Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘Why of gold, mamma.’

“‘Think again.’

“So Nanny thought and couldn’t think—and laid her head against her mother, and played with the little gold dollar. Then she laid it upon me to see how much smaller it was, and how much brighter. Then she cried out,—

“‘O I know now, mamma! it’s made of a hundred cents.’

“‘Then if every day you lose ‘only a cent,’ in one year you would have lost more than three dollars and a-half. That might do a great deal of good in the world.’

“‘How funny that is!’ said Nanny. ‘Well I’ll try and not lose my cent, mamma.’

“‘There is another reason for not losing it,’ said her mother. ‘In one sense it would make little difference whether or not I threw this little gold dollar into the fire—you see there are plenty more in my purse. But Nanny they do not belong to me.’ And taking up a Bible she read these words,—

“‘The silver and gold are the Lord’s.’

“‘Do you think, Nanny, that it pleases him to have us waste or spend foolishly what he has given us to do good with?’

“‘No mamma. I won’t get my beads then,’ said Nanny with a little sigh.

“‘That would not be waste,’ said her mother kissing her. ‘It is right to spend some of our money for harmless pleasure, and we will go and buy the beads this very afternoon.’

“So after dinner they set forth.

“It was a very cold day, but Nanny and her mother were well wrapped up, so they did not feel it much. Nanny’s fur tippet kept all the cold wind out of her neck, and her little muff kept one hand warm while the other was given to her mamma. When that got cold Nanny changed about, and put it in the muff and the other out. As for me I was in the muff all the time; and I was just wondering to myself what kind of a person the bead-woman would prove to be, when I heard Nanny say,—

“‘Mamma! did you see that little girl on those brown steps? She had no tippet, mamma, and not even a shawl, and her feet were all tucked up in her petticoat; and–’ and Nanny’s voice faltered—‘I think she was crying. I didn’t look at her much, for it made me feel bad, but I thought so.’

“‘Mamma! did you see that little girl on those brown steps?’”—P. 53.

“‘Yes love,’ said her mother, ‘I saw her. How good God has been to me, that it is not my little daughter who is sitting there.’

“‘O mamma!’

“Nanny walked on in silence for about half a block—then she spoke again.

“‘Mamma—I’m afraid a great many poor children want things more than I want my beads.’

“‘I’m afraid they do, Nanny.’

“‘Mamma, will you please go back with me and let me give that little girl my red cent? wouldn’t she be pleased, mamma? would she know how to spend it?’

“‘Suppose you spend it for her, Nanny. People that are cold are often hungry too—shall we go to the baker’s and buy her something to eat?’

“‘O yes!’ said Nanny. ‘Will you buy it, mamma, or shall I?’

“‘You, darling.’

“And when they reached the shop Nanny looked round once more at her mother, and opening the shop-door with a very pleased and excited little face she marched up to the counter.

“‘If you please, sir,’ she said, laying me down on the counter. ‘I want something for a very poor little girl.’

“The baker was a large fat man, in the whitest of shirt-sleeves and aprons, and the blackest pantaloons and vest, over which hung down a heavy gold watch-chain. He put his hands on his sides and looked at Nanny, and then at me, and then at Nanny again.

“‘What do you want, my dear?’ said he.

“Nanny looked round at her mother to reassure herself, and repeated her request.

“‘I want something for a very poor little girl, if you please, sir. She’s sitting out in the street all alone.’ And Nanny’s lips were trembling at the remembrance. Her mother’s eyes were full too.

“‘What will you have, my dear?’ said the baker.

“Nanny looked up at her mother.

“‘What would you like if you were hungry?’ replied her mother.

“‘O I should like some bread,’ said Nanny, ’and I guess the little girl would, too. But all those loaves are too big.’

“‘How would these do?’ said the baker, taking some rolls out of a drawer.

“‘O they’re just the thing!’ said Nanny, ’and I like rolls so much. May I take one sir? and is a cent enough to pay for it?’

“The baker gave a queer little shake of his head, and searching below the counter for a bit of wrapping-paper he laid the two largest rolls upon it.

“‘A cent is enough to pay for two,’ he said. ‘Shall I tie them up for you?’

“‘No thank you sir; you needn’t tie it—if you’ll only wrap them up a little. Mamma,’ said Nanny, turning again to her mother, ‘I’m afraid that poor little girl don’t know that ‘the silver and gold are the Lord’s,’ and she’ll only think that I gave it to her.’

“‘You can tell her, Nanny, that everything we have comes from God,’ said her mother; and they left the shop.”

“What a nice little girl!” said Carl. “I think I should like to marry that little girl when I grow up—if I was good enough.”

“The baker went right into the back room,” continued the red cent, “to tell the story to his wife, and I was left to my own reflections on the counter; but I had reason to be well satisfied, for it was certainly the largest cent’s worth I had ever bought in my life. But while I lay there thinking about it, a boy came into the shop; and seeing me, he caught me up and ran out again. At least he was running out, when he tripped and fell; and, as I am noted for slipping through people’s fingers, I slipped through his, and rolled to the furthest corner of the shop. There I lay all night; and in the morning when the baker’s boy was sweeping the floor, he found me and put me in the till, for he was honest. But just then Mr. Krinken came in with a string of fish, and the careless creature gave me with some other change for a parcel of miserable flounders. That’s the way I came here.”

“Why was he a careless boy?” said Carl. “I think he was very careful, to find you at all.”

“O because I didn’t want to quit the baker, I suppose,” said the red cent. “And I don’t like the smell of fish, anyhow—it don’t agree with me.”

“You won’t smell much of it when I’ve kept you awhile in my purse,” said Carl. “I’ll take good care of you, red cent, and I won’t spend you till I want to.”

The next day Carl had tired himself with a run on the sands. He used to tuck up his trowsers as high as they would go, and wade slowly in through the deepening water, to pick up stones and shells and feel the little waves splash about his legs. Then when a bigger wave than usual came rolling in, black and high, to break further up on the shore than the other great waves did, Carl would run for it, shouting and tramping through the water, to see if he could not get to land before the breaker which came rolling and curling so fast after him. Sometimes he did; and sometimes the billow would curl over and break just a little behind him, and a great sea of white foam would rush on over his shoulders and maybe half hide his own curly head. Then Carl laughed louder than ever. He didn’t mind the wetting with salt water. And there was no danger, for the shore was very gently shelving and the sand was white and hard; and even if a big wave caught him up off his feet and cradled him in towards the shore, which sometimes happened, it would just leave him there, and never think of taking him back again; which the waves on some beaches would certainly do.

All this used to be in the summer weather; at Christmas it was rather too cold to play tag with the breakers in any fashion. But Carl liked their company, and amused himself in front of them, this sunny December day, for a long time. He got tired at last, and then sat himself flat down on the sand, out of reach of the water, to rest and think what he would do next. There he sat, his trowsers still tucked up as far as they would go, his little bare legs stretched out towards the water, his curls crisped and wetted with a dash or two of the salt wave, and his little ruddy face, sober and thoughtful, pleasantly resting, and gravely thinking what should be the next play. Suddenly he jumped up, and the two little bare feet pattered over the sand and up on the bank, till he reached the hut.

“What ails the child!” exclaimed Mrs. Krinken.

But Carl did not stop to tell what. He made for the cupboard, and climbed up on a chair and lugged forth with some trouble, from behind everything, a clumsy wooden box. This box held his own treasures and nobody else’s. A curious boxful it was. Carl soon picked out his Christmas purse; and without looking at another thing shut the box, pushed it back, swung to the cupboard door, and getting down from his chair ran back, purse in hand, the way he came, the little bare feet pattering over the sand, till he reached the place where he had been sitting; and then down he sat again just as he was before, stretched out his legs towards the sea, and put the purse down on the sand between them.

“Now purse,” said he, “I’ll hear your story. Come,—tell.”