Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“What is an auction-room?” said Carl.

“It is a sort of intelligence-office for books,” replied the “Collection.” “There I got the situation of companion to a lady, and went on a long sea voyage. I had nothing to do but to comfort her, however.”

“And did you do it?” said Carl.

“Yes, very often,” said the hymn book. “Perhaps as much as anything else except her Bible.”

“Now, my pretty little boat,” said Carl the next day, “you shall tell me your story. I will hear you before that ugly old stocking.”

Carl was lying flat on his back on the floor, holding the boat up at arm’s length over his head, looking at it, and turning it about. It was a very complete little boat.

“I shall teach you not to trust to appearances,” said the boat.

“What do you mean?” said Carl.

“I mean that when you have looked at me you have got the best of me.”

“That’s very apt to be the way with pretty things,” said the stocking.

“It isn’t!” said Carl. For he had more than once known his mother call him a “pretty boy.”

“However that may be,” said the boat, “I can’t tell a story.”

“Can’t tell a story!—yes, you can,” said Carl. “Do it, right off.”

“I haven’t any to tell,” said the boat. “I was once of some use in the world, but now I’m of none, except to be looked at.”

“Yes, you are of use,” said Carl, “for I like you; and you can tell a story, too, if you’re a mind, as well as the pine cone.”

“The pine cone has had a better experience,” said the boat, “and has kept good society. For me, I have always lived on the outside of things, ever since I can remember, and never knew what was going on in the world, any more than I knew what was going on inside of my old tree. All I knew was, that I carried up sap for its branches—when it came down again, or what became of it, I never saw.”

“Where were you then?” said Carl.

“On the outside of a great evergreen oak in a forest of Valencia. I was a piece of its bark. I wish I was there now. But the outer bark of those trees gets dead after a while; and then the country-people come and cut it off and sell it out of the land.”

“And were you dead and sold off?” said Carl.

“To be sure I was. As fine a piece of cork as ever grew. I had been growing nine years since the tree was cut before.”

“Well but tell me your story,” said Carl.

“I tell you,” said the little cork boat, “I haven’t any story. There was nothing to be seen in the forest but the great shades of the kingly oaks, and the birds that revelled in the solitudes of their thick branches, and the martens, and such-like. It was fine there, though. The north winds, which the pine cone says so shake the heads of the fir-trees in his country, never trouble anything in mine. The snow never lay on the glossy leaves of my parent oak. But no Norrska lived there; or if there did, I never knew her. Nobody came near us, unless a stray peasant now and then passed through. And when I was cut down, I was packed up and shipped off to England, and shifted from hand to hand, till John Krinken took it into his head, years ago, to make a sort of cork jacket of me, with one or two of my companions; and I have been tumbling about in his possession ever since. He has done for me now. I am prettier than I ever was before, but I shall never be of any use again. I shall try the water, I suppose, again a few times for your pleasure, and then probably I shall try the fire, for the same.”

“The fire! No, indeed,” said Carl. “I’m not going to burn you up. I am going to see you sail this minute, since you won’t do anything else. You old stocking, you may wait till I come back. I don’t believe you’ve got much of a story.”

And Carl sprang up and went forthwith to the beach, to find a quiet bit of shallow water in some nook where it would be safe to float his cork boat. But the waves were beating pretty high that day, and the tide coming in, and, altogether there was too much commotion on the beach to suit the little ‘Santa Claus,’ as he had named her. So Carl discontentedly came back, and set up the little boat to dry, and turned him to the old stocking.

THE STOCKING’S STORY

“It’s too bad!” said Carl. “I’ve heard six stories and a little piece, and now there’s nothing left but this old stocking!”

“I believe I will not tell you my story at all,” said the stocking.

“But you shall,” said Carl, “or else I will cut you all up into little pieces.”

“Then you certainly will never hear it,” said the stocking.

“Well now”—said Carl. “What a disagreeable old stocking you are. Why don’t you begin at once?”

“I am tired of being always at the foot”—said the stocking;—“as one may say, at the fag end. And besides your way of speaking is not proper. I suppose you have been told as much before. This is not the way little boys used to speak when I was knit.”

“You are only a stocking,” said Carl.

“Everything that is worth speaking to at all, is worth speaking to politely,” replied the stocking.

“I can’t help it”—said Carl,—“you might tell me your story then. I’m sure one of my own red stockings would tell its story in a minute.”

“Yes,” said the grey stocking; “and the story would be, ‘Lived on little Carl’s foot all my life, and never saw anything.’”

“It wouldn’t be true then,” said Carl, “for I never wear ’em except on Sundays. Mother says she can’t afford it.”

“Nobody afforded it once,” said the stocking. “My ancestors were not heard of until ten or eleven hundred years ago, and then they were made of leather or linen. And then people wore cloth hose; and then some time in the sixteenth century silk stockings made their appearance in England. But there was never a pair of knit woollen stockings until the year 1564.”

“I say,” said Carl, “do stop—will you? and go on with your story.” And putting his hand down into the old stocking, he stretched it out as far as he could on his little fingers.

“You’d better amuse yourself in some other way,” said the stocking. “If my yarn should break, it will be the worse for your story.”

“Well why don’t you begin then?” said Carl, laying him down again.

“It’s not always pleasant to recount one’s misfortunes,” said the stocking. “And I have come down in the world sadly. You would hardly think it, I dare say, but I did once belong to a very good family.”

“So you do now,” said Carl. “There never was anybody in the world better than my mother; and father’s very good too.”

“Yes,” said the stocking again,—“Mrs. Krinken does seem to be quite a respectable sort of woman for her station in life,—very neat about her house, and I presume makes most excellent chowder. But you see, where I used to live, chowder had never even been heard of. I declare,” said the stocking, “I can hardly believe it myself,—I think my senses are getting blunted. I have lain in that chest so long with a string of red onions, that I have really almost forgotten what musk smells like! But my Lady Darlington always fainted away if anybody mentioned onions, so of course the old Squire never had them on the dinner table even. A fine old gentleman he was: not very tall, but as straight almost as ever; and with ruddy cheeks, and hair that was not white but silver colour. His hand shook a little sometimes, but his heart never—and his voice was a clear as a whistle. His step went cheerily about the house and grounds, although it was only to the music of his walking-stick; and music that was, truly, to all the poor people of the neighbourhood. His stick was like him. He would have neither gold nor silver head to it, but it was all of good English oak,—the top finely carved into a supposed likeness of Edward the Confessor.

“As for my lady, she was all stateliness,—very beautiful too, or had been; and the sound of her dress was like the wings of a wild bird.”

“I think I shall like to hear this story,” said Carl, settling himself on his box and patting his hands together once or twice.

“I dare say you will,” said the stocking,—“when I tell it to you. However– Well–”

“A great many years ago it was Christmas-eve at Squire Darlington’s, and the squire sat alone in his wide hall. Every window was festooned with ivy leaves and holly, which twisted about the old carving and drooped and hung round the silver sconces, and thence downward towards the floor. The silver hands of the sconces held tall wax candles, but they were not lit. The picture frames wore wreaths, from which the old portraits looked out gloomily enough,—not finding the adornment so becoming as they had done a century or so before; and even the Squire’s high-backed chair was crowned with a bunch of holly berries. There was no danger of their being in his way, for he rarely leaned back in his chair, but sat up quite straight, with one hand on his knee and the other on the arm of the chair. On that particular evening his hand rested on me; for I and my companion stocking had been put on for the first time.”

“I don’t see how he could get his hand on his stocking,” said Carl, “if he sat up. Look—I couldn’t begin to touch mine.”

“You needn’t try to tell me anything about stockings,” replied that article of dress somewhat contemptuously. “I know their limits as well as most people. But in those days, Master Carl, gentlemen wore what they called small-clothes—very different from your new-fangled pantaloons.”

“I don’t wear pantaloons,” said Carl,—“I wear trousers.” But the stocking did not heed the interruption.