all did he shake his head over the love that filled up all the spare
room in the stocking. It was a kind of thing Santa Claus wasn’t used
to; the little stockings were generally too full for anything of that
sort,—when they had to hold candy enough to make the child sick, and
toys enough to make him unhappy because he didn’t know which to play
with first, of course very little love could get in. And there is no
telling how many children would be satisfied if it did. But Santa Claus
put all the things back just as he had found them, and stood smiling to
himself for a minute, with his hands on his sides and his back to the
fire. Then tapping the stocking with a little stick that he carried, he
bent down over Carl and whispered some words in his ear, and went off
up the chimney.
And the little mice came out and danced on the floor till the day broke.
“Christmas day in the morning!” And what a day it was! All night
long as the hours went by, the waves had beat time with their heavy
feet; and wherever the foam and spray had fallen, upon board or stone
or crooked stick, there it had frozen, in long icicles or fringes or
little white caps. But when the sun had climbed out of the leaden sea,
every bit of foam and ice sparkled and twinkled like morning stars, and
the Day got her cheeks warm and glowing just as fast as she could; and
the next thing the sun did was to walk in at the hut window and look at
little Carl Krinken. Then it laid a warm hand upon his little face, and
Carl had hardly smiled away the last bit of his dream before he started
up in his bed and shouted
“Merry Christmas!”
The mice were a good deal startled, for they had not all seen their
partners home; but they got out of the way as fast as they could, and
when Carl bounded out of bed he stood alone upon the floor.
The floor felt cold—very. Carl’s toes curled up in the most
disapproving manner possible, and he tried standing on his heels.
Then he scampered across the floor, and began to feel of the
stocking—beginning at the top. It was plain enough what the shoes
were, but the other things puzzled him till he got to the foot of the
stocking; and _his_ feet being by that time very cold (for both toes
and heels had rested on the floor in the eagerness of examination),
Carl seized the stocking in both hands and scampered back to bed again;
screaming out,
“Apples! apples! apples!”
His mother being now nicely awaked by his clambering over her for the
second time, she gave him a kiss and a “Merry Christmas,” and got up;
and as his father did the same, Carl was left in undisturbed possession
of the warm bed. There he laid himself down as snug as could be, with
the long stocking by his side, and began to pull out and examine the
things one by one,—after which each article was laid on the counterpane
outside.
“Well little boy, how do you like your things?” said Mrs. Krinken,
coming up to the bed just when Carl and the empty stocking lay side by
side.
“Firstrate!” said Carl. “Mother, I dreamed last night that all my
presents told me stories. Wasn’t it funny?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said his mother, as she walked away to turn the
fish that was broiling. Carl lay still and looked at the stocking.
“Where did you come from, old stocking?” said he.
“From England,” said the stocking, very softly.
Carl started right up in bed, and looked between the sheets, and over
the counterpane, and behind the head-board—there was nothing to be
seen. Then he shook the stocking as hard as he could, but something in
it struck his other hand pretty hard too. Carl laid it down and looked
at it again, and then cautiously putting in his hand, he with some
difficulty found his way to the very toe,—there lay the red cent, just
where it had been all the time, upon the biggest of the red darns.
“A red cent!” cried Carl. “O I guess it was you talking, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said the red cent. “But I can talk.”
“Do you know where you came from?” said Carl, staring at the red cent
with all his eyes.
“Certainly,” said the cent.
“I dreamed that everything in my stocking told me a story,” said Carl.
“So we will,” said the red cent. “Only to you. To nobody else.”
Carl shook his head very gravely, and having slipped the red cent into
the little old purse, he put everything into the stocking again and
jumped out of bed. For the drift-wood fire was blazing up to the very
top of the little fire-place, and breakfast was almost ready upon the
old chest.
But as soon as breakfast was over, Carl carried the stocking to one
corner of the hut where stood another old chest; and laying out all his
treasures thereon, he knelt down before it.
“Now begin,” he said. “But you mustn’t all talk at once. I guess I’ll
hear the apples first, because I might want to eat ’em up. I don’t care
which of _them_ begins.”
THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES.
“I assume to myself the task of relating our joint history,” said the
largest of the three apples, “because I am perhaps the fairest minded
of us all. The judgment and experience of my younger sister, Half-ripe,
are as yet immature; and my little brother Knerly is unfortunately of
a somewhat sour disposition, and therefore less likely to represent
things in a pleasant light. My own name is Beachamwell.”
At this opening the two smaller apples rolled over in an uncomfortable
sort of way, but said nothing.
“As for me,” continued Beachamwell, “I have not only been favoured with
a southern exposure, but I have also made the most of whatever good
influences were within my reach; and have endeavoured to perfect myself
in every quality that an apple should have. You perceive not only
the fine rounding of my shape, but also the perfect and equal colour
of my cheeks. My stem is smooth and erect, and my eye precisely in a
line with it; and if I could be cut open this minute I should be found
true to my heart’s core. I am also of a very tender disposition, being
what is usually called _thin-skinned_; and a very slight thing would
make a permanent and deep impression. My behaviour towards every one
has always been marked by the most perfect smoothness, and on intimate
acquaintance I should be found remarkably sweet and pleasant.”
“You’d better not say any more about yourself at present, Beachamwell,”
said Carl, “because I might eat you up before you got through your
story, and that would be bad. Let’s hear about Half-ripe and Knerly.”
“My sister Half-ripe,” said Beachamwell, “though with the same natural
capabilities as myself, has failed to improve them. Instead of coming
out into the warm and improving society of the sun and the wind, she
has always preferred to meditate under the shade of a bunch of leaves;
and though in part she could not help doing credit to her family, you
will perceive that her time has been but half improved,—it is only
one of her cheeks that has the least proper colour, while the other
displays the true pale green tint of secluded study; and even the seeds
of influence and usefulness within her are but half matured; but mine
will be found as dark as——”
“As the chimney-back?” suggested Carl.
“They are not exactly that colour,” replied Beachamwell,—“being in fact
more like mahogany.”
“Well I never saw any of that,” said Carl, “so you don’t tell me much.
Never mind, I shall know when I cut you up. Now be quick and tell about
Knerly; and then give me all the history of your great, great, great
grandfather apple.”
“Knerly,” said Beachamwell, “was a little cross-grained from the very
bud. Before he had cast off the light pink dress which as you know
we apples wear in our extreme youth, the dark spot might be seen. It
is probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender
period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have said, some
hardness of heart and sourness of disposition. As you see, he has not
softened under the sun’s influence, though exposed to it all his life;
and it is doubtful whether he ever attains a particle of the true
Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even
Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll go all round. Come, go
on.”
“Unfortunately,” said Beachamwell, “I cannot give the information which
you desire about my respected and venerable ancestors. The pedigree
of apples is not always well preserved, and in general the most we
can boast of is the family name: nor is that often obtained except
by engrafting upon a very different stock. For one generation back,
however, we may claim to be true Beachamwells. From root to twig the
parent tree was the right stuff. The remarkable way in which this came
about I am happily able to tell you.
“A number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing
up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her.
“‘I wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,’ said he.
“‘Why so we will,’ said his mother.
“‘But how?’ said Mark, with a very brightened face. ‘What will you do,
mother?’
“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said
Mrs. Penly.
“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling again: ‘there
aren’t even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies,
didn’t you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?’
“‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other
Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memory’s troupe
was just then performing.
“‘So what will you do, mother?’ repeated little Mark, when he had
watched her again for a few minutes.
“‘Do?’ said the widow, rousing herself. ‘Why my dear if we cannot make
any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.’
“‘I don’t think one can keep Thanksgiving without _anything_,’ said
Mark, a little fretfully.
“‘Oh no,’ said his mother, ‘neither do I; but we will think about it,
dear, and do the best we can. And now you may read to me while I mend
this hole in your stocking. Read the hundred and third Psalm.’
“So Mark got his little Bible and began to read,—
“‘_Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:
who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with
lovingkindness and tender mercies——_’
“‘Don’t you think, Mark,’ said his mother, ’that we could keep
Thanksgiving for at least _one_ day with only such blessings as these?’
“‘Why yes,’ said Mark, ‘I suppose we could, mother—though I wasn’t
thinking of that.’
“‘No, of course not,’ said his mother; ‘and that is the very reason
why we so often long for earthly things: we are not thinking of the
heavenly blessings that God has showered upon us.’
“‘But mother,’ said Mark, not quite satisfied, ’it goes on to say,—
“‘_Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is
renewed like the eagle’s._’
“And Mark looked up as if he thought his mother must be posed now, if
she never was before.
“It did occur to Mrs. Penly as she glanced at the child, that his
cheeks were not very fat nor his dress very thick; and that a greater
plenty of pies and other relishable things might exert a happy
influence upon his complexion: but she stilled her heart with that
word,—
“‘_Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such things._’
“‘I am sure we have a great many good things, Mark,’ she answered
cheerfully,—‘don’t you remember that barrel of flour that came the
other day? and the molasses, and the pickles? We _must_ have as much as
is good for us, or God would give us more; for it says in another part
of that Psalm, ‘_Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord
pitieth them that fear him_.’ I wouldn’t keep from you anything that I
thought good for you.’
“‘But you are my _mother_,’ said Mark satisfactorily.
“‘Well,’ said the widow, ‘the Bible says that a mother may forget her
child, yet will not God forget his children. So you see, dear, that if
we have not a great many things which some other people have, it is not
because God has forgotten to care for us, but because we are better
without them.’
“‘I wonder why,’ said Mark. ‘Why should they hurt us any more than
other people?’
“‘God knows,’ said his mother. ‘It is so pleasant to have him choose
and direct all for us. If I could have my way, I dare say I should
wish for something that would do me harm—just as you wanted to eat
blackberries last summer when you were sick.’
“‘But we are not sick,’ said Mark.
“‘Yes we are—sick with sin; and sin-sick people must not have all that
their sinful hearts desire; and people who love earth too well must
want some of the good things of this world, that they may think more of
heaven.’
“‘Well,’ said Mark, the last thing before he got into bed, ‘we’ll keep
Thanksgiving, mother—you and I; and we’ll try to be as happy as we can
without pies.’
“‘Maybe we shall have some pleasant thing that we do not think of,’
said his mother, as she tucked the clothes down about him.
“‘Why what?’ said Mark starting up in an instant. ‘Where _could_
anything come from, mother?’
“‘From God in the first place,’ she answered; ‘and he can always find a
way.’
“‘Mother!’ said Mark, ‘there’s a _great many_ apples in the road by Mr.
Crab’s orchard.’
“‘Well, dear’—said his mother—‘they don’t belong to us.’
“‘But they’re in the _road_,’ said Mark; ‘and Mr. Smith’s pigs are
there all day long eating ’em.’
“‘We won’t help the pigs,’ said his mother smiling. ‘They don’t know
any better, but we do. I have cause enough for thanksgiving, Marky, in
a dear little boy who always minds what I say.’
“Mark hugged his mother very tight round the neck, and then went
immediately to sleep, and dreamed that he was running up hill after a
pumpkin.
“But Mark woke up in the morning empty-handed. There were plenty of
sunbeams on the bed, and though it was so late in November, the birds
sang outside the window as if they had a great many concerts to give
before winter, and must make haste.
“Mark turned over on his back to have both ears free, and then he could
hear his mother and the broom stepping up and down the kitchen; and as
she swept she sang.
‘Rejoice, the Lord is King;
Your Lord and King adore;
Mortals, give thanks and sing,
And triumph evermore.
Lift up your hearts, lift up your voice
Rejoice, again I say, rejoice.
Rejoice in glorious hope,
Jesus the Judge shall come,
And take his servants up
To their eternal home;
We soon shall hear th’ archangel’s voice;
The trump of God shall sound—Rejoice!’
“Mark listened awhile till he heard his mother stop sweeping and begin
to step in and out of the pantry. She wasn’t setting the table, he
knew, for that was always his work, and he began to wonder what they
were going to have for breakfast. Then somebody knocked at the door.
“‘Here’s a quart of milk, Mis’ Penly,’ said a voice. ‘Mother guessed
she wouldn’t churn again ’fore next week, so she could spare it as well
as not.’
“Mark waited to hear his mother pay her thanks and shut the door, and
having meanwhile got into his trousers, he rushed out into the kitchen.
“‘Is it a _whole_ quart, mother?’
“‘A whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isn’t that good?’
“‘Delicious!’ said Mark. ‘I should like to drink it all up, straight. I
don’t mean that I should like to really, mother, only on some accounts,
you know.’
“‘Well now what shall we do with it?’ said his mother. ‘You shall
dispose of it all.’
“‘If we had some eggs we’d have a pudding,’ said Mark,—‘a plum-pudding.
You can’t make it without eggs, can you mother?’
“‘Not very well,’ said Mrs. Penly. ‘Nor without plums.’
“‘No, so that won’t do,’ said Mark. ‘Seems to me we could have made
more use of it if it had been apples.’
“‘Ah, you are a discontented little boy,’ said his mother smiling.
‘Last night you would have been glad of _anything_. Now I advise that
you drink a tumblerful of milk for your breakfast—’
“‘A whole tumblerful!’ interrupted Mark.
“‘Yes, and another for your tea; and then you will have two left for
breakfast and tea to-morrow.’
“‘But then you won’t have any of it,’ said Mark.
“‘I don’t want any.’
“‘But you _must_ have it,’ said Mark. ‘Now I’ll tell you, mother. I’ll
drink a tumblerful this morning, and you shall put some in your tea;
and to-night I’ll drink some more, and you’ll have cream, real cream;
and what’s left I’ll drink to-morrow.’
“‘Very well,’ said his mother. ‘But now you must run and get washed
and dressed, for breakfast is almost ready. I have made you a little
shortcake, and it’s baking away at a great rate in the spider.’
“‘What’s shortcake made of?’ said Mark, stopping with the door in his
hand.
“‘This is made of flour and water, because I had nothing else.’
“‘Well don’t you set the table,’ said Mark, ’because I’ll be back
directly; and then I can talk to you about the milk while I’m putting
on your cup and my tumbler and the plates.’
“It would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his tumbler of
milk,—how slowly he drank it—how careful he was not to leave one drop
in the tumbler; while his interest in the dish of milk in the closet
was quite as deep. Jack did not go oftener to see how his bean grew,
than did Mark to see how his cream rose.
“Then he set out to go with his mother to church.
“The influence of the dish of milk was not quite so strong when he was
out of the house,—so many things spoke of other people’s dinners that
Mark half forgot his own breakfast. He thought he never had seen so
many apple-trees, nor so many geese and turkeys, nor so many pumpkins,
as in that one little walk to church. Again and again he looked up at
his mother to ask her sympathy for a little boy who had no apples,
nor geese, nor pumpkin pies; but something in the sweet quiet of her
face made him think of the psalm he had read last night, and Mark was
silent. But after a while his mother spoke.
“‘There was once a man, Mark, who had two springs of water near his
dwelling. And the furthest off was always full, but the near one
sometimes ran dry. He could always fetch as much as he wanted from the
further one, and the water was by far the sweetest: moreover he could
if he chose draw out the water of the upper spring in such abundance
that the dryness of the lower should not be noticed.’
“‘Were they pretty springs?’ said Mark.
“‘The lower one was very pretty,’ replied his mother, ‘only the
sunbeams sometimes made it too warm, and sometimes an evil-disposed
person would step in and muddy it; or a cloudy sky made it look very
dark. Also the flowers which grew by its side could not bear the frost.
But when the sun shone just right, it was beautiful.’
“‘I don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,’ said Mark.
“‘No, it was very natural; though if one drank too much of the water it
was apt to make him sick. But the other spring——’ and the widow paused,
while her cheek flushed and on her lips weeping and rejoicing were
strangely mingled.
“‘There was ‘a great Rock,’ and from this ’the cold flowing waters’
came in a bright stream that you could rather hear than see; yet was
the cup always filled to the very brim if it was held there in patient
trust, and no one ever knew that spring to fail,—yea in the great
droughts it was fullest. And the water was life-giving.
“‘But this man often preferred the lower spring, and would neglect the
other when this was full; and if forced to seek the Rock, he was often
weary of waiting for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a
few drops. And he never learned to love the upper spring as he ought,
until one year when the very grass by the lower spring was parched, and
he fled for his life to the other. And then it happened, Mark,’ said
his mother looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, ’that when
the water at last began slowly to come into the lower spring, though it
was very lovely and sweet and pleasant it never could be loved _best_
again.’
“‘Mother,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t know _exactly_ what you mean, and I do
know a little, too.’
“‘Why my dear,’ said his mother, ‘I mean that when we lack anything
this world can give, we must fetch the more from heaven.’
“‘You love heaven very much, don’t you mother?’ said Mark, looking up
at her quite wonderingly.
“‘More than you love me.’
“Mark thought that was hardly possible; but he didn’t like to
contradict his mother, and besides they were now at the church-door,
and had to go right in and take their seats. Mark thought the clergyman
chose the strangest text that could be for Thanksgiving-day,—it was
this,—
“‘_There is nothing at all, beside this manna, before our eyes._’
“When church was over, and Mark and his mother were walking home again,
they were overtaken by little Tom Crab.
“‘Come,’ said little Tom—‘let’s go sit on the fence and eat apples. We
sha’n’t have dinner to-day till ever so late, ’cause it takes so long
to get it ready; and I’m so hungry. What are you going to have for
dinner?’
“‘I don’t know,’ said Mark.
“‘I know what we’re going to have,’ said Tom, ’only I can’t remember
everything. It makes me worse than ever to think of it. Come—let’s go
eat apples.’
“‘I haven’t got any,’ said Mark.
“‘Haven’t got any!’ said Tom, letting go of Mark’s elbow and staring at
him—for the idea of a boy without apples had never before occurred to
any of Mr. Crab’s family. ‘O you mean you’ve eaten up all you had in
your pocket?’
“‘No,’ said Mark, ‘we haven’t had any this year. Last year Mr. Smith
gave us a basketful.’
“‘Well come along and I’ll give you some,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got six, and
I guess three’ll do me till dinner. O Mark! you ought to see the goose
roasting in our kitchen! I’ll tell you what—I guess I may as well give
you the whole six, ’cause I can run home and get some more; and I might
as well be home, too, for they might have dinner earlier than they
meant to.’
“And filling Mark’s pockets out of his own, Tom ran off.
“It so happened,” said Beachamwell turning herself round with a tired
air when she got to this point in her story—“it so happened, that Mark
having stopped so long to talk with Tommy Crab, did not get home till
his mother had her things off and the tablecloth on; and then being in
a great hurry to help her, and a rather heedless little boy besides;
there being moreover but one table in the room, Mark laid his six
apples upon the sill of the window which was open. For it was a soft
autumn day—the birds giving another concert in the still air, and the
sunshine lying warm and bright upon everything. The apples looked quite
brilliant as they lay in the window, and as Mark eat his queer little
Thanksgiving dinner of bread and a bit of corned beef, he looked at
them from time to time with great pleasure.
“But when it was almost time for the apples to come on table as
dessert, Mark suddenly cried out,
“‘Mother! where are my six apples?’
“‘Why on the window-sill,’ said his mother.
“‘There aren’t but five! there aren’t but five!’ said Mark. ‘I must
have lost one coming home!—no I didn’t either.’ And running to the
window, Mark looked out. There lay the sixth apple on the ground,
appropriated as the Thanksgiving dinner of his mother’s two chickens.
“Mark could hardly keep from crying.
“‘It’s _too_ bad!’ he said—‘when I hadn’t but just six! The ugly
things!’
“‘You called them beauties this morning,’ said his mother.
“‘But just see my apple!’ said Mark—‘all dirty and pecked to pieces.’
“‘And just see my little boy,’ said his mother—‘all red and angry. Did
you suppose, my dear, that if apples rolled off the window-sill they
would certainly fall inside?’
“‘I guess I’ll never put anything there any more,’ said Mark, gathering
up the five apples in his arms and letting them all fall again. But
they fell inside this time, and rolled over the floor.
“‘You had better decide how many apples you will eat just now,’ said
Mrs. Penly, ‘and then put the others away in the closet.’
“‘It’s too bad!’ said Mark. ‘I hadn’t but six. And I thought you would
have three and I’d have three.’
“‘Well you may have five,’ said his mother smiling—‘the chickens have
got my part. And maybe some good will come of that yet, if it only
teaches you to be careful.’
“Oddly enough,” said Beachamwell, “some good did come of it. When the
chickens pecked the apple to pieces the seeds fell out, and one seed
crept under a clover leaf where the chickens could not find it. And
when the snow had lain all winter upon the earth, and the spring came,
this little seed sprouted and grew, and sent down roots and sent up
leaves, and became an apple-tree.”
“How soon?” said Carl.
“O in the course of years—by the time Mark was a big boy. And the tree
blossomed and bore fruit; and from that time Mark and his mother never
wanted for apples. He called it the ‘Thanksgiving Tree,’ but it was a
true Beachamwell, for all that.”
“But say!” exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beachamwell’s stem in his
great interest, “Mark isn’t alive now, is he?”
“No,” said Beachamwell, twisting away from Carl and her stem together.
“No, he is not alive now, but the tree is, and it belongs to Mark’s
grandson. And the other day he picked a whole wagon-load of us and set
off to market; and we three were so tired jolting about that we rolled
out and lay by the wayside. That’s where your mother found us.”
“Well that is certainly a very pretty story,” said Carl, “but
nevertheless I’m glad my stocking was full. But I will let you
Beachamwell and Half-ripe and Knerly lie on the chest and hear the rest
of the stories, for I like this one very much.”
Carl was tired sitting still by this time, so he went out and ran
about on the beach till dinner; and after dinner he went up to his
corner again. The sun came in through the little window, look-askance
at Carl’s treasures, and giving a strange, old-fashioned air to purse
and book and stocking. The shoes looked new yet, and shone in their
blacking, and the apples had evidently but just quitted the tree; while
the red cent gleamed away in the fair light, and the old pine cone was
brown as ever, and reflected not one ray. Carl handled one thing and
another, and then his eye fell on his small portion of money. He might
want to spend it!—therefore if the cent could do anything, it must
be done at once; and as he thought on the subject, the sun shone in
brighter and brighter, and the red cent looked redder and redder. Then
the sunbeam fled away, and only a dark little piece of copper lay on
the chest by the side of the new shoes.
“Now red cent,” said Carl, “it is your turn. I’ll hear you before the
purse, so make haste.”
“Turn me over then,” said the red cent, “for I can’t talk with my back
to people.”
So Carl turned him over, and there he lay and stared at the ceiling.
THE STORY OF THE RED CENT.
“I cannot begin to relate my history,” said the red cent, “without
expressing my astonishment at the small consideration in which I am
had. ‘I wouldn’t give a red cent for it—’ ‘It isn’t worth a red cent—’
such are the expressions which we continually hear; and yet truly a man
might as well despise the particles of flour that make up his loaf of
bread.
“People say it is pride in me—that may be and it may not. But if it
be—why shouldn’t a red cent have at least that kind of pride which we
call self-respect? I was made to be a red cent, I was wanted to be a
red cent, I was never expected to be anything else—therefore why should
I be mortified at being only a red cent? I am all that I was intended
to be, and a silver dollar can be no more. Pride, indeed! why even
Beachamwell here is proud, I dare say, and only because she is not a
russeting; while I think—— Well, never mind,—but I have bought a good
many apples in my day and ought to know something about them. _Only_
a red cent! People can’t bargain so well without me, I can tell you.
Just go into the market to buy a cabbage, or into the street to buy a
newspaper, and let me stay at home—see how you will fare then. Indeed
when there is question of parting with me I am precious enough in some
people’s eyes, but it hardly makes up for the abuse I get from other
quarters. There is indeed one pretty large class of the community who
always think me worth picking up, though they are over ready to part
with me. To them alone would I unfold the secrets of my past life. I
might have lain in a man’s purse for ever, and rubbed down all the
finer parts of my nature against various hard-headed coins; but there
is something in the solitude of a boy’s pocket which touches all the
sympathies of our nature—even beforehand.
“I am not, however,” continued the red cent, “I am not at all of friend
Beachamwell’s temperament,—in fact I never had but one impression made
on me in my life. To be sure that was permanent, and such as Time
only can efface; though no doubt he will one day soften down my most
prominent points, and enable me to move through society with a calm and
even exterior. For it happens, oddly enough, that while beneath the
pressure of years the ‘human face divine’ grows wrinkled and sometimes
sharp, a red cent grows smooth and polished,—a little darker and
thinner perhaps than formerly, but with as good business faculties as
ever.
“When that time arrives,” said the red cent, “we refuse to tell our
age; but until then we are perfectly communicative. I would at once
tell you how old I am, but that you can see for yourself.
“I shall not give you a detailed account of my origin, nor of the fire
and water through which I passed in order to become a red cent. If when
you grow up you are still curious about the matter, you may cross over
to England; and there, down in Cornwall, you will find what may be
called my birthplace, and can learn with full particulars why I left
it. Neither shall I relate how I was pressed and clipped and weighed at
the Mint, nor speak of the first few times that I went to market and
changed hands. My present history will begin with the pocket of a rich
old gentleman, into which I found my way one afternoon along with a
large variety of the ‘circulating medium.’”
“You do use such big words!” said Carl.
“Because I have travelled a great deal,” said the red cent. “It is the
fashion. But to return to the pocket.
“What a pocket it was!
“At the bottom lay an overfed pocket-book, bursting with bank-bills
new and old, while another of like dimensions held more value, snugly
stowed away in notes and bonds. The leather purse in which I lay had
one end for red cents and the other for gold and silver; but with my
usual love of bright company, when the old gentleman slipped me in
among a parcel of dingy cents I slipped out again, and ran in among the
half-eagles. For I was the only new cent the old gentleman had, and as
by right I belonged about half to him and half to the bank, the cashier
and he had some words as to which should carry me off. I believe the
old gentleman chuckled over me half the way home.
“If this part of my story teaches nothing else,” said the red cent with
a moralising air as he stared at the ceiling, “it will at least show
the folly of going out of one’s proper place. Had I been content to
lodge with the red cents, I should but have been set to do a red cent’s
work,—as it was I was made to do the work of an eagle, for which I was
totally unfit. It fell out thus.
“The old gentleman walked leisurely home, having very much the air of a
man with a pocket full of money,—as I should think from the deliberate
and comfortable way in which we were jogged about; and when he rang his
own door bell it was already quite dark. A dear little girl opened the
door, dressed in a white frock and black apron.
“‘Oh, grandpa,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, because there’s a
little boy been waiting here ever so long for ten dollars.’
“‘Well my dear,’ said the old gentleman, ‘ten dollars is worth waiting
for.’
“‘But he’s in a great hurry to get home before dark, because he says
the children have got no bread for supper till he buys it,’ said the
little girl. ‘He brought a pair of boots and shoes for you, grandpa.
His father’s very poor, he says.’
“‘Is he?’ said the old gentleman. ‘Then I’m afraid my boots won’t be
worth much. However Nanny my dear, you may take him the money for ’em,
since they’re here.’
“‘Shall I fetch you a light, grandpa?’ said the child. ‘It’s too dark
to see.’
“‘No, no—not a bit of it,—I know how ten dollars feels, well enough. He
shall have a gold piece—for the first time in his life, I’ll warrant.
It is too dark to read bank-bills.’
“And opening the most precious end of his purse, the old gentleman’s
unerring thumb and finger drew forth _me_, and laid me in the little
girl’s open palm. The soft little hand closed upon me, and down she ran
to the lower entry.
“‘There—’ she said,—‘here it is. Grandpa says he guesses that’s the
first gold piece you ever had. Have you got a great many little
brothers and sisters?’
“‘This ain’t gold,’ said the boy, too busy examining me to heed her
last question. ‘He’s made a mistake—this is only a red cent.’
“‘O well I’ll take it back to him then,’ said the little messenger. ‘I
s’pose he couldn’t see in the dark.’ And away she ran.
“The old gentleman by this time was enjoying his slippers and the
newspaper, between a blazing fire and two long candles in tall silver
candlesticks.
“‘Grandpa,’ said the child laying her hand on his knee, ‘do you know
what you did in the dark? you gave that boy a red cent instead of a
gold piece—wasn’t it funny?’
“‘Hey! what?’ said the old gentleman, moving his paper far enough to
one side to see the little speaker. ‘Gave him a cent instead of a gold
piece? nonsense!’
“‘But you did, grandpa,’ urged the child. ‘See here—he gave it right
back to me. It was so dark, you know, and he took it to the window to
look; and he said directly it was only a cent.’
“‘Which he had kept in his hand for the purpose, I’ll warrant,’ said
the old man. ‘Took it to the window, did he?—yes, to slip it into his
pocket. He needn’t think to play off that game upon me.’
“‘But only look at it, grandpa,’ said the child; ’see—it’s only a red
cent. I’m sure he didn’t change it.’
“‘I don’t want to look at it,’ said he putting away her hand. ‘All
stuff, my dear—it was as good an eagle as ever came out of the Mint.
Don’t I know the feel of one? and didn’t I take it out of the gold end
of my purse, where I _never_ put copper? Bad boy, no doubt—you mustn’t
go back to him. Here, William—’
“‘But he looked good, grandpa,’ said the child, ’and so sorry.’
“‘He’ll look sorry now, I’ll be bound,’ said the old man. ‘I say,
William!—take this red cent back to that boy, and tell him to be off
with it, and not to show his face here again.’
“The command was strictly obeyed; and my new owner after a vain attempt
to move the waiter, carried me into the street and sat down on the next
door-step. Never in my life have I felt so grieved at being only a red
cent, as then.
“The boy turned me over and over, and looked at me and read my date
with a bewildered air, as if he did not know what he was doing; and I
alas, who could have testified to his honesty, had no voice to speak.
“At length he seemed to comprehend his loss; for dropping me on the
pavement he sank his head on his hands, and the hot tears fell fast
down from his face upon mine. Then, in a sudden passion of grief and
excitement he caught me up and threw me from him as far as he could;
and I, who had been too proud to associate with red cents, now fell
to the very bottom of an inglorious heap of mud. As I lay there half
smothered, I could hear the steps of the boy, who soon repenting of his
rashness now sought me—inasmuch as I was better than nothing; but he
sought in vain. He couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see him, especially
as there was little but lamplight to see by, and he presently walked
away.
“I am not good at reckoning time,” said the red cent, “but I should
think I might have lain there about a week—the mud heap having in the
mean time changed to one of dust; when a furious shower arose one
afternoon, or I should rather say came down; and not only were dust and
mud swept away, but the rain even washed my face for me, and left me
almost as bright as ever high and dry upon a clean paving-stone.
“I felt so pleased and refreshed with being able to look about once
more, that what next would become of me hardly cost a thought; and very
wet and shiny I lay there, basking in the late sunshine.”
“I thought you said you were high and dry?” said Carl.
“That is a phrase which we use,” replied the red cent. “I was high and
dry in one sense,—quite lifted above the little streams of water that
gurgled about among the paving-stones, though the rain-drops were not
wiped off my face; and as I lay there I suddenly felt myself picked up
by a most careful little finger and thumb, which had no desire to get
wet or muddy. They belonged to a little girl about ten years old.
“‘You pretty red cent!’ she said, admiringly,—‘how bright and nice
you do look! and how funny it is that I should find you—I never found
anything before. I wonder how you came here—I hope some poor child
didn’t lose you.’