Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘What made you do that, Norman?’

“He looked up at her.

“‘Because,—you know,—Jesus said so.’

“Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to him, but now she stood up straight, and for a minute she said nothing.

“‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his milk?’

“Norman was silent, and his mouth twitched. Mrs. Meadow looked at the little dog, which lay still where he had been when she came in, his gentle eyes having, she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their note-taking.

“‘Won’t he eat meat?’

“Norman shook his head and said ‘No,’ under his breath.

“‘He’s a dainty little rascal,’ said the overseer; ’he was made to live on sweetmeats and sugarplums.’ And Mr. Swift walked on.

“‘I’ve brought him some milk,’ whispered Silky; and softly stooping down she uncovered her little tin-pail and tried to coax the dog to come to it. But Norman no sooner caught the words of her whisper and saw the pail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit of crying, and threw himself down oh the floor and hid his face.

“Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter. Mrs. Meadow explained part to him, without telling of Norman’s keeping the money.

“‘O well,’ said Mr. Swift,—‘but he mustn’t make such a disturbance about it—it’s against all order; and feeding the dog, too, Lois!—but it’s a pretty creature. He’s hungry, he is! Well; it’s well we don’t have ladies come to the factory every day.’

“Silky’s other name was Lois.

“‘I’ll never do so again, Mr. Swift,’ said she, gently.

“‘O I don’t say that,’ said he. ‘I don’t dislike the sight of you, Miss Lois; but I must have you searched at the door. Keep this boy quiet, now, Mrs. Meadow; and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.’

“The boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had been speaking he had raised himself from the floor, half up, and had stopped sobbing, and was looking at Long-Ears and gently touching his curly head; who, on his part, was lapping the milk with an eagerness as if he had wanted it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but they fell quietly. By the time the little dog had finished the milk they did not fall at all. Till then nobody said anything.

“‘Come for it every morning again, my child,’ said Mrs. Meadow, softly;—‘I’ll give it to you. What a dear little fellow he is! I don’t wonder you love him. He shall have milk enough.’

“Norman looked up gratefully, and with a little bit of a smile.

“‘You don’t look very strong, my boy,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘You don’t feel right well, do you?’

“He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his understanding.

“‘Are you tired?’

“His eyes gave token of understanding that.

“‘Yes, I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they?’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘Up there—in heaven?’

“‘No, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’ll go there, won’t I?’

“‘If you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good care of you and bring you safe there surely.’

“‘He will,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’re not going yet, I hope, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, kissing him. ‘Good bye. Come to-morrow, and you shall have the milk.’

“‘Will you read to me that again, some time?’ he enquired wistfully.

“Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky walked back without saying three words to each other; and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so much as she did that afternoon and evening.

“Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s milk; and many a Sunday he and Long-Ears passed part of the time with Mrs. Meadow; and many a reading he listened to there as he had listened to the first one. He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little dog, and he seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those times.

“As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow better looking, all the while it was growing more pale and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented, very quiet and patient face, and his eye took a clearness and openness it did not use to have; though he never was a bad-looking child. ‘He won’t live long,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday.

“The little white dog all this while grew more white and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought so.

“It was not till some time in January that at last Norman stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the factory any more. It was in a severe bit of weather, when Mrs. Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him. Then, one cold evening, his mother came for milk, and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-looking woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded, spiritless air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his father must be much worse in another way, or his mother would not have such a look.

“Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set out. It was just sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough, but uncommonly cold.

“‘It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,’ said Silky.

“‘Yes, honey, but we can find the way,’ came from under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of them spoke a word.

“It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of the town, and took a poor straggling street that ran where no good and comfortable buildings shewed themselves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some of the houses were decently well-built, but several families lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an unknown circumstance; at least after Mrs. Meadow’s nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light grew dimmer and the air grew colder, as Mrs. Meadow and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trembling all over by the time they stopped at one of these brick dwelling-houses and went in.

“The front door stood open; nobody minded that; it was nobody’s business to shut it. They went in, through a dirty entry, and up stairs that nobody ever thought of cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was there, sitting over the fire; a wretched tallow-light on the table hardly shewed what he looked like. Mrs Meadow spoke with her usual pleasantness.

“‘Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I see little Norman?’

“‘Yes,—I suppose so,’ the man said, in a gruff voice, and pointing to another door; ‘they’re in yonder.’

“‘How is he?’

“‘I don’t know!—Going, I expect.’ He spoke in a tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull. Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him there, and went on to the inner room.

“That was so dark, hardly anything could be seen. A woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs. Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came back with it in her hand.

“The room was ill-lighted when the candle was in it, but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner. No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great-coat, a small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor little jacket and trowsers. But on these, close within reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his glossy white hair and soft outlines making a strange contrast with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.

“Norman did not look much changed, except that his face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near, and neither of them at first was forward to speak. Mrs. Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow stooped down by the bed’s head.

“‘Little Norman,’ she said, and you could tell her heart was full of tears,—‘do you know me?’

“‘I know you,’ he said, in a weak voice, and with a little bit of smile.