Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“How did she call them?” said Carl.

“‘Cuff, cuff, cuff!’ That was while they were a good way off; when they came near,—‘Sukey’ and ‘Bessie,’ and ‘Jenny.’”

“And did they come when she called?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then, when they had looked a little while to make sure it was she, they walked off slowly to come up to her.”

“How many cows were there?” said Carl.

“Sukey was a great black cow, and always marched first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and always was second. Three more came after her in a line, and when they got up with their little mistress she set off to go home, and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

“The common was smooth and wide, not much broken with ups and downs and little footpaths—or cow-paths—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket, through one and another of these; passing nothing in the shape of a house but a huge gloomy-looking building at some distance, which I afterwards found was a factory. A little way beyond this, not more than a quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little field, and the outbuildings in another little field, close beside this one. Everything was small; house, and barn, and shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug, and neat, too.

“My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and good, and such people we always call little–”

“But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl.

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up, but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She was just right. She opened a gate of the barnyard, and held it while all the five cows marched slowly in, looking around them as if they expected to see some change made in the arrangements since they had gone out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly in the middle of the barnyard and began to chew the cud, and Dolly and Bessie and Beauty took their stand in different places after her example; while Whiteface went off to see if she could find something in the mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

“Was Beauty a handsome cow?” said Carl.

“No, she was the ugliest one of the whole set; one of her horns was broken, and the other lopped down directly over her left eye.”

“What was she called Beauty for, then?”

“Why, I heard say that she was a very pretty calf, and was named then in her youth; but when she grew older she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns, and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how calves or children will turn out.

“When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the field where the house stood; and there she went in, through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That stood open to let her in.

“It was the nicest place you ever saw. A clean scrubbed floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the middle of it; a dark wooden table and wooden chairs, nice and in their places, only one chair stood on the hearth, as if somebody had just left it. There was a big, wide, comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over the fire hung a big iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of the flames, and singing already. On each side of the chimney brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean. The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

“The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went to the inner door and called, ‘Mother!’

“A pleasant voice from somewhere said, ‘Here!’

“‘In the milk-room?’

“‘Yes!’

“And my little mistress went along a short passage—brown it was, walls, and floor, and all, even the beams overhead—to the milk-room; and that was brown, too, and as sweet as a rose.

“‘Mother, why did you put on the tea-kettle?’

“‘’Cause I wanted to have some tea, dear.’

“‘But I would have done it.’

“‘Yes, honey, I know. You’ve quite enough to do.’

“‘Look here what I’ve found, mother.’

“‘Can’t look at anything, daughter. Go along and milk and I will hear you at tea-time.’

“Then my little mistress took up the pails, and went out by another way, through another gate that opened directly into the cows’ yard; and there she stripped the yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the cud, except when now and then one of them would throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side; and then my mistress’s soft voice would say,—

“‘So, Beauty!’

“And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I have heard that other people did not find her so.

“Mrs. Meadow took the milk-pails at the dairy door, and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea. She put up a leaf of the brown table and set a tray on it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea-cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the family. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-handled knives, and the rest of the things; and when the tea was made she dressed up the fire, and stood looking at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron. She was the nicest-looking woman you ever saw.”

“She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Carl.

“Mrs. Krinken never was half so nice. She was the best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”

“Mine are bright,” said Carl.

“Yours are bright for Christmas, but hers were bright for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and the milk-pans, and the glass in the windows, and her own kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cozy tea; and I was laid upon the table and my story told, or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom her mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called anything but ‘Silky.’”

“What for?” said Carl.

“Maybe you’ll find out if you don’t ask so many questions,” said the purse snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me and rubbing the silver mountings. ‘It’s odd such a handsome purse should have no money in it.’

“‘I’m not going to put it away out of sight, mother,’ said Silky; ‘I’m going to have the good of it. I’ll keep it to hold my milk-money.’

“‘Well, dear, here goes the first,’ said Mrs. Meadow;—‘here’s a silver penny I took for milk while you were after the cows.’

“‘Who came for it, mother?’

“‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me this.’

“So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness, and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the door a crack open; I could see them at work, washing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon the hearth, both of them by a little round table. By and by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and then she and Silky kneeled down, close together, to pray. They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cupboard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think what a new place I had come to, and how I liked it.

“It was a pretty great change. In my old master’s pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance—the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear; now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass; Mrs. Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate inkstand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from there I watched my two mistresses at their work and their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and morning, kneel together and pray; and there I learned a great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the respect they have for it.”

“My mother has one,” said Carl.

“Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on Sundays.”

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken means to be good woman, but these other people were good; there’s all the difference.

“My business was to lie there on the shelf and keep the milk-pennies, and see all that was going on. Silky sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly poor people from the neighbouring village, or their children going home from the factory; people that lived in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little as they could do with. There were a good many of these families, and among them they took a pretty good share of the milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter—honest sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came out of her dairy.

“The children always stopped for milk at night, when they were going home; the grown people, for the most part, came in the morning. After I had been on the cupboard shelf awhile however, and got to know the faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morning and evening too. In the morning he fetched a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth of milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same brown jug; and always in the morning he wanted a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth. He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one of the poorest-looking that came. There was never a hat on his head; his trowsers were fringed with tags; his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was always fastened close up; either to keep him warm or to hide how very little there was under it. Poor little Norman Finch! That was his name.

“He had come a good many mornings. One day early, just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast, his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his little brown jug, and ‘Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.’

“‘Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman?’ said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“‘I don’t want only a ha’penn’orth,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’ll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’t you?’

“‘I’ll stop for it,’ said Norman, casting his eyes down into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual.

“‘Why don’t you take it all at once, then?’

“‘I don’t want it.’

“‘Have you got to go back home with this before you go work?’

“‘No–I must go,’ said Norman, taking hold of the door.

“‘Are you going to the factory?’

“‘Yes, I be.’

“‘How will your mother get her milk?’

“‘She’ll get it when I go home.’

“‘But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?’

“‘I want it—She don’t want it,’ said the boy, looking troubled,—‘I must go.’

“‘Do you take it to drink at the factory?’

“‘No—It’s to drink at the factory—She don’t want it,’ said Norman.

“He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the table she said,—

“‘Mother, I don’t understand; I am afraid there is something wrong about this morning milk.’

“‘There’s nothing wrong about it, honey,’ said Mrs. Meadow, who had been out of the room; ‘it’s as sweet as a clover-head. What’s the matter?’

“‘O, not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming after it in the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for; and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it wasn’t and it was to drink at the factory; and that his mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.’

“‘Don’t think anything, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘till we know something more. We’ll get the child to let it out. Poor little creature! I wish I could keep him out of that place.’

“‘Which place, mother?’

“‘I meant the factory.’

“‘I don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is a bad man.’

“‘It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘for it is very little he sees of it. It’s too much for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.’

“‘But they are kind at the pin-factory, mother. People say they are.’

“‘Mr. Carroll is a nice man,’ said her mother. ‘But nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!’

“‘He looks thinner and paler now than he did six months ago.’

“‘Yes; and then it was winter, and now it is summer,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk!’ said Silky.

“The next morning Norman was there again. He put himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said, somewhat doubtfully,—

“‘Please, ma’am, a ha’penn’orth?’

“‘Come in, Norman,’ said Silky.

“He hesitated.

“‘Come!—come in—come in to the fire; it’s chilly out of doors. You’re in good time, aren’t you?’

“‘Yes,—but I can’t stay,’ said the boy, coming in however, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and damp abroad.

“‘I’ll get you the milk,’ said Silky, taking the jug;—‘you stand and warm yourself. You’ve plenty of time.’

“She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman. He looked at it, and then grabbed it, and began to eat immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the jug.

“‘What’s this milk for, Norman?’ she said, pleasantly.

“He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

“‘What are you going to do with it?’

“‘Carry it—home,’ he said, slowly.

“‘Now?—home now? Are you going back with it now?’

“‘I am going to take it to the factory.’

“‘What do you do with it there?’

“‘Nothing,’ said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon, and seeming almost ready to cry;—‘I don’t do nothing with it.’

“‘You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,’ Silky said, gently. ‘I’m not going to do you any harm. Does your mother know you get it?’

“He waited a good while, and then when she repeated the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet face, he said half under his breath,—

“‘No—’

“‘What do you want it for, then, dear? I’d rather give it to you than have you take it in a wrong way.—Do you want it to drink?’

“Norman dropped his piece of bacon.

“‘No,’ he said, beginning to cry,—‘I don’t want it—I don’t want it at all!’—

“Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in her turn.

“‘Don’t cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me.—Who does want it?’

“‘Oh, don’t tell!—’ sobbed the child;—‘My little dog!—’

“‘Now don’t cry!’ said Silky.—‘Your little dog?’

“‘Yes!—my little dog,’—And he sighed deeply between the words.

“‘Where is your little dog?’

“‘He’s up yonder—up to the factory.’

“‘Who gave him to you?’

“‘Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.’

“‘And this milk is for him?’

“‘He wants it to drink.’

“‘Does your mother know you get it?’

“Norman didn’t answer.

“‘She don’t?’ said Silky. ‘Then where does the money come from, Norman?’ She spoke very gently.

“‘It’s mine,’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, but where do you get it?’

“‘Mr. Swift gives it to me.’

“‘Is it out of your wages?’

“Norman hesitated, and then said ‘Yes,’ and began to cry again.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Silky. ‘Sit down and eat your bacon. I’m not going to get you into trouble.’

“He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said he wanted to go.

“‘What for?—it isn’t time yet.’

“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.’

“‘And feed him? Stop and tell me about him. What colour is he?’

“‘He’s white all over.’

“‘What’s his name?’

“‘Little Curly Long-Ears.’

“‘What do you call him?—all that?’

“‘I call him Long-Ears.’

“‘But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?’

“‘He lives up there.’

“‘And don’t he go home with you?’

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Father wouldn’t let him. He’d take him away, or do something to him.’

“Norman looked dismal.

“‘But where does he live?’

“‘He lives up to the factory.’

“‘But you can’t have him in the factory.’

“‘Yes, I have him,’ said Norman, ‘because Mr. Carroll said he was to come in, because he was so handsome.’

“‘But he’ll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and then you would be very sorry.’

“‘No, he won’t get killed; he takes care: he knows he mustn’t go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just comes and lies down where I be.’

“‘And does Mr. Swift let him?’

“‘He has to, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.’

“‘But your money—where does it come from, Norman?’

“‘Mr. Swift,’ said Norman, very dismally.

“‘Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry home your wages to her?’

“‘No.’

“‘She must, my child.’

“‘She don’t, ’cause I carry her just the same I did before.’

“‘How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a-day?’

“‘’Cause I get more now—I used to have fourpence ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.’

“And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his dog too.

“‘Give me the milk and let me go!’ he exclaimed through his tears. ‘Poor Curly!—poor Curly!’

“‘Here ’tis,’ said Silky, very kindly. ‘Don’t cry—I’m not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won’t he eat anything but milk?—won’t he eat meat?’

“‘No—he can’t—’

“‘Why can’t he?’

“‘He don’t like it.’

“‘Well; you run off to the factory now and give Curly his milk; and stop again to-morrow.’

“‘And won’t you tell?’ said Norman, looking up.

“‘I shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble. Run, now!’

“He dried his tears, and ran, fast enough, holding the little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short legs could make them.

“Silky stood looking gravely after him.

“‘I’m so sorry for him, mother!’ she said. ‘This won’t do; it’s very wrong, and he’ll get himself into dreadful trouble besides.’

“‘Poor fellow!—we’ll see, honey;—we’ll try what we can do,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“The next morning Norman came again, and Mrs. Meadow was there.

“‘How is Long-Ears, Norman? and how are you?’ she said cheerfully. But she did everything cheerfully.

“‘He’s well,’ said Norman, looking a little doubtfully at these civilities.

“‘And you are not well?’ said Mrs. Meadow, kindly. ‘Suppose you come and see me to-morrow?—it’s Sunday, you know, and you have no work—will you? Come bright and early, and we’ll have a nice breakfast, and you shall go to church with me, if you like.’

“Norman shook his head. ‘Curly’ll want to see me,’ he said.

“‘Well, about that just as you like. Come here to breakfast—that you can do. Mother’ll let you.’

“‘Yes, she’ll let me,’ said Norman, ‘and I can go to see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?’ he added, with a glance of some fear.

“‘Tell what?’

“‘About him,’ said Norman, nodding his head in the direction of the factory.

“‘Long-Ears?—Not I! not a word.’

“So he set off, with a gleam of pleasure lighting up his little face, and making his feet patter more quick over the ground.

“‘Poor little creature!’ Mrs. Meadow said again, most heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

“The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly, straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

“‘It does come down!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’m so sorry, mother,’ said Silky; ‘he won’t come.’

“She had hardly turned her back to see to something at the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his everyday rags, and those wet through and dripping. How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter looked! They brought him to the fire and wiped his feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as they could: but they didn’t know what to do; for the fire would not have dried him in all the day; and sit down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side, Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house. But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked two or three towels about him; and then over them wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way, fastening it over the shoulders: in such a manner that it fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his arms quite free. Then, when his jacket and trowsers had been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

“In his odd shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup of weak coffee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which Mrs. Meadow boiled for him. But he did not eat like a child whose appetite knew what to do with good things; he was soon done; though after it his face looked brighter and cheerier than it ever had done before in that house.

“Mrs. Meadow left Silky to take care of the breakfast things; and, drawing her chair up on the hearth, she took the little boy on her lap and wound her arms about him.

“‘Little Norman,’ said she kindly, ‘you won’t see Long Ears to-day.’

“‘No,’ said Norman, with a sigh, in spite of breakfast and fire,—‘he will have to go without me.’

“‘Isn’t it good that there is one day in the week when the poor little tired pin-boy can rest?’

“‘Yes—it is good,’ said Norman, quietly; but as if he was too accustomed to being tired to take the good of it.

“‘This is God’s day. Do you know who God is, Norman?’

“‘He made me,’ said Norman,—‘and every body.’

“‘Yes, and every thing. He is the great King over all the earth; and he is good, and he has given us this day to rest and to learn to be good and please him. Can you read the Bible, Norman?’

“‘No, I can’t read,’ said Norman. ‘Mother can.’

“‘You know the Bible is God’s book, written to tell us how to be good; and whatever the Bible says we must mind, or God will be angry with us. Now the Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Do you know what that means?’

“Mrs. Meadow spoke very softly.

“‘Yes,’ said Norman, swinging one little foot back and forward in the warm shine of the fire,—‘I’ve heard it.’

“‘What does it mean?’

“‘I know,’ said Norman.

“‘It is to take what does not belong to us. Now, since God has said that, is it quite right for you to take that money of your mother’s to buy milk for Long-Ears?’

“‘It isn’t her money!’ said Norman, his face changing; ‘and Long-Ears can’t starve!’

“‘It is her money, Norman;—all the money you earn belongs to her, or to your father, which is the same thing. You know it does.’

“‘But Curly must have something to eat,’ said Norman, bursting into tears. ‘Oh, don’t tell! oh, don’t tell!—’

“‘Hush, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow’s kind voice, and her kind hand on his head;—‘I’m not going to tell; but I want you to be a good boy and do what will please God, that you may be one of the lambs of the Good Shepherd’s flock.—Do you know what I am talking about?’

“‘Yes—no—I don’t know about the lambs,’ said Norman.

“‘Do you know who Jesus Christ is?’

“‘No.’

“‘Poor little thing!’ said Silky, and the tears fell from her face as she went from the fire to the table. Norman looked at her, and so did her mother, and then they looked at each other.

“‘Jesus Christ is your best friend, little Norman.’

“‘Is he?’ said Norman, looking.

“‘Do you know what he has done for you, little pin-boy?’

“Norman looked, and no wonder, for Mrs. Meadow’s eyes were running over full, and he did not know what to make of the dropping tears; but he shook his head.

“‘It’s all told about in God’s book, dear. Little Norman Finch, like everybody else, hasn’t loved God, nor minded his commandments as he ought to do; and God would have punished us all, if Jesus Christ hadn’t come down from heaven on purpose to take our punishment on himself, so that we might be saved.’