Produced by Shaun Pinder, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) KARL KRINKEN, HIS CHRISTMAS STOCKING. Ballantyne Press BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON [Illustration: ââA roast chicken!âOh, Roswald!âHow mother will like a piece of that! How good it smells!âââP. 161. KARL KRINKEN.] KARL KRINKEN, HIS CHRISTMAS STOCKING. BY THE AUTHORS OF _âTHE WIDE, WIDE WORLD,â âQUEECHY,â âDIANA,â ETC. ETC._ LONDON: JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET. MDCCCLXXVIII. SUGGESTIVE. I think it necessary to come to the help of the Publicâ 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 âEllen Montgomeryâs Bookshelf,â there it isâeven though âa discerning Publicâ perceive it not. No matter for thatâI 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 STOCKINGâS 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 certainâhe 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,âgilt books, and sugar-plums, and fur tippets, and new hoods, and crying babies, and rocking-horses, and guns, and drums, and trumpets;âand 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,âeven 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 warmâwhether 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 strangeâfor 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 headâhe 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 worldâyet 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 thenâhow 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 floorââ! To be sure the children wouldnât mind that, but Santa Claus would. Nevertheless, little Carl always hung up his stocking, and generally had it filledâthough 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 heartâs _dis_content, and fretted because they had what they did, or because they hadnât what they didnât 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. * * * * * âWife,â said John Krinken, âwhat shall we put in little Carlâs stocking to-night?â âTruly,â said his wife. âI do not know. Nevertheless we must find something, though there be but little in the house.â And the wind swept round and round the old hut, and every cupboard-door rattled and said in an empty sort of way, âThere is not much here.â 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,âthe 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. âWe must find something,â 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. âYouâve got the stocking, wife?â said John, after a pause. âAy,â said his wife: âitâs easy to find something to fill it.â âFetch it out, then, and letâs see how much âtwill take to fill it.â 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. âThe same old thing,â said John Krinken with a glance at the stocking. âWell,â said his wife, âitâs the only stocking in the house thatâs long enough.â âI know one thing he shall have in it,â said John; and he got up and went to the other cupboard, and fetched from it a large piece of cork. âHe shall have a boat that will float like one of Mother Careyâs chickens.â 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. âItâll never do to put that in first,â she said; âthe masts would be broke. I guess Iâll fill the toe of the stocking with apples.â âAnd where will you get apples?â said John Krinken, shaping the keel of his boat. âIâve got âem,â said his wife,ââthree 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.â âThree applesââ said John. âWell, Iâll give him a red cent to fill up the chinks.â âAnd Iâve got an old purse that he can keep it in,â said the mother. âHow long do you suppose heâll keep it?â said John. âWell, heâll want to put it somewhere while he does keep it,â said Mrs. Krinken. âThe purse is old, but it was handsome once; and itâll please the child any way. And then thereâs his new shoes.â 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 centâwhich 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. âIf one only had some sugar things,â said Mrs. Krinken. âOr some nuts,â said John. âOr a book,â rejoined his wife. âCarl takes to his book, wonderfully.â âYes,â said John, âall three would fill up in fine style. Well, there is a book he can haveâonly I donât know what it is, nor whether heâd like it. That poor lady we took from an American wreck when I was mate of the Skeen-elfâit had lain in her pocket all the while, and she gave it to me when she diedâbecause I didnât let her die in the water, poor soul! She said it was worth a great deal. And I guess the clasp is silver.â âO I dare say heâd like it,â said Mrs. Krinken. âGive him that, and Iâll put in the old pine-cone,âheâs old enough to take care of it now. I guess heâll be content.â 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 heardâas somebody says, âYou could hear on the roof The scraping and prancing of each little hoof,ââ 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 wasnât used to; the little stockings were generally too full for anything of that sort,âwhen they had to hold candy enough to make the child sick, and toys enough to make him unhappy because he didnât 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. âChristmas day in the morning!â 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 âMerry Christmas!â 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 coldâvery. Carlâs 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 stockingâbeginning 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, âApples! apples! apples!â His mother being now nicely awaked by his clambering over her for the second time, she gave him a kiss and a âMerry Christmas,â 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,âafter which each article was laid on the counterpane outside. âWell little boy, how do you like your things?â said Mrs. Krinken, coming up to the bed just when Carl and the empty stocking lay side by side. âFirstrate!â said Carl. âMother, I dreamed last night that all my presents told me stories. Wasnât it funny?â âYes, I suppose so,â said his mother, as she walked away to turn the fish that was broiling. Carl lay still and looked at the stocking. âWhere did you come from, old stocking?â said he. âFrom England,â said the stocking, very softly. Carl started right up in bed, and looked between the sheets, and over the counterpane, and behind the head-boardâthere 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,âthere lay the red cent, just where it had been all the time, upon the biggest of the red darns. âA red cent!â cried Carl. âO I guess it was you talking, wasnât it?â âNo,â said the red cent. âBut I can talk.â âDo you know where you came from?â said Carl, staring at the red cent with all his eyes. âCertainly,â said the cent. âI dreamed that everything in my stocking told me a story,â said Carl. âSo we will,â said the red cent. âOnly to you. To nobody else.â 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. âNow begin,â he said. âBut you mustnât all talk at once. I guess Iâll hear the apples first, because I might want to eat âem up. I donât care which of _them_ begins.â THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES. âI assume to myself the task of relating our joint history,â said the largest of the three apples, âbecause 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.â At this opening the two smaller apples rolled over in an uncomfortable sort of way, but said nothing. âAs for me,â continued Beachamwell, âI 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 heartâs 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.â âYouâd better not say any more about yourself at present, Beachamwell,â said Carl, âbecause I might eat you up before you got through your story, and that would be bad. Letâs hear about Half-ripe and Knerly.â âMy sister Half-ripe,â said Beachamwell, âthough 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,âit 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 asâââ âAs the chimney-back?â suggested Carl. âThey are not exactly that colour,â replied Beachamwell,ââbeing in fact more like mahogany.â âWell I never saw any of that,â said Carl, âso you donât 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.â âKnerly,â said Beachamwell, âwas 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 sunâs 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.â âIâll be sure to do that,â said Carl, âfor Iâll go all round. Come, go on.â âUnfortunately,â said Beachamwell, âI 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. âA number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her. ââI wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,â said he. ââWhy so we will,â said his mother. ââBut how?â said Mark, with a very brightened face. âWhat will you do, mother?â ââIâll make you some piesâif I can get anything to make them of,â said Mrs. Penly. ââAh but you canât,â said Mark, his countenance falling again: âthere arenât even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies, didnât you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?â ââYes,â said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memoryâs troupe was just then performing. ââSo what will you do, mother?â repeated little Mark, when he had watched her again for a few minutes. ââDo?â said the widow, rousing herself. âWhy my dear if we cannot make any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.â ââI donât think one can keep Thanksgiving without _anything_,â said Mark, a little fretfully. ââOh no,â said his mother, âneither 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.â âSo Mark got his little Bible and began to read,â ââ_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 merciesââ_â ââDonât you think, Mark,â said his mother, âthat we could keep Thanksgiving for at least _one_ day with only such blessings as these?â ââWhy yes,â said Mark, âI suppose we could, motherâthough I wasnât thinking of that.â ââNo, of course not,â said his mother; âand 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.â ââBut mother,â said Mark, not quite satisfied, âit goes on to say,â ââ_Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagleâs._â âAnd Mark looked up as if he thought his mother must be posed now, if she never was before. âIt 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,â ââ_Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such things._â ââI am sure we have a great many good things, Mark,â she answered cheerfully,ââdonât 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, â_Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him_.â I wouldnât keep from you anything that I thought good for you.â ââBut you are my _mother_,â said Mark satisfactorily. ââWell,â said the widow, âthe 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.â ââI wonder why,â said Mark. âWhy should they hurt us any more than other people?â ââGod knows,â said his mother. âIt 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 harmâjust as you wanted to eat blackberries last summer when you were sick.â ââBut we are not sick,â said Mark. ââYes we areâsick 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.â ââWell,â said Mark, the last thing before he got into bed, âweâll keep Thanksgiving, motherâyou and I; and weâll try to be as happy as we can without pies.â ââMaybe we shall have some pleasant thing that we do not think of,â said his mother, as she tucked the clothes down about him. ââWhy what?â said Mark starting up in an instant. âWhere _could_ anything come from, mother?â ââFrom God in the first place,â she answered; âand he can always find a way.â ââMother!â said Mark, âthereâs a _great many_ apples in the road by Mr. Crabâs orchard.â ââWell, dearââsaid his motherââthey donât belong to us.â ââBut theyâre in the _road_,â said Mark; âand Mr. Smithâs pigs are there all day long eating âem.â ââWe wonât help the pigs,â said his mother smiling. âThey donât know any better, but we do. I have cause enough for thanksgiving, Marky, in a dear little boy who always minds what I say.â âMark 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. âBut 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. âMark 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. âRejoice, 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 thâ archangelâs voice; The trump of God shall soundâRejoice!â âMark listened awhile till he heard his mother stop sweeping and begin to step in and out of the pantry. She wasnât 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. ââHereâs a quart of milk, Misâ Penly,â said a voice. âMother guessed she wouldnât churn again âfore next week, so she could spare it as well as not.â âMark 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. ââIs it a _whole_ quart, mother?â ââA whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isnât that good?â ââDelicious!â said Mark. âI should like to drink it all up, straight. I donât mean that I should like to really, mother, only on some accounts, you know.â ââWell now what shall we do with it?â said his mother. âYou shall dispose of it all.â ââIf we had some eggs weâd have a pudding,â said Mark,ââa plum-pudding. You canât make it without eggs, can you mother?â ââNot very well,â said Mrs. Penly. âNor without plums.â ââNo, so that wonât do,â said Mark. âSeems to me we could have made more use of it if it had been apples.â ââAh, you are a discontented little boy,â said his mother smiling. âLast night you would have been glad of _anything_. Now I advise that you drink a tumblerful of milk for your breakfastââ ââA whole tumblerful!â interrupted Mark. ââYes, and another for your tea; and then you will have two left for breakfast and tea to-morrow.â ââBut then you wonât have any of it,â said Mark. ââI donât want any.â ââBut you _must_ have it,â said Mark. âNow Iâll tell you, mother. Iâll drink a tumblerful this morning, and you shall put some in your tea; and to-night Iâll drink some more, and youâll have cream, real cream; and whatâs left Iâll drink to-morrow.â ââVery well,â said his mother. âBut now you must run and get washed and dressed, for breakfast is almost ready. I have made you a little shortcake, and itâs baking away at a great rate in the spider.â ââWhatâs shortcake made of?â said Mark, stopping with the door in his hand. ââThis is made of flour and water, because I had nothing else.â ââWell donât you set the table,â said Mark, âbecause Iâll be back directly; and then I can talk to you about the milk while Iâm putting on your cup and my tumbler and the plates.â âIt would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his tumbler of milk,âhow slowly he drank itâhow 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. âThen he set out to go with his mother to church. âThe influence of the dish of milk was not quite so strong when he was out of the house,âso many things spoke of other peopleâs 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. ââThere 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.â ââWere they pretty springs?â said Mark. ââThe lower one was very pretty,â replied his mother, âonly 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.â ââI donât wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,â said Mark. ââNo, it was very natural; though if one drank too much of the water it was apt to make him sick. But the other springâââ and the widow paused, while her cheek flushed and on her lips weeping and rejoicing were strangely mingled. ââThere was âa great Rock,â and from this âthe cold flowing watersâ 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,âyea in the great droughts it was fullest. And the water was life-giving. ââBut 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,â said his mother looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, âthat 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.â ââMother,â said Mark, âI donât know _exactly_ what you mean, and I do know a little, too.â ââWhy my dear,â said his mother, âI mean that when we lack anything this world can give, we must fetch the more from heaven.â ââYou love heaven very much, donât you mother?â said Mark, looking up at her quite wonderingly. ââMore than you love me.â âMark thought that was hardly possible; but he didnât 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,âit was this,â ââ_There is nothing at all, beside this manna, before our eyes._â âWhen church was over, and Mark and his mother were walking home again, they were overtaken by little Tom Crab. ââCome,â said little Tomââletâs go sit on the fence and eat apples. We shaânât have dinner to-day till ever so late, âcause it takes so long to get it ready; and Iâm so hungry. What are you going to have for dinner?â ââI donât know,â said Mark. ââI know what weâre going to have,â said Tom, âonly I canât remember everything. It makes me worse than ever to think of it. Comeâletâs go eat apples.â ââI havenât got any,â said Mark. ââHavenât got any!â said Tom, letting go of Markâs elbow and staring at himâfor the idea of a boy without apples had never before occurred to any of Mr. Crabâs family. âO you mean youâve eaten up all you had in your pocket?â ââNo,â said Mark, âwe havenât had any this year. Last year Mr. Smith gave us a basketful.â ââWell come along and Iâll give you some,â said Tom. âIâve got six, and I guess threeâll do me till dinner. O Mark! you ought to see the goose roasting in our kitchen! Iâll tell you whatâI guess I may as well give you the whole six, âcause 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.â âAnd filling Markâs pockets out of his own, Tom ran off. âIt so happened,â said Beachamwell turning herself round with a tired air when she got to this point in her storyââit 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 dayâthe 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. âBut when it was almost time for the apples to come on table as dessert, Mark suddenly cried out, ââMother! where are my six apples?â ââWhy on the window-sill,â said his mother. ââThere arenât but five! there arenât but five!â said Mark. âI must have lost one coming home!âno I didnât either.â And running to the window, Mark looked out. There lay the sixth apple on the ground, appropriated as the Thanksgiving dinner of his motherâs two chickens. âMark could hardly keep from crying. ââItâs _too_ bad!â he saidââwhen I hadnât but just six! The ugly things!â ââYou called them beauties this morning,â said his mother. ââBut just see my apple!â said Markââall dirty and pecked to pieces.â ââAnd just see my little boy,â said his motherââall red and angry. Did you suppose, my dear, that if apples rolled off the window-sill they would certainly fall inside?â ââI guess Iâll never put anything there any more,â 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. ââYou had better decide how many apples you will eat just now,â said Mrs. Penly, âand then put the others away in the closet.â ââItâs too bad!â said Mark. âI hadnât but six. And I thought you would have three and Iâd have three.â ââWell you may have five,â said his mother smilingââthe chickens have got my part. And maybe some good will come of that yet, if it only teaches you to be careful.â âOddly enough,â said Beachamwell, âsome 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.â âHow soon?â said Carl. âO in the course of yearsâby 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 âThanksgiving Tree,â but it was a true Beachamwell, for all that.â âBut say!â exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beachamwellâs stem in his great interest, âMark isnât alive now, is he?â âNo,â said Beachamwell, twisting away from Carl and her stem together. âNo, he is not alive now, but the tree is, and it belongs to Markâs 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. Thatâs where your mother found us.â âWell that is certainly a very pretty story,â said Carl, âbut nevertheless Iâm 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.â 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 Carlâs 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!âtherefore 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. âNow red cent,â said Carl, âit is your turn. Iâll hear you before the purse, so make haste.â âTurn me over then,â said the red cent, âfor I canât talk with my back to people.â So Carl turned him over, and there he lay and stared at the ceiling. THE STORY OF THE RED CENT. âI cannot begin to relate my history,â said the red cent, âwithout expressing my astonishment at the small consideration in which I am had. âI wouldnât give a red cent for itââ âIt isnât worth a red centââ 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. âPeople say it is pride in meâthat may be and it may not. But if it beâwhy shouldnât 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 elseâtherefore 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 thinkââ Well, never mind,âbut I have bought a good many apples in my day and ought to know something about them. _Only_ a red cent! People canât 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 homeâsee how you will fare then. Indeed when there is question of parting with me I am precious enough in some peopleâs 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 manâs 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 boyâs pocket which touches all the sympathies of our natureâeven beforehand. âI am not, however,â continued the red cent, âI am not at all of friend Beachamwellâs temperament,âin 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 âhuman face divineâ grows wrinkled and sometimes sharp, a red cent grows smooth and polished,âa little darker and thinner perhaps than formerly, but with as good business faculties as ever. âWhen that time arrives,â said the red cent, âwe 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. âI 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 âcirculating medium.ââ âYou do use such big words!â said Carl. âBecause I have travelled a great deal,â said the red cent. âIt is the fashion. But to return to the pocket. âWhat a pocket it was! âAt 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. âIf this part of my story teaches nothing else,â said the red cent with a moralising air as he stared at the ceiling, âit will at least show the folly of going out of oneâs proper place. Had I been content to lodge with the red cents, I should but have been set to do a red centâs work,âas it was I was made to do the work of an eagle, for which I was totally unfit. It fell out thus. âThe old gentleman walked leisurely home, having very much the air of a man with a pocket full of money,âas 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. ââOh, grandpa,â she said, âIâm so glad youâve come, because thereâs a little boy been waiting here ever so long for ten dollars.â ââWell my dear,â said the old gentleman, âten dollars is worth waiting for.â ââBut heâs in a great hurry to get home before dark, because he says the children have got no bread for supper till he buys it,â said the little girl. âHe brought a pair of boots and shoes for you, grandpa. His fatherâs very poor, he says.â ââIs he?â said the old gentleman. âThen Iâm afraid my boots wonât be worth much. However Nanny my dear, you may take him the money
{'title': 'Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking by Anna Bartlett Warner and Susan Warner', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}