a piece of it first. I ought in conscience to have had a separate dish
for the potatoes, but my market-basket was resolved not to take it.
Some salt, Sue?’
“Sue ran for another knife and fork, and then began upon her piece of
chicken; and Roswald helped himself out of his dish and eat, glancing
over now and then at her.
“‘You can’t think how good it is, Roswald, after eating porridge so
long,’ said Sue, with a perfectly new colour of pleasure in her face.
“‘This is capital porridge!’ said Roswald. ‘I’ll trouble you for a
piece of bread, Sue.’
“‘Why, Roswald!—are you eating nothing but porridge?’
“‘Yes, and I tell you I should like a piece of bread with it.’
“‘Ah, do take something else!’ said Sue, giving him the bread. ‘The
porridge will keep till another time.’
“‘I don’t mean it shall, much of it,’ said Roswald. ‘It’s the best
dinner I’ve had in a great while.’
“Sue laid down her knife and fork to laugh at him, though the doing so
had very near made her cry again.
“‘Please take some chicken, Roswald!’
“‘I’d rather not. I’ll take a piece of pie with you presently.’
“‘I should think chicken was enough,’ said Sue; ‘you needn’t have
brought me pie.’
“‘I wanted some. It’s a mince pie, Sue. Do you remember that day after
to-morrow is Christmas?’
“‘Christmas!—the day after to-morrow!’—said Sue. ‘No, I had forgot all
about Christmas.’
“‘What shall we do to keep it?’
“‘Why nothing, I sha’n’t,’ said Sue, meekly. ‘I shall not eat porridge,
Roswald. O if father could only come home—that would be enough keeping
of Christmas! We shouldn’t want any thing else.’
“‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be kept out of doors,’ said Roswald;
‘it is fixing for a fine fall of snow. The air is beginning to soften
and grow hazy already. I like a snowy Christmas.’
“‘With snow on the ground; but not snowing?’ said Sue.
“‘Yes, both ways. Now, Sue,—have you another plate? or will you take it
in your fingers?’
“Sue ran off for plates.
“‘How I wish I could give some of this to father!’ she said, as she
tasted her first bit of the pie. ‘How will he get anything to eat,
Roswald?’
“‘They will take care of that,’ said Roswald. ‘He will have a good
dinner, Sue; you needn’t be concerned about it. If they didn’t feed
their jurymen, you know, they might have no jury by the time the cause
was got through, and that would be inconvenient. Hasn’t he been home at
all?’
“‘No.’
“‘They do sometimes let them come home,’ said Roswald; ‘but in this
case I suppose they are keeping everybody tight to the mark.’
“‘Why shouldn’t they let them come home at night?’ said Sue; ‘what
would be the harm? They must sleep somewhere.’
“‘They are afraid, Sue, that if they let them out of sight, somebody
may talk to them about the cause, and put wrong notions into their
heads; so that they won’t give a true verdict.’
“‘What is a verdict?’ said Sue.
“‘It’s the jury’s decision. You see, Sue, all the people—all the
lawyers, on both sides,—will bring all the proof they can to show
whether Simon Ruffin did or didn’t shoot Mr. Bonnycastle. One side
will try to prove he did, and the other side will try to prove he
didn’t. The jury will hear all that is to be said, and then they will
make up their minds what is the truth. When they are ready, the judge
will ask them, ‘Gentlemen, are you agreed upon a verdict?’ and the
foreman will say, ‘Yes.’ Then the judge will ask, ‘Is the prisoner at
the bar guilty, or not guilty?’ and the foreman will say, according as
they have decided, ‘Guilty,’ or ‘Not guilty;’ and that answer is the
_verdict_.’
“‘And then he will be hung!’ said Sue.
“‘If they find he is guilty, he will; but they don’t condemn him;
that’s the judge’s business. The jury only decide what is the truth.’
“‘Why must they have so many men to do that? why wouldn’t one do as
well?’
“‘It would, if they could be always sure of having a man who couldn’t
and wouldn’t make a mistake. It isn’t likely that twelve men will all
make the same mistake.’
“‘And must they all be agreed?’ said Sue.
“‘They must all be agreed.’
“‘And if they are not, the man can’t be hanged?’
“‘No, nor set free.’
“‘I’m glad of that,’ said Sue.
“‘Why, Sue?’
“‘Because, if father isn’t sure that man is guilty,—I mean, that he
shot Mr. Bonnycastle,—he won’t let them do anything to him.’
“‘It’s well you can’t be a juryman, Sue; you would never let any rogue
have his rights.’
“‘Yes, I would,’ said Sue, gravely; ‘if I thought he deserved them.’
“‘I wouldn’t trust you,’ said Roswald. ‘I should like to have you on
the jury if I was standing a trial for my life. You’d be challenged,
though.’
“‘Challenged!’ said Sue.
“‘Yes.’
“‘What is that?’
“‘Why, Simon Ruffin, for instance, might say, ‘Mr. Peg is an old enemy
of mine—he has a spite against me; he would not be a fair judge in my
case.’ That would be challenging your father as an improper juryman,
and he would he put out of the jury.’
“‘But father isn’t anybody’s enemy,’ said Sue.
“‘No, I know he isn’t,’ said Roswald, smiling; ‘but that’s an instance.
Will you have some more pie, Sue?’
“‘No, thank you. I’ll put these things away, and see if mother wants
anything; and then, if she don’t, I’ll come down, and we’ll talk.’
“While Sue cleared away the dishes, Roswald mended the fire.
“‘You may as well let the table stand, Sue,’ said he; ‘we shall want it
again.’
“‘Why, are you coming to eat with me again?’ said Sue, laughing.
“‘I dare say I shall, if your father don’t come home,’ said Roswald.
“Sue soon came down-stairs, for her mother luckily did not want
her; and the two drew their chairs together and had a very long
conversation, in the course of which Roswald gave many details of his
stay at Merrytown, and enlightened Sue as to the charms and beauties of
a country village. Sue looked and listened, and questioned and laughed;
till there came a knocking up-stairs, and then they separated. Sue went
up to her mother again, and Roswald left the house.
“The room did not look desolate any more, though it was left
again without anybody in it. There was the chest-table, and the
contented-looking fire, and the two chairs. All this while we shoes lay
in the corner, and nobody looked at us. It seemed as if we were never
to get done.
“The fire had died, the afternoon had not quite, when Mrs. Lucy came
again. Her knock brought Sue down. She had come to bring another little
pail of soup, and a basket with some bread and tea and sugar.
“‘Don’t spend your money, my child,’ she said; ‘keep it till you want
it more. This will last your mother to-morrow, and I will see that you
have something stronger than porridge.’
“‘O I have, Mrs. Lucy,’ said Sue, with a grateful little face, which
thanked the lady better than words; ‘I’ve got plenty for I don’t know
how long.’
“‘You don’t look as if you were out of heart,’ said Mrs. Lucy. ‘You
know who can send better times?’
“‘O yes, ma’am,’ said Sue. ‘He has already.’
“‘Trust him, dear; and let me know all you want.’
“Sue stood, sober and silent, while Mrs. Lucy went out at the door;
and then she fell down on her knees before one of the chairs, and sunk
her head on her hands; and was quite still for a minute or two, till
the knocking sounded again. It was not a gentle tap on the floor, just
to let Sue know she was wanted; it was an impatient, quarrelsome,
vexatious, ‘rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-_tat_!’ ’rat-_tat_!’ ’rat-_tat_!’ Sue
ran up.
“The cobbler did not come home that night, and Roswald would stay in
the house. Sue did all she could to hinder him; for indeed there was
nothing for him to sleep on but the pile of leather scraps; but he
would not be hindered.
“‘But your mother, Roswald?’ Sue gently urged.
“‘What of my mother?’
“‘She will want you.’
“‘How do you know that?’
“‘I should think she would,’ said Sue.
“‘Should you? Well, she thinks, and so do I, that you want me more.’
“‘How good you are, dear Roswald!’
“‘Not very, Sue,’ said Roswald, calmly.
“‘Do you know what Mrs. Lucy says?’ said Sue. ‘She says that you have
your own way in everything.’
“‘Mrs. Lucy might have gone wider of the mark, I suppose,’ said
Roswald, blowing up the fire.
“‘Mrs. Lucy is very good,’ said Sue. ‘She brought us some tea and sugar
this afternoon.’
“‘Did she?’ said Roswald. ‘Then what will you do with what Mrs. Halifax
sent?’
“‘Did _she_ send us some?’ said Sue. ‘Oh, Roswald!’
“Roswald laughed at her; and Sue did not know what to do with herself;
she went and fetched down a quantity of coverlids and things for
Roswald to wrap himself in, and be warm during the night; and begged
him to keep a good fire.
“The next day still the cobbler did not come home. It passed with no
visiters except Roswald and Mrs. Lucy, who stepped in for a minute.
Sue’s mother wanted her up-stairs pretty much the whole day; so there
could be little fun going. Christmas-eve Roswald stayed in the house
again. But he went off very early in the morning, without seeing Sue,
after he had made the fire for her.
“The snow had not come so soon as Roswald thought it would. There was
none on the ground Christmas-eve. But when Christmas-morning rose, the
whole of Beachhead was softly and smoothly covered with white. It had
fallen very fast and quietly during the night; the window-sills were
piled up, the door-knob was six inches high, and the snow hung like
thatch over the eaves of the houses. The streets were a soft, pure,
printless spread of white.
“So they were early, when Roswald first went out. And whatever kept
people’s feet within doors—whether the dark morning, for the snow still
fell, or happy Christmas delays—there was yet hardly a foot-print but
his to be seen in that part of the street when, some hours later, a
sled drawn by a horse and carrying two men and a barrel, drew up before
Mr. Peg’s door. Sue had heard the tinkle of the three bells which the
horse bore on his neck; and, as it told of the first sleighing that
year, she went to the window to see. There was the sled and one man and
the barrel; the other man had jumped off, and was knocking at the front
door.
“‘Very queer!’ thought Sue;—‘what can they want here?’—but she ran
down-stairs and opened the door. The barrel was rolling up over the
snow to the house, and the two men were behind pushing it. The cold
air, and the yet falling snow, and the white street, the men, and the
barrel rolling up towards Sue! Sue was bewildered. But that barrel
must go somewhere, and she held the door open.
“‘What is it?’ said Sue. ‘It doesn’t belong here, does it?’
“‘There’s ‘Mr. Peg’ on it,’ said one of the men; ‘and this is Mr. Peg’s
house, ain’t it?’
“‘What is it?’ said Sue, in astonishment, as the barrel now stood up on
end at the end of her chest-table.
“‘It’s a barrel of flour, I guess,’ said the man. ‘Looks like it; and
it come from Mr. Hoonuman’s.’
“‘Flour!’ said Sue.
“But the men with their heavy snow shoes clumped out again, and shut
the door behind them with a bang. Sue stood and looked.
“There was the barrel, full-sized, standing on end, one side of it
still lightly coated with snow; and there were the snow-marks on the
floor of the feet that had been there. It wasn’t a dream. It was a real
barrel, and even the snow wasn’t in a hurry to melt away.
“Suddenly it flashed into Sue’s little mind that it might be a
Christmas!—and then whoever sent it ought to have been there, when the
unwonted rosy colour sprang to her cheeks and made her for a minute
look like a well-to-do child. And whoever sent it ought to have seen,
a minute after, the bended head, and heard the thanksgiving that was
not spoken, and the prayer, earnest and deep, for a blessing on the
friend that had sent it.
“Sue had lifted her head, but had not moved from a foothold, when
Roswald opened the door.
“‘O Roswald! do you see this?’
“‘Merry Christmas, Sue!’ said Roswald, gaily.
“‘O Roswald, do you know what this is?”
“‘It is very like a barrel of flour,’ said Roswald. ‘I should be
surprised if it was anything else!’
“‘But, Roswald, who sent it?’
“‘Why, Sue!—Santa Claus, to be sure. Don’t you know what day it is?’
“‘It didn’t come down chimney,’ said Sue; ‘_that_ I know. Dear Roswald,
don’t you know who sent it?’
“‘If Santa Clans had taken me into his confidence, you know, Sue, it
would not be an honest thing to betray. I wonder what you can do with a
barrel of flour, now you have got it.’
“‘Do?’ said Sue;—but just then there was another knock at the door.
Roswald opened it. In came a boy with a long string of fine black and
blue fish, which Mrs. Binch had sent to Sue.
“‘Beachhead is waking up,’ said Roswald.
“‘O Roswald!’ said Sue, beginning to get into the spirit of the
thing,—‘did you ever see anything like those fish? O tell Mrs. Binch I
thank her a great many times, please,—a great many times; I am _very_
much obliged to her, and so is father.—O Roswald!—do see!—’
“‘There’s your mother knocking, Sue,’ said Roswald. ‘Run off, and I’ll
take care of these fish. You get ready for breakfast.’
“Sue went off in one direction, and Roswald in another. He was the
first to come back, with a beautifully cleaned fish, which he soon had
upon the coals. He went on to set the table, and get the bread and the
tea; and by that time Sue came, as happy and as humble as possible, to
enjoy her breakfast. Whether or not Roswald had had another breakfast
before, he at any rate kept her company in hers, both talking and
eating. The fish was declared to be the finest that could come out of
the sea, and Roswald was probably adjudged to be the best cook on land;
if he had been, his work could not have given better satisfaction.
“Roswald had to go away after breakfast, and told Sue his mother would
want him at dinner, and he could not be there again before evening; but
then he would come. Sue was satisfied with everything.
“Her day was spent for the most part up stairs. But there were some
breaks to it. A servant came in the course of the morning, bringing
some bottles of wine for her mother, from Mrs. Halifax. Sue was already
in a state of happiness that could hardly be heightened, and was in
fact endeavouring to bear it with the help of her Bible, for it was in
her hand whenever she came down stairs. But her eyes sparkled afresh
at this gift, because it came from Mrs. Halifax, and because it was
what her mother wanted. Sue could not wait. She begged the man to open
one of the bottles for her; which with no little difficulty was done,
without a corkscrew; and then, when he had gone, Sue poured out a
little into a teacup, and went up stairs with such a face—joy and love
were dancing a waltz in it.
“A little before noon there came another knock at the door. A modest
knock this was, so gentle that Sue probably did not hear it. The
knocker had not patience, or was not scrupulous; he opened the door
halfway, and pushed in a square wooden box, nailed up and directed;
after which he went away again, leaving it to tell its own tale.
“It seemed to tell nothing that Sue could understand. She looked at
it, when next she came down, with all her eyes, and on all sides; but
it was fast nailed up; she could not by any means open it, and she
could not tell what was inside. She easily guessed that it was another
‘Christmas;’ but in what form? She sat and looked at it, with a face
of infinite delight. She walked round it. Nothing was to be made of it
but a pine-box, tolerably heavy, with her own name and her father’s in
large black letters on the upper side. Those letters did look lovely.
Sue read them a great many times that day, and sat and gazed at the
wooden box; but she could do nothing with it till Roswald came. He came
at last, towards the edge of the evening. Sue was watching for him.
“‘O Roswald, there you are!—here’s another!’
“‘Another what?’ said Roswald, gravely.
“‘Another Christmas—look here.’
“‘Looks very like Christmas,’ said Roswald.
“‘Dear Roswald, won’t you get a hammer!’
“‘A hammer,’ said Roswald. ‘I suppose Mr. Joist will lend me one.’
“He went to borrow it, and opened the box. Sue watched with breathless
interest while the hammer did its work, and the pieces of the cover
came up one by one.
“‘Now, Sue!’—said Roswald, as he stepped back and began to draw the
nails out of the wood.
“Sue drew the things out of the box with slow and cautious fingers,
that seemed almost afraid of what they found. She did not say a word,
but one or two half-breathed ‘oh’s!’ There was a nice and complete
outfit of clothes for her. On the top lay a paper written with,
“‘_For little Susan Peg, from some friends that love her._’
“When she got to the bottom, Sue looked up.
“‘Oh, Roswald!’
“‘Who sent me these?’
“‘Some friends of little Susan Peg, that love her,’ said Roswald.
“‘Did you know about it?’
“‘I heard my mother speak about it, Sue.’
“‘Did _she_ do it?’
“‘Not she alone. Mrs. Lucy and some other ladies all had a hand in it.’
“‘O how good they are!—’
“It was long before Sue could get up from the box. Roswald stood,
hammer in hand, looking at her and smiling. At last Sue packed the box
again.
“‘I don’t deserve it all,’ she said; ‘but then I don’t deserve
anything. Now I guess we’ll have some tea.’
“‘I’ll go and carry back this hammer,’ said Roswald, ‘and then I’m
ready. I’m very thirsty.’
“‘O dear Roswald!’ said Sue, ‘won’t you just open that barrel of flour
first?—it will save going for the hammer again; and mother thinks she
wants some pop-robin.’
“‘But what’s pop-robin good for without milk?’ said Roswald, as they
went to the barrel, which he had rolled into the pantry.
“‘O now I might get a halfpenny’s worth of milk,’ said Sue;—‘it’s for
mother; and now we have so many things, we might afford it.’
“‘See you don’t,’ said Roswald. ‘Mother sends you word—there are enough
nails in this barrel-head!—she says you may have as much milk as you
want from her cow, whenever you will come for it or I will bring it; so
between us I guess it’ll be safe to count upon it.’
“He was hammering at the barrel-head, and Sue standing by looking very
pleased, her little hand gratefully resting on his shoulder, when
another hand was laid on hers. Sue turned.
“‘Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘O father!—are you home?—O I’m so glad!—’
“The cobbler’s grey head was stooped almost to the barrel-top, and
Sue’s arms were round his neck; and how many times they kissed each
other I don’t believe either of them knew. It seemed impossible for Sue
to loose her hold.
“‘And _you_ are here, my boy,’ said the cobbler, turning to
Roswald,—‘doing my work!’
“‘No, sir, I have been doing _mine_,’ said Roswald.
“‘O father, he has taken such care of me!’ said Sue.
“‘I warrant him,’ said the cobbler. ‘If I could only have known that
Roswald Halifax was in town, I could have minded my business with some
quietness.’
“‘And is it done, father?’ said Sue.
“‘It is done, my child.’
“‘And what have you done with that man?’
“‘We have declared him upon our judgment, _Not Guilty_.’
“‘O I’m so glad!’ said Sue.
“They came back to their tea, all three; and more black fish was
broiled; and all the Christmas was told over; and well-nigh all the
trial. The jury had been kept in all Christmas-day to agree upon their
verdict.
“From that day the cobbler’s affairs improved. Whether his friends
exerted themselves to better his condition, now that they knew it; or
whether Mr. Ruffin’s friends did; or whether neither did, but other
causes came into work, certain it is that from that time the cobbler’s
hands had something to do; and more and more till they had plenty. So
it came to pass that this poor pair of shoes didn’t get finished till
about a month ago; and then Mr. Krinken must take it into his head that
we would fit his little boy, and bought us;—for which we owe him a
grudge, as we wanted decidedly to spend our lives with Mr. Peg and his
little brown-headed daughter.”
“Did Mrs. Peg get well?” said Carl.
“Yes, long ago, and came down-stairs; but she was no improvement to her
family, though her getting well was.”
“I am very sorry that story is done,” said Carl. “I want to hear some
more about Roswald Halifax.”
“There is no more to tell,” said the shoe.
If Carl had been puzzled on Friday as to what story he would hear,
he was yet more doubtful on Saturday. There lay the pine-cone, the
hymn-book, and the stocking, on the old chest, and there sat Carl on
the floor beside them,—sometimes pulling his fingers, and sometimes
turning over the three remaining story-tellers, by way of helping him
to make up his mind. As a last resort he was taking a meditative survey
of the ends of his toes, when a little shrill voice from the chest
startled him; and the pine-cone began without more ado.
THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE.
“‘Whew!’ said the north wind ‘Whew—r—r—r—r!’
“The fir trees heard him coming, and bowed their tall heads very
gracefully, as if to tell the wind he could not do much with them. Only
some of the little cones who had never blown about a great deal, felt
frightened, and said the wind made their teeth chatter.
“‘Do you think we can stay on?’ asked one little cone; and the others
would have said they didn’t know, but the wind gave the tree such
another shake that their words were lost.
“‘Whew—r—r—r—r—r!’ said the wind.
“And again the fir trees bowed to let him pass, and swayed from side to
side, and the great branches creaked and moaned and flung themselves
about in a desperate kind of way; but the leaves played sweet music. It
was their fashion whenever the wind blew.
“‘I think we shall have snow,’ said the tallest of the fir trees,
looking over the heads of his companions.
“‘The sky is very clear,’ remarked a very small and inexperienced fir,
who was so short he could not see much of anything.
“‘Yes,’ said the tall one, ‘so you think; but there is a great deal
of sky besides that which is over our heads; and I can see the wind
gathering handfuls of snow-clouds, which he will fling about us
presently.’
“‘Yes,’—repeated the tall fir, with another graceful bend—‘I see
them—they are coming.’
“The evergreens were all sorry to hear this, for nothing depressed them
so much as snow; the rain they could generally shake off,—at least if
it didn’t freeze too hard.
“As for the beeches, they said if that was the case they must put off
their summer clothes directly. And one little beech, with a great
effort, did succeed in shaking off half-a-dozen green leaves the next
time the wind came that way.
“‘You need not hurry yourselves,’ said the tall fir—‘this is only an
early storm—the winter will not come yet. I can still see the sun for a
few minutes every day.’
“And that was true. For a few minutes the sun shewed himself above the
horizon, and then after making a very small arch in the sky, down he
went again. Then came the long afternoon of clear twilight; and the
longer night, when the stars threw soft shadows like a young moon, and
looked down to see their bright eyes in the deep fiord that lay at the
foot of the fir trees. For this was on the north-west side of Norway;
and the fir trees grew by one of the many inlets of the sea which run
far away for miles into the country, and are called fiords.
“At the mouth the fiord was so narrow, and the overhanging trees so
thick, that you might have coasted along, backwards and forwards,
without perceiving the entrance; but to the country people it was well
known, and unmistakeably marked out by one particular hemlock. Pushing
your little boat through its green branches that dipped their fingers
in the water, the fiord opened before you. The banks on each side were
for the most part very steep, and often wooded to the water’s edge;
while sometimes a pitch of bare rocks and a noisy cataract came rough
and tumble down together, pouring disturbance into the smooth waters of
the fiord.
“The fiord itself was too beautiful to be half described. It wound
about from rock to rock, now swashing gently at the base of a high
mountain, and then turning and spreading out, bay-like, where the shore
was lower and the hills stood aloof; but everywhere overhung or nodded
to by the great trees that looked as if they had known it since it was
a mere rill,—the beeches and oaks and hemlocks, the tall pines like a
ship’s mainmast; and most of all by that glory of those forests—the
Norway Spruce fir. These watched the fiord everywhere,—in the regions
of perfect solitude, and in the spots where a little clearing—a waft
of blue smoke—the plaintive bleat of a goat mounting up in the world,
or the hearty bow-wow of some hardy little dog, that was minding his
own business and everybody’s else, told of a human habitation. Back of
all—beyond cliff and wood and everything but the blue sky, towered up
the peaks of perpetual snow—whose bare heads no man had ever seen.