Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘I am not afraid,’ said the cobbler.

“‘‘The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance. He shall not be afraid of evil tidings; his heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord.’—There it is, Sue.’

“‘‘His heart is established; he shall not be afraid, until he see his desire upon his enemies. He hath dispersed, he hath given to the poor; his righteousness endureth for ever; his horn shall be exalted with honour. The wicked shall see it, and be grieved; he shall gnash with his teeth and melt away; the desire of the wicked shall perish.’’

“The cobbler closed the book; and he and his little daughter knelt down, and he prayed for a few minutes; then they covered up the fire, and they went away up-stairs together. And the night was as quiet in that house as in any house in the land.

“The next morning the cobbler and his daughter broiled another fish; but the breakfast was a shorter and less talkative affair than the supper had been. After breakfast the cobbler sat down to his work; but before the shoe was half an hour nearer to being done, Sue appeared at the bottom of the stairs with,—

“‘Father, mother says she wants a piece of one of those fish.’

“The cobbler’s needle stood still.

“‘I don’t believe it is good for her,’ said he.

“‘She says she wants it.’

“‘Well, can’t you put it down, my daughter?’

“‘Yes, father; but she says she wants me to put her room up, and she’s in a great hurry for the fish.’

“Mr. Peg slowly laid his work down. Sue ran up-stairs again, and the cobbler spent another half-hour over the coals and a quarter of a blue fish. Sue came for it, and the cobbler returned to his work again.

“It was a pretty cold day; the wind whistled about and brought the cold in; and every now and then Sue came down and stood at the fire a minute to warm herself. Every time the cobbler stayed his hand and looked up, and looked wistfully at her.

“‘Never mind, father,’ said Sue. ‘It’s only that I am a little cold.’

“‘You’re blue,’ said he.

“And at last Mr. Peg couldn’t stand it. Down went the leather one side of him, and the tools the other; and he went and lugged an armful or two of sticks up-stairs, and built a fire there, in spite of Sue’s begging him to keep on with his work and not mind her.

“‘But we sha’n’t have wood enough, father,’ she said at last gently.

“‘I’ll go o’nights to the beach, and fetch a double quantity,’ said the cobbler;—‘till your mother is able to come down-stairs. That I can do. I can’t bear the other thing, if you can.’

“And Sue stayed up-stairs, and the cobbler wrought after that pretty steadily for some hours. But in the middle of the afternoon came a new interruption. Two men came into the shop, and gave an order or two to the cobbler, who served them with unusual gravity.

“‘When is Court-day, Sheriff?’ he asked, in the course of business.

“‘To-morrow itself, Mr. Peg.’

“‘To-morrow!’ said the cobbler.

“‘What’s the matter? Comes the wrong day? It always does.’

“‘I had forgot all about it,’ said the cobbler. ‘Can’t I be let off, sir?’

“‘From what?’ said the other man.

“‘Why, it’s rather an ugly job, some think,’ returned the sheriff. ‘He’s got to sit on the jury that is to try Simon Ruffin.’

“‘I must beg to be let off,’ said the cobbler, ‘I am not at all able to leave home.’

“‘You must tell the court, then,’ said he who was called the sheriff; ‘but it won’t do any good, I don’t believe. Everybody says the same thing, pretty much; they don’t any of ’em like the job; but you see, this is a very difficult and important case; a great many have been thrown out; it is hard to get just the right men, those that are altogether unobjectionable; and every one knows you, Mr. Peg.’

“‘But my family want me,’ said the cobbler; ’they can’t do without me at home. Can’t you let me go, Mr. Packum?’

“‘Not I,’ said the sheriff; ‘that’s no part of my privilege: you must ask the court, Mr. Peg.’

“‘To-morrow?’ said the cobbler.

“‘Yes, to-morrow; but I tell you beforehand it won’t do any good. What excuse can you make?’

“‘My family want my care,’ said the poor cobbler.

“‘So does every man’s family,’ said the sheriff, with a laugh; ‘he’s a happy man that don’t find it so. You haven’t much of a family, Mr. Peg, have you?—if you had my seven daughters to look after– Well, Mr. Jibbs,—shall we go?’

“They went; and sitting down again in his chair the poor cobbler neglected his work, and bent over it with his head in his hand. At length he got up, put his work away, and left the room. For a while his saw might be heard going at the back of the house; then it ceased, and nothing at all was to be heard for a long time; only a light footstep overhead now and then. The afternoon passed, and the evening came.

“The cobbler was the first to make his appearance. He came in, lighted the fire which had quite died out, and sat down as he had sat before, with his head in his hand. So his little daughter found him. She stepped lightly and he did not hear her till her hand was on his shoulder. Then she asked him what was the matter?

“‘Oh!—nothing that should make me sit so,’ said the cobbler, rousing himself.

“‘We’ve got more fish left yet,’ said Sue.

“‘Yes, dear,—’tisn’t that; but I’ve got to go away to-morrow.’

“‘Away!’ said Sue.

“‘Yes, away to court.’

“‘What for, father?’

“‘Why, they’ve got me down for a juryman, and I’m afraid there’ll be no getting off. The sheriff says there won’t.’

“‘What have you got to do, father?’

“‘Sit on a jury, dear, to decide whether Simon Ruffin is guilty or no.’

“‘Simon Ruffin!—that shot that man!—Oh, father!’

“‘It’s pretty bad,’ said the cobbler.

“‘How long will you be gone?’

“‘I can’t tell at all,’ said the cobbler; ‘maybe a day—a day! they can’t take the evidence in two days. I don’t know whether it will be two or three days, or a week, dear.’

“‘A week—And what shall we do?’ Sue could not help saying.

“‘If I can get off, I will,’ said the cobbler; ‘but in case I can’t, I have or I will have by morning, as much wood as will do till I come back. I have two-and-sixpence besides, which I can leave you, darling; and I can do nothing more but trust.’

“‘Father, isn’t it hard to trust sometimes?’ Sue said with her eyes full of tears. The poor cobbler wrapped her in his arms and kissed them away, but he did not try to answer.

“‘Maybe it won’t do us any harm after all,’ said Sue more brightly;—‘or maybe you will be able to come back, father. Father, you know we are to talk over to-night the things that we have that we can’t be thankful for.’

“‘‘In everything give thanks,’’ said the cobbler.

“‘Yes, father, but it doesn’t say for everything.’

“‘Perhaps not,’ said the cobbler. ‘Well, darling, we’ll see. Let’s have our supper first.’

“‘We’ll have the biggest fish to-night, father.’

“The fish wasn’t just out of the water now, but it was eaten with a good will; not quite so cheerily as the first one the night before; and Sue sighed once or twice as she was putting the dishes away, and didn’t step quite so lightly. Then she came to her former place in her father’s arms, and her head stooped upon his shoulder, and his cheek was laid to her forehead, and so they sat some minutes without speaking.

“‘Come, father,’ said Sue,—‘will you talk?’

“‘Yes, dear. Let us tell over what we have to bear, and see how we can bear it.’

“‘We must go to our ‘upper storehouse’ again for that, father.’

“‘Ay, dear,—always.’

“‘The first thing, I suppose,’ said Sue, ‘is that we haven’t quite money enough.’

“‘We have just what God gives us,’ said the cobbler. ‘I’ll never complain of that.’

“‘Why you never complain of anything, father. But it isn’t pleasant.’

“‘No, dear,’ said the cobbler;—‘and yet if we had money enough, could we trust God as we do? It is a sweet thing to live at his hand directly; to feel that it is feeding us to-day, and to know that it will to-morrow; for, ‘was he ever a wilderness to Israel?’ No, dear; I don’t mean to say that poverty is not hard to bear sometimes; nor I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t give you plenty of everything if I had it to give; but I do say that there is a sweet side even to this.’

“‘Father, our blue fish wouldn’t have tasted as good if we had always had plenty of them.’

“‘I suppose not,’ said the cobbler, with a little bit of a stifled sigh;—‘and maybe we shouldn’t know how to love each other quite so well, Sue.’

“‘O, yes we should!’ said Sue.

“‘I don’t know,’ said the cobbler. ‘I shouldn’t know what my little daughter can do, and bear, if she had not had a chance to shew me.’

“‘Why I don’t have much to bear, father,’ said Sue.

“‘Mother wouldn’t know what a good nurse you can be.’

“‘I wish she hadn’t a chance to know that, father.’

“‘Yes,’ said the cobbler,—‘your mother’s sickness—that seems the hardest evil we have had to do with. It’s not easy to find any present comfort of that; nor any present good; for I am afraid it makes me more impatient than patient. Maybe that’s why I have it. But if we can’t see the reason of a great many things now, we shall by and by. We shall know, Sue, what the reason was. ‘Thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee and to prove thee, to know what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldest keep his commandments or no.’’

“Sue lifted up her head, and her little face was beautiful for the strong patience, and bright trust, and love that was in it. Her eyes were swimming and her lips were speaking, though they only moved to tremble.

“‘We can wait, Sue,’ said the cobbler, gently. Sue laid down her head again.

“‘So it seems we have got the reason of it already,’ Mr. Peg went on, ‘if not the good.’

“‘Maybe we’ve got some of the good too, without knowing it,’ said his little daughter.

“‘Still, well be very glad to have mother get well.’

“‘Oh, won’t we!’ said Sue.

“‘And it will teach us how to be thankful for the common things we forget.’

“There was a little pause.

“‘Then you would like to have me go to school,’ said Sue; ‘and I can’t.’

“‘And if you could I shouldn’t have the pleasure of teaching you myself,’ said the cobbler. ‘I can bear that.’

“‘But then I can’t learn so many things,’ said Sue.

“‘Of one kind you can’t, and of another kind you can,’ said her father. ‘I don’t believe there’s a school-girl in Beachhead that can broil a blue fish as you can.’

“‘O father!—but then you shewed me how.’

“‘Do you think broiling blue fish comes by nature?’ said the cobbler. ‘I can tell you there are many people that can’t learn it at all. And that’s only one of your accomplishments.’

“‘O father!’ said Sue again, smiling a little.

“‘You can nurse a sick mother, and mend a hole in your father’s coat, and put up a room, and make a bed, with anybody.’

“‘Still, father, you’d like to have me go?’

“‘Yes, I would,’ said the cobbler. ‘Maybe I shall never be sorry, by and by, that I couldn’t.’

“‘And then, father,’ said Sue, ‘you can’t get work enough.’

“‘Yes!’ said the cobbler. ‘If I could do that, it would be all smooth. But God could give it to me if it pleased him, and if it don’t please him there must be some reason; can’t we trust him and wait?’

“Sue looked up again, not so brightly as once before; meekly, and rather tearfully.

“‘And then I must leave you to-morrow,’ said her father, kissing her brow;—‘that seems just now the worst of all.’

“‘Maybe you’ll come back again, father,’ said Sue.

“‘I am afraid I shall not—till this trial is over.’

“‘It’s a disagreeable business; isn’t it, father?’

“‘Very disagreeable—as ugly as can be to look at.’

“They were silent awhile.

“‘Maybe there’ll some good come of it, somehow, after all,’ said Sue, in her twilight voice.

“‘Good will be the end of it,’ said the cobbler. ‘There’s a kind hand doing it, and an almighty arm upholding us in it; we shall not be utterly cast down: so we must bear to be poor, and to be sick, and to be separated; and just leave it all with God.’

“‘Father, it’s pleasant to do that,’ said Sue; but you could know by the tone of her words that she was crying a little.

“‘Why, darling, if we are poor, and sick, and in trouble, we have our dear Saviour, and we know that the Lord is our God. We are not poor people,—not we. ‘Having nothing, and yet possessing all things.’ Who would we change with, Sue?’

“She had to wait a little while before she spoke, but then she said,—

“‘I wouldn’t change with anybody.’

“‘No more would I,’ said the cobbler, giving her another kiss.

“And so they went to bed, a couple of very rich poor people.

“But the house looked poor the next day; empty and cold. The cobbler was off betimes; the little breakfast-fire died out; dust lay on the counter; the tools and the unfinished work were here and there; the wind slipped in and slipped out again; and nothing else paid us a visit, except Sue, who once or twice looked in and looked round, as if to see whether her father were there. Once she came into the room and stood a few minutes, with her little brown head and quiet grave face, looking at the ashes in the fire-place, and the neglected work, and her father’s chair, with a wistful sort of eye. It said, or seemed to say, that however she felt last night, she would be very glad to-day if they were not poor, nor sick, nor separated. She looked pale and weary, too; but she did not stay long to rest or think. Her feet could be heard now and then up-stairs. The cobbler did not come home; the night darkened upon just such an afternoon as the morning had been.

“The next day began in the same manner. Towards noon, however, the outer door opened, and in came a puff of fresh cold air, and another visiter, who looked fresh, but not cold at all. It was a boy about thirteen or fourteen; healthy, ruddy, bright-eyed, well-dressed, and exceeding neat in his dress. He came in like one familiar with the place, and took note of all the unusual tokens about, as if he knew well what was usual and what was unusual. He looked at the cold chimney and scattered work; he went to the foot of the stairs and stood listening a moment; and then coming away from there, he loitered about the room, now going to the window and now to the chimney, evidently waiting. He had to wait a good while, but he waited. At last he had what he wanted; for, tired with being up-stairs, or wanting to gather some news from the outer world, Sue slowly came down the stairs and shewed her little face at the stairway door. And almost before it had time to change, the newcomer had called out,—

“‘Sue!’—

“And with an unknown light breaking all over her face, Sue exclaimed, joyously, ‘Roswald!—’ and springing across to him, laid her sweet lips to his with right good will.

“‘O you’ve got back!’ said Sue, with a gladsomeness it did, or would have done, any one’s heart good to hear.

“‘Here I am. Haven’t I been a long while away?’

“‘O so long!’ said Sue.

“‘But what’s the matter here, Sue? what’s become of you all?’

“‘Why mother’s sick, you know,—she hasn’t got well yet; and father’s away.’

“‘Where is he?’

“‘He had to go to court—he had to be a juryman, to try Simon Ruffin.’

“‘When?’

“‘Yesterday morning. And we hoped he would be able to get leave to come away, we wanted him so much; but he hasn’t been able to come.”

“‘He’s been away since yesterday morning. Who’s taking care of you?’

“‘Why, nobody,’ said Sue.

“‘Is there nobody in the house with you?’

“‘Nobody but mother. Father left wood enough all ready.’

“‘Wood enough for how long?’

“‘O for a good many days.’

“‘Aren’t you afraid?’

“‘Why, no, Roswald!’

“‘Who goes to market for you, Sue?’

“‘Nobody.’

“‘What do you live on?’

“‘Oh, people send mother nice things—Mrs. Lucy sent her a whole pail of soup the other day.’

“‘How big a pail?’

“‘Why, Roswald!—I mean a nice little tin pail, so big.’

“‘And do you live on soup too?’

“‘No,’ said Sue.

“‘On what, then?’

“‘O on what there is.’

“‘Exactly. And what is there?’

“‘Mrs. Binch gave father a string of blue fish the other night; and since then I have made porridge.’

“‘What sort of porridge?’

“‘Corn-meal porridge.’

“‘Why, Sue!—do you live on that?’

“‘Why, porridge is very good,’ said Sue, looking at him. But there was a change in his eye, and there came a glistening in hers; and then she threw suddenly her two arms round his neck and burst into a great fit of crying.

“If Roswald had been a man, his arm could not have been put round her with an air of more manly and grave support and protection; and there were even one or two furtive kisses, as if between boyish pride and affection: but affection carried it.

“‘I don’t know what made me cry,’ said Sue at last, rousing herself; after she had had her cry out.

“‘Don’t you?’ said Roswald.

“‘No. It couldn’t have been these things; because father and I were talking about them the other night, and we agreed that we didn’t feel poor at all; at least, of course we felt poor, but we felt rich, too.’

“‘How long have you been living on porridge?’

“‘I don’t know. Have you had a fine time, Roswald?’

“‘Yes, very. I’ll tell you all about it some time, but not now.’

“‘Is Merrytown as pleasant as Beachhead?’

“‘It is more pleasant.’

“‘More pleasant!’ said Sue. ‘Without the beach, and the waves, Roswald!’

“‘Yes, it is; and you’d say so, too. You’d like it better than anybody. There are other things there instead of beach and waves. You shall go down there some time, Sue, and see it.’

“‘I can’t go,’ said Sue meekly.

“‘Not now, but some day. Sue, haven’t you any money?’

“‘I’ve two-and-sixpence, that father gave me; but I was afraid to spend any of it, for fear he or mother might want it for something. I must, though, for I haven’t got but a very little Indian meal.’

“‘Sue, have you had dinner to-day?’

“‘Not yet. I was just coming down to see about it.’

“‘Your mother don’t eat porridge, does she?’

“‘O no. She’s had her dinner.’

“‘Well, will you let me come and eat dinner with you?’

“Sue brought her hands together, with again a flush of great joy upon her face; and then put them in both his.

“‘How good it is you have got back!’ she said.

“‘It will take that porridge a little while to get ready, won’t it?’ said he, beating her hands gently together, and looking as bright as a button.

“‘O yes—it’ll take a little while,’ said Sue. ‘I haven’t got the water boiling yet.’

“‘Have you got meal enough for both of us?’

“‘Yes, I guess so;—plenty.’

“Just then Mrs. Lucy opened the front door and brought her sweet face into the room. She looked a little hard at the two children, and asked Sue how her mother was. Roswald bowed, and Sue answered.

“‘May I go up and see her?’

“Sue gave permission. Mrs. Lucy went up the stairs. Roswald stopped Sue as she was following.

“‘Sue, I’ll go to market for you to-day. Give me twopence of your money, and I’ll get the meal you want.’

“‘O thank you, Roswald!’ said Sue;—‘that will be such a help,—’ and she ran for the pennies, and gave them into his hand.

“‘I’ll be back presently,’ said he; ‘and then I’ll tell you about things. Run up now after Mrs. Lucy.’

“‘I don’t believe I need,’ said Sue; ‘they don’t want anything of me.’

“‘Run up, though,’ said Roswald; ‘maybe Mrs. Lucy will ask your mother too many questions.’

“‘Why, that won’t hurt her,’ said Sue, laughing; but Roswald seemed in earnest, and she went up.

“Immediately Roswald set himself to build a fire. He knew where to go for wood, and he knew how to manage it; he soon had the hearth in order and a fine fire made ready; and it was done without a soil on his nice clothes and white linen. He was gone before Mrs. Lucy and Sue came down, but the snapping and sparkling in the chimney told tales of him.

“‘Why, he has made the fire for me!’ cried Sue, with a very pleased face.

“‘Who made it?’ said the lady.

“‘Roswald.’

“‘That boy that was here when I came?’

“‘Yes, ma’am; he has made it for me.’

“‘Who is he?’

“‘He is Roswald Halifax.’

“‘What, the son of the widow, Mrs. Halifax?’

“‘Yes, ma’am.’

“‘And how came you to know him so well?’

“‘Why, I have always known him,’ said Sue; ‘that is, almost always. I used to know him a great many years ago, when I went to school; and he always used to take care of me, and give me rides on his sleigh, and go on the beach with me; and he always comes here.’

“‘Is he a good boy?’

“‘Yes, ma’am; he’s the best boy in the whole place,’ Sue said, with kindling eyes.

“‘I hope he is,’ said Mrs. Lucy, ‘for he has nobody to manage him but his mother. I fancy he has pretty much his own way.’

“‘It’s a good way,’ said Sue, decidedly. ‘He is good, Mrs. Lucy.’

“‘Does your mother want anything in particular, Sue?’

“Sue hesitated, and looked a little troubled.

“‘Tell me, dear; now, while your father is away, you have no one to manage for you. Let me know what I can do.’

“‘O Roswald would manage for us,’ said Sue;—‘but–’

“‘But what?’

“The lady’s manner and tone were very kind. Sue looked up.

“‘She has nothing to eat, ma’am.’

“‘Nothing to eat!’

“‘No, ma’am; and I’ve only two shillings and sixpence,—two shillings and fourpence, I mean,—to get anything with; and I don’t know what to get. She can’t eat what we can.’

“‘Have you nothing more to depend on but that, my child?’

“‘That’s all the money we have, ma’am.’

“‘And what have you in the house besides? tell me, dear. We are all only stewards of what God gives us; and what you want, perhaps, I can supply.’

“Sue hesitated again.

“‘We haven’t anything, Mrs. Lucy, but a little Indian meal. Roswald is going to buy me some more.’

“‘Are your father’s affairs in so bad a condition, my child?’

“‘He can’t get work, ma’am; if he could, there would be no trouble. And what he does he can’t always get paid for.’

“‘And how long has this been the case, dear?’

“‘A long time,’ said Sue, her tears starting again,—‘ever since a good while before mother fell sick;—a good while before;—and then that made it worse.’

“Mrs. Lucy looked at Sue a minute, and then stooped forward and kissed the little meek forehead that was raised to her; and without another word quitted the house.

“Sue, with a very much brightened face, set about getting her porridge ready; evidently enjoying the fire that had been made for her. She set on her skillet, and stirred in her meal; and when it was bubbling up properly, Sue turned her back to the fire and stood looking and meditating about something. Presently away she went, as if she had made up her mind. There was soon a great scraping and shuffling in the back room, and then in came Sue, pulling after her with much ado a big empty wooden chest, big enough to give her some trouble. With an air of business she dragged it into the middle of the room, where it was established solid and square, after the fashion of a table. Sue next dusted it carefully, and after it the counter and chairs, and mantel-shelf; the floor was clean swept always; and Sue herself, though in a faded calico, was as nice in her ways as her friend Roswald. Never was her little brown head anything but smooth-brushed; her frock clean; her hands and face as fair and pure as Nature had meant them to be. Roswald looked as if soil could not stick to him.

“When the room was in due state of nicety, Sue brought out and placed the two plates, the salt-cellar, with a little wooden spoon in it, the tumblers of blown glass, a pitcher of water, and the spoons. She had done then all she could, and she turned to watch her porridge and the front door both at once; for she did not forget to keep the porridge from burning, while her eye was upon the big brown door at every other minute.

“The porridge had been ready some time before the door at last opened, and in came Roswald bearing a large market-basket on his arm.

“‘It is astonishing,’ said he, as he set it down, ’what a heavy thing Indian meal is!’

“‘Why Roswald!’ said Sue;—‘did you get all that with two cents?’