Anna Bartlett Warner - Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

Carl started right up in bed, and looked between the sheets, and over the counterpane, and behind the head-board—there was nothing to be seen. Then he shook the stocking as hard as he could, but something in it struck his other hand pretty hard too. Carl laid it down and looked at it again, and then cautiously putting in his hand, he with some difficulty found his way to the very toe,—there lay the red cent, just where it had been all the time, upon the biggest of the red darns.

“A red cent!” cried Carl. “O I guess it was you talking, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said the red cent. “But I can talk.”

“Do you know where you came from?” said Carl, staring at the red cent with all his eyes.

“Certainly,” said the cent.

“I dreamed that everything in my stocking told me a story,” said Carl.

“So we will,” said the red cent. “Only to you. To nobody else.”

Carl shook his head very gravely, and having slipped the red cent into the little old purse, he put everything into the stocking again and jumped out of bed. For the drift-wood fire was blazing up to the very top of the little fire-place, and breakfast was almost ready upon the old chest.

But as soon as breakfast was over, Carl carried the stocking to one corner of the hut where stood another old chest; and laying out all his treasures thereon, he knelt down before it.

“Now begin,” he said. “But you mustn’t all talk at once. I guess I’ll hear the apples first, because I might want to eat ’em up. I don’t care which of them begins.”

“I assume to myself the task of relating our joint history,” said the largest of the three apples, “because I am perhaps the fairest minded of us all. The judgment and experience of my younger sister, Half-ripe, are as yet immature; and my little brother Knerly is unfortunately of a somewhat sour disposition, and therefore less likely to represent things in a pleasant light. My own name is Beachamwell.”

At this opening the two smaller apples rolled over in an uncomfortable sort of way, but said nothing.

“As for me,” continued Beachamwell, “I have not only been favoured with a southern exposure, but I have also made the most of whatever good influences were within my reach; and have endeavoured to perfect myself in every quality that an apple should have. You perceive not only the fine rounding of my shape, but also the perfect and equal colour of my cheeks. My stem is smooth and erect, and my eye precisely in a line with it; and if I could be cut open this minute I should be found true to my heart’s core. I am also of a very tender disposition, being what is usually called thin-skinned; and a very slight thing would make a permanent and deep impression. My behaviour towards every one has always been marked by the most perfect smoothness, and on intimate acquaintance I should be found remarkably sweet and pleasant.”

“You’d better not say any more about yourself at present, Beachamwell,” said Carl, “because I might eat you up before you got through your story, and that would be bad. Let’s hear about Half-ripe and Knerly.”

“My sister Half-ripe,” said Beachamwell, “though with the same natural capabilities as myself, has failed to improve them. Instead of coming out into the warm and improving society of the sun and the wind, she has always preferred to meditate under the shade of a bunch of leaves; and though in part she could not help doing credit to her family, you will perceive that her time has been but half improved,—it is only one of her cheeks that has the least proper colour, while the other displays the true pale green tint of secluded study; and even the seeds of influence and usefulness within her are but half matured; but mine will be found as dark as–”

“As the chimney-back?” suggested Carl.

“They are not exactly that colour,” replied Beachamwell,—“being in fact more like mahogany.”

“Well I never saw any of that,” said Carl, “so you don’t tell me much. Never mind, I shall know when I cut you up. Now be quick and tell about Knerly; and then give me all the history of your great, great, great grandfather apple.”

“Knerly,” said Beachamwell, “was a little cross-grained from the very bud. Before he had cast off the light pink dress which as you know we apples wear in our extreme youth, the dark spot might be seen. It is probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have said, some hardness of heart and sourness of disposition. As you see, he has not softened under the sun’s influence, though exposed to it all his life; and it is doubtful whether he ever attains a particle of the true Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll go all round. Come, go on.”

“Unfortunately,” said Beachamwell, “I cannot give the information which you desire about my respected and venerable ancestors. The pedigree of apples is not always well preserved, and in general the most we can boast of is the family name: nor is that often obtained except by engrafting upon a very different stock. For one generation back, however, we may claim to be true Beachamwells. From root to twig the parent tree was the right stuff. The remarkable way in which this came about I am happily able to tell you.

“A number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her.

“‘I wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,’ said he.

“‘Why so we will,’ said his mother.

“‘But how?’ said Mark, with a very brightened face. ‘What will you do, mother?’

“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said Mrs. Penly.

“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling again: ‘there aren’t even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies, didn’t you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?’

“‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memory’s troupe was just then performing.

“‘So what will you do, mother?’ repeated little Mark, when he had watched her again for a few minutes.

“‘Do?’ said the widow, rousing herself. ‘Why my dear if we cannot make any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.’

“‘I don’t think one can keep Thanksgiving without anything ,’ said Mark, a little fretfully.

“‘Oh no,’ said his mother, ‘neither do I; but we will think about it, dear, and do the best we can. And now you may read to me while I mend this hole in your stocking. Read the hundred and third Psalm.’

“So Mark got his little Bible and began to read,—

“‘ Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies– ’

“‘Don’t you think, Mark,’ said his mother, ’that we could keep Thanksgiving for at least one day with only such blessings as these?’

“‘Why yes,’ said Mark, ‘I suppose we could, mother—though I wasn’t thinking of that.’

“‘No, of course not,’ said his mother; ‘and that is the very reason why we so often long for earthly things: we are not thinking of the heavenly blessings that God has showered upon us.’

“‘But mother,’ said Mark, not quite satisfied, ’it goes on to say,—

“‘ Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s. ’