Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“But say!” exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beachamwell’s stem in his great interest, “Mark isn’t alive now, is he?”

“No,” said Beachamwell, twisting away from Carl and her stem together. “No, he is not alive now, but the tree is, and it belongs to Mark’s grandson. And the other day he picked a whole wagon-load of us and set off to market; and we three were so tired jolting about that we rolled out and lay by the wayside. That’s where your mother found us.”

“Well that is certainly a very pretty story,” said Carl, “but nevertheless I’m glad my stocking was full. But I will let you Beachamwell and Half-ripe and Knerly lie on the chest and hear the rest of the stories, for I like this one very much.”

Carl was tired sitting still by this time, so he went out and ran about on the beach till dinner; and after dinner he went up to his corner again. The sun came in through the little window, look-askance at Carl’s treasures, and giving a strange, old-fashioned air to purse and book and stocking. The shoes looked new yet, and shone in their blacking, and the apples had evidently but just quitted the tree; while the red cent gleamed away in the fair light, and the old pine cone was brown as ever, and reflected not one ray. Carl handled one thing and another, and then his eye fell on his small portion of money. He might want to spend it!—therefore if the cent could do anything, it must be done at once; and as he thought on the subject, the sun shone in brighter and brighter, and the red cent looked redder and redder. Then the sunbeam fled away, and only a dark little piece of copper lay on the chest by the side of the new shoes.

“Now red cent,” said Carl, “it is your turn. I’ll hear you before the purse, so make haste.”

“Turn me over then,” said the red cent, “for I can’t talk with my back to people.”

So Carl turned him over, and there he lay and stared at the ceiling.

THE STORY OF THE RED CENT

“I cannot begin to relate my history,” said the red cent, “without expressing my astonishment at the small consideration in which I am had. ‘I wouldn’t give a red cent for it—’ ‘It isn’t worth a red cent—’ such are the expressions which we continually hear; and yet truly a man might as well despise the particles of flour that make up his loaf of bread.

“People say it is pride in me—that may be and it may not. But if it be—why shouldn’t a red cent have at least that kind of pride which we call self-respect? I was made to be a red cent, I was wanted to be a red cent, I was never expected to be anything else—therefore why should I be mortified at being only a red cent? I am all that I was intended to be, and a silver dollar can be no more. Pride, indeed! why even Beachamwell here is proud, I dare say, and only because she is not a russeting; while I think– Well, never mind,—but I have bought a good many apples in my day and ought to know something about them. Only a red cent! People can’t bargain so well without me, I can tell you. Just go into the market to buy a cabbage, or into the street to buy a newspaper, and let me stay at home—see how you will fare then. Indeed when there is question of parting with me I am precious enough in some people’s eyes, but it hardly makes up for the abuse I get from other quarters. There is indeed one pretty large class of the community who always think me worth picking up, though they are over ready to part with me. To them alone would I unfold the secrets of my past life. I might have lain in a man’s purse for ever, and rubbed down all the finer parts of my nature against various hard-headed coins; but there is something in the solitude of a boy’s pocket which touches all the sympathies of our nature—even beforehand.

“I am not, however,” continued the red cent, “I am not at all of friend Beachamwell’s temperament,—in fact I never had but one impression made on me in my life. To be sure that was permanent, and such as Time only can efface; though no doubt he will one day soften down my most prominent points, and enable me to move through society with a calm and even exterior. For it happens, oddly enough, that while beneath the pressure of years the ‘human face divine’ grows wrinkled and sometimes sharp, a red cent grows smooth and polished,—a little darker and thinner perhaps than formerly, but with as good business faculties as ever.

“When that time arrives,” said the red cent, “we refuse to tell our age; but until then we are perfectly communicative. I would at once tell you how old I am, but that you can see for yourself.

“I shall not give you a detailed account of my origin, nor of the fire and water through which I passed in order to become a red cent. If when you grow up you are still curious about the matter, you may cross over to England; and there, down in Cornwall, you will find what may be called my birthplace, and can learn with full particulars why I left it. Neither shall I relate how I was pressed and clipped and weighed at the Mint, nor speak of the first few times that I went to market and changed hands. My present history will begin with the pocket of a rich old gentleman, into which I found my way one afternoon along with a large variety of the ‘circulating medium.’”

“You do use such big words!” said Carl.

“Because I have travelled a great deal,” said the red cent. “It is the fashion. But to return to the pocket.

“What a pocket it was!

“At the bottom lay an overfed pocket-book, bursting with bank-bills new and old, while another of like dimensions held more value, snugly stowed away in notes and bonds. The leather purse in which I lay had one end for red cents and the other for gold and silver; but with my usual love of bright company, when the old gentleman slipped me in among a parcel of dingy cents I slipped out again, and ran in among the half-eagles. For I was the only new cent the old gentleman had, and as by right I belonged about half to him and half to the bank, the cashier and he had some words as to which should carry me off. I believe the old gentleman chuckled over me half the way home.

“If this part of my story teaches nothing else,” said the red cent with a moralising air as he stared at the ceiling, “it will at least show the folly of going out of one’s proper place. Had I been content to lodge with the red cents, I should but have been set to do a red cent’s work,—as it was I was made to do the work of an eagle, for which I was totally unfit. It fell out thus.

“The old gentleman walked leisurely home, having very much the air of a man with a pocket full of money,—as I should think from the deliberate and comfortable way in which we were jogged about; and when he rang his own door bell it was already quite dark. A dear little girl opened the door, dressed in a white frock and black apron.

“‘Oh, grandpa,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, because there’s a little boy been waiting here ever so long for ten dollars.’

“‘Well my dear,’ said the old gentleman, ‘ten dollars is worth waiting for.’

“‘But he’s in a great hurry to get home before dark, because he says the children have got no bread for supper till he buys it,’ said the little girl. ‘He brought a pair of boots and shoes for you, grandpa. His father’s very poor, he says.’

“‘Is he?’ said the old gentleman. ‘Then I’m afraid my boots won’t be worth much. However Nanny my dear, you may take him the money for ’em, since they’re here.’

“‘Shall I fetch you a light, grandpa?’ said the child. ‘It’s too dark to see.’

“‘No, no—not a bit of it,—I know how ten dollars feels, well enough. He shall have a gold piece—for the first time in his life, I’ll warrant. It is too dark to read bank-bills.’

“And opening the most precious end of his purse, the old gentleman’s unerring thumb and finger drew forth me, and laid me in the little girl’s open palm. The soft little hand closed upon me, and down she ran to the lower entry.

“‘There—’ she said,—‘here it is. Grandpa says he guesses that’s the first gold piece you ever had. Have you got a great many little brothers and sisters?’

“‘This ain’t gold,’ said the boy, too busy examining me to heed her last question. ‘He’s made a mistake—this is only a red cent.’

“‘O well I’ll take it back to him then,’ said the little messenger. ‘I s’pose he couldn’t see in the dark.’ And away she ran.

“The old gentleman by this time was enjoying his slippers and the newspaper, between a blazing fire and two long candles in tall silver candlesticks.

“‘Grandpa,’ said the child laying her hand on his knee, ‘do you know what you did in the dark? you gave that boy a red cent instead of a gold piece—wasn’t it funny?’

“‘Hey! what?’ said the old gentleman, moving his paper far enough to one side to see the little speaker. ‘Gave him a cent instead of a gold piece? nonsense!’

“‘But you did, grandpa,’ urged the child. ‘See here—he gave it right back to me. It was so dark, you know, and he took it to the window to look; and he said directly it was only a cent.’

“‘Which he had kept in his hand for the purpose, I’ll warrant,’ said the old man. ‘Took it to the window, did he?—yes, to slip it into his pocket. He needn’t think to play off that game upon me.’

“‘But only look at it, grandpa,’ said the child; ’see—it’s only a red cent. I’m sure he didn’t change it.’

“‘I don’t want to look at it,’ said he putting away her hand. ‘All stuff, my dear—it was as good an eagle as ever came out of the Mint. Don’t I know the feel of one? and didn’t I take it out of the gold end of my purse, where I never put copper? Bad boy, no doubt—you mustn’t go back to him. Here, William—’

“‘But he looked good, grandpa,’ said the child, ’and so sorry.’

“‘He’ll look sorry now, I’ll be bound,’ said the old man. ‘I say, William!—take this red cent back to that boy, and tell him to be off with it, and not to show his face here again.’

“The command was strictly obeyed; and my new owner after a vain attempt to move the waiter, carried me into the street and sat down on the next door-step. Never in my life have I felt so grieved at being only a red cent, as then.

“The boy turned me over and over, and looked at me and read my date with a bewildered air, as if he did not know what he was doing; and I alas, who could have testified to his honesty, had no voice to speak.

“At length he seemed to comprehend his loss; for dropping me on the pavement he sank his head on his hands, and the hot tears fell fast down from his face upon mine. Then, in a sudden passion of grief and excitement he caught me up and threw me from him as far as he could; and I, who had been too proud to associate with red cents, now fell to the very bottom of an inglorious heap of mud. As I lay there half smothered, I could hear the steps of the boy, who soon repenting of his rashness now sought me—inasmuch as I was better than nothing; but he sought in vain. He couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see him, especially as there was little but lamplight to see by, and he presently walked away.

“I am not good at reckoning time,” said the red cent, “but I should think I might have lain there about a week—the mud heap having in the mean time changed to one of dust; when a furious shower arose one afternoon, or I should rather say came down; and not only were dust and mud swept away, but the rain even washed my face for me, and left me almost as bright as ever high and dry upon a clean paving-stone.

“I felt so pleased and refreshed with being able to look about once more, that what next would become of me hardly cost a thought; and very wet and shiny I lay there, basking in the late sunshine.”

“I thought you said you were high and dry?” said Carl.

“That is a phrase which we use,” replied the red cent. “I was high and dry in one sense,—quite lifted above the little streams of water that gurgled about among the paving-stones, though the rain-drops were not wiped off my face; and as I lay there I suddenly felt myself picked up by a most careful little finger and thumb, which had no desire to get wet or muddy. They belonged to a little girl about ten years old.

“‘You pretty red cent!’ she said, admiringly,—‘how bright and nice you do look! and how funny it is that I should find you—I never found anything before. I wonder how you came here—I hope some poor child didn’t lose you.’

“While she thus expressed her opinion I was busy making up mine, and truly it was a pleasant one. Her calico frock was of an indescribable brown, formed by the fading together of all the bright colours that had once enlivened it,—water and soap and long wear had done this. But water and soap had also kept it clean, and a very little starch spread it out into some shape, and displayed the peculiar brown to the best advantage. Instead of an old straw bonnet with soiled ribbons she had a neat little sun-bonnet; but this was made of a piece of new pink calico, and made her face look quite rosy. I could not see her feet and pantalettes, for my back was towards them, but I have no doubt they were in nice order—she was too nice a child to have it otherwise. Her hair was brushed quite smooth, only when she stooped to pick me up one lock had fallen down from under the sun-bonnet; and her face was as simple and good as it could be. With what contented eyes did she look at me! She didn’t wish I was an eagle—indeed I thought it doubtful whether she had ever heard of such a thing. But I saw that her cheeks were thin, and that they might have been pale but for the pink sun-bonnet. Whatever she meant by ‘a poor child,’ little Nanny would surely have given the name to her.

“Suddenly she exclaimed,—

“‘Now I can get it!—O I’m so glad! Come little red cent, I must give you away, though I should like to keep you very much, for you’re very pretty; but you are all the money I’ve got in the world.’

“‘Now for the candy-store,’ thought I; for as she turned and began to walk away as fast as she could, I peeped into the little basket that hung on her arm and saw there a small loaf of bread—so I knew I was not to go for that commodity. She did not put me in the basket, but kept me fast in her hand as she tripped along, till we came to a large grocery. There she went in.