Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

THE STORY OF THE PURSE

“I don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life, and I am tired of it.”

The purse looked very snappish.

“Why you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “but one may be tired of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“My life is a failure.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“It means that I never have been able to do what I was meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying to do.”

“What’s that?” said Carl.

“Keep money.”

“You shall keep my cent for me,” said Carl.

“Think of that! A red cent! Anything might hold a red cent. I am of no use in the world.”

“Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“to carry my cent.”

“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.

“No, I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full.”

“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one cent. You might as well have none.”

“No, I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you’ve got to keep it: and you’ve got to tell me your story, too.”

“Maybe you’ll lose me,” said the purse. “I wish your mother had.”

“No, I sha’n’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up his two legs on each side of the purse and slapped them down in the sand again;—“I sha’n’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That’s the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a big fancy-store in London,” the purse began.

“Where were you before that?” said Carl.

“I was in one or two rooms where such things are made, and where I was made.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.”

“What are you made of?” said Carl shortly.

“I am made of sealskin, the sides, and my studs and clasp are silver.”

“Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know?” said the purse.

“I didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“I don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that big shop?”

“I did nothing. I lay in a drawer, shut up with a parcel of other purses.”

“Were they all sealskin, with silver clasps?”

“Some of them; and some were morocco and leather, with steel clasps.”

“I’m glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone again.

“I feel very dull now,” said the purse. “But in those days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome. My sides were a beautiful bright red.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit now.”

“That’s because I have been rubbed about in the world till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse, and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl.

“If you don’t shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“I won’t,” said Carl. “And you’ve got to go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”