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 begins.”

THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES.

“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