Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘How do you do?’

“‘Very well,’ he said, in the same manner.

“‘Are you very well?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m going now.’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me, won’t he?’

“‘If you love and trust him, dear.’

“‘He will take me,’ said Norman.

“‘What makes you think you’re going, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I can’t stay,’—said Norman, shutting his eyes. He opened them again immediately. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. I sha’n’t be tired there, shall I?’

“‘No dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech was like to fail her. She kept wiping her face with her pocket-handkerchief. Norman stroked and stroked his little dog’s silky head.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’ said he, faintly,—‘poor Long-Ears!—I can’t take care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you’re hungry. He hadn’t had anything to eat since—since—mother?’

“‘He don’t know how time goes,’ said Mrs. Finch, who had not before spoken. ‘The dog hasn’t had a sup of anything since day before yesterday. He has a right to be hungry. I don’t know what he lives on. My husband don’t care whether anything lives or not.’

“Silky had not said a word, and she didn’t now, but she brought out that same little tin pail from under her cloak, and set it down on the floor. Norman’s eye brightened. But the dog could not be coaxed to quit the bed; he would set only his two fore-feet on the floor, and so drank the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost with a smile. And when the dog, having left the milk, curled himself down again in his old place, and looked into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’—he said, patting him again with a feeble hand. ‘I’m going to leave you,—what will you do?’

“‘I’ll take care of him, Norman,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Will you?’ said Norman.

“‘As long as he lives, if you wish.’

“Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and said earnestly,—

“‘I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?’

“‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Then you’ll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,’ said Norman. ‘But,’ he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow, ‘you must take him home with you to-night—I’m afraid father will do something with him if you don’t.’

“‘But you will want him,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No I won’t. Father will do something with him.’

“‘Indeed he will, sure enough,’ said Mrs Finch.

“‘Then I’ll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was yourself,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I won’t want him,’ said Norman, shutting his eyes again;—‘I’m going.’

“‘And you’re not sorry, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No!’ he said.

“‘I wonder why he should,’ said Mrs. Finch, wiping her eyes.

“‘And you know Jesus will take you?’

“‘Because I love him,’ said Norman, without opening his eyes.

“‘What makes you love him so, dear?’

“‘Because he did that for me,’ said Norman, opening his eyes once more to look at her, and then re-shutting them. And he never opened them again. It seemed that having his mind easy about his pet, and having seen his friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as he had slept. His little pale meek face looked as if, as he said, he was glad to go.

“Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use could have moved Long-Ears from the body of his master, till it was laid in the grave. Then, with some difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him, and brought him home.”

“Is that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.

“All.”

“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?”

“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of Long-Ears, and were kind to everybody, and sold milk, just as they used.”

“And what about Long-Ears?”

“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Meadow and Silky, and was as well off as a little dog could be.”

“And is that all?”

“That is all.”

“And how did you get here?”

“I’ve told enough for once.”

“I’ll hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he grasped the purse, and ran off towards home; for it was getting to be high noon, and his mother had called to him that dinner was ready.

“Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my purse, and of my red cent, and of my three apples, and they’re splendid!”

“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “Are the stories not done yet?”

“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear next. There’s the boat, and the pine-cone, and the shoes, and the book, and the old stocking;—all of them;—and I don’t know which to have first. Which would you, mother?”

“What’s all that?” said John Krinken.