“‘A roast chicken!—Oh, Roswald!—How mother will like a piece of that! How good it smells!’”—P. 161.
SUGGESTIVE
I think it necessary to come to the help of the Public—
Lest Miss Wetherell should not have her dues, they are giving her the dues of every one else; and whatever my hand may have to do on “Ellen Montgomery’s Bookshelf,” there it is—even though “a discerning Public” perceive it not. No matter for that—I had as lief be behind the books as before them; but must enter my protest against facts which are no facts.
Therefore kind Public, Messrs Editors, and friends in general, I propose this division of the volumes; by which my sister and I will each in turn have written them all. Whatever book or part of a book you particularly like, thank Miss Wetherell for it; and let all those pages which are less interesting be charged to the account of
AMY LOTHROP.
New York. Dec. 13. 1853.
THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING
Wherever Santa Claus lives, and in whatever spot of the universe he harnesses his reindeer and loads up his sleigh, one thing is certain—he never yet put anything in that sleigh for little Carl Krinken. Indeed it may be noted as a fact, that the Christmas of poor children has but little of his care. Now and then a cast-off frock or an extra mince pie slips into the load, as it were accidentally; but in general Santa Claus strikes at higher game,—gilt books, and sugar-plums, and fur tippets, and new hoods, and crying babies, and rocking-horses, and guns, and drums, and trumpets;—and what have poor children to do with these? Not but they might have something to do with them. It is a singular fact that poor children cut their teeth quite as early as the rich,—even that sweet tooth, which is destined to be an unsatisfied tooth all the days of its life, unless its owner should perchance grow up to be a sugar-refiner. It is also remarkable, that though poor children can bear a great deal of cold, they can also enjoy being warm—whether by means of a new dress or a load of firing; and the glow of a bright blaze looks just as comfortable upon little cheeks that are generally blue, as upon little cheeks that are generally red; while not even dirt will hinder the kindly heat of a bed of coals from rejoicing little shivering fingers that are held over it.
I say all this is strange—for nobody knows much about it; and how can they? When a little girl once went down Broadway with her muff and her doll, the hand outside the muff told the hand within that he had no idea what a cold day it was. And the hand inside said that for his part he never wished it to be warmer.
But with all this Santa Claus never troubled his head—he was too full of business, and wrapped up in buffalo skins besides; and though he sometimes thought of little Carl, as a good-natured little fellow who talked as much about him as if Santa Claus had given him half the world—yet it ended with a thought, for his hands were indeed well occupied. It was no trifle to fill half a million of rich little stockings; and then—how many poor children had any to fill? or if one chanced to be found, it might have holes in it; and if the sugar-plums came rolling down upon such a floor–!
To be sure the children wouldn’t mind that, but Santa Claus would.
Nevertheless, little Carl always hung up his stocking, and generally had it filled—though not from any sleigh-load of wonderful things; and he often amused himself Christmas eve with dreaming that he had made himself sick eating candy, and that they had a stack of mince-pies as high as the house. So altogether, what with dreams and realities, Carl enjoyed that time of year very much, and thought it was a great pity Christmas did not come every day. He was always contented, too, with what he found in his stocking; while some of his rich little neighbours had theirs filled only to their heart’s discontent, and fretted because they had what they did, or because they hadn’t what they didn’t have. It was a woful thing if a top was painted the wrong colour, or if the mane of a rocking-horse was too short, or if his bridle was black leather 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,
“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 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 history of your great, great, great grandfather apple.”
“Knerly,” said Beachamwell, “was a little cross-grained from the very bud. Before he had cast off the light pink dress which as you know we apples wear in our extreme youth, the dark spot might be seen. It is probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have said, some hardness of heart and sourness of disposition. As you see, he has not softened under the sun’s influence, though exposed to it all his life; and it is doubtful whether he ever attains a particle of the true Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll go all round. Come, go on.”
“Unfortunately,” said Beachamwell, “I cannot give the information which you desire about my respected and venerable ancestors. The pedigree of apples is not always well preserved, and in general the most we can boast of is the family name: nor is that often obtained except by engrafting upon a very different stock. For one generation back, however, we may claim to be true Beachamwells. From root to twig the parent tree was the right stuff. The remarkable way in which this came about I am happily able to tell you.
“A number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her.
“‘I wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,’ said he.
“‘Why so we will,’ said his mother.
“‘But how?’ said Mark, with a very brightened face. ‘What will you do, mother?’
“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said Mrs. Penly.
“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling again: ‘there aren’t even any potatoes in the house. You used to make potato pies, didn’t you, mother, when father forgot to bring home the pumpkin?’
“‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Penly, but as if she scarce heard him; for other Thanksgiving-days were sweeping across the stage, where Memory’s troupe was just then performing.
“‘So what will you do, mother?’ repeated little Mark, when he had watched her again for a few minutes.
“‘Do?’ said the widow, rousing herself. ‘Why my dear if we cannot make any pies we will keep Thanksgiving without them.’
“‘I don’t think one can keep Thanksgiving without anything,’ said Mark, a little fretfully.
“‘Oh no,’ said his mother, ‘neither do I; but we will think about it, dear, and do the best we can. And now you may read to me while I mend this hole in your stocking. Read the hundred and third Psalm.’
“So Mark got his little Bible and began to read,—
“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies–’
“‘Don’t you think, Mark,’ said his mother, ’that we could keep Thanksgiving for at least one day with only such blessings as these?’
“‘Why yes,’ said Mark, ‘I suppose we could, mother—though I wasn’t thinking of that.’
“‘No, of course not,’ said his mother; ‘and that is the very reason why we so often long for earthly things: we are not thinking of the heavenly blessings that God has showered upon us.’
“‘But mother,’ said Mark, not quite satisfied, ’it goes on to say,—
“‘Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.’
“And Mark looked up as if he thought his mother must be posed now, if she never was before.
“It did occur to Mrs. Penly as she glanced at the child, that his cheeks were not very fat nor his dress very thick; and that a greater plenty of pies and other relishable things might exert a happy influence upon his complexion: but she stilled her heart with that word,—
“‘Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such things.’
“‘I am sure we have a great many good things, Mark,’ she answered cheerfully,—‘don’t you remember that barrel of flour that came the other day? and the molasses, and the pickles? We must have as much as is good for us, or God would give us more; for it says in another part of that Psalm, ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.’ I wouldn’t keep from you anything that I thought good for you.’
“‘But you are my mother,’ said Mark satisfactorily.
“‘Well,’ said the widow, ‘the Bible says that a mother may forget her child, yet will not God forget his children. So you see, dear, that if we have not a great many things which some other people have, it is not because God has forgotten to care for us, but because we are better without them.’
“‘I wonder why,’ said Mark. ‘Why should they hurt us any more than other people?’
“‘God knows,’ said his mother. ‘It is so pleasant to have him choose and direct all for us. If I could have my way, I dare say I should wish for something that would do me harm—just as you wanted to eat blackberries last summer when you were sick.’
“‘But we are not sick,’ said Mark.
“‘Yes we are—sick with sin; and sin-sick people must not have all that their sinful hearts desire; and people who love earth too well must want some of the good things of this world, that they may think more of heaven.’
“‘Well,’ said Mark, the last thing before he got into bed, ‘we’ll keep Thanksgiving, mother—you and I; and we’ll try to be as happy as we can without pies.’
“‘Maybe we shall have some pleasant thing that we do not think of,’ said his mother, as she tucked the clothes down about him.
“‘Why what?’ said Mark starting up in an instant. ‘Where could anything come from, mother?’
“‘From God in the first place,’ she answered; ‘and he can always find a way.’
“‘Mother!’ said Mark, ‘there’s a great many apples in the road by Mr. Crab’s orchard.’
“‘Well, dear’—said his mother—‘they don’t belong to us.’
“‘But they’re in the road,’ said Mark; ‘and Mr. Smith’s pigs are there all day long eating ’em.’
“‘We won’t help the pigs,’ said his mother smiling. ‘They don’t know any better, but we do. I have cause enough for thanksgiving, Marky, in a dear little boy who always minds what I say.’
“Mark hugged his mother very tight round the neck, and then went immediately to sleep, and dreamed that he was running up hill after a pumpkin.
“But Mark woke up in the morning empty-handed. There were plenty of sunbeams on the bed, and though it was so late in November, the birds sang outside the window as if they had a great many concerts to give before winter, and must make haste.
“Mark turned over on his back to have both ears free, and then he could hear his mother and the broom stepping up and down the kitchen; and as she swept she sang.
‘Rejoice, the Lord is King;
Your Lord and King adore;
Mortals, give thanks and sing,
And triumph evermore.
Lift up your hearts, lift up your voice
Rejoice, again I say, rejoice.
Rejoice in glorious hope,
Jesus the Judge shall come,
And take his servants up
To their eternal home;
We soon shall hear th’ archangel’s voice;
The trump of God shall sound—Rejoice!’
“Mark listened awhile till he heard his mother stop sweeping and begin to step in and out of the pantry. She wasn’t setting the table, he knew, for that was always his work, and he began to wonder what they were going to have for breakfast. Then somebody knocked at the door.
“‘Here’s a quart of milk, Mis’ Penly,’ said a voice. ‘Mother guessed she wouldn’t churn again ’fore next week, so she could spare it as well as not.’
“Mark waited to hear his mother pay her thanks and shut the door, and having meanwhile got into his trousers, he rushed out into the kitchen.
“‘Is it a whole quart, mother?’
“‘A whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isn’t that good?’
“‘Delicious!’ said Mark. ‘I should like to drink it all up, straight. I don’t mean that I should like to really, mother, only on some accounts, you know.’
“‘Well now what shall we do with it?’ said his mother. ‘You shall dispose of it all.’
“‘If we had some eggs we’d have a pudding,’ said Mark,—‘a plum-pudding. You can’t make it without eggs, can you mother?’
“‘Not very well,’ said Mrs. Penly. ‘Nor without plums.’
“‘No, so that won’t do,’ said Mark. ‘Seems to me we could have made more use of it if it had been apples.’
“‘Ah, you are a discontented little boy,’ said his mother smiling. ‘Last night you would have been glad of anything. Now I advise that you drink a tumblerful of milk for your breakfast—’
“‘A whole tumblerful!’ interrupted Mark.
“‘Yes, and another for your tea; and then you will have two left for breakfast and tea to-morrow.’
“‘But then you won’t have any of it,’ said Mark.
“‘I don’t want any.’
“‘But you must have it,’ said Mark. ‘Now I’ll tell you, mother. I’ll drink a tumblerful this morning, and you shall put some in your tea; and to-night I’ll drink some more, and you’ll have cream, real cream; and what’s left I’ll drink to-morrow.’
“‘Very well,’ said his mother. ‘But now you must run and get washed and dressed, for breakfast is almost ready. I have made you a little shortcake, and it’s baking away at a great rate in the spider.’
“‘What’s shortcake made of?’ said Mark, stopping with the door in his hand.
“‘This is made of flour and water, because I had nothing else.’
“‘Well don’t you set the table,’ said Mark, ’because I’ll be back directly; and then I can talk to you about the milk while I’m putting on your cup and my tumbler and the plates.’
“It would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his tumbler of milk,—how slowly he drank it—how careful he was not to leave one drop in the tumbler; while his interest in the dish of milk in the closet was quite as deep. Jack did not go oftener to see how his bean grew, than did Mark to see how his cream rose.
“Then he set out to go with his mother to church.
“The influence of the dish of milk was not quite so strong when he was out of the house,—so many things spoke of other people’s dinners that Mark half forgot his own breakfast. He thought he never had seen so many apple-trees, nor so many geese and turkeys, nor so many pumpkins, as in that one little walk to church. Again and again he looked up at his mother to ask her sympathy for a little boy who had no apples, nor geese, nor pumpkin pies; but something in the sweet quiet of her face made him think of the psalm he had read last night, and Mark was silent. But after a while his mother spoke.
“‘There was once a man, Mark, who had two springs of water near his dwelling. And the furthest off was always full, but the near one sometimes ran dry. He could always fetch as much as he wanted from the further one, and the water was by far the sweetest: moreover he could if he chose draw out the water of the upper spring in such abundance that the dryness of the lower should not be noticed.’
“‘Were they pretty springs?’ said Mark.
“‘The lower one was very pretty,’ replied his mother, ‘only the sunbeams sometimes made it too warm, and sometimes an evil-disposed person would step in and muddy it; or a cloudy sky made it look very dark. Also the flowers which grew by its side could not bear the frost. But when the sun shone just right, it was beautiful.’
“‘I don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,’ said Mark.
“‘No, it was very natural; though if one drank too much of the water it was apt to make him sick. But the other spring–’ and the widow paused, while her cheek flushed and on her lips weeping and rejoicing were strangely mingled.
“‘There was ‘a great Rock,’ and from this ’the cold flowing waters’ came in a bright stream that you could rather hear than see; yet was the cup always filled to the very brim if it was held there in patient trust, and no one ever knew that spring to fail,—yea in the great droughts it was fullest. And the water was life-giving.