Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking. Warner Susan
he’ll keep it?” said John.
“Well, he’ll want to put it somewhere while he does keep it,” said Mrs. Krinken. “The purse is old, but it was handsome once; and it’ll please the child any way. And then there’s his new shoes.”
So when the boat was done Mrs. Krinken brought out the apples and slipped them into the stocking; and then the shoes went in, and the purse, and the red cent—which of course ran all the way down to the biggest red darn of all, in the very toe of the stocking.
But there was still abundance of room left.
“If one only had some sugar things,” said Mrs. Krinken.
“Or some nuts,” said John.
“Or a book,” rejoined his wife. “Carl takes to his book, wonderfully.”
“Yes,” said John, “all three would fill up in fine style. Well, there is a book he can have—only I don’t know what it is, nor whether he’d like it. That poor lady we took from an American wreck when I was mate of the Skeen-elf—it had lain in her pocket all the while, and she gave it to me when she died—because I didn’t let her die in the water, poor soul! She said it was worth a great deal. And I guess the clasp is silver.”
“O I dare say he’d like it,” said Mrs. Krinken. “Give him that, and I’ll put in the old pine-cone,—he’s old enough to take care of it now. I guess he’ll be content.”
The book with its brown leather binding and tarnished silver clasp was dusted and rubbed up and put in, and the old sharp-pointed pine cone followed; and the fisherman and his wife followed it up with a great deal of love and a blessing.
And then the stocking was quite full.
It was midnight; and the fire had long been covered up, and John Krinken and his wife were fast asleep, and little Carl was in the midst of the hard bed and his sweet dreams as before. The stocking hung by the side of the fire-place, as still as if it had never walked about in its life, and not a sound could be heard but the beat of the surf upon the shore and an occasional sigh from the wind; for the wind is always melancholy at Christmas.
Once or twice an old rat had peeped cautiously out of his hole, and seeing nobody, had crossed the floor and sat down in front of the stocking, which his sharp nose immediately pointed out to him. But though he could smell the apples plain enough, he was afraid that long thing might hold a trap as well; and so he did nothing but smell and snuff and show his teeth. As for the little mice, they ran out and danced a measure on the hearth and then back again; after which one of them squealed for some time for the amusement of the rest.
But just at midnight there was another noise heard—as somebody says,
“You could hear on the roof
The scraping and prancing of each little hoof,”—
and down came Santa Claus through the chimney.
He must have set out very early that night, to have so much time to spare, or perhaps he was cold in spite of his furs: for he came empty-handed, and had evidently no business calls in that direction. But the first thing he did was to examine the stocking and its contents.
At some of the articles he laughed, and at some he frowned, but most of all did he shake his head over the love that filled up all the spare room in the stocking. It was a kind of thing Santa Claus wasn’t used to; the little stockings were generally too full for anything of that sort,—when they had to hold candy enough to make the child sick, and toys enough to make him unhappy because he didn’t know which to play with first, of course very little love could get in. And there is no telling how many children would be satisfied if it did. But Santa Claus put all the things back just as he had found them, and stood smiling to himself for a minute, with his hands on his sides and his back to the fire. Then tapping the stocking with a little stick that he carried, he bent down over Carl and whispered some words in his ear, and went off up the chimney.
And the little mice came out and danced on the floor till the day broke.
“Christmas day in the morning!” And what a day it was! All night long as the hours went by, the waves had beat time with their heavy feet; and wherever the foam and spray had fallen, upon board or stone or crooked stick, there it had frozen, in long icicles or fringes or little white caps. But when the sun had climbed out of the leaden sea, every bit of foam and ice sparkled and twinkled like morning stars, and the Day got her cheeks warm and glowing just as fast as she could; and the next thing the sun did was to walk in at the hut window and look at little Carl Krinken. Then it laid a warm hand upon his little face, and Carl had hardly smiled away the last bit of his dream before he started up in his bed and shouted
“Merry Christmas!”
The mice were a good deal startled, for they had not all seen their partners home; but they got out of the way as fast as they could, and when Carl bounded out of bed he stood alone upon the floor.
The floor felt cold—very. Carl’s toes curled up in the most disapproving manner possible, and he tried standing on his heels. Then he scampered across the floor, and began to feel of the stocking—beginning at the top. It was plain enough what the shoes were, but the other things puzzled him till he got to the foot of the stocking; and his feet being by that time very cold (for both toes and heels had rested on the floor in the eagerness of examination), Carl seized the stocking in both hands and scampered back to bed again; screaming out,
“Apples! apples! apples!”
His mother being now nicely awaked by his clambering over her for the second time, she gave him a kiss and a “Merry Christmas,” and got up; and as his father did the same, Carl was left in undisturbed possession of the warm bed. There he laid himself down as snug as could be, with the long stocking by his side, and began to pull out and examine the things one by one,—after which each article was laid on the counterpane outside.
“Well little boy, how do you like your things?” said Mrs. Krinken, coming up to the bed just when Carl and the empty stocking lay side by side.
“Firstrate!” said Carl. “Mother, I dreamed last night that all my presents told me stories. Wasn’t it funny?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said his mother, as she walked away to turn the fish that was broiling. Carl lay still and looked at the stocking.
“Where did you come from, old stocking?” said he.
“From England,” said the stocking, very softly.
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