Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘Yes, and another for your tea; and then you will have two left for breakfast and tea to-morrow.’

“‘But then you won’t have any of it,’ said Mark.

“‘I don’t want any.’

“‘But you must have it,’ said Mark. ‘Now I’ll tell you, mother. I’ll drink a tumblerful this morning, and you shall put some in your tea; and to-night I’ll drink some more, and you’ll have cream, real cream; and what’s left I’ll drink to-morrow.’

“‘Very well,’ said his mother. ‘But now you must run and get washed and dressed, for breakfast is almost ready. I have made you a little shortcake, and it’s baking away at a great rate in the spider.’

“‘What’s shortcake made of?’ said Mark, stopping with the door in his hand.

“‘This is made of flour and water, because I had nothing else.’

“‘Well don’t you set the table,’ said Mark, ’because I’ll be back directly; and then I can talk to you about the milk while I’m putting on your cup and my tumbler and the plates.’

“It would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his tumbler of milk,—how slowly he drank it—how careful he was not to leave one drop in the tumbler; while his interest in the dish of milk in the closet was quite as deep. Jack did not go oftener to see how his bean grew, than did Mark to see how his cream rose.

“Then he set out to go with his mother to church.

“The influence of the dish of milk was not quite so strong when he was out of the house,—so many things spoke of other people’s dinners that Mark half forgot his own breakfast. He thought he never had seen so many apple-trees, nor so many geese and turkeys, nor so many pumpkins, as in that one little walk to church. Again and again he looked up at his mother to ask her sympathy for a little boy who had no apples, nor geese, nor pumpkin pies; but something in the sweet quiet of her face made him think of the psalm he had read last night, and Mark was silent. But after a while his mother spoke.

“‘There was once a man, Mark, who had two springs of water near his dwelling. And the furthest off was always full, but the near one sometimes ran dry. He could always fetch as much as he wanted from the further one, and the water was by far the sweetest: moreover he could if he chose draw out the water of the upper spring in such abundance that the dryness of the lower should not be noticed.’

“‘Were they pretty springs?’ said Mark.

“‘The lower one was very pretty,’ replied his mother, ‘only the sunbeams sometimes made it too warm, and sometimes an evil-disposed person would step in and muddy it; or a cloudy sky made it look very dark. Also the flowers which grew by its side could not bear the frost. But when the sun shone just right, it was beautiful.’

“‘I don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,’ said Mark.

“‘No, it was very natural; though if one drank too much of the water it was apt to make him sick. But the other spring–’ and the widow paused, while her cheek flushed and on her lips weeping and rejoicing were strangely mingled.

“‘There was ‘a great Rock,’ and from this ’the cold flowing waters’ came in a bright stream that you could rather hear than see; yet was the cup always filled to the very brim if it was held there in patient trust, and no one ever knew that spring to fail,—yea in the great droughts it was fullest. And the water was life-giving.

“‘But this man often preferred the lower spring, and would neglect the other when this was full; and if forced to seek the Rock, he was often weary of waiting for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a few drops. And he never learned to love the upper spring as he ought, until one year when the very grass by the lower spring was parched, and he fled for his life to the other. And then it happened, Mark,’ said his mother looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, ’that when the water at last began slowly to come into the lower spring, though it was very lovely and sweet and pleasant it never could be loved best again.’

“‘Mother,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t know exactly what you mean, and I do know a little, too.’

“‘Why my dear,’ said his mother, ‘I mean that when we lack anything this world can give, we must fetch the more from heaven.’

“‘You love heaven very much, don’t you mother?’ said Mark, looking up at her quite wonderingly.

“‘More than you love me.’

“Mark thought that was hardly possible; but he didn’t like to contradict his mother, and besides they were now at the church-door, and had to go right in and take their seats. Mark thought the clergyman chose the strangest text that could be for Thanksgiving-day,—it was this,—

“‘There is nothing at all, beside this manna, before our eyes.’

“When church was over, and Mark and his mother were walking home again, they were overtaken by little Tom Crab.

“‘Come,’ said little Tom—‘let’s go sit on the fence and eat apples. We sha’n’t have dinner to-day till ever so late, ’cause it takes so long to get it ready; and I’m so hungry. What are you going to have for dinner?’

“‘I don’t know,’ said Mark.

“‘I know what we’re going to have,’ said Tom, ’only I can’t remember everything. It makes me worse than ever to think of it. Come—let’s go eat apples.’

“‘I haven’t got any,’ said Mark.

“‘Haven’t got any!’ said Tom, letting go of Mark’s elbow and staring at him—for the idea of a boy without apples had never before occurred to any of Mr. Crab’s family. ‘O you mean you’ve eaten up all you had in your pocket?’

“‘No,’ said Mark, ‘we haven’t had any this year. Last year Mr. Smith gave us a basketful.’

“‘Well come along and I’ll give you some,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got six, and I guess three’ll do me till dinner. O Mark! you ought to see the goose roasting in our kitchen! I’ll tell you what—I guess I may as well give you the whole six, ’cause I can run home and get some more; and I might as well be home, too, for they might have dinner earlier than they meant to.’

“And filling Mark’s pockets out of his own, Tom ran off.

“It so happened,” said Beachamwell turning herself round with a tired air when she got to this point in her story—“it so happened, that Mark having stopped so long to talk with Tommy Crab, did not get home till his mother had her things off and the tablecloth on; and then being in a great hurry to help her, and a rather heedless little boy besides; there being moreover but one table in the room, Mark laid his six apples upon the sill of the window which was open. For it was a soft autumn day—the birds giving another concert in the still air, and the sunshine lying warm and bright upon everything. The apples looked quite brilliant as they lay in the window, and as Mark eat his queer little Thanksgiving dinner of bread and a bit of corned beef, he looked at them from time to time with great pleasure.

“But when it was almost time for the apples to come on table as dessert, Mark suddenly cried out,

“‘Mother! where are my six apples?’

“‘Why on the window-sill,’ said his mother.

“‘There aren’t but five! there aren’t but five!’ said Mark. ‘I must have lost one coming home!—no I didn’t either.’ And running to the window, Mark looked out. There lay the sixth apple on the ground, appropriated as the Thanksgiving dinner of his mother’s two chickens.

“Mark could hardly keep from crying.

“‘It’s too bad!’ he said—‘when I hadn’t but just six! The ugly things!’

“‘You called them beauties this morning,’ said his mother.

“‘But just see my apple!’ said Mark—‘all dirty and pecked to pieces.’

“‘And just see my little boy,’ said his mother—‘all red and angry. Did you suppose, my dear, that if apples rolled off the window-sill they would certainly fall inside?’

“‘I guess I’ll never put anything there any more,’ said Mark, gathering up the five apples in his arms and letting them all fall again. But they fell inside this time, and rolled over the floor.

“‘You had better decide how many apples you will eat just now,’ said Mrs. Penly, ‘and then put the others away in the closet.’

“‘It’s too bad!’ said Mark. ‘I hadn’t but six. And I thought you would have three and I’d have three.’

“‘Well you may have five,’ said his mother smiling—‘the chickens have got my part. And maybe some good will come of that yet, if it only teaches you to be careful.’

“Oddly enough,” said Beachamwell, “some good did come of it. When the chickens pecked the apple to pieces the seeds fell out, and one seed crept under a clover leaf where the chickens could not find it. And when the snow had lain all winter upon the earth, and the spring came, this little seed sprouted and grew, and sent down roots and sent up leaves, and became an apple-tree.”

“How soon?” said Carl.

“O in the course of years—by the time Mark was a big boy. And the tree blossomed and bore fruit; and from that time Mark and his mother never wanted for apples. He called it the ‘Thanksgiving Tree,’ but it was a true Beachamwell, for all that.”