Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“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.

“‘Please sir to let me have a cent’s worth of tea?’ she said timidly.

“‘Got sixpence to pay for it?’ said one of the clerks to make the other clerks laugh, in which he succeeded.

“‘No sir, I’ve got this,’ she said, modestly showing me, and giving me a kind glance at the same time. ‘It’s only a cent, but it will get enough for mother, and she’s sick and wanted some tea so much.’

“The young men stopped laughing, and looked at the child as if she had just come out of the museum; and one of them taking down a canister measured out two or three good pinches of tea into a brown paper and folded it up. The child took it with a very glad face, laying me down on the counter with a joyful ‘Thank you, sir!’ which I by no means repeated—I wanted to go home with her and see that tea made. But we red cents can never know the good that our purchases do in the world.

“The clerk took me up and balanced me upon his finger, as if he had half a mind to give the child back her money, and pay the sum of one cent into the store out of his own private purse. But habit prevailed; and dropping me into the till I heard him remark as he closed it,—

“‘I say, Bill, I shouldn’t wonder now if that was a good child.’

“I shouldn’t have wondered, either.

“We were a dull company in the till that night, for most of the money was old; and it is a well-known fact that worn-down coins are not communicative. And some of the pieces were rusty through long keeping, and one disconsolate little sixpence which sat alone in the furthest corner of the till, was in a very sad state of mind; for he had just laid himself out to buy some rice for a poor family and now could do nothing more for them—and he was the last monied friend they had.

“In this inactive kind of life some time passed away, and though some of us were occasionally taken to market yet we never bought anything. But one evening a man came into the grocery and asked for starch, and we hoped for bright visiters; but I had no time to enjoy them, for I was sent to make change. The messenger was a manservant, and with the starch in his hand and me in his pocket he soon left the store and went whistling along the street. Then he put his other hand into the pocket and jingled me against the rest of the change in a most unpleasant manner—picking me up and dropping me again just as if red cents had no feeling. I was glad when he reached home, and ran down the area steps and into the kitchen. He gave the starch to the cook, and then marking down on a little bit of paper what he had bought and what he had spent, he carried it with the change into the parlour. But what was my surprise to find that I was in the very same house whence I had gone forth as a golden eagle!

“The old gentleman was asleep in his chair now, and a pretty-looking lady sat by, reading; while the little girl was playing with her doll on the rug. She jumped up and came to the table, and began to count the change.

“‘Two-and-sixpence, mamma—see, here’s a shilling and two sixpences and a fivepence and a red cent,—mamma, may I have this cent?’

“‘It isn’t mine, Nanny—your grandfather gave James the money.’

“‘Well, but you can pay him again,’ said the child; ‘and besides, he’d let me have it, I know.’

“‘What will you do with it, Nanny?’

“‘Don’t you know, mamma, you said you thought you would give me one cent a month to spend?’

“‘To do what you liked with,’ said her mother. ‘Yes, I remember. But what will you do with this one?’

“‘O I don’t know, mamma—I’ll see if grandpa will let me have it.’

“‘Let you have what?’ said the old gentleman, waking up.

“‘This cent, grandpa.’

“‘To be sure you may have it! Of course!—and fifty more.’

“‘No, she must have but one,’ said the lady, with a smile. ‘I am going to give her an allowance of one cent a-month.’

“‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ said the old gentleman. ‘What can she do with that, I should like to know?—one red cent!—Absurd!’

“‘Why she can do just the fiftieth part of what she could with half-a-dollar,’ said the lady, ‘and that will be money matters enough for such a little head. So you may take the cent, Nanny, and spend it as you like,—only I shall want to be told about it afterwards.’

“Nanny thanked her mother, and holding me fast in one hand she sat down on the rug again by her doll. The old gentleman seemed very much amused.

“‘What will you do with it, Nanny?’ he said, bending down to her.—‘Buy candy?’

“Nanny smiled and shook her head.

“‘No, I guess not, grandpa—I don’t know—I’ll see. Maybe I’ll buy beads.’

“At which the old gentleman leaned back in his chair and laughed very heartily.

“From that time, whenever little Nanny went to walk I went too; and she really seemed to be quite fond of me, for though she often stopped before the candy stores or the toy shops, and once or twice went in to look at the beads, yet she always carried me home again.

“‘Mamma, I don’t know how to spend my red cent,’ she said one day.

“‘Are you tired of taking care of it, Nanny?’

“‘No mamma, but I want to spend it.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Why mamma—I don’t know—money’s meant to spend, isn’t it?’

“‘Yes, it is meant to spend—not to throw away.’

“‘O no,’ said Nanny,—‘I wouldn’t throw away my red cent for anything. It’s a very pretty red cent.’

“‘How many ways are there of throwing away money?’ said her mother.

“‘O mamma—a great many! I couldn’t begin to count. You know I might throw it out of the window, mamma, or drop it in the street—or somebody might steal it,—no, then it would only be lost.’

“‘Or you might shut it up in your box and never spend it.’

“‘Why mamma!’ said Nanny opening her eyes very wide, ‘would it be thrown away then?’

“‘Certainly—you might just as well have none. It would do neither you nor any one else any good.’

“‘But I should have it to look at.’

“‘But that is not what money was made for. Your cent would be more really lost than if you threw it out of the window, for then some poor child might pick it up.’

“‘How surprised she would be!’ said Nanny with a very bright face. ‘Mamma, I think I should like to spend my money so. I could stand behind the window-curtain and watch.’

“Her mother smiled.

“‘Why, mamma? do you think there wouldn’t any poor child come along?’

“‘I should like to see that day, dear Nanny. But your cent might fall into the grass in the courtyard, or into the mud, or a horse might tread it down among the paving-stones; and then no one would be the better for it.’

“‘But it’s only one cent, mamma,’ said Nanny,—‘it don’t matter so much, after all.’

“‘Come here Nanny,’ said her mother, and the child came and stood at her side. The lady opened her purse and took out a little gold dollar.

“‘What is this made of?’ said she.

“‘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.”