Anna Bartlett Warner - Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“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.

“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.’