قراءة كتاب Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking
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instead of red.
But when Carl once found in his stocking a little board nailed upon four spools for wheels, and with no better tongue than a long piece of twine, his little tongue ran as fast as the spools, and he had brought his mother a very small load of chips in less than five minutes. And a small cake of maple-sugar, which somehow once found its way to the same depending toe, was a treasure quite too great to be weighed: though it measured only an inch and a half across, and though the maple-trees had grown about a foot since it was made.
“Wife,” said John Krinken, “what shall we put in little Carl’s stocking to-night?”
“Truly,” said his wife. “I do not know. Nevertheless we must find something, though there be but little in the house.”
And the wind swept round and round the old hut, and every cupboard-door rattled and said in an empty sort of way, “There is not much here.”
John Krinken and his wife lived on the coast, where they could hear every winter storm rage and beat, and where the wild sea sometimes brought wood for them and laid it at their very door. It was a drift-wood fire by which they sat now, this Christmas eve,—the crooked knee of some ship, and a bit of her keel, with nails and spikes rust-held in their places, and a piece of green board stuck under to light the whole. The andirons were two round stones, and the hearth was a flat one; and in front of the fire sat John Krinken on an old box making a fish-net, while a splinter chair upheld Mrs. Krinken and a half-mended red flannel shirt. An old chest between the two held patches and balls of twine; and the crooked knee, the keel, and the green board, were their only candles.
“We must find something,” repeated John. And pausing with his netting-needle half through the loop, he looked round towards one corner of the hut.
A clean rosy little face and a very complete set of thick curls rested there, in the very middle of the thin pillow and the hard bed; while the coverlet of blue check was tucked round and in, lest the drift-wood fire should not do its duty at that distance.
John Krinken and his wife refreshed themselves with a long look, and then returned to their work.
“You’ve got the stocking, wife?” said John, after a pause.
“Ay,” said his wife: “it’s easy to find something to fill it.”
“Fetch it out, then, and let’s see how much ’twill take to fill it.”
Mrs. Krinken arose, and going to one of the two little cupboards she brought thence a large iron key; and then having placed the patches and thread upon the floor, she opened the chest, and rummaged out a long grey woollen stocking, with white toe and heel and various darns in red. Then she locked the chest again and sat down as before.
“The same old thing,” said John Krinken with a glance at the stocking.
“Well,” said his wife, “it’s the only stocking in the house that’s long enough.”
“I know one thing he shall have in it,” said John; and he got up and went to the other cupboard, and fetched from it a large piece of cork.
“He shall have a boat that will float like one of Mother Carey’s chickens.” And he began to cut and shape with his large clasp-knife, while the little heap of chips on the floor between his feet grew larger, and the cork grew more and more like a boat.
His wife laid down her hand which was in the sleeve of the red jacket, and watched him.
“It’ll never do to put that in first,” she said; “the masts would be broke. I guess I’ll fill the toe of the stocking with apples.”
“And where will you get apples?” said John Krinken, shaping the keel of his boat.
“I’ve got ’em,” said his wife,—“three rosy-cheeked apples. Last Saturday, as I came from market, a man went by with a load of apples; and as I came on I found that he had spilled three out of his wagon. So I picked them up.”
“Three apples—” said John. “Well, I’ll give him a red cent to fill up the chinks.”
“And I’ve got an old purse that he can keep it in,” said the mother.
“How long do you suppose 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,
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