Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“And Sue stayed up-stairs, and the cobbler wrought after that pretty steadily for some hours. But in the middle of the afternoon came a new interruption. Two men came into the shop, and gave an order or two to the cobbler, who served them with unusual gravity.

“‘When is Court-day, Sheriff?’ he asked, in the course of business.

“‘To-morrow itself, Mr. Peg.’

“‘To-morrow!’ said the cobbler.

“‘What’s the matter? Comes the wrong day? It always does.’

“‘I had forgot all about it,’ said the cobbler. ‘Can’t I be let off, sir?’

“‘From what?’ said the other man.

“‘Why, it’s rather an ugly job, some think,’ returned the sheriff. ‘He’s got to sit on the jury that is to try Simon Ruffin.’

“‘I must beg to be let off,’ said the cobbler, ‘I am not at all able to leave home.’

“‘You must tell the court, then,’ said he who was called the sheriff; ‘but it won’t do any good, I don’t believe. Everybody says the same thing, pretty much; they don’t any of ’em like the job; but you see, this is a very difficult and important case; a great many have been thrown out; it is hard to get just the right men, those that are altogether unobjectionable; and every one knows you, Mr. Peg.’

“‘But my family want me,’ said the cobbler; ’they can’t do without me at home. Can’t you let me go, Mr. Packum?’

“‘Not I,’ said the sheriff; ‘that’s no part of my privilege: you must ask the court, Mr. Peg.’

“‘To-morrow?’ said the cobbler.

“‘Yes, to-morrow; but I tell you beforehand it won’t do any good. What excuse can you make?’

“‘My family want my care,’ said the poor cobbler.

“‘So does every man’s family,’ said the sheriff, with a laugh; ‘he’s a happy man that don’t find it so. You haven’t much of a family, Mr. Peg, have you?—if you had my seven daughters to look after– Well, Mr. Jibbs,—shall we go?’

“They went; and sitting down again in his chair the poor cobbler neglected his work, and bent over it with his head in his hand. At length he got up, put his work away, and left the room. For a while his saw might be heard going at the back of the house; then it ceased, and nothing at all was to be heard for a long time; only a light footstep overhead now and then. The afternoon passed, and the evening came.

“The cobbler was the first to make his appearance. He came in, lighted the fire which had quite died out, and sat down as he had sat before, with his head in his hand. So his little daughter found him. She stepped lightly and he did not hear her till her hand was on his shoulder. Then she asked him what was the matter?

“‘Oh!—nothing that should make me sit so,’ said the cobbler, rousing himself.

“‘We’ve got more fish left yet,’ said Sue.

“‘Yes, dear,—’tisn’t that; but I’ve got to go away to-morrow.’

“‘Away!’ said Sue.

“‘Yes, away to court.’

“‘What for, father?’

“‘Why, they’ve got me down for a juryman, and I’m afraid there’ll be no getting off. The sheriff says there won’t.’

“‘What have you got to do, father?’

“‘Sit on a jury, dear, to decide whether Simon Ruffin is guilty or no.’

“‘Simon Ruffin!—that shot that man!—Oh, father!’

“‘It’s pretty bad,’ said the cobbler.

“‘How long will you be gone?’

“‘I can’t tell at all,’ said the cobbler; ‘maybe a day—a day! they can’t take the evidence in two days. I don’t know whether it will be two or three days, or a week, dear.’

“‘A week—And what shall we do?’ Sue could not help saying.

“‘If I can get off, I will,’ said the cobbler; ‘but in case I can’t, I have or I will have by morning, as much wood as will do till I come back. I have two-and-sixpence besides, which I can leave you, darling; and I can do nothing more but trust.’

“‘Father, isn’t it hard to trust sometimes?’ Sue said with her eyes full of tears. The poor cobbler wrapped her in his arms and kissed them away, but he did not try to answer.

“‘Maybe it won’t do us any harm after all,’ said Sue more brightly;—‘or maybe you will be able to come back, father. Father, you know we are to talk over to-night the things that we have that we can’t be thankful for.’

“‘‘In everything give thanks,’’ said the cobbler.

“‘Yes, father, but it doesn’t say for everything.’

“‘Perhaps not,’ said the cobbler. ‘Well, darling, we’ll see. Let’s have our supper first.’

“‘We’ll have the biggest fish to-night, father.’

“The fish wasn’t just out of the water now, but it was eaten with a good will; not quite so cheerily as the first one the night before; and Sue sighed once or twice as she was putting the dishes away, and didn’t step quite so lightly. Then she came to her former place in her father’s arms, and her head stooped upon his shoulder, and his cheek was laid to her forehead, and so they sat some minutes without speaking.

“‘Come, father,’ said Sue,—‘will you talk?’

“‘Yes, dear. Let us tell over what we have to bear, and see how we can bear it.’

“‘We must go to our ‘upper storehouse’ again for that, father.’

“‘Ay, dear,—always.’

“‘The first thing, I suppose,’ said Sue, ‘is that we haven’t quite money enough.’

“‘We have just what God gives us,’ said the cobbler. ‘I’ll never complain of that.’

“‘Why you never complain of anything, father. But it isn’t pleasant.’

“‘No, dear,’ said the cobbler;—‘and yet if we had money enough, could we trust God as we do? It is a sweet thing to live at his hand directly; to feel that it is feeding us to-day, and to know that it will to-morrow; for, ‘was he ever a wilderness to Israel?’ No, dear; I don’t mean to say that poverty is not hard to bear sometimes; nor I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t give you plenty of everything if I had it to give; but I do say that there is a sweet side even to this.’

“‘Father, our blue fish wouldn’t have tasted as good if we had always had plenty of them.’

“‘I suppose not,’ said the cobbler, with a little bit of a stifled sigh;—‘and maybe we shouldn’t know how to love each other quite so well, Sue.’