Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“There she was when her father came home. Her feet were stretched out upon the hearth, and he stumbled over them. That waked her. By the glimmering light of the embers something could be seen hanging from Mr. Peg’s hand.

“‘Have you got home, father?—I believe I got asleep waiting for you. What have you got in your hand?—Fish!—Oh, father!—’

“You should have heard the change of little Sue’s voice when she spoke that. Generally her way of speaking was low and gentle like the twilight, but those two words were like a burst of sunshine.

“‘Yes, dear—Blow up the fire, so you can see them—I’ve been to Mrs. Binch’s—I’ve been all over town, a’most—and Mrs. Binch’s boy had just come in with some, and she gave me a fine string of ’em—nice blue fish—there.’

“Susan had made a light blaze, and then she and the cobbler admired and turned and almost smelt of the fish, for joy.

“‘And shall we have one for supper, father?’

“‘Yes dear—You have some coals and I’ll get the fish ready right off. Has mother had all she wanted to-day?’

“‘Yes, father—Mrs. Lucy sent her some soup, and she had plenty. And I saved the bread from dinner, father, isn’t it good; and there’s more porridge too.’

“What a bed of coals Sue had made, by the time her father came back with the fish, nicely cleaned and washed. She put it down, and then the two sat over it in the firelight and watched it broil. It was done as nicely as a fish could be done; and Susan fetched the plates, and the salt, and the bread; and then the cobbler gave thanks to God for their supper. And then the two made such a meal! there wasn’t a bone of that fish but was clean picked, nor a grain of salt but what did duty on a sweet morsel. There was not a scrap of bread left from that supper; and I was as glad as anything of my tough nature can be, to know that there were several more fish beside the one eaten. Sue cleared away the things when they had done, ran up to see if her mother was comfortable, and soon ran down again. Her step had changed too.

“‘Now darling,’ said her father, ‘come and let us have our talk by this good firelight.’

“She came to his arms and kissed him; and his arms were wrapped round her, and she sat on his knee.

“‘It’s one good thing, you haven’t lights to work, so we can talk,’ said Sue, stroking his face. ‘If you had, we couldn’t.’

“‘Maybe we would,’ said the cobbler. ‘Let us talk to-night of the things we have to be thankful for.’

“‘There’s a great many of them, father,’ said Sue, with her twilight voice.

“‘The first thing is, that we know we have a Friend in heaven; and that we do love and trust him.’

“‘O father!’ said Sue,—‘if you begin with that, all the other things will not seem anything at all.’

“‘That’s true,’ said Mr. Peg. ‘Well, Sue, let’s have ’em all. You begin.’

“‘I don’t know what to begin with,’ said Sue, looking into the fire.

“‘I have you,’ said her father, softly kissing her.

“‘O father!—and I have you;—but now you are taking the next best things.’

“‘I shouldn’t care for all the rest without this one,’ said the cobbler;—‘nor I shouldn’t mind anything but for this,’ he added, in a somewhat changed tone.

“‘But father, you mustn’t talk of that to-night;—we are only going to talk of the things we have to be thankful for.’

“‘Well, we’ll take the others to-morrow night, maybe, and see what we can make of them. Go on, Susie,’ said the cobbler, putting his head down to her cheek,—‘I have my dear little child, and she has her father. That’s something to thank God and to be glad for,—every day.’

“‘So I do, every day, father,’ said Susan very softly.

“‘And so do I,’ said the cobbler; ‘and while I can take care of thee, my dearest, I will take trouble for nothing else.’

“‘Now you are getting upon the other things, father,’ said Sue. ‘Father, it is something to be thankful for that we can have such a nice fire every night,—and every day, if we want it.’

“‘You don’t know what a blessing ’tis, Sue,’ said her father. ‘If we lived where we couldn’t get drift-wood,—if we lived as some of the poor people do in the great cities, without anything but a few handfuls of stuff to burn in the hardest weather, and that wretched stuff for making a fire,—I am glad you don’t know how good it is, Sue!’ said he, hugging his arms round her. ‘There isn’t a morning of my life but I thank God for giving us wood, when I go about kindling it.’

“‘How do they do in those places, without wood?’ said Sue, sticking out her feet towards the warm, ruddy blaze.

“‘He who knows all only knows,’ said the cobbler, gravely. ‘They do without! It seems to me I would rather go without eating, and have a fire.’

“‘I don’t know,’ said Sue thoughtfully, ‘which I would rather. But those poor people haven’t either, have they?’

“‘Not enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘They manage to pick up enough to keep them alive somehow.’—And he sighed, for the subject came near home.

“‘Father,’ said Sue, ‘I don’t believe God will let us starve.’

“‘I do not think he will, my dear,’ said the cobbler.

“‘Then why do you sigh?’

“‘Because I deserve that he should, I believe,’ said the cobbler, hanging his head. ‘I deserve it, for not trusting him better. ‘Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you.’ Ah, my dear, we can’t get along without running to our upper storehouse pretty often.’

“‘Father, I guess God don’t mean we should.’

“‘That’s just it!’ said the cobbler. ‘That is just, no doubt, what he means. Well dear, let’s learn the lesson he sets us.’

“‘Then, father,’ said Sue, ‘don’t you think we have a good little house? It’s large enough, and it’s warm.’

“‘Yes dear,’ said the cobbler; ‘some of those poor people we were talking about would think themselves as well off as kings if they had such a house to live in as this.’

“‘And it is in a pleasant place, father, where there are a great many kind people.’

“‘I hope there are,’ said the cobbler, who was thinking at the moment how Mr. Shipham had put him off, and Mr. Dill had dodged him, and Mr. Binch had fought every one of his moderate charges.

“‘Why, father!’ said Sue, ‘there’s Mrs. Lucy every day sends things to mother; and Mrs. Binch gave you the fish; and Mrs. Jackson came and washed ever so many times; and—and Mrs. Gelatin sent the pudding and other things for mother, you know.’

“‘Well, dear,’ said the cobbler,—‘yes,—it seems that woman-kind is more plenty here, at any rate, than man-kind.’

“‘Why, father?’ said Sue.

“‘I hope you’ll never know, dear,’ he answered. ‘It was a foolish speech of mine.’

“‘And I’m sure it’s a blessing, father, that we have so many things sent us for mother,—she has almost as much as she wants, and things we couldn’t get. Now, Mrs. Lucy’s soup,—you don’t know how nice it was. I tasted just the least drop in the spoon; and mother had enough of it for to-day and to-morrow. And then the doctor says she’ll get well by and by; and that will be a blessing.’

“It was a blessing so far off, that both the cobbler and his little daughter looked grave as they thought about it.

“‘And I’m well, father, and you’re well,’ said Sue, pleasantly.

“‘Thank God!’ said the cobbler.

“‘And father, don’t you think it’s a little blessing to live near the sea? and to have the beautiful beach to walk upon, and see the waves come tumbling in, and smell the fresh wind? We used to go so often, and maybe by and by we shall again. Don’t you think it is a great deal pleasanter than it would be if Beachhead was away off in the country, out of sight of the water?’