Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs. Krinken; “and he’s told over one or two to me, and it’s as good as a book. I can’t think where the child got hold of them.”

“Why they told ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken; “something told it to thee, child.”

“Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father.

“My red cent, and my purse, and my three apples—or only one of the apples,” said Carl;—“that was Beachamwell.”

“Beach ’em what?” said his father.

“Beachamwell—that is the biggest of my three apples,” said Carl.

At which John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other, and laughed till their eyes ran down with tears.

“Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John, when he could speak.

“I’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.

“Yes; and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or wish to hear,” said Mrs. Krinken, soothingly.

“Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.

“I haven’t heard it yet,” said Carl.

“O, and you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his father.

“I haven’t heard any of ’em but three,” said Carl, “and I don’t know which to hear next.”

“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it knew how,” said his father; “it could spin you a yarn as long as its own.”

“I’d rather hear the old pine-cone, John,” said his wife. “Ask the pine-cone, Carl. I wish it could tell, and I hear!”

“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the other.

But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of the story-teller to help him out with his question about the stories.

“Then I’m a going to keep the stocking for the very last one!” said Carl.

“Why?” said his mother.

“’Cause it’s ugly. And I guess I’ll make the shoes tell me their story next; because I might want to put them on, you know!”

And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured toes, which looked out at him through the cracks of his old half-boots.

Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to their business; and Carl indignantly seizing his shoes, ran off with them out of hearing to the sunny side of the house, where he plumped himself down on the ground with them in front of him, and commanded them to speak.

THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES

“I believe,” said the right shoe, “that I am the first individual of my race whose history has ever been thought worth asking for. I hope to improve my opportunity. I consider it to be a duty in all classes for each member of the class–”

“You may skip about that,” said Carl. “I don’t care about it.”

“I am afraid,” said the right shoe, “I am uninteresting. My excuse is, that I never was fitted to be anything else. Not to press upon people’s notice is the very lesson we are especially learned; we were never intended to occupy a high position in society, and it is reckoned an unbearable fault in us to make much noise in the world.”

“I say,” said Carl, “you may skip that.”

“I beg pardon,” said the shoe, “I was coming to the point. ‘Step by step’ is our family motto. However, I know young people like to get over the ground at a leap. I will do it at once.

“My brother and I are twins, and as much alike as it is possible perhaps for twins to be Mr. Peg, the cobbler, thought we were exactly alike; and our upper leathers did indeed run about on the same calf (as perchance they may another time), but our soles were once further apart than they are ever like to be for the future; one having roamed the green fields of Ohio on the back of a sturdy ox, while the other was raised in Vermont. However, we are mates now; and having been, as they say, ‘cut out for each other,’ I have no doubt we shall jog on together perfectly well.

“We are rather an old pair of shoes. In fact we have been on hand almost a year. I should judge from the remarks of our friend Mr. Peg when he was beginning upon us, that he was very unaccustomed to the trade of shoe-making—shoe-mending was what he had before lived by; or, perhaps, I should rather say, tried to live by; I am afraid it was hard work; and I suppose Mr. Peg acted upon the excellent saying, which is also a motto in our family, that ‘It is good to have two strings to one’s bow.’ It was in a little light front room, looking upon the street, which was Mr. Peg’s parlour, and shop, and workroom, that he cut out the leather and prepared the soles for this his first manufacture. I think he hadn’t stuff enough but for one pair, for I heard him sigh once or twice as he was fidgeting with his pattern over my brother’s upper leather, till it was made out. Mr. Peg was a little oldish man, with a crown of grey hairs all round the back part of his head; and he sat to work in his shirt sleeves, and with a thick, short leather apron before him. There was a little fire-place in the room, with sometimes fire in it, and sometimes not; and the only furniture was Mr. Peg’s little bit of a counter, the low rush-bottomed chair in which he sat to work, and a better one for a customer; his tools, and his chips—by which I mean the scraps of leather which he scattered about.

“Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper leathers and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on his chair to begin work, when a little girl came in. She came from a door that opened upon a staircase leading to the upper room, and walked up to the cobbler. It was a little brown-haired girl, about nine or ten years old, in an old calico frock and pantalettes; she was not becomingly dressed, and she did not look very well.

“Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper leathers and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on his chair to begin work, when a little girl came in.”—P. 115.

“‘Father,’ she said,—‘mother’s head aches again.’

“The cobbler paused in his work, and looked up at her.

“‘And she wants you to come up and rub it—she says I can’t do it hard enough.’

“Rather slowly Mr. Peg laid his upper leather and tools down.

“‘Will you close this shoe for me, Sue, while I am gone?’

“He spoke half pleasantly, and half, to judge by his tone and manner, with some sorrowful meaning. So the little girl took it, for she answered a little sadly,—

“‘I wish I could, father.’

“‘I’m glad you can’t, dear.’

“He laid his work down, and mounted the stairs. She went to the window, and stood with her elbows leaning on the sill, looking into the street.

“It is only a small town, that Beachhead; but still, being a sea-coast town, there is a good deal of stir about it. The fishermen from the one side, and the farmers from the other, with their various merchandise; the busy boys, and odd forms of women for ever bustling up and down, make it quite a lively place. There is always a good deal to see in the street. Yet the little girl stood very still and quiet by the window; her head did not turn this way and that; she stood like a stupid person, who did not know what was going on. A woman passing up the street stopped a moment at the window.

“‘How’s your mother to-day, Sue?’

“‘She’s getting along slowly, Mrs. Binch.’

“‘Does the doctor say she is dangerous any?’

“‘The doctor don’t come any more.’

“‘Has he giv’ her up?’

“‘Yes; he says there is nothing to do but to let her get well.’