Here is another story in Library Lady’s Christmas Stories series.
WHO ATE THE PINK SWEETMEAT?
By Susan Coolidge
edited by Jane Mouttet
Only three pairs of stockings were left in the shop. It was a tiny 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 twelve dozen 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 twelve dozen thick stockings, a box of mittens, and knitted comforters. Besides these, he sold penny papers and homemade 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 somehow without asking the parish for support, and they were content with this very moderate amount of prosperity.
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. At Michaelmas, with December yet to 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 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 gone to bed. In the quiet darkness, the stockings talked together as they would 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 large 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 coarser than usual tonight.”
“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, crying.
“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 blue stockings, 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 ragbag 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 that had died under the disgrace of never being hung up for Christmas. 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 ran 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 blue stockings. “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 always knew the exact date because they hung over the penny papers in the window.
“Little more than four weeks to the holidays,” the white pair said gloomily. “How I wish someone would come along and put us out of suspense.”
“Being bought mightn’t do that,” suggested the little blue stockings. “You might be taken by a person with 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 arrogantly.
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 lived in Holland for some years after her marriage, but now she and her husband live in London. They had three children.
The stockings were very happy to be purchased. When Job Tuke rolled them up in paper and tied a stout thread around them, they nestled close and squeezed each other with satisfaction. Besides the joy of being sold was the pleasure of keeping together and knowing about each other’s adventures.
The first of these adventures could have been more exciting. It consisted of being laid away in the back 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,” the big gray ones grumbled.
“Why, of course not! Who ever heard of stockings being put away for always?” said the very wise little blue stockings. “Wait patiently and we shall see. I think it is some sort of a surprise.”
But day after day, nothing happened, surprising or otherwise, until even the philosophical little blue stockings began to lose heart and hope. At last, one evening, they heard the key click in the drawer’s lock. A stream of light flashed into their darkness, and they were seized and drawn forth.
“Well, mother, let us see your purchase. Wonderful stockings they are,” said Jacob Wendte, whose English was somewhat 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 glanced triumphantly at his companions as he was 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 were Christmas gifts! This was a promotion indeed.
“Have you nothing 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 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 stockings.
So the night went, and now it was the dawn of Christmas. With the first light, the door opened softly. 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 softly lest the noise wake the others. Then he crossed the room on tiptoe and looked hard at the stockings. He soon decided which pair was for himself, but he did not take them down immediately; he 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 found an obstacle, so he pulled the stocking off again, put his hand in it, 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.”
Perhaps she was saying this, which prevented Wilhelm and Greta from making the same offer—at least, I hope so. Neither of them certainly 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:
“Tonight, perhaps we may meet again.”
The pink sweetmeat went into the pocket of Jan’s jacket, and he carried it with him all morning. He did not eat it because it would be gone once eaten, and it was a greater pleasure to have it to look forward to than to enjoy it now. Jan was a thrifty little boy, as you perceive.
Being Christmas, it was an idle day. Jacob Wendte never knew what to do with such. Mrs. Wendte had her hands full with the dinner, frying sausages and mixing Yorkshire pudding all morning. Only Greta went to church. She belonged to a parish school where they gave Christmas prizes and by no means intended to lose her chance; but, apart from that, she really loved church-going, for she spoke English and understood it better than either of the other children. Wilhelm went off on errands of his own.
Little Jan spent the morning admiring his stockings, wrapping and unwrapping his precious sweetmeat, taking it out of his pocket, and putting it back in again.
“Why dost thou not eat it, dear?” asked his mother as she lifted the frying pan from the stove.
But he answered: “Oh! Not yet. When once it is eaten, it is over. I will wait.”
“How long wilt thou wait?” she asked.
Jan said bashfully: “I don’t know.”
In truth, he had not made up his mind about the sweetmeat; only he felt instinctively that he did not want to hurry and shorten his pleasure.
Dinner was over, and he went out for a walk. Every now and then, as he marched along, his hand would steal into his pocket to finger his precious candy and to make sure that it was safe.
It was a gray afternoon, but it was not snowing or raining. Hyde Park was pretty close for a walk, and Jan went there. The Serpentine was skimmed over with ice strong enough to bear boys, and quite a little crowd was sliding or skating upon it. Jan could skate very well. He had learned in Holland but had yet to attempt to join the crowd. He was rather shy of English boys, for they sometimes laughed at his Hollander clothes or Dutch accent, and he did not like being laughed at.
So he strolled away, past the Serpentine and the skaters, and watched the riders in the Row for a while. There were not many, for people who ride are apt to be out of London at Christmas, but there were some pretty horses and one fair little girl on a pony who took Jan’s fancy very much. He stood watching her trot up and down for a long time, and he thought he would like to give her his sweetmeat. He even put his hand into his pocket and half pulled it out, but the little girl did not look his way, and presently, her father, with whom she was riding, spoke to her, and she turned her horse’s head and trotted off through the marble arch. Jan dropped the sugar plum again into his pocket and felt as if his sudden fancy had been absurd. Indeed, I think the little girl would have been surprised and puzzled about what to do had he carried out the intention.
After the pony and his little mistress departed, Jan lost interest in the riders and walked away across the park. Once, he stopped to look at a dear little dog with a blue collar, who seemed to have lost his master, for he was wandering about by himself and smelling everything he met as if to recover a lost trail. Jan called him. He came up in a very friendly way. He allowed himself to be patted, and the sweetmeat was in danger again. Jan had taken it out to divide it with this new friend when a whistle was heard, which the little dog evidently recognized. He darted off at once to join his master. So again, the pink sweetmeat was put back into Jan’s pocket, and he walked on.
He had gone quite a distance when he saw many people collected around the foot of a tree. A ladder was set against one of the lower branches, and a man had climbed up nearly to the top of the tree. Like any boy, Jan lost no time joining the crowd, but at first, he could not determine what was happening. The boughs were thick. All he could see was the man’s back high up overhead, and he could not guess what he was doing.
A benevolent-looking old gentleman stood near, and Jan heard him exclaim with great excitement:
“There, he’s got him! No, he’s not, but it was a close shave!”
“Got what, sir?” he ventured to ask.
“Why, the rook, to be sure.”
Then, seeing that Jan still looked puzzled, he took the trouble to explain.
“You see that rook up there, my lad, don’t you?” Jan had not seen any rook at all! “Well, it is caught somehow; I can’t tell you, but it can’t get away from the tree. They say it has been there three days, and the other rooks have brought food to it and kept it from starving. Now, someone has gone up to see what the difficulty is and, if possible, to set the poor thing free.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jan.
And the old gentleman looked at him kindly and said to himself:
“A very civil, tidy little lad! I like his face.”
Jan had now become deeply interested in what was going on. He stood on tiptoe and stretched his neck, but all he could see was the man’s back and one of his feet, and now and then, the movement of a stick with which the man seemed to be trying to hit something. At last, there was a great plunge and a rustling of branches, and people began to hurrah. Jan hurrahed too, though he still saw nothing very clearly; it is easier to shout when other boys shout; if you happen to be a boy, then it is to keep still.
Slowly, the man in the tree began to come down. Now, he had only one hand to help himself with; the other held the heavy rook. We in America do not know what rooks are like, but in England, they are common enough. They are large black birds, something like our crows, but they look wiser and are much bigger.
As the man neared the ground, everyone in the crowd could see what was the matter with the rook. A kite-string caught among the tree branches had tangled his legs and held him fast. He had pulled so hard in his efforts to escape that the string had cut into one of his legs and half broken it. It was stiff and bleeding, and the rook could neither fly nor hop. People searched in their pockets, and one little girl, who had a half biscuit, fed the rook, who, for all the kindly efforts of his friends, seemed to be half-famished. The poor thing was too weak to struggle or be frightened and took the crumbs eagerly from the girl’s hand.
Jan thought of his sweetmeat and took it out for the third time. Everybody was crowding around the man who held the rook, and he could not get near. A tall policeman stood in front of him. Jan pulled his arm and, when he turned, handed him the sweetmeat and said in his soft, foreign English:
“For the bird, sir.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said the policeman.
He had not understood what Jan said, and in an abstracted way, with his eyes still fixed on the rook, he bit the pink sweetmeat in two and swallowed half of it at a mouthful. Fortunately, Jan did not see this, for the policeman’s back was turned to him. Observing that the man made no attempt to go forward, he pulled his sleeve for the second time and again said: “For the bird, I said, sir.”
This time, the policeman heard, and taking one step forward, he held the remaining half of the sweetmeat out to the rook, who, by this time, had grown used to being fed, took the offered dainty greedily. Jan saw the last pink crumb vanish into the long beak, but he felt no regret. His heart had been touched by the suffering of the poor bird, and he was glad to give what he could to make it forget those painful days in the tree.
So that was the end of the pink sweetmeat, or not quite the end. The kind old gentleman Jan had spoken to had noticed the little transaction with the policeman. He was shrewd as well as kind.
He guessed by Jan’s clothes that he was a working man’s son, to whom sweets were not an everyday affair, and the generous act pleased him. So he put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a half-crown, and, watching his opportunity, dropped it into Jan’s pocket, quite empty now that the sweetmeat was gone. Then, with a little chuckle, he walked away, and Jan had no suspicion of what had been done to him.
Gradually, the crowd dispersed. Among the rest, Jan walked briskly, for he wanted to get home and tell his mother the story. It was not till after supper that he discovered the half-crown, and then it seemed to him like a sort of dream, as if fairies had been at work and turned the pink sweetmeat into a bit of silver.
That night, the three pairs of stockings had another chance for conversation. The blue and gray ones lay close together on the floor of the room where Jan slept with his brother, and the white ones, which Greta had carelessly dropped as she jumped into bed, were near enough to the half-opened door to talk across the sill.
“It has been an exciting day,” said the white pair. “My girl got a Keble’s Christian Year at her school. It was the second-best prize. It is a good thing to belong to respectable people who take prizes. Only one thing was painful to me; she wriggled her toes so with pleasure that I felt as if I were coming to an end in one of my points.”
“You probably are,” remarked the big gray. “Yes, now that I examine it, I can see the place. One stitch has parted already, and there is quite a thin spot. I always predicted you would be in the ragbag before you knew it.”
“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things,” the little blue stockings pleaded. “Mrs. Wendte will mend her, I am sure, and make her last. What did your girl do with her sweetmeat?”
“Ate it up directly, of course. What else should one do with a sweetmeat?” snapped the white pair crossly. “Oh, dear! My toe feels dreadful ever since you said that!”
“My boy was not so foolish as to eat his sweetmeat,” said the big gray stockings. “Only girls act that way, without regard to anything but their greedy appetites. He traded his with another boy, and he got a pocket knife for it, three screws, and a harmonica. There!”
“Was the knife new?” asked the blue.
“Could the harmonica play any music?” demanded the white.
“No; the harmonica is out of order inside somehow, but perhaps my boy can mend it. And the knife isn’t new—quite old, in fact—and its blade is broken at the end; still, it’s a knife, and Wilhelm thinks he can trade it off for something else. And now for your adventures. What did your boy do with his sweetmeat, little blue stockings? Did he eat it or trade it?”
“It is eaten,” replied the Blue Stockings cautiously.
“Eaten! Then, of course, he ate it. Why don’t you speak out? If he ate it, say so. If he didn’t, who did?”
“Well, nobody ate the whole of it, and my boy didn’t eat any. It was divided between two persons—or rather, between one person and—a thing that is not a person.”
“Bless me! What are you talking about? I never heard anything so absurd in my life. Persons and things that are not persons,” said the white pair, “what do you mean?”
“Yes; what do you mean? What is the use of beating about the bush this way?” remonstrated the big gray pair. “Who did eat the sweetmeat? Say plainly.”
“Half of it was eaten by a policeman and the other half by a rook,” replied the little blue stockings in a meek voice.
“Ho, ho!” roared the gray stockings while the white pair joined in with a shrill giggle. “That beats all! Half by a policeman and half by a rook! A fine way to dispose of a Christmas sweetmeat! Your boy must be a fool, little blue stockings.”
“Not a fool at all,” said the blue pair indignantly. “Now, just listen to me. Your girl ate hers up at once and forgot it. Your boy traded his away, and what has he got? A broken knife and a harmonica that can’t play music. I don’t call those worth having. My boy enjoyed his sweetmeat all day. He had more pleasure in giving it away than if he had eaten it ten times over! Besides, he got half a crown for it. An old gentleman slipped it into his pocket because he was pleased with his kind heart. I saw him do it.”
“Half a crown!” exclaimed the white pair with amazement.
“That is something like,” admitted the big gray stockings. “Your boy did the best of the three, I admit.”
The little blue stockings said no more.
The others fell asleep, but she lay and watched Jan as he rested peacefully beside his brother, with his wonderful treasure—the silver coin—clasped tight in his hand. He smiled in his sleep as though his dreams were pleasant.
“Even if he had no half-crown, still, he would have done the best,” she whispered to herself.
Then the clock struck twelve, and the day after Christmas was begun.
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