WHO ATE THE PINK SWEETMEAT?

Only three pairs of stockings were left in the shop. It was a very little shop indeed, scarcely larger than a stall. Job Tuke, to whom it belonged, was not rich enough to indulge in the buying of any superfluous wares. Every spring he laid in a dozen dozen of thin stockings, a bale of cheap handkerchiefs, a gross of black buttons, a gross of white, a little stationery, and a few other small commodities. In the autumn he added a dozen dozen of thick stockings, and a box full of mittens and knitted comforters. Beside these he sold penny papers, and home-made yeast made by Mrs. Tuke. If the stock of wearables grew scant toward midwinter, Job rejoiced in his heart, but by no means made haste to replenish it. He just laid aside the money needed for the spring outfit, and lived on what remained. Thus it went year after year. Trade was sometimes a little better, sometimes a little worse, but whichever way it was, Job grew no richer. He and his old wife lived along somehow without coming on the parish for support, and with this very moderate amount of prosperity they were content.

This year of which I write, the supply of winter stockings had given out earlier than usual. The weather had been uncommonly cold since October, which may have been the reason. Certain it is, that here at Michaelmas, with December not yet come in, only three pairs of stockings were left in the little shop. Job Tuke had told his wife only the week before that he almost thought he should be forced to lay in a few dozen more, folks seemed so eager to get ’em. But since he said that, no one had asked for stockings, as it happened, and Job thinking that trade was, after all, pretty well over for the season, had given up the idea of replenishing his stock.

One of the three pairs of stockings was a big pair of dark mixed gray. One pair, a little smaller, was white, and the third, smaller still and dark blue in color, was about the size for a child of seven or eight years old.

Job Tuke had put up the shutters for the night and had gone to bed. The stockings were talking together in the quiet darkness, as stockings will when left alone. One pair had been hung in the window.

It had got down from its nail, and was now straddling carelessly with one leg on either side of the edge of the box in which the others lay, as a boy might on the top of a stile. This was the big gray pair.

“Our chances seem to be getting slim,” he said gloomily.

“That is more than you seem,” replied the White Stockings, in a tart voice. “Your ankles are as thick as ever, and your mesh looks to me coarser than usual to-night.”

“There are worse things in the world than thickness,” retorted the Gray Stockings angrily. “I’m useful, at any rate, I am, while you have no wear in you. I should say that you would come to darning about the second wash, if not sooner.”

“Is that my fault?” said the White Pair, beginning to cry.

“No; it’s your misfortune. But people as unfortunate as you are should mind their P’s and Q’s, and not say disagreeable things to those who are better off.”

“Pray don’t quarrel,” put in the Little Blues, who were always peacemakers. “Think of our situation, the last survivors of twelve dozen! we ought to be friends. But, as you say, matters are getting serious with us. Of course we are all thinking about the same thing.”

“Yes; about the Christmas, and the chimney corner,” sighed the White Pair. “What a dreadful thing it would be if we went to the rag-bag never having held a Christmas gift. I could not get over such a disgrace. My father, my grandfather – all my relations had their chance – some of them were even hung a second time!”

“Yes; Christmas is woven into our very substance,” said the Gray Stockings. “The old skeins and the ravellings tell the story to the new wool, the story of the Christmas time. The very sheep in the fields know it. For my part,” he added proudly, “I should blush to lie in the same ash-heap even with an odd stocking who had died under the disgrace of never being hung up for Christmas, and I will never believe that my lifelong dream is to be disappointed!”

“Why will you use such inflated language?” snapped the White Pair. “You were only woven last July. As late as May you were running round the meadow on a sheep’s back.”

“Very well; I don’t dispute it. I may not be as old as Methuselah, but long or short, my life is my life, and my dream is my dream, and you have no call to criticize my expressions, Miss!” thunders the Big Pair.

“There you are again,” said the Little Blues. “I do wish you wouldn’t dispute. Now let us talk about our chances. What day of the month is it?”

“The twenty-seventh of November,” said the Gray Stockings, who, because they hung over the penny papers in the window, always knew the exact date.

“Little more than four weeks to the holidays,” said the White Pair dolorously. “How I wish some one would come along and put us out of suspense.”

“Being bought mightn’t do that,” suggested the Little Blues. “You might be taken by a person who had two pairs of stockings, and the others might be chosen to be hung up. Such things do happen.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t happen to me, I think,” said the White Pair vain-gloriously.

As it happened, the three pairs of stockings were all sold the very day after this conversation, and all to one and the same person. This was Mrs. Wendte, an Englishwoman married to a Dutch shipwright. She had lived in Holland for some years after her marriage, but now she and her husband lived in London. They had three children.

The stockings were very much pleased to be bought. When Job Tuke rolled them up in paper and tied a stout packthread round them, they nestled close, and squeezed each other with satisfaction. Besides the joy of being sold, was the joy of keeping together and knowing about each other’s adventures.

The first of these adventures was not very exciting. It consisted in being laid away in the back part of a bureau drawer, and carefully locked in.

“Now what is this for?” questioned the White Stockings. “Are we to stay here always?”

“Yes; that is just what I should like to know,” grumbled the Big Gray ones.

“Why, of course not! Who ever heard of stockings being put away for always?” said the very wise Little Blues. “Wait patiently and we shall see. I think it is some sort of a surprise.”

But day after day passed and nothing happened, surprising or otherwise, till even the philosophical Little Blue Stockings began to lose heart and hope. At last, one evening they heard the key click in the lock of the drawer, a stream of light flashed into their darkness, and they were seized and drawn forth.

“Well, mother, let us see thy purchase. Truly fine hosen they are,” said Jacob Wendte, whose English was rather foreign.

“Yes,” replied his wife. “Good, handsome stockings they are, and the children will be glad, for their old ones are about worn out. The big pair is for Wilhelm, as thou knowest. Those must hang to the right of the stove.”

The Big Gray Pair cast a triumphant glance at his companions as he found himself suspended on a stout nail. This was something like life!

“The white are for Greta, and these small ones for little Jan. Ah, they are nice gifts indeed!” said Mrs. Wendte, rubbing her hands. “A fine Christmas they will be for the children.”

The stockings glowed with pleasure. Not only were they hung up to contain presents, but they themselves were Christmas gifts! This was promotion indeed.

“Hast thou naught else?” demanded Jacob Wendte of his wife.

“No great things; a kerchief for Greta, this comforter for Wilhelm, for the little one, mittens. That is all.”

But it was not quite all, for after her husband had gone to bed, Mrs. Wendte, a tender look on her motherly face, sought out a small, screwed-up paper, and with the air of one who is a little ashamed of what she is doing, dropped into each stocking a something made of sugar. They were not sugar almonds, they were not Salem Gibraltars – which delightful confections are unfamiliar to London shops – but irregular lumps of a nondescript character, which were crumbly and sweet, and would be sure to please those who did not often get a taste of candy. It was of little Jan that his mother had thought when she bought the sweetmeats, and for his sake she had yielded to the temptation, though she looked upon it as an extravagance. There were three of the sweetmeats – two white, one pink – and the pink one went into Jan’s stockings. Mrs. Wendte had not said anything about them to her husband.

“Well, this is satisfactory,” said the Gray Pair, when Mrs. Wendte had left the room, and he was sure of not being overheard. “Here we are all hanging together on Christmas Eve. My dream is accomplished.”

“Mine isn’t,” said the White Pair plaintively. “I always hoped that I should hold something valuable, like a watch, or a pair of earrings. It is rather a come-down to have nothing but a bit of candy inside, and a pocket handkerchief pinned to my leg. I don’t half like it. It gives me an uncomfortable pricking sensation, like a stitch in the side.”

“It’s just as well for you to get used to it,” put in the Gray. “It doesn’t prick as much as a darning needle, I fancy, and you’ll have to get accustomed to that before long, as I’ve remarked before.”

“I’m the only one who has a pink sweetmeat,” said the Little Blues, who couldn’t help being pleased. “And I’m for a real child. Wilhelm and Greta are more than half grown up.”

“Real children are very hard on their stockings, I’ve always heard,” retorted the White Pair, who never could resist the temptation to say a disagreeable thing.

“That may be, but it is all in the future. This one night is my own, and I mean to enjoy it,” replied the contented Little Blue.

So the night went, and now it was the dawn of Christmas. With the first light the door opened softly and a little boy crept into the room. This was Jan. When he saw the three pairs of stockings hanging by the stove, he clapped his hands together, but softly, lest the noise should wake the others. Then he crossed the room on tiptoe and looked hard at the stockings. He soon made sure which pair was for himself, but he did not take them down immediately; only stood with his hands behind his back and gazed at them with two large, pleased eyes.

At last he put his hand up and gently touched the three, felt the little blue pair, gave it a pat, and finally unhooked it from its nail. Then he sat down on the floor, and began to put them on. His toe encountering an obstacle, he pulled the stocking off again, put his hand in, and extracted the pink sweetmeat, with which he was so pleased that he laughed aloud. That woke up the others, who presently came in.

“Ah, little rogue that thou art! Always the first to waken,” said his mother, pleased at his pleasure.

“See, mother! see what I found!” he cried. “It is good – sweet! I have tasted a crumb already. Take some of it, mother.”

But Mrs. Wendte shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I do not care for sugar. That is for little folks like thee. Eat it thyself, Jan.”

It was her saying this, perhaps, which prevented Wilhelm and Greta from making the same offer – at least, I hope so. Certain it is that neither of them made it. Greta ate hers up on the spot, with the frank greediness of a girl of twelve who does not often get candy. Wilhelm buttoned his up in his trousers pocket. All three made haste to put on the new stockings. The three pairs had only time to hastily whisper as they were separated:

“To-night perhaps we may meet again.”

The pink sweetmeat went into the pocket of Jan’s jacket, and he carried it about with him all the morning. He did not eat it, because once eaten it would be gone, and it was a greater pleasure to have it to look forward to, than to enjoy it at the moment. Jan was a thrifty little boy, as you perceive.