Speaker 1: The Pink Sweet Meat by Susan Coolidge. Only three pairs
of stockings were left in the shop. It was a
very little shop, indeed scarcely larger than a stall. Job Took,
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.
Besides these he sold penny papers and hold made yeast
made by Missus Took. 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 Took 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 him. 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 in dark blue in color, was about the size
for a child of seven or eight years old. Job
Took 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 wind 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 style. This was the big
gray pair. Our chances seemed to be getting slim, he
said gloomily. That is more than you seem replied the
White Stockings in a tart voice. Your ankle are as
thick as ever, and your mesh looks to me coarser
than usual tonight. There are worse things in the world
than thickness, retorted the Gray Stockings angrily. I'm useful at
any rates I am. While you have nowhere 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 pear, beginning to cry, No, it's your misfortune.
But people as unfortunate as you are should mind their
p's and cues, and not say disagreeable things to those
who are better off. Pray, don't quarrel. Put in the
little blues, who are 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 corner, sighed the white pear.
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 substance, said the gray stockings. The old
skeins and the revelings 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 sheep,
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 pear.
You were only woven last July, as late as May.
You were running around the meadow on the sheep's 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 thundered 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 pear dolorously. How I wish some one
would come along and put us out of suspense. A
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, vaingloriously. 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 missus Wynd, 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
took rolled them up in paper and tied a stout
pack thread round them, they nestled close and squeezed each
other with satisfaction. Besides the joy of being sold was
a 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 Grays. Why of course not.
Who ever heard of stockings being put away? For? Always?
Said the 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 Wend, 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 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 yan Ah.
They are nice gifts. Indeed, said missus, went 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 presents. This
was promotion. Indeed, hast thou naught else, demanded Jacob Wen
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. Missus went, a tender
look on her motherly face, sought a small screwed up paper,
and with the air of one who was a little
ashamed of what she is doing, dropped into each stocking
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 an oddescript character, which
were crumbly and sweet, and would be sure to please
those who do not often get a taste of candy.
It was a little yawn 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 yon stockings.
Missus went had not said anything about them to her husband.
Well this is satisfactory, said the gray pair, when Missus
went 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 pear plaintively. I always hoped that I should hold
something valuable, like a watch or a pair of ear rings.
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 sweet meat, 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 Pear, who never could
resist the temptation to say a disagreeable thing. Well 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 Blues. So the night went, and
now it was the dawn of Christmas, with the first light,
the door opened softly, and the little boy crept into
the room. This was yon 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 pear, 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 awaken, said his mother,
pleased at his pleasure. See mother, see what I found,
cried It is good sweet. I have tasted a crumb
already take some of it, mother, But missus Vient shook
her head. No, she said, I do not care for sugar.
That is for little folks like thee eat it thyself. Yon.
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 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 are the only time to hastily whisper. As they
were separated to night, Perhaps we may meet again. The
pink sweetmeat went into the pocket of Yan'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,
Yan was a thrifty little boy, as you perceive. Being Christmas,
it was of course an idle day. Jacob went never
knew what to do with such. There was his pipe,
and there was beard to be had, So in default
of other occupation he amused himself with these. Missus Wen
had her hands full with the dinner, and was frying
sausages and mixing Yorkshire pudding all the 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, who Helm went off
on errands of his own. Little Yan spent the morning
and admiring his stockings, and in wrapping and unwrapping his
precious sweetmeat, and taking it out of his pocket and
putting it 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, Yan 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 over,
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 make sure that
it was safe. It was a gray afternoon, but not
snowing or raining. Hyde Park was not too far away
for a walk, and Yon went there. The Serpentine was
skimmed over with ice just strong enough to bear boys,
and quite a little crowd was sliding or skating upon it.
Yon could skate very well, he had learned in Holland,
but he made no attempt to join the crowd. He
was rather shy of English boys, for they sometimes laughed
at his Holland or clothes, or his Dutch accent, and
he did not like to be laughed at. So he
strolled away, passed the Serpentine and his skaters, and watched
the riders in the row for a while. There were
not a great many, for people who ride are apt
to be out of London at the Christmas time, but
there were some pretty horses, and one fair little girl
on a pony who took Yon's fancy very much. He
stood for a long time watching her trot up and down,
and the idea occurred to him that 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.
Yan dropped the sugar plum again into his pocket and
felt as if his sudden fancy had been absurd, and indeed,
I think the little girl would have been surprised and
puzzled what to do had he carried out the attention.
After the pony and his little mistress had departed, Yan
lost his interest in the rider's and walked away across
the park. Once he stopped to look a dear little
dog with the blue collar who seemed to have lost
his master, for he was wandering about by himself and
smelling everybody and everything he met, as if to recover
a lost trail. Yan called him. He came up in
a very friendly way and allowed himself to be padded.
And once more the sweetmeat was in danger, for Yan
had taken it out with the intention of dividing it
with his new friend. When a whistle was heard, which
the little dog evidently recognized, and he darted off at
once to join his master. So again the pink sweetmeat
was put back into Yan's pockets, and he walked on.
He had gone quite a distance when he saw a
number of people collected round 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. Yan, like a true boy, lost no
time in joining the crowd, but at first he could
not make out what was going on. The boughs were thick.
All that he could see was the man's back high
up overhead, and what he was doing he could not guess.
A benevolent looking old gentleman stood near, and Yan 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 Yan still looked puzzled, he took the trouble
to explain, you see that rook up there, my lad,
don't you? Yan had not seen any rook at all. Well,
it is caught in some way how I can't tell you,
but it can't get away from the tree. It has
been there three days, they say, and all that time
the other rooks have brought food to it and kept
it from starving. Now some one has gone up to
see what is the difficulty, and if possible, to set
the poor thing free. Thank you, sir, said Yan, And
the old gentleman looked at him kindly and said to himself,
a very civil, tidy little lad. I like his face.
Yon 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. Yon
hurrad too, though he still saw nothing very clearly. But
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. He had only one hand to help himself
with now, for 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
a good deal bigger. As the man neared the ground,
every one in the crowd could see. But had been
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 began to feed 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. Yan
thought of his sweetmeat and took it out for the
third time. Everybody was crowding round a man who held
the rook, and he could not get nearer. A very
tall policeman stood in front of him. Yan pulled his arm,
and when he churned, handed him the sweetmeat and said,
in his soft foreign English for the birds, sir, thank you,
my dear, said the policeman. He had not understood what
Yan said, and in an abstracted way, with his eyes
still fixed on the rook, he bit the pink sweetmeat
in two and swelled half of it a mouthful. Fortunately
Yon did not see this, for the policeman's back was
turned to him. But observing that the man made no
attempt to go forward, he pulled his sleeve for the
second time and again said, foot 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, having by this time grown used to
being fed, took the offered dainty greedily. Yan 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 to whom Yan had spoken, had noticed the
little transaction with the policeman. He was shrewd as well
as kind. He guessed by Yan's clothes that he was
a working man's son, to whom sweets were not an
every day affair, and the generous act pleased him. So
he put his hand into his pocket, pulled out half
a crown, and, watching his opportunity, dropped it into Yan's pocket,
quite empty now that the sweetmeat was gone. Then with
a little chuckle, he walked away, and Yan had no
suspicion of what had been done to him. Gradually the
crowd dispersed Yan among the rest, walking 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 sober
That night, the three pairs of stockings had another chance
for conversation. The blue ones and the gray ones lay
close together on the floor of the room where Yon
slept with his brother, and the white ones, which Greta
had carelessly dropped as she jumped into bed, were near
enough the half open door to talk across the sell.
It has been an exciting day, said the white pear.
My girl got a Kebble'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. Well,
you probably are, remarked the big gray. Yes, now that
I examine, I can see the place one stitch has
parted already, and there is quite a thin spot. You know,
I always predicted that you would be in the rag
bag before you knew it. Oh, don't say such dreadful things,
pleaded the little blues. This is the wenchwoman, I am sure,
and make her last. What did your girl do with
her sweetmeat? Eat it up directly? Of course? What else
should one do with a sweetmeat? Snapped the white pair crossly. Oh, dear,
my toe feels dreadfully ever since you said that quite neuuralgic. Oh,
my boy was not so foolish as to eat his sweetmeat,
said the big gray stockings. Only girls act in 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, its blade is broken
at the end. Still it's a knife, and Wilhelm thinks
he can tread it off for something. House And now
for your adventures. What did your boy do with his sweetmeat,
little Blues? 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 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 pear, what
do you mean, Yes, what do you mean? What is
the use of beating about the bush in this way?
Remonstrated the big gray pear, 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 blues in
a meek voice. O, 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 Blues, Not a fool
at all, said the blue pear 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. Ejaculated the white pear with amazement. Well,
that is something like, admitted the big gray stockings. Your
boy did the best of the three, I admit. The
little blue said no more. Presently the others fell asleep,
But she lay and watched Yon 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. At last, then the clock struck twelve,
and the day after Christmas was begun. And Of the
Pink Sweet Meat by Susan Coolidge