“‘Because he is so good he loved us, and wanted to save us and bring us
back to be his children, and to be good and happy.’
“‘Does he love me?’ said Norman.
“‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘Do you think he came to die for you
and doesn’t love you? If you will love and obey him, he will love you
for ever, and take care of you;—better care than any one else can.’
“‘There isn’t anybody else to take care of me,’ said Norman. ‘Mother
can’t, and father don’t, much. I wish I knew about that.’
“With a look, of wonder and interest, at her daughter, Mrs. Meadow
reached after her Bible, without letting Norman down from her lap; and
turning from place to place, read to him the story of Christ’s death,
and various parts of his life and teaching. He listened, gravely and
constantly and intently, and seemed not to weary of it at all, till she
was tired and obliged to stop. He made no remark then, but sat a little
while with a sober face; till his own fatigue of days past came over
him, and his eyelids drooped, and slipping from Mrs. Meadow’s lap, he
laid himself down on the hearth to sleep. They put something under his
head and sat watching him, the eyes of both every now and then running
over.
“‘How much do you think he understood, mother?’ said Silky.
“‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Meadow, shaking her head.
“‘He listened, mother,’ said Silky.
“‘Yes. I won’t say anything more to him to-day. He’s had enough.’
“And when the little sleeper awoke, they bent all their attention to
giving him a pleasant day. He had a good dinner and a nice supper. His
clothes were thoroughly dried; and Mrs. Meadow said when she put them
on, that if she could only get a chance of a week-day, she would patch
them up comfortably for him. Towards nightfall the rain stopped, and he
went home dry and warm, and with a good piece of cheese and a loaf of
plain gingerbread under his arm. When he was all ready to set out he
paused at the door, and looking up at Mrs. Meadow said,—
“‘Does he say we mustn’t do that?’
“‘Who, dear?’
“‘Does Jesus Christ say we mustn’t do that?’
“‘Do what?’
“‘Steal,’ said Norman, softly.
“‘Yes, to be sure. The Bible says it, and the Bible is God’s word; and
Jesus said it over again when he was on the earth.’
“Norman stood a quarter of a minute, and then went out and closed the
door.
“The next morning they looked eagerly for him. But he did not come. He
stopped at evening, as usual, but Silky was just then busy and did not
speak to him beyond a word. Tuesday morning he did not come. At night
he was there again with his jug.
“‘How do you do, Norman?’ said Mrs. Meadow, when she filled it, ‘and
how is Long-Ears?’
“But Norman did not answer, and turned to go.
“‘Come here in the morning, Norman,’ Mrs. Meadow called after him.
“Whether he heard her or not, he did not shew himself on his way to
the factory next morning. That was Wednesday.
“‘Norman hasn’t been here these three days, mother,’ said Silky. ‘Can
it be he has made up his mind to do without his halfpennyworth of milk
for the dog?’
“‘Little fellow!’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘I meant to have given it to him;
skim milk would do, I dare say; but I forgot to tell him Sunday; and I
told him last night to stop, but he hasn’t done it. We’ll go up there,
Silky, and see how he is, after dinner.’
“‘To the factory, mother?’
“‘Ay.’
“‘And I’ll carry a little pail of milk along, mother.’
“‘Well, honey, do.’
“After dinner they went, and I went in Silky’s pocket. The factory
was not a great distance from Mrs. Meadow’s house, which stood half
way between that and the town. Mrs. Meadow asked for Mr. Swift, and
presently he came. Mrs. Meadow was a general favourite, I had found
before; everybody spoke her fair; certainly she did the same by
everybody.
“‘Is little Norman Finch at work to-day, Mr. Swift?’
“‘Norman Finch? Well, yes, ma’am, he’s to work,’ said the overseer;—‘he
don’t _do_ much work this day or so.’
“‘He’s not just right well, Mr. Swift.’
“‘Well, no, I s’pose he isn’t. He hasn’t hard work neither; but he’s a
poor little billet of a boy.’
“‘Is he a good boy, sir?’
“‘Average,’ said Mr. Swift;—‘as good as the average. What, you’re going
to adopt him?’
“‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Meadow; ‘I wanted to ask a few questions about
him.’
“‘I don’t know any harm of him,’ said Mr. Swift. ‘He’s about like the
common. Not particularly strong in the head, nor anywhere else, for
that matter; but he is a good-feeling child. Yes—now I remember. It’s
as much as a year ago, that I was mad with him one day, and was going
to give the careless little rascal a strapping for something,—I forget
what; we must keep them in order, Mrs. Meadow, let them be what they
will;—I was going to give it to him, for something,—and a bold brave
fellow in the same room, about twice as big and six times as strong as
Norman, offered to take it and spare him. _I_ didn’t care; it answered
my purpose of keeping order just as well that Bill Bollings should
have it as Norman Finch, if he had a mind;—and ever since that time
Finch has been ready to lay down his body and soul for Bollings, if it
could do him any service. He’s a good-hearted boy, I do suppose.’
“Mrs. Meadow and Silky looked at each other.
“‘That’s it, mother!’ said Silky. ‘That’s why he understood and took it
so quick.’
“‘What a noble boy, the other one!’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘Ha? well—_that_ was noble enough,’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but he’s a kind
of harum-scarum fellow—just as likely to get himself into a scrape
to-morrow as to get somebody else out of one to-day.’
“‘That was noble,’ repeated Mrs. Meadow.
“‘Norman has never forgotten it. As I said, he’d lay down body and
soul for him. There’s a little pet-dog he has, too,’ Mr. Swift went
on, ’that I believe he’d do as much for. A pretty creature! I would
have bought it of him, and given a good price for it, but he seemed
frightened at the proposal. I believe he keeps the creature here partly
for fear he would lose him home.’
“‘Isn’t it against the rules, sir, to have a dog in the factory?’
“‘Entirely!—of course!’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but Mr. Carroll has said it,
and so a new rule is made for the occasion. Mr. Carroll was willing to
let such a pretty creature be anywhere, I believe.’
“‘I should be afraid he would get hurt.’
“‘So I was, but the dog has sense enough; he gets into no danger, and
keeps out of the way like a Christian.’
“‘May we go in, sir, and see Norman for a moment?’
“‘Certainly,’ Mr. Swift said; and himself led the way.
“Through several long rooms and rows of workers went Mr. Swift, and
Mrs. Meadow and Silky after him, to the one where they found little
Norman. He was standing before some sort of a machine, folding papers
and pressing them against rows of pins, that were held all in order and
with their points ready, by two pieces of iron in the machine. Norman
was not working smartly, and looked already jaded, though it was early
in the afternoon. Close at his feet, almost touching him, lay the
little white dog. A very little and a most beautiful creature. Soft,
white, curling hair, and large silky ears that drooped to the floor, as
he lay with his head upon his paws; and two gentle brown eyes looked
almost pitifully up at the strangers. He did not get up; nor did Norman
look round, till Mrs. Meadow spoke to him.
“‘Hey, my boy, how are you getting on?’ Mr. Swift said first, with
a somewhat rough but not unkind slap across the shoulders. Norman
shrugged his shoulders, and said,—
“‘Pretty well, thank you, sir,—’ when he heard Mrs. Meadow’s soft,
‘Norman, how do you do?’
“His fingers fell from the row of pin points, and he turned towards
her, looking a good deal surprised and a little pleased, but with a
very sober face.
“‘Where have you been these two or three days?’
“‘I’ve been here,’ said Norman gravely.
“‘How comes it you haven’t been for Long-Ears’ milk these days?’
“‘I—I couldn’t,’ said Norman.
“‘Why?’
“‘I hadn’t any money—I gave it to mother.’ He spoke low, and with some
difficulty.
“‘What made you do that, Norman?’
“He looked up at her.
“‘Because,—you know,—Jesus said so.’
“Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to him, but now she stood
up straight, and for a minute she said nothing.
“‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his milk?’
“Norman was silent, and his mouth twitched. Mrs. Meadow looked at the
little dog, which lay still where he had been when she came in, his
gentle eyes having, she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their
note-taking.
“‘Won’t he eat meat?’
“Norman shook his head and said ‘No,’ under his breath.
“‘He’s a dainty little rascal,’ said the overseer; ’he was made to live
on sweetmeats and sugarplums.’ And Mr. Swift walked on.
“‘I’ve brought him some milk,’ whispered Silky; and softly stooping
down she uncovered her little tin-pail and tried to coax the dog to
come to it. But Norman no sooner caught the words of her whisper and
saw the pail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit of
crying, and threw himself down oh the floor and hid his face.
“Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter. Mrs. Meadow explained
part to him, without telling of Norman’s keeping the money.
“‘O well,’ said Mr. Swift,—‘but he mustn’t make such a disturbance
about it—it’s against all order; and feeding the dog, too, Lois!—but
it’s a pretty creature. He’s hungry, he is! Well; it’s well we don’t
have ladies come to the factory every day.’
“Silky’s other name was Lois.
“‘I’ll never do so again, Mr. Swift,’ said she, gently.
“‘O I don’t say that,’ said he. ‘I don’t dislike the sight of you, Miss
Lois; but I must have you searched at the door. Keep this boy quiet,
now, Mrs. Meadow; and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.’
“The boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had been speaking he had
raised himself from the floor, half up, and had stopped sobbing, and
was looking at Long-Ears and gently touching his curly head; who, on
his part, was lapping the milk with an eagerness as if he had wanted
it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but they fell quietly. By
the time the little dog had finished the milk they did not fall at all.
Till then nobody said anything.
“‘Come for it every morning again, my child,’ said Mrs. Meadow,
softly;—‘I’ll give it to you. What a dear little fellow he is! I don’t
wonder you love him. He shall have milk enough.’
“Norman looked up gratefully, and with a little bit of a smile.
“‘You don’t look very strong, my boy,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘You don’t
feel right well, do you?’
“He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his understanding.
“‘Are you tired?’
“His eyes gave token of understanding that.
“‘Yes, I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they?’
“‘Where, dear?’
“‘Up there—in heaven?’
“‘No, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘I’ll go there, won’t I?’
“‘If you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good care of you and
bring you safe there surely.’
“‘He will,’ said Norman.
“‘But you’re not going yet, I hope, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, kissing
him. ‘Good bye. Come to-morrow, and you shall have the milk.’
“‘Will you read to me that again, some time?’ he enquired wistfully.
“Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky walked back without
saying three words to each other; and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so
much as she did that afternoon and evening.
“Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s milk; and many a
Sunday he and Long-Ears passed part of the time with Mrs. Meadow; and
many a reading he listened to there as he had listened to the first
one. He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little dog, and he
seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those times.
“As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn gave way to winter,
Norman’s little face seemed to grow better looking, all the while
it was growing more pale and his little body more slim. It grew to
be a contented, very quiet and patient face, and his eye took a
clearness and openness it did not use to have; though he never was a
_bad_-looking child. ‘He won’t live long,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after
every Sunday.
“The little white dog all this while grew more white and curly and
bright-eyed every day; or they all thought so.
“It was not till some time in January that at last Norman stopped
coming for milk, and did not go by to the factory any more. It was in
a severe bit of weather, when Mrs. Meadow was shut up with a bad cold;
and some days were gone before she or Silky could get any news of
him. Then, one cold evening, his mother came for milk, and to say that
Norman was very ill and would like to see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She
was a miserable-looking woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded,
spiritless air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in life was
gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought Norman must have a sad
home where she was. And his father must be much worse in another way,
or his mother would not have such a look.
“Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put her purse in her
pocket, as she generally did when she was going to see poor people,
and wrapping up warm with cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her
mother set out. It was just sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough, but
uncommonly cold.
“‘It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,’ said Silky.
“‘Yes, honey, but we can find the way,’ came from under Mrs. Meadow’s
hood; and after that neither of them spoke a word.
“It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of the town, and
took a poor straggling street that ran where no good and comfortable
buildings shewed themselves, or at least no good and comfortable
homes. Some of the houses were decently well-built, but several
families lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an unknown
circumstance; at least after Mrs. Meadow’s nice kitchen, with the thick
carpet, and blazing fire, and dark cupboard doors, these all looked so.
The light grew dimmer and the air grew colder, as Mrs. Meadow and Silky
went down the street; and Silky was trembling all over by the time they
stopped at one of these brick dwelling-houses and went in.
“The front door stood open; nobody minded that; it was nobody’s
business to shut it. They went in, through a dirty entry, and up
stairs that nobody ever thought of cleaning, to the third story. There
Mrs. Meadow first knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was
there, sitting over the fire; a wretched tallow-light on the table
hardly shewed what he looked like. Mrs Meadow spoke with her usual
pleasantness.
“‘Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I see little Norman?’
“‘Yes,—I suppose so,’ the man said, in a gruff voice, and pointing to
another door; ‘they’re in yonder.’
“‘How is he?’
“‘I don’t know!—Going, I expect.’ He spoke in a tone that might have
been half heartless, half heartfull. Mrs. Meadow stayed no further
questions. She left him there, and went on to the inner room.
“That was so dark, hardly anything could be seen. A woman rose up from
some corner—it proved to be Mrs. Finch—and went for the light. Her
husband’s voice could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with
it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came back with it in
her hand.
“The room was ill-lighted when the candle was in it, but there could be
seen two beds; one raised on some sort of a bedstead, the other on the
floor in a corner. No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered
with all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great-coat, a small
ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor little jacket and trowsers.
But on these, close within reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the
little dog; his glossy white hair and soft outlines making a strange
contrast with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.
“Norman did not look much changed, except that his face was so very
pale it seemed as if he had no more blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and
Silky came near, and neither of them at first was forward to speak.
Mrs. Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow stooped down by
the bed’s head.
“‘Little Norman,’ she said, and you could tell her heart was full of
tears,—‘do you know me?’
“‘I know you,’ he said, in a weak voice, and with a little bit of smile.
“‘How do you do?’
“‘Very well,’ he said, in the same manner.
“‘Are you very well?’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m going now.’
“‘Where, dear?’
“‘You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me, won’t he?’
“‘If you love and trust him, dear.’
“‘He will take me,’ said Norman.
“‘What makes you think you’re going, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘I can’t stay,’—said Norman, shutting his eyes. He opened them again
immediately. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. I sha’n’t be tired
there, shall I?’
“‘No dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech was like to fail
her. She kept wiping her face with her pocket-handkerchief. Norman
stroked and stroked his little dog’s silky head.
“‘Poor Long-Ears!’ said he, faintly,—‘poor Long-Ears!—I can’t take
care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you’re hungry. He hadn’t had anything
to eat since—since—mother?’
“‘He don’t know how time goes,’ said Mrs. Finch, who had not before
spoken. ‘The dog hasn’t had a sup of anything since day before
yesterday. He has a right to be hungry. I don’t know what he lives on.
My husband don’t care whether anything lives or not.’
“Silky had not said a word, and she didn’t now, but she brought out
that same little tin pail from under her cloak, and set it down on the
floor. Norman’s eye brightened. But the dog could not be coaxed to quit
the bed; he would set only his two fore-feet on the floor, and so drank
the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost with a smile. And
when the dog, having left the milk, curled himself down again in his
old place, and looked into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled.
“‘Poor Long-Ears!’—he said, patting him again with a feeble hand. ‘I’m
going to leave you,—what will you do?’
“‘I’ll take care of him, Norman,’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘Will you?’ said Norman.
“‘As long as he lives, if you wish.’
“Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and said earnestly,—
“‘I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?’
“‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘Then you’ll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,’ said Norman.
‘But,’ he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow, ‘you must take him home with you
to-night—I’m afraid father will do something with him if you don’t.’
“‘But you will want him,’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘No I won’t. Father will do something with him.’
“‘Indeed he will, sure enough,’ said Mrs Finch.
“‘Then I’ll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was yourself,’ said
Mrs. Meadow.
“‘I won’t want him,’ said Norman, shutting his eyes again;—‘I’m going.’
“‘And you’re not sorry, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.
“‘No!’ he said.
“‘I wonder why he should,’ said Mrs. Finch, wiping her eyes.
“‘And you know Jesus will take you?’
“‘Because I love him,’ said Norman, without opening his eyes.
“‘What makes you love him so, dear?’
“‘Because he did that for me,’ said Norman, opening his eyes once
more to look at her, and then re-shutting them. And he never opened
them again. It seemed that having his mind easy about his pet, and
having seen his friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just
slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as he had slept.
His little pale meek face looked as if, as he said, he was glad to go.
“Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use could have moved
Long-Ears from the body of his master, till it was laid in the grave.
Then, with some difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him, and
brought him home.”
“Is that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.
“All.”
“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?”
“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of Long-Ears, and were
kind to everybody, and sold milk, just as they used.”
“And what about Long-Ears?”
“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Meadow and Silky, and was
as well off as a little dog could be.”
“And is that all?”
“That is all.”
“And how did you get here?”
“I’ve told enough for once.”
“I’ll hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he grasped the purse,
and ran off towards home; for it was getting to be high noon, and his
mother had called to him that dinner was ready.
* * * * *
“Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my purse, and of my red
cent, and of my three apples, and they’re splendid!”
“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “Are the stories not done yet?”
“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear next. There’s the
boat, and the pine-cone, and the shoes, and the book, and the old
stocking;—all of them;—and I don’t know which to have first. Which
would you, mother?”
“What’s all that?” said John Krinken.
“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs. Krinken; “and he’s
told over one or two to me, and it’s as good as a book. I can’t think
where the child got hold of them.”
“Why they _told_ ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken; “something told it to thee, child.”
“Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father.
“My red cent, and my purse, and my three apples—or only one of the
apples,” said Carl;—“that was Beachamwell.”
“Beach ’em _what_?” said his father.
“Beachamwell—that is the biggest of my three apples,” said Carl.
At which John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other, and laughed till
their eyes ran down with tears.
“Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John, when he could speak.
“I’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.
“Yes; and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or wish to hear,”
said Mrs. Krinken, soothingly.
“Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.
“_I_ haven’t heard it yet,” said Carl.
“O, and you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his father.
“I haven’t heard any of ’em but three,” said Carl, “and I don’t know
which to hear next.”
“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it knew how,” said his
father; “it could spin you a yarn as long as its own.”
“I’d rather hear the old pine-cone, John,” said his wife. “Ask the
pine-cone, Carl. I wish it could tell, and I hear!”
“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the other.
But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of the story-teller to
help him out with his question about the stories.
“Then I’m a going to keep the stocking for the very last one!” said
Carl.
“Why?” said his mother.
“’Cause it’s ugly. And I guess I’ll make the shoes tell me their story
next; because I might want to put them on, you know!”
And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured toes, which looked
out at him through the cracks of his old half-boots.
Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to their business; and
Carl indignantly seizing his shoes, ran off with them out of hearing
to the sunny side of the house, where he plumped himself down on the
ground with them in front of him, and commanded them to speak.
THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES.
“I believe,” said the right shoe, “that I am the first individual of my
race whose history has ever been thought worth asking for. I hope to
improve my opportunity. I consider it to be a duty in all classes for
each member of the class——”
“You may skip about that,” said Carl. “I don’t care about it.”
“I am afraid,” said the right shoe, “I am uninteresting. My excuse is,
that I never was fitted to be anything else. Not to press upon people’s
notice is the very lesson we are especially learned; we were never
intended to occupy a high position in society, and it is reckoned an
unbearable fault in us to make much noise in the world.”
“I say,” said Carl, “you may skip that.”
“I beg pardon,” said the shoe, “I was coming to the point. ‘Step by
step’ is our family motto. However, I know young people like to get
over the ground at a leap. I will do it at once.
“My brother and I are twins, and as much alike as it is possible
perhaps for twins to be Mr. Peg, the cobbler, thought we were exactly
alike; and our upper leathers did indeed run about on the same calf (as
perchance they may another time), but our soles were once further apart
than they are ever like to be for the future; one having roamed the
green fields of Ohio on the back of a sturdy ox, while the other was
raised in Vermont. However, we are mates now; and having been, as they
say, ‘cut out for each other,’ I have no doubt we shall jog on together
perfectly well.