Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘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.