Part 11

“‘You’d better not plague your head with such stuff,’ said her mother. ‘Nobody cares about poor folks like us. Why child, rich people wouldn’t touch us with a pair of tongs! Haven’t I seen ’em draw up their frocks as I went by—because mine was calico, and maybe not over clean because I couldn’t buy soap and bread both? I tell you Clary, rich folks thinks the poor has no right to breathe in the same world with ’em. I don’t want to long, for one.’

“‘I didn’t say rich _people_,’ said Clary thoughtfully, but only this one:—

‘Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am, I have a rich almighty Friend.’

O mother! I wish I had!’

“‘Come child, shut up!’ said her mother, but not unkindly, for something in Clary’s look and tone had stirred the long deadened feeling within her. ‘I tell you child we must eat, and how is your work to get done if you sit there crying in that fashion? The candle’s ’most burnt out, too, and not another scrap in the house.’

“Clary dried her tears and went on with the overalls until the candle had flickered its last; and then groped her way in the dark to the little bed she and her mother occupied by that of the five children. For sleeping all together thus, the coverings went further. Dark and miserable it was; and yet when Clary laid herself down, overtaken at last by the sleep which had pursued her all the evening; the last thought in the poor child’s mind was of those hymns,—the word on which her heart went to sleep was that ‘name which is above every name.’

‘How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer’s ear!’

“To Clary’s great sorrow and disappointment, when she went next day to the printing-office, the pile of printed paper had been removed; and not only so, but a new set of plates given her instead of those of the hymn book. Clary’s only comfort was to repeat over and over to herself the words she had already learned, and to try to get at their meaning. Sometimes she thought she would ask the foreman, who was very pleasant and good-natured—but that was only while he was at some other press,—whenever he came near hers, Clary was frightened and held her head down lest he should guess what she was thinking of. And as week after week passed on, she grew very weary and discouraged; yet still clinging to those words as the last hope she had. If she could possibly have forgotten them, she would have been almost desperate.

“The winter passed, and the spring came; and it was pleasanter now to go down to the printing-office in the early morning, and to walk home at night; and she could hear other people’s canaries sing, and see the green grass and flowers in other people’s courtyards; and on Sunday as she had no work she could sit out on the doorstep—if there weren’t too many children about—or walk away from that miserable street into some pleasanter one.

“She had walked about for a long time one Sunday, watching the people that were coming from afternoon church; and now the sun was leaving the street and she turned to leave it too,—taking a little cross street which she had never been in before.

“It hardly deserved the name of street, for a single block was all its length. The houses were not of the largest, but they looked neat and comfortable, with their green blinds and gay curtains; and Spring was there in her earliest dress—a green ground, well spotted with hyacinths, snowdrops, and crocuses. It was very quiet, too, cut short as it was at both ends; and the Sabbath of the great city seemed to have quitted Broadway and established itself here.

“Upon one of the low flights of steps, Clary saw as she approached it, sat a little girl having a book in her hand. With a dress after the very pattern of Spring’s, a little warm shawl over her shoulders, and a little chair that was just big enough, she sat there in the warm sunshine which streamed down through a gap in the houses, turning over the leaves of her book. If you had guessed the child’s name from her looks, you would have called her ‘Sweet Content.’

“Clary stopped a little way off to look at her; thinking bitterly of the five children she had left playing in the dirt at home; and as she stopped, the little girl began to sing,—

‘O how happy are they Who the Saviour obey, And have laid up their treasure above.’

“The little voice had no more than brought these words to Clary’s ear, when a carriage came rolling by and the rest of the verse was lost; but in an instant Clary was at the house, and feeling as if this were the only chance she ever should have, she opened the little gate and went in.

“The child ceased singing and looked up at her in some surprise.

“‘I want to know——,’ said Clary,—and then suddenly recollecting her own poor dress, and comparing it with the little picture before her, she stopped short. But the words must come—they were spoken almost before Clary herself was aware.

“‘Will you please to tell me who the Saviour is?’

“And then blushing and frightened she could almost have run away, but something held her fast.

“The child’s eyes grew more and more wondering.

“‘Come in,’ she said gravely, getting up from her chair, and with some difficulty keeping the book and the little shawl in their places.

“But Clary drew back.

“‘O yes—come in,’ said the child, tucking the little book under her arm, and holding out her hand to Clary. ‘Please come in—mother will tell you.’

“And following her little conductor, Clary found herself the next minute in a pleasant, plain, and very neat room.

“‘Mother,’ said the child opening a door into the next room, but still keeping her eye upon Clary lest she should run away.—‘Mother—here’s a girl who never heard about Jesus.’

“‘I don’t understand thee, Eunice,’ said a pleasant voice, ‘but I will come.’ And a most pleasant face and figure followed the voice.

“‘What did thee say, child?’ she inquired, with only a glance towards Clary.

“‘Tell mother what you want,’ said the child encouragingly. ‘Mother, she never heard about Jesus.’

“‘Thee never heard about him, poor child,’ said the lady approaching Clary. ‘And how dost thou live in this world of troubles without such a Friend?’

“‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Clary, weeping. ‘We are very poor, and we never had any friends; and a long time ago in the winter I read a verse at the printing-office about some one who loved poor people,—and I thought maybe he would help us if he knew about us.’

“‘He knows all about thee now,’ said the good Mrs. Allen, with a look of strange wonder and pity on her pleasant face. ‘Sit down here child, and I will tell thee. Didst thou never hear about God?’

“‘Yes ma’am—’ said Clary, hesitatingly,—‘I believe I have. Mother says ‘God help us,’ sometimes. But we are very poor—nobody thinks much about us.’

“‘God is the helper of the poor and the father of the fatherless,’ said Mrs. Allen with a grave but gentle voice,—‘thee must not doubt that. Listen.—We had all sinned against God, and his justice said that we must all be punished,—that we must be miserable in this world, and when we die must go where no one can ever be happy. But though we were all so bad, God pitied us and loved us still—yet he could not forgive us, for he is perfectly just. It was as if we owed him a great debt, and until that debt was paid we could not be his children. But we had nothing to pay.

“‘Then the Son of God came down to earth, and bore all our sins and sorrows, and died for us, and paid our great debt with his own most precious blood.

“‘This is Jesus, the Saviour.’

“‘Yes ma’am,’ said Clary, whose heart had followed every word,—‘that’s what the verse said,—

‘Jesus the Saviour, is his name,— He freely loves, and without end.”

“She stood as if forgetting there was any one in the room; her eyes fixed on the ground, and the quiet tears running down from them,—her hands clasped with an earnestness that shewed how eagerly her mind was taking in that ‘good news’—‘peace on earth and good will toward men’—which was now preached to her for the first time.

“Little Eunice looked wistfully at her mother, but neither of them spoke.

“At length Mrs. Allen came softly to Clary, and laying her hand on the bowed head, she said,

“‘Jesus is the Friend of sinners—but then they must strive to sin no more. Wilt thou do it? wilt thou love and obey the Saviour who has done so much for thee?’

“A sunbeam shot across the girl’s face as she looked up for one moment, and then bursting into tears, she said,

“‘Oh if I knew how!’

“‘Ask him and he will teach thee. Pray to Jesus whenever thou art in trouble—when thy sins are too strong for thee, and thy love to him too faint,—when thou art tired or sick or discouraged. Ask him to love thee and make thee his child—ask him to prepare a place for thee in heaven. For he hath said, ‘_If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it._’”

“Little Eunice had gone softly out of the room while her mother spoke, and now returned with a little book in her hand, which was quietly placed in Clary’s, after a look of assent from her mother.

“‘That’s a Bible,’—said Eunice, with a face of great pleasure. ‘And you may have it and keep it always. I wish I had a hymn book for you too, but I’ve only got this one, and my Sunday school teacher gave it to me last Sunday. But the Bible is the word of God, and it will tell you all about Jesus; and every bit of it is perfectly true. O you will love it so much!—everybody does who loves Jesus. And won’t you come and read in my hymn book sometimes?’

“‘Yes—come very often,’ said Mrs. Allen, ‘and we will talk of these things.’

“And with a heart too full to speak, Clary left the house.

“But oh what a different walk home!

‘How happy are they Who the Saviour obey—’

“She could understand that now, for with the simple faith of a child she believed what had been told her, and with her whole heart received the Friend of sinners to be her friend. Her earnest prayer that night, her one desire, was to be his child and servant,—to obey him then became sweet work; and thenceforth through all Clary’s life, if any one had called her poor, she would have answered out of the little hymn book that Eunice gave her for a Christmas present,—

‘Who made my heaven secure, Will here all good provide: While Christ is rich, can I be poor? What can I want beside?’”

“Is that all?” said Carl when he had waited about two minutes for more.

“That is the story of one of my leaves,” said the hymn book.

“Well, I want to hear about all the others,” said Carl—“so tell me.”

“I can’t”—said the hymn book. “It would take me six weeks.”

“Were you Clary’s hymn-book?” said Carl.

“No, I was the other one—that belonged to little Eunice. But years after that, several of us met in an old auction-room,—there I learned some of the particulars that I have told you.”

“What is an auction-room?” said Carl.

“It is a sort of intelligence-office for books,” replied the “Collection.” “There I got the situation of companion to a lady, and went on a long sea voyage. I had nothing to do but to comfort her, however.”

“And did you do it?” said Carl.

“Yes, very often,” said the hymn book. “Perhaps as much as anything else except her Bible.”

* * * * *

“Now, my pretty little boat,” said Carl the next day, “you shall tell me your story. I will hear you before that ugly old stocking.”

Carl was lying flat on his back on the floor, holding the boat up at arm’s length over his head, looking at it, and turning it about. It was a very complete little boat.

“I shall teach you not to trust to appearances,” said the boat.

“What do you mean?” said Carl.

“I mean that when you have looked at me you have got the best of me.”

“That’s very apt to be the way with pretty things,” said the stocking.

“It isn’t!” said Carl. For he had more than once known his mother call him a “pretty boy.”

“However that may be,” said the boat, “I can’t tell a story.”

“Can’t tell a story!—yes, you can,” said Carl. “Do it, right off.”

“I haven’t any to tell,” said the boat. “I was once of some use in the world, but now I’m of none, except to be looked at.”

“Yes, you are of use,” said Carl, “for I like you; and you can tell a story, too, if you’re a mind, as well as the pine cone.”

“The pine cone has had a better experience,” said the boat, “and has kept good society. For me, I have always lived on the outside of things, ever since I can remember, and never knew what was going on in the world, any more than I knew what was going on inside of my old tree. All I knew was, that I carried up sap for its branches—when it came down again, or what became of it, I never saw.”

“Where were you then?” said Carl.

“On the outside of a great evergreen oak in a forest of Valencia. I was a piece of its bark. I wish I was there now. But the outer bark of those trees gets dead after a while; and then the country-people come and cut it off and sell it out of the land.”

“And were you dead and sold off?” said Carl.

“To be sure I was. As fine a piece of cork as ever grew. I had been growing nine years since the tree was cut before.”

“Well but tell me your story,” said Carl.

“I tell you,” said the little cork boat, “I haven’t any story. There was nothing to be seen in the forest but the great shades of the kingly oaks, and the birds that revelled in the solitudes of their thick branches, and the martens, and such-like. It was fine there, though. The north winds, which the pine cone says so shake the heads of the fir-trees in his country, never trouble anything in mine. The snow never lay on the glossy leaves of my parent oak. But no Norrska lived there; or if there did, I never knew her. Nobody came near us, unless a stray peasant now and then passed through. And when I was cut down, I was packed up and shipped off to England, and shifted from hand to hand, till John Krinken took it into his head, years ago, to make a sort of cork jacket of me, with one or two of my companions; and I have been tumbling about in his possession ever since. He has done for me now. I am prettier than I ever was before, but I shall never be of any use again. I shall try the water, I suppose, again a few times for your pleasure, and then probably I shall try the fire, for the same.”

“The fire! No, indeed,” said Carl. “I’m not going to burn you up. I am going to see you sail this minute, since you won’t do anything else. You old stocking, you may wait till I come back. I don’t believe _you_’ve got much of a story.”

And Carl sprang up and went forthwith to the beach, to find a quiet bit of shallow water in some nook where it would be safe to float his cork boat. But the waves were beating pretty high that day, and the tide coming in, and, altogether there was too much commotion on the beach to suit the little ‘Santa Claus,’ as he had named her. So Carl discontentedly came back, and set up the little boat to dry, and turned him to the old stocking.

THE STOCKING’S STORY.

“It’s too bad!” said Carl. “I’ve heard six stories and a little piece, and now there’s nothing left but this old stocking!”

“I believe I will not tell you my story at all,” said the stocking.

“But you shall,” said Carl, “or else I will cut you all up into little pieces.”

“Then you certainly will never hear it,” said the stocking.

“Well now”—said Carl. “What a disagreeable old stocking you are. Why don’t you begin at once?”

“I am tired of being always at the foot”—said the stocking;—“as one may say, at the fag end. And besides your way of speaking is not proper. I suppose you have been told as much before. This is not the way little boys used to speak when _I_ was knit.”

“You are only a stocking,” said Carl.

“Everything that is worth speaking to at all, is worth speaking to politely,” replied the stocking.

“I can’t help it”—said Carl,—“you might tell me your story then. I’m sure one of my own red stockings would tell its story in a minute.”

“Yes,” said the grey stocking; “and the story would be, ‘Lived on little Carl’s foot all my life, and never saw anything.’”

“It wouldn’t be true then,” said Carl, “for I never wear ’em except on Sundays. Mother says she can’t afford it.”

“Nobody afforded it once,” said the stocking. “My ancestors were not heard of until ten or eleven hundred years ago, and then they were made of leather or linen. And then people wore cloth hose; and then some time in the sixteenth century silk stockings made their appearance in England. But there was never a pair of knit woollen stockings until the year 1564.”

“I say,” said Carl, “do stop—will you? and go on with your story.” And putting his hand down into the old stocking, he stretched it out as far as he could on his little fingers.

“You’d better amuse yourself in some other way,” said the stocking. “If my yarn should break, it will be the worse for your story.”

“Well why don’t you begin then?” said Carl, laying him down again.

“It’s not always pleasant to recount one’s misfortunes,” said the stocking. “And I have come down in the world sadly. You would hardly think it, I dare say, but I did once belong to a very good family.”

“So you do now,” said Carl. “There never was anybody in the world better than my mother; and father’s very good too.”

“Yes,” said the stocking again,—“Mrs. Krinken does seem to be quite a respectable sort of woman for her station in life,—very neat about her house, and I presume makes most excellent chowder. But you see, where I used to live, chowder had never even been heard of. I declare,” said the stocking, “I can hardly believe it myself,—I think my senses are getting blunted. I have lain in that chest so long with a string of red onions, that I have really almost forgotten what musk smells like! But my Lady Darlington always fainted away if anybody mentioned onions, so of course the old Squire never had them on the dinner table even. A fine old gentleman he was: not very tall, but as straight almost as ever; and with ruddy cheeks, and hair that was not white but silver colour. His hand shook a little sometimes, but his heart never—and his voice was a clear as a whistle. His step went cheerily about the house and grounds, although it was only to the music of his walking-stick; and music that was, truly, to all the poor people of the neighbourhood. His stick was like him. He would have neither gold nor silver head to it, but it was all of good English oak,—the top finely carved into a supposed likeness of Edward the Confessor.

“As for my lady, she was all stateliness,—very beautiful too, or had been; and the sound of her dress was like the wings of a wild bird.”

“I think I shall like to hear this story,” said Carl, settling himself on his box and patting his hands together once or twice.

“I dare say you will,” said the stocking,—“when I tell it to you. However—— Well——”

“A great many years ago it was Christmas-eve at Squire Darlington’s, and the squire sat alone in his wide hall. Every window was festooned with ivy leaves and holly, which twisted about the old carving and drooped and hung round the silver sconces, and thence downward towards the floor. The silver hands of the sconces held tall wax candles, but they were not lit. The picture frames wore wreaths, from which the old portraits looked out gloomily enough,—not finding the adornment so becoming as they had done a century or so before; and even the Squire’s high-backed chair was crowned with a bunch of holly berries. There was no danger of their being in his way, for he rarely leaned back in his chair, but sat up quite straight, with one hand on his knee and the other on the arm of the chair. On that particular evening his hand rested on me; for I and my companion stocking had been put on for the first time.”

“I don’t see how he could get his hand on his stocking,” said Carl, “if he sat up. Look—I couldn’t begin to touch mine.”

“You needn’t try to tell me anything about stockings,” replied that article of dress somewhat contemptuously. “I know their limits as well as most people. But in those days, Master Carl, gentlemen wore what they called small-clothes—very different from your new-fangled pantaloons.”

“I don’t wear pantaloons,” said Carl,—“I wear trousers.” But the stocking did not heed the interruption.

“The small-clothes reached only to the knee—a little above or a little below—and so met the long stockings half way. Some people wore very fanciful stockings, of different colours and embroidered; but Squire Darlington’s were always of grey woollen yarn, very fine and soft as you see I am, and tied above the knee with black ribbons. And his shoes were always black, with; large black bows and silver buckles.

“He sat there alone in the wide hall, with one hand upon me and his eyes fixed upon the fire waiting for the arrival of the Yule Clog. For in those days, the night before Yule or Christmas the chief fire in the house was built with an immense log, which was cut and brought in with great rejoicing and ceremony, and lighted with a brand saved from the log of last year. All the servants in the house had gone out to help roll the log and swell the noise, and the fire of the day had burnt down to a mere bed of coals; and the hall was so still you could almost hear the ivy leaves rustle on the old wall outside. I don’t know but the Squire did.”

“What did he stay there for?” said Carl. “Was he thinking?”

“He might have been,” said the stocking,—“indeed I rather think he was, for he stroked and patted me two or three times. Or he might have been listening the wind sing its Christmas song.”

“Can the wind sing?” said Carl.

“Ay—and sigh too. Most of all about the time of other people’s holidays. It’s a wild, sighing kind of a song at best—whistled and sung and sighed together,—sometimes round the house, and sometimes through a keyhole. I heard what it said that night well enough. You won’t understand it, but this was it:—

‘Christmas again! Christmas again! With its holly berries so bright and red. They gleam in the wood, they grow by the lane,— O hath not Christmas a joyful tread?

Christmas again! Christmas again! What does it find? and what does it bring? And what does it miss that should remain?— O Christmas time is a wonderful thing!

Christmas again! Christmas again! There are bright green leaves on the holly tree,— But withered leaves fly over the plain, And the forests are brown and bare to see.

Christmas again! Christmas again! The snow lies light and the wind is cold. But the wind it reacheth some hearts of pain,— And the snow—it falleth on heads grown old.

Christmas again! Christmas again! What kindling fires flash through the hall! The flames may flash, but the shadows remain,— And where do the shadows this night fall?

Christmas again! Christmas again!— It looks through the windows—it treads the floor. Seeking for what earth could not retain— Watching for those who will come no more.

Christmas again! Christmas again! Why doth not the pride of the house appear? Where is the sound of her silken train? And that empty chair—what doeth it here?

Christmas again! Christmas again! With hearts as light as did ever bound; And feet as pretty as ever were fain To tread a measure the hall around.

Christmas again! Christmas again!— Oh thoughts, be silent! who called for ye? Must Christmas time be a time of pain Because of the loved, from pain set free?

Christmas again! Christmas again!— Once Christmas and joy came hand in hand. The hall may its holiday look regain,— But those empty chairs must empty stand.’

“The wind took much less time to sing the song than I have taken to tell it,” said the stocking,—“a low sigh round the house and a whistle or two, told all. Then suddenly a door at the lower end of the hall flew open, and a boy sprang in, exclaiming—