Carl Krinken, or, The Christmas stocking

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LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.



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Ellen Montgomery’s Pookshell.

CARL KRINKEN;

OR,

THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

BY THE AUTHORS OF

‘THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD,” ‘‘ QUEECIIY,”’ ** SPECULATION,”
ETC. ETC.

A NEW EDITION,

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.







CONTENTS.

—_—<-__—

PAGE
THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES. ° ° . 9
THE STORY OF THE PENNY : . ° . ~ 28

THE STORY OF THE PURSE °

THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES . 7 . . 70
THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE . . -. . 112
THE STORY OF THE HYMN BOOK . ° ° ~ 127
THE STORY OF THE CORK BOAT : ° ° . 142

THE STORY OF THE STOCKING ITSELF . . - 144







CARL KRINKEN;:
on,
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 acci-
dentally ; 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 un-
satisfied tooth all the days of its life, unless its owner
should perchance grow up to be a sugar-refiner. It ig
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
abet it; and how can they? When a little girl once

B



2 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

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 fill half a million
of rich little stockings, and then—how many poor chil-
dren had any to fill? or if one chanced to be found, it
might have holes in it; and if the sugar-plums should
come 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,
on Christmas Eve, with dreaming that he had made him-
self sick with 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 got what
they did, or because they hadn’t what they didn’t get.
It was a woful thing if a top was painted the wrong
colour, or if the name 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



THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. | 8

mother a very small load of chips in less than five
minutes. And a small cake of maple sugar which some-
how 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
—— trees had grown about a foot since it was
made.

“Wife,” said John Krinken, “what shall we put m
little Carl’s stocking to-night ?”

“Truly,” said his wife, “I do not know. WNeverthe-
less 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 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 o
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 fishing-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 comple 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.



é THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

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.

‘“ 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,
gray, 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.”

‘“‘] 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.

‘Tt ’ll never do to put that in first,” she said; “the
masts would be broken. I think 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.

_“Tve 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 waggon. Se
[ picked them up.” |



THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 3

“Three apples,” said John. ‘Well, I'll give him a
penny 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, anyway.
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 penny—
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.

“Tf 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 | didn’t
let her die in the water, poor soul! She said it was
worth a great deal. And I think the clasp is silver.”

“Oh, I dare say he'd like it,” said Mrs. Krinken;
“oive him that, and I'll put in the old pine cone—he’s
old enough to take care of it now. I think he’ll be con-
tent.”

The book with its worn leather binding and tarnished
silver clasp, was dusted and rubbed up and put in, and
the old sharp-pointed pine cone followed ; and the fisher-
man and his wife followed it up with a great deal of love
and a blessing.

And then the stocking was quite full.



6 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

It was midnight ; and the fire had long been covered
up, and John Krinken and his wife were fast asleep, and
little Carl wasin the midst of the hard bed and his sweet
dreams as before. The stocking hung by the side of the
little 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 Christ-
mas.

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



THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 7

course very little love could get in. And there is no
teling how many children would be satistied 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 bed and shouted—

“¢ Merry Christmas!”

The mice were a good deal alarmed, for they had not
all seen their partners safe 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 stand-
ing on his heels. Then he scampered across the floor
and began to feel at 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 stock-
ing; 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



8 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

and scampered back to bed again; screaming out,
“Apples! apples! apples!”

His mother being now awakened 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 hed just when Carl and
the empty stocking lay side by side. |

“First rate!” 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 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 penny, just where it had been all the
time, upon the biggest of the red darns.

“A penny!” cried Carl. “Oh, I suppose it was you
talking, wasn’t it ?”

“No,” said the penny. “ But I can talk.”

“Do you know where you came from?” said Cazl,
staring at the penny with all his eyes.

“Certainly,” said the penny.

“I dreamed that everything in my stocking told me
a story,” said Carl. |



THE THREE APPLES. g

“So we will,” said the penny. “Only to you. To
nobody else.”

Carl shook his head very gravely, and having slipped
the penny 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 think 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.

“T assume to myself the task of relating our joint his-
tory, 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 my-
self in every quality that an apple should have. You
perceive not only the fine roundness of my shape, but



10 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

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 perma-
nent and deep impression on me. My behaviour to-
wards 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 pre-
sent, Beachamwell,” said Carl, “‘ because I might eat you
up before you got through your story, and that would be
a pity. 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 Beacham-
well, “ 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 1
cutyouup. 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 pro-





THE THREE APPLES. 1t

beable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that
tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as Ihave
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 will attain a particle of the true Beach- .
amwell colour. There are, however, good spots in Knerly ;
and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get to the
right side of her.”

“I'll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for Ill 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: noris that often obtained ex-
cept 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, [ 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.

‘‘T 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?”

“T'll make you some pies—if I can get anything te
make them of,” said Mrs. Penly.

“ Ah» but you can't,” said Mark, his countenance fall”
ing 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 troop was just then performing.



12 1tif CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“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 Thanks-
giving without them.” |

“T 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 103rd Psalm.”

So Mark got his little old 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 destruc-
tion ; 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 1 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 puzzled 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
nourishing things might exert a happy influence upon
his complexion; but she stilled her heart with this word,
“Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such
things.”



THE THREE APPLES, | 13

“Tam sure we have a great many good things, Mark,”
she answered cheerfully ; “don’t you remember that bar.
rel 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 saysin another
part of that psalm, ‘Like as a father pitieth his chil-
dren,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 chil-
dren. 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.”

‘““T 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 black-
berries 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.”

‘May be 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
san always find a way.”



14 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“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
enoughfor thanksgiving, Marky, in adear 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 a 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 be-
fore 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 step-
ping up and down the kitchen: and as she swept sho
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 voices
_ 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 a while 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 al-
ways his work, and he began to wonder what they were



THE THREE APPLES. 18

going to have for breakfast. Then somebody knocked at
the door.

‘“Here’s a quart of milk, Mrs. Penly,” said a voice.
‘Mother thought 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 dressed, he
rushed out into the kitchen.

“Ts it a whole quart, mother?”

“A whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isn't that

ood?”
. “Delicious!” said Mark. “I should like to drink it
allup. J don’t mean that I should like to do so 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.”

“Tf 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. ‘It 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 cup of milk
for your breakfast——”

“A whole cupful?” 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.

‘“T don't want any.”

“But you must have it,” said Mark. “Now I'll tell
you, mother. I'll drink a cupful 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 leit
I'll drink to-morrow.”



16 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Very well,” said his mother, “But now you must
run and get washed and dressed, for breakfast is almost
ready, lL have made you a little shortcake, and it’s
baking away at a great rate in the oven.”

‘“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 cup and
the plates.”

It would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his
cup of milk—how slowly he drank it—how careful he
was not to leave one drop in the cup; 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.

Ihe 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 sym-
pathy 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



THE THREE APPLES. 1?

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.” 7

“JT don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,”
said Mark. |

“No, it was very natural; though if he 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 ever full. And the water was life-
giving.

‘“ But this man often preferred the lower spring, and
would neglect the other when this was full; and if
forced to seek the Rock, he was often weary of waiting
for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a few
drops. And he never learned to love the upper spring
as he ought, until one year when the very grass by the
lower spring was parched, and he fled for his life to the
other. And then it happened, Mark,” said his mother,
looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, ‘‘ that
when the water at last began slowly to run into the
lower spring, though it was very lovely, and sweet, and
pleasant, it never could be loved best again.”

‘“ Mother,” said Mark, “I don’t know exactly what
you mean, and I do know a little, too.”



C



18 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Why, my dear,” said his mother, “I mean that
when we lack anything this world can give, we must
fetch the more from heaven.” :

“You love heaven very much, don’t you, mother?
said Mark, looking up at her quite wonderingly.

‘“‘ More than you love me.”

Mark thought that was hardly possible; but he didn’t
like to contradict his mother, and besides, they were now
at the church door, and had to go in and take their seats
Mark thought the clergyman chose the strangest text
that could be for Thanksgiving Day, it was this :—

“There is nothing at all, beside this manna, before
our eyes.”

When church was over, and Mark and his mother
were walking home again, they were overtaken by little
Tom Crab. |

“Come,” said little Tom—“let’s go sit on the fence
and eat apples. We sha'n’'t have dinner to-day till ever
so late, ‘cause it takes so long to get it ready; and I’m so
hungry. What are you going to have for dinner ?”

‘TY don't know,” said Mark. |

‘‘T know what we’re going to have,” said Tom, “ only
IT can’t remember everything. J makes me worse than
ever to think of it. Come—let’s go eat apples.”

“i haven't got any,” said Mark.

“Haven't got any!” said Tom, dropping Mark’s elbow
and staring at him—for the idea of a boy without
apples had never before occurred to any of Mr. Crab’s
family. ‘Oh, you mean you've eaten up all you had in
your pocket.” |

“No,” said Mark, “we haven’t had any this year.
Last year Mr. Smith gave us a basketful.” | |

‘“ Well, come along, and I’ll give you some,” said Tom.

“T’'ve got six, and I think three’ll do for me til

dinner. Oh, Mark! you ought to see the goose roasting
in our kitchen! I'll tell you what—I think I may as
well give you the whole six, ’cause I can run home and
get some more; and I might as well be at home, too,



THE THREE APPLES. 4g

- they might have dinner earlier than they meant to
ave it.”

a filling Mark’s pockets out of his own, Tom ran
off.

“It so happened,” said Beachamwell, turning herself
round with a tired air when she got to this point in her
story—‘‘it so happened, that Mark having stopped so
long to talk with Tommy Crab, did not get home till his
mother had her things off and the table-cloth laid; and
then, being in a great hurry to help her, and a rather
heedless little boy besides; there being, moreover, but
one table in the room, Mark laid his six apples upon
the sill of the window which was open. For it was a
soft autumn day—the birds giving another concert in
the still air, and the sunshine lying warm and bright
upon everything. The apples looked quite brilliant as
they lay in the window, and as Mark eat his queer little
Thanksgiving dinner of bread and a bit of corned beef,
he looked at them from time to time with great plea-
sure.

But when it was almost time for the apples to come
on table as dessert, Mark suddenly cried out, ‘Mother!
where are my six apples?”

“Why, on the window-sill,” said his mother.

‘There are but five! there are but five!” said Mark.
“T must have lost one coming home! No, I didn't,
either.” And running to the window, Mark looked out.
There lay the sixth apple on the ground, appropriated
as the Thanksgiving dinner of his mother’s two chickens.

Mark could hardly keep from crying.

“It’s too bad,” he said, “when I had but just six!
The ugly things!” ;

“You called them beauties this morning,” said his
mother. - .

“But just see my apple!” said Mark, “all dirty and
pecked to pieces.”

“And just see my little boy,” said his mother, “all
red and angry Did you suppose, my dear, that if



20 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. |

apples rolied off the window-sill, they would certainly
fall inside ?”

“JT will take care, I'll never put anything there any
more,” said Mark, gathering up the five apples in his
arms and letting them all fall again. But they fell
inside this time, and rolled over the floor.

_ “You had better decide how many apples you will eat
just now,” said Mrs. Penly, ‘“‘and then put the others
away in the closet.” |

“It’s too bad!” said Mark. “TI had but six; and
I thought you would have three and I’d have three.”

‘‘ Well, you may have five,” said his mother, smiling,
“the chickens have got my part. And, maybe, some good
will come of that yet, if it only teaches you to be careful.”

“Oddly enough,” said Beachamwell, “some good.did
come of it. When the chickens pecked the apple to pieces,
the seeds fell out, and one seed crept under a clover leaf
where the chickens could not find it. And when the
snow had lain all winter upon the earth, and the spring
came, this little seed sprouted and grew, and sent down
roots, and sent up leaves, and became an apple tree.”

‘‘ How soon?” said Carl.

“Oh, in the course of years, by the time Mark was a
big boy. And the tree blossomed and bore fruit; and
from that time Mark and his mother never wanted for
apples. He called it the ‘Thanksgiving tree,’ but it
was a true Beachamwell, for all that.”

“But stay!” exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beach-
amwell’s stem in his great interest, “ Mark isn’t alive
now, is he?”

“No,” said Beachamwell, twisting away from Carl
and her stem together. “No, he is not alive now, but
the tree is, and it belongs to Mark’s erandson. And
the other day he picked a whole waggon-load of us, and
set off to market; and we three were so tired with jolt-
ing about, that we rolled out and lay by the wayside
Thus it was that your mother found us.”



THE THREE APPLES. gi

“Well, that is certainly a very pretty story,” said
Carl; ‘but nevertheless, I’m glad my stocking was full.
But I will let you, Beachamwell, and Half-ripe, and
Knerly, lie on the chest and hear the rest of the stories,
for I like this one very much.” |

Carl was tired of sitting still by this time, so he went
out and ran about on the beach till dinner time; and
after dinner he went up to his corner again. |

The sun came in through the little window, looking
askance at Carl’s treasures, and giving a strange, old-
fashioned air to purse, and book, and stocking. The
shoes looked new yet, and shone in their blacking, and
the apples had evidently but just quitted the tree;
while the bright penny gleamed away in the fair light,
and the old pine cone was brown as ever, and reflected
not one ray. Carl handled one thing and another, and
then his eye fell on his small portion of money. He
might want to spend it! therefore, if the penny could do
anything, it must be done at once; and as he thought
on the subject, the sun shone in brighter and brighter,
and the face of the penny looked redder and redder.
Then the sunbeam fled away, and only a dark little
piece of copper lay on the chest by the side of the new
shoes.

‘Now, penny,” said Carl, “itis your turn. I'll hear
you before the purse, so make haste.”

“Turn me over, then,” said the penny, “for I can’t
talk with my back to the people.”

So Carl turned him over, and there he lay and stared
at the ceiling.



Ze THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The Story of the Bonny.

J cannot begin to relate my history, said the penny,
without expressing my astonishment at the small con-
sideration in which I am held. ‘I wouldn’t give a
penny for it!”—* It isn’t worth a penny!” such are the
expressions which we continually hear; and yet truly a
man might as well despise the particles of flour that
make up his loaf of bread.

People say it is pride in me; that may be, and it may
not. Butif it be, why shouldn’t a penny have at least
that kind of pride which we call self-respect? I was
made to be a penny, I was wanted to b8 a penny, I was
never expected to be anything else, therefore why should
I be mortified at being only a penny? I am all that
I was intended to be, and a silver dollar can be no more.
Pride, indeed! why even Beachamwell here is proud, I
dare say, and only because she is not a russeting;.
while I think—Well, never mind, but I have bought a
good many apples in my day and ought to know some-
thing about them. Only a penny! People can’t bar-
gain so well without me, I can tell you. Just go into
the market to buy a cabbage, or into the street to buy a
newspaper, and let me stay at home; see how you will
care then. Indeed, when there is question of parting
with me, I am precious enough in some people’s eyes,
but it hardly makes up for the abuse I get from other
quarters. here is indeed one pretty large class of the
community who always think me worth picking Ds
though they are over ready to part with me. To them
alone would I unfold the secrets of my past life. I
might have lain mute in a man’s purse for ever, and
rubbed down all the finer parts of my nature against
various hard-headed coins; but there is something in the



TYE PENN¢ | 23

solitude of a boy’s pocket which touches all the sympa-
thies of our nature, even beforehand.

I am not, however, continued the penny, I am not
at all of friend Beachamwell’s temperament,—in fact
I never had but one impression made on me in my life.
Lo be sure that was permanent, and such as only Time
can efface; though no doubt he will one day soften down
my most prominent points, and enable me to move
through society with a calm and even exterior. For it
happens, oddly enough, that while beneath the pressure
of years “the human face divine” grows wrinkled and
sometimes sharp, a penny grows smooth and polished,—
a, little darker and thinner perhaps than formerly, but
with as good business faculties as ever.

When that time arrives, said the penny, we re-
fuse to tell our age; but until then we are perfectly
communicative. I would at once tell you how oldI am,
’ but that you can see for yourself.

I shall not give you adetailed account of my origin,
nor of the fire and water through which I passed in order
to become a penny. If, when you grow up, you are still
curious about the matter, you travel over England, and
there, down in Cornwall, you will find what may be
called my birth-piace, and can learn, with full particulars,
why I left it. Neither shall I relate how I was pressed,
and clipped, and weighed, at the Mint, nor speak of the
first few times that I went to market and changed hands.
My present history will: begin with the pocket of a rich
old gentleman, into which I found my way one afternoon,
along with a large variety of the “ circulating medium.”

‘“‘ You do use such big words!” said Carl.

“Because I have travelled a great deal,” said the
penny. “ It is the fashion. But to return to the pocket.”

What a pocket it was! | eo &

At the bottom lay an overfed pocket-book, bursting
with bank bills new and old, while another of like di-
mensions held more value, snugly stowed away in notes
and bonds. ‘The leather purse in which I lay had one



Pt THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

end for pence and the other for gold and silver; but
with my usual love of bright company, when the old
gentlemen slipped me in among a parcel of dingy pence,
I slipped out again, and ran in among the half-sovereigns

For I was the only new penny the old gentleman had,
and as by right I belonged about half to him and half
to the bank, the cashier and he had some words as to
which should carry me off. I believe the old gentleman
chuckled over me half the way home.

If this part of my story teaches nothing else, said the
penny, with a moralizing air, as he stared at the ceiling,
it will at least show the folly of going out of one’s
proper place. Had I been content to lodge with the
pence, I should but have been set to do a penny’s work,—
as it was | was made to do the work of sovereigns, for
which I was totally unfit. It fell out thus.

The old gentleman walked leisurely home, having very
much the air of a man with a pocket full of money,—
as I should think from the deliberate and comfortable
way in which we were jogged about; and when he rang
his own door bell it was already quite dark. girl opened the door, dressed in a white frock and black
apron.

‘Oh, grandpa,” she said, “I'm so glad you’ve come,
because there's a little boy been waiting here ever so long
for ten dollars.”

“Well my dear,” said the old gentleman, “ ten dollars
is worth waiting for.”

“ But he’s in a great hurry to get home before dark,
because he says the children have got no bread for sup-
per till he buys it,” said the little girl. “He brought a
pair of boots and shoes for you, grandpa, and his father’s
very poor.”

“Is he?” said the old gentleman. “Then I’m afraid
my boots won’t be worth much. However, Nanny, my

dear, you may take him the money for them, since
they’re here.”



THE PENNY. , 25

“Shall I fetch you a light, grandpa?” said the child
‘It’s too dark to see.”

“No, no—not a bit of it,—I know how ten dollars
feel, well enough. He shall have a gold piece—for the
first time in his life, Ill warrant. It zs too dark to read
bank bills.”

And opening the most precious end of his purse, the
old gentleman’s unerring thumb and finger drew forth
me, and laid me in the little girl’s open palm. The soft
little hand closed upon me, and down she ran to the
lower entrance.

‘‘There’—she said,—“ here it is. Grandpa says he
supposes that’s the first gold piece you ever had. Have
you got a great many little brothers and sisters?”

“This aint gold,” said the boy, too busy examining
me to heed her last question. ‘‘ He’s made a mistake—
this is only a penny.”

“ Oh, well, Pll take it back to him then,” said the little
messenger. ‘I suppose he couldn’t see in the dark.”
And away she ran.

The old gentleman by this time was enjoying his slip-
pers and the newspaper, between a, blazing fire and two
long candles in tall silver candlesticks.

“Grandpa,” said the child, laying her hand on his
knee, “do you know what you did in the dark? You |
gave that boy a penny instead of a gold piece—wasn't
it funny ?”

“ Hey! what?” said the old gentleman, moving his
paper far enough to one side to see the little speaker,
‘Gave him a penny instead of a gold piece? Nonsense !”

“ But you did, grandpa,” urged the child. ‘See here
_—he gave it right back to me. It was so dark, you
know, and he took it to the window to look; and he said
directly it was only a penny.” .

‘Which he had kept in his hand for the purpose, I'll
warrant,” said the old man. ‘“ Took it to the window,
did he ?—yes, to slip it into his pocket. He needn't think
to play off that game upon me”



26 THE CHRISTMAS £f0CKINt.

“ But only look at it, grandpa,” said the child,—“ see
—it's only apenny. I’m sure he didn’t change it.”

“T don't want to look at it;” said he putting away her
hand. ‘All stuff, my dear—it was as good a piece as
ever came out of the Mint. Don’t I know the feel of
one? and didn’t I take it out of the gold end of my
purse, where I never put copper? Bad boy, no doubt—
you mustn’t go back to him. Here, William——’

‘“ But he looked good, grandpa,” said the child, “and
so Sorry,”

“Hell look sorry now, [ll be bound,” said the old
man. “Isay, William !—take this penny back to that
boy and tell him to be off with it, and not to show his
face here again.”

The command was strictly obeyed; and my new
owner, after a vain attempt to move the waiter, carried
_ me into the street and sat down on the next door-step.
Never in my life have I felt so grieved at being only a
penny, as then.

The boy turned me over and over, and looked at me
and read my date, with a bewildered air, as if he did
not know what he was doing; and I, alas, who could
have testified to his honesty, had no voice to speak.

At length he seemed to comprehend his loss; for,
dropping me on the pavement, he sunk his head on his
hands, and the hot tears fell fast down from his face
upon mine. Then in a sudden passion of grief and ex-
citement he caught me up and threw me from him as
far as he could; and I, who had been too proud to asso-
ciate with pence, now fell to the very bottom of an in-
glorious heap of mud. As I lay there, half smothered, I
could hear the steps of the boy, who soon repenting his
hastiness now sought me—inasmuch as I was better
than nothing; but he sought in vain. He couldn’t see
me and I couldn't see him, especially as there was little
but lamp light to see by, and he presently walked away.

I am not good at reckoning time. said the penny,
but I should think I might have lain there about a





THE PENNY a7

-week—the mud heap having in the mean time changed
to one of dust—when a furious shower arose one after-
noon, or I should rather say came down; and not only
were dust and mud swept away, but the rain even washed
my face for me, and left me almost as bright as ever,
high and dry upor. a clean paving-stone. |

I felt so pleased and refreshed with being able to look
about once more, that what next would become of me
hardly cost a thought; and very wet and shiny I lay
there, basking in the late sunshine.

a thought you said you were high and dry,” said
arl.

“That is a phrase which we use,” replied the penny.
“T was high and dry in one sense—quite lifted above
the little streams of water that gurgled about among the
paving-stones, though the rain-drops were not wiped off
my face; and as I lay there I suddenly felt myself
picked up by a most careful little finger and thumb,
which had no desire to get wet or muddy. They be-
longed to a little girl about ten years old.”

“You pretty penny,’ she said admiringly— how
bright and nice you do look! and how funny it is that I
should find you—I never found anything before. I
wonder how you came here—I hope some poor child
didn’t lose you.”

While she thus expressed her opinion I was busy
making up mine, and truly it was a pleasant one. Her
calico frock was of an indescribable brown, formed by
the fading together of all the bright colours that had
once enlivened it—water and soap, and long wear, had
done this. But water and soap had also kept it clean,
and a very little starch spread it out into some shape,
and displayed the peculiar brown to the best advantage.
Instead of an old straw bonnet with soiled ribbons, she
had a neat little sun-bonnet; but this was made of a
piece of new pink calico, and made her face look quite
rosy. I could not see her feet and shoes, for my back
was towards them, but I have no doubt they were in



28 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

nice order—she was too nice a child to have it other
wise Her hair was brushed quite smooth, only when
she stooped to pick me up one lock had fallen down from
under the sun-bonnet, and her face was as simple and
good as it could be. With what contented eyes did sha
look at me !—she didn’t wish I was a piece of gold—in-
deed I thought it doubtful whether she had ever heard
of such a thing. But I saw that her cheeks were thin,
and that they might have been pale but for the pink sun-
bonnet. Whatever she meant by “a poor child,” little
Nanny would surely have given the name to her.

Suddenly she exclaimed— “Now Ican get it! Oh,
I'm so glad! Come, little penny, I must give you away,
though I should like to keep you very much, for you're
very pretty; but you are all the money I’ve got in the
world.”

Now for the candy-shop, thought I; for as she turned
and began to walk away as fast as she could, I peeped
into the little basket that hung on her arm and saw there
a small loaf of bread—so I knew I was not to go for
that commodity. She did not put me in the basket, but
kept me fast in her hand as she tripped along, till we
came to a large grocer’s shop. There she went in.

‘Please, sir, to let me have a penny’s worth of tea,”
she said timidly.

“Got sixpence to pay for it?” said one of the clerks,
to make. the other clerks laugh, in which he succeeded.

“No, sir, I’ve got this,” she said, modestly showing
me, and giving mea kind glance at the same time. “ Tt’s
only a penny, but it will get enough for mother, and
she’s sick and wanted some tea so much.”

Lhe young men stopped laughing, and looked at the
child as if she had just come out of the museum; and
one of them taking down a canister, measured out two
or three good pinches of tea into a brown paper and
folded it up. The child took it with a very glad face,
laying-me down on the counter with a joyful “ Thank
you, sir,” which I by no mean repeated ‘I wanted to ga



THE PENNY. 29

home with her and see that tea made. But we pence can
never know the good that our purchases do in the world.

The clerk took me up and balanced me upon his
finger, as if he had half a mind to give the child back
her money, and pay the sum of one penny into the till
out of his own private purse. But habit prevailed-; and
dropping me into the till, I heard him remark as he
closed it, “I say, Bill, I shouldn’t wonder now if that
was a good child.”

T shouldn’t have wondered either.

We were a dull company in the till that night, for
most of the money was old; and it is a well known fact
that worn-down coins are not communicative. And
some of the pieces were rusty through long keeping, and
one disconsolate little sixpence which sat alone in the
furthest corner of the till was in a very sad state of mind;
for he had just laid himself out to buy some rice for a
poor family and now could do nothing more for them—
and he was the last moneyed friend they had.

In this inactive kind of life some time passed away,
and though some of us were occasionally taken to
market yet we never bought anything. But one
evening “a man came into the grocer’s and asked
for starch, and we hoped for bright visitors; but
I had no time to enjoy them, for I was sent to make
change. The messenger was a man-servant; and with
the starch in his hand and me in his pocket he soon left
the shop and went whistling along the street. Then he
put his other hand into the pocket, and J ingled me against
the rest of the change in a most unpleasant manner—
picking me up and dropping me again Just as if pence
had no feeling. I was glad when he reached home, and
ran down the area steps and into the kitchen. He gave
the starch to the cook, and then marking down on a little
bit of paper what he had bought and what he had spent,
he carried it with the change into the parlour. But what
was my surprise to find that I was in the very same
house whence I had gone forth as a golden picce!



80 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The old gentleman was asleep in his chair now, and a
pretty—looking lady sat by, reading ; while the little girl
was playing with her doll on the rug. She jumped up,
and came to the table and began to count the
change.

“Two and sixpence, mama—see, here’s a shilling end
two sixpences, and fivepence, and a penny. Mama,
may I have this penny ?” :

“Tt isn’t mine, Nanny—your grandfather gave James
the money.”

“Well, but you can pay him again,” said the child;
‘‘and besides, he’d let me have it, [ know.”

“ What will you do with it, Nanny?”

“Don't you know, mama, you said you thought you
would give me one penny a month to spend ?”

‘To do what you liked with”—said her mother. “ Yes,
ITremember. But what will you do with this one?”

“Oh, I don’t know, mama—TI'll see if erandpa will let
me have it.” |

“Let you have what?” said the old gentleman,
waking up.

‘This penny, grandpa.”

“To be sure you may have it! Ofcourse !—and fifty
more.”

“No, she must have but one,” said the lady, with a
smile. “I am going to give her an allowance of one
penny a month.”

‘‘ Fiddle-de-dee!” said the old gentleman. “ What can
she do with that, I should like to know?—one penny
—Absurd !”

“Why she can do just the thirtieth part of what she
could with halt-a-crown,” said the lady, “and that will be
money matters enough for such a little head. So you
_ may take the penny, Nanny, and spend it as you like ;

only I shall wish to be told about it afterwards.”

Fanny thanked her mother, and holding me fast in
one hand she sat down on the rug again by her doll, The
old gentleman seemed very much amused,



THE PENNY, 3k

“What will you do with it, Nanny?” he said, bending.
down to her. “Buy candy?”

Nanny smiled and shook her head.

‘““No, I believe not, grandpa—I don’t know—TI'll see.
Perhaps Ill buy beads.” |

At which the old gentleman leaned back in his chair
and laughed very heartily.

From that time, whenever little Nanny went to walk

I went too, and she really seemed to be quite fond of me;
for though she often stopped before the candy shops or
the toy shops, and once or twice went in to look at the
beads, yet she always carried me home again. ~

“Mama, I don’t know how to spend my penny,
she said one day. |

‘Are you tired of taking care of it, Nanny?”

“No mama, but I want to spend it.”

“Why?”

“Why mama—I don’t know—money is meant to
spend, isn’t it!”

“Yes, it is meant to be spent—not to be thrown
away.

a dh. no,” said Nanny,—‘I wouldn’t throw away my
penny for anything. It’s avery pretty penny.” |
“How many ways are there of throwing away

money?” said her mother.

‘Oh, mama—a great many! I couldn’t begin to count
You know I might throw it out of the window, mama,
or drop it in the street—or somebody might steal it; no,
then it would only be lost.”

“Or you might shut it up in your box and never
spend it.”

“Why, mama!” said Nanny, opening her eyes very
wide, ‘“‘ would it be thrown away then?”

“Certainly—you might just as well have none. It
would do neither you nor any one else any good.”

“ But I should have it to look at.”

“But that is not what money was made for. Your
penny would be more really lost than if you threw it out



32 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

of the window, for then some poor child might pick
it up.”

“How surprised she would be!” said Nanny, with a
very bright face. “Mama, I think I should like to
spend my money so. I could stand behind the window-
curtain and watch.”

Her mother smiled.

“Why, mama? do you think there wouldn't any
poor child come along?”

“T should like to see that day, dear Nanny. But your
penny might fall into the grass in the courtyard, or into
the mud, or a horse might tread it down among the
paving-stones; and then no one would be the better
for it.”

“But it’s only one penny, mama,” said Nanny,—
“it don’t matter so much after all.” |

“Come here, Nanny,” said her mother, and the child
came and stood at her side. The lady opened her purse,
and took out a little gold piece.

“What is this made of?” said she.

“Why, of gold, mama.”

“Think again.”

So Nanny thought, and could’nt think, and laid her
head against her mother, and played with the little gold
cola. Then she laid it upon me to see how much
smaller it was, and how much brighter. Then she cried
out. ‘Oh, I know now, mama! it’s made of a hundred
and twenty pence.”

“Then if every day you lose ‘ only a penny,’ in one
bers you would have lost more than a sovereign and a

alf. That might do a great deal of good in the
world.”

“‘ How strange that is,” said Nanny. ‘ Well, I'll try
and not lose my penny, mama.”

‘‘ There is another reason for not losing it,” said her
mother. ‘In one sense it would make little difference
whether or not I threw this little gold piece into the fire
~—-you see there are plenty more in my purse. But



THE PENNY. 83

Nanny, they do not belong to me.” And taking up a
Bible she read these words—“‘ The silver and gold are
the Lord’s.’”

‘Do you think, Nanny, that it pleases Him to have us
waste or spend foolishly what he has given us to do good
with ?” |

“No, mama; I won't get my beads, then,” said
Nanny, with a little sigh.

‘That would not be waste,” said her mother, kissing
her. “It isright to spend some of our money for harm-
less pleasure, and we will go and buy the beads this very
afternoon.”

So after dinner they set forth.

It was avery cold day, but Nanny and her mother were
well wrapped up, so they did not feel it much. Nanny’s
fur tippet kept all the cold wind out of her neck, and her
little muff kept one hand warm while the other was given
to her mama. When that hand got cold, Nanny
changed its place, she put it in the muff and the other
’ out. As for me, [ was in the muff all the time; and I
was just wondering to myself what kind of a person the
bead woman would prove to be, when I heard Nanny
say,
‘ Mama!” did you see that little girl on those brown
steps? She had no tippet, mama, and not even a
shawl, and her feet were all tucked up in her petticoat;
and ” and Nanny’s voice faltered—“ I think she was
crying. I didn’t look at her much, for it made me feel
sad; but I thought so.” | *

“Yes, love,” said her mother, “I saw her. How good
God has been to me, that it is not my little daughter
who is sitting there.”

“Ob mama !”

Nanny walked on in silence for a few yards—then
she spoke again. |

“Mama—l’m afraid a great many poor children
want things more than I want my beads.”

“I’m afraid they do, Nanny.” |



D



$4. THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Mama, will you please go back with me, and let
me give that little girl my penny? wouldnt she be
pleased, mama? would she know how to spend it ?

“ Suppose you spend it for her, Nanny. People that
are cold are very often hungry, too—shall we go to the
baker’s and buy her something to eat?” )

“Oh yes!" said Nanny. ‘“ Will you buy it, mama, or
shall 1?” :

“You, darling.” |

And when they reached the shop, Nanny looked round
once more at her mother, and opening the shop-door with
a pleased and excited little face, she marched up to the ©
counter.

“Tf you please, sir,” she said, laying me down on
the counter, “I want something for a very poor little

le’ | |
OTe baker was a large fat man, in the whitest of shirt-
sleeves and aprons, and the blackest pantaloons and vest,
over which hung down a heavy gold watch-chain. He
put his hands on his sides, and looked at Nanny, and
then at me, and then at Nanny again.

‘‘ What do you want, my dear?” said he.

Nanny looked round to her mother to reassure herself,
and repeated her request.

“I want something for a very poor little girl, if you
please, sir. She’s sitting out in the street all alone.”
And Nanny’s lips were trembling at the remembrance.
Her mother’s eyes were full, too.

‘‘ What will you have, my dear?” said the baker.

Nanny looked up at her mother.

“What would you like if you were hungry ?” replied
her mother.

‘Oh, I should like some bread,” said Nanny, “and I
am sure the little girl would, too. But all those loaves
are too big.” |

“How would these do?” said the baker, taking some
rolls out of a drawer.

“Oh, they’re just the thing !” said Nanny, “and I like



THE PENNY. 35

role so much. May I take one, sir? and is a penny
enough to pay for it?” |

‘he baker gave a queer little shake of his head, and
searching below the counter for a bit of wrapping paper,
he laid the two largest rolls upon it.

“A penny is enough to pay for two,” he said. «Shall
I tie them up for you ?”

‘No, thank you, sir, you needn’t tie it—if you'll only
wrap them up a little. Mama,” said Nanny, turning
again to her mother, “I’m afraid that poor little girl does
not know that ‘the silver and gold are the Lord’s,’ and
she'll only think that I gave it to her.”

“You can tell her, Nanny, that everything we have
comes from God,” said her mother ; and they left the shop.

‘“What a nice little girl!” said Carl. “I think I
should like to marry that little girl when I grow up—if I
was good enough.” |

The baker went into the back room, continued the
penny, to tell the story to his wife, and I was left to my
own reflections on the counter; but I had reason to be
well satisfied, for it was certainly the largest pennyworth
I had ever bought in my life. But while I lay there
thinking about it, a boy came into the shop; and seeing
me, he caught me up and ran out again. At least, he
was running out, when he tripped and fell; and as I
am noted for slipping through people’s fingers, I slipped
through his, and rolled to the furthest corner of the shop.
There I lay all night; and in the morning, when the
baker’s boy was sweeping the floor, he found me and put
me in the till, for he was honest. But just then, Mr.
Krinken came in with a string of fish, and the careless
creature gave me, with some other change, for a parcel of
miserable flounders. That’s the way I came here.

‘““Why was he a careless boy?” said Carl. “I think
he was very careful, to find you at all.” :

“Oh, because I did not want to quit the baker, I sup- *
pose, said the penny. “And I don’t like the smell of
fish,—it don’t agree with me.”



86 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“You won’t smell much of it when I’ve kept you awhile
in my purse,” said Carl. “Tl take good care of you,
penny, and | won’t spend you till I want something.”

The next day Carl had tired himself with a run on -
the sands. He used to tuck up his trousers as high as they
would go, and wade slowly in through the deepening
water, to pick up stones and shells, and feel- the little
waves splash about his legs. Then, when a bigger wave
than usual came rolling in, black and high, to break
further up on the shore than the other great waves did,
Carl would run for it, shouting and tramping through
the water, to see if he could not get to land before the
breaker which came rolling and curling so fast after him.
Sometimes he did; and sometimes the billow would curl
over and break just a little behind him, and a great sea
of white foam would rush on over his shoulders and per-
haps half hide his own curly head. Then Carl laughed
louder than ever. He didn’t mind the wetting with salt
water. And there was no danger, for the shore was very
gently shelving and the sand was white and hard; and
even if a large wave caught him up off his feet and cra-
_ dled him in towards the shore, which sometimes happened,
it would just leave him there, and never think of taking
him back again; which the waves on some beaches would
certainly do.

All this used to be in the summer weather; at Christ-
mas it was rather too cold to play with the breakers in
any fashion. But Carl liked their company, and amused
himself in front of them, this sunny December day, for
along time. He got tired at last; and then sat himself
fiat down on the sand, out of reach of the water, to rest
and think what he would do next. There he sat, his
trousers still tucked up as far as they would go, his little
bare legs stretched out towards the water, his curls cris-
ped and wetted with a dash or two of the salt wave, and
his little ruddy face sober and thoughtful,—pleasantly
_ Testing, and gravely thinking what should be the next



TIIE PURSE. $7

play. Suddenly he jumped up, and the two little bare
feet pattered over the sand and up on the bank, till he
reached the hut. - |

‘What ails the child?” exclaimed Mrs. Krinken.
~ But Carl did not stop to tell what. He ran to the cup-

- board; and climbed up on a chair, and drew forth with
some trouble, from behind everything, a clumsy wooden
box. This box held hisown treasures and nobody else’s.
A curious boxful it was. Carl soon picked out his
Christmas purse; and without looking at another thing -
shut the box, pushed it back, swung to the cupboard _
so, and getting down from his chair, ran back, purse in ~

hand, the way he came; the little bare feet pattermg —

“over the sand, till he reached the place where he had |

-be@i, sitting ; and then down he sat again just as he was
- before, stretched out his legs towards the sea, and put the

_ purse down upon the sand between them. ee:

3 Now, purse,” said he, “ 1’ll hear your story. Come,
—tell.”

“TI don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I
have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life,
and I am tired of it.” euaen.

The purse looked very snappish.._- ee

“Why, you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open |
and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “ but one may be tired
of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“‘ My life is a failure.”

“‘T don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“Tt means that I never have been able to do what I
ii meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying
to do.”

“What's that?” said Carl.

“To keep money.”

“You shall keep my penny for me,” said Carl.

.“ Think of that! A penny! anything might hold a
penny. am of no use in the world.”





88 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“ Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“ to carry my penny.”
“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.
“No I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full!’
“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one
penny. You might as well have none.”

“No I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you must keep it;
and you must tell me your story, too.” .

‘Maybe you'll loseme,” saidthepurse. “I wish your
mother had.”

“No, I shan’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up
his two legs on each side of the purse, and slapped them
down in the sand again; “I shan’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“ Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That's the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a large
fancy shop in London,” the purse began.

‘Where were you before that?” said Carl.

_ ®t] was in one or two rooms where such things are
made, and where I was made.”

‘Where were you before that ?”

‘“] wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.

‘““ What are you made of?” said Carl, shortly.

“Tam made of sealskin, thesides, and my studs and
clasp are silver.”

‘‘ Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know ?” said the purse.

“T didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“1 don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that
large shop ?” | |

“Idid nothing. Ilay in a drawer, shut up with a
parcel of other purses.” |

“Were they all sealskin with silver clasps?”



THE PURSE. 8s

“Some of them; and some were morocco leather
with steel clasps.”

“Tm glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—
“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the
clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone
again. |

‘“T feel very dull now,” said the purse; “ but in those
days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome.
My sides were a beautiful bright red.” |

‘“‘T don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit
now.”

“That's because I have been rubbed about in the world
till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse,
and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl. ~

“If you don't shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“] won't,” said Carl. ‘And you must go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”

‘“¢ How did you get there?” |

‘“‘ He came to buy a purse, and so a number of us were
thrown out wpon the counter, and he looked at us and
tried us, and bought me and put me in his pocket.”

‘What did you do there?”

“There my business was to hold guineas and half
cuineas, and crowns and half crowns, and all sorts of
beautiful pieces of silver and gold.”

“ And pence?” said Carl.

‘Not such a thing. My master hadn’t any. He
threw all his pennies away as fast as he got ’em.”

“Threw ’em where?” said Carl.

“¢ Anywhere—to little boys, and beggars, and poor
people, and gate-openers, and such like.”

“Why didn’t he keep ’em?”

‘He had enough besides—gold and silver. He didn’t
want pennies and halfpennies.”

“T wish you had kept some of them,” said Carl.

“T never had them to keep. I couldn’t keep but what



40 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

he gave me, nor that either. He was always taking out
and putting in.”

‘Did he wear the red off?” said Carl.

“No; I didn't stay long enough with him. He was
travelling in some part of England, with a friend, riding
over a wide lonely plain one day; and they saw at a
little distance before them, a cow in the road, lying down,
across their path. ‘Stapleton,’ said my master, ‘let us
clear that cow.’ ‘Can’t your servant do that?’ said Mr.
Stapleton. ‘Do what?’ said my master. ‘Clear that
beast from the road,’ said his friend. ‘Pshaw!’ said
my master,—‘ | mean, let us clear her ata bound. Leave
her in quiet possession of the road, and let us take an
air-line over her back. ‘Suppose she took a stupid
notion to get out of our way just as we are in hers,’
said Mr. Stapleton. ‘I don’t suppose anything of the
sort, said my master; ‘we shall be too quick for her.’
With that they put spurs to their horses, but it happened
that Mr. Stapleton’s horse got the start and was a little
forward He cleared the cow well enough, but unluckily
it gave her an impression that just where she was, it was
a poor place to be; and she was throwing up her hind
legs at the very minute my master came to take the leap.
He was flung over and over, he and his horse, over and
under each other—I don’t know how. I only know my
master was killed.

“ His friend and his servant picked him up and laid
him by the road-side ; and while Mr. Stapleton went.full
speed to the nearest town to get help, the other stayed
behind to take care of his master and do what could be
done for him. But he very soon found that nothing
could be done for him; and then, as nobody was in
sight, he took the opportunity to do what he could for
himself, by rifling his master’s pockets. He pulled out
several things which I suppose he didn’t dare to keep,
for he put them back again after a careful look at them,
and after carefully taking off some seals from the watch.
chain. I did not fare so well. He had me in his handg



THE PURSE. Al

a long time, taking out and putting in silver and gold
pieces ; afraid to keep too much, and not willing to leave
a crown that might be kept safely ; when a sudden step
heard near, and the bursting out of a loud whistle,
startled him. He jumped as if he had been shot, which
was natural enough, as he was running a pretty good
chance of being hanged. I was dropped, or throwr
behind him in the grass; and before the countryman
who came up, had done asking questions, the horses of
Mr. Stapleton and assistants were seen over the rising
ground. They carried away my unfortunate master, and
left me in the grass. |
‘““T knew I shouldn’t stay there long, but I was picked
up sooner than I hoped. Before the evening had closed
in, while the sun was shining yet, I heard the tread of
light feet,—somebody coming near the road and then
crossing it. In crossing, this somebody came just upon
me; and a kind sunbeam touching one of my silver
points, | embraced the opportunity to shine as hard as I
could. People say it is dangerous to have bright parts ;
t am sure I never found it out. I shone so she could
not help seeing me. It was a girl about fifteen or six-
teen years old; a thin figure, very tidy in her dress, with
light brown hair nicely put back from her face, and that
face a very quiet sweet one She looked at me, inside
‘and out, looked up and down the road, as if to see where
I had come from, and finally put me in her pocket. I!
was very glad nobody was in sight anywhere, for I knew
by her face she would have given me up directly. She
left the road then, and went forward over the common,
which was a wide, lonely, barren plain, grass-grown,
with here and there a branch of bushes or a low stunted
tree. She was going after her cows, to bring them
home; and presently seeing them in the distance, she
stood still and began to call them.”
‘¢ How did she callthem ?” said Carl.
“+ Cuff, Cuff. Cuff !’—That was while they were a good



42 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

way off; when they came near,—‘ Sukey,’ and ‘ Bessie,”
and ‘Jenny.’” |

‘“‘ And did they come when she called ?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then
when they had looked a little while, to make sure it was
she, they set off slowly to come up to her.”

‘“‘ How many cows were there?” said Carl.

‘“Sukey was a great black cow, and always-marched
first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and alfays was
second. Three more came after in a line, and when
they got up to their little mistress she set off to go home,
and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

‘The common was smooth and wide, and much broken
with ups and downs, and little foot paths—or cow-paths
—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my
mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket,
through one and another of these; passing nothing in
the shape of a house, but a large gloomy-looking build-
ing at some distance, which I afterwards found was a
factory. quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with
one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little
field, and the out-buildings in another little field, close
beside it. Everything was small; house and barn, and
shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug
and neat, too. —

‘‘ My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and
good, and such people we always call little a

‘But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl. |

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up,
but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She
was just right.. She opened a gate of the barn-yard,
and held it, while all the five cows marched slowly in,
Jooking around them as if they expected to see some
change made in the arrangements since they had gone
out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood
_ Just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly
in the middle of the barn-yard, and began to chew the



oe
f



THE PURSE. Ag

cud, and Dolly, and Bessie, and Beauty, took their stand
in different places after her example; while Whiteface
went off to see if she could find something in the
mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

‘“Was Beauty a handsome cow ?” said Carl |

‘““No; she was the ugliest of the whole set; one of
her horns was broken, and the other lopped down
directly over her left eye.”

‘‘ What was she called Beauty for, then ?”

“Why, I heard that she was a very pretty calf, and
was named Beauty in her youth; but when she grew
older, she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns;
and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong
place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how
calves or children will turn out.

When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five
cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the
field where the house stood; and there she went in,
through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on
each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That
stood open to let her in.

It was the nicest place you ever saw. floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the
middle of it: a dark wooden table and wooden chairs,
neat and in their places, only one chair stood onthe hearth
as if somebody had just left it. There was a large, wide,
comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over
the fire hung a large iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of
the flames, and singing already. On éach side of the
ehimney, brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole
space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean.
The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went
to the inner door and called, ‘ Mother !’

A. pleasant voice from somewhere said.—* Here!”

‘“‘In.the milk room?” «

Yes.” |

And my little mistress went along a short passage,—



44 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

brown it was, walls and floor, and all, even the beams
overhead, to the milk room; and that was brown too,~
as sweet as a rose. —

‘‘ Mother,—Why did you put on the tea-kettle?”

‘“‘ Because I wanted to have some tea, deav.”

“ But I would have done it.”

“Yes, honey, I know. You've quite enough to do.”

‘¢ Look here, what I’ve found, mother.” :

“Can't look at anything, daughter. Go along and
milk, and I will hear you at tea-time.”

Then my little mistress took up the pails and went out
by another way, through another gate that opened
directly into the cow’s yard; and there she stripped the
yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the
five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but
loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every
cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the
cud, except when now and then one of them would
throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side,
and then my mistress’s soft voice would say—

“So, Beauty!” |

And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I
have heard that other people did not find her so.

Mrs. Meadow took the milk pails at the dairy door,
and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea.
She put up a leaf of the brown table, and set a tray on
it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea:
cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the
family.. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-
handled knives, and the rest of the things ; and when the
tea was made, she dressed up the fire, and stood looking
at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed
herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron.
She was the nicest looking woman you ever saw.

‘She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Cav.

“Mrs. Krinken was never half so nice. She was the
best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you
could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”



THE PURSE 45

“ Mine are bright,” said Carl.

‘“‘ Yours are bright for Christmas, Lut hers were bright
for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her
spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and
the milk pans, and the glass in the window, and her own
kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cosy
tea; and I was laid upon the table, and my story told,
or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided
that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom
ber mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called any-
thing but ‘ Silky.’” .

“‘ What for?” said Carl. .

“Maybe youll find out, if you don’t ask so many
questions,” said the purse, snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,”
Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me, and rubbing the
silver mountings. “It’s odd such a handsome purse
should have no money in it.”

“Tm not going to put it away out of sight, mother,”
said Silky; “Im going to have the good of it. Ill
Keep it to hold my milk-money.”

“Well, dear, here goes the first,” said Mrs. Meadow;
—‘“‘here's a silver penny I took for milk while you were
after the cows.” |

‘‘ Who came for it, mother ?”

‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me
this.”

So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness,
and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other
cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the
door a crack open; and I could see them at work, wash-
ing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon

the hearth, both of tnem by a little round table. By
end by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and
then she and Silky knelt down, close together, to pray.
They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cup-
doard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think
what a new place I had come to, and how [I liked it.

It was a very great change. In my old master’s



A6 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance,—
the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear;
now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me
a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass ; Mrs.
Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate ink-
‘stand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other
things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from
thence I watched my two mistresses at their work and
their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and
morning, kneel together to pray; and there I learned a
great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can
tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the
respect they have for it.”

‘‘ My mother has one,” said Carl.

‘‘ Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve
been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten
_ years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on
Sundays.” |

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“ Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken
means to be a good woman, but these other people were
good ; there’s all the difference.

My business was to lie there on the shelf, and keep
the milk pennies, and see all that was going on. sulky
sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly
poor people from the neighbouring village, or their
children. going home from the factory ; people that lived
in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or
fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s
worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little ag they could
do with. There were a good many of these families,
and among them they took a pretty good share of the
milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter
--honest sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face
and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came
out of her dairy. |

The children always stopped for milk at night, when
they were going home; the grown people, for the most



THE PUSH. a& 4

part, came in the morning. After I had been on the
cupboard shelf awhile, however, and got to know the
faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morn-
ing and evening, too. In the morning he fetched a
half-pennyworth, and in the evening a pennyworth of
milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same
brown jug, and always in the morning he wanted
a ha’pennyworth, and in the evening a pennyworth.
He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and
his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one
of the poorest looking that came. There was never —
a hat on his head; his trousers were fringed with tags;

his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was

always fastened close up, either to keep him warm, or to

hide how very little there was under it. Poor little

Norman Finch! That was his name.

He had come a good many mornings. One day early,
just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast,
his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his
little brown jug, and ‘“ Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.”

“Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman ?”
said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“1 don’t want only a hapenn’orth,” said Norman.

“But youll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’s

ou?”
ae: Tll stop for it,” said Norman, casting his eyes down.
into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual

‘“Why don’t you take it all at once, then ?”

“T don’t want it.” a

“ Have you got to go back home with this before you
go to work?”

‘““No—I must go,” said Norman, taking hold of the
door.

“‘ Are you going to the factory ?”

“Yes, I be.”

“Flow will your mother get her milk?”

“ She'll get it when I go home.”

“ But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?”



48 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“JT want it—she don’t want it,” said the boy, looking
troubled,—‘ I must go.”

“Do you want it to drink at the factory ?” Ly

“No. It’s to drink at'the factory. She don’t want it,
said Norman. |

He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the
table she said,

‘¢Mother, I don’t understand,—I’m afraid- there 1s
something wrong about this morning milk.”

‘“ There is nothing wrong about it, Honey,” said Mrs.
Meadow, who had been out of the room. “It’s as sweet
as a cloverhead. What's the matter?”

“Oh not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming
after itin the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for;
and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and
his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it
wasn’t and it was to drink at the factory; and that his
mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.”

“ Don’t think anything, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow, “till
we know something more. We'll get the child to tell us.
Poor little creature! Iwish I could keep him out of
that place.”

‘What place, mother?”

‘“‘T meant the factory.”

“1 don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in
his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is
a bad man.”

“‘ It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,” said Mrs.
Meadow, “for it’s very little he sees of it. It’s too much
for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.”

“‘ But they are kind at the pin factory, mother. People
say they are.”

“Mr. Carroll is a kind man,” said her mother. “ But
nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!”

“He looks thinner and paler now than he did six
months ago.”

“ Yes, and then it was winter and now it is summer,”
said Mrs. Meadow, |



THE PURSE. 49

‘J wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk,”
said Silky. Se

The next morning Norman was there again. He put
himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said
somewhat doubttully,

‘‘ Please, ma’am,—a ha’perm’orth.”

“Come in, Norman,” said Silky.

He hesitated.

‘“‘ Come !—come in,—come in to the fire; it’s chilly ou:
of doors. You're in good time, aren’t you?”

‘‘ Yes—but I can’t stay,” said the boy, coming in, how-
ever, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came
close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze
as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in
the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and
damp abroad.

“Til get you the milk,” said Silky, taking the jug;
“you stand and warm yourself. You've plenty of time.”

She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece
of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman.
He looked at it, and then caught it, and began to eat
immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the

ug.
g What’s this milk for, Norman?” she said plea-
santly.

He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

‘What are you going to do with it?”

§* Carry it—home,” he said slowly.

“Now ?—home now? Are you going back home with
it now ?”

‘‘T am going to take it to the factory.”

“What do you do with it there ?”

“ Nothing,” said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon
and seeming almost ready to cry ;—‘“‘I don’t do nothing
with it.”

“You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,” Silky said
gently. “I’m not going todo youany harm. Does your
mother know you getit?”

B



50 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

He waited a good while, and then when she repeated
the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet
face, he said half under his breath, :

‘“ No——”

_ “What do you want it for then, dear? Id rather give
it to you than have you take it in a wrong way. Do you
want it to drink ?”

Norman dropped his piece of bacon. a

“No,” he said, beginning to cry,—‘ I don’t want 1t—
I don’t want it at all!”

Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in
her turn.

“Dont cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me. Who
does want it?”

“Oh, don’t tell!” sobbed the child; “my little
dog.” |

“Now don’t cry!” said Silky.— Your little dog?”

“ Yes!—my little dog.” And he sighed deeply between
the words.

“Where is your little dog ? ”

‘“‘ He’s up yonder—up to the factory.”

“Who gave him to you?”

“‘ Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.”

“ And this milk is for him?” |

“ He wants it to drink.”

“Does your mother know you get it?”

Norman didn’t answer.

“She don’t?” said Silky. “Then where does the
money come from, Norman?” She spoke very gently.

“Tt’s mine,” said Norman.

“Yes, but where do you get it?”

“Mr. Swift gives it to me.”

“Ts it out of your wages?”

Norman hesitated, and then said yes, and began to
ery again.

“What's the matter?” said Silky. “Sit down
and eat your bacon. I’m not 'yoing to get you into
trouble.”



THE PURSE . 51

He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said
ne wanted to go. |

‘What for ?—it isn’t time yet.”

‘“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.”

‘And feed him? Stop and tell meabout him. What
solour is he?”

‘‘ He’s white all over.”

“ What's his name?”

“ Little Curly Long-Ears.”

“What do you call him ?—all that?”

“ [ call him Long-Ears.”

“ But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?”

“ He lives up there.”

- ce don’t he go home with you?

66 0.”

“Why not?”

‘‘ Father wouldn’t let him. He'd take him away, or
do something to him.”

Norman looked dismal.

“ But where does he live?”

*‘ He lives up at the factory.”

‘“ But you can’t have him in the factory ?”

‘Yes I have him,” said Norman, “ because Mr Carroll
said he was to come in because he was so handsome.”

“But he'll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and
then you will be very sorry.”

“No, he won't get killed; he takes care; he knows he
mustn't go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just
comes and lies down where I be.” |

‘And does Mr. Swiit let him ?”

‘¢ He does let him, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.”

‘But your money—where does it come from, Nor-
man?”

“Mr. Swift,” said Norman very dismally.

“Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry
home your wages to her?”

eNO. |

“She must, my child.”

99



52. THF CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“She doesn’t, "cause I carry her just the same I did
before.” »

‘‘ How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a day?

“Cause I get more now—lI used to have four pence
ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.”

And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if
his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his
dog too. a

‘Give me the milk and let me go!” he exclaimed
through his tears. “ Poor Curly !—poor Curly !”

“ Here it is,” said Silky very kindly. “Don’t cry—I’m
not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won't he eat
anything but milk? Won’t he eat meat?”

‘“* No—he can’t.”

“Why can’t he?”

“* He don’t like it.” )

“Well; you run off to the factory now, and give Curly
his milk, and stop again to-morrow.”

“ And won't you tell?” said Norman, looking up.

‘‘T shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble
Run, now!”’ |

He dried his tears and ran, fast enough; holding the
little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his
bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short
legs could make them.

Silky stood looking gravely after him.

““[’m so sorry for him, mother!” she said. “This
won't do; it’s very wrong, and he'll get himself into
dreadful trouble besides.”

“Poor fellow! We'll see, honey ;—we'll try what we
can do,” said Mrs. Meadow.

The next morning, Norman came again, and Mrs.
Meadow was there.

‘‘ How is Long-Ears, Norman, and how are you ?” she
said cheerfully ; but she did everythin g cheerfully.

“ He’s well,” said Norman, looking a little doubtfully
at these civilities.

“And you are not well?” said Mrs. Meadow kindly.



THE PURSE, 68

“ Suppose you come and see me to-morrow ?—it’s Sunday,
you know, and you have no work—will you? Come

right and early, and we'll have anice breakfast, and you
shall go to church with me if you like.”

Norman shook his head. ‘Curly ’ll want to see me,”
he said.

“Well, about that just as you like. Come here to
breakfast—that you can do. Mother ’Il let you.”

“‘ Yes, she ’ll let me,” said Norman, ‘“‘ and I can go to
see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?” he added,
with a glance of some fear.

“Tell what?” ,

“ About him,” said Norman, nodding his head in the
direction of the factory.

‘“ Long-Ears ?—Not I! not a word.”

So he set off, with a glance of pleasure lighting up his
little face and making his feet patter more quickly over
the ground.

‘“‘ Poor little creature !” Mrs. Meadows said again most
heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly,
straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs.
Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

‘“‘ How it does pour down!” said Mrs. Meadow.

‘“‘T’m so sorry, mother,” said Silky; “‘ he won’t come.”

She had hardly turned her back to see to something at
the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the
middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his
every-day rags, and those wet through and dripping.
How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter
looked. They brought him to the fire and wiped his
feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as
they could; but they didn’t know what to do; for the
fire would not have dried him in all the day; and to sit
down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side,
Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the
trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house.

But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked



ha THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

two or three towels about him; and then over them
wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way,
fastening it over the shoulders in such a manner that it
fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his
arms quite free Then when his jacket and trousers had
been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

In his old shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman
enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup-of weak

cotiee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which.

Mrs. Meadow boiled for him But he did not eat like a
child whose appetite knew what to do with good things;
he was soon done; though after it his face looked
brighter and cheerier than it had done before in that
house. |

Mrs. Meadow left Silky to take care of the breakfast
things, and drawing her chair up on the hearth, she took
the little boy on her lap and wound her arms about him.

“Little Norman,” said she kindly, “you won’t seo
Long Ears to-day.”

“No,” said Norman, with a sigh, in spite of breakfast
and fire; “he will have to go without me.” —

‘‘Isn’t it good that there is one day in the week when
the poor little tired pin-boy can rest?”

““Yes—it is good,” said Norman quietly, but as if he
was too accustomed to being tired to take the good of it.

“This is God's day. Do you know who God is,
Norman ?”

“‘ He made me,” said Norman,—* and everybody.”

“Yes, and everything. He is the ereat King over al]
the earth; and he is good; and he has given us this day
to rest and to learn to be good and please him. Can
you read the Bible, Norman ?”

“No, I can’t read,” said Norman. “Mother can.”

“You know the Bible is God’s book, written to tell us
how to be good, and whatever the Bible says we must
mind, or God will be angry with us. Now the Bible
BAYS, ‘ shou shalt not steal. Do you know what that
Means?”



THE PURSE, | §%

Mrs. Meadow spoke very softly.

“Yes,” said Norman, swinging one little foot back and
forward in the warm shine of the fire,—* I’ve heard it.”

“What does it mean?”

“T know,” said Norman.

“It is to take what does not belong to us. Now,
since God has said that, is it quite right for you to take
that money of your mother’s to buy milk for Long
Ears ?”

“It isn’t her money!” said Norman, his face changing
“and Long-Hars can’t starve !”

“It is her money, Norman ;—all the money you earn
belongs to her or to your father, which is the same thing.
You know it does.” |

“But Curly must have something to eat,” said
Norman, bursting into tears. “Oh, don’t tell! oh, don’t
tell |——”

‘‘Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow’s kind voice, and hex
kind hand on his head; “I’m not going to tell; but I
want you to be a good boy and do what will please God,
that you may be one of the lambs of the Good Shepherd’s
flock. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

‘““Yes—no,—I don’t know about the lambs,” said
Norman.

‘Do you know who Jesus Christ is?”

“No.”

“ Poor little thing!” said Silky, and the tears fell from
her face, as she went from the fire to the table. Normar.
Inoked at her, and so did her mother, and then they
Jooked at each other.

“ Jesus Christ is your best friend, little Norman.”

“Ts he?” said Norman, looking.

‘Do you know what he has done for you, little pin-
boy ?”

Norman looked, and no wonder; for Mrs. Meadow’s
eyes were running over full, and he did not know what
to make of the dropping tears; but he shook his head.

‘ It’s all told about in God’s book, dear. Little



56 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

Norman Finch, like everybody else, hasn’t loved God,
nor minded his commandments as he ought to do; and
God would have punished us all, if Jesus Christ hadn't
come down from Heaven on purpose to take our punish
ment on himself, so that we might be saved.”

“‘ How would he have punished us ?” said Norman.

‘“‘ He would have sent us away from him for ever, to
be in a miserable place with devils and bad people, where
we should see nothing good nor happy, and we shouldn't
be good nor happy ourselves ; it’s a place so dreadful, it
is called in the Bible the lake that burns with fire; and
he would never let us come into his heaven, where God
is, and Jesus Christ is, and the good angels, and all God’s
people are, who are all as good and happy as they can
be.” :

‘“‘ And would I have been punished so ?” said Norman

“Yes,—the Bible says so; and every one will now,
who won’t believe and love Jesus Christ.” |

“‘ And did he go there?”

“ Where?”

“To that place—that bad place—did he go there?”

“ What, the Lord Jesus?”

Norman. nodded.

“‘ Not there,—he is God; and he is called the Son of
God; he could not do that; but he did this. He came
to this world and was born into the world a little child :
and when he grew up to be a man, he died a cruel death
for you and me—for you and me, little Norman.”

“And then will God not punish me now?” gaid
Norman.

‘No, not a bit, if you will love the Lord Jesus, and be
his child.” :

‘* What did he do that for?” said Norman

‘Because he is so good he loved us, and wanted to
Nave us and bring us back to be his children, and to be
good and happy.”

‘Does he love me?” said Norman.

“ Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Meadow; “do you think he



THE PURSE. O4

came to die for you and doesn’t love you? If you will
love and obey him, he will love you for ever, and take
care of you; better care than any one else can.”

“There isn’t any one else to take care of me,” said
Norman. ‘“ Mother can’t, and father don’t much I wish
I knew about that.”

With a look of wonder and interest at her daughter
Mrs. Meadow reached her Bible, without letting Norman
down from her lap; and turning from place to place,
read to him the story of Christ’s death, and various parts
of his life and teaching. He listened gravely, and con-
stantly, and intently, and seemed not to weary of it at
all, till she was tired and obliged to stop, He made no
remark then, but sat a little while with a sober face, till
his own fatigue of days past came over him, and his eye-
lids drooped, and slipping from Mrs. Meadow’s lap, he
Jaid himself down on the hearth to sleep. They put
something under his head, and sat watching him, the
eyes of both every now and then running over.

‘How much do you think he understood, mother?”
said Silky.

‘“T don’t know,” said Mrs. Meadow, shaking her head.

“ He listened, mother,” said Silky.

“Yes. 1 won’t say anything more to him to-day.
He’s had enough.” |

And when the little sleeper awoke they lent all their
attention to give him a pleasant day. He had a good
dinner and a nice supper. His clothes were thoroughly
dried; and Mrs. Meadow said, when she put them on,

that if she could only get an opportunity on a week day
she would patch them up comfortably for him. Towards
nightfall the rain stopped, and he went home dry and
warm, and with a good piece of cheese, and a loaf of!
plain gingerbread under his arm. When he was al!
yeady to set out, he paused at the door, and looking ur
at. Mrs. Meadow, said,

“Does he say we mustn’t do that ?”

‘Who, dear ?”



68 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“ Does Jesus Christ say we mustn't do that?”

“ Do what?”

“Steal,” said Norman, softly.

“Yes, to be sure. The Bible says it, and the Bible is
God’s word; and Jesus said it over again, when he was
on the earth.”

Norman stood a quarter of a minute, and then went
out and closed the door. -

The next morning they looked eagerly for him. But
he did not come. He stopped at evening as usual, but
Silky was just then busy, and did not speak to him
beyond a word. Tuesday morning he did not come.
At night he was there again with his jug. |

‘‘ How do you do, Norman?” said Mrs. Meadow, when
she filled it, “and how is Long-Ears?”

But Norman did not answer, and turned to go.

‘““Come here in the morning, Norman,’ Mrs. Meadow
called after him.

Whether he heard her or not, he did not show himself
on his way tothe factory next morning. That was
Wednesday. |

‘Norman hasn’t been here these three days, mother,”
said Silky. “Can it be that he has made up his mind
to do without his halfpennyworth of milk for the dog?”

“ Little fellow!” said Mrs. Meadow :—“I meant to
have given it to him; skim milk would do, I dare Say $
but I forgot to tell him on Sunday; and I told him last
night to stop, but he hasn’t done it. We'll go up there,
Silky, and see how he is, after dinner.” |

‘To the factory, mother ?”

66 A oe

: ind PU carry a little pail of milk, mother.”

“ Well, honey, do.”

After dinner they went, and I went in Silky’s pocket.
The factory was not a great distance from Mrs. Meadow’s
house, which stood about half-way between that and the ;
town. Mrs. Meadow asked for Mr. Swift, and presently
he came. Mrs. Meadow was a general favourite, L had



FHE PURSE. 59

found before ; everybody spoke to her civilly ; certainly
she did the same to everybody.

‘Ts little Norman at work to-day, Mr. Swift?”

‘Norman Finch ?—well, yes, ma'am, he’s to work,”
said the overseer ;—“ he don’t do much work, this day or
so.”

** He’s not just right well, Mr. Swift?”

“Well, no, I s’pose he isn’t. He hasn’t hard work
neither; but he’s a poor little billet of a boy.”

“Ts he a good boy, sir?”

“ Average,” said Mr. Swift,—“ as good as the average.
What, you're going to adopt him?”

‘““ No, sir,’ said Mrs. Meadow ;—“I wanted to ask
a few questions about him.” |

“T don’t know any harm of him,” said Mr. Swift
‘He’s about like the common. Not particularly strong
in the head, nor anywhere else, for that matter; but he
is a good-feeling child. Yes—now I remember. It’s as
much as a year ago, that I was angry with him one day,
and was going to give the careless little rascal a strapping
for something,—I forget what; we must keep them in
order, Mrs. Meadow, let them be what they will ;—I was
_ going to give it to him, for something, and a bold brave
fellow in the same room, about six times as big, and six
times as strong as Norman, offered to take it, and spare
him. J didn’t care; it answered my purpose of keeping
order just as well that Bill Bollings should have it,
as Norman Finch, if he had a mind;—and ever since
that time Finch has been ready to lay down his body and
soul for Bollings if it would do him any service. He's a
good-hearted boy, I do suppose.”

Mrs. Meadows and Silky looked at each other.

‘That's it, mother!” said Silky. ‘“'That’s why he
understood and took it so quick.”

‘“What a grand boy, the other one!” said Mrs.
Meadow. :

“ Ah, well—that was noble enough,” said Mr. Swift,
— “but he’s a kind of harum-scarum fellow—just as



60 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

likely to get himself into a scrape to-morrow as to get
somebody else out of one to-day.”

“That was noble,” repeated Mrs. Meadow. |

“Norman has never forgotten it. As I said, he'd lay
down body and soul for him. There’s a little pet dog he
has too,’ Mr. Swift went on, “ that I believe he’d do as
much for. A pretty creature! I would have bought it
of him, and given a good price for it, but he seemed
frightened at the proposal. I believe he keeps the crea-
ture here partly for fear he would lose him if he took him
home.”

‘Isn't it against the rules, sir, to have a dog in the
factory ?”

‘‘ Kintirely !—of course!” said Mr. Swift; “but Mr.
Carroll has said it, and so a new rule is made for the
occasion. Mr. Carroll was willing to let such a pretty
creature be anywhere, I believe.”

‘““T should be afraid he would get hurt.”

‘So I was, but the dog has sense enough; he gets into
no danger, and keeps out of the way like a Christian.”

‘“‘ May we go in, sir, and see Norman for a moment?”

“ Certainly,” Mr. Swift said; and himself led the way.

Through long rooms and rows of workers went Mr.
Swift, and Mrs. Meadow and Silky after him, to the one
where they found little Norman. He was standing be-
fore some sort of a machine, folding papers and pressing
them against rows of pins, that were held all in order
and with their points ready, by two pieces of iron in the
machine. Norman was not working briskly, and he
looked already jaded, though it was early in the after-
noon. Close at his feet, almost touching him, lay the
little white dog—a very little, and a most beautiful
creature. Soft white curling hair, and large silky ears
that drooped to the floor, as he lay with his head upon
his paws; and the two gentle brown eyes looked almost
pitifully up at the strangers. He did not get up; nor .
did Norman look round till Mrs. Meadow spoke to him. _

‘Hey, my boy, how are you getting on?” Mr. Swift



THE PURSE, 61

said first, with a somewhat rough but not unkind’ slap
across the shoulders. Norman shrugged his shoulders,
and said, “‘ Pretty well, thank you, sir,”—when he heard
Mrs. Meadow’s soft, “ Norman, how do you do?”

His fingers fell from the row of pin points, and he
turned towards her, looking a good deal surprised and a
little pleased, but with a very sober face.

“Where have you been these two or three days?”

‘““Pve been here,” said Norman gravely.

‘“ How comes it you haven’t been for Long-Ears’ milk
these days?”

‘“‘1—] couldn’t,” said Norman.

“Why?” | |

“T hadn’t any money—lI gave it to mother.” _

He spoke low and with some difficulty.

‘What made you do that, Norman?”

He looked up at her.

‘“‘ Because—you know,—dJesus said so.”

Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to
him, but now she stood up straight and for a minute she
said nothing.

‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his
milk?”

Norman was silent and his mouth twitched. Mrs.
Meadow looked at the little dog, which lay still where
he had been when she came in, his gentle eyes having,
she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their note-
taking.

“ Won't he eat meat?” |

Norman shook his head and said “No,” under his
breath.

“ He’s a dainty little rascal,” said the overseer; “he
was made to live on sweetmeats and sugar plums.”—
And Mr. Swift walked on.

‘“Pve brought him some milk,” whispered Silky; and
softly stooping down she uncovered her little tin pail

ard tried to coax the dog to come to it. But Norman
no sconer caught the words of her whisper and saw the



@
§2 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

ail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit
7 crying, and Sear himself down on the floor and hid
his face. , |

Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter.
Mrs. Meadow explained part to him, without telling of
Norman’s keeping the money.

“Oh well,” said Mr. Swift,—but he mustn’t make
such a disturbance about it!—it’s against all order; and
feeding the dog too, Lois!—but it’s a pretty creature.
He’s hungry, he is !—Well, it’s well we don’t have ladies
come to the factory every day.”

Silky’s other name was Lois.

‘“] will never do so again, Mr. Swift,” said ske gently.

“Oh I don’t say that,” said he. “I don’t dislike the
ergnt of you, Miss Lois; but I must have you searched
at the door. Keep this boy quiet, now, Mrs. Meadow;
and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.” |

Ihe boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had
been speaking he had raised himself from the floor, half
up, and had stopped sobbing, and was looking at Long.

Ears and gently touching his curly head; who on his part
_ was lapping the milk with such eagerness as if he had
wanted it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but
they fell quietly. By the time the littie dog had finished
the milk they did not fall at all. Till then nobody said
anything.

‘““Come for it every morning again, my child,” said
Mrs. Meadow softly ;—* I'll give it to you.. Whata dear
little fellow he is!’ I don’t wonder you love him. He
shall have milk enough.”

x orman looked up gratefully and with a little bit of a
smile.

“You don’t look very strong, my boy,” said Mrs.
Meadow. “You don’t feel right well, do you?”

He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his
understanding.

“ Are you tired?”



THE PURSE. 63

His eyes gave token of understanding that. “ Yes,

I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they ?”
_ © Where, dear?”

“ Up there—in heaven?”

‘‘ No, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘ Tll go there, won’t 1?”

“Tf you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good
care of you and bring you safe there, surely.”

‘ He will,” said Norman.

“But you're not going yet, I hope, dear,” said Mrs.
Meadow kissing him. “Good-by. Come to-morrow, and
you shall have the milk.” |

“Will you read to me that again, some time?” he
inquired wistfully. |

Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky
walked back without saying three words to each other ;
and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so much as she did
that afternoon and evening.

Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s
milk; and many a Sunday he and Long-lars passed
part of the time with Mrs. Meadow ; and many a reading
he listened to there, as he had listened to the first one.

He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little
dog, and he seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those
times.

As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn
gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow
better looking, all the while it was growing more pale
and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented,
very quiet and patient face, and his eye acquired a clear-
ness and openness it did not use to have; though he
never was a bad looking child. ‘‘ He won't live long,”
Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday. |

The little white dog all this while grew more white
and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought
£0. |
It was not till some time in January that at last Nor-
man stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the



64 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

factory any more. It was severe weather, when Mrs.
Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days
were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him.
Then, one cold evening, his mother came for the milk,
and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to
see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-look-
ing woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded spirit-
less air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in
life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought
Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his
father must be much worse in another way, or his mother
would not have such a look.

Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put
her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she
was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with
cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set
out. It was past sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough,
but uncommonly cold.

“It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,”
said Silky.

“Yes, honey, but we can find the way, came from
under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of
them spoke a word.

It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of
the town, and entered a poor straggling street that ran
where no good and comfortable buiidings showed them-
selves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some
of the houses were decently well built, but several fami-
lies lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an
unknown circumstance. At least after Mrs. Meadow’s
nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and
dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light
erew dimmer, and the air grew cooler, as Mrs. Meadow
and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trem-
bling all over by the time they stopped at one of these
brick dwelling-houses and went in.

Ihe -front door stood open; nobody minded that; it
was nobody’s business to shut it. hey went in, through |



THE PURSE. 65

a dirty passage and up stairs that nobody ever thought of
cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first
knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was
there, sitting over the fire ; a wretched tallow light on the
table hardly showed what he looked like. Mrs. Meadow
spoke with her usual pleasantness.

“Good evening, Mr. Finch ;—can I see little Norman?”

‘““Yes,—I suppose so,” the man said in a gruff voice,
and pointing to another door; ‘ they’re in yonder.”

‘“‘ How is he?”

“T don’t know!—Going, I expect.” He spoke in a
tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull.
Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him
there and went on to the inner room. |

That was so dark hardly anything could be seen. A
woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs.
Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice
could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with
it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came
back with it in her hand.

The room was ill hghted when the candle was in it;
but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some
sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner.
No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with
all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great coat, a
small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor
Little jacket and trousers. But on these, close within
reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his
glossy hair and soft outlnes making a strange contrast
with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.

Norman did not look much changed, except that his
face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more
blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near,
and neither of them at first was able to speak. Mrs.
Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow
stooped down by the bed’s head.

“Little Norman,” she said, and you could tell her

heart was full of tears,—‘ do you know me?”
F



66 WHE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“T know you,” he said, in a weak voice, and with a
little smile.

“How do you do?”

“Very well,” he said in the same manner.

“ Are you very well?” said Mrs. Meadow.

“Yes,” he said. “Um going now.”

‘Where, dear?”

“You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me,
won't he?”

‘Tf you love and trust him, dear.”

‘‘ He will take me,” said Norman.

“What makes you think youre going, dear?” said
Mrs. Meadow.

“T can’t stay,” said Norman shutting his eyes. He
opened them again immediately. ‘ Vm going,” he said.
“I’m so tired. I shan’t be tired there, shall 1?” —

‘‘ No, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech
was likely to fail her. She kept wiping hav face with her
pocket-handkerchief. Norman stroked and stroked his
little dog’s head.

‘Poor Long-Hars,” said he faintly —“ poor Long-Ears!
—I can’t take care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you're
hungry. He hasn’t had anything to eat since—since—
~ mother ?”

“He don’t know how time goes,” said Mrs. Finch,
who had not before spoken. “The dog hasn’t had asup
of anything since day before yesterday. He has a right
to be hungry. I don’t know what he liveson. My hus-
band don’t care whether anything lives or not.”

Silky had not’said a word, and she didn’t now, but she
brought out that same little tin pail from under her cloak
and set it down on the floor. Norman’s eye brightened.
But the dog could not be coaxed to quit the bed; he
would set only his two fore feet on the floor, and so drank
the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost
with a smile. And when the dog, having left the milk,
curled himself down again in his old place, and looked
into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled,





THE PURSE. 67

“Poor Long-Ears!” he said, patting him again with

: ere hand; “I’m going to leave you,—what will you
0?” .

“Tl take care of him, Norman,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“Will you?” said Norman. |

‘‘As long as he lives, if you wish.” .

Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and
said earnestly.

“I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?”

“Yes, indeed I will,” said Mrs. Meadow.

‘Then you'll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,”
said Norman. ‘ But,” he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow,
“you must take him home with you to-night—I’m afraid
father will do something with him if you don’t.”

‘But you will want him,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“No, I won't. Father will do something with
him.”

‘Indeed he will, sure enough,” said Mrs. Finch.

“Then Dll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was
yourself,” said Mrs. Meadow. a

“IT won't want him,” said Norman, shutting his eyes
again ;—“T'm going.”

‘““And you're not sorry, dear?” said Mrs. Meadow.

“No!” he said.

‘““T wonder why he should,” said Mrs. Finch, wiping
her eyes.

‘And you know Jesus will take you?”

‘Because I love him,” said Norman without opening:

his eyes.

‘“What-makes you love him so, dear?” |

‘Because he did that for me,” said Norman, opening

his eyes once more to look at her, and then reshutting
them. And he never opened them again. It seemed that
having his mind easy about his pet, and having seen his
friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just
slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as
he had slept. His little pale meek face looked as if, as
he said, he was glad to go



68 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use
could have moved Long-Ears from the body of his
master, till it was laid in the grave. Then, with some
difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him and
brought him home.

“Ts that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.

“ATL.” .

“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?” |

“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of
Long-Ears and were kind to everybody and sold milk,
just as they used.”

“ And what about Long-Mars?”

“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Mea-
dow and Silky, and was as well off as a little dog could
be.” |

“ And is that all?”

“That is all.”

“ And how did you get here?”

“T’ve told enough for once.”

“Till hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he
grasped the purse and ran off towards home; for it was
getting to be high noon, and his mother had called to
him that dinner was ready.

‘“‘ Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my
purse, and of my penny, and of my three apples; and
they re splendid!”

“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “ Are the stories
not done yet?” |

“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear
next. There’s the boat, and the pine cone, and the
shoes, and the book, and the old stocking—all of them;
and I don’t know which to hear first. Which would you,
mother ?”

“What's all that?” said John Krinken.

“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs.
Krinken; “and he’s told over one or two to me, and it’s

ee

“



THe, PURSE. . 3

ne good asa book. I can’t think where the child got
hold of them.”
‘Why they told ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken ; “‘ something told it to thee,
ehild.”

‘‘ Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father. |
‘““My penny, and my purse, and my three apples,—

or only one of the apples,” said Carl ;—“ that was Beach-
amwell.”

‘* Beach ’em what ?” said his father.

‘‘ Beachamwell—thatis the biggest of my three
apples,” said Carl. |

At which, John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other
and laughed till their eyes ran down with tears.

‘“ Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John when he
could speak.

‘“T’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.

“Yes, and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or
vish to hear,” said Mrs. Krinken soothingly.

‘‘ Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.

“J haven’t heard it yet,” said Cail.

“Qh, you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his
father.

“YT haven't heard any of em but three,” said Carl,
‘and I don't know which to hear next.”

“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it
knew how,” said his father; “it could spin youa yaru
as long as its own.”

‘I'd -rather hear the old pine cone, John,” said his
wife. ‘Ask the pine cone, Carl. I wish it could tell,
and I hear.”

“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the
other. 7

But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of
the story-teller, to help him out with his question about
the stories.

“Then I’m going to keep the stocking for the very last
one.” said Carl



70 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Why?” said his mother.

‘“’Cause it’s ugly. And I intend to make the shoes
tell me their story next, because I might want to put
them on, you know.”

And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured
toes which looked out at him through the cracks of his
old half boots.

Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to
their business; and Carl, indignantly seizing his shoes,
ran off with them out of hearing to the sunny side of
the house; where he plumped himself down on the
ground with them in front of him, and commanded them
to speak.

The Story of the Two Shoes.

“YT BELIEVE,’ said the right shoe, “that I am the first
individual of my race whose history has ever been
thovght worth asking for. I hope to improve my oppor-
tunity. I consider it to be a duty, in all classes, for
each member of the class——”

“You may skip about that,” said Carl. “I don’t care
about it.” |
“JT am afraid,” said the right shoe, “I am uninterest-
ing. My excuse is, that 1 never was fitted to be any-
thing else. Not to press upon people’s notice is the very
lesson we are especially learned ; we were never intended
to occupy a high position in society, and it is reckoned
an unbearable fault in us to make much noise in the
world.” |

“Tsay,” said Carl, “ you may skip that.”

‘I beg pardon,” said the shoe, “TI was coming to the



THE TWO SHOES, “Tos, of 71

oint. ‘Step by step’ is our family motto. However, I
cnow young people like to get over the ground at a leap.
L will do it at once.

My brother and I are twins, and as much alike as it.
is possible perhaps for twins to be. Mr. Peg, the cobbler,
thought we were exactly alike; and our upper leathers
did indeed run about on the same calf (as perchance
they may another time), but our soles were once further
apart than they are ever like to be for the future; one
having roamed the green fields of Ohio on the back of a
sturdy ox, while the other was raised in Vermont. How-
ever, we are mates now, and having been as they say
“cut out for each other,” I have no doubt we shall jog
on together perfectly well.

We are rather an old pair of shoes. In fact, we have
been on hand almost a year. I should judge from the
remarks of our friend Mr. Peg, when he was beginning
upon us, that he was quite unaccustomed to the trade
of shoe-making—shoemending was what he had before
lived by; or, perhaps, I should rather say, tried to
live by: I am afraid it was hard work; and I suppose
Mr. Peg acted upon the excellent saying, which is also
a motto in our family, that “It is good to have two
or three strings to one’s bow.” It was in a little light
front room, looking upor the street, which was Mr. Peg’s
parlour and shop and workroom, that he cut out the
leather and prepared the soles for this his first manufac-
ture. J think he hadn't stuff enough but for one pair,
for I heard him sigh once or twice as he was fidgeting
with his pattern over my brother’s upper leather till it
was made out. Mr. Peg was a little oldish man, with a
crown of gray hair all round the back part of his head ;
and he sat to work in his shirt sleeves, and with a thick,
short leather apron before him. There was a liitle fire-

place in the room, with sometimes fire in it, and some-
times not; and the only furniture was Mr. Peg’s small
counter, the low, rush-bottomed chair in which he gat to
work, and a better one for a customer; his tools, and his



72 THF CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

chips; by which I mean the scraps of leather which he
scattered about.

Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper
leathers and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on
his chair to begin work, when a little girl came in. She
came from a door that opened upon a staircase leading
to the upper rooms, and walked up to the cobbler. It
was a little brown-haired girl, about nine or ten years
old, in an old calico frock; she was not becomingly
dressed, and she did not look very well.

“Father,” she said; “mother’s head aches again.”

Ihe cobbler paused in his work, and looked up at her.

“And she wants you to come up and rub it—she says
I can't do it hard enough.” )

Rather slowly Mr. Peg laid his upper leather and tools
down.

“Will you close this shoe for me, Sue, while IT am
gone?”

He spoke half pleasantly, and to judge by his tone and
manner, with some half-sorrowful meaning. So the little
girl took it, for she answered a little sadly—

“1 wish I could, father.”

‘“T’m glad you can’t, dear.”

He laid his work down, and mounted the stairs. She
went to the window, and stood with her elbows leaning
on the sill, looking into the street.

It’s only a small town, that Beachhead; but still,
being a sea-coast town, there is a good deal of bustle
about it. The fishermen from the one side, and the
farmers from the other, with their various merchandise ;
the busy boys and odd forms of women, for ever bustling
up and down, make it quite a lively place. There is
always a good deal to see in the street. Yet the little
girl stood very still and quiet by the window: her head
did not turn this way and that; she stood like a stupid

person, who did not care what was going on. A woman
passing up the street stopped a moment at the window.

‘‘ How’s your mother to-day, Sue?”



THE TWO SHOES. 38

“She's getting along slowly, Mrs. Binch.”

‘‘ Does the doctor say she is dangerous?”

‘The doctor doesn’t come any more.”

‘“‘ Has he giv’ her up ?”

“Yes; he says there is nothing to do but to let her.
get well.”

‘‘ Oh !—she’s so brisk, is she?”

‘“No, ma’am—she’s not brisk at all; she SAYS 7

But Mrs. Binch had passed on and was out of hearing,
and the little brown head stood still at the window again,
leaning now on one hand. It was a smooth-brushed,
round little head, seen against the open windows. By
and by another stopped, a lady this time; a lady
dressed in black, with a sweet, delicate face.

‘“‘ How’s your mother, Sue?”

“She's just the same way, Mrs. Lucy.”

“No better ?”

‘Not much, ma’am. It'll take a long time, the doctor
says.”

t And are you, poor little tot, all alone in the house to
do everything ?”

‘No, ma’am—there’s father.”

The sweet face gave her a sort of long, wistful look,
and passed on. She stood there yet at the open window,
with her head leaning on her hand; and whatever was
the reason, so dull of hearing, that her father had come
down, seated himself in his work-chair, and taken up
his shoe, several minutes before she found it out. Then
she left the window and came to him.

‘‘ What shall I do, father?”

‘“ She'll want you directly,” said the cobbler. ‘She's
asleep now.”

Sue stood still.

“ Dont you want some dinner, Sue?”

She hesitated a little, and then said yes.

Well see, dear, and make some more of that por:
ridge. Can you?”





74 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Yes, father, there’s some meal yet. And there’s a
little bread, too.”

“You may have that,” said the cobbler. “And I'll
go out by and by and see if I can get a little money.
Mr. Shipham had a pair of boots new soled a month
ago, and Mr. Binch owes for some jobs—if I ever could
get hold of them.” |

And the cobbler sighed. ;

“Tf people only knew, they would pay you, father,
wouldn’t they ?”

‘There is One that knows,” said the cobbler. ‘“ And
why they don’t pay me He knows. Maybe it’s to teach
you and me, Sue, that ‘man does not live by bread
alone.’”

““¢ But by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth
of God doth man live,” his little daughter went on,
softly, as if she were filling up the words for her own
satisfaction. —

“ But didn’t we know that before, father?”

‘¢ Maybe we didn’t know it enough,” said the cobbler.
“Tm afraid I don’t now ae

And as her back was turned, he hastily brought his
hand to his eyes.

‘* But, father, can one help feeling a little sorrowful,
when—when things are so bad ?”

“«¢ A little bad ’—perhaps one might feel a little bad,”
said the cobbler; “but if I believe all that I know, J
don’t see how I could feel very bad. I don’t see how lL
could; and £ oughtn’t.”

His little daughter had been raking the fire together
and setting on the coals a little iron skillet of water.
She turnea and looked at him when he said this, as if
she had not known before that he did feel “ very bad.”
He did not see the look, which was a startled and sor-
rowful one; he was bending over his shoe-leather. She
left the room then and went after the meal, which she
brought in a yellow earthen dish, and began silently to
mix for the porridge. |





THE TWO SHOES WB

“The Bible says, father—” she began, stirring away.

“Yes, dear—what does it say?” said Mr. Peg.

“It says, ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt
thou dwell in the land, and—verily——” | |

- Susan’s voice broke. She stirred her porridge vehe-
mently, and turned her back to her father.

_ “Verily thou shalt be fed,” said the cobbler. “Yes
-=-[ know it. The thing is to believe it.”

‘“‘ You do believe it, father,” Susan said, softly.

“Ay, but I haven't trusted the Lord, nor done good,
any to speak of. It’ll stand good for you, daughter, if it
doesn’t for me.”

She had stirred her meal into the skillet; and now
setting down her dish she came to his side, and putting
her two arms round his neck, she kissed him all over
_ his face. The cobbler let fall leather and ends and
hugged her up to his breast.

“That's done me more good than dinner, now,” said
he, when he had, albeit tearfully, given her two or three
sound kisses by way of finishing. “You may have all
the porridge, Susie.”

“'There’s enough, father, and there’s some bread
too.”

“Hat it all up,” said the cobbler, turning to his work
again; maybe to hide his eyes. She stood leaning on
his shoulder, just so as not to hinder the play of his arm.

“Shall I keep the bread for supper, father ?”

“No, dear; maybe I'll get some money before that.”

‘¢ Whose shoes are those, father ?”

“They aren’t anybody’s yet.”

“Whose are they going to be?”

“T don’t know. The first pair of feet that come along
that will fit ’em. If I sell them, Pll get some leather
and make more.”

‘Ts that the last of your leather, father ?”

“ Ay—the last big enough ; the rest is all pieces.” __

She stood a little while longer, laying her head on his
shoulder ; then there came a knocking up-stairs, and





76 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

she ran away. The cobbler wrought at his shoe for a
space, when turning his head, he dropped everything to
go and see after the porridge; and he squatted over the
fire, stirring it, till such time as he thought it was done,
and he drew back the skillet. He went to the foot of
the stairs and looked up and listened for a minute, and
then left it and came back without calling anybody. It
was plain that he must eat his dinner alone.

His dinner was nothing but porridge and salt, eaten
with what would have heen a good appetite if it had
had good thoughts to back it. And the cobbler did not
seem uncheerful; only once or twice he stopped and
looked a good while with a grave face into the fire on
the hearth. But a porridge dinner after all could not
last long; Mr. Peg put away his plate and spoon, placed
the skillet carefully in the corner of the fire-place, took.
off his leather apron and put on his coat, and taking his
hat from the counter he went out.

There were no more stitches set in the shoe that after-
noon, for Mr. Peg did not get home till dark. The first
thing that happened after he went away, a gust of wind
blew round the house and came down the chimney
bringing with it a shower of soot which must have
sprinkled pretty thick upon the open skillet. Then the
wind seemed to go up chimney again, and could be
heard whistling off among the neighbouring housetops.
A while after, little Susie came down and made for her
skillet. She pulled it out, and fetched her plate and
spoon and began to skim out the soot; but I suppose
she found it rather indifferent, or else that it would lose
her a good deal of her porridge; for one time she set her
plate and spoon down upon the hearth beside her, and —
laid her face in her apron. She soon took it up again,
but she didn’t make a large meal of the porridge.

She went up-stairs then immediately, and when she
came down the second time it was near evening. She
stood and looked about, to see that her father was not
come in; then she built up the fire, and when it was



THE TWO SHOES. 77

burning she stood and looked into it just m the same way
that she had stood and looked out of the window.
Suddenly she wheeled about, and coming behind the
counter took her father’s Bible from a heap of bits of
leather where it lay, and went and sat down on the
hearth with it; and as long as there was light she was
bending over it. Then, when the light faded, she
clasped her hands upon the shut Bible, and leaning
back against the jamb fell fast asleep in an instant,
with her head against the stone.

here she was when her father came home; her feet
were stretched out upon the hearth and he stumbled over
them. That waked her. By the glimmering light of
she fire something could be seen hanging from Mr.
Pee’s hand
Have you got home, father ?—I believe I went to

sleep waiting for you. What have you got in your
hand ?—F ish !—Oh, father !”

You should have heard the change of little Sue's
voice when she spoke that. Generally her way of
speaking was low and gentle like the twilight, but those
two words were like a burst of sunshine.

“Yes, dear. Blow up the fire so you can see them.
I've been to Mrs. Binch’s—I’ve been all over town,
amost—and Mrs. Binch’s boy had just come in with
some, and she gave me a fine string of ’em—nice blue
fish—there.”

Susan had made a light blaze, and then she and the
cobbler admired and turned and almost smelt of the fish,
for Joy:

And shall we have one for supper, father ?”

“Yes, dear. You have some coals, and I’ll get the

fish ready directly. Has mother had all she wanted

to-day ?” |

“Yes, father. Mrs. Lucy sent her some soup and she
nad plenty. And I saved the bread from dinner, father
isn’t 1t good? and there’s more porridge, too.”

What a bed of coals Sue had made by the time her



78 THE CHBISTMAS STOCKING.

father came back with the fish, nicely cleaned and
washed. She put it down, and then the two sat over it
in the fire-light and watched it broil. It was done as
nicely as a fish could be done; and Susan fetched the ©
plates and the salt and the bread; and then the cobbler
gave thanks to God for their supper. And then the two
made such a meal! there wasn’t a bone of that fish but
_ was clean picked, nor a grain of salt but what-did duty
on a sweet morsel. ‘There was not a scrap of bread left
from that supper; and I was as glad as anything of my
tough nature can be, to know that there were several
more fish besides the one eaten. Sue cleared away the
things when they had done; ran up to see if her mother
was comfortable; and soon ran down again. Her step
had changed too.

“Now, darling,” said her father, “come and let us
have our talk by this good fire-light.”

Susan came to his arms and kissed him ; and his arms
were wrapped round her and she sat on his knee.

“It’s one good thing, you haven’t lights to work, so
we can talk,” said Sue, stroking his face. “If you had,
we couldn't.”

‘‘ Maybe we would,” said the cobbler. “ Let us talk
to-night of the things we have to be thankful for.”

‘“There’s a great many of them, father,” said Sue with
her twilight voice. ,

“The first thing is, that we know we have a Friend
in heaven, and that we.do love and trust him.”

‘Qh, father!” said Sue, “if you begin with that, all
the other things will not seem anything at all.”

‘“That’s true,” said Mr. Peg. ‘“ Well, Sue, let’s have
‘em all. You begin.”

“I don’t know what to begin with,” said Sue, looking
into the fire. |

‘“‘T have you,” said her father, softly kissing her.

“Oh, father!—and I have you; but now you are
taking the next best things.”

“J shouldn’t care for all the rest without this one,”



THE TWO SHOES. 79.

said the cobbler ;—* nor I shouldn’t mind anything but
for this,” he added, in a somewhat changed tone.

“But father, you mustn’t talk of that to-night ;—we
= _— going to talk of the things we have to be thank-

of.

“ Well, we'll take the others to-morrow night maybe.
and see what we can make of: them. Go on, Susie,”
said the cobbler, putting his head down to her cheek,—
“I have my dear little child, and she has her father.
Ihat’s something to thank God, and to be glad for,—
every day.”

“So I do, every day, father,” said Susan, very softly.

‘And so I do,” said the cobbler; “and while I can
take care of thee, my dearest, I will take trouble for
nothing else.”

“ Now you are getting upon the other things, father,”
said Sue. “ Father, it is something to be thankful for,
that we can have such a nice fire every night,—and
every day, if we want it.” 7

“Yon don’t know what a blessing ’tis, Sue,” said her
father. “If we lived where we couldn’t get drift wood—
if we lived as some of the poor people do in the great
cities—without anything but a few handfuls of stuff to
burn in the hardest weather, and that wretched stuff for
making a fire—I am glad you don’t know how good it
is, Sue!” said he, putting his arms round her. ‘“ There
isn’t a morning of my life, but I thank God for giving
us wood, when I set about kindling it.”

“How do they do in those places, without wood?”
said Sue; sticking out her feet toward the warm ruddy
blaze.

‘“‘ He who knows all only knows,” said the cobbler,
gravely. “They do without. It seems to me I would
rather go without eating, and have a fire.”

‘““T don’t know,” said Sue, thoughtfully, “which I
would rather do. But those poor people haven't either,
have they?” |

“Not enough,” said the cobbler. ‘“ They manage te



80 | THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

pick up enough to keep them alive, somehow.” And he
sighed, for the subject came near home.

“Father,” said Sue, “I don’t believe God will let us
starve.”

“T do not think He will, my dear,” said the cobbler.

“Then why do you sigh ?”

‘¢ Because I deserve that He should, I believe,’ said
the cobbler, hanging his head. ‘I deserve it, for not
trusting Him better. ‘Cast all your care upon him, for
he careth for you. Ah, my dear, we can't get along
without running to our upper storehouse, pretty often.”

‘“ Father, I believe God don’t mean we should.”

“‘That’s just it!” said the cobbler. “ That is just, no
doubt, what He means. Well, dear, let’s learn the lesson
he sets us.” |

“Then, father,” said Sue, “don’t you think we have
a good little house? It’s large enough, and it’s warm.”

“Yes, dear,” said the cobbler; ‘‘some of those poor
people we were talking about would think themselves a3
well off as kings if they had such a house as this.”

“And it’s in a pleasant place, father, where there are
a great many kind people.”

‘“T hope there are,” said the cobbler, who was think-
ing at the moment how Mr. Shipham had put him off,
and Mr. Dill had avoided him, and Mr. Binch had
fought every one of his moderate charges.

“Why, father!” said Sue ;—‘ there’s Mrs. Lucy every
day sends things to mother, and Mrs. Binch gave you
the fish, and Mrs. Jackson came and washed ever so
many times, and—and Mrs. Galatin sent the pudding
and other things for mother, you know.”

“ Well, dear,” said the cobbler,— yes,—it seems that
‘cn is more plenty here at any rate than man-

“ Why, father?” said Sue.

“7 hope you'll never know, dear,” he answered. “It
was a foolish speech of mine.”

“And I’m sure it’s a blessing, father, that we have so



THE TWO SHOES. Sl

many things sent us for my mother,—she has almost as
much as she wants; and things we couldn't get. Now,
Mrs. Lucy’s soup—you don’t know how nice it was. I
tasted just the least drop in the spoon; and mother had
enough of it for to-day and to-morrow. And then the
_ doctor says she will get well by and by; and that will be
a, blessing.”

It was a blessing so far off that both the cobbler and
his little daughter looked grave as they thought about it

“And I’m well, father, and you’re well,” said Sue,
pleasantly. |

“Thank God!” said the cobbler.

“And father, don’t you think it is a little blessing
to live near the sea? and to have the beautiful beach to
walk upon, and see the waves come tumbling in, and
smell the fresh wind. We used to go so often, and
maybe by and by we shall again. Don’t you think it is
a great deal pleasanter than it would be if Beachhead
was. away off in the country, out of sight of the
ocean?” |

“Ah, Sue,” said her father,—“ I don’t know ;—lI’ve
lived a good piece of my life in one of those inshore
places, and I didn’t want to hear the sea roar then-a-days,
and 1 could get along without the smell of salt water.
No,—you don't know what you are talking about exactly;
every sort of place that the Lord has made, has its own
prettiness and pleasantness; and so the sea has; but I
love the green pasture-fields as well as I do the green
field of water, to this day.”

“ But one might be in a place where there wasn't the
sea nor the pasture fields either, father.”

“So one might,” said the cobbler. ‘“ Yes, there are
plenty of such places. ‘The sea is a blessing. I was
thinking of my old home in Connecticut; but the world
isn’t all green hills and sea shore,—there’s something
else in it—something else. Yes, dear, I love those large
waves too.”

“And then, father,” said Sue, laying her head on his

. G



82 TIIE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

breast, “we come back to the best things,—that you
were beginning with.”

“Ay,” said the cobbler, casting his arm round her.
And for alittle space they sat silent and looked into the
fire, and then he went on.

“Poor as we sit here, and weak and dying as we know
we are, we know that we have a tabernacle on high—a
house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. It
won't matter much, Sue, when we get there .

What would not matter, the cobbler did not say;
there was something came in his throat that stopped
him.

“‘ It won’t matter, father,” said Sue, softly.

They sat still a little while ; the flame of the bits of
brands in the chimney leaped up and down, burned
strong and then fell outright; and the red coals glowed
and glimmered in the place of it, but with less and less
power. |

“Now Sue, let us read,” said the cobbler on a
sudden. |

She got up, and he put on the coals two or three pleces
of light wood, which soon blazed up, While he was
doing this, Sue brought the Bible. Then she took her
former place in her father’s arms; and he opened the
book and read by the firelight, pausing at almost every
sentence. “‘ Praise ye the Lord.—We will do that,
Sue,” said the cobbler, “for ever.”

‘“< Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord, that
delighteth greatly in his commandments. ”

‘“ You do that, father,” said Sue, softly.

“TI do fear him ;—I do delight in his commandments,”
said the poor cobbler. “I might do soa ereat deat
More. But see how it goes on:—

“6 Fis seed shall be mighty upon earth: the generation
of the upright shall be blessed? No doubt of it ;—only
let. us see that we are upright, my child.

““Wealth and riches shall bein his house. So they
are, Sue; aren’t we rich?”





THE TWO SHOES. - 8a

“Yes, father. But don’t you think that means the
ether kind of riches too?” : | “
_“T don’t know,” said the cobbler; “if it does, we
shall have them. But I don’t know, daughter; see—
“< Wealth and riches shall be in his house: and his
righteousness endureth for ever’ It seems as if that
riches had to do with that righteousness. You know
what Jesus says,—‘ [ counsel thee to buy of me gold tried
in the fire, that thou mayest be rich? I think it is the
kind of riches of that man who is described ‘ as having
nothing, and yet possessing all things.’” ;
“Well, so we do, father, don’t we?”
‘“‘ Let us praise him,” said the cobbler.
““* Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.
What a promise!”
‘“‘ Unto the upright, again,” said Sue.
‘* Mind it, dear Sue,” said her father, “ for we may see
darker times than we have seen yet.”
Sue looked up at him gravely, but did not speak.
“* Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness :
he is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous.”
“ ‘Thatis, the upright man,” said Sue. |
“ guide his affairs with discretion. Surely he shall not be
moved for ever: the righteous shall be in everlasting
remembrance. You remember who says,—‘ I have graven
thee upon upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are
continually before me?’ ”
“That is Zion, father, isn’t it?” said Sue. |
“And just before that‘ Can a woman forget her
sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the
son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will L not.
forget thee.” ,
“We oughtn’t to be afraid, father,” said Sue, softly.
“TT am not afraid,” said the cobbler.
“é The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance,
fle shall not be afraid of evil tidings: his heart is fixed,
trusting in the Lord. ‘There it is, Sue. |



84 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“6s FT is heart is established, he shall not be afraid, until
he see his desire upon his enemies. He hath dispersed,
he hath given to the poor, his +ighteousness endureth for
ever; his horn shall be exalted with honour. The
wicked shall see it, and be grieved ; he shall gnash with his
teeth and melt away, the desire of the wiched shall perish.’ ”

The cobbler closed the book; and he and his little
daughter knelt down, and he prayed for a few minutes ;
then they covered up the fire, and they went away up-
stairs together. And the night was as quiet in that
house as in any house in the land.

The next morning the cobbler and his daughter broiled
another fish; but the breakfast was ashorter and less
talkative affair than the supper had been. After break-
fast the cobbler sat down to his work, but before the shoe
was half an hour nearer to being done, Sue appeared at
the bottom of the stairs saying, “Father, mother says
she wants a piece of one of those fish.”

The cobbler’s needle stood still. ‘I don’t believe it is
good for her,” said he.

‘She says she wants it.” .

“ Well, can’t you put it down, my daughter?”

“Yes, father; but she says she wants me to put her
room up; and she’s in a great hurry for the fish.”

Mr. Peg slowly laid his work down. Sue ran up-stairs
again, and the cobbler spent another half-hour over the
eoals and a quarter of a blue fish. Sue came for it, and
the cobbler went to his work again.

It was a cold day; the wind whistled about and
brought the cold in; and every now and then Sue came
down and stood at the fire a minute to warm herself.
.Every time she came, the cobbler stayed his hand and
looked up, and looked wistfully at her.

_ “Never mind, father,” said Sue. “It’s only that I’m
a little cold.”
‘You're blue,” said he.

And at last Mr. Peg couldn’t stand it. Down went
the leather on one side of him and the tools on the other;



THE TWO SHOES. 8§

and he went and lugged an armful or two of sticks up-
stairs and built a fire there, in spite of Sue’s begging
him to keep on with his work and not mind her.

‘‘ But we shan’t have wood enough, father,” she said
at last gently.

“Till go o’ nights to the beach, and fetch a double
quantity,” said the cobbler :—“ till your mother is able
to come down stairs. Zhat I can do. I can’t bear to
see you cold, if you can.”

And Sue stayed up-stairs, and the cobbler wrought after
that, pretty steadily, for some hours. But in the middle
of the afternoon came a new interruption. Two men
came into the shop and gave an order or two to the
cobbler, who served them with unusual gravity.

“ When is court day, Sheriff?” he asked in the course
of business.

‘To-morrow itself, Mr. Peg.”

‘¢’T'o-morrow ?” said the cobbler.

‘What's the matter ? comes the wrong day ? It always
does.”

‘“T had forgot all about it,” said the cobbler. “Can't
1 be let off, sir?”

“From what?’ said the other man.

“Why it’s rather an ugly job, some think,” returned
the Sheriff. ‘‘ He’s got to sit on the jury that is to try
Simon Ruffin.”

‘| must beg to be let off,” said the cobbler. “1 am
not at all able to leave home.”

‘You must tell the court, then,” said he who was
called the Sheriff; ‘but it wouldn’t do any good, I do
believe. Everybody says the same thing, pretty much ;
nobody likes the job; but you see, this is a very difficult
and important case ; a great many have been thrown out ;
itis hard to get just the right men, those that are altogether
unobjectionable; and every one knows you, Mr. Peg.”

“But my family want me,” saidthe cobbler; “they can’t
do without me. Can’t you let me go, Mr. Packum?”

‘Not I,” said the Sheriff; ‘that’s no part of my duty,
—you must ask the court, Mr. Peg.”



8§ THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

‘“'T'o-morrow ?” said the cobbler.” neck

“Yes, to-morrow; but I tell you beforehand it won't
do any good. What excuse can you make?” |

“My family want my care,” said the poor cobbler.

“So does every man’s family,” said the Sheriff with a
laugh ; “he’s a happy man that don’t find it so. You
haven't much of a family, Mr. Peg, have you ;—if you
had my seven daughters to look after Well, Mr. Jibbs,
—shall we go?”

They went; and sitting down again in his chair the
poor cobbler neglected his work and bent over it with
his head in his hand. At length he got up, put his
work away, and left the room. Forawhile his saw might
be heard going at the back of the house; then it ceased,
and nothing at all was to be heard for a long time; only
a light footstep overhead now and then. The afternoon
passed, and the evening came. |

The cobbler was the first to make his appearance.
He came in, lighted the fire which had quite died out,
and sat down as he had sat before, with his head in hig
hand. So his little daughter found him. She stepped
lightly, and he did not hear her till her hand was on his
shoulder. Then she asked him, “ What was the matter?”

‘“‘Oh, nothing that should make me sit go,” said the
cobbler rousing himself. | |

‘We've got more fish left yet,” said Sue.

“Yes dear,—'tisn’t that; but I have to go away to
morrow.’

““ Away?” said Sue.

“Yes, away to court.”

“ What for, father?” |

“Why they’ve put me down for a juryman, and I’m
oe ao ‘Il be no getting off The Sheriff says there
won t.

“What have you to do, father ?”

_ “Sit on the jury, dear, to decide whether Simon Ruffin
is guilty or no?” |

“Simon Ruffin ?—that shot that man! Oh, father!”





THK zrWO SHOES. 87

“It’s very bad,” said the cobbler.

“* How long will you be gone?”

“I can’t tell at all,” said the cobbler; “maybe a day
——a day! they can’t take the evidence in two days,—I
don’t know whether it will be two or three days, or a
week, dear.”

‘“A week. And what shall we do?” Sue could not
help saying.

“itl can get off, I will,” said the cobbler; “but in
ease I can’t, | have or I will have by morning as much
wood as will do till I come back. I have two and six-
pence besides, which I can leave you, darling ; and I can
do nothing more but trust.”

“ Father, isn't it hard to trust, sometimes?” Sue said
with her eyes full of tears. The poor cobbler wrapped her
in his arms and kissed them away, but he did not try to
answer.

‘‘ Maybe it won’t do us any harm, after all,” said Sue
more brightly ;—‘“‘ or maybe you will be able to come
back, father. Father, you know we are to talk over to-
night the things that we have that we can’t be thankful
for.”

‘““¢ In everything give thanks,” said the cobbler.

“Yes father, but it doesn’t say for everything ?”

‘* Perhaps not,” said the cobbler. ‘‘ Well, darling, we'll
see. Let's have our supper first.”

“¢ We'll have the largest fish to-night, father.”

The fish wasn’t just out of the water now, but it was
eaten with a good will; not quite so cheerily as the first
one the night before; and Sue sighed once or twice as
she was putting the dishes away, and didn’t step quite so
hehtly. ‘Then she came to her former place in her father’s
arms; and her head stooped upon his shoulder, and hig
cheek was laid to her forehead, and so they sat some
minutes without speaking.

‘“‘ Come, father,” said Sue,—“ wiil ycu talk ?”

‘Yes, dear. Let us tell over what we have toa bear,
and see how we can bear it.”



RE THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“We must go to our ‘ upper storehouse’ again for that,
father.”

“Ay, dear,—always.”

“The first thing, I suppose,” said Sue, “is that we
haven't quite money enough.” .

“We have just what God gives us,” said the cobbler.
‘Tl never complain of that.”

“Why, you never complain of anything, father. But
it isn’t pleasant.”

“No, dear,” said the cobbler ;—* and yet if we had
money enough, could we trust God aswedo? It isa
sweet thing to live by his hand directly; to fecl that it
is feeding us to-day, and to know that it will to-morrow,
for ‘ Was he ever a wilderness to Israel?’ No, dear; lL
don't mean to say that poverty is not hard to bear some-
times; nor I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t give you
plenty of everything if I had it to give; but I do say
that there is a sweet side even to this.”

“Father, our blue fish wouldn’t have tasted so good if
we had always had plenty of them.”

‘““T suppose not,” said the cobbler, with a little bit of
a stifled sigh—‘‘ and maybe we shouldn’t know how to
love each other quite so well, Sue.”

‘““Oh ves we should!” said Sue,

“T don’t know,” said the cobbler. “I shouldn’t know
what my little daughter can do and bear, if she had not
had a chance to show me.”

‘Why, I have not much to bear, father,” said Sue.

; “Mother wouldn’t know what a good nurse you can
a?

“T wish she hadn’t a chance to know that, father.”

“Yes,” said the cobbler, “your mother’s sickness—
that seems the hardest evil we have had to do with. It’s
not easy to find any present comfort in that, nor any
present good; for I am afraid it makes me more impa-
tient than patient. Maybe that’s why this is sent to me.
But if we can’t see the reason of a great many things
now, we shall by-and-by. We shall know, Sue, what



THE TWO SHOES 89

the reason was. ‘Zhou shalt remember all the way
which the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the
wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know
uhat was in thine heart, whether thou wouldest keep his
commandments or no.”

Sue lifted up her head, and her little face was beautiful
for the strong patience, and bright trust and love, that
was init. Her eyes were swimming; and her lips were
speaking, though they only moved to tremble.

“We can't wait, Sue,” said the cobbler gently Sue
laid down her head again.

‘So it seems we have got the reason of it, already,”
Mr. Peg went on—“ if not the good.”

‘“Maybe we’ve got some of the good too, without
knowing it,” said his little daughter.

“Still we ‘ll be very glad to have mother get well.”

“Oh, won't we!” said Sue.

‘And it will teach us how to be thankful for the com.
mon things we forget.”

There was a little pause.

‘Then you would like to have me go to school,” said
sue; “and I can't.”

“And if you could, I shouldn’t have the pleasure of
teaching you myself,” said the cobbler. “I can bear
that.”

‘But then I can’t learn so many things,” said Sue.

‘Of one kind you can’t, and of another kind you can,”
said her father. “1 don’t believe there’s a school-girl in
Beachhead that can broil a blue fish as you can.”

‘Oh, father! but then you showed me how.”

“Do you think broiling blue fish comes by nature?”
said the cobbler. ‘I can tell you there are many people
that can’t learn it at all. And that’s only one of your
accomplishments.” |

“Oh, father!” said Sue again, smiling a little.

‘You can nurse a sick mother, and mend a hole in
your father’s coat, and clean a room, and make a bed,
with anybody.”



99 YHE CHRISTMAS STOCKIAW.

“Still, father, you’d like to have me go to school.”

“Yes, I would,” said the cobbler. “ Maybe I shall
not be sorry, by-and-by, that I couldn't.”

“And then, father,” said Sue, “you can't get work
enough.”

“Yes!” said the cobbler. “ff I could do that, it¢
would be all smooth. But God would give it to me if it
pleased Him, and if it don’t please Him, there must be
some reason; can't we trust Him and wait?”

Sue looked up again, not so brightly as before ; meekly
and rather tearfully.

“And then I must leave you to-morrow,” said her
father, kissing her brow—‘“‘ that seems just now the
worst of all.” |

‘* Maybe you ll come back again, father,” said Sue.

‘“‘T am afraid I shall not—till this trial is over.”

“It’s a disagreeable business, isn’t it, father ?”

“Very disagreeable—as frightful as can be, to look at.”

They were silent awhile.

‘“‘ Maybe there ‘ll some good come of it, somehow, after
all,” said Sue in her twilight voice.

‘“‘ Good will be the end of it,” said the cobbler. ‘“ There’s
@ kind hand doing it, and an almighty arm upholding
us in it; ‘we shall not be utterly cast down ;’ so we
must bear to be poor, and to be sick, and to be sepa-
rated; and just leave it all with God.”

‘Father, it’s pleasant to do that,” said Sue; but you
oe tell by the tone of her words that she was crying o

ittle.

“Why, darling, if we are poor, and sick, and in
trouble, we have our dear Saviour, and we know that
the Lord is our God. We are not poor people—not we.
‘Having nothing, and yet possessing ali things.’ Who
would we change with, Sue?”

Sue had to wait a little while before she spoke, but
then she said—‘I wouldn’t change with anybody.”

“No more would I,” said the cobbler, giving her
another kiss.



THE TWO SHOES, 9}

Ard so they went to bed, a couple of very rich poor
people.

But the house looked poor the next day—empty and
cold. The cobbler was off betimes; the little breakfast
efir died out; dust lay on the counter; the tools and
the unfinished work were here and there; the wind
slipped in and slipped out again; and nothing else paid
us a visit, except Sue, who once or twice looked in and
looked round as if to see whether her father were there.
Once she came into the room and stood a few minutes,
with her little brown head and quiet grave face, looking
at the ashes in the fire-place, and the neglected work,
and her father’s chair, with a wistful sort of eye. It
said, or seemed to say, that however she felt last night,
she would be very glad to-day if they were not poor, nor
sick, nor separated. She looked pale and weary too;
but she didn’t stay long to rest or think. Her feet could
be heard now and then up-stairs. The cobbler did not
come home; the night darkened upon just such an after-
noon as the morning had been. |

The next day began in the same manner. ‘Towards
noon, however, the outer door opened, and in came a
puff of fresh cold air, and another visitor, who looked
fresh, but not cold at all. It was a boy about thirteen
or fourteen; healthy, ruddy, bright-eyed, well-dressed,
and exceeding neat in his dress. He came in like one
familiar with the place, and took note of all the unusual
tokens about as if he knew well what was usual ana
what was unusual. He looked at the cold chimney and
scattered work; he went to the foot of the stairs and
stood listening a moment; and then coming away from
there, he loitered about the room, now going to the
window and now to the chimney, evidently waiting. He
had to wait a good while; but he waited. At last he
got what he wanted, for, tired with being up-stairs, or
wanting to gather some news from the outer world,
Sue slowly came down the stairs, and showed her
little face at the staircase door. And almost before it



9 THE CHRISTMAS BLOCKING.

had time to change, the new comer had called out—
“Sue !”

And with an unknown light breaking all over her face,
Sue exclaimed joyously—* Roswald!”—and springing
across to him, put her sweet lips to his with right good
will.

‘Oh you've got back,” said Sue, with a gladsomeness
it did, or would have done, anyone’s heart good to hear.
“Here lam. Haven’t I been a long while away ?”

“Oh, so long!” said Sue.

‘But what's the matter here, Sue? what's become of
you all?”

‘““Why, mother’s sick, you know—she hasn’t got well
yet; and father’s away.”

“ Where is he?”

‘‘ He had to go to court—he had to be a juryman to
try Simon Ruffin.”

“When ?”

“Yesterday morning. And we hoped he would be
able to get leave to come away—we wanted him so much;
but he hasn’t been able to come.”

“He's been away since yesterday morning? Who's
taking care of you ?”

“Why, nobody,” said Sue.

“So there’s nobody in the house with you?”

: Nobody but mother. Father left wood enough all
ready.” |

‘“ Wood enough for how long ?”

‘‘ Oh, for a good many days.”

“* Aren’t you afraid ?”

“Why no, Roswald !”

“Who goes to market for you, Sue?”

“ Nobody.”

“What do you live on?”

“Oh, people send mother nice things: Mrs. Lucy sent
ber a whole pail of soup the other day.” |

‘‘ How big a pail?”

‘ Why, Roswald !~I mean a nice little tin pail: so big.”


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LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
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Ellen Montgomery’s Pookshell.

CARL KRINKEN;

OR,

THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

BY THE AUTHORS OF

‘THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD,” ‘‘ QUEECIIY,”’ ** SPECULATION,”
ETC. ETC.

A NEW EDITION,

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

CONTENTS.

—_—<-__—

PAGE
THE STORY OF THE THREE APPLES. ° ° . 9
THE STORY OF THE PENNY : . ° . ~ 28

THE STORY OF THE PURSE °

THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES . 7 . . 70
THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE . . -. . 112
THE STORY OF THE HYMN BOOK . ° ° ~ 127
THE STORY OF THE CORK BOAT : ° ° . 142

THE STORY OF THE STOCKING ITSELF . . - 144

CARL KRINKEN;:
on,
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 acci-
dentally ; 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 un-
satisfied tooth all the days of its life, unless its owner
should perchance grow up to be a sugar-refiner. It ig
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
abet it; and how can they? When a little girl once

B
2 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

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 fill half a million
of rich little stockings, and then—how many poor chil-
dren had any to fill? or if one chanced to be found, it
might have holes in it; and if the sugar-plums should
come 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,
on Christmas Eve, with dreaming that he had made him-
self sick with 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 got what
they did, or because they hadn’t what they didn’t get.
It was a woful thing if a top was painted the wrong
colour, or if the name 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
THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. | 8

mother a very small load of chips in less than five
minutes. And a small cake of maple sugar which some-
how 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
—— trees had grown about a foot since it was
made.

“Wife,” said John Krinken, “what shall we put m
little Carl’s stocking to-night ?”

“Truly,” said his wife, “I do not know. WNeverthe-
less 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 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 o
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 fishing-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 comple 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.
é THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

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.

‘“ 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,
gray, 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.”

‘“‘] 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.

‘Tt ’ll never do to put that in first,” she said; “the
masts would be broken. I think 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.

_“Tve 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 waggon. Se
[ picked them up.” |
THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 3

“Three apples,” said John. ‘Well, I'll give him a
penny 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, anyway.
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 penny—
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.

“Tf 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 | didn’t
let her die in the water, poor soul! She said it was
worth a great deal. And I think the clasp is silver.”

“Oh, I dare say he'd like it,” said Mrs. Krinken;
“oive him that, and I'll put in the old pine cone—he’s
old enough to take care of it now. I think he’ll be con-
tent.”

The book with its worn leather binding and tarnished
silver clasp, was dusted and rubbed up and put in, and
the old sharp-pointed pine cone followed ; and the fisher-
man and his wife followed it up with a great deal of love
and a blessing.

And then the stocking was quite full.
6 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

It was midnight ; and the fire had long been covered
up, and John Krinken and his wife were fast asleep, and
little Carl wasin the midst of the hard bed and his sweet
dreams as before. The stocking hung by the side of the
little 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 Christ-
mas.

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
THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. 7

course very little love could get in. And there is no
teling how many children would be satistied 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 bed and shouted—

“¢ Merry Christmas!”

The mice were a good deal alarmed, for they had not
all seen their partners safe 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 stand-
ing on his heels. Then he scampered across the floor
and began to feel at 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 stock-
ing; 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
8 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

and scampered back to bed again; screaming out,
“Apples! apples! apples!”

His mother being now awakened 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 hed just when Carl and
the empty stocking lay side by side. |

“First rate!” 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 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 penny, just where it had been all the
time, upon the biggest of the red darns.

“A penny!” cried Carl. “Oh, I suppose it was you
talking, wasn’t it ?”

“No,” said the penny. “ But I can talk.”

“Do you know where you came from?” said Cazl,
staring at the penny with all his eyes.

“Certainly,” said the penny.

“I dreamed that everything in my stocking told me
a story,” said Carl. |
THE THREE APPLES. g

“So we will,” said the penny. “Only to you. To
nobody else.”

Carl shook his head very gravely, and having slipped
the penny 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 think 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.

“T assume to myself the task of relating our joint his-
tory, 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 my-
self in every quality that an apple should have. You
perceive not only the fine roundness of my shape, but
10 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

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 perma-
nent and deep impression on me. My behaviour to-
wards 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 pre-
sent, Beachamwell,” said Carl, “‘ because I might eat you
up before you got through your story, and that would be
a pity. 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 Beacham-
well, “ 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 1
cutyouup. 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 pro-


THE THREE APPLES. 1t

beable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that
tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as Ihave
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 will attain a particle of the true Beach- .
amwell colour. There are, however, good spots in Knerly ;
and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get to the
right side of her.”

“I'll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for Ill 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: noris that often obtained ex-
cept 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, [ 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.

‘‘T 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?”

“T'll make you some pies—if I can get anything te
make them of,” said Mrs. Penly.

“ Ah» but you can't,” said Mark, his countenance fall”
ing 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 troop was just then performing.
12 1tif CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“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 Thanks-
giving without them.” |

“T 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 103rd Psalm.”

So Mark got his little old 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 destruc-
tion ; 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 1 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 puzzled 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
nourishing things might exert a happy influence upon
his complexion; but she stilled her heart with this word,
“Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such
things.”
THE THREE APPLES, | 13

“Tam sure we have a great many good things, Mark,”
she answered cheerfully ; “don’t you remember that bar.
rel 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 saysin another
part of that psalm, ‘Like as a father pitieth his chil-
dren,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 chil-
dren. 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.”

‘““T 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 black-
berries 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.”

‘May be 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
san always find a way.”
14 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“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
enoughfor thanksgiving, Marky, in adear 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 a 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 be-
fore 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 step-
ping up and down the kitchen: and as she swept sho
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 voices
_ 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 a while 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 al-
ways his work, and he began to wonder what they were
THE THREE APPLES. 18

going to have for breakfast. Then somebody knocked at
the door.

‘“Here’s a quart of milk, Mrs. Penly,” said a voice.
‘Mother thought 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 dressed, he
rushed out into the kitchen.

“Ts it a whole quart, mother?”

“A whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isn't that

ood?”
. “Delicious!” said Mark. “I should like to drink it
allup. J don’t mean that I should like to do so 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.”

“Tf 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. ‘It 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 cup of milk
for your breakfast——”

“A whole cupful?” 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.

‘“T don't want any.”

“But you must have it,” said Mark. “Now I'll tell
you, mother. I'll drink a cupful 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 leit
I'll drink to-morrow.”
16 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Very well,” said his mother, “But now you must
run and get washed and dressed, for breakfast is almost
ready, lL have made you a little shortcake, and it’s
baking away at a great rate in the oven.”

‘“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 cup and
the plates.”

It would be hard to tell how much Mark enjoyed his
cup of milk—how slowly he drank it—how careful he
was not to leave one drop in the cup; 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.

Ihe 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 sym-
pathy 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
THE THREE APPLES. 1?

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.” 7

“JT don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,”
said Mark. |

“No, it was very natural; though if he 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 ever full. And the water was life-
giving.

‘“ But this man often preferred the lower spring, and
would neglect the other when this was full; and if
forced to seek the Rock, he was often weary of waiting
for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a few
drops. And he never learned to love the upper spring
as he ought, until one year when the very grass by the
lower spring was parched, and he fled for his life to the
other. And then it happened, Mark,” said his mother,
looking down at him with her eyes full of tears, ‘‘ that
when the water at last began slowly to run into the
lower spring, though it was very lovely, and sweet, and
pleasant, it never could be loved best again.”

‘“ Mother,” said Mark, “I don’t know exactly what
you mean, and I do know a little, too.”



C
18 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Why, my dear,” said his mother, “I mean that
when we lack anything this world can give, we must
fetch the more from heaven.” :

“You love heaven very much, don’t you, mother?
said Mark, looking up at her quite wonderingly.

‘“‘ More than you love me.”

Mark thought that was hardly possible; but he didn’t
like to contradict his mother, and besides, they were now
at the church door, and had to go in and take their seats
Mark thought the clergyman chose the strangest text
that could be for Thanksgiving Day, it was this :—

“There is nothing at all, beside this manna, before
our eyes.”

When church was over, and Mark and his mother
were walking home again, they were overtaken by little
Tom Crab. |

“Come,” said little Tom—“let’s go sit on the fence
and eat apples. We sha'n’'t have dinner to-day till ever
so late, ‘cause it takes so long to get it ready; and I’m so
hungry. What are you going to have for dinner ?”

‘TY don't know,” said Mark. |

‘‘T know what we’re going to have,” said Tom, “ only
IT can’t remember everything. J makes me worse than
ever to think of it. Come—let’s go eat apples.”

“i haven't got any,” said Mark.

“Haven't got any!” said Tom, dropping Mark’s elbow
and staring at him—for the idea of a boy without
apples had never before occurred to any of Mr. Crab’s
family. ‘Oh, you mean you've eaten up all you had in
your pocket.” |

“No,” said Mark, “we haven’t had any this year.
Last year Mr. Smith gave us a basketful.” | |

‘“ Well, come along, and I’ll give you some,” said Tom.

“T’'ve got six, and I think three’ll do for me til

dinner. Oh, Mark! you ought to see the goose roasting
in our kitchen! I'll tell you what—I think I may as
well give you the whole six, ’cause I can run home and
get some more; and I might as well be at home, too,
THE THREE APPLES. 4g

- they might have dinner earlier than they meant to
ave it.”

a filling Mark’s pockets out of his own, Tom ran
off.

“It so happened,” said Beachamwell, turning herself
round with a tired air when she got to this point in her
story—‘‘it so happened, that Mark having stopped so
long to talk with Tommy Crab, did not get home till his
mother had her things off and the table-cloth laid; and
then, being in a great hurry to help her, and a rather
heedless little boy besides; there being, moreover, but
one table in the room, Mark laid his six apples upon
the sill of the window which was open. For it was a
soft autumn day—the birds giving another concert in
the still air, and the sunshine lying warm and bright
upon everything. The apples looked quite brilliant as
they lay in the window, and as Mark eat his queer little
Thanksgiving dinner of bread and a bit of corned beef,
he looked at them from time to time with great plea-
sure.

But when it was almost time for the apples to come
on table as dessert, Mark suddenly cried out, ‘Mother!
where are my six apples?”

“Why, on the window-sill,” said his mother.

‘There are but five! there are but five!” said Mark.
“T must have lost one coming home! No, I didn't,
either.” And running to the window, Mark looked out.
There lay the sixth apple on the ground, appropriated
as the Thanksgiving dinner of his mother’s two chickens.

Mark could hardly keep from crying.

“It’s too bad,” he said, “when I had but just six!
The ugly things!” ;

“You called them beauties this morning,” said his
mother. - .

“But just see my apple!” said Mark, “all dirty and
pecked to pieces.”

“And just see my little boy,” said his mother, “all
red and angry Did you suppose, my dear, that if
20 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING. |

apples rolied off the window-sill, they would certainly
fall inside ?”

“JT will take care, I'll never put anything there any
more,” said Mark, gathering up the five apples in his
arms and letting them all fall again. But they fell
inside this time, and rolled over the floor.

_ “You had better decide how many apples you will eat
just now,” said Mrs. Penly, ‘“‘and then put the others
away in the closet.” |

“It’s too bad!” said Mark. “TI had but six; and
I thought you would have three and I’d have three.”

‘‘ Well, you may have five,” said his mother, smiling,
“the chickens have got my part. And, maybe, some good
will come of that yet, if it only teaches you to be careful.”

“Oddly enough,” said Beachamwell, “some good.did
come of it. When the chickens pecked the apple to pieces,
the seeds fell out, and one seed crept under a clover leaf
where the chickens could not find it. And when the
snow had lain all winter upon the earth, and the spring
came, this little seed sprouted and grew, and sent down
roots, and sent up leaves, and became an apple tree.”

‘‘ How soon?” said Carl.

“Oh, in the course of years, by the time Mark was a
big boy. And the tree blossomed and bore fruit; and
from that time Mark and his mother never wanted for
apples. He called it the ‘Thanksgiving tree,’ but it
was a true Beachamwell, for all that.”

“But stay!” exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beach-
amwell’s stem in his great interest, “ Mark isn’t alive
now, is he?”

“No,” said Beachamwell, twisting away from Carl
and her stem together. “No, he is not alive now, but
the tree is, and it belongs to Mark’s erandson. And
the other day he picked a whole waggon-load of us, and
set off to market; and we three were so tired with jolt-
ing about, that we rolled out and lay by the wayside
Thus it was that your mother found us.”
THE THREE APPLES. gi

“Well, that is certainly a very pretty story,” said
Carl; ‘but nevertheless, I’m glad my stocking was full.
But I will let you, Beachamwell, and Half-ripe, and
Knerly, lie on the chest and hear the rest of the stories,
for I like this one very much.” |

Carl was tired of sitting still by this time, so he went
out and ran about on the beach till dinner time; and
after dinner he went up to his corner again. |

The sun came in through the little window, looking
askance at Carl’s treasures, and giving a strange, old-
fashioned air to purse, and book, and stocking. The
shoes looked new yet, and shone in their blacking, and
the apples had evidently but just quitted the tree;
while the bright penny gleamed away in the fair light,
and the old pine cone was brown as ever, and reflected
not one ray. Carl handled one thing and another, and
then his eye fell on his small portion of money. He
might want to spend it! therefore, if the penny could do
anything, it must be done at once; and as he thought
on the subject, the sun shone in brighter and brighter,
and the face of the penny looked redder and redder.
Then the sunbeam fled away, and only a dark little
piece of copper lay on the chest by the side of the new
shoes.

‘Now, penny,” said Carl, “itis your turn. I'll hear
you before the purse, so make haste.”

“Turn me over, then,” said the penny, “for I can’t
talk with my back to the people.”

So Carl turned him over, and there he lay and stared
at the ceiling.
Ze THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The Story of the Bonny.

J cannot begin to relate my history, said the penny,
without expressing my astonishment at the small con-
sideration in which I am held. ‘I wouldn’t give a
penny for it!”—* It isn’t worth a penny!” such are the
expressions which we continually hear; and yet truly a
man might as well despise the particles of flour that
make up his loaf of bread.

People say it is pride in me; that may be, and it may
not. Butif it be, why shouldn’t a penny have at least
that kind of pride which we call self-respect? I was
made to be a penny, I was wanted to b8 a penny, I was
never expected to be anything else, therefore why should
I be mortified at being only a penny? I am all that
I was intended to be, and a silver dollar can be no more.
Pride, indeed! why even Beachamwell here is proud, I
dare say, and only because she is not a russeting;.
while I think—Well, never mind, but I have bought a
good many apples in my day and ought to know some-
thing about them. Only a penny! People can’t bar-
gain so well without me, I can tell you. Just go into
the market to buy a cabbage, or into the street to buy a
newspaper, and let me stay at home; see how you will
care then. Indeed, when there is question of parting
with me, I am precious enough in some people’s eyes,
but it hardly makes up for the abuse I get from other
quarters. here is indeed one pretty large class of the
community who always think me worth picking Ds
though they are over ready to part with me. To them
alone would I unfold the secrets of my past life. I
might have lain mute in a man’s purse for ever, and
rubbed down all the finer parts of my nature against
various hard-headed coins; but there is something in the
TYE PENN¢ | 23

solitude of a boy’s pocket which touches all the sympa-
thies of our nature, even beforehand.

I am not, however, continued the penny, I am not
at all of friend Beachamwell’s temperament,—in fact
I never had but one impression made on me in my life.
Lo be sure that was permanent, and such as only Time
can efface; though no doubt he will one day soften down
my most prominent points, and enable me to move
through society with a calm and even exterior. For it
happens, oddly enough, that while beneath the pressure
of years “the human face divine” grows wrinkled and
sometimes sharp, a penny grows smooth and polished,—
a, little darker and thinner perhaps than formerly, but
with as good business faculties as ever.

When that time arrives, said the penny, we re-
fuse to tell our age; but until then we are perfectly
communicative. I would at once tell you how oldI am,
’ but that you can see for yourself.

I shall not give you adetailed account of my origin,
nor of the fire and water through which I passed in order
to become a penny. If, when you grow up, you are still
curious about the matter, you travel over England, and
there, down in Cornwall, you will find what may be
called my birth-piace, and can learn, with full particulars,
why I left it. Neither shall I relate how I was pressed,
and clipped, and weighed, at the Mint, nor speak of the
first few times that I went to market and changed hands.
My present history will: begin with the pocket of a rich
old gentleman, into which I found my way one afternoon,
along with a large variety of the “ circulating medium.”

‘“‘ You do use such big words!” said Carl.

“Because I have travelled a great deal,” said the
penny. “ It is the fashion. But to return to the pocket.”

What a pocket it was! | eo &

At the bottom lay an overfed pocket-book, bursting
with bank bills new and old, while another of like di-
mensions held more value, snugly stowed away in notes
and bonds. ‘The leather purse in which I lay had one
Pt THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

end for pence and the other for gold and silver; but
with my usual love of bright company, when the old
gentlemen slipped me in among a parcel of dingy pence,
I slipped out again, and ran in among the half-sovereigns

For I was the only new penny the old gentleman had,
and as by right I belonged about half to him and half
to the bank, the cashier and he had some words as to
which should carry me off. I believe the old gentleman
chuckled over me half the way home.

If this part of my story teaches nothing else, said the
penny, with a moralizing air, as he stared at the ceiling,
it will at least show the folly of going out of one’s
proper place. Had I been content to lodge with the
pence, I should but have been set to do a penny’s work,—
as it was | was made to do the work of sovereigns, for
which I was totally unfit. It fell out thus.

The old gentleman walked leisurely home, having very
much the air of a man with a pocket full of money,—
as I should think from the deliberate and comfortable
way in which we were jogged about; and when he rang
his own door bell it was already quite dark. girl opened the door, dressed in a white frock and black
apron.

‘Oh, grandpa,” she said, “I'm so glad you’ve come,
because there's a little boy been waiting here ever so long
for ten dollars.”

“Well my dear,” said the old gentleman, “ ten dollars
is worth waiting for.”

“ But he’s in a great hurry to get home before dark,
because he says the children have got no bread for sup-
per till he buys it,” said the little girl. “He brought a
pair of boots and shoes for you, grandpa, and his father’s
very poor.”

“Is he?” said the old gentleman. “Then I’m afraid
my boots won’t be worth much. However, Nanny, my

dear, you may take him the money for them, since
they’re here.”
THE PENNY. , 25

“Shall I fetch you a light, grandpa?” said the child
‘It’s too dark to see.”

“No, no—not a bit of it,—I know how ten dollars
feel, well enough. He shall have a gold piece—for the
first time in his life, Ill warrant. It zs too dark to read
bank bills.”

And opening the most precious end of his purse, the
old gentleman’s unerring thumb and finger drew forth
me, and laid me in the little girl’s open palm. The soft
little hand closed upon me, and down she ran to the
lower entrance.

‘‘There’—she said,—“ here it is. Grandpa says he
supposes that’s the first gold piece you ever had. Have
you got a great many little brothers and sisters?”

“This aint gold,” said the boy, too busy examining
me to heed her last question. ‘‘ He’s made a mistake—
this is only a penny.”

“ Oh, well, Pll take it back to him then,” said the little
messenger. ‘I suppose he couldn’t see in the dark.”
And away she ran.

The old gentleman by this time was enjoying his slip-
pers and the newspaper, between a, blazing fire and two
long candles in tall silver candlesticks.

“Grandpa,” said the child, laying her hand on his
knee, “do you know what you did in the dark? You |
gave that boy a penny instead of a gold piece—wasn't
it funny ?”

“ Hey! what?” said the old gentleman, moving his
paper far enough to one side to see the little speaker,
‘Gave him a penny instead of a gold piece? Nonsense !”

“ But you did, grandpa,” urged the child. ‘See here
_—he gave it right back to me. It was so dark, you
know, and he took it to the window to look; and he said
directly it was only a penny.” .

‘Which he had kept in his hand for the purpose, I'll
warrant,” said the old man. ‘“ Took it to the window,
did he ?—yes, to slip it into his pocket. He needn't think
to play off that game upon me”
26 THE CHRISTMAS £f0CKINt.

“ But only look at it, grandpa,” said the child,—“ see
—it's only apenny. I’m sure he didn’t change it.”

“T don't want to look at it;” said he putting away her
hand. ‘All stuff, my dear—it was as good a piece as
ever came out of the Mint. Don’t I know the feel of
one? and didn’t I take it out of the gold end of my
purse, where I never put copper? Bad boy, no doubt—
you mustn’t go back to him. Here, William——’

‘“ But he looked good, grandpa,” said the child, “and
so Sorry,”

“Hell look sorry now, [ll be bound,” said the old
man. “Isay, William !—take this penny back to that
boy and tell him to be off with it, and not to show his
face here again.”

The command was strictly obeyed; and my new
owner, after a vain attempt to move the waiter, carried
_ me into the street and sat down on the next door-step.
Never in my life have I felt so grieved at being only a
penny, as then.

The boy turned me over and over, and looked at me
and read my date, with a bewildered air, as if he did
not know what he was doing; and I, alas, who could
have testified to his honesty, had no voice to speak.

At length he seemed to comprehend his loss; for,
dropping me on the pavement, he sunk his head on his
hands, and the hot tears fell fast down from his face
upon mine. Then in a sudden passion of grief and ex-
citement he caught me up and threw me from him as
far as he could; and I, who had been too proud to asso-
ciate with pence, now fell to the very bottom of an in-
glorious heap of mud. As I lay there, half smothered, I
could hear the steps of the boy, who soon repenting his
hastiness now sought me—inasmuch as I was better
than nothing; but he sought in vain. He couldn’t see
me and I couldn't see him, especially as there was little
but lamp light to see by, and he presently walked away.

I am not good at reckoning time. said the penny,
but I should think I might have lain there about a


THE PENNY a7

-week—the mud heap having in the mean time changed
to one of dust—when a furious shower arose one after-
noon, or I should rather say came down; and not only
were dust and mud swept away, but the rain even washed
my face for me, and left me almost as bright as ever,
high and dry upor. a clean paving-stone. |

I felt so pleased and refreshed with being able to look
about once more, that what next would become of me
hardly cost a thought; and very wet and shiny I lay
there, basking in the late sunshine.

a thought you said you were high and dry,” said
arl.

“That is a phrase which we use,” replied the penny.
“T was high and dry in one sense—quite lifted above
the little streams of water that gurgled about among the
paving-stones, though the rain-drops were not wiped off
my face; and as I lay there I suddenly felt myself
picked up by a most careful little finger and thumb,
which had no desire to get wet or muddy. They be-
longed to a little girl about ten years old.”

“You pretty penny,’ she said admiringly— how
bright and nice you do look! and how funny it is that I
should find you—I never found anything before. I
wonder how you came here—I hope some poor child
didn’t lose you.”

While she thus expressed her opinion I was busy
making up mine, and truly it was a pleasant one. Her
calico frock was of an indescribable brown, formed by
the fading together of all the bright colours that had
once enlivened it—water and soap, and long wear, had
done this. But water and soap had also kept it clean,
and a very little starch spread it out into some shape,
and displayed the peculiar brown to the best advantage.
Instead of an old straw bonnet with soiled ribbons, she
had a neat little sun-bonnet; but this was made of a
piece of new pink calico, and made her face look quite
rosy. I could not see her feet and shoes, for my back
was towards them, but I have no doubt they were in
28 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

nice order—she was too nice a child to have it other
wise Her hair was brushed quite smooth, only when
she stooped to pick me up one lock had fallen down from
under the sun-bonnet, and her face was as simple and
good as it could be. With what contented eyes did sha
look at me !—she didn’t wish I was a piece of gold—in-
deed I thought it doubtful whether she had ever heard
of such a thing. But I saw that her cheeks were thin,
and that they might have been pale but for the pink sun-
bonnet. Whatever she meant by “a poor child,” little
Nanny would surely have given the name to her.

Suddenly she exclaimed— “Now Ican get it! Oh,
I'm so glad! Come, little penny, I must give you away,
though I should like to keep you very much, for you're
very pretty; but you are all the money I’ve got in the
world.”

Now for the candy-shop, thought I; for as she turned
and began to walk away as fast as she could, I peeped
into the little basket that hung on her arm and saw there
a small loaf of bread—so I knew I was not to go for
that commodity. She did not put me in the basket, but
kept me fast in her hand as she tripped along, till we
came to a large grocer’s shop. There she went in.

‘Please, sir, to let me have a penny’s worth of tea,”
she said timidly.

“Got sixpence to pay for it?” said one of the clerks,
to make. the other clerks laugh, in which he succeeded.

“No, sir, I’ve got this,” she said, modestly showing
me, and giving mea kind glance at the same time. “ Tt’s
only a penny, but it will get enough for mother, and
she’s sick and wanted some tea so much.”

Lhe young men stopped laughing, and looked at the
child as if she had just come out of the museum; and
one of them taking down a canister, measured out two
or three good pinches of tea into a brown paper and
folded it up. The child took it with a very glad face,
laying-me down on the counter with a joyful “ Thank
you, sir,” which I by no mean repeated ‘I wanted to ga
THE PENNY. 29

home with her and see that tea made. But we pence can
never know the good that our purchases do in the world.

The clerk took me up and balanced me upon his
finger, as if he had half a mind to give the child back
her money, and pay the sum of one penny into the till
out of his own private purse. But habit prevailed-; and
dropping me into the till, I heard him remark as he
closed it, “I say, Bill, I shouldn’t wonder now if that
was a good child.”

T shouldn’t have wondered either.

We were a dull company in the till that night, for
most of the money was old; and it is a well known fact
that worn-down coins are not communicative. And
some of the pieces were rusty through long keeping, and
one disconsolate little sixpence which sat alone in the
furthest corner of the till was in a very sad state of mind;
for he had just laid himself out to buy some rice for a
poor family and now could do nothing more for them—
and he was the last moneyed friend they had.

In this inactive kind of life some time passed away,
and though some of us were occasionally taken to
market yet we never bought anything. But one
evening “a man came into the grocer’s and asked
for starch, and we hoped for bright visitors; but
I had no time to enjoy them, for I was sent to make
change. The messenger was a man-servant; and with
the starch in his hand and me in his pocket he soon left
the shop and went whistling along the street. Then he
put his other hand into the pocket, and J ingled me against
the rest of the change in a most unpleasant manner—
picking me up and dropping me again Just as if pence
had no feeling. I was glad when he reached home, and
ran down the area steps and into the kitchen. He gave
the starch to the cook, and then marking down on a little
bit of paper what he had bought and what he had spent,
he carried it with the change into the parlour. But what
was my surprise to find that I was in the very same
house whence I had gone forth as a golden picce!
80 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The old gentleman was asleep in his chair now, and a
pretty—looking lady sat by, reading ; while the little girl
was playing with her doll on the rug. She jumped up,
and came to the table and began to count the
change.

“Two and sixpence, mama—see, here’s a shilling end
two sixpences, and fivepence, and a penny. Mama,
may I have this penny ?” :

“Tt isn’t mine, Nanny—your grandfather gave James
the money.”

“Well, but you can pay him again,” said the child;
‘‘and besides, he’d let me have it, [ know.”

“ What will you do with it, Nanny?”

“Don't you know, mama, you said you thought you
would give me one penny a month to spend ?”

‘To do what you liked with”—said her mother. “ Yes,
ITremember. But what will you do with this one?”

“Oh, I don’t know, mama—TI'll see if erandpa will let
me have it.” |

“Let you have what?” said the old gentleman,
waking up.

‘This penny, grandpa.”

“To be sure you may have it! Ofcourse !—and fifty
more.”

“No, she must have but one,” said the lady, with a
smile. “I am going to give her an allowance of one
penny a month.”

‘‘ Fiddle-de-dee!” said the old gentleman. “ What can
she do with that, I should like to know?—one penny
—Absurd !”

“Why she can do just the thirtieth part of what she
could with halt-a-crown,” said the lady, “and that will be
money matters enough for such a little head. So you
_ may take the penny, Nanny, and spend it as you like ;

only I shall wish to be told about it afterwards.”

Fanny thanked her mother, and holding me fast in
one hand she sat down on the rug again by her doll, The
old gentleman seemed very much amused,
THE PENNY, 3k

“What will you do with it, Nanny?” he said, bending.
down to her. “Buy candy?”

Nanny smiled and shook her head.

‘““No, I believe not, grandpa—I don’t know—TI'll see.
Perhaps Ill buy beads.” |

At which the old gentleman leaned back in his chair
and laughed very heartily.

From that time, whenever little Nanny went to walk

I went too, and she really seemed to be quite fond of me;
for though she often stopped before the candy shops or
the toy shops, and once or twice went in to look at the
beads, yet she always carried me home again. ~

“Mama, I don’t know how to spend my penny,
she said one day. |

‘Are you tired of taking care of it, Nanny?”

“No mama, but I want to spend it.”

“Why?”

“Why mama—I don’t know—money is meant to
spend, isn’t it!”

“Yes, it is meant to be spent—not to be thrown
away.

a dh. no,” said Nanny,—‘I wouldn’t throw away my
penny for anything. It’s avery pretty penny.” |
“How many ways are there of throwing away

money?” said her mother.

‘Oh, mama—a great many! I couldn’t begin to count
You know I might throw it out of the window, mama,
or drop it in the street—or somebody might steal it; no,
then it would only be lost.”

“Or you might shut it up in your box and never
spend it.”

“Why, mama!” said Nanny, opening her eyes very
wide, ‘“‘ would it be thrown away then?”

“Certainly—you might just as well have none. It
would do neither you nor any one else any good.”

“ But I should have it to look at.”

“But that is not what money was made for. Your
penny would be more really lost than if you threw it out
32 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

of the window, for then some poor child might pick
it up.”

“How surprised she would be!” said Nanny, with a
very bright face. “Mama, I think I should like to
spend my money so. I could stand behind the window-
curtain and watch.”

Her mother smiled.

“Why, mama? do you think there wouldn't any
poor child come along?”

“T should like to see that day, dear Nanny. But your
penny might fall into the grass in the courtyard, or into
the mud, or a horse might tread it down among the
paving-stones; and then no one would be the better
for it.”

“But it’s only one penny, mama,” said Nanny,—
“it don’t matter so much after all.” |

“Come here, Nanny,” said her mother, and the child
came and stood at her side. The lady opened her purse,
and took out a little gold piece.

“What is this made of?” said she.

“Why, of gold, mama.”

“Think again.”

So Nanny thought, and could’nt think, and laid her
head against her mother, and played with the little gold
cola. Then she laid it upon me to see how much
smaller it was, and how much brighter. Then she cried
out. ‘Oh, I know now, mama! it’s made of a hundred
and twenty pence.”

“Then if every day you lose ‘ only a penny,’ in one
bers you would have lost more than a sovereign and a

alf. That might do a great deal of good in the
world.”

“‘ How strange that is,” said Nanny. ‘ Well, I'll try
and not lose my penny, mama.”

‘‘ There is another reason for not losing it,” said her
mother. ‘In one sense it would make little difference
whether or not I threw this little gold piece into the fire
~—-you see there are plenty more in my purse. But
THE PENNY. 83

Nanny, they do not belong to me.” And taking up a
Bible she read these words—“‘ The silver and gold are
the Lord’s.’”

‘Do you think, Nanny, that it pleases Him to have us
waste or spend foolishly what he has given us to do good
with ?” |

“No, mama; I won't get my beads, then,” said
Nanny, with a little sigh.

‘That would not be waste,” said her mother, kissing
her. “It isright to spend some of our money for harm-
less pleasure, and we will go and buy the beads this very
afternoon.”

So after dinner they set forth.

It was avery cold day, but Nanny and her mother were
well wrapped up, so they did not feel it much. Nanny’s
fur tippet kept all the cold wind out of her neck, and her
little muff kept one hand warm while the other was given
to her mama. When that hand got cold, Nanny
changed its place, she put it in the muff and the other
’ out. As for me, [ was in the muff all the time; and I
was just wondering to myself what kind of a person the
bead woman would prove to be, when I heard Nanny
say,
‘ Mama!” did you see that little girl on those brown
steps? She had no tippet, mama, and not even a
shawl, and her feet were all tucked up in her petticoat;
and ” and Nanny’s voice faltered—“ I think she was
crying. I didn’t look at her much, for it made me feel
sad; but I thought so.” | *

“Yes, love,” said her mother, “I saw her. How good
God has been to me, that it is not my little daughter
who is sitting there.”

“Ob mama !”

Nanny walked on in silence for a few yards—then
she spoke again. |

“Mama—l’m afraid a great many poor children
want things more than I want my beads.”

“I’m afraid they do, Nanny.” |



D
$4. THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Mama, will you please go back with me, and let
me give that little girl my penny? wouldnt she be
pleased, mama? would she know how to spend it ?

“ Suppose you spend it for her, Nanny. People that
are cold are very often hungry, too—shall we go to the
baker’s and buy her something to eat?” )

“Oh yes!" said Nanny. ‘“ Will you buy it, mama, or
shall 1?” :

“You, darling.” |

And when they reached the shop, Nanny looked round
once more at her mother, and opening the shop-door with
a pleased and excited little face, she marched up to the ©
counter.

“Tf you please, sir,” she said, laying me down on
the counter, “I want something for a very poor little

le’ | |
OTe baker was a large fat man, in the whitest of shirt-
sleeves and aprons, and the blackest pantaloons and vest,
over which hung down a heavy gold watch-chain. He
put his hands on his sides, and looked at Nanny, and
then at me, and then at Nanny again.

‘‘ What do you want, my dear?” said he.

Nanny looked round to her mother to reassure herself,
and repeated her request.

“I want something for a very poor little girl, if you
please, sir. She’s sitting out in the street all alone.”
And Nanny’s lips were trembling at the remembrance.
Her mother’s eyes were full, too.

‘‘ What will you have, my dear?” said the baker.

Nanny looked up at her mother.

“What would you like if you were hungry ?” replied
her mother.

‘Oh, I should like some bread,” said Nanny, “and I
am sure the little girl would, too. But all those loaves
are too big.” |

“How would these do?” said the baker, taking some
rolls out of a drawer.

“Oh, they’re just the thing !” said Nanny, “and I like
THE PENNY. 35

role so much. May I take one, sir? and is a penny
enough to pay for it?” |

‘he baker gave a queer little shake of his head, and
searching below the counter for a bit of wrapping paper,
he laid the two largest rolls upon it.

“A penny is enough to pay for two,” he said. «Shall
I tie them up for you ?”

‘No, thank you, sir, you needn’t tie it—if you'll only
wrap them up a little. Mama,” said Nanny, turning
again to her mother, “I’m afraid that poor little girl does
not know that ‘the silver and gold are the Lord’s,’ and
she'll only think that I gave it to her.”

“You can tell her, Nanny, that everything we have
comes from God,” said her mother ; and they left the shop.

‘“What a nice little girl!” said Carl. “I think I
should like to marry that little girl when I grow up—if I
was good enough.” |

The baker went into the back room, continued the
penny, to tell the story to his wife, and I was left to my
own reflections on the counter; but I had reason to be
well satisfied, for it was certainly the largest pennyworth
I had ever bought in my life. But while I lay there
thinking about it, a boy came into the shop; and seeing
me, he caught me up and ran out again. At least, he
was running out, when he tripped and fell; and as I
am noted for slipping through people’s fingers, I slipped
through his, and rolled to the furthest corner of the shop.
There I lay all night; and in the morning, when the
baker’s boy was sweeping the floor, he found me and put
me in the till, for he was honest. But just then, Mr.
Krinken came in with a string of fish, and the careless
creature gave me, with some other change, for a parcel of
miserable flounders. That’s the way I came here.

‘““Why was he a careless boy?” said Carl. “I think
he was very careful, to find you at all.” :

“Oh, because I did not want to quit the baker, I sup- *
pose, said the penny. “And I don’t like the smell of
fish,—it don’t agree with me.”
86 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“You won’t smell much of it when I’ve kept you awhile
in my purse,” said Carl. “Tl take good care of you,
penny, and | won’t spend you till I want something.”

The next day Carl had tired himself with a run on -
the sands. He used to tuck up his trousers as high as they
would go, and wade slowly in through the deepening
water, to pick up stones and shells, and feel- the little
waves splash about his legs. Then, when a bigger wave
than usual came rolling in, black and high, to break
further up on the shore than the other great waves did,
Carl would run for it, shouting and tramping through
the water, to see if he could not get to land before the
breaker which came rolling and curling so fast after him.
Sometimes he did; and sometimes the billow would curl
over and break just a little behind him, and a great sea
of white foam would rush on over his shoulders and per-
haps half hide his own curly head. Then Carl laughed
louder than ever. He didn’t mind the wetting with salt
water. And there was no danger, for the shore was very
gently shelving and the sand was white and hard; and
even if a large wave caught him up off his feet and cra-
_ dled him in towards the shore, which sometimes happened,
it would just leave him there, and never think of taking
him back again; which the waves on some beaches would
certainly do.

All this used to be in the summer weather; at Christ-
mas it was rather too cold to play with the breakers in
any fashion. But Carl liked their company, and amused
himself in front of them, this sunny December day, for
along time. He got tired at last; and then sat himself
fiat down on the sand, out of reach of the water, to rest
and think what he would do next. There he sat, his
trousers still tucked up as far as they would go, his little
bare legs stretched out towards the water, his curls cris-
ped and wetted with a dash or two of the salt wave, and
his little ruddy face sober and thoughtful,—pleasantly
_ Testing, and gravely thinking what should be the next
TIIE PURSE. $7

play. Suddenly he jumped up, and the two little bare
feet pattered over the sand and up on the bank, till he
reached the hut. - |

‘What ails the child?” exclaimed Mrs. Krinken.
~ But Carl did not stop to tell what. He ran to the cup-

- board; and climbed up on a chair, and drew forth with
some trouble, from behind everything, a clumsy wooden
box. This box held hisown treasures and nobody else’s.
A curious boxful it was. Carl soon picked out his
Christmas purse; and without looking at another thing -
shut the box, pushed it back, swung to the cupboard _
so, and getting down from his chair, ran back, purse in ~

hand, the way he came; the little bare feet pattermg —

“over the sand, till he reached the place where he had |

-be@i, sitting ; and then down he sat again just as he was
- before, stretched out his legs towards the sea, and put the

_ purse down upon the sand between them. ee:

3 Now, purse,” said he, “ 1’ll hear your story. Come,
—tell.”

“TI don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I
have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life,
and I am tired of it.” euaen.

The purse looked very snappish.._- ee

“Why, you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open |
and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “ but one may be tired
of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“‘ My life is a failure.”

“‘T don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“Tt means that I never have been able to do what I
ii meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying
to do.”

“What's that?” said Carl.

“To keep money.”

“You shall keep my penny for me,” said Carl.

.“ Think of that! A penny! anything might hold a
penny. am of no use in the world.”


88 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“ Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“ to carry my penny.”
“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.
“No I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full!’
“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one
penny. You might as well have none.”

“No I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you must keep it;
and you must tell me your story, too.” .

‘Maybe you'll loseme,” saidthepurse. “I wish your
mother had.”

“No, I shan’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up
his two legs on each side of the purse, and slapped them
down in the sand again; “I shan’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“ Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That's the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a large
fancy shop in London,” the purse began.

‘Where were you before that?” said Carl.

_ ®t] was in one or two rooms where such things are
made, and where I was made.”

‘Where were you before that ?”

‘“] wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.

‘““ What are you made of?” said Carl, shortly.

“Tam made of sealskin, thesides, and my studs and
clasp are silver.”

‘‘ Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know ?” said the purse.

“T didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“1 don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that
large shop ?” | |

“Idid nothing. Ilay in a drawer, shut up with a
parcel of other purses.” |

“Were they all sealskin with silver clasps?”
THE PURSE. 8s

“Some of them; and some were morocco leather
with steel clasps.”

“Tm glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—
“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the
clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone
again. |

‘“T feel very dull now,” said the purse; “ but in those
days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome.
My sides were a beautiful bright red.” |

‘“‘T don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit
now.”

“That's because I have been rubbed about in the world
till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse,
and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl. ~

“If you don't shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“] won't,” said Carl. ‘And you must go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”

‘“¢ How did you get there?” |

‘“‘ He came to buy a purse, and so a number of us were
thrown out wpon the counter, and he looked at us and
tried us, and bought me and put me in his pocket.”

‘What did you do there?”

“There my business was to hold guineas and half
cuineas, and crowns and half crowns, and all sorts of
beautiful pieces of silver and gold.”

“ And pence?” said Carl.

‘Not such a thing. My master hadn’t any. He
threw all his pennies away as fast as he got ’em.”

“Threw ’em where?” said Carl.

“¢ Anywhere—to little boys, and beggars, and poor
people, and gate-openers, and such like.”

“Why didn’t he keep ’em?”

‘He had enough besides—gold and silver. He didn’t
want pennies and halfpennies.”

“T wish you had kept some of them,” said Carl.

“T never had them to keep. I couldn’t keep but what
40 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

he gave me, nor that either. He was always taking out
and putting in.”

‘Did he wear the red off?” said Carl.

“No; I didn't stay long enough with him. He was
travelling in some part of England, with a friend, riding
over a wide lonely plain one day; and they saw at a
little distance before them, a cow in the road, lying down,
across their path. ‘Stapleton,’ said my master, ‘let us
clear that cow.’ ‘Can’t your servant do that?’ said Mr.
Stapleton. ‘Do what?’ said my master. ‘Clear that
beast from the road,’ said his friend. ‘Pshaw!’ said
my master,—‘ | mean, let us clear her ata bound. Leave
her in quiet possession of the road, and let us take an
air-line over her back. ‘Suppose she took a stupid
notion to get out of our way just as we are in hers,’
said Mr. Stapleton. ‘I don’t suppose anything of the
sort, said my master; ‘we shall be too quick for her.’
With that they put spurs to their horses, but it happened
that Mr. Stapleton’s horse got the start and was a little
forward He cleared the cow well enough, but unluckily
it gave her an impression that just where she was, it was
a poor place to be; and she was throwing up her hind
legs at the very minute my master came to take the leap.
He was flung over and over, he and his horse, over and
under each other—I don’t know how. I only know my
master was killed.

“ His friend and his servant picked him up and laid
him by the road-side ; and while Mr. Stapleton went.full
speed to the nearest town to get help, the other stayed
behind to take care of his master and do what could be
done for him. But he very soon found that nothing
could be done for him; and then, as nobody was in
sight, he took the opportunity to do what he could for
himself, by rifling his master’s pockets. He pulled out
several things which I suppose he didn’t dare to keep,
for he put them back again after a careful look at them,
and after carefully taking off some seals from the watch.
chain. I did not fare so well. He had me in his handg
THE PURSE. Al

a long time, taking out and putting in silver and gold
pieces ; afraid to keep too much, and not willing to leave
a crown that might be kept safely ; when a sudden step
heard near, and the bursting out of a loud whistle,
startled him. He jumped as if he had been shot, which
was natural enough, as he was running a pretty good
chance of being hanged. I was dropped, or throwr
behind him in the grass; and before the countryman
who came up, had done asking questions, the horses of
Mr. Stapleton and assistants were seen over the rising
ground. They carried away my unfortunate master, and
left me in the grass. |
‘““T knew I shouldn’t stay there long, but I was picked
up sooner than I hoped. Before the evening had closed
in, while the sun was shining yet, I heard the tread of
light feet,—somebody coming near the road and then
crossing it. In crossing, this somebody came just upon
me; and a kind sunbeam touching one of my silver
points, | embraced the opportunity to shine as hard as I
could. People say it is dangerous to have bright parts ;
t am sure I never found it out. I shone so she could
not help seeing me. It was a girl about fifteen or six-
teen years old; a thin figure, very tidy in her dress, with
light brown hair nicely put back from her face, and that
face a very quiet sweet one She looked at me, inside
‘and out, looked up and down the road, as if to see where
I had come from, and finally put me in her pocket. I!
was very glad nobody was in sight anywhere, for I knew
by her face she would have given me up directly. She
left the road then, and went forward over the common,
which was a wide, lonely, barren plain, grass-grown,
with here and there a branch of bushes or a low stunted
tree. She was going after her cows, to bring them
home; and presently seeing them in the distance, she
stood still and began to call them.”
‘¢ How did she callthem ?” said Carl.
“+ Cuff, Cuff. Cuff !’—That was while they were a good
42 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

way off; when they came near,—‘ Sukey,’ and ‘ Bessie,”
and ‘Jenny.’” |

‘“‘ And did they come when she called ?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then
when they had looked a little while, to make sure it was
she, they set off slowly to come up to her.”

‘“‘ How many cows were there?” said Carl.

‘“Sukey was a great black cow, and always-marched
first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and alfays was
second. Three more came after in a line, and when
they got up to their little mistress she set off to go home,
and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

‘The common was smooth and wide, and much broken
with ups and downs, and little foot paths—or cow-paths
—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my
mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket,
through one and another of these; passing nothing in
the shape of a house, but a large gloomy-looking build-
ing at some distance, which I afterwards found was a
factory. quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with
one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little
field, and the out-buildings in another little field, close
beside it. Everything was small; house and barn, and
shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug
and neat, too. —

‘‘ My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and
good, and such people we always call little a

‘But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl. |

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up,
but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She
was just right.. She opened a gate of the barn-yard,
and held it, while all the five cows marched slowly in,
Jooking around them as if they expected to see some
change made in the arrangements since they had gone
out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood
_ Just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly
in the middle of the barn-yard, and began to chew the



oe
f
THE PURSE. Ag

cud, and Dolly, and Bessie, and Beauty, took their stand
in different places after her example; while Whiteface
went off to see if she could find something in the
mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

‘“Was Beauty a handsome cow ?” said Carl |

‘““No; she was the ugliest of the whole set; one of
her horns was broken, and the other lopped down
directly over her left eye.”

‘‘ What was she called Beauty for, then ?”

“Why, I heard that she was a very pretty calf, and
was named Beauty in her youth; but when she grew
older, she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns;
and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong
place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how
calves or children will turn out.

When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five
cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the
field where the house stood; and there she went in,
through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on
each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That
stood open to let her in.

It was the nicest place you ever saw. floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the
middle of it: a dark wooden table and wooden chairs,
neat and in their places, only one chair stood onthe hearth
as if somebody had just left it. There was a large, wide,
comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over
the fire hung a large iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of
the flames, and singing already. On éach side of the
ehimney, brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole
space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean.
The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went
to the inner door and called, ‘ Mother !’

A. pleasant voice from somewhere said.—* Here!”

‘“‘In.the milk room?” «

Yes.” |

And my little mistress went along a short passage,—
44 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

brown it was, walls and floor, and all, even the beams
overhead, to the milk room; and that was brown too,~
as sweet as a rose. —

‘‘ Mother,—Why did you put on the tea-kettle?”

‘“‘ Because I wanted to have some tea, deav.”

“ But I would have done it.”

“Yes, honey, I know. You've quite enough to do.”

‘¢ Look here, what I’ve found, mother.” :

“Can't look at anything, daughter. Go along and
milk, and I will hear you at tea-time.”

Then my little mistress took up the pails and went out
by another way, through another gate that opened
directly into the cow’s yard; and there she stripped the
yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the
five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but
loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every
cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the
cud, except when now and then one of them would
throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side,
and then my mistress’s soft voice would say—

“So, Beauty!” |

And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I
have heard that other people did not find her so.

Mrs. Meadow took the milk pails at the dairy door,
and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea.
She put up a leaf of the brown table, and set a tray on
it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea:
cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the
family.. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-
handled knives, and the rest of the things ; and when the
tea was made, she dressed up the fire, and stood looking
at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed
herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron.
She was the nicest looking woman you ever saw.

‘She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Cav.

“Mrs. Krinken was never half so nice. She was the
best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you
could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”
THE PURSE 45

“ Mine are bright,” said Carl.

‘“‘ Yours are bright for Christmas, Lut hers were bright
for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her
spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and
the milk pans, and the glass in the window, and her own
kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cosy
tea; and I was laid upon the table, and my story told,
or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided
that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom
ber mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called any-
thing but ‘ Silky.’” .

“‘ What for?” said Carl. .

“Maybe youll find out, if you don’t ask so many
questions,” said the purse, snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,”
Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me, and rubbing the
silver mountings. “It’s odd such a handsome purse
should have no money in it.”

“Tm not going to put it away out of sight, mother,”
said Silky; “Im going to have the good of it. Ill
Keep it to hold my milk-money.”

“Well, dear, here goes the first,” said Mrs. Meadow;
—‘“‘here's a silver penny I took for milk while you were
after the cows.” |

‘‘ Who came for it, mother ?”

‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me
this.”

So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness,
and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other
cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the
door a crack open; and I could see them at work, wash-
ing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon

the hearth, both of tnem by a little round table. By
end by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and
then she and Silky knelt down, close together, to pray.
They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cup-
doard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think
what a new place I had come to, and how [I liked it.

It was a very great change. In my old master’s
A6 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance,—
the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear;
now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me
a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass ; Mrs.
Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate ink-
‘stand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other
things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from
thence I watched my two mistresses at their work and
their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and
morning, kneel together to pray; and there I learned a
great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can
tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the
respect they have for it.”

‘‘ My mother has one,” said Carl.

‘‘ Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve
been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten
_ years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on
Sundays.” |

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“ Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken
means to be a good woman, but these other people were
good ; there’s all the difference.

My business was to lie there on the shelf, and keep
the milk pennies, and see all that was going on. sulky
sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly
poor people from the neighbouring village, or their
children. going home from the factory ; people that lived
in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or
fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s
worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little ag they could
do with. There were a good many of these families,
and among them they took a pretty good share of the
milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter
--honest sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face
and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came
out of her dairy. |

The children always stopped for milk at night, when
they were going home; the grown people, for the most
THE PUSH. a& 4

part, came in the morning. After I had been on the
cupboard shelf awhile, however, and got to know the
faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morn-
ing and evening, too. In the morning he fetched a
half-pennyworth, and in the evening a pennyworth of
milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same
brown jug, and always in the morning he wanted
a ha’pennyworth, and in the evening a pennyworth.
He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and
his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one
of the poorest looking that came. There was never —
a hat on his head; his trousers were fringed with tags;

his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was

always fastened close up, either to keep him warm, or to

hide how very little there was under it. Poor little

Norman Finch! That was his name.

He had come a good many mornings. One day early,
just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast,
his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his
little brown jug, and ‘“ Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.”

“Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman ?”
said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“1 don’t want only a hapenn’orth,” said Norman.

“But youll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’s

ou?”
ae: Tll stop for it,” said Norman, casting his eyes down.
into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual

‘“Why don’t you take it all at once, then ?”

“T don’t want it.” a

“ Have you got to go back home with this before you
go to work?”

‘““No—I must go,” said Norman, taking hold of the
door.

“‘ Are you going to the factory ?”

“Yes, I be.”

“Flow will your mother get her milk?”

“ She'll get it when I go home.”

“ But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?”
48 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“JT want it—she don’t want it,” said the boy, looking
troubled,—‘ I must go.”

“Do you want it to drink at the factory ?” Ly

“No. It’s to drink at'the factory. She don’t want it,
said Norman. |

He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the
table she said,

‘¢Mother, I don’t understand,—I’m afraid- there 1s
something wrong about this morning milk.”

‘“ There is nothing wrong about it, Honey,” said Mrs.
Meadow, who had been out of the room. “It’s as sweet
as a cloverhead. What's the matter?”

“Oh not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming
after itin the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for;
and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and
his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it
wasn’t and it was to drink at the factory; and that his
mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.”

“ Don’t think anything, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow, “till
we know something more. We'll get the child to tell us.
Poor little creature! Iwish I could keep him out of
that place.”

‘What place, mother?”

‘“‘T meant the factory.”

“1 don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in
his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is
a bad man.”

“‘ It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,” said Mrs.
Meadow, “for it’s very little he sees of it. It’s too much
for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.”

“‘ But they are kind at the pin factory, mother. People
say they are.”

“Mr. Carroll is a kind man,” said her mother. “ But
nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!”

“He looks thinner and paler now than he did six
months ago.”

“ Yes, and then it was winter and now it is summer,”
said Mrs. Meadow, |
THE PURSE. 49

‘J wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk,”
said Silky. Se

The next morning Norman was there again. He put
himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said
somewhat doubttully,

‘‘ Please, ma’am,—a ha’perm’orth.”

“Come in, Norman,” said Silky.

He hesitated.

‘“‘ Come !—come in,—come in to the fire; it’s chilly ou:
of doors. You're in good time, aren’t you?”

‘‘ Yes—but I can’t stay,” said the boy, coming in, how-
ever, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came
close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze
as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in
the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and
damp abroad.

“Til get you the milk,” said Silky, taking the jug;
“you stand and warm yourself. You've plenty of time.”

She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece
of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman.
He looked at it, and then caught it, and began to eat
immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the

ug.
g What’s this milk for, Norman?” she said plea-
santly.

He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

‘What are you going to do with it?”

§* Carry it—home,” he said slowly.

“Now ?—home now? Are you going back home with
it now ?”

‘‘T am going to take it to the factory.”

“What do you do with it there ?”

“ Nothing,” said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon
and seeming almost ready to cry ;—‘“‘I don’t do nothing
with it.”

“You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,” Silky said
gently. “I’m not going todo youany harm. Does your
mother know you getit?”

B
50 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

He waited a good while, and then when she repeated
the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet
face, he said half under his breath, :

‘“ No——”

_ “What do you want it for then, dear? Id rather give
it to you than have you take it in a wrong way. Do you
want it to drink ?”

Norman dropped his piece of bacon. a

“No,” he said, beginning to cry,—‘ I don’t want 1t—
I don’t want it at all!”

Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in
her turn.

“Dont cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me. Who
does want it?”

“Oh, don’t tell!” sobbed the child; “my little
dog.” |

“Now don’t cry!” said Silky.— Your little dog?”

“ Yes!—my little dog.” And he sighed deeply between
the words.

“Where is your little dog ? ”

‘“‘ He’s up yonder—up to the factory.”

“Who gave him to you?”

“‘ Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.”

“ And this milk is for him?” |

“ He wants it to drink.”

“Does your mother know you get it?”

Norman didn’t answer.

“She don’t?” said Silky. “Then where does the
money come from, Norman?” She spoke very gently.

“Tt’s mine,” said Norman.

“Yes, but where do you get it?”

“Mr. Swift gives it to me.”

“Ts it out of your wages?”

Norman hesitated, and then said yes, and began to
ery again.

“What's the matter?” said Silky. “Sit down
and eat your bacon. I’m not 'yoing to get you into
trouble.”
THE PURSE . 51

He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said
ne wanted to go. |

‘What for ?—it isn’t time yet.”

‘“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.”

‘And feed him? Stop and tell meabout him. What
solour is he?”

‘‘ He’s white all over.”

“ What's his name?”

“ Little Curly Long-Ears.”

“What do you call him ?—all that?”

“ [ call him Long-Ears.”

“ But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?”

“ He lives up there.”

- ce don’t he go home with you?

66 0.”

“Why not?”

‘‘ Father wouldn’t let him. He'd take him away, or
do something to him.”

Norman looked dismal.

“ But where does he live?”

*‘ He lives up at the factory.”

‘“ But you can’t have him in the factory ?”

‘Yes I have him,” said Norman, “ because Mr Carroll
said he was to come in because he was so handsome.”

“But he'll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and
then you will be very sorry.”

“No, he won't get killed; he takes care; he knows he
mustn't go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just
comes and lies down where I be.” |

‘And does Mr. Swiit let him ?”

‘¢ He does let him, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.”

‘But your money—where does it come from, Nor-
man?”

“Mr. Swift,” said Norman very dismally.

“Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry
home your wages to her?”

eNO. |

“She must, my child.”

99
52. THF CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“She doesn’t, "cause I carry her just the same I did
before.” »

‘‘ How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a day?

“Cause I get more now—lI used to have four pence
ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.”

And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if
his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his
dog too. a

‘Give me the milk and let me go!” he exclaimed
through his tears. “ Poor Curly !—poor Curly !”

“ Here it is,” said Silky very kindly. “Don’t cry—I’m
not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won't he eat
anything but milk? Won’t he eat meat?”

‘“* No—he can’t.”

“Why can’t he?”

“* He don’t like it.” )

“Well; you run off to the factory now, and give Curly
his milk, and stop again to-morrow.”

“ And won't you tell?” said Norman, looking up.

‘‘T shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble
Run, now!”’ |

He dried his tears and ran, fast enough; holding the
little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his
bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short
legs could make them.

Silky stood looking gravely after him.

““[’m so sorry for him, mother!” she said. “This
won't do; it’s very wrong, and he'll get himself into
dreadful trouble besides.”

“Poor fellow! We'll see, honey ;—we'll try what we
can do,” said Mrs. Meadow.

The next morning, Norman came again, and Mrs.
Meadow was there.

‘‘ How is Long-Ears, Norman, and how are you ?” she
said cheerfully ; but she did everythin g cheerfully.

“ He’s well,” said Norman, looking a little doubtfully
at these civilities.

“And you are not well?” said Mrs. Meadow kindly.
THE PURSE, 68

“ Suppose you come and see me to-morrow ?—it’s Sunday,
you know, and you have no work—will you? Come

right and early, and we'll have anice breakfast, and you
shall go to church with me if you like.”

Norman shook his head. ‘Curly ’ll want to see me,”
he said.

“Well, about that just as you like. Come here to
breakfast—that you can do. Mother ’Il let you.”

“‘ Yes, she ’ll let me,” said Norman, ‘“‘ and I can go to
see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?” he added,
with a glance of some fear.

“Tell what?” ,

“ About him,” said Norman, nodding his head in the
direction of the factory.

‘“ Long-Ears ?—Not I! not a word.”

So he set off, with a glance of pleasure lighting up his
little face and making his feet patter more quickly over
the ground.

‘“‘ Poor little creature !” Mrs. Meadows said again most
heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly,
straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs.
Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

‘“‘ How it does pour down!” said Mrs. Meadow.

‘“‘T’m so sorry, mother,” said Silky; “‘ he won’t come.”

She had hardly turned her back to see to something at
the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the
middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his
every-day rags, and those wet through and dripping.
How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter
looked. They brought him to the fire and wiped his
feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as
they could; but they didn’t know what to do; for the
fire would not have dried him in all the day; and to sit
down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side,
Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the
trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house.

But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked
ha THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

two or three towels about him; and then over them
wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way,
fastening it over the shoulders in such a manner that it
fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his
arms quite free Then when his jacket and trousers had
been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

In his old shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman
enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup-of weak

cotiee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which.

Mrs. Meadow boiled for him But he did not eat like a
child whose appetite knew what to do with good things;
he was soon done; though after it his face looked
brighter and cheerier than it had done before in that
house. |

Mrs. Meadow left Silky to take care of the breakfast
things, and drawing her chair up on the hearth, she took
the little boy on her lap and wound her arms about him.

“Little Norman,” said she kindly, “you won’t seo
Long Ears to-day.”

“No,” said Norman, with a sigh, in spite of breakfast
and fire; “he will have to go without me.” —

‘‘Isn’t it good that there is one day in the week when
the poor little tired pin-boy can rest?”

““Yes—it is good,” said Norman quietly, but as if he
was too accustomed to being tired to take the good of it.

“This is God's day. Do you know who God is,
Norman ?”

“‘ He made me,” said Norman,—* and everybody.”

“Yes, and everything. He is the ereat King over al]
the earth; and he is good; and he has given us this day
to rest and to learn to be good and please him. Can
you read the Bible, Norman ?”

“No, I can’t read,” said Norman. “Mother can.”

“You know the Bible is God’s book, written to tell us
how to be good, and whatever the Bible says we must
mind, or God will be angry with us. Now the Bible
BAYS, ‘ shou shalt not steal. Do you know what that
Means?”
THE PURSE, | §%

Mrs. Meadow spoke very softly.

“Yes,” said Norman, swinging one little foot back and
forward in the warm shine of the fire,—* I’ve heard it.”

“What does it mean?”

“T know,” said Norman.

“It is to take what does not belong to us. Now,
since God has said that, is it quite right for you to take
that money of your mother’s to buy milk for Long
Ears ?”

“It isn’t her money!” said Norman, his face changing
“and Long-Hars can’t starve !”

“It is her money, Norman ;—all the money you earn
belongs to her or to your father, which is the same thing.
You know it does.” |

“But Curly must have something to eat,” said
Norman, bursting into tears. “Oh, don’t tell! oh, don’t
tell |——”

‘‘Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow’s kind voice, and hex
kind hand on his head; “I’m not going to tell; but I
want you to be a good boy and do what will please God,
that you may be one of the lambs of the Good Shepherd’s
flock. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

‘““Yes—no,—I don’t know about the lambs,” said
Norman.

‘Do you know who Jesus Christ is?”

“No.”

“ Poor little thing!” said Silky, and the tears fell from
her face, as she went from the fire to the table. Normar.
Inoked at her, and so did her mother, and then they
Jooked at each other.

“ Jesus Christ is your best friend, little Norman.”

“Ts he?” said Norman, looking.

‘Do you know what he has done for you, little pin-
boy ?”

Norman looked, and no wonder; for Mrs. Meadow’s
eyes were running over full, and he did not know what
to make of the dropping tears; but he shook his head.

‘ It’s all told about in God’s book, dear. Little
56 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

Norman Finch, like everybody else, hasn’t loved God,
nor minded his commandments as he ought to do; and
God would have punished us all, if Jesus Christ hadn't
come down from Heaven on purpose to take our punish
ment on himself, so that we might be saved.”

“‘ How would he have punished us ?” said Norman.

‘“‘ He would have sent us away from him for ever, to
be in a miserable place with devils and bad people, where
we should see nothing good nor happy, and we shouldn't
be good nor happy ourselves ; it’s a place so dreadful, it
is called in the Bible the lake that burns with fire; and
he would never let us come into his heaven, where God
is, and Jesus Christ is, and the good angels, and all God’s
people are, who are all as good and happy as they can
be.” :

‘“‘ And would I have been punished so ?” said Norman

“Yes,—the Bible says so; and every one will now,
who won’t believe and love Jesus Christ.” |

“‘ And did he go there?”

“ Where?”

“To that place—that bad place—did he go there?”

“ What, the Lord Jesus?”

Norman. nodded.

“‘ Not there,—he is God; and he is called the Son of
God; he could not do that; but he did this. He came
to this world and was born into the world a little child :
and when he grew up to be a man, he died a cruel death
for you and me—for you and me, little Norman.”

“And then will God not punish me now?” gaid
Norman.

‘No, not a bit, if you will love the Lord Jesus, and be
his child.” :

‘* What did he do that for?” said Norman

‘Because he is so good he loved us, and wanted to
Nave us and bring us back to be his children, and to be
good and happy.”

‘Does he love me?” said Norman.

“ Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Meadow; “do you think he
THE PURSE. O4

came to die for you and doesn’t love you? If you will
love and obey him, he will love you for ever, and take
care of you; better care than any one else can.”

“There isn’t any one else to take care of me,” said
Norman. ‘“ Mother can’t, and father don’t much I wish
I knew about that.”

With a look of wonder and interest at her daughter
Mrs. Meadow reached her Bible, without letting Norman
down from her lap; and turning from place to place,
read to him the story of Christ’s death, and various parts
of his life and teaching. He listened gravely, and con-
stantly, and intently, and seemed not to weary of it at
all, till she was tired and obliged to stop, He made no
remark then, but sat a little while with a sober face, till
his own fatigue of days past came over him, and his eye-
lids drooped, and slipping from Mrs. Meadow’s lap, he
Jaid himself down on the hearth to sleep. They put
something under his head, and sat watching him, the
eyes of both every now and then running over.

‘How much do you think he understood, mother?”
said Silky.

‘“T don’t know,” said Mrs. Meadow, shaking her head.

“ He listened, mother,” said Silky.

“Yes. 1 won’t say anything more to him to-day.
He’s had enough.” |

And when the little sleeper awoke they lent all their
attention to give him a pleasant day. He had a good
dinner and a nice supper. His clothes were thoroughly
dried; and Mrs. Meadow said, when she put them on,

that if she could only get an opportunity on a week day
she would patch them up comfortably for him. Towards
nightfall the rain stopped, and he went home dry and
warm, and with a good piece of cheese, and a loaf of!
plain gingerbread under his arm. When he was al!
yeady to set out, he paused at the door, and looking ur
at. Mrs. Meadow, said,

“Does he say we mustn’t do that ?”

‘Who, dear ?”
68 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“ Does Jesus Christ say we mustn't do that?”

“ Do what?”

“Steal,” said Norman, softly.

“Yes, to be sure. The Bible says it, and the Bible is
God’s word; and Jesus said it over again, when he was
on the earth.”

Norman stood a quarter of a minute, and then went
out and closed the door. -

The next morning they looked eagerly for him. But
he did not come. He stopped at evening as usual, but
Silky was just then busy, and did not speak to him
beyond a word. Tuesday morning he did not come.
At night he was there again with his jug. |

‘‘ How do you do, Norman?” said Mrs. Meadow, when
she filled it, “and how is Long-Ears?”

But Norman did not answer, and turned to go.

‘““Come here in the morning, Norman,’ Mrs. Meadow
called after him.

Whether he heard her or not, he did not show himself
on his way tothe factory next morning. That was
Wednesday. |

‘Norman hasn’t been here these three days, mother,”
said Silky. “Can it be that he has made up his mind
to do without his halfpennyworth of milk for the dog?”

“ Little fellow!” said Mrs. Meadow :—“I meant to
have given it to him; skim milk would do, I dare Say $
but I forgot to tell him on Sunday; and I told him last
night to stop, but he hasn’t done it. We'll go up there,
Silky, and see how he is, after dinner.” |

‘To the factory, mother ?”

66 A oe

: ind PU carry a little pail of milk, mother.”

“ Well, honey, do.”

After dinner they went, and I went in Silky’s pocket.
The factory was not a great distance from Mrs. Meadow’s
house, which stood about half-way between that and the ;
town. Mrs. Meadow asked for Mr. Swift, and presently
he came. Mrs. Meadow was a general favourite, L had
FHE PURSE. 59

found before ; everybody spoke to her civilly ; certainly
she did the same to everybody.

‘Ts little Norman at work to-day, Mr. Swift?”

‘Norman Finch ?—well, yes, ma'am, he’s to work,”
said the overseer ;—“ he don’t do much work, this day or
so.”

** He’s not just right well, Mr. Swift?”

“Well, no, I s’pose he isn’t. He hasn’t hard work
neither; but he’s a poor little billet of a boy.”

“Ts he a good boy, sir?”

“ Average,” said Mr. Swift,—“ as good as the average.
What, you're going to adopt him?”

‘““ No, sir,’ said Mrs. Meadow ;—“I wanted to ask
a few questions about him.” |

“T don’t know any harm of him,” said Mr. Swift
‘He’s about like the common. Not particularly strong
in the head, nor anywhere else, for that matter; but he
is a good-feeling child. Yes—now I remember. It’s as
much as a year ago, that I was angry with him one day,
and was going to give the careless little rascal a strapping
for something,—I forget what; we must keep them in
order, Mrs. Meadow, let them be what they will ;—I was
_ going to give it to him, for something, and a bold brave
fellow in the same room, about six times as big, and six
times as strong as Norman, offered to take it, and spare
him. J didn’t care; it answered my purpose of keeping
order just as well that Bill Bollings should have it,
as Norman Finch, if he had a mind;—and ever since
that time Finch has been ready to lay down his body and
soul for Bollings if it would do him any service. He's a
good-hearted boy, I do suppose.”

Mrs. Meadows and Silky looked at each other.

‘That's it, mother!” said Silky. ‘“'That’s why he
understood and took it so quick.”

‘“What a grand boy, the other one!” said Mrs.
Meadow. :

“ Ah, well—that was noble enough,” said Mr. Swift,
— “but he’s a kind of harum-scarum fellow—just as
60 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

likely to get himself into a scrape to-morrow as to get
somebody else out of one to-day.”

“That was noble,” repeated Mrs. Meadow. |

“Norman has never forgotten it. As I said, he'd lay
down body and soul for him. There’s a little pet dog he
has too,’ Mr. Swift went on, “ that I believe he’d do as
much for. A pretty creature! I would have bought it
of him, and given a good price for it, but he seemed
frightened at the proposal. I believe he keeps the crea-
ture here partly for fear he would lose him if he took him
home.”

‘Isn't it against the rules, sir, to have a dog in the
factory ?”

‘‘ Kintirely !—of course!” said Mr. Swift; “but Mr.
Carroll has said it, and so a new rule is made for the
occasion. Mr. Carroll was willing to let such a pretty
creature be anywhere, I believe.”

‘““T should be afraid he would get hurt.”

‘So I was, but the dog has sense enough; he gets into
no danger, and keeps out of the way like a Christian.”

‘“‘ May we go in, sir, and see Norman for a moment?”

“ Certainly,” Mr. Swift said; and himself led the way.

Through long rooms and rows of workers went Mr.
Swift, and Mrs. Meadow and Silky after him, to the one
where they found little Norman. He was standing be-
fore some sort of a machine, folding papers and pressing
them against rows of pins, that were held all in order
and with their points ready, by two pieces of iron in the
machine. Norman was not working briskly, and he
looked already jaded, though it was early in the after-
noon. Close at his feet, almost touching him, lay the
little white dog—a very little, and a most beautiful
creature. Soft white curling hair, and large silky ears
that drooped to the floor, as he lay with his head upon
his paws; and the two gentle brown eyes looked almost
pitifully up at the strangers. He did not get up; nor .
did Norman look round till Mrs. Meadow spoke to him. _

‘Hey, my boy, how are you getting on?” Mr. Swift
THE PURSE, 61

said first, with a somewhat rough but not unkind’ slap
across the shoulders. Norman shrugged his shoulders,
and said, “‘ Pretty well, thank you, sir,”—when he heard
Mrs. Meadow’s soft, “ Norman, how do you do?”

His fingers fell from the row of pin points, and he
turned towards her, looking a good deal surprised and a
little pleased, but with a very sober face.

“Where have you been these two or three days?”

‘““Pve been here,” said Norman gravely.

‘“ How comes it you haven’t been for Long-Ears’ milk
these days?”

‘“‘1—] couldn’t,” said Norman.

“Why?” | |

“T hadn’t any money—lI gave it to mother.” _

He spoke low and with some difficulty.

‘What made you do that, Norman?”

He looked up at her.

‘“‘ Because—you know,—dJesus said so.”

Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to
him, but now she stood up straight and for a minute she
said nothing.

‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his
milk?”

Norman was silent and his mouth twitched. Mrs.
Meadow looked at the little dog, which lay still where
he had been when she came in, his gentle eyes having,
she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their note-
taking.

“ Won't he eat meat?” |

Norman shook his head and said “No,” under his
breath.

“ He’s a dainty little rascal,” said the overseer; “he
was made to live on sweetmeats and sugar plums.”—
And Mr. Swift walked on.

‘“Pve brought him some milk,” whispered Silky; and
softly stooping down she uncovered her little tin pail

ard tried to coax the dog to come to it. But Norman
no sconer caught the words of her whisper and saw the
@
§2 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

ail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit
7 crying, and Sear himself down on the floor and hid
his face. , |

Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter.
Mrs. Meadow explained part to him, without telling of
Norman’s keeping the money.

“Oh well,” said Mr. Swift,—but he mustn’t make
such a disturbance about it!—it’s against all order; and
feeding the dog too, Lois!—but it’s a pretty creature.
He’s hungry, he is !—Well, it’s well we don’t have ladies
come to the factory every day.”

Silky’s other name was Lois.

‘“] will never do so again, Mr. Swift,” said ske gently.

“Oh I don’t say that,” said he. “I don’t dislike the
ergnt of you, Miss Lois; but I must have you searched
at the door. Keep this boy quiet, now, Mrs. Meadow;
and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.” |

Ihe boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had
been speaking he had raised himself from the floor, half
up, and had stopped sobbing, and was looking at Long.

Ears and gently touching his curly head; who on his part
_ was lapping the milk with such eagerness as if he had
wanted it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but
they fell quietly. By the time the littie dog had finished
the milk they did not fall at all. Till then nobody said
anything.

‘““Come for it every morning again, my child,” said
Mrs. Meadow softly ;—* I'll give it to you.. Whata dear
little fellow he is!’ I don’t wonder you love him. He
shall have milk enough.”

x orman looked up gratefully and with a little bit of a
smile.

“You don’t look very strong, my boy,” said Mrs.
Meadow. “You don’t feel right well, do you?”

He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his
understanding.

“ Are you tired?”
THE PURSE. 63

His eyes gave token of understanding that. “ Yes,

I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they ?”
_ © Where, dear?”

“ Up there—in heaven?”

‘‘ No, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘ Tll go there, won’t 1?”

“Tf you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good
care of you and bring you safe there, surely.”

‘ He will,” said Norman.

“But you're not going yet, I hope, dear,” said Mrs.
Meadow kissing him. “Good-by. Come to-morrow, and
you shall have the milk.” |

“Will you read to me that again, some time?” he
inquired wistfully. |

Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky
walked back without saying three words to each other ;
and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so much as she did
that afternoon and evening.

Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s
milk; and many a Sunday he and Long-lars passed
part of the time with Mrs. Meadow ; and many a reading
he listened to there, as he had listened to the first one.

He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little
dog, and he seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those
times.

As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn
gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow
better looking, all the while it was growing more pale
and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented,
very quiet and patient face, and his eye acquired a clear-
ness and openness it did not use to have; though he
never was a bad looking child. ‘‘ He won't live long,”
Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday. |

The little white dog all this while grew more white
and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought
£0. |
It was not till some time in January that at last Nor-
man stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the
64 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

factory any more. It was severe weather, when Mrs.
Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days
were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him.
Then, one cold evening, his mother came for the milk,
and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to
see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-look-
ing woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded spirit-
less air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in
life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought
Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his
father must be much worse in another way, or his mother
would not have such a look.

Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put
her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she
was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with
cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set
out. It was past sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough,
but uncommonly cold.

“It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,”
said Silky.

“Yes, honey, but we can find the way, came from
under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of
them spoke a word.

It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of
the town, and entered a poor straggling street that ran
where no good and comfortable buiidings showed them-
selves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some
of the houses were decently well built, but several fami-
lies lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an
unknown circumstance. At least after Mrs. Meadow’s
nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and
dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light
erew dimmer, and the air grew cooler, as Mrs. Meadow
and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trem-
bling all over by the time they stopped at one of these
brick dwelling-houses and went in.

Ihe -front door stood open; nobody minded that; it
was nobody’s business to shut it. hey went in, through |
THE PURSE. 65

a dirty passage and up stairs that nobody ever thought of
cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first
knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was
there, sitting over the fire ; a wretched tallow light on the
table hardly showed what he looked like. Mrs. Meadow
spoke with her usual pleasantness.

“Good evening, Mr. Finch ;—can I see little Norman?”

‘““Yes,—I suppose so,” the man said in a gruff voice,
and pointing to another door; ‘ they’re in yonder.”

‘“‘ How is he?”

“T don’t know!—Going, I expect.” He spoke in a
tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull.
Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him
there and went on to the inner room. |

That was so dark hardly anything could be seen. A
woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs.
Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice
could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with
it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came
back with it in her hand.

The room was ill hghted when the candle was in it;
but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some
sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner.
No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with
all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great coat, a
small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor
Little jacket and trousers. But on these, close within
reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his
glossy hair and soft outlnes making a strange contrast
with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.

Norman did not look much changed, except that his
face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more
blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near,
and neither of them at first was able to speak. Mrs.
Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow
stooped down by the bed’s head.

“Little Norman,” she said, and you could tell her

heart was full of tears,—‘ do you know me?”
F
66 WHE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“T know you,” he said, in a weak voice, and with a
little smile.

“How do you do?”

“Very well,” he said in the same manner.

“ Are you very well?” said Mrs. Meadow.

“Yes,” he said. “Um going now.”

‘Where, dear?”

“You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me,
won't he?”

‘Tf you love and trust him, dear.”

‘‘ He will take me,” said Norman.

“What makes you think youre going, dear?” said
Mrs. Meadow.

“T can’t stay,” said Norman shutting his eyes. He
opened them again immediately. ‘ Vm going,” he said.
“I’m so tired. I shan’t be tired there, shall 1?” —

‘‘ No, dear,” said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech
was likely to fail her. She kept wiping hav face with her
pocket-handkerchief. Norman stroked and stroked his
little dog’s head.

‘Poor Long-Hars,” said he faintly —“ poor Long-Ears!
—I can’t take care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you're
hungry. He hasn’t had anything to eat since—since—
~ mother ?”

“He don’t know how time goes,” said Mrs. Finch,
who had not before spoken. “The dog hasn’t had asup
of anything since day before yesterday. He has a right
to be hungry. I don’t know what he liveson. My hus-
band don’t care whether anything lives or not.”

Silky had not’said a word, and she didn’t now, but she
brought out that same little tin pail from under her cloak
and set it down on the floor. Norman’s eye brightened.
But the dog could not be coaxed to quit the bed; he
would set only his two fore feet on the floor, and so drank
the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost
with a smile. And when the dog, having left the milk,
curled himself down again in his old place, and looked
into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled,


THE PURSE. 67

“Poor Long-Ears!” he said, patting him again with

: ere hand; “I’m going to leave you,—what will you
0?” .

“Tl take care of him, Norman,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“Will you?” said Norman. |

‘‘As long as he lives, if you wish.” .

Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and
said earnestly.

“I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?”

“Yes, indeed I will,” said Mrs. Meadow.

‘Then you'll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,”
said Norman. ‘ But,” he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow,
“you must take him home with you to-night—I’m afraid
father will do something with him if you don’t.”

‘But you will want him,” said Mrs. Meadow.

“No, I won't. Father will do something with
him.”

‘Indeed he will, sure enough,” said Mrs. Finch.

“Then Dll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was
yourself,” said Mrs. Meadow. a

“IT won't want him,” said Norman, shutting his eyes
again ;—“T'm going.”

‘““And you're not sorry, dear?” said Mrs. Meadow.

“No!” he said.

‘““T wonder why he should,” said Mrs. Finch, wiping
her eyes.

‘And you know Jesus will take you?”

‘Because I love him,” said Norman without opening:

his eyes.

‘“What-makes you love him so, dear?” |

‘Because he did that for me,” said Norman, opening

his eyes once more to look at her, and then reshutting
them. And he never opened them again. It seemed that
having his mind easy about his pet, and having seen his
friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just
slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as
he had slept. His little pale meek face looked as if, as
he said, he was glad to go
68 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use
could have moved Long-Ears from the body of his
master, till it was laid in the grave. Then, with some
difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him and
brought him home.

“Ts that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.

“ATL.” .

“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?” |

“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of
Long-Ears and were kind to everybody and sold milk,
just as they used.”

“ And what about Long-Mars?”

“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Mea-
dow and Silky, and was as well off as a little dog could
be.” |

“ And is that all?”

“That is all.”

“ And how did you get here?”

“T’ve told enough for once.”

“Till hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he
grasped the purse and ran off towards home; for it was
getting to be high noon, and his mother had called to
him that dinner was ready.

‘“‘ Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my
purse, and of my penny, and of my three apples; and
they re splendid!”

“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “ Are the stories
not done yet?” |

“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear
next. There’s the boat, and the pine cone, and the
shoes, and the book, and the old stocking—all of them;
and I don’t know which to hear first. Which would you,
mother ?”

“What's all that?” said John Krinken.

“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs.
Krinken; “and he’s told over one or two to me, and it’s

ee

“
THe, PURSE. . 3

ne good asa book. I can’t think where the child got
hold of them.”
‘Why they told ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken ; “‘ something told it to thee,
ehild.”

‘‘ Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father. |
‘““My penny, and my purse, and my three apples,—

or only one of the apples,” said Carl ;—“ that was Beach-
amwell.”

‘* Beach ’em what ?” said his father.

‘‘ Beachamwell—thatis the biggest of my three
apples,” said Carl. |

At which, John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other
and laughed till their eyes ran down with tears.

‘“ Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John when he
could speak.

‘“T’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.

“Yes, and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or
vish to hear,” said Mrs. Krinken soothingly.

‘‘ Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.

“J haven’t heard it yet,” said Cail.

“Qh, you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his
father.

“YT haven't heard any of em but three,” said Carl,
‘and I don't know which to hear next.”

“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it
knew how,” said his father; “it could spin youa yaru
as long as its own.”

‘I'd -rather hear the old pine cone, John,” said his
wife. ‘Ask the pine cone, Carl. I wish it could tell,
and I hear.”

“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the
other. 7

But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of
the story-teller, to help him out with his question about
the stories.

“Then I’m going to keep the stocking for the very last
one.” said Carl
70 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Why?” said his mother.

‘“’Cause it’s ugly. And I intend to make the shoes
tell me their story next, because I might want to put
them on, you know.”

And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured
toes which looked out at him through the cracks of his
old half boots.

Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to
their business; and Carl, indignantly seizing his shoes,
ran off with them out of hearing to the sunny side of
the house; where he plumped himself down on the
ground with them in front of him, and commanded them
to speak.

The Story of the Two Shoes.

“YT BELIEVE,’ said the right shoe, “that I am the first
individual of my race whose history has ever been
thovght worth asking for. I hope to improve my oppor-
tunity. I consider it to be a duty, in all classes, for
each member of the class——”

“You may skip about that,” said Carl. “I don’t care
about it.” |
“JT am afraid,” said the right shoe, “I am uninterest-
ing. My excuse is, that 1 never was fitted to be any-
thing else. Not to press upon people’s notice is the very
lesson we are especially learned ; we were never intended
to occupy a high position in society, and it is reckoned
an unbearable fault in us to make much noise in the
world.” |

“Tsay,” said Carl, “ you may skip that.”

‘I beg pardon,” said the shoe, “TI was coming to the
THE TWO SHOES, “Tos, of 71

oint. ‘Step by step’ is our family motto. However, I
cnow young people like to get over the ground at a leap.
L will do it at once.

My brother and I are twins, and as much alike as it.
is possible perhaps for twins to be. Mr. Peg, the cobbler,
thought we were exactly alike; and our upper leathers
did indeed run about on the same calf (as perchance
they may another time), but our soles were once further
apart than they are ever like to be for the future; one
having roamed the green fields of Ohio on the back of a
sturdy ox, while the other was raised in Vermont. How-
ever, we are mates now, and having been as they say
“cut out for each other,” I have no doubt we shall jog
on together perfectly well.

We are rather an old pair of shoes. In fact, we have
been on hand almost a year. I should judge from the
remarks of our friend Mr. Peg, when he was beginning
upon us, that he was quite unaccustomed to the trade
of shoe-making—shoemending was what he had before
lived by; or, perhaps, I should rather say, tried to
live by: I am afraid it was hard work; and I suppose
Mr. Peg acted upon the excellent saying, which is also
a motto in our family, that “It is good to have two
or three strings to one’s bow.” It was in a little light
front room, looking upor the street, which was Mr. Peg’s
parlour and shop and workroom, that he cut out the
leather and prepared the soles for this his first manufac-
ture. J think he hadn't stuff enough but for one pair,
for I heard him sigh once or twice as he was fidgeting
with his pattern over my brother’s upper leather till it
was made out. Mr. Peg was a little oldish man, with a
crown of gray hair all round the back part of his head ;
and he sat to work in his shirt sleeves, and with a thick,
short leather apron before him. There was a liitle fire-

place in the room, with sometimes fire in it, and some-
times not; and the only furniture was Mr. Peg’s small
counter, the low, rush-bottomed chair in which he gat to
work, and a better one for a customer; his tools, and his
72 THF CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

chips; by which I mean the scraps of leather which he
scattered about.

Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper
leathers and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on
his chair to begin work, when a little girl came in. She
came from a door that opened upon a staircase leading
to the upper rooms, and walked up to the cobbler. It
was a little brown-haired girl, about nine or ten years
old, in an old calico frock; she was not becomingly
dressed, and she did not look very well.

“Father,” she said; “mother’s head aches again.”

Ihe cobbler paused in his work, and looked up at her.

“And she wants you to come up and rub it—she says
I can't do it hard enough.” )

Rather slowly Mr. Peg laid his upper leather and tools
down.

“Will you close this shoe for me, Sue, while IT am
gone?”

He spoke half pleasantly, and to judge by his tone and
manner, with some half-sorrowful meaning. So the little
girl took it, for she answered a little sadly—

“1 wish I could, father.”

‘“T’m glad you can’t, dear.”

He laid his work down, and mounted the stairs. She
went to the window, and stood with her elbows leaning
on the sill, looking into the street.

It’s only a small town, that Beachhead; but still,
being a sea-coast town, there is a good deal of bustle
about it. The fishermen from the one side, and the
farmers from the other, with their various merchandise ;
the busy boys and odd forms of women, for ever bustling
up and down, make it quite a lively place. There is
always a good deal to see in the street. Yet the little
girl stood very still and quiet by the window: her head
did not turn this way and that; she stood like a stupid

person, who did not care what was going on. A woman
passing up the street stopped a moment at the window.

‘‘ How’s your mother to-day, Sue?”
THE TWO SHOES. 38

“She's getting along slowly, Mrs. Binch.”

‘‘ Does the doctor say she is dangerous?”

‘The doctor doesn’t come any more.”

‘“‘ Has he giv’ her up ?”

“Yes; he says there is nothing to do but to let her.
get well.”

‘‘ Oh !—she’s so brisk, is she?”

‘“No, ma’am—she’s not brisk at all; she SAYS 7

But Mrs. Binch had passed on and was out of hearing,
and the little brown head stood still at the window again,
leaning now on one hand. It was a smooth-brushed,
round little head, seen against the open windows. By
and by another stopped, a lady this time; a lady
dressed in black, with a sweet, delicate face.

‘“‘ How’s your mother, Sue?”

“She's just the same way, Mrs. Lucy.”

“No better ?”

‘Not much, ma’am. It'll take a long time, the doctor
says.”

t And are you, poor little tot, all alone in the house to
do everything ?”

‘No, ma’am—there’s father.”

The sweet face gave her a sort of long, wistful look,
and passed on. She stood there yet at the open window,
with her head leaning on her hand; and whatever was
the reason, so dull of hearing, that her father had come
down, seated himself in his work-chair, and taken up
his shoe, several minutes before she found it out. Then
she left the window and came to him.

‘‘ What shall I do, father?”

‘“ She'll want you directly,” said the cobbler. ‘She's
asleep now.”

Sue stood still.

“ Dont you want some dinner, Sue?”

She hesitated a little, and then said yes.

Well see, dear, and make some more of that por:
ridge. Can you?”


74 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Yes, father, there’s some meal yet. And there’s a
little bread, too.”

“You may have that,” said the cobbler. “And I'll
go out by and by and see if I can get a little money.
Mr. Shipham had a pair of boots new soled a month
ago, and Mr. Binch owes for some jobs—if I ever could
get hold of them.” |

And the cobbler sighed. ;

“Tf people only knew, they would pay you, father,
wouldn’t they ?”

‘There is One that knows,” said the cobbler. ‘“ And
why they don’t pay me He knows. Maybe it’s to teach
you and me, Sue, that ‘man does not live by bread
alone.’”

““¢ But by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth
of God doth man live,” his little daughter went on,
softly, as if she were filling up the words for her own
satisfaction. —

“ But didn’t we know that before, father?”

‘¢ Maybe we didn’t know it enough,” said the cobbler.
“Tm afraid I don’t now ae

And as her back was turned, he hastily brought his
hand to his eyes.

‘* But, father, can one help feeling a little sorrowful,
when—when things are so bad ?”

“«¢ A little bad ’—perhaps one might feel a little bad,”
said the cobbler; “but if I believe all that I know, J
don’t see how I could feel very bad. I don’t see how lL
could; and £ oughtn’t.”

His little daughter had been raking the fire together
and setting on the coals a little iron skillet of water.
She turnea and looked at him when he said this, as if
she had not known before that he did feel “ very bad.”
He did not see the look, which was a startled and sor-
rowful one; he was bending over his shoe-leather. She
left the room then and went after the meal, which she
brought in a yellow earthen dish, and began silently to
mix for the porridge. |


THE TWO SHOES WB

“The Bible says, father—” she began, stirring away.

“Yes, dear—what does it say?” said Mr. Peg.

“It says, ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt
thou dwell in the land, and—verily——” | |

- Susan’s voice broke. She stirred her porridge vehe-
mently, and turned her back to her father.

_ “Verily thou shalt be fed,” said the cobbler. “Yes
-=-[ know it. The thing is to believe it.”

‘“‘ You do believe it, father,” Susan said, softly.

“Ay, but I haven't trusted the Lord, nor done good,
any to speak of. It’ll stand good for you, daughter, if it
doesn’t for me.”

She had stirred her meal into the skillet; and now
setting down her dish she came to his side, and putting
her two arms round his neck, she kissed him all over
_ his face. The cobbler let fall leather and ends and
hugged her up to his breast.

“That's done me more good than dinner, now,” said
he, when he had, albeit tearfully, given her two or three
sound kisses by way of finishing. “You may have all
the porridge, Susie.”

“'There’s enough, father, and there’s some bread
too.”

“Hat it all up,” said the cobbler, turning to his work
again; maybe to hide his eyes. She stood leaning on
his shoulder, just so as not to hinder the play of his arm.

“Shall I keep the bread for supper, father ?”

“No, dear; maybe I'll get some money before that.”

‘¢ Whose shoes are those, father ?”

“They aren’t anybody’s yet.”

“Whose are they going to be?”

“T don’t know. The first pair of feet that come along
that will fit ’em. If I sell them, Pll get some leather
and make more.”

‘Ts that the last of your leather, father ?”

“ Ay—the last big enough ; the rest is all pieces.” __

She stood a little while longer, laying her head on his
shoulder ; then there came a knocking up-stairs, and


76 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

she ran away. The cobbler wrought at his shoe for a
space, when turning his head, he dropped everything to
go and see after the porridge; and he squatted over the
fire, stirring it, till such time as he thought it was done,
and he drew back the skillet. He went to the foot of
the stairs and looked up and listened for a minute, and
then left it and came back without calling anybody. It
was plain that he must eat his dinner alone.

His dinner was nothing but porridge and salt, eaten
with what would have heen a good appetite if it had
had good thoughts to back it. And the cobbler did not
seem uncheerful; only once or twice he stopped and
looked a good while with a grave face into the fire on
the hearth. But a porridge dinner after all could not
last long; Mr. Peg put away his plate and spoon, placed
the skillet carefully in the corner of the fire-place, took.
off his leather apron and put on his coat, and taking his
hat from the counter he went out.

There were no more stitches set in the shoe that after-
noon, for Mr. Peg did not get home till dark. The first
thing that happened after he went away, a gust of wind
blew round the house and came down the chimney
bringing with it a shower of soot which must have
sprinkled pretty thick upon the open skillet. Then the
wind seemed to go up chimney again, and could be
heard whistling off among the neighbouring housetops.
A while after, little Susie came down and made for her
skillet. She pulled it out, and fetched her plate and
spoon and began to skim out the soot; but I suppose
she found it rather indifferent, or else that it would lose
her a good deal of her porridge; for one time she set her
plate and spoon down upon the hearth beside her, and —
laid her face in her apron. She soon took it up again,
but she didn’t make a large meal of the porridge.

She went up-stairs then immediately, and when she
came down the second time it was near evening. She
stood and looked about, to see that her father was not
come in; then she built up the fire, and when it was
THE TWO SHOES. 77

burning she stood and looked into it just m the same way
that she had stood and looked out of the window.
Suddenly she wheeled about, and coming behind the
counter took her father’s Bible from a heap of bits of
leather where it lay, and went and sat down on the
hearth with it; and as long as there was light she was
bending over it. Then, when the light faded, she
clasped her hands upon the shut Bible, and leaning
back against the jamb fell fast asleep in an instant,
with her head against the stone.

here she was when her father came home; her feet
were stretched out upon the hearth and he stumbled over
them. That waked her. By the glimmering light of
she fire something could be seen hanging from Mr.
Pee’s hand
Have you got home, father ?—I believe I went to

sleep waiting for you. What have you got in your
hand ?—F ish !—Oh, father !”

You should have heard the change of little Sue's
voice when she spoke that. Generally her way of
speaking was low and gentle like the twilight, but those
two words were like a burst of sunshine.

“Yes, dear. Blow up the fire so you can see them.
I've been to Mrs. Binch’s—I’ve been all over town,
amost—and Mrs. Binch’s boy had just come in with
some, and she gave me a fine string of ’em—nice blue
fish—there.”

Susan had made a light blaze, and then she and the
cobbler admired and turned and almost smelt of the fish,
for Joy:

And shall we have one for supper, father ?”

“Yes, dear. You have some coals, and I’ll get the

fish ready directly. Has mother had all she wanted

to-day ?” |

“Yes, father. Mrs. Lucy sent her some soup and she
nad plenty. And I saved the bread from dinner, father
isn’t 1t good? and there’s more porridge, too.”

What a bed of coals Sue had made by the time her
78 THE CHBISTMAS STOCKING.

father came back with the fish, nicely cleaned and
washed. She put it down, and then the two sat over it
in the fire-light and watched it broil. It was done as
nicely as a fish could be done; and Susan fetched the ©
plates and the salt and the bread; and then the cobbler
gave thanks to God for their supper. And then the two
made such a meal! there wasn’t a bone of that fish but
_ was clean picked, nor a grain of salt but what-did duty
on a sweet morsel. ‘There was not a scrap of bread left
from that supper; and I was as glad as anything of my
tough nature can be, to know that there were several
more fish besides the one eaten. Sue cleared away the
things when they had done; ran up to see if her mother
was comfortable; and soon ran down again. Her step
had changed too.

“Now, darling,” said her father, “come and let us
have our talk by this good fire-light.”

Susan came to his arms and kissed him ; and his arms
were wrapped round her and she sat on his knee.

“It’s one good thing, you haven’t lights to work, so
we can talk,” said Sue, stroking his face. “If you had,
we couldn't.”

‘‘ Maybe we would,” said the cobbler. “ Let us talk
to-night of the things we have to be thankful for.”

‘“There’s a great many of them, father,” said Sue with
her twilight voice. ,

“The first thing is, that we know we have a Friend
in heaven, and that we.do love and trust him.”

‘Qh, father!” said Sue, “if you begin with that, all
the other things will not seem anything at all.”

‘“That’s true,” said Mr. Peg. ‘“ Well, Sue, let’s have
‘em all. You begin.”

“I don’t know what to begin with,” said Sue, looking
into the fire. |

‘“‘T have you,” said her father, softly kissing her.

“Oh, father!—and I have you; but now you are
taking the next best things.”

“J shouldn’t care for all the rest without this one,”
THE TWO SHOES. 79.

said the cobbler ;—* nor I shouldn’t mind anything but
for this,” he added, in a somewhat changed tone.

“But father, you mustn’t talk of that to-night ;—we
= _— going to talk of the things we have to be thank-

of.

“ Well, we'll take the others to-morrow night maybe.
and see what we can make of: them. Go on, Susie,”
said the cobbler, putting his head down to her cheek,—
“I have my dear little child, and she has her father.
Ihat’s something to thank God, and to be glad for,—
every day.”

“So I do, every day, father,” said Susan, very softly.

‘And so I do,” said the cobbler; “and while I can
take care of thee, my dearest, I will take trouble for
nothing else.”

“ Now you are getting upon the other things, father,”
said Sue. “ Father, it is something to be thankful for,
that we can have such a nice fire every night,—and
every day, if we want it.” 7

“Yon don’t know what a blessing ’tis, Sue,” said her
father. “If we lived where we couldn’t get drift wood—
if we lived as some of the poor people do in the great
cities—without anything but a few handfuls of stuff to
burn in the hardest weather, and that wretched stuff for
making a fire—I am glad you don’t know how good it
is, Sue!” said he, putting his arms round her. ‘“ There
isn’t a morning of my life, but I thank God for giving
us wood, when I set about kindling it.”

“How do they do in those places, without wood?”
said Sue; sticking out her feet toward the warm ruddy
blaze.

‘“‘ He who knows all only knows,” said the cobbler,
gravely. “They do without. It seems to me I would
rather go without eating, and have a fire.”

‘““T don’t know,” said Sue, thoughtfully, “which I
would rather do. But those poor people haven't either,
have they?” |

“Not enough,” said the cobbler. ‘“ They manage te
80 | THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

pick up enough to keep them alive, somehow.” And he
sighed, for the subject came near home.

“Father,” said Sue, “I don’t believe God will let us
starve.”

“T do not think He will, my dear,” said the cobbler.

“Then why do you sigh ?”

‘¢ Because I deserve that He should, I believe,’ said
the cobbler, hanging his head. ‘I deserve it, for not
trusting Him better. ‘Cast all your care upon him, for
he careth for you. Ah, my dear, we can't get along
without running to our upper storehouse, pretty often.”

‘“ Father, I believe God don’t mean we should.”

“‘That’s just it!” said the cobbler. “ That is just, no
doubt, what He means. Well, dear, let’s learn the lesson
he sets us.” |

“Then, father,” said Sue, “don’t you think we have
a good little house? It’s large enough, and it’s warm.”

“Yes, dear,” said the cobbler; ‘‘some of those poor
people we were talking about would think themselves a3
well off as kings if they had such a house as this.”

“And it’s in a pleasant place, father, where there are
a great many kind people.”

‘“T hope there are,” said the cobbler, who was think-
ing at the moment how Mr. Shipham had put him off,
and Mr. Dill had avoided him, and Mr. Binch had
fought every one of his moderate charges.

“Why, father!” said Sue ;—‘ there’s Mrs. Lucy every
day sends things to mother, and Mrs. Binch gave you
the fish, and Mrs. Jackson came and washed ever so
many times, and—and Mrs. Galatin sent the pudding
and other things for mother, you know.”

“ Well, dear,” said the cobbler,— yes,—it seems that
‘cn is more plenty here at any rate than man-

“ Why, father?” said Sue.

“7 hope you'll never know, dear,” he answered. “It
was a foolish speech of mine.”

“And I’m sure it’s a blessing, father, that we have so
THE TWO SHOES. Sl

many things sent us for my mother,—she has almost as
much as she wants; and things we couldn't get. Now,
Mrs. Lucy’s soup—you don’t know how nice it was. I
tasted just the least drop in the spoon; and mother had
enough of it for to-day and to-morrow. And then the
_ doctor says she will get well by and by; and that will be
a, blessing.”

It was a blessing so far off that both the cobbler and
his little daughter looked grave as they thought about it

“And I’m well, father, and you’re well,” said Sue,
pleasantly. |

“Thank God!” said the cobbler.

“And father, don’t you think it is a little blessing
to live near the sea? and to have the beautiful beach to
walk upon, and see the waves come tumbling in, and
smell the fresh wind. We used to go so often, and
maybe by and by we shall again. Don’t you think it is
a great deal pleasanter than it would be if Beachhead
was. away off in the country, out of sight of the
ocean?” |

“Ah, Sue,” said her father,—“ I don’t know ;—lI’ve
lived a good piece of my life in one of those inshore
places, and I didn’t want to hear the sea roar then-a-days,
and 1 could get along without the smell of salt water.
No,—you don't know what you are talking about exactly;
every sort of place that the Lord has made, has its own
prettiness and pleasantness; and so the sea has; but I
love the green pasture-fields as well as I do the green
field of water, to this day.”

“ But one might be in a place where there wasn't the
sea nor the pasture fields either, father.”

“So one might,” said the cobbler. ‘“ Yes, there are
plenty of such places. ‘The sea is a blessing. I was
thinking of my old home in Connecticut; but the world
isn’t all green hills and sea shore,—there’s something
else in it—something else. Yes, dear, I love those large
waves too.”

“And then, father,” said Sue, laying her head on his

. G
82 TIIE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

breast, “we come back to the best things,—that you
were beginning with.”

“Ay,” said the cobbler, casting his arm round her.
And for alittle space they sat silent and looked into the
fire, and then he went on.

“Poor as we sit here, and weak and dying as we know
we are, we know that we have a tabernacle on high—a
house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. It
won't matter much, Sue, when we get there .

What would not matter, the cobbler did not say;
there was something came in his throat that stopped
him.

“‘ It won’t matter, father,” said Sue, softly.

They sat still a little while ; the flame of the bits of
brands in the chimney leaped up and down, burned
strong and then fell outright; and the red coals glowed
and glimmered in the place of it, but with less and less
power. |

“Now Sue, let us read,” said the cobbler on a
sudden. |

She got up, and he put on the coals two or three pleces
of light wood, which soon blazed up, While he was
doing this, Sue brought the Bible. Then she took her
former place in her father’s arms; and he opened the
book and read by the firelight, pausing at almost every
sentence. “‘ Praise ye the Lord.—We will do that,
Sue,” said the cobbler, “for ever.”

‘“< Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord, that
delighteth greatly in his commandments. ”

‘“ You do that, father,” said Sue, softly.

“TI do fear him ;—I do delight in his commandments,”
said the poor cobbler. “I might do soa ereat deat
More. But see how it goes on:—

“6 Fis seed shall be mighty upon earth: the generation
of the upright shall be blessed? No doubt of it ;—only
let. us see that we are upright, my child.

““Wealth and riches shall bein his house. So they
are, Sue; aren’t we rich?”


THE TWO SHOES. - 8a

“Yes, father. But don’t you think that means the
ether kind of riches too?” : | “
_“T don’t know,” said the cobbler; “if it does, we
shall have them. But I don’t know, daughter; see—
“< Wealth and riches shall be in his house: and his
righteousness endureth for ever’ It seems as if that
riches had to do with that righteousness. You know
what Jesus says,—‘ [ counsel thee to buy of me gold tried
in the fire, that thou mayest be rich? I think it is the
kind of riches of that man who is described ‘ as having
nothing, and yet possessing all things.’” ;
“Well, so we do, father, don’t we?”
‘“‘ Let us praise him,” said the cobbler.
““* Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.
What a promise!”
‘“‘ Unto the upright, again,” said Sue.
‘* Mind it, dear Sue,” said her father, “ for we may see
darker times than we have seen yet.”
Sue looked up at him gravely, but did not speak.
“* Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness :
he is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous.”
“ ‘Thatis, the upright man,” said Sue. |
“ guide his affairs with discretion. Surely he shall not be
moved for ever: the righteous shall be in everlasting
remembrance. You remember who says,—‘ I have graven
thee upon upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are
continually before me?’ ”
“That is Zion, father, isn’t it?” said Sue. |
“And just before that‘ Can a woman forget her
sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the
son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will L not.
forget thee.” ,
“We oughtn’t to be afraid, father,” said Sue, softly.
“TT am not afraid,” said the cobbler.
“é The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance,
fle shall not be afraid of evil tidings: his heart is fixed,
trusting in the Lord. ‘There it is, Sue. |
84 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“6s FT is heart is established, he shall not be afraid, until
he see his desire upon his enemies. He hath dispersed,
he hath given to the poor, his +ighteousness endureth for
ever; his horn shall be exalted with honour. The
wicked shall see it, and be grieved ; he shall gnash with his
teeth and melt away, the desire of the wiched shall perish.’ ”

The cobbler closed the book; and he and his little
daughter knelt down, and he prayed for a few minutes ;
then they covered up the fire, and they went away up-
stairs together. And the night was as quiet in that
house as in any house in the land.

The next morning the cobbler and his daughter broiled
another fish; but the breakfast was ashorter and less
talkative affair than the supper had been. After break-
fast the cobbler sat down to his work, but before the shoe
was half an hour nearer to being done, Sue appeared at
the bottom of the stairs saying, “Father, mother says
she wants a piece of one of those fish.”

The cobbler’s needle stood still. ‘I don’t believe it is
good for her,” said he.

‘She says she wants it.” .

“ Well, can’t you put it down, my daughter?”

“Yes, father; but she says she wants me to put her
room up; and she’s in a great hurry for the fish.”

Mr. Peg slowly laid his work down. Sue ran up-stairs
again, and the cobbler spent another half-hour over the
eoals and a quarter of a blue fish. Sue came for it, and
the cobbler went to his work again.

It was a cold day; the wind whistled about and
brought the cold in; and every now and then Sue came
down and stood at the fire a minute to warm herself.
.Every time she came, the cobbler stayed his hand and
looked up, and looked wistfully at her.

_ “Never mind, father,” said Sue. “It’s only that I’m
a little cold.”
‘You're blue,” said he.

And at last Mr. Peg couldn’t stand it. Down went
the leather on one side of him and the tools on the other;
THE TWO SHOES. 8§

and he went and lugged an armful or two of sticks up-
stairs and built a fire there, in spite of Sue’s begging
him to keep on with his work and not mind her.

‘‘ But we shan’t have wood enough, father,” she said
at last gently.

“Till go o’ nights to the beach, and fetch a double
quantity,” said the cobbler :—“ till your mother is able
to come down stairs. Zhat I can do. I can’t bear to
see you cold, if you can.”

And Sue stayed up-stairs, and the cobbler wrought after
that, pretty steadily, for some hours. But in the middle
of the afternoon came a new interruption. Two men
came into the shop and gave an order or two to the
cobbler, who served them with unusual gravity.

“ When is court day, Sheriff?” he asked in the course
of business.

‘To-morrow itself, Mr. Peg.”

‘¢’T'o-morrow ?” said the cobbler.

‘What's the matter ? comes the wrong day ? It always
does.”

‘“T had forgot all about it,” said the cobbler. “Can't
1 be let off, sir?”

“From what?’ said the other man.

“Why it’s rather an ugly job, some think,” returned
the Sheriff. ‘‘ He’s got to sit on the jury that is to try
Simon Ruffin.”

‘| must beg to be let off,” said the cobbler. “1 am
not at all able to leave home.”

‘You must tell the court, then,” said he who was
called the Sheriff; ‘but it wouldn’t do any good, I do
believe. Everybody says the same thing, pretty much ;
nobody likes the job; but you see, this is a very difficult
and important case ; a great many have been thrown out ;
itis hard to get just the right men, those that are altogether
unobjectionable; and every one knows you, Mr. Peg.”

“But my family want me,” saidthe cobbler; “they can’t
do without me. Can’t you let me go, Mr. Packum?”

‘Not I,” said the Sheriff; ‘that’s no part of my duty,
—you must ask the court, Mr. Peg.”
8§ THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

‘“'T'o-morrow ?” said the cobbler.” neck

“Yes, to-morrow; but I tell you beforehand it won't
do any good. What excuse can you make?” |

“My family want my care,” said the poor cobbler.

“So does every man’s family,” said the Sheriff with a
laugh ; “he’s a happy man that don’t find it so. You
haven't much of a family, Mr. Peg, have you ;—if you
had my seven daughters to look after Well, Mr. Jibbs,
—shall we go?”

They went; and sitting down again in his chair the
poor cobbler neglected his work and bent over it with
his head in his hand. At length he got up, put his
work away, and left the room. Forawhile his saw might
be heard going at the back of the house; then it ceased,
and nothing at all was to be heard for a long time; only
a light footstep overhead now and then. The afternoon
passed, and the evening came. |

The cobbler was the first to make his appearance.
He came in, lighted the fire which had quite died out,
and sat down as he had sat before, with his head in hig
hand. So his little daughter found him. She stepped
lightly, and he did not hear her till her hand was on his
shoulder. Then she asked him, “ What was the matter?”

‘“‘Oh, nothing that should make me sit go,” said the
cobbler rousing himself. | |

‘We've got more fish left yet,” said Sue.

“Yes dear,—'tisn’t that; but I have to go away to
morrow.’

““ Away?” said Sue.

“Yes, away to court.”

“ What for, father?” |

“Why they’ve put me down for a juryman, and I’m
oe ao ‘Il be no getting off The Sheriff says there
won t.

“What have you to do, father ?”

_ “Sit on the jury, dear, to decide whether Simon Ruffin
is guilty or no?” |

“Simon Ruffin ?—that shot that man! Oh, father!”


THK zrWO SHOES. 87

“It’s very bad,” said the cobbler.

“* How long will you be gone?”

“I can’t tell at all,” said the cobbler; “maybe a day
——a day! they can’t take the evidence in two days,—I
don’t know whether it will be two or three days, or a
week, dear.”

‘“A week. And what shall we do?” Sue could not
help saying.

“itl can get off, I will,” said the cobbler; “but in
ease I can’t, | have or I will have by morning as much
wood as will do till I come back. I have two and six-
pence besides, which I can leave you, darling ; and I can
do nothing more but trust.”

“ Father, isn't it hard to trust, sometimes?” Sue said
with her eyes full of tears. The poor cobbler wrapped her
in his arms and kissed them away, but he did not try to
answer.

‘‘ Maybe it won’t do us any harm, after all,” said Sue
more brightly ;—‘“‘ or maybe you will be able to come
back, father. Father, you know we are to talk over to-
night the things that we have that we can’t be thankful
for.”

‘““¢ In everything give thanks,” said the cobbler.

“Yes father, but it doesn’t say for everything ?”

‘* Perhaps not,” said the cobbler. ‘‘ Well, darling, we'll
see. Let's have our supper first.”

“¢ We'll have the largest fish to-night, father.”

The fish wasn’t just out of the water now, but it was
eaten with a good will; not quite so cheerily as the first
one the night before; and Sue sighed once or twice as
she was putting the dishes away, and didn’t step quite so
hehtly. ‘Then she came to her former place in her father’s
arms; and her head stooped upon his shoulder, and hig
cheek was laid to her forehead, and so they sat some
minutes without speaking.

‘“‘ Come, father,” said Sue,—“ wiil ycu talk ?”

‘Yes, dear. Let us tell over what we have toa bear,
and see how we can bear it.”
RE THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“We must go to our ‘ upper storehouse’ again for that,
father.”

“Ay, dear,—always.”

“The first thing, I suppose,” said Sue, “is that we
haven't quite money enough.” .

“We have just what God gives us,” said the cobbler.
‘Tl never complain of that.”

“Why, you never complain of anything, father. But
it isn’t pleasant.”

“No, dear,” said the cobbler ;—* and yet if we had
money enough, could we trust God aswedo? It isa
sweet thing to live by his hand directly; to fecl that it
is feeding us to-day, and to know that it will to-morrow,
for ‘ Was he ever a wilderness to Israel?’ No, dear; lL
don't mean to say that poverty is not hard to bear some-
times; nor I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t give you
plenty of everything if I had it to give; but I do say
that there is a sweet side even to this.”

“Father, our blue fish wouldn’t have tasted so good if
we had always had plenty of them.”

‘““T suppose not,” said the cobbler, with a little bit of
a stifled sigh—‘‘ and maybe we shouldn’t know how to
love each other quite so well, Sue.”

‘““Oh ves we should!” said Sue,

“T don’t know,” said the cobbler. “I shouldn’t know
what my little daughter can do and bear, if she had not
had a chance to show me.”

‘Why, I have not much to bear, father,” said Sue.

; “Mother wouldn’t know what a good nurse you can
a?

“T wish she hadn’t a chance to know that, father.”

“Yes,” said the cobbler, “your mother’s sickness—
that seems the hardest evil we have had to do with. It’s
not easy to find any present comfort in that, nor any
present good; for I am afraid it makes me more impa-
tient than patient. Maybe that’s why this is sent to me.
But if we can’t see the reason of a great many things
now, we shall by-and-by. We shall know, Sue, what
THE TWO SHOES 89

the reason was. ‘Zhou shalt remember all the way
which the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the
wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know
uhat was in thine heart, whether thou wouldest keep his
commandments or no.”

Sue lifted up her head, and her little face was beautiful
for the strong patience, and bright trust and love, that
was init. Her eyes were swimming; and her lips were
speaking, though they only moved to tremble.

“We can't wait, Sue,” said the cobbler gently Sue
laid down her head again.

‘So it seems we have got the reason of it, already,”
Mr. Peg went on—“ if not the good.”

‘“Maybe we’ve got some of the good too, without
knowing it,” said his little daughter.

“Still we ‘ll be very glad to have mother get well.”

“Oh, won't we!” said Sue.

‘And it will teach us how to be thankful for the com.
mon things we forget.”

There was a little pause.

‘Then you would like to have me go to school,” said
sue; “and I can't.”

“And if you could, I shouldn’t have the pleasure of
teaching you myself,” said the cobbler. “I can bear
that.”

‘But then I can’t learn so many things,” said Sue.

‘Of one kind you can’t, and of another kind you can,”
said her father. “1 don’t believe there’s a school-girl in
Beachhead that can broil a blue fish as you can.”

‘Oh, father! but then you showed me how.”

“Do you think broiling blue fish comes by nature?”
said the cobbler. ‘I can tell you there are many people
that can’t learn it at all. And that’s only one of your
accomplishments.” |

“Oh, father!” said Sue again, smiling a little.

‘You can nurse a sick mother, and mend a hole in
your father’s coat, and clean a room, and make a bed,
with anybody.”
99 YHE CHRISTMAS STOCKIAW.

“Still, father, you’d like to have me go to school.”

“Yes, I would,” said the cobbler. “ Maybe I shall
not be sorry, by-and-by, that I couldn't.”

“And then, father,” said Sue, “you can't get work
enough.”

“Yes!” said the cobbler. “ff I could do that, it¢
would be all smooth. But God would give it to me if it
pleased Him, and if it don’t please Him, there must be
some reason; can't we trust Him and wait?”

Sue looked up again, not so brightly as before ; meekly
and rather tearfully.

“And then I must leave you to-morrow,” said her
father, kissing her brow—‘“‘ that seems just now the
worst of all.” |

‘* Maybe you ll come back again, father,” said Sue.

‘“‘T am afraid I shall not—till this trial is over.”

“It’s a disagreeable business, isn’t it, father ?”

“Very disagreeable—as frightful as can be, to look at.”

They were silent awhile.

‘“‘ Maybe there ‘ll some good come of it, somehow, after
all,” said Sue in her twilight voice.

‘“‘ Good will be the end of it,” said the cobbler. ‘“ There’s
@ kind hand doing it, and an almighty arm upholding
us in it; ‘we shall not be utterly cast down ;’ so we
must bear to be poor, and to be sick, and to be sepa-
rated; and just leave it all with God.”

‘Father, it’s pleasant to do that,” said Sue; but you
oe tell by the tone of her words that she was crying o

ittle.

“Why, darling, if we are poor, and sick, and in
trouble, we have our dear Saviour, and we know that
the Lord is our God. We are not poor people—not we.
‘Having nothing, and yet possessing ali things.’ Who
would we change with, Sue?”

Sue had to wait a little while before she spoke, but
then she said—‘I wouldn’t change with anybody.”

“No more would I,” said the cobbler, giving her
another kiss.
THE TWO SHOES, 9}

Ard so they went to bed, a couple of very rich poor
people.

But the house looked poor the next day—empty and
cold. The cobbler was off betimes; the little breakfast
efir died out; dust lay on the counter; the tools and
the unfinished work were here and there; the wind
slipped in and slipped out again; and nothing else paid
us a visit, except Sue, who once or twice looked in and
looked round as if to see whether her father were there.
Once she came into the room and stood a few minutes,
with her little brown head and quiet grave face, looking
at the ashes in the fire-place, and the neglected work,
and her father’s chair, with a wistful sort of eye. It
said, or seemed to say, that however she felt last night,
she would be very glad to-day if they were not poor, nor
sick, nor separated. She looked pale and weary too;
but she didn’t stay long to rest or think. Her feet could
be heard now and then up-stairs. The cobbler did not
come home; the night darkened upon just such an after-
noon as the morning had been. |

The next day began in the same manner. ‘Towards
noon, however, the outer door opened, and in came a
puff of fresh cold air, and another visitor, who looked
fresh, but not cold at all. It was a boy about thirteen
or fourteen; healthy, ruddy, bright-eyed, well-dressed,
and exceeding neat in his dress. He came in like one
familiar with the place, and took note of all the unusual
tokens about as if he knew well what was usual ana
what was unusual. He looked at the cold chimney and
scattered work; he went to the foot of the stairs and
stood listening a moment; and then coming away from
there, he loitered about the room, now going to the
window and now to the chimney, evidently waiting. He
had to wait a good while; but he waited. At last he
got what he wanted, for, tired with being up-stairs, or
wanting to gather some news from the outer world,
Sue slowly came down the stairs, and showed her
little face at the staircase door. And almost before it
9 THE CHRISTMAS BLOCKING.

had time to change, the new comer had called out—
“Sue !”

And with an unknown light breaking all over her face,
Sue exclaimed joyously—* Roswald!”—and springing
across to him, put her sweet lips to his with right good
will.

‘Oh you've got back,” said Sue, with a gladsomeness
it did, or would have done, anyone’s heart good to hear.
“Here lam. Haven’t I been a long while away ?”

“Oh, so long!” said Sue.

‘But what's the matter here, Sue? what's become of
you all?”

‘““Why, mother’s sick, you know—she hasn’t got well
yet; and father’s away.”

“ Where is he?”

‘‘ He had to go to court—he had to be a juryman to
try Simon Ruffin.”

“When ?”

“Yesterday morning. And we hoped he would be
able to get leave to come away—we wanted him so much;
but he hasn’t been able to come.”

“He's been away since yesterday morning? Who's
taking care of you ?”

“Why, nobody,” said Sue.

“So there’s nobody in the house with you?”

: Nobody but mother. Father left wood enough all
ready.” |

‘“ Wood enough for how long ?”

‘‘ Oh, for a good many days.”

“* Aren’t you afraid ?”

“Why no, Roswald !”

“Who goes to market for you, Sue?”

“ Nobody.”

“What do you live on?”

“Oh, people send mother nice things: Mrs. Lucy sent
ber a whole pail of soup the other day.” |

‘‘ How big a pail?”

‘ Why, Roswald !~I mean a nice little tin pail: so big.”
THE TWO SHOES. _ 93

“And do you live en soup too?”
“No,” said Sue.

“On what then?”

“Oh, on what there is.”

“Fixactly. And what is there?”

“ Mrs. Binch gave father a string of blue fish the other
night; and since then I have made porridge.”

“What sort of porridge?”

‘“ Corn-meal porridge.”

“ Why, Sue !—do you live on that?”

“Why, porridge is very good,” said Sue, looking at
"im. But there was a change in his eye, and there came
a glistening in hers; and then she threw suddenly her
two arms round his neck and burst into a great fit of
erying.

If Roswald had been a man, his arm would not have
been put round her with an air of more manly and
grave support and protection ; and there were even one or
two furtive kisses, as if between boyish pride and affec-
tion; but affection carried it.

“J don’t know what made me cry,” said Sue, rousing
herself; after she had had her cry out.

“ Don't you?” said Roswald.

“No. It couldn’t have been these things; because
father and I were talking about them the other night,
and we agreed that we didn’t feel poor at all; at least,
of course we felt poor, but we felt rich too.” |

‘** How long have you been living on porridge?”

“| don’t know. Have you had a pleasant time, Ros-
wald?”

“Yes, very. I'll tell you all aboutit some time, but
not now.”

‘‘Js Merrytown as pleasant as Beachhead ?”

“‘]t is more pleasant.” :

‘‘ More pleasant?” said Sue. ‘“ Without the beach, and
the waves, Roswald ?” .

“Yes it is; and you'd say so too. You'd like
it better than anybody. There are other things
«O94 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

there instead of beach and waves. You shall go
down there some time, Sue, and see it.”

“T can’t go,” said Sue meekly.

“Not now, but some day. Sue, havent you any
money?”

“T’ve two and sixpence, that father gave me; but 1
was afraid to spend any of it for fear he or mother might
want it for something. I must, though, for I have got
but a very little Indian meal.”

“Sue, have you had dinner to-day ?”
“Not yet. I was just coming down to see about
it.”

“Your mother don’t eat porridge, does she?”

“Oh, no. She’s had her dinney.”

“Well, will you let me come and have dinner with

ou?”
She brought her hands together, with again a flush of
great joy upon her face; and then put them in both
his.

- How pleasant it is that you have got back!” she
said. |

“It will take a little while to get the porridge ready,
won't it?” said he, beating her hands gently together
and looking as bright as a button.

“Oh, yes—it'll take a little while,” said Sue. “I
haven’t got the water boiling yet.”

“Have you got meal enough for both of us?”

“ Yes, I believe so ;—plenty.”

_ dust then Mrs. Lucy opened the front door and brought
her sweet face into the room. ‘She looked a little hard
at the two children, and asked Sue how her mother was.
Roswald bowed, and Sue answered.

“ May I go up and see her?” |

Sue gave permission. Mrs. Lucy went up the stairs.
Roswald stopped Sue as she was following.

“Sue, Pll go to market for you to-day. Give me two-
pence of your money, and I'll get the meal you want.”

“Qh, thank you, Roswald!” said Sue ;— that will be
TIE TWO SHonrs 95

stich a help to me;”—and she ran for the pennies and
gave them into his hand. |

“Pl be back presently,” said he; “and then I'l tell
you about my journey. Run up now after Mrs. Lucy.”

“I don't believe I need go,” said Sue; “ they don’t
want anything with me.”

“Run up, though,” said Roswald: “may be
Mrs. Lucy will ask your mother too many ques.
tions.”

‘“Why, that won’t hurt her,” said Sue laughing; but
Roswald seemed in earnest, and she went up:

Immediately Roswald set to work to make a fire. He
knew where to go for wood, and he knew how to manage
it; he soon had the hearth in order and a fine fire made
ready ; and it was done without a soil on his nice clothes
and white linen. He was gone before Mrs. Lucy and
Sue came down; but the snapping and sparkling in the
chimney told tales of him.

“Why he has made the fire for me!” eried Sue with
a very pleased face. |

“Who made it?” said the lady.

“ Roswald.”

“That boy that was here when I came ?

“Yes, ma'am; he has made it for me.”

“Who is he ?”

“‘ He is Roswald Halifax,” said Sue.

‘“‘ What, the son of the widow Mis. Halifax ?”

“ Yes, ma'am.”

‘And how came you to know him so well?”

“Why, ve always known him,” said Sue; “that is,
almost always. I used to know him a great many years
ago, when I went to school; and he always used to take
care of me, and give me rides on his sleigh, and go on
the beach with me; and he always comes here.”

“Is he a good boy ?” |

“Yes, ma'am; he’s the best boy in the whole place,”
Sue answered with kindling eyes.

“LT hope he is,” said Mrs. Lucy, “ for he has nobody
96 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

to manage him but his mother. I fancy he has pretty
much his own way.”

“It's a good way,” said Sue decidedly. “He is good,
Mrs. Lucy.” : :
“ Does your mother want anything in particular, Sue?

Sue hesitated, and looked a little troubled.

‘Tell me, dear; now while your father is away you
have no one to manage for you. Let me know what I
can do.’

“Oh, Roswald would manage for us,” said Sue,—
“ but——’"

“ But what?” |

The lady’s manner and tone were very kind. Sue
looked up.

“She has nothing to eat, ma’am.”

‘“ Nothing to eat!” |

‘“No, ma'am; and I've only two shillings and six-
pence—two shillings and fourpence, I mean,—to get
anything with; and I don’t know what to get. She can't
eat what we can.”

“And what have you in the house besides ?—tell me,
dear. We are all only stewards of what God gives us;
and what you want perhaps I can supply.”

Sue hesitated again.

‘We haven't anything, Mrs. Lucy, but a little Indian
meal. Roswald is going to buy me some more.”

“Are your father’s affairs in so bad a condition, my
child?”

“ He can’t get work, ma'am; if he could there would
be no trouble. And what he does get he can’t always
get paid for.”

“And how long has this been the case, dear?”

“A long time,” said Sue, her tears starting again $
“ever since a good while before mother fell sick—a
good while before; and then that made it worse.”

Mrs. Lucy looked at Sue a minute, and then stooped
forward and kissed the little meek forehead that was
raised to her; and without another word quitted the house.
THE TWO SHOES : 97

Sue, with a very much brightened face, set about
getting her porridge ready; evidently enjoying the fire
that had been made for her. She set on her skillet, and
stirred in her meal; and when it was bubbling up pro-
perly, Sue turned her back to the fire and stood looking
and meditating about something. Presently away she
went, as if she had made up her mind. There was soon
@ great scraping and shuffling in the back room, and
then incame Sue, pulling after her with much ado a
large empty chest, big enough to give her some trouble.

ith an air of business she dragged it into the middle
of the room, where it was established, solid and square,
after the fashion of a table. Sue next dusted it care-
fully, and after it the counter and chairs and mantel-
shelf; the floor was clean swept always; and Sue her-
self, though in a faded calico, was as nice in her Ways as
her friend Roswald. Never was her little brown head
anything but smooth-brushed; her frock clean; her
hands and face as fair and pure as nature had meant
them to be. Roswald looked as if dust could not stick
to him.

When the room was in a due state of order, Sue
brought out and placed the two plates, the salt-cellar
with a little wooden spoon in it, the tumblers of blown-
glass, a pitcher of water, and the spoons. She had done
then all she could; and she turned to watch her por-
ridge and the front door both at once; for she did not
forget to keep the porridge from burning, while her eye
was upon the great brown door at every other minute.

Ihe porridge had been ready some time before the
door at last opened, and in came Roswald bearing a
large market basket on his arm.

‘It is astonishing,” said he as he set it down, “what
a heavy thing Indian meal is!”

“ Why Roswald!” said Sue ;—“ did you get all that
with two pence ?” ;

“No,” said Roswald; “the basket I borrowed It ig
my mother’s.”

H
98 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“ But have you got it full?” said Sue.

“ Pretty full,” said Roswald complacently.

“ T never thought that twopence would buy so much !”
said Sue. :

“Didn't you?” said Roswald. ‘Ah, you're not much
of a market woman yet, Sue. My arm is tired.”

“T’m sorry!” said Sue. “ ButI’m so glad you’ve got
it for me.” -

“SoamJ. Now is that porridge ready ?”

‘‘ Ready this great while,” said the little house-keeper,
carefully pouring it out. “It’s been only waiting for

ou.”

Roswald looked at her with a curious, gentle, sorrowful
expression, which was as becoming as it was rare in a
boy of his years.

‘‘ Are you hungry, Sue?” |

“Yes,” said Sue, looking up from her dish with a face
that spoke her perfectly satisfied with the dinner and
the company. “ Are not you?”

“Why I ought to be. The air is sharp enough to
give one an appetite. Sue

“What !”

“Do you eat your porridge alone ?”

“ Not to day,” said Sué smiling, while an arch look
came across her gentle eye.

“Does that mean that you are going to eat me with
t? I shall beg leave to interpose a stay of proceedings
upon that.”

And sitting down, with an air of determination, he
arew the porridge-dish quite to his end of the chest-
tavle, and looked at Sue as much as to say, “ You don’t
touch it.” |

“What does that mean? Aren’t you going to let me
have any?” said Sue laughing

“No.”

“ Why not?”

“‘ T shall want all the porridge myself. You'll have to
take something else, Sue.” |


THE TWO SHOES. 99

“But I haven’t got anything else,” said Sue, looking
puzzled and amused. |

“ Well, if you give me my dinner, it’s fair I should
give you yours,” said Roswald: and rising, he brought
his market-basket to the side of the table, and sat down
again.

“It’s a pity I can’t serve things in their right order,”
he said, as he pulled out a quantity of apples from one
end of the basket :—* but you see the dinner has gone
in here head foremost I never saw anything so trouble-
some to pack. There’s a loaf of bread now, that has no
business to show itself so forward in the world ; but here
it comes——Sue, you'll want a knife and fork.”

And he set a deep, long dish with a cover, on the
table, and then a flat round dish with a cover. Sue
looked stupified. Roswald glanced at her.

‘Your appetite hasn’t gone, Sue, has it?”

But Sue got up and came round to him, and put her
face in her two hands down on his shoulder, and cried
very hard indeed. |

“Why, Sue!” said Roswald gently,—“I never ex-
pected to see you cry for your dinner.” |

But Sue's tears didn’t stop,

‘“‘T'll put all the things back into the basket, if you say
so, said Roswald smiling |

“I don’t say any such thing,” said Sue, lifting up her
tearful face and kissing his cheek, and then she went
round to her seat and sat down with her head in her
hands.- Roswald in his turn got up and went to her and
took hold of her hands. |

‘Come, Sue,—what is the matter? that isn’t fair.
Look here, my porridge is growing cold.”

And Sue laughed and cried together.

“Dear Roswald! what made you do so?”

“ Do what?”

“‘Why,—do so. Youshouldn’t. It was too good of you.”

Roswald gave a merry little bit of a laugh, and began
to take off the covers and put them on the counter.
100 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“Come, Sue, look up; I want my porridge, and I
am waiting for you. Where shall I get a knife and fork?
—in the pantry in the back room?”

Sue jumped up, wiping away her tears, and ran for
the knife and fork; and from that time throughout the
rest of the meal, her face was a constant region of smiles.

“A roast chicken !—Oh, Roswald!—how mother will
like a piece of that! how goodit smells!” —

‘‘She’s had her dinner,” said Roswald, who was carv-
ing; “you must take a piece of it first. I ought in con-
science to have had a separate dish for the potatoes; but
my market-basket was resolved not to take it. Some
— galt, Sue?”

Sue ran for another knife and fork, and then began
upon her piece of chicken; and Roswald helped himself
en of his dish and ate, glancing over now and then at

er.

“You can’t think how good it is, Roswald, after eating
porridge so long,” said Sue, with a perfect new colour of
pleasure in her face.

‘This is capital porridge!” said Roswald. “I’ll
trouble you for a piece of bread, Sue.”

“Why, Roswald, are you eating nothing but por-
ridge?”

“Yes, and I tell youI should like a piece of bread
with it.”

“Ah! do take something else!” said Sue, giving him
the bread. “The porridge will keep till another
time.”

“YT don’t mean it shall, much of it,” said Roswald.
“Jt’s the best dinner I’ ve had in a great while.”

Sue laid down her knife and fork to laugh at him,
though the doing so had very near made her cry again.

* Please take some chicken, Roswald.”

“I'd rather not. Ill take a piece of pie with you
presently.”

“I should think chicken was enough,” said Sue:
“you needn't have brought me pie.” :
THE TWO SHOES. 102

“T wanted some. It’sa mince pie, Sue. Do you re
member that the day after to-morrow is Christmas?”

“Christmas the day after to-morrow?” said Sue.
“No, I had forgot all about Christmas.”

‘“ What shall we do to keep it?”

“Why, nothing, I shan’t,” said Sue, meekly. “I shall
not eat porridge, Roswald. Oh, if father could only come
home: that would be enough keeping of Christmas. We
shouldn’t want anything else.”

“‘ T’ll tell you how it is going to be kept out of doors,”
said Roswald. ‘It is setting in for a fine fall of snow.
Lhe air is beginning to soften and grow hazy already.
I like a snowy Christmas.”

: ‘With snow on the ground; but not snowing?” said
Nue.

“Yes, both ways. Now, Sue, have you another
plate; or will you take it in yur fingers?”

Sue ran off for plates.

‘“‘ How I wish I could give some of this to father,” she
said, as she tasted her first bit of the pie. “How will he
get anything to eat, Roswald ?”

‘They will take care of that,” said Roswald. “He
will have a good dinner, Sue; you needn't be concerned
about it. Ifthey didn’t feed their jurymen, you know,
they might have no jury by the tine the cause was got
through; and that would be inconvenient. Hasn’t he
been at home at all?”

‘* No.”

“They do sometimes let them come home,” said Ros-
wald; “but in this case I suppose they are keeping
everybody tight to the mark.”

‘Why shouldn’t they let them come home at night?”
said Sue; ‘what would be the harm? They must sleep
somewhere.” |

‘They are afraid, Sue, that if they let them out of
sight, somebody may talk to them about the cause, and
put wrong notions into their heads; so that they won't
give a true verdict.”
4102 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

“What is a verdict?” said Sue.

“It’s the jury’s decision. You see, Sue, all the people
-~~all the lawyers, on both sides, will bring all the proof
they can to show whether Simon Ruffin did or did not
shoot Mr. Bonnycastle. One side will try to prove that
he did, and the other side will try to prove he did not.
The jury will hear all that is to be said, and then they
will make up their minds which is the truth. When
they are ready, the judge will ask them, ‘ Gentlemen, are
you agreed upon the verdict?’ and the foreman will say
‘Yes.’ ‘Then the judge will ask, ‘Is the prisoner at the
bar guilty or not guilty?’ and the foreman will sa
according as they have decided, ‘ Guilty,’ or ‘ Not Guilty;’
and that answer is the verdict.”

‘‘And then he will be hanged,” said Sue. |

“If they find he is guilty, he will; but they don’t
condemn him; that is the judge’s business. The jury
only decide what is the truth.” |

“Why must they have so many men todo that? Whv
wouldn't one do as well?”

“It would, if they could be always sure of having a
man who couldn’t and wouldn’t make a mistake. I¢
sce likely that twelve men will all make the same mis-
take.”

‘And must they all be agreed?” said Sue.

“They must all be agreed?”

“ And ifthey are not, the man can't be hanged?”

‘‘ No, nor set free.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Sue.

“Why, Sue?”

“‘ Because, if father isn’t sure that he shot Mr. Bonny:
castle, he won’t let them hang him.”

“ It’s well you can’t be a | uryman, Sue; you would
never let any rogue have his rights.”

“ Yes, I would,” said Sue, gravely; “if I thought he
deserved them.”

“TIT wouldn’t trust you,” said Roswald. “I should
THE TWO SHOES. 108

like to have you on the jury if I was standing a trial for
my life. You’d be challenged, though.”

“Challenged!” said Sue.

ners.

“* What is that?”

“Why, Simon Ruffin for instance might say ‘ Mr.
Peg is an old enemy of mine; he has a grudge against
me; he would not bea fair judge in my case.’ That
would be challenging your father as an improper jury-
man; and he would be put out of the jury.”

“ But father isn’t anybody’s enemy,” said Sue.

“No, L know he isn’t,” said Roswald, smiling; “ but
7 an instance. Will you have some more pie,

ue y 99

‘No, thankyou. Ill put these things away, and see
if mother wants anything ; and then if she don’t I’ll
come down and we’ll talk.”

While Sue cleared away the dishes, Roswald mended
the fire.

“You may as well let the table stand, Sue,” said he,
“we shall want it again.”

“Why, are you coming to eat with me again?” said
Sue. |

‘““T dare say I shall; if yourfather don’t come home,”
said Roswald. |

Sue soon came down, for her mother luckily did not
want her; and the two drew their chairs together and
had a very long conversation, in the course of which
Roswald gave many details of his stay at Merrytown,
and enlightened Sue as to the charms and beauties of a
country village. Sue looked and listened, and quese
tioned and laughed, till there was a knocking up-stairs,
and then they separated. Sue went up to her mother
again, and Roswald left the house.

The room did not look desolate any more, though it
was left without anybody in it. There was the chest-
table, and the contented-looking fire, and the two chairs
All this time, we shoes lay in the corner and nobod*
104 THE CHRISTMAS STGCKING.

looked at us. It seemed as if we were never to get
done.

The fire had died, the afternoon had not quite
assed, when Mrs. Lucy came again. Her knock
rought Sue down. She had come to bring another

little pail of soup, and a basket with some bread and tea
and sugar.

“ Don’t spend your money, my child,” she said: “‘keep
it till you want it more. This will last your mother to-
morrow, and I will see that you have something stronger
than porridge.” :

“Oh, I have, Mrs. Lucy,” said Sue, with a grateful
little face which thanked the lady better than words;
“T’ve got plenty for I don’t know how long.”

‘You don’t look as if you were out of heart,” said Mrs
Lucy. “ You know who can send better times.”

‘‘Oh yes, ma’am,” said Sue. ‘“ He has already.”

“Trust Him, dear; and let me know all you want.”

Sue stood, sober and silent, while Mrs. Lucy went out
atthe door; and then she fell down on her knees before
one of the chairs and sunk her head on her hands; and
was quite still a minute or two, till the knocking
sounded again. It was not a gentle tap on the floor
just to let her know she was wanted; it was an impa-
tient, quarrelsome, vexatious, “rat, tat, tat, tat, tat,
tat !°—“ rat-tat !” —“ rat-tat!” Sue ran up. |

Ihe cobbler did not come home that night, and Ros-
wald would stay in the house. Sue did all she could to
hinder him; for indeed there was nothing for him to
sleep on but the pile of leather scraps; but he would not
be hindered.

“But your mother, Roswald?” she gently asked.

“ What of my mother ?”

“She will want you.”

‘“* How do you know that?”

“‘T should think she would,” said Sue.

“Should you? Well, she thinks, and so do I, that
you want me more”
THE TWO SHORES, 105

“‘ How good you are, dear Roswald!”

“Not very, Sue,” said Roswald, calm]

“Do you know what Mrs. Lucy says?” said Sue
‘She says that you have your own way in everything.”

“Mrs. Lucy might have gone wider from the mark, I
suppose, said Roswald, blowing up the fire.

“Mrs. Lucy is very good,” said Sue. “She brought
us some tea and sugar this afternoon.”

“Did she?” said Roswald. “Then what will you do
with what Mrs. Halifax sent?”

‘‘ Did she send us some?” said Sue. *« Oh, Roswald!”

Roswald laughed at her, and Sue did not know what
to do with herself; she went and fetched down a quantity
of coverlets and things for Roswald to wrap himself up
and be warm through the night; and begged him to
keep a good fire.

Ihe next day still the cobbler did not come home. It
passed with no visitors except Roswald and Mrs. Lucy,
who stepped in for a minute. Sue’s mother wanted her
up-stairs pretty much the whole day; so there could be
little amusement going. Christmas eve Roswald stayed
in the house again. But he went off very early in
the morning, without seeing Sue, after he had made
the fire.

Ihe snow had not come so soon as Roswald thought
it would. There was none on the ground on Christmas
eve. But when Christmas morning rose, the whole of
Beachhead was softly and smoothly covered with white
It had fallen very fast and quietly during the night; the
window-sills were piled up, the door-knob was six inches
high, the snow hung like thatch over the eaves of the
houses. The streets were a soft, pure, printless spread
of white. So they were early, when Roswald first went
out; and whatever kept people’s feet within ‘doors.
whether the dark morning—for the snow still fell—or
happy Christmas delays, there was yet hardly a foot-
print but his to be seen in that part of the street when,
some hours later, a sleigh drawn by a horse, and carry-
106 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

ing two men and a barrel, drew up before Mr. Peg’s
door. Sue had heard the tinkle of the bells which the
horse bore on his neck; and as it told of the first sleigh-
ing that year, she wént to the window to look out.
There was the sleigh, and one man, and the barrel; the
other man had jumped off and was knocking at the
front door.

“Very odd!” thought Sue; “what can they want
here ?”—but she ran down stairs and opened the door.
the barrel was rolling up over the snow to the house,
and the two men were behind pushing it. The cold air,
and the yet falling snow, and the white street, the men
and the barrel rolling up towards Sue! Sue was be-
wildered. But that barrel must go somewhere, and she
held the door open. |

“What is it?” said Sue. “It doesn’t belong here,
does it ?” |

““ Here’s ‘Mr. Peg’ on it,” said one of the men; “and
this is Mr. Peg’s house, ain’t it?” :

“What is it?” said Sue, in astonishment, as the barre]
now stood up on end at the end of her chest.

“It's a barrel of flour, I guess,” said the man. “ Looks
like it, and it come from Mr. Hoonuman’s.”

‘“‘ Flour!” said Sue, |

But the men with their heavy snow-shoes clumped
out again, and shut the door behind them with a bang
Sue stood and looked. |

_ There was the barrel, full sized, standing on end, one
side of it still lightly coated with snow: and there were
the snow-marks on the floor of the feet that had been
there. It wasn’t a dream. It was a real barrel, and
even the snow wasn’t in a hurry to melt away.

Suddenly it flashed into Sue’s little mind that it might
be a Christmas gift,—and then whoever sent it ought to
have been there—when the unwonted rosy colour sprang
to her cheeks, and made her for a minute look like a
happy child. And whoever sent it ought to have seen,
® minute after, the bended head, and heard the thanks-
THE TWO SHOES. 107

giving that was not spoken, and the prayer, earnest and
deep, for a blessing on the friend that had sent it.

Sue had lifted her head, but had not moved, when
Roswald opened the door.

‘Oh, Roswald! do you see this?”

“ Merry Christmas, Sue,” said Roswald, gaily.

“Oh, Roswald do you know what this is?”

“It is very like a barrel of flour,” said Roswald. “T
should be surprised if it was anything else.”

‘But, Roswald, who sent it?”

“Why, Sue!—Santa Claus, to be sure. Don’t you
know what day it is?”

“It didn’t come down the chimney,” said Sue, “ that
I know.”

“Tf Santa Claus had taken me into his confidence,
you know, Sue, it would not be a honest thing to betray
him. I wonder what you can do with a barrel of flour,
now you have got it.”

“Do?” said Sue ;—but just then there was another
knock at the door. Roswald opened it. In came a boy
with a long string of fine black and blue fish, which
Mrs. Binch had sent to Sue. |

‘ Beachhead is waking up,” said Roswald.

“Oh, Roswald!” said Sue, beginning to get into the
spirit of the thing—“did you ever see anything like
those fish? Oh, tell Mrs. Binch, I thank her a great many
times, please—a great many times; Iam very much obliged
to her, and so is father. Oh, Roswald!—do see !——”

‘There's your mother knocking, Sue,” said Roswald.
“Run off, and I'll take care of these fish. You get
ready for breakfast.”

Sue went off in one direction and Roswald in another.
He was the first to come back, with a beautifully cleaned
fish, which he soon had upon the coals. He then set
the table and got the bread and the tea; and by that
time Sue came, as happy and as humble as possible, to
enjoy her breakfast. Whether or not Roswald had had
another breakfast before, he at any rate kept her com-


108 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

pany in hers, both talking and eating. The fish was
declared to be the finest that could come out of the sea,
and Roswald was probably adjudged to be the best cook
on land; if he had been, his work could not have given
better satisfaction.

Roswald had to go away after breakfast, and told Sue
his mother would want him at dinner, and he could not
be there again before evening, but then he would come.
Sue was satisfied with everything.

Her day was spent for the most part up-stairs. But
there were some breaks to it. A servant came in the
course of the morning, bringing some bottles of wine
for her mother, from Mrs. Halifax. Sue was already in
a state of happiness that could hardly be heightened,
and was in fact endeavouring to bear it with the help of
her Bible, for it was in her hand whenever she came
down-stairs. But her eyes sparkled afresh at this gitt,
because it came from Mrs. Halifax, and because it was
what her mother wanted. Sue could not wait. She
begged the man to open one of the bottles for her;
which with no little difficulty was done, without a cork-
screw ; and then, when he had gone, Sue poured a little
into a teacup, and went up-stairs with such a face—joy
and love were dancing a waltz in it.

A little before noon, there came another knock at the
door. A modest knock this was, so gentle that Sue
probably did not hear it. The knocker had not patience,
or was not scrupulous; he opened the door half way
and pushed in a square wooden box, nailed up, and
directed; after which he went away again, leaving it
there to tell its own tale.

It seemed to tell nothing that Sue could understand.
She looked at it, when she next came down, with all her
eyes and on all sides; but it was fast nailed up; she
could not by any means open it, and she could not tell
what was inside. She easily guessed that it was another
Christmas,” but in what form? She sat and looked
at it with a face of infinite delight. She walked round
THE TWO SHOES. 109

it. Nothing was to be made of it but a pine box,
tolerably heavy, with her own name and her father’s in
large black letters on the upper side. Those letters did
look lovely. Sue read them a great many times that
day, and sat and gazed at the wooden box; but she
could do nothing with it till Roswald came. He came
at last, towards evening. Sue was watching for him.

“Oh, Roswald, there you are !—here’s another!”

“ Another what?” said Roswald, gravely.

‘* Another Christmas gift—look here !” |

“* Looks very like Christmas,” said Roswald.

“ Dear Roswald, won’t you get a hammer?”

“A hammer,” said Roswald. “I suppose Mr. Joist
will lend me one.”

He went to borrow it, and opened the box. Sue
watched with breathless interest while the hammer did
its work, and pieces of the cover came up one by one.

‘“‘ Now, Sue!”—said Roswald, as he stepped back, and
began to draw the nails out of the wood.

Sue drew the things out of the box with slow and
cautious fingers, that seemed almost afraid of what they
found. She did not say a word, but one or two half:
breathed “oh’s!” There was a nice and complete outfit
of clothes for her. On the top lay a paper written
with—

“ For little Susan Peg, from some friends that love
her.”

When she got to the bottom, Sue looked up.

‘¢Oh, Roswald! Who sent me these?”

“Some friends of little Susan Peg, that love her,” said
Roswald.

‘Did you know about it ?” |

“TI heard my mother speak about it, Sue”

“ Did she do it?” |

“Not she alone. Mrs. Lucy, and some other ladies,
fll had a hand in it.”

“Oh, how good they are!
It was long before Sue could get up from the floor

a7


110 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

Roswald stood hammer in hand, looking at her, and
smiling At last Sue packed the box again. |

‘‘T don’t deserve it all,” she said; “ but then, I don’t
deserve anything. Now, I think we’ll have some tea.”

“Tl go and carry back this hammer,” said Roswald,
“and then I’m ready. I'm very thirsty.”

“Oh, dear Roswald!” said Sue, “‘ won’t you just open
that barrel of flour first ?—it will save going for the
hammer again, and mother thinks she wants some
Pop-robin.” :

“But what’s Pop-robin good for, without milk?” said
Roswald, as they went to the barrel, which he had rolled
into the pantry.

“Oh, now I might get a halfpenny’s worth of milk,”
said Sue ;—“ it’s for mother; and now we have so many
things we might afford it.”

“See you don't,” said Roswald. “ Mother sends you
word—there are enough nails in this barrel,—she says
you may have as much milk as you want from her cow,
whenever you will come for it, or I will bring it; so
between us I think it’ll be safe to count upon it.” |

He was hammering at the barrel-head, and Sue stand-
ing by, looking very pleased ; her little hand gratefully
resting on his shoulder; when a hand was suddenly laid
on hers. Sue turned.

“Father!” she exclaimed—“Oh, father!—are you
come home ?—Oh, I’m so glad!”

Ihe cobbler’s gray head was stooped almost to the
barrel-top, and Sue’s arms were round his neck; and
how many times they kissed each other I don’t believe
either of them knew. It seemed impossible for Sue
to loose her hold.

“And you are here, my boy,” said the cobbler, turn-
ing to Roswald,—“ doing my work.”

‘No, sir, [ have been doing mine,” said Roswald.

. “Qh, father, he has taken such care of me!” said
ue.

“TI warrant him,” said the cobbler. “If I had known
THE TWO SHOES. lly

that Roswald Halifax was in town, I could have minded
my business with more quietness.”

*“‘ And is it done, father?” said Sue.

“Tt is done, my child.”

“And what have you done with that man ?” |

“We have declared him upon our judgment, not
guilty.”

‘“‘ Oh, I’m so glad!” gaid Sue.

They came back to their tea, all three ; and more
black fish was broiled; and all the Christmas was told
over; and well nigh all the trial. The jury had been
kept in all Christmas Day to agree upon their verdict.

From that day the cobbler’s affairsimproved: Whether
his friends exerted themselves to better his condition,
now that they knew it, or whether Mr. Ruffin’s friends
did, or whether neither did, but other causes came into
work, certain it is, that from that time the cobbler’s
hands had something to do; and more and more till
they had plenty. So it came to pass that this poor pair
of shoes didn’t get finished till about a month ago; and
then Mr. Krinken must take it into his head that we
would fit his little boy, and brought us here—for which
we owe him a grudge, as we wanted decidedly to spend
our lives with Mr. Peg and his little brown-headed
daughter.

‘“‘ Did Mrs. Peg get well?” said Carl.

“Yes, long ago, and came down-stairs; but she was
no improvement to the family, though her getting well
was.”

‘““T am very sorry that story is done,” said Carl. “I
want to hear some more about Roswald Halitax.”

‘<'There is no more to tell,” said the shoe.

If Carl had been puzzled on Friday as to what story
he would hear, he was yet more doubtful on Saturday.
There lay the pine-cone, the hymn-book, and the stock-
ing, on the old chest, and there sat Carl on the floor
beside them,—sometimes pulling his fingers and some-
times turning over the three remaining story-tellers, by
4112 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

way of helping him to make up his mind. As a last
resort he was taking a meditative survey of the ends of
nis toes, when a little shrill voice from the chest startled
him; and the pine-cone began without more ado.

Ohe Story of the Pine-Cone,

“Wuew!” said the North wind.—‘ Whew—r—r—r
pa ! 99

The fir-trees heard him coming, and bowed their tall
heads very gracefully, as if to tell the wind he could not
do much with them. Only some of the little cones who
had never blown about a great deal, felt frightened, and
said the wind made their teeth chatter. |
“Do you think we can stay on?” asked one little

cone; and the others would have said they didn’t know,
but the wind gave the tree such another shake that their
words were lost.

“ Whew—r—r—r—r!” said the wind.

And again the fir-trees bowed to let him pass, and
swayed from side to side, and the great branches creaked
and moaned and flung themselves about in a desperate
kind of way; but the leaves played sweet music. It
was their fashion whenever the wind blew.

‘“ T think we shall have snow,” said the tallest of the
fir-trees, looking over the heads of his companions.

“The sky is very clear,” remarked a very small and
inexperienced fir, who was so short he could not see
much of anything.

“Yes,” said the tall one, “so you think; but there
is a great deal of sky besides that which is over our
heads; and I can see the wind gathering handfuls of
snow-clouds which he will fling about us presently ”
THE PINE-CONE. 118

“Yes,” repeated the tall fir, with another graceful
bend, “I see them—they are coming.”

The evergreens were all sorry to hear this, for no-
thing depressed them so much as snow; the rain they
could generally shake off—at least if it didn’t freeze too
hard.

As for the beeches, they said if that was the case they
must put off their summer clothes directly. And one
little beech, with a great effort, did succeed in shaking
off half a dozen green leaves the next time the wind
came that way. |

“You need not hurry yourselves,” said the tall fir—
“this is only an early storm—the winter will not come
yet. I can still see the sun for a few minutes every day.”

And that was true. For a few minutes the sun
showed himself above the horizon, and then after
making a very small arch in the sky, down he went
again. Then came the long afternoon of clear twi-
light; and the longer night, when the stars threw soft
shadows like a young moon, and looked down to see
their bright eyes in the deep fiord that lay at the foot
of the fir-trees. For this was on the north-west side of
Norway; and the fir-trees grew by one of the many
inlets of the sea which run far away for miles into the
country, and are called fiords.

At the mouth the fiord was so narrow, and the over-
hanging trees so thick, that you might have coasted
along, backwards and forwards, without perceiving
the entrance; but to the country people it was well
known and unmistakably marked out by one particular
hemlock. Pushing your little boat through its green
branches that dipped their fingers in the water, the
fiord opened before you. The banks on each side were
for the most part very steep, and often wooded to the
water's edge; while sometimes a pitch of bare rocks
and a noisy cataract came rough and tumble down
together, pouring disturbanee into the smooth waters of
the fiord

I
114 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The fiord itself was too beautiful to be half described.
It wound about from rock to rock, now washing gently
at the base of a high mountain, and then turning and
spreading out, bay-like, where the shore was lower and
the hills stood aloof; but everywhere overhung or
nodded to by the great trees that looked as if they had
known it since it was a mere rill—the beeches and oaks
and hemlocks, the tall pines like a ship’s mainmast ; and
most of all, by that glory of those forests—the Norway
spruce fir. ‘These watched the fiord everywhere—in
the regions of solitude, and in the spots where a little
clearing—a waft of blue smoke—the plaintive bleat of
a goat mounting up in the world, or the hearty bow-
wow! of some hardy little dog that was minding his
own business and everybody’s else, told of a human
habitation. Behind all—beyond cliff and wood ana
everything but the blue sky, towered up the peaks of
perpetual snow—whose bare heads no man had ever
seen.

The fiord could not poimt heavenward after that
fashion. But it reflected every bit of blue that came
over it, and even when the skies were dark, and the
snow-peaks hid their heads in a cloud, the fiord’s
reflections were only grave and thoughtful— never
gloomy. |

And the water was so clear! |

Sailing along in a little boat you could look down,
down, for twenty fathoms, and see the smooth white
sand; with little shells and star-fish, and then the
bottom of the fiord rose suddenly up like a rocky
mountain—over which the boat passed into a deep
gulf on the other side. Then came a plain, and great
forests, far down in the water; through which large
— swam softly about; and then another moun-
tain. |

In one of the narrowest parts of the fiord a little
spot of cleared and cultivated land lay like a smile
between it and the rough mountain. A mere point of
THE PINE-CONE. 115

land—a little valley wedged in among the heights that
rose cliff beyond cliff towards the blue sky, fringed here
and there with fir-trees. The valley smiled none the
less for all this roughness; and the little dwelling that
there found a foothold seemed rather to court the pro-
tection of the cliffs, and to nestle under their shelter.
It was such a one as best suited the place.

It was built of great pine logs, roughly squared and
laid one upon another, with layers of moss between;
while every crevice and crack was well stuffed with the
same. ‘he roof was of boards, covered with strips of
birch bark; and over all a coating of earth two or three
inches deep in which a fine crop of moss had taken
root. Lhe windows were large, and well glazed with
coarse glass, while very white curtains hung within;
and the door was painted in gay colours. Other little
_ huts or houses stood about, forming a sort of square;
and furnishing apartments for the pig, the cows, and
their winter provision; while one more carefully built
than the rest, held all manner of stores for the family.
Raised upon posts, that the rats might not enter, the
little alpebod kept safe the fish, the venison, the vege-
tables—even the cloth, yarn, and sometimes clothing, of
its humble owners.

In sight of the house, a little way down the fiord, was
a, wild ravine ; skirted on one side with a height of thick
~ woods and rocks, while on the other the rocks stood
alone—the sharp ridge rising up hundreds of feet to a
ledge in some places not a foot wide. On either side
the ridge the declivity was very precipitous, the one
depth being filled with forest trees which led on to the
wooded hill beyond; while the ravine on the left echoed
to the voice of a water-fall, that pouring down over a
pile of rocks perhaps two hundred feet high, foamed
into the fiord; and then came eddying past the little
hut, bearing the white flakes yet on its blue waters.

This was all one could see in the valley; but the tall
fir-trees looked at long ranges of wooded hills and rocky
116 TOE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

cliffs, with the fiord in its further windings, and beyond
all the snow mountains.

‘How cold you must be up there!” said a little

ine who was nearly as high as the tall firs lower

eats But the fir did not hear him, or perhaps
did not take notice, for he was looking off at the fine
prospect.

“Yes, it is cold up here,” answered one of the fir-
cones—“ and windy—and there’s a great deal of same-
ness about it. It’s just snow and rain, and wind and
sunshine, and then snow again.”

“That's what it is everywhere,” said the wind, as he
swept by.

“T can’t help it,” said the cone—‘I’m tired of it
I want to travel, and see the world, and be of some
use to society. What can one do in the top of a fir-
tree ?”

‘Why, what can a pine-cone do anywhere?” said
some of the beechmast.

“The end of a pine-cone’s existence is not to be eaten
up, however,” retorted the cone sharply. ‘Neither am
1 a pine-cone—though people will call me so. We firs
hold our heads pretty high, I can tell you. But I will
throw myself into the fiord some day, and go to sea. I
have no doubt I could sail as well as a boat. It would
be a fine thing to discover new islands, and take posses-
gion.” ,
“It would be very lonely,” said a squirrel, who was
gathering beechmast.

‘“Royally so,” said the pine-cone. “There one would
be king of all the trees.”

“The trees never had but one king, and that was a
bramble,” said a reed at the water’s edge who was well
versed in history.

‘‘ What nonsense you are all talking!” said the tall
fir-tree at length. “My top leaf is at this moment
loaded with a snow flake—there is something sensible
for you to think of.”
THE PINE-CONE. 117

At this moment the hut door opened and a woman
came out.

She wore a dark stuff petticoat made very short, with
warm stockings and thick shoes; a yellow close-fitting
bodice was girdled round her waist, and from under it
came out a white kerchief and very full white sleeves.
On her head she wore a high white cap.

She looked first at the weather, and then turning
towards the fall she watched or listened for a few
minutes—but water and rocks and firs were all that eye
or ear could find out. Then going up to a line stretched
between two of the fir-trees, she felt at some things that
hung there to dry. 7

‘“‘ spose that was her clothes line,” said Carl.

“No, it wasn’t,” replied the cone—“I might rather
call it her bread line. The things that hung there were
great pieces of the inner bark of the pine-tree, and
looked very much like sheets of foolscap paper.” -

“ She didn’t make bread out of them, I should think,”
said Carl.

‘Yes she did,” replied the cone. ‘She made many a
loaf of bark bread, by pounding the dry bark and mixing
it with flour. It wasn’t particularly bad bread either.
So people say—I never tasted it. But the country folks
in Norway use it a great deal in hard seasons; and in
those woods you often meet great pine-trees that have
been stripped of their bark, and that have dried and
bleached in the weather till they look as if made of bone
or marble.”

‘“W ell—the pieces of bark were dry, and Norrska began
to take them off the line, for of course the snow would
not improve them.”

“Who was Norrska?” interrupted Carl.

“The good woman that came out of the house. She
took them down, and when they were all in a heap at
tke foot of the tree she began to carry them off to the
alpebod—that is the little storehouse 1 spoke of. Then
she went back into the hut for a minute, and when she
118 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

came out again she had on a long-sleeved gray woollen
jacket, and her luur in her hand.”

“What's that?” said Carl.

“The luur is a long trumpet-shaped thing, made of
hollow pieces of wood, or pieces of birch bark, tied
together, and four or five feet long.”

‘What was it for?” said Carl.

“Why you shall hear, if you will have patience,” said
the cone. ‘ Norrska raised the luur with one hand,
and putting her mouth to the little end there came forth
from the other sundry sweet and loud sounds, which
echoed back .and forth among the rocks till they died
away far up the mountain.”

“ButI say,” said Carl, “what for?” And he took
hold of the pine-cone and gave it a little pinch; but it
was pretty sharp and he let go again.

Ihe pine-cone settled himself down on the chest,
looking just as stiff as ever, and then went on with hig
story.

— sounded her luur twice or thrice, and pre-
sently the head and horns of 2 red cow showed them-
selves high up among the rocks. Then came in sight
her shoulders and fore feet, and her hind feet and tail,
and the whole cow began to descend into the valley;
while a dun cow’s head showed itself in just the same
place and fashion. But when Norrska had once seen
that they were coming she ceased to watch them, and
turned to the fall again.

Its white foam looked whiter than ever in the gather-
ing dusk. ‘The gray clouds which were fast closing in
overhead sent down a cold gray light, and the water
before it broke no longer sparkled with the sun’s: gay
beams, but looked leaden and cold and deep. Then
breasted with snow like the stormy petrel, it came flying
down the precipice, to plunge into the deep fiord below
Its very voice seemed changed; for the wind had died
away, and the steady roar of the water was the only
sound that broke the silence.
THE PINE-CONE. 119

There was no living creature in sight,—unless a little
lemming peeped out of his hole, or an eagle soared across
the sky, a mere speck upon its clouds. The cows had
reached the valley and now stood quietly chewing the
cud, having had the precaution to turn their backs to the
wind; and now Norrska fetched the milk pails and
drove the red cow up to the milking corner. And as she
went, a snow flake fell on her forehead and another fell
on the top of her head; and the fir-trees sighed, and
and bowed their heads to what they couldn’t help
Norrska sighed too. |

‘The winter is coming,” she said, “and the snow’
and truly the alpebod is but poorly filled. And Snee-
flocken sick—and Laaft not home from Lofoden !—And
Kiine—what can keep him?” And again she looked
towards the fall.

Kline was there now—she could see him plain enough,
though he was but a little spot on that sharp ridge by
the waterfall. The path itself was hard to find, as it
wound about over and under and around the points of
rock that met on the ledge. A stranger could scarce
have climbed it but on hands and knees. Yet down
there came Kline, sure-footed as a chamois—swiftly
down; and singing praises of the rocks and streams and
woods and snow as hecame. But before he reached the
foot of the hill Kline’s song stopped,—-with the first look
at the hut his thoughts had outrun his feet ; and with a
quieter step now, he came down into the valley and ur
to where his mother sat milking the red cow. In one
hand was a gun, in the other a string of goiden plovers.

“ How late, Kline!” said Norrska.

“Yes, mother—I tried to get shot atarein-deer. How
is she?”

Norrska silently pointed to a snowflake, which falling
on her hand as she talked, had lain for a moment in all
its pure beauty, but was now melting fast away. She
watched till it disappeared, and then bending her head
lower than ever, she resumed her work.
120 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

Kline stood silent and thoughtful.

“Maybe not, mother,” he said at length. “Her ape
petite has been better lately. See—I have these plovers
for her to-night, and to-morrow I will have the deer.
Think of my finding one in these parts!” a

But his mother said no more, and when the pails were
full Kline took them from her and carried them into one
of the little huts; and then returning he drove the cows
into their little log dwelling, and taking up his birds and
gun he walked slowly to the house. But the gayly pain-
ted door was out of tune with his mood, and he turned
and went round the back way.

Leaving both gun and birds in the kitchen, Kline
opened softly the door leading to one of the bedrooms
and went in.

The corner of this room and the sides of the windows
were boarded, and the floor was strewed with fresh twigs
of the juniper tree; which gave a sweet smell through
the room, and made it look pretty too. Of the three
windows, two looked towards the fiord and one to the
mountain and over the little clearing. The bed stood in
a recess that had doors like one of your cupboards; but
these now were open, and by the bedside was a little
white pine table, and upon it a wooden bowl and spoon—
all prettily carved.

‘Flow were they carved?” said Carl.

“The bowl had carved upon it a spray of the wild
bramble—twining round with its leaves and berries;
and the handleof the spoon was like a wild duck’s head ,
and the feet of the table were like bear’s feet. Kline
had done it all, for in Norway the men and boys carve
a great deal, and very beautifully; and this bowl and
spoon had been made forhis little sister as he sat by her
bedside, and Kline was verv proud of them. The
feathers on the duck’s head were beautifully done, and the
bramble-berries looked pretty enough to eat. But Kline
_ did not once Jook at them now, for something far pret-

tier lay on the bed, and th>+ was little Sneeflocken.”
THE PINE-CONE. 121

“What did they call her that for?” said Carl.

‘‘ Because that is the name of the snowflakes. And
she was just as pure and fresh as they, and had never
had the least bit of colour in her cheeks from the time
she wasa baby. You could scarcely have distinguished
them from the pillow but for the fair hair that came
between. She was covered with a quilt made of down;
for Kline had risked his life almost in climbing to the
high difficult places where the eider-ducks build their
nests, that he might get the soft down which the mother
duck plucks from her own breast to keep her eggs and
nestlings warm. And Norrska had made it into a quilt,
the warmest thing that could be—while the weight of it
was almost nothing.

And beneath this soft quilt Sneeflocken lay, with her
eyes closed, and singing softly to herself in the Norse
language a hymn, which was something like this.

**O little child, lie still and sleep !
Jesus is near,
Thou need’st not fear ;—
No one need fear, whom God doth keep,
By day or night.
Then lay thee down in slumber deep
Till morning light.”

“© liitle child, thou need’st not wake;
Though bears should prowl,
_ And wolfish howl,
And watchdog’s bark, the silence break.
Jesus is strong,—
And angels watch thee for his sake,
The whole night long.”

“© little child, lie still and rest,—
He sweetly sleeps
Whom Jesus keeps,—
And in the morning wake, so blest,
His child to be,
Love every one, but love him best,—»
Ue Exst loved thee.”
122 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

“© little child, when thou must die,
Fear nothing then,
But say Amen! |
To God’s command; and quiet lie
In his kind hand,
Till he shall say, ‘ Dear child, come fly
To heaven’s bright land.’

“ Then with thy angel-wings quick grown, -
Shalt thou ascend,
To meet thy Friend,—
Jesus the little child will own—
Safe, at his side!
And thou shalt live before the throne
Because he died !”

Kline had to step back into the shadow of the dvor of
the recess, to wipe the téars off his face, before he could
venture to speak to his little sister. But she spoke first

“ Kline!”

“What, dear?” said her brother coming forward.

“1 thought I heard your step,” said Sneeflocken with
a smile, and putting up her lips to kiss him. “Where
have you been all day?”

_ _“Oh, over the mountains—hunting,” said Kline, as
cheerfully as he could. “I saw a great reindeer,
Flocken ; and I mean to go and find him to-morrow _
That would fill the alpebod finely, and you would like
some venison—wouldn’t you, dear?” | | :

“Oh, yes,” said Flocken with a little smile; “but
£ wouldn’t kill the deer for that.”

‘“T would,” said Kline. “ And it would help mother,
too.”

“I should like to help mother, if I could,” said Snee-
flocken, putting her little thin hands together. “ But
Jesus will—I have asked him.”

“ Why, you help us all,” said Kline; “just as the birds
do when they sing, or the sun when it shines.” _~™

“Maybe I shall by-and-by,” said the child smiling
again in that grave, quiet way. } ;
THE PINE-CONE. 133

‘Yes, by-and-by, when you grow up to be a strong
woman,” said Kline.

‘No, Kline,” said Sneeflocken, stroking his face, “‘ No,
dear Kline—but by-and-by when I go to heaven. May-
be God will let me help to take care of her then, and of
- you, too, Kline. But you will not know that it is your
little Sneeflocken.”

And Kline could only sit and hold her in his arms,
and say nothing. The snow fell all that night, and the
winter set in early ; and the waterfall scattered icicles
upon every branch and rock in its way, and then built
for itself an ice trough through which it poured down
as noisily as ever. ‘Then the sun never showed his face
but for a few minutes, and the rest of the day was twi-
light. And at night the moon shone splendidly, and the
northern lights showed peaks of fire in the heavens; or
sometimes there were only the stars, burning clear in
the high lift, and twinkling down in the dark fiord be-
tween the shadows of the fir-trees. Now and then a
bear would come out and prowl about the little dwell-
ing, or a wolf gave a concert with the waterfall; but
cows and pigs were safe shut up; and Foss, the little
dog, showed so much disapprobation at the concert, that
often the wolves had not one for nights together. Laaft,
the father of Kline, got home from Lofoden with his
stock of dried fish; and Kline himself had shot his reins
deer: and both meat and fish were safely stowed in the
alpebod. Didn’t the wolves know that! and didn’t their
mouths water sometimes at night till they were [ringed
with icicles! But they never tried to break in, for the
alpebod was strong; and little Foss knew as well as the
wolves what good things were there ; and scolded ter-
ribly if everybody and everything did not keep at a
respectful distance. And besides all that, the wolves
were afraid of the light that always shone from one room .
of the little cottage. . |

“This is a very quiet way of life—ours,” said the fir
trees, nodding to each other.
{24 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

‘“‘T’m very tired of it,’ said one of the cones. “It’s
very cold up here, and really in the dark one cannot see
to do much.”

“A fir glories in the frost and the cold and the snow,”
said the tall tree, proudly. ‘We are not called upon to
do anything but to make sweet music to the wind, and
to keep it from blowing too fiercely upon the little hut,
and to show our fine heads against the sky. The snow-
birds are warm in our arms during the lon g night, for
we have plenty of good clothes all the year round.”

Ihe beeches heard this speech, but were too frost-
bound to make any answer.

“What became of the discontented pine-cone?” said
Carl. ‘“ Did he throw himself into the fiord ?”

“Yes,” said the cone, “at least one night he tried
so do so. But he fell on the shore instead—just dropped
down at the foot of the fir-tree: and there Kline found
him one day, and picked him up and carried him into
the house to. show Flocken—he was such a large one.”

Every night through the winter was that hight burn-
ing in the same room of the hut; and every day did
Kline come out with his gun and spend what daylight
there was in hunting. Sometimes he brought home a
hare or a ptarmigan, or a partridge that he had snared,
or a wild duck; while his father was cutting wood, or
away in his boat to catch fish.

“T could get only one partridge to-day, dear Flocken,”
Kline would say upon his return home; “but perhaps
I shall find something better to-morrow.” ;

“Qh, Kline,” said his little sister, “ how good you are
to take so much trouble for me! Butit’s a pity to kill the
ale ; they can’t make me live, so we might let them

ve.

“Wasn’t that a fine bird you had yesterday?” said

ne.

‘Oh, yes,” said Flocken: “it was delicious. I think
everything is good that you get for me, and that my
mother cooks. But then you know I can’t eat much.”
THE PINE-CONE — 495

If you had seen her as she lay there—so thin, so white
—you night as soon as suspected a very snowflake of
eating much.

“So it don’t make much difference,” repeated little
Sneeflocken, “what I have; only I do believe Kline,
that I like to have you take so much trouble, and go
away up in the snow to get things for me.” And she
put her arms round his neck, and laying her white face
against his coarse gray jacket, she stroked and caressed
him until Kline thought his heart would burst beneath
the weight of that little snow-flake.

‘“When the spring comes,” he said, “ we will go up
the mountain and look for flowers; and I will make you
a wreath of violets and fringed pinks, little Flocken.”

Sneeflocken stroked his face and smiled, and then she
looked grave again. |

“And forget-me-nots, Kline,” she said softly, “you
will want them, too. The little blue forget-me-nots, they
are so like the sky colour. You will think about me,
Kline, whenever you see them, for I shall know what
the sky is made of then. Where’s mother?”

“She is cooking your partridge,” said Kline. ‘ Don't
you smell it? ”

“Oh, yes,” said the child, smiling, ‘and I think the
wolves smell ittoo. How loud they howl!”

“You are not afraid of them?” said her brother

tenderly. |
“No,” said Sneeflocken with a strange look of weak-
ness and trust upon her little face. “No, 1 am not

afraid of them, for the Good Shepherd is very strong. I
should be afraid if it wasn’t for that. How kind he 1s,
Kline, to think about such poor little children as we are!
And it’s kind of him to take me away, too, for I’m not
very strong—Il don’t think I could ever be of much use.”

“You are of too much use, my little Sneeflocken,”
said Kline sadly, “ because we shouldn’t know what to
do without you.”

“ Why you will have me, then,” said the child looking
126 THE CHRISTMAS STOOKING.

up in his face. “Just as you have the flowers now,
Kline. And you can think about me, and say that some
day you will go up and up to find me.” ©

“Up to find you!” said Laaft, who with Norrska had
just entered the room. “Are you going to play hide-and-
seek with Kline upon the mountains, my little dear?”
~ But Norrska asked no such question, for she knew
what Sneeflocken meant, well enough; but she brought
the roast partridge to the bedside, on a little wooden
plate that had a row of pine-cones carved all round the
edge; and sitting down on the bed she watched the
child eat her scanty supper, when Kline had lifted her
up, and wrapped an old cloak about her.

Little Foss had followed them in, and now he sat wag-
ging his tail and beating the floor with it, just because
we felt uncomfortable, and didn’t know what to do with
himself—not at all because he smsit the partridge. For
he knew perfectly well that Sneeflocken was sick; and
when she had finished her supper, and called ‘“ Foss!
Foss!”—the little dog ran to the bed, and standing as
high as he could on his hind legs thrust his cold nose
into her hand, and whined and whimpered with joy and
sorrow. Then in a tumult of excitement, he dashed out
of the house to bark at the wolves again.

Thus they watched her, by day and by night, through
the long winter; but before the first spring days came,
the little snowflake had melted away and sunk down
into the brown earth.

They made her grave within the little clearing, just
between the house windows and the mountain; where
the fir shadows could just touch it sometimes, but where
the sunlight came as well. And within the little white
railing that enclosed the grave, they placed an upright
slab of wood, upon which Kline had carved these words
as Norrska desired him.

“Say unto her,—Is it well with thee? is it well with
thy husband? is it well with the child? And she an-
swered, ‘lt is well.”
THE HYMN-BOOK. 197

The grass grew green and fresh there, and the little
blue forget-me-nots that Kline had planted about the
grave soon covered it with their flowers. And sometimes
when Kline stood there leaning over the paling, he al-
most fancied that it was as she said,—that God had sent
her to take care of them; and that it was not the soft
spring wind which stroked his face, but the hand of his
htt leSneeflocken.

‘““Were you that discontented pine-cone?” said Carl,
when he had sat for some time thinking over the story.

“Yes,” said the cone, “and I was carried into the
house as I told you. And then because Sneeflocken had
once held me in her little hand, Kline said he would
keep me always.” :

“Butt say!” said Carl, knitting his brows and look-
ing very eager ; “ how did you get here?”

‘* Because other people were as foolish as I was, and
didn’t know when they were well off,’ said the cone.
‘For Kline was your mother’s grandfather; and when
he died, and she left her home to follow the fortunes of
John Krinken, she brought the old pine-cone with her;
to remember the tall fir-trees that waved above the old
hut in Norway, and toremind her of little Foss, and
Kline, and Sneeflocken.”

The Story of the Hynn-Book.

“Crary! Clary!—wake up! you'll be late. See how
ight it’s getting.”

“Well, mother—but I’m so tired! What's the good
of living so, mother?” |

“ One must live somehow, child, till one’s time comes
to die.” |

Clary did not say, but she thought, as she raised her
128 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

self slowly from the hard little straw bed, that it did not
matter how soon that time came for her. Work! work!
—living to work and working to live Working hard too,
and for what a pittance of life! Was it living to sleep
half as much as she wanted, and then to get up in the
cold gray dawn of a winter’s morning, get three or four
dirty children out of bed and into such clothes as they
had; and then, after as much breakfast as she had had
sleep, to take that long cold walk in her old straw bon-
net and thin cotton shawl to the printing-office,—there
to stand all day supplying the busy iron fingers of the
press? How thin and blue her own were!

Poor Clary! In truth slte did not know what it was
to live, in the real sense of the word; her mind looked
back to no happier time than the present ; for though she
could well remember being a dirty little child like her
brothers and sisters, with nothing to do but play or
quarrel as she felt inclined, yet she by no means wished
the time back again. The death of her father, and the
consequent absence of his bottle and his wild fits of in-
toxication, had left the family in a peaceful state com-
pared with those days; and since Clary had been at the
_ printing-office she had learned to love the sight of de-
cently dressed people—had begun to take more pains to
look nice herself; and above all, had begun to feel that
she would like to be happy, and well-dressed, and respect-
able, if she only knew how. But they were very, very
poor, and there were a cluster of little mouths to fill,
as clamorous and wide open as a nest of young swal-
lows, and never saying “enough.” As though she
kept her face cleaner and her hair smoother, and when
she could get them sewed hooks and eyes on her dress,
~—the march of improvement rested there; and her face
was as hopeless, her eye as dull, as ever. For nobod
had ever taught Clary about that “one thing needful”
which can make up for the want of all others. She had

. never been to church, she had never read the Bible—

and indeed had nore to read. She thought that no
THE HYMN-BOOK. 129

thing but money could make them happy; she thought
nobody could want anything but money; and was
really not much surprised that people were so loth to
part with it. They must be so, she thought, or the poor
press-tenders could not be so very far removed from the
heads of the concern, in comfortable appearance.

There were many of the women indeed that spent
more upon their dress than she did. A tawdry silk
jacket worked all day at her right hand, and a pair of
earrings dangled all day before her; while her own
dress was but the coarsest calico; but Clary had some-
how or other begun to wish for neatness and comfort—
of course finery was forgotten.

Never had she been much inclined to envy anybody,
till one day the head printer brought his two little chil-
' dren to the office; and Clary’s heart beat quick time to
her sorrowful thoughts all the hours after. Oh, to see
those children at home, with clean faces, and smooth
hair, and whole frocks and trousers! And now there
were rags and dirt and tangled locks; and no time to
mend matters, and small stock of soap and combs, or
needles to mend with. Clary went straight to bed when
she got home that night; and it was on the next
morning that she awoke with the question—

‘‘ Mother, what’s the use of living so?”

But as her mother had said, she must live somehow;
and getting wearily out of bed, hastily too, for it was
indeed late, Clary easily found her way into such clothes
as she had; and then, having with some difficulty fast-
ened the children into theirs, she seated them at the
table where her mother had by this time placed the
breakfast; and herself stood by, drinking a cup of the
miserable coffee and tying on her bonnt at the same
time.

“Going to wash to-day, mother ?”

Yes."

“Then I'll take some bread. and not try to come home
to dinner.”

x
130 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

This was the ordinary course of things. Clary at the
printing-press, and her mother doing days’ works for
people well off in the world; while the younger chil-
dren were locked in or locked out, as the case might be.

It was a foggy December morning,—not very cold,
but with a drizzling mist that was more chilling than
snow; and by the time Clary reached the office she felt
as moody and uncomfortable as the weather.- It was
warm enough in the office, but not very cheerful, she
thought; though some of the men looked as if they en-
Joyed life sufficiently well, as with sleeves rolled up they
whistled softly over their work, keeping time with their
heads if the tune were a particularly lively one.

Clary put her bonnet and shawl in their place, and
went to the press she always tended. It was motionless
now, and a man was just putting in a new set of plates.
Clary hardly noticed what he was doing—it mattered so
little to her what words were printed on those great
sheets of paper that she handled every day; though she
could read, and very well; but she stood listlessly.

‘“What’s the matter, Clary?” said the man. “You
look dumpish this morning. I’ve given you a new piece
of work here that ’Il be good for that—they say poetry ’s
excellent for the spirits.”

Something good for her! She knew the man spoke
jestingly, and yet as he walked off Clary thought she
would look and see what it was that he was talking
about. She had seen type enough to be able to spell it
out backwards, and bending over the plates she read at
the corner next her—

“Oh, how happy’—
And then the machine was suddenly put in motion;

and not faster could she supply the sheets, than the
press drew them in, printed them, and tossed them out

in a nice pile at oneend. Clary could not stop for one © /

instant. But she had something to think about. Again


THE HYMN-BOOK. 131

and again she repeated those three words to herself, and
wondered of whom they spoke, and what could be the
rest of the sentence. She could guess; it must mean the
people who were rich, and had plenty of clothes, and
plenty to eat, and time to sleep, and to walk about in
the sunshine. The people who bought the meats that
she saw hanging up in the butcher’s shops, which she
hardly knew by name, and much less by taste ; the beau-
tiful ladies that she sometimes saw in Broadway—when
she happened to get through work a little earlier than
usual—wrapped up in furs and velvets, and looking as
if they wouldn't know calico when they saw it,—the
children that she had seen looking out of carriage
windows with little white lap-dogs: the curling ears on |
the head of the dogs and the curling feathers on the
head of the child, seeming to Clary almost equally beau-
tiful. Yes, those must be the happy people; but then
she would very much like to know more about them,—
to read all those stories which the press was no doubt
printing off, of these same happy people, who never
were poor, and who had no little ragged brothers and
sisters. For the first time in her life Clary wished the
press would get out of order, for some other reason than
because she was tired. Her mind worked and worked
upon those three words till she was almost wild with the
desire to read more. Perhaps it told the way to be rich
and happy,—and that cruel press kept moving just as
fast as possible. Not till twelve o’clock did it make a
pause. But at twelve o'clock there was a sudden hush;
and hardly had the rollers stopped their rolling, before
Clary had left her place and gone to that corner of the

ile of printed sheets where she knew the words must be
Yes, they were there—she found them easy enough; but
what were they ? |

“ Oh how happy are they
Who the Saviour obey, :
And have laid up their treasure above,
— G2 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

Poor Clary! she could almost have cried over her dis:
sappointment; for if the words had been Greek she
-eould hardly have been more puzzled as to their
~meaning. As I have said, she had never been to church
—she ‘had never read the Bible; and if she had ever
“heard-the Saviour’s name, it was from those who spoke
it with neither love nor reverence. Her father had been
-@ drunkard,—her mother was a hard-working, well-
meaning woman, but as ignorant as Clary herself. No
~preacher of the gospel had ever set foot in their house,
—and “how should they believe on him of whom they
had not heard ?”

So Clary puzzled over the lines and could make
nothing of them. The word treasure she did indeed
understand; but where it was to be laid up, and how,
«were as far from her asever. And constantly her mind
went back to that second line—“ Who the Saviour obey.”

‘“T wonder if I couldn’t do that?” she thought to her-
self, “if IT only knew how. Mother always said I was
good about minding. It must be so pleasant to he
happy. It doesn’t say that nobody can do it but rich
“people either,’—and again she read the words. They
were at the bottom of the sheet, and the next might not
eome to her press at all, or not for some days. She
dooked over the rest of the sheet. A great many of the
hymns she could make nothing of at all; the very
words—‘ missionary,” and convert,” and “ransom,” were
strange to her. Then this hymn caught her eye, and
wehe read.

“Come to the merey-seat—
Come to the place of prayer;
Come, little children, to His feet,
In whom ye live and are.

“Come to your God in prayer;
Come to your Saviour now—
While youthful skies are bright and fair,
And health is on your brow.”
YUE HYMN-BOOK BS

Clary read no further. That did not suit her, she
thought—there was nothing bright about her way of lifé-
or herself. It seemed the old thing again—the happy
rich people. She went back and read the first one over,
_=that did not seem so, and she sought further; wearily
glancing from hymn to hymn, but with a longing that
not even the hard words could check. At last she
Saw one verse, the first word of which she knew well:
enough. |

‘‘ Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am,
I have a rich almighty Friend,—
Jesus the Saviouris his name—
He freely loves, and without end.”

The words went right to the sore spot in Clary’s heart:
—the spot which had ached for many along day. Some-
body to love her—a rich friend. If she had written.
down her own wishes, they could hardly have been more-
perfectly expressed; and the tears came so fast, that she:
had to move away lest they should blot the paper.
Bitter tears they were, yet not such as she had often.
shed; for, she knew not how, those words seemed to:
carry a possible hope of fulfilment—a half promise—
which her own imaginations had never done. And the
first line suited her so exactly— |

29



“Poor, wesk, and worthless

“T am all that,” thought Ciary; “ but if this rich friend:
loved one poor person he might another. ‘Jesus, the
Saviour—that must be the same that the other verse-
speaks of. ‘How happy are they who the Saviour obey:
—Oh I wish I knew how—I would do anything in the
world to be happy! And I suppose all these rich people
know all about him, and obey him, and that makes them:
so happy; for if he loves poor people he must love the
rich a great deal more.”

One o'clock!
134. THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

The great clock struck, and the people came tramping
back to their work, or rose up from the corners where
they had been eating such dinner as they had brought.
Clary had forgotten all ‘about hers—certainly it was an
easy dinner to forget—but all the afternoon as the press
kept on its busy way, she lived upon these two verses
which she had learned by heart.

She had no chance to read more when they left off
work at night; but all the way home she scarce saw
either rich or poor, for the intentness with which her
mind studied those words, and the hope and determina-
tion with which she resolved to find out of whom they
spoke. She almost felt asif she had found him already
—it seemed as if she was less friendless than she had
been in the morning; and though once and again the
remembered words filled her eyes with tears, any one
who knew Clary would have wondered at the step with
which she went home.”

‘‘ Where did she read those words?” said Carl, who
had listened with deep attention.

“On my 272nd page,” replied the hymn-book. “For
it so happened that I was printing that very day.”

Carl turned to the 272nd page and read the words,
and then shutting the hymn-book desired him to go on
with his story. |

‘“What made you so early, Clary?” said her mother,
who had got home first. |

‘“ Early is it?” said Clary, when she could get breath
to speak—for she had run up all the three pair of stairs
to their little room. “It’s the same time as always
mother—only maybe I walked fast. Oh, mother! I’ve
had such a happy day !” |

“A happy day!” said her mother, looking up in
amazement at the life of her voice and face that were
wont to be so dull and listless. “ Well, child, I'm glad
-on't,—you never had many,”

“Such a happy day!” repeated Clary. Oh, mother—
T read such beautiful words at the printing-office !”
THE HYMN-BOOK. 185

“Did you fetch the soap I wanted?” inquired her
mother.

No—Clary had forgotten it. : | ;

“Well, don’t be so happy to-morrow that you'll forget
it,” said her mother. “Every living child here’s as
dirty as a pig, and no way of making ’em cleaner. Tidy
up the room a little, can’t you, Clary? I’ve stood upon
my two feet all day.”

So had Clary, and some nights she would have said
as much; but now that new half hope of being happy
-—that new desire of doing all that anybody could want
her to do (she didn’t know why), gave her two feet new
strength; and she not only “tidied up” the room, but
even found a little end of soap to tidy up the childrer.
withal; and then gave them their supper and put them —
to bed with far less noise and confusion than usual.

Her mother was already seated by the one tallow
candle, making coarse shirts and overalls for a wholesale
dealer; and Clary, having at last found her thimble in
the pocket of the smallest pair of trousers, sat down to
work too. Never had her fingers moved so fast.

“‘ Mother,” she said, after a while, “ did you ever hear
anybody talk about the Saviour?”

Her mother stared.

“What on earth, child!” she said. “Where have
you been, and who’s been putting such notions in your
~ head?” |

“ Nobody,” said Clary, “and I’ve been nowhere—only
to the office, the same as usual. But Iread some beau-
tiful verses there, mother, at dinner time, that th ey were
printing off on my press; and they made me feel so—I
can't tell you how. But oh, mother, they told about
some great rich friend of poor people—poor people like
us, mother—worth nothing at all, they said; and that
everybody who obeyed him was happy.”

“You'd better not plague your head with such stuff,”
said her mother. ‘Nobody cares about poor folks like»
us. Why, child, rich people wouldn’t touch us with a
136 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

pair of tongs. Haven’t I seen ’em draw up their frocks —
as I went by, because mine was calico and maybe not |
over clean because I couldn’t buy soap and bread both ?
I tell you, Clary, rich folks think the poor has no right
to breathe in the same world with ’em. I don’t want to
breathe in it long for one.”

“Tt didn’t say rich people,” said Clary, thoughtfully,
“but only this one— ;

‘Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am,
| I have a rich, Almighty Friend.’
Oh, mother! I wish I had!”

“Come, child, shut up!” said her mother, but not
unkindly, for something in Clary’s look and tone had
stirred the long deadened feeling within her. ‘I tell
you, child, we must eat; and how is your work to get
done if you sit there crying in that fashion? ‘The
candle’s almost burned out, too, and not another scrap in
the house.”

Clary dried her tears, and went on with the overalls
until the candle had flickered its last; and then groped
her way in the dark to the little bed she and her mother
occupied by that of the five children. For sleeping all
together thus, the coverings went further. Dark and
miserable it was; and yet when Clary laid herself down,
overtaken at last by the sleep which had pursued her all
the evening, the last thought in the poor child’s mind
was of those hymns—the word on which her heart went
to sleep was that “ Name which is above every name.”

“ How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer’s ear!”

To Clary’s great sorrow and disappointment, when she
went next day to the printing-office, the pile of printed
paper had been removed ; and not only so, but a new set
of plates given her instead of those of the hymn-book.
Clary’s only comfort was to repeat over and over to her-
self the words she had already learned, and to try to get
at their meaning. Sometimes she thought she would
THE HYMN-BOOK, | 137

ask the foreman, who was very pleasant and good
natured, but that was only while he was at some other
press; whenever he came near hers, Clary was frightened
and held her head down lest he should guess what she
was tiinking of. And as week after week passed on, she
grew very weary and discouraged; yet still clinging to
those words as the last hope she had. If she. could
possibly have forgotten them, she would have been
almost desperate.

The winter passed, and the spring came; and it was

pleasanter now to go down to the printing-office in the
early morning and to walk home at night; and:she could
aear other people’s canaries sing, and see the green grass _
and flowers in other people’s courtyards; and on Sun-—
day, as she had no work, she could sit out on the door:
step, if there weren’t too many children about, or walk
away from that miserable street into some pleasanter
one. :
She had walked about for a long time one Sunday,
watching the people that were coming from afternoon
church; and how the sun was leaving the street and she
turned to leave it too, taking a little cross street which
she uad never been in before.

It hardly deserved the name of street, for if was not
many yards in length. The houses were not of the
largest, but they looked neat and comfortable, with thin
green blinds and gay curtains; and spring was there in
her earliest dress—a, green ground, well spotted with
hyacinths, snowdrops, and crocuses. It was very quiet,
too, cut short as it was at both ends; and the Sabbath |
of the great city seemed to have quitted Broadway and
established itself here.

Upon one of the low flights of steps, Clary saw as
she approached it, sat a little girl having a book in her
hand. With a dress after the very pattern of spring, a
little warm shawl over her shoulders, and a little chair
that was just big enough, she sat there in the warm sun-
shine which streamed down through an opening in the
138 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

houses, turning over the leaves of the book. If you had
guessed the child’s name from her looks, you would have
called ner “Sweet Content.” a

Clary stopped a little way off to look at her; thinking
bitterly of the five children she had left playing in the
dirt at home ; and as she stopped, the little girl began to
sing— | |

“ Oh, how happy are they

Who the Saviour obey,
And have laid up their treasure above.’

Ihe little voice had no more than brought these words
to Clary’s ear, when a carriage came rolling by and the
rest of the verse was lost; but in an instant Clary was
at the house, and feeling that this was the only chance
she ever should have, she opened the little gate and
went in,

The child ceased singing, and looked up at her in
some surprise.

“I want to know—” said Clary—and then suddenly
recoilecting her own poor dress, and comparing it with
the little picture before her, she stopped short. But
the words must come—they were spoken almost before
Clary herself was aware,

‘Will you please to tell me who the Saviour is?”

And then blushing and frightened she could almost
have run away, but something held her fast.

Lhe child’s eyes grew more and more wondering.

“Come in,” she said gravely, getting up from her chair,
and with some difficulty keeping the book and the little
shawl in their places. A

But Clary drew back.

“ Oh yes—come in,” said the child, tucking the little
book under her arm, and holding out her hand to Clary.
“ Please come in—mother will tell you.” }

And following her little conductor, Clary found her-
self the next minute in a pleasant, plain, and very neat
room. |
THE HYMN-BOOK. 189

“ Mother,” said the child, opening a door into the
next room, but still keeping her eye upon Clary lest she
should run away, ‘Mother—here’s a girl who never
heard about Jesus.”

“I don’t understand thee, Eunice,” said a pleasant
voice, “ but I will come.” And a most pleasant face and
figure followed the voice.

““ What did thee say, child?” she inquired, with only.
a glance towards Clary.

“Tell mother what you want,” said the child, encourag
ingly. ‘ Mother, she never heard about Jesus.”

‘Thee never heard about Him, poor child,” said the
lady, approaching Clary. “And how dost thou live in
this world of troubles without such a friend ?” |

“I don't know, ma’am,” said Clary, weeping. “We
are very poor, and we never had any friends; and a
long time ago in the winter I read a verse at the print-
ing-office about some one who loved poor people, and I
thought perhaps he would help us if he knew about us.”

“He knows all about thee now,” said the good Mrs.
Allen, with a look of strange wonder and pity on her
pleasant face. ‘Sit down here, child, I will: tell thee.
Didst thou never hear about God?”

‘“ Yes, ma’am,” said Clary, hesitatingly, ‘I believe I
have. Mother says, ‘God help us!’ sometimes. But
we are very.poor, nobody thinks much about us.”

‘God is the helper of the poor, and the father of the
fatherless,” said Mrs. Allen, with a grave but gentle
voice, “‘ thee must not doubt that. Listen. We had al]
sinned against God, and his justice said that we must
all be punished, that we must be miserable in this
world, and when we die must go where no one can
ever be happy. But though we were all so bad, God
pitied us, and loved us still; yet He could not forgive us,
for He is perfectly just. It was as if we owed Him a
great debt, and until that debt was paid we could not be
his children. But we had nothing to pay.

Then the Son of God came down to earth, and bors
140 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

all our sins and sorrows, and died for us, and paid our
creat debt with his own most precious blood.”

“This 1s Jesus, the Saviour.”

‘Yes, ma'am,” said Clary, whose heart had followed
every word, “ that’s what the verse said ”"—

“* Jesus the Saviour, is his name,
He freely loves, and without end.’”

She stood as if forgetting there was any one in the
room; her eyes fixed on the ground, and the quiet tears
running down from them, her hands clasped with an
earnestness that showed how eagerly her mind was
taking in that “ good news’—“ peace on earth and good-
will toward men,” which was now preached to her for
the first time.

Little Eunice looked wistfully at her mother, but
neither of them spoke.

At length Mrs. Allen came softly to Clary, and laying
her hand on the bowed head she said, ‘‘ Jesus is the
friend of sinners; but then they must strive to sin no
more. Wilt thou do it? wilt thou love and obey the
Saviour who has done so ‘much for thee ?”

A sunbeam shot across the girl’s face, as she looked
up for one moment, and then bursting into tears, she
sald, “‘ Oh, if I knew how !”

‘Ask Him, and He will teach thee. Pray to Jesus
whenever thou art in trouble; when thy sins are too
strong for thee, and thy love to Him too faint, when thou
art tired, or sick, or discouraged. Ask Him to love thee,
and make thee his child, ask Him to prepare a place for
thee in heaven. For He hath said, ‘If ye shall ask any-
thing in my name, I will do it’

Little Eunice had gone softly out of the room while
her mother spoke, and now returned with a little book
in her hand, which was quietly placed in Clary’s, after
a look of assent fron: her mother.

“That’s a Bible,” said Eunice, with a face of great
pleasure “And’yov may have it and keep it always.
THE HYMN-BOOR. {4}

f wish I had a hymn book for you, too, but I ve only
got this one, and my Sunday-school teacher gave ittome :
last Sunday. But the Bible is the word of God, and it
will tell you all about Jesus; and every bit of it is per-
fectly true. Oh, you will love it so much! everybody
does, who loves Jesus. And won’t you come and read
in my hymn-book sometimes ?”

‘Yes; come very often,” said Mrs. Allen, “and we —
will talk of these tiings.”

And with a heart too fuil to speak, Clary left the
house. |
But oh, what a different walk home!

“How happy are they |
Who the Saviour obey.”

She could understand that now, for with the simple
faith of a child she believed what had been told her,
and with her whole heart received the Friend of sinners
to be her friend. Her earnest prayer that night, her
one desire, was to be his child and servant; to obey
Him then became sweet work; and thenceforth, through
all Clary’s life, if any one had called her poor, she
would have answered out of the little hymn book that
Eunice gave her for a Christmas present—

‘Who made my heaven secure,
Will here all good provide :
While Christ is rich, can 1 be poor ?
What can I want beside ?”

‘Ts that all?” said Carl, when he had waited about
two minutes for more. )
“That is the story of one of my leaves,” said the
~ hymn-book. 7
“Well, I want to hear about all the others,” said
Carl; ‘‘ so tell me.” |
“T can't,” said the hymn-book; “it would take me
six weeks.” | |
“Were you Clary’s hymn-book?” said Carl
142 THE CIRISTMAS STOCKING.

‘No, I was the other one; that belonged to little
Eunice. But years after that, several of us met in an_
old auction-room, there I learned some of the particulars
that I have told you.”

‘¢What is an auction-room?” said Carl. : |

“Tt is a sort of intelligence-office for books,” replied
the collection. “There I got the situation of ‘ com-
panion to a lady,’ and went on a long sea voyage. I
had nothing to do but to comfort her, however.”

“And did you do it?” said Carl.

“Yes; very often,” said the hymn-book. ‘ Perhaps
as much es anything else, except her Bible.”

The Story of the Cork Moat,

“Now, my pretty little boat,” said Carl, the next day,
‘¢you shall tell me your story. J will hear you before
_ that ugly old stocking.”

Carl was lying flat on his back on the floor, holding
the boat up at arm’s length, over his head, looking at it
and turning it about. It was a very complete little
ooat.

“T shall teach you not to trust to appearances,” said
the boat.

“What do you mean?” said Carl.

“T mean, that when you have looked at me you have
got the best of me.”

‘That's very apt to be the way with pretty things,”
said the stocking.

“Tt isn’t!” said Carl. For he had more than once
known his mother call him a “ pretty boy.”

‘However, that may be,” said the boat, “I can’t tell
a, story.”
THE CORK BOAT. ; (eee

“Can't tell a story! yes, you can,” said Carl. “Do
ut, at once.” |

“T haven't any to tell,” said the boat. ‘I wag once
of some use in the world, but now I’m of none, except
to be looked at.”

“Yes; you are of use,” said Carl, “for I like you;
and you can tell a story too, if you have a mind, as well
as the pine cone.” |

“The pine cone has had better experience,” said the
ooat, “and has kept good society. For me, I have
always lived on the outside of things, ever since I can
remember, and never knew what was going on in the
world, any more than I knew what was going on inside |
of my old tree. All I knew was that I carried up sap for —
its branches; when it came down again, or what became
of it, | never saw.” .

‘¢ Where were you then ?” said Carl.

“On the outside of a great evergreen oak, in a forest
of Valencia. I was a piece of its bark. I wish I was
there now. But the outer bark of those trees gets dead
after a while—and then the country people come and
cut it off and sell it out of the land.”

“And were you dead and sold off?” said Carl.

“'To be sure I was. As fine a piece of cork as ever
grew. J had been growing nine years, since the tree
was cut before.”

“Well, but tell me your story!” said Carl. |

“T tell you,” said the little boat, “1 haven’t any
story. There was nothing to be seen in the forest but
the great shades of the kingly oaks, and the birds that
revelled in the solitude of their thick branches, and the
martins, and such animals. It was fine there, though.
The north winds, which the pine cone says so shake
the heads of the fir-trees in his country, never trouble
anything in mine. The snow never lay on the glossy
ieaves of my parent oak. But no Norrska lived there,
or if she did, I never knew her. Nobody came near
us, unless a stray peasant now and then passed through
144 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

And when . was cut down, I was packed vp and —
shipped off to England, and shifted from hand to hand.
till John Krinken took it into his head, years ago, to
make a sort of cork jacket of me, with one or two of
my companions; and I have been tumbling about in
his possession ever since. He has done forme now. I
am prettier than I ever was before, but I shall never be
of any use again. I shall try the water, 1 suppose,
again a few times for your pleasure, and then probably
I shall try the fire, for the same.” |

“The fire! No, inded,” said Carl, ‘I’m not going to
burn you up. Iam going to see you sail this minute,
since you won't do anything else. You old stocking,
you may wait till | come back—I don’t believe you’ve
got much of a story.”

And Carl sprang up and went forthwith to the beach
to find a quiet bit of shallow water in some nook where
it would be safe to float his cork boat. But the waves
were beating pretty high that day, and the tide coming
in, and altogether there was too much commotion on
the beach to suit the little Santa Claus, as he had
named her. So Carl discontentedly came back, and
set up the httle boat to dry, and turned to the old
stocking,

— The Story of the Stocking.

“I's too bad!” said Carl. “I’ve heard six stories and’
a little piece, and now there's nothing left but this old
stocking!” :

“1 believe I will not tell you my story at ail,” said
the stocking.
ITSELF, | 148

“ But you shall,” said Carl, “ or else I will cut you all
up into little pieces.” |

“Then, you certainly will never hear it,” said the
stocking. |

‘“‘ Well, now,” said Carl, “what a disagreeable old
stocking you are. Why don’t you begin at once ?”

‘“T am tired of always being at the foot,” said the
stocking; “as one may say, at the fag end. And
besides, your way of speaking is not proper. I suppose
you have been told as much before. This is not the
way little boys used to speak when J was knit.”

“You are only a stocking,” said Carl. :

‘Everything that is worth speaking to at all, is wortly
speaking to politely,” replied the stocking.

““T can’t help it,” said Carl, “‘ you might tell me your
story, then. I’m sure one of my own red stockings
would tell its story in a minute.” |

““ Yes,” said the gray stocking; “and the story would’
be, ‘ Lived on little Carl’s foot all my life, and never saw
anything.”

‘““It wouldn’t be true, then,” said Carl, “ for I never
wear them except on Sundays. Mother says she can’t
afford it.” |

‘“‘ Nobody afforded it once,” said the stocking. ‘“ My
ancestors were not heard of until ten or eleven hundred
years ago, and then they were made of leather or
linen. And then people wore cloth hose; and then,
some time in the sixteenth century, silk stockings
made their appearance in England. But there was
never a pair of knit woollen stockings until the year
1564.” :

“Tsay,” said Carl, “do stop—will you? and go on
with your story.” And putting his hand down into the
old stocking, he stretched it out as far as he could on
his litile fingers. :

“You'd better amuse yourself in some other way,
said the stocking. “If my yarn should break, it will be
the worse for your story.”

L
146 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING

“Well, why don’t you begin, then ?” said Carl, laying
him down again. Le

“It's not always pleasant to recount one’s misfor-
tunes,” said the stocking, “and I have come down in
the world sadly. You would hardly think it, I dare say,
but I did once belong to a very good family.” |

‘“So you do now,” said Carl. “ There never was any-
vody in the world better than my mother; and father’s
very good too.”

“Yes,” said the stocking again, “ Mrs. Krinken does
_ seem to be quite a respectable woman for her station in
life, very neat about her house, and I presume makes
most excellent porridge. But you see, where I used to
live, porridge had never even been heard of. I de-
elare,” said the stocking, “I can hardly believe it my-
self, I think my senses are getting blunted. I have
Jain in that chest so long with a string of red onions,
that I have really almost forgotten what musk smells
lke! But my lady Darlington always fainted away if
anybody mentioned onions, so of course the old squire
never had them on the dinner table even. A fine olé
gentleman he was; not very tall, but as straight almost
as ever ; and with ruddy checks, and hair that was not
white but silver colour. His hand shook a little some.
times, but his heart never—and his voice was as clear
as a whistle. His step went cheerfully about the house
and grounds, although it was only to the music of his
walking-stick; and music that was, truly, to all the poor
of the neighbourhood. His stick was like him. He
would have neither gold nor silver head to it, but it was
all of good English oak, the top finely carved into a
supposed likeness of Edward the Confessor.

“As for my lady, she was all stateliness, very beau-
tiful too, or had been; and the sound of her dress was
like the wings of a wild bird.” |

“I think I shall like to hear this story,” said Cazl,

setting himself on his box and patting his hands together
once or twice. |
ITSELF. 147

“IT dare say you will,” said the stocking, “ when I tell ©
it to you. However—Well— ,

“A great many years ago it was Christmas Eve at
Squire Darlington’s, and the squire sat alone in his wide
hall. Every window was festooned with ivy leaves and
holly, which twisted about the old carving, and drooped,
and hung round the silver sconces, and thence downward
towards the floor. The silver hands of the sconces held
tall wax candles, but they were not lit. The picture
frames wore wreaths, from which the old portraits
Jooked out gloomily enough, not finding the adornment
so becoming as they had done a century or so before ;
and even the squire’s high-backed chair was crowned
with a bunch cf holly berry. There was no danger of ©
their being in his way, for he rarely leaned back in his
chair, but sat up quite straight, with one hand on his
knee and the other on the arm of his chair. On that
particular evening his hand rested on me; for I and
my companion stocking had been put on for the first
time.” |

“1 don’t see how he could get his hand on his stock-
ing,” said Carl, “if he sat up. LLook—I couldn’t touch
mine.” :

“You needn’t try to tell me anything about stockings,”
replied that article of dress, somewhat contemptuously.
“I know their limits as well as most people. But in
those days, Master Carl, gentlemen wore what they
called small-clothes—very different from your new-
fangled pantaloons.”

“TI don’t wear pantaloons,” said: Carl; “I wear trou-
sers.” But the stocking did not heed the interrup-
tion.

“The small-clothes reached only to the knee—a little
above or a little below—and so met the long stockings
nalf way. Some people wore very fanciful stockings, of
different. colours, and embroidered; but Squire Dar-
lington’s were always of gray woollen yarn, very fine and
soft, as you see Lam, and tied above the knee with black
148 THE CHURISTMAS STOCKING.

ribbons; and his shoes were always black, with large
black bows and silver buckles.”

‘He sat there alone in the wide hall, with one hand
on me, and his eyes fixed upon the fire, waiting for
the arrival of the Yule Log. For in those days, the
night before Yule or Christmas, the chief fire in the
house was built with an immense log, which was cut
and brought in with great rejoicing and ceremony, and
lighted with a brand saved from the log of last year.
All the servants in the house had gone out to help to
roll the log and swell the noise, and the fire of the day
had burnt down to a mere bed of coals; and the hall
was so still you could almost hear the ivy leaves rustle
on the old wall outside. I don’t know but the Squire
did.”

‘“What did he stay there for?” said Carl. ‘Was he
thinking ?”

‘““He might have been,” said the stockine—“ indeed
I rather think he was, for he stroked and patted me two
or three times. Or he might have been listening to the
wind singing its Christmas song.” - |

“Can the wind sing?” said Carl.

“Ay, and sigh too. Most of all about the time of
other people’s holidays. It’s a wild, sighing kind of
a song at best—whistled, and sung, and sighed
together —sometimes round the house, and sometimes
through a keyhole I heard what it said that night,
well enough. You won't understand it, but this was
it s— |

“*Christmas again !—Christmas again!
With its holly berries so bright and red;
They gleam in the wood, they grow by the lane:
Oh, hath not Christmas a joy’ul tread ?

“* Christmas again! Christmas again !
What does it find ? and what does it bring ?
And what does it miss, that should remain ?
Oh! Christmas time is a wonderful thing.
ITSHLS. 149

“* Christmas again! Christmas again!
There are bright green leaves on the liolly tree;
But withered leaves fly over the plain,
And the forests are brown and bare to see.

“‘Christmas again! Christmas again!
The snow lies light, and the wind is cold ;
But the wind—it reacheth some hearts of pain,
And the snow—it falleth on heads grown old.

‘Christmas again! Christmas again!
What kindling fires flash throngh the hall!
The flames may flash, but the shadows remain ;
And where do the shadows this night fall? |

“‘Christmas again! Christmas again !
It looks through the windows—1t treads the flocr ;
Seeking for what earth could not retain—
Watching for those who will come no more.

“‘ Christmas again! Christmas again!
Why doth not the pride of the house appear?
Where is the sound of her silken train?
And that empty chair—what doeth it here ?

“* Christmas again! Christmas again!
With hearts as light as ever did bound;
And feet as pretty as ever were fain
To tread a measure the hall around.

“‘Christmas again! Christmas again l=
O thoughts, be silent! Who called for ye?
Must Christmas time be a time of pain,
Because of the loved, from pain set free?

‘‘¢ Christmas again! Christmas again !
Once Christmas and joy came hand in hand ;
The hall may its holiday look regain,—
But the empty chairs must empty stand.’

‘The wind took much less time to sing the song than
I have taken to tell it,” said the stocking; “a low sigh
round the house, and a whistle or two, told all. Then
suddenly a dooz at the lower end of the hall flew open,
190 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

and a boy sprang in, exclaiming—‘ Grandfather, it’s
coming !’

He was dressed just after the fashion of the old
Squire, only with delicate white stockings and black
velvet small-clothes; while his long-flapped waistcoat
was gaily flowered, and his shoes had crimson rosettes
And almost as he spoke, a side door opened, and my
lady glided in, her dress rustling softly as she came;
while the wind rushed in after her, and tossed and waved
the feathers in her tall head-dress.

There was heard a distant murmur of shouts and
laughter, and young Eldric clapped his hands and then
stood still to listen; and presently, the whole troop of
servants poured into the hall, from that same door at
the lower end. All were dressed in the best and gayest
clothes they had; the women wore ivy wreaths, and the
men carried sprigs of holly at their button-holes. First
came a number bearing torches; then many others,
rolling, and pulling, and pushing the great log, on which
one of the men-servants, whimsically dressed, was en-
deavouring to keep his seat; while every other man,
woman, and child, about the place, crowded in after.

Ihen the log was rolled into the great fire-place, ana
duly lighted ; and everybody clapped hands and rejoiced
in its red glow, and Master Edric shouted as loud as the
rest.

“ Eidric,” said my lady, when the hall was quiet once
more, though not empty, for all the household were to
spend Christmas eve there together— Edric, go take a
partner, and dance us a minuet,.”

And Edric walked round the hall till he came to little
May Underwood, the forester’s daughter; and then |
bringing the white stockings and the crimson rosettes
close side by side together, and making her a low bow,
_ took her hand and led her out upon the polished

CGF. |

The Yule Log was in a full blaze now, and the light

shone from end to end of the hall; falling upon the
ITSELF. 151

bright floor and the long row of servants and retainers
that were arranged around, and glossily reflected from
the sharp holly leaves and its bright red berries. The
old portraits did not light up much, and looked very
near aS gloomy as ever; but a full halo of the firelight
was about the squire’s chair, and upon my lady as she
stood beside him. Two or three of the serving-men
played a strange old tune upon as strange old instru-
ments; and the forester now and then threw in a few
wild notes of his bugle, that sounded through the —
house and aroused all the echoes; but the wind sighed
outside still. :

And all this while the little dancers were going
through the slow, graceful steps of their pretty dance; _
with the most respectful bows and courtesies, the most
ceremonious presenting of hands and acceptance of the
same, the most graceful and complicated turns and
bends; till at last when the music suddenly struck
into a, quick measure, Edric presented his right hand
to little May, and they danced gaily forward to where
my lady stood near the ‘squire, and made their low
reverence—first to her, and then to each other.. Then ©
Kdric led his little partner back to her seat, and returned
to his grandmother. For my lady was his grandmother,
and he had no parents. :

As the Yule Log snapped and crackled and blazed
_ higher and higher, even so did the mirth of allin the
great hall. They talked, and laughed, and sang, and
played games, and not an echo in the house could get
leave to be silent. ©

All of a sudden, in the midst of the fun, a little boy
dressed like Robin Redbreast in a dark coat and bright
red waistcoat, opened one of the hall doors; and just
showing himself for a moment, he flung the door clear
back and an old man entered. His hair was perfectly
white, and so was his beard, which reached down to his
waist. On his head was a crown of yew and ivy, and in
his hand a long staff topped with holly berries ; his dress
£52 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

was a long brown robe which fell down about his feet,
and on it were sewed little spots of white cloth to repre-
sent snow. He made alow bow to the squire and my
lady, and when Robin Redbreast had discreetly closed the
door so far that but a little wind could come in, he began
to sing in a queer little cracked voice—

“Oh! here come J, old Father Christmas, welcome of not.
I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.
Make room, room, I say,
That I may lead Mince Pye this way,
Walk in, Mince Pye, and act thy part,
And show the gentles thy valiant ueart.”

With that Robin opened the door again, and another
figure came in, dressed like a womanin a dark purple
gown bordered with alight brownish yellow. A laige
apple was fastened on top of her head, and she wore
bunches of raisins at her ears instead of earrings; wile
her necklace was of large pieces of citron strung together,
and her bracelets of cloves, and alspice, and cinnamon.
“In her hand she carried a large wooden sword.”

“What was that for?” said Carl, who had Iistened
with the most intense interest.

“Why to fight off the people that wanted to make her
up into real mince pie, I suppose,” said the stocking.
“She came into the room singing.—

“* Room, room, you gallant souls, give me room to rhyme,
I will show you some festivity this Christmas time.
Bring me the man that bids me stand,

Who says he’ll cut me down with an audacious hand°

I’ll cut him and hew him as small as a fly,

And see what he’ll do then to make his mince pye.
Walk in, St. George.’

“Oh! in come I St. George, the man of courage bold,
With my sword and buckler [ have won three crowns of rolds
I fought the fiery Dragon, and brought him to the slaughter,
I saved a beauteous Queen and a King of England’s daughter.
| Ifthy mindis high, my mind is bold; |
If thy blood is hot, I will make it cold. ”
ITSELF. 159

“What did he want to do that for?” said Carl.

“Oh, in the days when St. George lived,” replied the
stocking, “ the more men a man killed the more people
thought of him; and this man was trying to make
himself like St. George. He had a great pasteboard
helmet on his head, with a long peacock’s feather streams
ing from the top of it, and a wooden sword, and a tin-
covered shield on which were nailed clusters of holly
berries in the figure of a cross. His shoes were of wood
too, and his jacket and small-clothes of buckskin, with
sprigs of yew fastened upon all theseams, and great knots
of green and red ribbons at the knees. As soon as he
had sutig his song he began his fight with Mince Pye,
and a dreadful fight it was, if one might judge by the
noise; also Mince Pye’s sword became quite red with
the holly berries. But St. George let his shield take all
the blows, and when Mince Pye had spent all her
strength upon it, he thrust at her with his sword and
down she came.”

“Who? Mince Pye?” said Carl “Oh that’s too
bad!”

‘Mince Pye thought so too, said the stocking, “ fox
she cried out,

“Oh, St. George, spare my life!’
Then said old Father Christmas,

“Ts no Doctor to be found
‘Lo cure Mince Pye who is bleeding on the sround?”

“Was there any ?” said Carl. |

“'I'here was somebody whocalled himself one. He came
running right into the hall the minute old Father Christ
mas called for him, and you never saw such a queer
little figure. He had an old black robe, and a black cap ©
gn his head, and a black patch over one eye.”

“ What was that for?” said Carl.

“ He'd been curing himself, I suppose,” said the stock-
154 THE CHRIS(MAS STOCKING

ing. “ And it would seem that he wasn’t satisfied with
any of his features, for he had put on a long pasteboard
nose painted red, and a pasteboard chin. In his hano
he carried a great basket of bottles. If one might believe
his own account, he was a doctor worth having.

“ Oh yes, there is a doctor to be found
T'o cure Mince Pye who is bleeding on the ground.
I cure the sick of every pain,
And none of them ever are sick again.”

Father Christmas thought it must cost a good deal to
be cured after that fashion, so like a prudent man he said.

“ Doctor, what is thy fee?”

And the Doctor probably didn’t like to be questioned
for he answered,

“Ten pounds is my fee;
But fifteen I must take of thee
Before I set this gallant free.”

But as it was necessary that Mince Pye should be cured
Father Christmas only said,

Work thy will, Doctor.”

Then the Doctor took a bottle out of his basket and
began to dance and sing round Mince Pye.

_“Thave a little bottle by my side,
I'he fame of which spreads far and wide;
Drop a drop on this poor man’s nose.”

And with that Mince Pye jumped up as well as ever.”
‘‘ But that wasn’t all?” said Carl. ‘What else?”
“That was not quite all,” said the stocking, “for
anovher man came.in, with a great basket of dolls at his
back and a tall red cap on his head. And he sang too.”

“Oh! in come I, little saucy Jack,
With all my family at my back;
IT’ ELF. 150
Christmas comes but once a year,
And when it does it brings good cheer
Roast beef, plum pudding, and Mince Pye,
Who likes that any better than I;
Christmas makes us dance and sing;
Money in the purse is a very fine thing,
Ladies and gentlemen, give us what you please.”

Then Squire Darlington and mylady each took out some
money, and Edric carried it to the masquers, and as he
hadn’t any money himself he told them that he was
very much obliged to them; and then they went off.”

‘“What did they give them money for?” said Carl

“Oh, they expected it—that was what they came for.
People used to go about in that way to the rich houses
at Christmas time, to get a little money by amusing the
gentlefolks.”

“I suppose they were very much amused,” said Carl
with a little sigh.

“Very much—especially Edric. And after they were
gone he came and stood before the great fire and thought
it all over, smiling to himself with pleasure.

“Eidric,” said my lady, “itis time for you to go to
bed.”

“Yes grandmother—but I’m afraid I can’t go te
sleep.”

“Why not?” said Squire Datlington. “ What are you
smiling at?”

“Qh, we've had such a splendid night, grandfather !—
the people were dressed so finely—and didn’t Mince Pye
fight well? and wasn’t the Doctor queer! And I’m
sure my stocking will be as full as anything!”

Squire Darlington drew the boy towards him and
seated him on his knee while he spoke thus; ard passing
his hand caressingly over the young joyous head, and
smoothing the brown hair that was parted—child-fashion
—in the middle of the forehead, and came curling down ~
upon the lace frill; he looked into Hdric’s face with a
world of pleasure and interest.
156 THE CHRISTMAS SiUCKING.

“ And so you've enjoyed the evening, dear boy?” he
said.

“O yes! grandfather—so much! Im sure Christmas
is the very happiest time of the whole year!"

Squire Darlington stroked down the hair again, and
looked in the bright eyes, but with something of wistful-
ness now; and without stirring his hand from the boy's
head, his look went towards the fire. :

The Yule Log was blazing there steadily, although it
now showed a great front of glowing coals that yet had
not fallen from their place. A clear red heat was all
that part of the log, and hardly to be distinguished from
the bed of coals below; while bright points of flame
curled and danced and ran scampering up the chimney,
as if they too were playing Christmas games. But each
end of the log yet held out against the fire, and had not
even lost its native brown.

The Squire looked there with an earnest gaze that was
not daunted by the glowing light; but his brows were
slightly raised, and though the caressing movement of
his hand was repeated, it seemed now to keep time to
sorrowful music; and his lips had met on that boundary
jine between smiles and tears, Presently a little hand
was laid against his cheek, and a little lace ruffle brushed
lightly over its furrows.

“Grandfather, what's the matter? What makes you
look grave ? ”

Ihe Squire looked at him, and taking his hand in his
own patted it softly against his face.

“The matter? my dear,” he said. « Why the matter
is that Christmas has come and gone a great many
times.”

“But that’s good, grandfather,” said Edric, clapping
his hands together. “Just think! there'll be another
Christmas in a year. Only a year. And we had one
only a year ago—and such a pleasant Christmas! ”

‘Only a year,” repeated the old man slowly. “No
Edric, it is only sixty years”
ITSELF, 3 157 -

_— do you mean, grandfather?” said the boy
Boltly.

“Sixty years ago, my dear,” said Squire Darlington,
“there was just such a Y4'2 Log as that, burning in
this very fireplace. And the windows, and the picture-
frames—there were not quite so many then—were
trimmed with holly berries and yew from the same trees
from which these wreaths have come to-day. And this
old chair stood here, and everything in this old hall
looked just as it does now.” |

“Well, grandfather?” said Edric catching his breath
a little,—and the wind gave one of its low sighs through

the keyhole.

__ “ Well my dear—instead of one dear little couple on
the floor ”—and the old man drew the boy closer to him
‘‘ there were six,—as merry-eyed and light-footed little
beings as ever trod this green earth. At the head I
stood with your grandmother, Edric—a, dear little thing
she was!” said Squire Darlington with a kindly look
towards my lady, whose eyes were cust down now, for s
wonder, and her lips trembling a little. “ Her two
brothers, and my two, and the orphan boy that we loved
like a brother; his sister, and my four little sisters—
precious children! that they were—made up the rest.
Light feet, and soft voices, and sweet laughter—they
went through this old hall—like a troop of fairies, I was
going to say,—more like a ray of pure human happiness,

‘““My father sat here, and my mother opposite: her
picture watches the very spot now; and of these good
friends at the other end of the hall—ay, old Cuthbert
remembers it—there were two or three; but many
others that bore their names.

“My child—that is sixty years ago!” ‘

‘‘ And where are they now, grandfather?” said Edrie,
under his breath. |

“In heaven—the most of them,” said the old man,
solemnly. “But one couple remains of the six. Of
those other dear children not one is left—and not one
1E8 THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING.

kut gave good hope in his death that he was going to be
with Jesus. They remember yet that he came to earth,
but they sing another song from ours—their hearts
dance with a different joy. We shall know, one day, if
we are faithful. They are exceeding fair to my remem-
brance, they are fairer now in reality.”

The old squire was silent for a few minutes, with his —
éyes again turned towards the fire, while Kdric looked
up at the sweet portrait to which his grandfather had
referred and wondered how it was that those eyes
always met his. Then Squire Darlington spoke again,
and with a different manner.

‘“ Kiverybody that has money makes Christmas a time
of feasting and rejoicing, Edric,” he said. ‘‘ What does
Christmas-day celebrate ?” |

‘The birth of Christ,” said Edric, gravely.

“Yes!” said Squire Darlington. “The birth of
Christ. ‘Who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes
became poor; that we through his poverty might be
made rich.’ There is a motto for Christmas-day! ay,
for one’s whole life ” |

“Grandfather,” said Edric, “does everybody that
loves Christ love all the poor disagreeable people ?”

“This is what the Bible says, Edric. “For if any
man seeth that his brother have need, and shuiteth up
_ ais bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the
love.of Christ in him ?’”

“Grandfather,” said Edric, thoughtfully, “ whenI am
aman, I will take a great deal of care of poor people.”

It was rather a sad smile that the old Squire gave
nim, and yet it was very tender.

“‘ My dear Edric,” he said, “never say, when I a man
I will do good. There is hardly any good work that a
child may not help forward or help to keep back. Will
you wait till you are a man, Edric, before you begin te
love Christ ?”

“T think I do love him now, grandfather,” said Edric.
ITSELF. | 159

“ys should think everybody would ; he has done so much
- for us.”

There was the same look of love and sadness for a_
moment in the old man’s face before he answered.

“My motto has another bearing, dear boy, which —
should be first in the heart of every man and every
child, in this world, which Christ died to save— If ye
love me, keep my commandments.”

And when the Christmas Eve was almost ended,
_ Squire Darlington kissed and blessed his little grandson,
and Edric went up-stairs to bed.

And the wind sighed no more that night.

‘And did he do as he said he would, when he got te
be a man?” inquired Carl.

“‘T don’t know,” said the stocking—“ I never heard.”

THK BAD.

a np eee
Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.

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Lhe Adventures of Young Munchausen, written and
illustrated in twelve Stories. By Cuartes Bennerr. Super-
royal 8vo, cloth, 5s. ; or, with Coloured Plates, 7s. 6d.

Routledgs's Pacture- Book of Animals and Birds. With
63 large Coloured Pictures, 2s. 6d. ; or, mounted on linen, 5s,

Lnttile Ladders to Learning. With 700 Illustrations.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

Lhe Beautiful Picture-Book. With Coloured Illustra-
tions. Super-royal 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
The Children’s Picture Play-Book. With Coloured

Illustrations, Super-royal 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

fioutledge’s Book of Alphabets. Containing the Rail-
road, the Farmyard, the Good Boys’ and Girls’, and the Sea-side
ee with Coloured Pictures, 2s. 6d. ; or, mounted on
inen, ds. :

Merry Conceits and Whimsical Rhymes. By Cu
H. Ross ; with Coloured Plates, to, cloth, 2 Ga ae
BOOKS FOR JUVENILES. ~ ee

Children’s Songs. By Mrs. Hawrrey. With Engray-

ings by Scort, printed in the best style, Imperial 8vo, cloth
boards, 2s. 6d.

Ihe Sunday Alphabet. By R. Crorurer. A Series of :
26 Pictures, Printed in the best style. Imperial 8vo, cl. bds., 2s. 6d. -

Adventures of a Cat. With Coloured Plates. Fep. 4to, |
cloth, gilt edges, 2s. 6d.

Adventures of a Dog. With Coloured Plates. Fep.
Ato, cloth, gilt edges, 2s. 6d.

Adventures of a Bear. With Coloured Plates. Fep.
Ato, cloth, gilt edges, 2s. 6d.

Lhe Alphabet of Flowers. With Illustrations. Imperial

16mo, boards, 1s.; or, with Coloured Plates, 1s. 6d.

Aunt Efe’s Rhymes for Children. Imperial 16mo,

with Illustrations, boards, 1s.; or, with Coloured Plates, 1s. 6d.

Summer Songs of Country Life. By the Author of the
**Alphabet of Flowers.” With Plates. Square 12mo, boards, Is.

Large Letters for the Little Ones. Imperial 16mo,
boards, Is. ; or, with Coloured Plates, 1s. 6d.

By Capt. Mayne Rem.

In fep. 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, with large Illustrations by |
W. Harvey and C. Keene. Price 3s. each.

The Plant-Hunters ; or, Himalayan Adventure.

fan Away to Sea: an Autobiography for Boys.

The Boy Hunters.

The Desert Home.

The Forest Exiles.

The Young Yagers.

The Bush Boys.

The Young Voyageurs.

The Boy Tar.

Bruin; or, The Grand Bear-Hunt. |

Odd People : a Popular Description of Singular Races
O

Men,



In fep. 8vo, cloth gilt, with many full-page Illustrations, 3s. 6d. each.
By ANNE Bowman. |

Tom and the Crocodiles.

Lhe Boy Pilgrims.
6 BOOKS FOR JUVENILES.





Books at 8s. 6d. continued :—

The Young Yachtsman; or, The Wreck of the Gypsy.

Esperanza ; or, The Home of the Wanderers.

The Bear-Hunters of the Rocky Mountains.

The Young Exile: a Boy’s Book of Adventure among
the Wild Tribes of the North.

Lhe Kangaroo Hunters ; or, Adventures of a Family
in the Bush and Plains of Australia.

The Castaways; or, Adventures of a Family in the
Wilds of Africa.

Among the Tartar Tents.

The Boy Voyagers.

By W. H. G. Kinaston.
Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy: a Tale of the Wide

Ocean. .
Marmaduke Merry, the Midshipman. Profusely
Illustrated.



By R. M. BALLANTYNE.
Freaks on the Fells ; or, A Holiday in Scotland,
Lhe Wild Man of the West. |
The Red Erie; or, The Whaler’s Last Cruise.

By J. G. EpGar,
The Boyhood of Great Men.
Footprints of Famous Men.
EMistory for Boys.

By Mrs. E1Loart,
Erne Elton at Home and at School.
Johnny Jordan and his Dog.
Balderscourt ; or, Holiday Tales. By the Rev. H.C,

ADAMS,
George Stanley; or, Life in the Woods.
Hardy and Hunter. By Mrs. Warp.
Lhe Adventures of Rob Roy. By Jams Grant.
Louis’ School Days. By E. J. May.

Boys - fone. By C. Apams, author of ‘ Edgar
BOOKS FOR JUVENILES. : re

Books at 3s. 6d. continued :—
Lhe Lamplighter. By Miss Cummins. Large type,
and well-printed Edition. With Illustrations by Joun GrtBerRt,
obin Hood and his Merry Foresters. Square 16mo,
cloth, illustrated.

The Island Home; or, The Young Castaways. ‘By T.

C. ARcHER. Illustrated.

Dashwood Priory. By E.J. May. With Illustrations —

by JouNn GILBERT.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin. By Mrs. Stowr. With a preface

by the Haru or CaRLISLE, and 12 Illustrations by GILBERT and
others. Post 8vo.

Tales of Charlton School. By the Rev. H. 0. Apams.

rere yt BI owes Rat Se,

Illustrated by ABSOLON.
School-Boy Honour: a Tale of Halminster College.
By the Rev. H. C. ApDAms.
The following have gilt edges :-—
Ancient Cities of the World. Bythe Rev. T. A. BuckLEy.
The Little Whaler. By GERSTAECKER.
Frank Wildman’s Adventures by Sea and Land.
Robinson Crusoe. Complete Edition.
Sandford and Merton. Revised Edition.
Evenings at Home. Revised Edition.
The Swiss Family Robinson. With 16 large Illus-
trations by JoHN GILBERT,
HALF-CROWN BOOKS, cloth, with full-page Illustrations.
Rough Diamonds. By Joun HoLLINGSHEAD.
Robert and Frederick. By Mrs. SHERWOOD.
The Story of Cervantes. By A. B. EpWAgRps.
Lhe Life of Lord Dundonald, |
Lhe Quadroon. By Capt. Mayne Retp.
The War Trail. By Capt. MaAyNE REID.
The LInfe of the Duke of Marlborough.
Gilbert the Adventurer. By PETER PARLEY.
The Playground: a Boy’s Book of Games.

The Lucky Penny, and other Tales. By Mrs. 8. C. Haut.

Bible History. Genesis to Joshua.
Heroes of the Workshop. By E. L. BRIGHTWELL.
8 BOOKS FOR JUVENILES.

‘TWO-SHILLING GIFT-BOOKS, with ILLUSTRATIONS.
Strongly bound in cloth.

Ernie Elton at School. By Mrs. EILoart.

John Hartley. By CHARLOTTE ADAMS.

Erne Elton at Home. By Mrs. Ertoart.

Try and Trust : a Book for Boys.

Robinson Crusoe ; with Illustrations. Gilt edges.
Swiss Family Robinson; with 8 Illustrations. Gilt

edges.
Evenings at Home ; with 8 Illustrations. Gilt edges.

Sandford and Merton; with 8 Illustrations. Guilt
edges.

The Indian Boy. By the Rev. H. C. Apams.

Lhe Cherry-Stones: a Tale of Charlton School. By
the Rev. H. C. ADAms.

The First of June; or, School-Boy Rivalry. By the

Rev. H. C. Apams.
Robert and Harold; or, The Young Marooners.
Robinson the Younger ; or, The New Crusoe.
Harry and his Homes ; or, The Conquest of Pride. By

the author of the “ Four Sisters.”
LMistorical Tales.
The Great Wonders of the World.
A Visit to the Zoological Gardens.
Lhe Richmonds’ Tour in Europe.
Florence; or, The Orphan Ward. By H. J. Woop.
May Dundas; or, The Force of Example. By Mrs.

GELDART.
Glimpses of our Island Home. By Mrs. GELparr.
Rosa: a Story for Girls.
Juvenile Tales for all Seasons. By Miss M‘Intosnx.
Conquest and Self-Conquest. By Miss M‘Intosu.
Evenings at Donaldson Manor. By Miss M‘Intosu.
Praise and Principle. By Miss M‘Invosn.
Grace and Isabel. By Miss M‘Inrosn.
Charms and Counter-Charms. By Miss M‘Intosn.
BOOKS FOR JUVENILES. 9

Two-Shilling Gift-Books continued :—

Gertrude and Eulalie; or, School-day Friendships.
Amy Carlton. By the Author of “ The Four Sisters.”
Laura Temple. By ANNE BowMAN. _ |
Violet ; or, Lost and Found. By Miss M‘Invosn.

_ hills of the Shatemuc. By the Author of “ Queechy.”
Mabel Vaughan. By the Author of the ** Lamplighter.”
Bundle of Sticks ; or, Love and Hate.

flester and I; or, Beware of Worldliness.

Amusing Tales. Lhe Broken Pitcher.

Lhe Donkey’s Shadow. Lhe Lnttle Lychetts.

EIGHTEENPENNY JUVENILES.

Square 16mo, with Illustrations PE CUBENT, ABSOLON, &e., bound
in cloth. |

Max Frere ; or, Return Evil with Good.

Peasant and Prince. By Harriet MARTINEAD..
Crofton Boys. By HARRIET MARTINEAUD.

Feats on the Fiord. By HARRIET MARTINEAU.
Settlers at Home. By Harrret MARTINEAU.

Holiday Rambles ; or, The School Vacation. By E11za-

BETH GRANT. |
Inttle Drummer: A Tale of the Russian War.
Frank. By Marta EpeEworta.

A Hero; or, Philip’s Book. By the Author of * John
Halifax.”

Himigrant’s Lost Son. By G. H. Watt, —
Runaways (The) and the Gipsies.

Daddy Dacre’s School. By Mrs. 8. C. Hatt.
British Wolf-Hunters. By Tuomas MrutEr.
Rainbows in Springtide. |
Rosamond. By Marta EncrewortnH.

Harry and Lucy, Inttle Dog Trusty, The Cherry
Orchard, &c. |

Story of an Apple. By Lady CAMPBELL.
Memoir of a Doll. By Mrs. Brsset.
Laura and Lilen; or, Time works Wonders.
10 BOOKS FOR JUVENILES.



Eighteenpenny Juveniles continued :—

Bow of Faith; or, Old Testament Lessons. By Marra

WRIGHT.

Anchor of Hope; or, New Testament Lessons. By

MARIA WRIGHT.

Accidents of Childhood; or, Stories for Heedless

Children.

Anme Mairtiand ; or, the Lesson of Irvfe. By-D. RicH-
MOND.

Lucy Elton; or, Home and School. By the Author of
**The Twins.”

Daily Thoughts for Children. By Mrs. GELDART.
Eimile the Peacemaker. By Mrs. GELDART.

Truth is Everything. By Mrs. GELDART.

Christmas Holidays. By Miss JANE STRICKLAND.
ftose and Kate; or, The Little Howards. |
Aunt Emma. By the Author of ‘‘ Rose and Kate.”
Lhe Island of the Rainbow. By. Mrs. Newton

CROSLAND.



Lhe Boy's Own Pocket-Book for 1867; containing a

variety of Information. 1s.



Juvenile Inbrary: in feap. 8vo, with Illustrations, in
fancy wrapper, ls. each :—

Robinson Crusoe.
Evenings at Home.
Swiss Family Robinson.
Sandford and Merton.

SHILLING JUVENILE BOOKS.
With Illustrations or Coloured Frontispieces, cloth gilt.
Happy Charlie,
Lhe Story of a Dog.
Lhe Story of a Cat.
Lhe Story of a Penny. By Mrs. PeRrrng.
Charley and Georgy ; or, The Children at Gobraltar.
BOOKS FOR JUVENILES. 1h



Shilling Juveniles continued :—
Ben Howard ; or, Truth and Honesty.
Carl Krinken ;. or, The Christmas Stocking.
Mr. Rutherford’s Children (1st Series).
Mr, Rutherford’s Children (2nd Series).
Casper. By the Author of ‘‘ Mr. Rutherford’s Children.”
The Brave Boy; or, Christian Heroism.
Our Charlie. By Mrs. Stowz.
The Prince in Disguise. |
| Ashgrove Farm.
Lhe Basket of Flowers.
trasy Poetry for Children.
Aunt Maddy’s Diamonds.
Maggie and Emma.
Grace Greenwood’s Stories for her Nephews and Nieces.
Helen’s Fault. By the Author of ‘‘ Adelaide Lindsay.”
The Cousins. By Miss Marta M‘IntTosuH.
Bessie and Tom; or, Perseverance Rewarded.
Beechnut. Wallace. Madeleine. Mary Erskine. By

JACOB ABBOTT.
Visit to My Birthplace.
Mary Bell.
Emily Herbert ; or, The Happy Home.
Rose and Inlhe Stanhope. By Miss M‘InrosH.
Magdalene and Raphael.
The Story of a Mouse.
The Village School Feast.
Nelly the Gipsy Girl.
The Birthday Visit to Holly Farm.
Stories for Weekdays and Sundays.
Kitty's Victory.
Elise and her Rabbits.
Annie Price. |
Neighbourly Love.
Minnie’s Legacy.
12 BOOKS FOR JUVENILES.

Shilling Juveniles continued :—
_ And by the Author of ‘The Wide, Wide World,” &e.

The Two School- Girls.
Gertrude and her Bible.
The Rose in the Desert.
The Little Black Hen.
The Widow and her Daughier.
Martha and Rachel.
The Carpenter's Daughter.

SELECTED ONE SHILLING JUVENILES.

For Sunday School Prizes, well printed, with Illustrations, 18mo.

Visit to My Birthplace. By Miss BUNBURY.

Carl Krinken; or, The Christmas Stocking. By Miss
WETHERELL.

Rose and Lillie Stanhope. By Miss M‘IntTosH.

Casper. By the Author of “‘ Mr. Rutherford’s Children.”

Magdalene and Raphael; or, The Wonders of Vision.

Nelly the Gipsy Gurl. |

_ Maggie and Emma. By Miss M‘IntTosH.

Elise and her Rabbits.

Happy Charlee.

Annie Price.



By the Author of “‘ The Wide, Wide World”
Lhe Two School- Girls.

Lhe Widow and her Daughter.
Gertrude and her Bible.

The Little Black Hen.
Martha and Rachel.
The Carpenter's Daughter.

falls from the Fountain, Lessons for the Young. By

the Rev. RicHaRD NEWTON,

Todd’s Lectures to Children (1st Series).
Lodd’s Lectures to Children (2nd Series).
Kitty's Victory. |








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cbdf21f2112a05200fd24c4d1a7cf768
1e11dcc4ff1e4272609e1f252ca47972af91c2dd
'2012-06-28T11:19:09-04:00'
describe
'13786332' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEH' 'sip-files00109.tif'
3b70493ef02be293a74bd25b518bc99c
99ac120ecc752592dbb1fcc3093c33d18b972f42
'2012-06-28T11:26:14-04:00'
describe
'1687611' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEI' 'sip-files00173.jp2'
adb154e7c09fb534b807b1343967a80b
242b5ee8f3aa5d8ab5b983a64766cd1df6c1a9a4
'2012-06-28T11:34:06-04:00'
describe
'13513664' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEJ' 'sip-files00140.tif'
54538512fe6a8a8b10b62788beba4918
24910b0fd4e95f72f9fb7e0afb4b366712ba3a75
'2012-06-28T11:20:43-04:00'
describe
'54513' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEK' 'sip-files00116.pro'
846d33e9fc8457f41a77c6e6e0459401
e4856fc8e5f942513a9dd89ecbc5e345dc5105c4
'2012-06-28T11:21:07-04:00'
describe
'151221' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEL' 'sip-files00060.jpg'
ea4ee982b2d9ab7ec2bdfcfc7cd7fd68
5508a3dd8d1a3e87ee54c05f8e523cb29a23bb15
'2012-06-28T11:22:29-04:00'
describe
'1913' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEM' 'sip-files00025.txt'
5542a952a1ff9f8813dec02aea7ad305
0a0dba218b63747e70da3ffb2fde1e2950707ba1
'2012-06-28T11:20:18-04:00'
describe
'44879' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEN' 'sip-files00019.QC.jpg'
e83ec53df54887b051c0adfa44fbf582
69ec71a9d1c6b8005c439b258843260a2eca1fca
'2012-06-28T11:32:26-04:00'
describe
'1687532' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEO' 'sip-files00119.jp2'
eadd7431356eeaee10f96a98909bee4d
cd60e0e677fd3c65cf29c2a34e9c398ff2ca2ac5
'2012-06-28T11:18:42-04:00'
describe
'144003' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEP' 'sip-files00071.jpg'
964c358cc3f6416b82dfd6933753913e
7075a66b0ae2c81a66c8fcdc0c97a7a6e387f0ef
'2012-06-28T11:32:03-04:00'
describe
'12529' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEQ' 'sip-files00142thm.jpg'
ac073b0e636e68c5c2c53ff04914d5b3
5f4056c486079190b32b60bdd05ae739c5c6914d
'2012-06-28T11:33:29-04:00'
describe
'151271' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANER' 'sip-files00095.jpg'
bc0a776699888fa4bfda4ed31de057fc
19aa0bd8fea5aa1b0e2bbaee290eaf3f4e64cc4c
'2012-06-28T11:22:21-04:00'
describe
'13513528' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANES' 'sip-files00103.tif'
328457f6d5bacb5a75c376d6e7893940
ef5718ad1170a70ff737cd1c60fc06f339035a94
'2012-06-28T11:22:49-04:00'
describe
'2406' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANET' 'sip-files00172.txt'
24ca1a2e73ac443ab7d570af10357931
8de422303c60470ebe99ed1d7434d68e1955a333
'2012-06-28T11:23:22-04:00'
describe
'13514232' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEU' 'sip-files00088.tif'
5de4d69597b52e9f8475e01adce9566f
30a02aaf8e6dc48174cff226b10f5b8ca4fc6497
'2012-06-28T11:20:04-04:00'
describe
'173280' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEV' 'sip-files00028.jpg'
4cc78463974c963e753caaa4bf41d524
fd1571ec04674ccfc990d7f0363c2c580b2130c6
'2012-06-28T11:20:14-04:00'
describe
'1128' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEW' 'sip-files00004thm.jpg'
30d0698313aeb0a1874cc88d3bfc317b
0e17c71875666fdad90d2ccd315457d67062f6c3
'2012-06-28T11:19:24-04:00'
describe
'10194' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEX' 'sip-files00173thm.jpg'
88e1754207cb498ac460005c71800a92
4aca4a6544969d5a8cc184f7b2ed8777d492cabf
'2012-06-28T11:25:47-04:00'
describe
'2006' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEY' 'sip-files00147.txt'
6608f7113bcdd03cd67a8cb28cf50740
e5d640c04d0d91635cc0d054cf0df6bf891dac24
'2012-06-28T11:24:04-04:00'
describe
'49785' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANEZ' 'sip-files00164.pro'
85aebc59945073f3de71f39c06c527be
04f788ee85d26f979ca5744fa9d169d508ba12d6
'2012-06-28T11:29:28-04:00'
describe
'47229' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFA' 'sip-files00108.pro'
4644a9158495262a08c97cd4a958a6c6
adc86ed7150dae989b0a73c9f6666ccf83f04dcf
'2012-06-28T11:35:29-04:00'
describe
'47253' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFB' 'sip-files00156.QC.jpg'
540c82b8efd3318ba9bd51e8124910ce
2c6583b17e8f2146c4bdc46f4b8af6ef9afa79bf
'2012-06-28T11:17:33-04:00'
describe
'49971' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFC' 'sip-files00012.pro'
189a8e8c4a2e05d0c6efa23400b9ddb9
50c6d9e2a1b34f5a1502ce5c9b5f0add1f877ddc
describe
'38058' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFD' 'sip-files00005.jpg'
40eeb7a4e3ff024b5781192bdd0a79cc
42936e2d2a084d5c964656d7407e4e0572a1ebed
'2012-06-28T11:18:28-04:00'
describe
'45186' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFE' 'sip-files00040.pro'
f5894652bb78db74bb2f2833ad9f8e78
5ed2fb8f47d146815b9d01ddc3372034337d7157
'2012-06-28T11:20:31-04:00'
describe
'36070' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFF' 'sip-files00174.pro'
7d6ee9cf322f4018ca0c344f22bf9046
156a8f92956d764db0c3ce6fbf896d566ce6993a
'2012-06-28T11:28:35-04:00'
describe
'46815' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFG' 'sip-files00111.pro'
1ecd469796fb9b8b0c0d8fff97332860
c0293f48787af666fd556db3160c00a6b0e152c0
'2012-06-28T11:33:54-04:00'
describe
'1687603' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFH' 'sip-files00023.jp2'
563907dc8144c0520f0caf176794db8d
9099ecbadde0b21a4f0d8a1b9234be5f4923ab18
'2012-06-28T11:30:47-04:00'
describe
'1678191' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFI' 'sip-files00155.jp2'
4d93c15dc0795f9ccfe55ade71d45aa0
dd0a24b98756d1993db6afb512ba3eb86687b8b8
'2012-06-28T11:29:41-04:00'
describe
'1641746' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFJ' 'sip-files00161.jp2'
acb2adf6f2880113399d1e0b0c4a3ca9
e59df39d58ec6f9ba2017792d0c9e1ab6553cd50
'2012-06-28T11:20:35-04:00'
describe
'50503' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFK' 'sip-files00148.QC.jpg'
106e7164a46bfc21714f8a7d9902c9ee
bb6a24f449d7219eb44d972f67552061dcf84838
'2012-06-28T11:21:59-04:00'
describe
'11618' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFL' 'sip-files00110thm.jpg'
0f4f136dd834d191d77490777d6deeda
f79af0345cc70060a026f22096e17764c4a94f49
'2012-06-28T11:31:26-04:00'
describe
'11625' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFM' 'sip-files00074thm.jpg'
9adaadcd723549497e5dfc3618801968
646df83ee4b4350023d96d57641bf3f98ce436f9
'2012-06-28T11:30:49-04:00'
describe
'52586' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFN' 'sip-files00122.QC.jpg'
fdcef6791063abe723951f3092d306f2
7a0224bb8b8d7281774e4bd5baffc33dc5112170
'2012-06-28T11:22:00-04:00'
describe
'1687571' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFO' 'sip-files00038.jp2'
fd79fe8bb28143efad8cd25febfb1a1c
640fabff5980d9deb31824454007158951e46f80
'2012-06-28T11:26:51-04:00'
describe
'162313' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFP' 'sip-files00096.jpg'
23b4e6504bedccd2cbeffb04619cab3b
862ee4b903ad56553d978a5289f20a53358e6a09
'2012-06-28T11:22:43-04:00'
describe
'53557' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFQ' 'sip-files00134.pro'
9ecde80c934c7b869cbc9f1d11445319
744662fe3fde030a814b7fb8729197d3de5d198b
'2012-06-28T11:26:01-04:00'
describe
'10559' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFR' 'sip-files00008.jpg'
d5b2e240649ed835dd58e5259a3d227d
875116afd9ac0a1d264f3a1515548004e7dafdc2
'2012-06-28T11:32:05-04:00'
describe
'139083' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFS' 'sip-files00076.jpg'
c79b0b9817121ee667dc3ea042f359e1
027b6d653f33919cbb151338234572b14c1b0e1b
'2012-06-28T11:30:39-04:00'
describe
'12419' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFT' 'sip-files00086thm.jpg'
aa965061c60df9b5fc5b1085040251a4
b8835516a04e63cf0263830e8309ea34fb4e9174
'2012-06-28T11:17:51-04:00'
describe
'1687609' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFU' 'sip-files00014.jp2'
74c503f2a70ba6de8f4251fcc32dbca4
efbe6741a655d87ce232d0b9a0b2ee5b395b168f
'2012-06-28T11:35:04-04:00'
describe
'13513416' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFV' 'sip-files00178.tif'
d0e9c99f4e06af53742cb301bc4bde00
3f9b598763a8c2bd851e2ec6c123d4c56133354a
'2012-06-28T11:25:57-04:00'
describe
'10383' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFW' 'sip-files00130thm.jpg'
9e92d2d0e78fa9887f6c99c9537fcf93
0cd5b479c4907f91e3335416649b3491ad0617de
'2012-06-28T11:32:34-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFX' 'sip-files00074.jp2'
e7e2fcb3276a609250c4d0a5bda665fa
496f6c9ff920d5f5316eee41e14e85b5bbc38a5b
describe
'1029' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFY' 'sip-files00008thm.jpg'
f4874df099cbcc2ea52403f70beb3196
de13bc4a1f83290b7f18ec4ca7970538120ed3b3
'2012-06-28T11:29:43-04:00'
describe
'12662' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANFZ' 'sip-files00018thm.jpg'
33d80f3d8fe07c0601c6dd277aca3dcc
0f61a500deaa8b65a3252d1b50a922664a941258
'2012-06-28T11:23:48-04:00'
describe
'1687596' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGA' 'sip-files00045.jp2'
df17f9af7912afc4e8cc8b3fd5cc5b0e
9badd38ca526240fe72b5480f6cffce9c0c1f186
'2012-06-28T11:29:49-04:00'
describe
'50435' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGB' 'sip-files00165.pro'
887ba31c4d8a94d80bd468f3338d2c99
d0e0f421a8906d046532f999f4e34748d58adb32
'2012-06-28T11:25:52-04:00'
describe
'13464336' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGC' 'sip-files00153.tif'
0259c107199f1b91481794d4dd421c28
d20f224e99dae0bfce5d621cf70a6f8c6d3df038
'2012-06-28T11:35:13-04:00'
describe
'40396' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGD' 'sip-files00058.pro'
80abe349ed316557aa633cfc16b797ff
9243f322aecb115c3332a5a4aa4a103497d40c76
'2012-06-28T11:25:42-04:00'
describe
'1687602' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGE' 'sip-files00081.jp2'
c7e821fedf0e049ec7c4ac070bad0b53
bc98944715d18723da47da6bc7574f45ebc6d503
'2012-06-28T11:29:03-04:00'
describe
'47104' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGF' 'sip-files00171.QC.jpg'
9d99e5154fab90e7eef9426a95b62cc1
81142916bce6e91b5c2668ae59652f010a1ddd2c
'2012-06-28T11:32:30-04:00'
describe
'151116' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGG' 'sip-files00097.jpg'
b410d167c71f8686b9dcb855742d2ea8
d7a39a0cbb6d75abbbda26741b6b38cd8ca609f4
'2012-06-28T11:28:17-04:00'
describe
'178601' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGH' 'sip-files00034.jpg'
b4567b9b66c9f413b96cc0b40207bd48
90d19cd026a99e02a09eff2d1e3013e641dfad12
'2012-06-28T11:17:30-04:00'
describe
'110987' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGI' 'sip-files00002.jpg'
72f553d10d6ec29f7a592379f078f216
574ac981b784e3a576b0b65c996333c0648f1b71
describe
'1654667' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGJ' 'sip-files00163.jp2'
b41d28452ac3e537543baba308874198
5dab1d867eee85b9ff70ff7a8b0c1b21f5939e28
'2012-06-28T11:25:24-04:00'
describe
'10669' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGK' 'sip-files00076thm.jpg'
3e970c7b5e8445ae7032f2b47df672f8
1518a2185229a2cf969309b35d4c6ff6472043e1
'2012-06-28T11:27:19-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGL' 'sip-files00013.jp2'
bd4998e8f34d54823218739a9523a329
a2005719abf6a50f29ac2b541816b58e353d1900
'2012-06-28T11:20:54-04:00'
describe
'1772' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGM' 'sip-files00097.txt'
02fbe65e68a1340e0fdd6b04b6d8de48
17931f6fdc821f614c571ecd7066c3cfa0fa0758
describe
'11150' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGN' 'sip-files00121thm.jpg'
c7ba8927de9299bb874a7b1019620dd1
f156bcb3a9c5d0c44fdaee7f2c8a81039c79267b
'2012-06-28T11:24:03-04:00'
describe
'1720370' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGO' 'sip-files00089.jp2'
a6c33908e8f3f3361b7cd27465f37170
af9318a9c180ff616941dfcdd2e430511d1ca373
'2012-06-28T11:18:58-04:00'
describe
'2023' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGP' 'sip-files00154.txt'
635966fabb0700c9390d49e9c9cbad6e
d69161b0bc9fa7b3701ba7e1d6a4e8295df93e91
'2012-06-28T11:23:50-04:00'
describe
'158201' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGQ' 'sip-files00027.jpg'
cf4566203c9b26e1deba7b550643e43d
06d4b023323d0aebe5a9b66062ce436ed6bb6d98
'2012-06-28T11:32:46-04:00'
describe
'13514372' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGR' 'sip-files00064.tif'
f6f74581fb0f1cd1840f084cc5187dd3
4309b2d462c7e5d17be991693d403bc44ea143b3
'2012-06-28T11:35:34-04:00'
describe
'12012' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGS' 'sip-files00098thm.jpg'
dbbad3ca35afbf63e90b6fbcab7e12b1
73a781f004741c2acfa7fee0fce3455bc64a582e
'2012-06-28T11:24:49-04:00'
describe
'49008' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGT' 'sip-files00011.QC.jpg'
1d92a7d1295e23163b8b4eb7ba2c817b
936af5d509cd76285c8b78778e82396aedf0d8ed
'2012-06-28T11:21:19-04:00'
describe
'53679' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGU' 'sip-files00034.QC.jpg'
c7353e58e6a0ee168d1b394da1059a0c
abe2883c5f2acb5459edada7f25666f445f13b95
'2012-06-28T11:31:40-04:00'
describe
'50876' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGV' 'sip-files00028.pro'
9fc1d67665e7ca96cc2a4b8e7b76ca31
f906b287ea7b1c67b31374c5dc87b63e5bbb4fd6
'2012-06-28T11:18:34-04:00'
describe
'1970' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGW' 'sip-files00132.txt'
8e72ae44d7587a30666bfcab842dd43a
26d9e4b92387db6b74ada05a10d25877d9f8a36f
'2012-06-28T11:29:39-04:00'
describe
'50481' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGX' 'sip-files00126.pro'
f97d9342ea3effcd33455fe3fe6ad053
2fe5f4105a14f7855deff662f288a0439475d8ab
describe
'13514348' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGY' 'sip-files00026.tif'
abfdfd54edb6567ee87289590d527e29
20745bef48121bc7f800dd1ba1eb0fca0548b85e
'2012-06-28T11:27:53-04:00'
describe
'1110369' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANGZ' 'sip-files00168.jp2'
eed483e03a63c5fce53f0e41e0f73dbf
9efa98ac21ac4272a7f61cd3689168347b28d048
'2012-06-28T11:30:43-04:00'
describe
'13782708' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHA' 'sip-files00179.tif'
e14dfc46d83763a4a5a9f41cef00708a
3c5244022625bb2b2ea48c7928df54f93342a1a0
'2012-06-28T11:17:27-04:00'
describe
'2105' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHB' 'sip-files00018.txt'
291e69535447c9a5814588275ca437a1
15cb159e5b51732bfa6065e062b3a88041b3dbcb
describe
'166955' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHC' 'sip-files00143.jpg'
11e15f815689d847e6856da8bde36b8f
a87ba56e4e5d9e142645716dbe44de30d2e66a96
'2012-06-28T11:21:01-04:00'
describe
'44705' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHD' 'sip-files00075.pro'
a57c3d30a617e3f194fc00be416b5a4f
3c404ef65972f18d5dbf346ae8dc469c2e9e6e8c
'2012-06-28T11:23:04-04:00'
describe
'13510496' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHE' 'sip-files00005.tif'
70f1f0c5e11191e3a824f5c17ecb9074
6456ef0045e5807a8b73ee37a1ee3260325169b3
'2012-06-28T11:32:39-04:00'
describe
'173702' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHF' 'sip-files00062.jpg'
6eb96e86ecc2ba2a237ecfd51eef47cf
8eab2f8706514277b2d1a2982b95de59f9169c5a
'2012-06-28T11:32:13-04:00'
describe
'14039828' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHG' 'sip-files00169.tif'
7a8ebf8e032745da29f0a72c0bd258c1
be6701c37b7de23058c33f9221c9c58c696daf83
'2012-06-28T11:29:38-04:00'
describe
'1910' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHH' 'sip-files00142.txt'
332970662d332a5415028b8779eb69b6
527b557fe25a5b494d93f944d27f1702520ae36d
'2012-06-28T11:24:12-04:00'
describe
'170950' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHI' 'sip-files00105.jpg'
fa80f638b9790323b53321390b790f23
9cb97395a4ea821dd1a92db17d16b4897e5b744f
'2012-06-28T11:21:30-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHJ' 'sip-files00128.jp2'
cd77829a696c4e142ca49f8278e76edf
daea14904000058f932c5760d31fa46079f4c7c0
'2012-06-28T11:24:22-04:00'
describe
'13514220' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHK' 'sip-files00020.tif'
543e17723a1fb6e5aa42c66cb4ed4764
ee2eb1a0342da964d6193f12615b77a96c8b98f3
'2012-06-28T11:32:55-04:00'
describe
'48601' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHL' 'sip-files00143.QC.jpg'
5778278c0fadf8283420feaac7354864
149c4537528cf9a3de3b9c554c7932abaf50be65
'2012-06-28T11:20:29-04:00'
describe
'48946' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHM' 'sip-files00118.pro'
a28b95e2ecda6a878063f5312ae9f21d
62d61a37fedcace766cf17d4ce9a9f38bac59fe0
'2012-06-28T11:26:02-04:00'
describe
'1687594' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHN' 'sip-files00068.jp2'
265702c043f8daf8c9d0f4d60444bec8
5d39b21fad2a314315214af715cdfddc6e051a6d
'2012-06-28T11:35:07-04:00'
describe
'42153' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHO' 'sip-files00009.pro'
6b1ba05daa00052a1c07367bc22d47ac
d88f2b4bdc2ba8911ff032b8962ff6e0914b17b2
'2012-06-28T11:30:48-04:00'
describe
'1687604' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHP' 'sip-files00042.jp2'
ec1b4c95d09c482a1170e2b5e3d65f0c
797ee7940683955f369b75d15fe5a75470ca7e79
'2012-06-28T11:17:40-04:00'
describe
'1687610' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHQ' 'sip-files00130.jp2'
03e9e54e5cf2260e21b72ac9a181dcd1
e07f16789534af80af5e48c3a72d274c92c5bec6
'2012-06-28T11:19:05-04:00'
describe
'56760' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHR' 'sip-files00116.QC.jpg'
4f5083c851421407e6029291d04a779a
f823ccbde815cbd48c9946ded6f954a92f9beeae
'2012-06-28T11:27:48-04:00'
describe
'1687407' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHS' 'sip-files00121.jp2'
3c21cd7cc5b2008ba9e1ee322b293413
af79634448a48a40e0c1b0bcb257268a0cc3f8da
'2012-06-28T11:25:27-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHT' 'sip-files00051.jp2'
80e5cd6efb5534b05ede4373fb35377e
fbaf381fbd73bdf0cdaff3759f1d663ddb9cf536
'2012-06-28T11:22:22-04:00'
describe
'11929' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHU' 'sip-files00038thm.jpg'
833595cca9ffa7a1eabc844d091410fa
b7d9a7b173d47fdb9c721037da6bfebc7928b352
'2012-06-28T11:23:18-04:00'
describe
'1981' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHV' 'sip-files00051.txt'
9b24c7ddc20b438c0c7fdde74d146cb3
9a1ce080034c5635ddef18e0e5f3f28832841a54
'2012-06-28T11:20:11-04:00'
describe
'13514656' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHW' 'sip-files00028.tif'
383cac291368e8d2af8121ecb19cac2a
3a6b646202e0dbc26bdba53e685d4e2a58453962
'2012-06-28T11:23:12-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHX' 'sip-files00064.jp2'
0a0f4af650d7f75a386a4510ff17a410
3364723ae9dbae118ab3fa6e98e52f21e774e2c6
'2012-06-28T11:26:52-04:00'
describe
'23356' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHY' 'sip-files00167.QC.jpg'
1b706962a75e63b129d0cc11fab8c064
138defdf6be3de1c802666580c069e583c1b2a09
'2012-06-28T11:33:40-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANHZ' 'sip-files00030.jpg'
6350fc67ca39e1d85cf49822d6091125
55b9217089793965defb5b9136a33cf4d0ef709b
'2012-06-28T11:25:21-04:00'
describe
'1725' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIA' 'sip-files00040.txt'
31d9c1313b10875458396e4c99b57ce6
dde778c298054125c0275d1ee0435655a5a8ccf6
'2012-06-28T11:26:55-04:00'
describe
'45696' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIB' 'sip-files00102.QC.jpg'
8a6f8b7dd7ed1eed551e05ec4cf2df84
c29b1dd2cae49cff66e566a9cd95da229f8e3b4a
'2012-06-28T11:25:37-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIC' 'sip-files00143.jp2'
26a37d93c22587a0ac1be266e9accbfa
2f31d4fe1717d3734e299b437c0d1ce791edcde2
'2012-06-28T11:19:58-04:00'
describe
'13514184' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANID' 'sip-files00056.tif'
03cc5b2f01dc01a1f9e3e94227402558
b8b5732b7bf74ef1c5895d3bc2030452d8734433
'2012-06-28T11:17:49-04:00'
describe
'36554' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIE' 'sip-files00178.pro'
abdb1a8b60059f16d6506340a8736bf1
8d254111a1468cf5d25e5b7ffbbe47c1f2eb9fd2
'2012-06-28T11:26:48-04:00'
describe
'6228000' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIF' 'sip-files00002.tif'
76cffe52ae8033c1972297ee54a76779
b7fcb12544cab94ddea0b3d3e6e03373b8441c1f
'2012-06-28T11:19:01-04:00'
describe
'1677' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIG' 'sip-files00149.txt'
0234e15dc75d7fe8107b25a48ca3e492
15cf62b7bfcb99f0684dd8cdbfa6dec212f51600
describe
'1687598' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIH' 'sip-files00102.jp2'
1ddd5ca24bd741f62a3aad3dc326a31c
2b0f5b3f7609361601ec441449c43e5e3d04160e
'2012-06-28T11:18:32-04:00'
describe
'1765' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANII' 'sip-files00146.txt'
71db4fe9d8700a0119993fa535040233
9105f28832e6cb5319c0bd3b312f6f72f9f8ab67
'2012-06-28T11:25:48-04:00'
describe
'13514108' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIJ' 'sip-files00143.tif'
5f1518ea31505596ac09f1e7d3b6c395
c635dfcaafeee36e855ab84ca79502f4c6b82877
'2012-06-28T11:35:59-04:00'
describe
'145149' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIK' 'sip-files00055.jpg'
e161de352da137fb319b2335a2c02dde
09059a98a750d2401a2c9499e5666b9ee5a165f4
'2012-06-28T11:26:18-04:00'
describe
'13508276' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIL' 'sip-files00008.tif'
c43b21fa545d211e5c612cc720567713
8ec4528b12a51c57795e05e40e63f13041daee42
'2012-06-28T11:32:12-04:00'
describe
'149448' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIM' 'sip-files00021.jpg'
7fd3736d3778d230b2a6ac4c1b0b3794
9a3f6b25c417bea32e8f061c6c99177ee75f8c6a
'2012-06-28T11:22:39-04:00'
describe
'129821' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIN' 'sip-files00078.jpg'
4504b8dedeaa4556cebc90055403dd01
46014340a75d4232c66f602d039cdf85960506dd
'2012-06-28T11:20:52-04:00'
describe
'11712' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIO' 'sip-files00064thm.jpg'
fb66621c531dcc14e81b7dc7522e5883
c6780ab5b3f8345728917319abeadbe185f17ce3
describe
'13513844' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIP' 'sip-files00046.tif'
c0473c2e610a52a1be51ec63d4411478
9a6157dbff7b80c40662a2adab681a86e566d70d
'2012-06-28T11:34:35-04:00'
describe
'1957' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIQ' 'sip-files00121.txt'
9cf2d1bb7daff0fdb9c1cb1a9e373e93
a31452d3b8ba34906a41d022d5fb68d1271bdcb0
'2012-06-28T11:19:42-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIR' 'sip-files00133.jp2'
1f493a2fc06ea48da88f37c798f2d7ad
50ab5a6d99d95ce71a4aa8c15d00d03ca6749c68
'2012-06-28T11:26:53-04:00'
describe
'136643' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIS' 'sip-files00039.jpg'
45f4a9aa200ce18acb16c7d90aa43df3
47aa38ed4ed2a299553d813cfb314e1c3eb26c4f
'2012-06-28T11:18:49-04:00'
describe
'13514416' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIT' 'sip-files00138.tif'
262c5fc6de24f0c9b4c3552c2284f9b8
c70a7b4749feaba129088f5028115f6b340e4918
'2012-06-28T11:28:25-04:00'
describe
'81458' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIU' 'sip-files00167.jpg'
3bec9833d2bdc9c36239ff425454d005
46c41ffe6f2f262330961e533ec9ff40cdb9b771
'2012-06-28T11:28:08-04:00'
describe
'11987' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIV' 'sip-files00099thm.jpg'
fc807ac0d5d281ec1809cbb246b3acb1
9586f03a9a29e062d12dc461fe15dbcce84a3eb1
'2012-06-28T11:27:06-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIW' 'sip-files00170.txt'
ece3790d47bc4754e61ec901ed464530
380d470b05ddc7d9d57b2667f73a97baa8b44a1b
'2012-06-28T11:24:27-04:00'
describe
'166663' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIX' 'sip-files00015.jpg'
43385dc38b8090fa8077662dd966a00b
d5835d3164aa7c7d84a9be3cfd070ee4050bdbb8
'2012-06-28T11:18:35-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIY' 'sip-files00054.jp2'
d6faaaff05e5d8230ad21861642f2f28
ba2245cc7c60962c30fac75a8f9fc86344b5aaed
'2012-06-28T11:28:22-04:00'
describe
'55453' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANIZ' 'sip-files00099.pro'
d2a4e289546627708c5b4ba4301bee0e
383564c99f37f00c816a9bcab4e5423c0ee45863
'2012-06-28T11:28:16-04:00'
describe
'13788796' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJA' 'sip-files00018.tif'
9e9fe4e0194af7276956da080e8c24d2
d99fb85d0fb138e7580e99b0690ec169ddab4dd0
'2012-06-28T11:22:36-04:00'
describe
'1735708' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJB' 'sip-files00095.jp2'
bea624bdf21a27036456e9f1ff1c4adf
a93eb96d9fbcc173fc07989f4b9f95e955a92e56
'2012-06-28T11:36:24-04:00'
describe
'1831' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJC' 'sip-files00108.txt'
f890742f89a55de0907a6b82c0b91675
e7c6660f100757b2566780cfb081360297024acd
'2012-06-28T11:31:20-04:00'
describe
'44834' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJD' 'sip-files00117.pro'
b1864ccc9c6854f610c75303fbf6fc51
db88ad357397066db5fc63bac170ec63c7cc56ad
'2012-06-28T11:23:36-04:00'
describe
'11343' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJE' 'sip-files00171thm.jpg'
ca7707ad4153fa17cfd2123eb02cee84
0c71d662db0661361bd2230a0e5f4d8453cef077
'2012-06-28T11:22:42-04:00'
describe
'10661' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJF' 'sip-files00177thm.jpg'
3b25f06acfd1100154c36611d61b9a30
28b9c3402c2db8f5106d3e4f2eff43861733cb8d
'2012-06-28T11:29:07-04:00'
describe
'47605' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJG' 'sip-files00056.QC.jpg'
461df3b78e0335aa0ccea529c8a4af5e
e902c9b5044a310e5655bf17662bb60fc090d5d2
'2012-06-28T11:23:57-04:00'
describe
'11450' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJH' 'sip-files00176thm.jpg'
f8d18a0a7eef4aa0b75ad63b4aa24db1
51b3d1b3fd313aca5f578f04abab54a3aa92b2d9
'2012-06-28T11:29:01-04:00'
describe
'12022' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJI' 'sip-files00060thm.jpg'
69901f1e9b44a18218aa43090a0cff74
db27514c2e5ab101a6a29950858c0c28333b31b3
describe
'44129' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJJ' 'sip-files00095.QC.jpg'
52718b08f733df99d8b6ce0725fc2636
15ae6636eb083086cfd5835760fa352e1118cacf
'2012-06-28T11:36:35-04:00'
describe
'10189' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJK' 'sip-files00061thm.jpg'
8eeef7363e744f5c927a0c83e382be39
3e594e0fd72edc8bb2e702ef2132a6b4242bd80a
describe
'49223' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJL' 'sip-files00153.pro'
b015fcf9c00ab2e351d1884e70531670
7348b996df459944ef75fc06765ce3fd836eb24b
'2012-06-28T11:25:28-04:00'
describe
'50465' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJM' 'sip-files00147.QC.jpg'
800f925a4363339644df21ffabf914eb
caed4fd538deb35dad78beb12f29866db8718a49
'2012-06-28T11:18:19-04:00'
describe
'1687607' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJN' 'sip-files00010.jp2'
6cd2aeece5ed5a3b4f2f1de783ac105d
1f6f03c1c720f38c37a363b1ae3d385509e9f7c2
describe
'1833' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJO' 'sip-files00055.txt'
3471f605539d3921cb72339625eccf8a
c4b0d3a19d2ecc3755b820d181f2c2414c6b3aff
'2012-06-28T11:21:23-04:00'
describe
'181807' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJP' 'sip-files00092.jpg'
45527dbfdaefb751271526f112bf4524
6e108d93668914b6252c88b3ff4221152a80c0fd
'2012-06-28T11:19:46-04:00'
describe
'1979' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJQ' 'sip-files00093.txt'
d7d22d7fb70d10036518feafa83140a7
8f9b2a8ffb41825ec5781263e080f1d1b64f6dac
'2012-06-28T11:34:30-04:00'
describe
'166475' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJR' 'sip-files00043.jpg'
94a2401d94adaa2e55e0ac88d14b36b0
c48a72c1000424f53c28147126e145045230b47c
'2012-06-28T11:22:53-04:00'
describe
'183403' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJS' 'sip-files00036.jpg'
9d113baeb8a4aac0c373075520211a99
939b14ee16b12e203971687e082fa94d40b7bc59
describe
'12676' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJT' 'sip-files00050thm.jpg'
21cca7eafed648dd106cfba812e04363
521aa564308a1a1efdc9e4899cd3bb5d01f0ae5f
'2012-06-28T11:20:37-04:00'
describe
'1735701' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJU' 'sip-files00035.jp2'
e758e45584a152d49acbb3febbf243e5
6a3f6c553c8eb6cb0ae5c64b5a5aea670507fa22
'2012-06-28T11:19:13-04:00'
describe
'47799' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJV' 'sip-files00027.pro'
85fbeca559e6b45af8d45148b0781a75
a5d2fdf728268ff65b19b301dfa88addeb26a750
'2012-06-28T11:21:13-04:00'
describe
'13787484' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJW' 'sip-files00080.tif'
65b134c3e2a8e71bcae80e2a6b02d4f4
ef5d0abe6c67298f15b0b3a3d59667a64c5f6220
'2012-06-28T11:24:11-04:00'
describe
'2996' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJX' 'sip-files00168.QC.jpg'
a3cae5c9d7413d42e0ea620a0f0d3876
8538013da43a7e71b86324bb14e7b92974b1bd75
'2012-06-28T11:29:45-04:00'
describe
'1693010' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJY' 'sip-files00149.jp2'
6de3c4be05289db955915e71b7598d95
8ac6c6b19cb0044b72882c9a4eecb7648eb6895c
'2012-06-28T11:36:20-04:00'
describe
'13450236' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANJZ' 'sip-files00155.tif'
1a3a371d650138a6aa1956688d81b8c2
715219b29e89d90618821cf59ac7e8a641a56d8e
describe
'1620' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKA' 'sip-files00104.txt'
ec923d73539e20260fd15ad1fbc84091
2318d568bed12b86064a98220f82f0ca086e7ba0
'2012-06-28T11:28:15-04:00'
describe
'1687605' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKB' 'sip-files00046.jp2'
379b4b66828d51769818ded1a17b3096
8b0db273d3bde0b4f337f43ce694d8f04933f67c
'2012-06-28T11:17:52-04:00'
describe
'41484' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKC' 'sip-files00135.pro'
774e26d9f89fd051bf5b88b5c3f65e57
0a6bc05ec85c92a3506564b5882ea8d4b452a0e1
'2012-06-28T11:26:21-04:00'
describe
'1687576' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKD' 'sip-files00049.jp2'
e4ca9059765eceb85e04295e3bbb7ab7
0c24801ff3d81016c7f4baa925c5aaf634bce65b
'2012-06-28T11:26:25-04:00'
describe
'46578' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKE' 'sip-files00156.pro'
4e41d569747c43948826bb145273c4d1
9dcb8e92d529f069a5f9d92f3c4a3b1be6a5dfce
describe
'13514428' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKF' 'sip-files00038.tif'
fbd17d361ecfa9edb1a9fe39e9450c5a
1a71ae09b4eaffcd0153c27b5643c63bee0235c8
'2012-06-28T11:33:14-04:00'
describe
'161758' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKG' 'sip-files00082.jpg'
85dc2ea99abcee7637a1c42cb1f4dfd4
7685b2e0fad24f31b5c9815cbc3eab448f91404c
'2012-06-28T11:30:13-04:00'
describe
'173255' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKH' 'sip-files00025.jpg'
cf2b0abeae71d81ea67c0027fd9be8e0
93bc795d59eee0dd3addb8729a329d95401a231e
'2012-06-28T11:34:31-04:00'
describe
'166981' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKI' 'sip-files00026.jpg'
751bbd2f6b6fe309afe7e5b626a6ba8d
53a0d1c66a1b12842a4ccfda623324624c9ab495
'2012-06-28T11:32:07-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKJ' 'sip-files00078.jp2'
6ca5874782345d3024e34b6ff4888c5d
af3e87d8eedfb37d1167405af4afc7e913da8383
'2012-06-28T11:27:08-04:00'
describe
'54299' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKK' 'sip-files00015.pro'
03429c6611e248d606de3ce2871142f1
472b0b172765537d74a6486423aa73a25b680991
'2012-06-28T11:21:43-04:00'
describe
'12594' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKL' 'sip-files00037thm.jpg'
e51bd58170079749042e64b7a3bf7549
3e0c5a2f57b5505ed8d4eb20e0f79553f6ce9fa5
'2012-06-28T11:21:38-04:00'
describe
'42160' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKM' 'sip-files00055.QC.jpg'
059a7edfcbde302d876ebcdab7a08152
0b8ad99b6a2b5468e29608064515e11925c55a40
'2012-06-28T11:30:41-04:00'
describe
'51918' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKN' 'sip-files00160.pro'
e0acf9ea7e93fad2b56495be68a2c3b6
6e24ab4c606a87cc9afb8a5056e31af616cebbeb
'2012-06-28T11:36:23-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKO' 'sip-files00072.jp2'
2d543822682f7d0e61ab405ff5a62ea5
eef9c07eb66321d8b555e0dd98771561519d8a3e
'2012-06-28T11:34:01-04:00'
describe
'1687606' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKP' 'sip-files00141.jp2'
b1f36bc12939ffaaa661b9176b868317
6e7479026614ccbd27adfad65ea2998390d5096b
'2012-06-28T11:18:09-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKQ' 'sip-files00121.pro'
a9411d4443212481af3aa9aed72fd7cd
3af79b3a884407074b87f908ea29a90397cbbc15
'2012-06-28T11:35:05-04:00'
describe
'33088' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKR' 'sip-files00007.jpg'
31868e718fe7928ac4423cba85c4c4a4
6f8db6c94b322e0cadd38c2c8b2152f7757c503f
'2012-06-28T11:22:31-04:00'
describe
'48659' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKS' 'sip-files00016.QC.jpg'
b8ab5e756cf657c7e362171e6cabf801
2df17611b501acd0be448b2e611f5035bb88baeb
'2012-06-28T11:22:01-04:00'
describe
'52671' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKT' 'sip-files00062.QC.jpg'
035287474f4e847f254bff24b2ae819b
1ba8c717784d0c781297cf6732d44914f8e8b634
'2012-06-28T11:28:49-04:00'
describe
'151234' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKU' 'sip-files00175.jpg'
30b2d5cdbc7f2aac193fcf5106114b15
f1040a573843dd2f09947beb8bc164e1894cf377
'2012-06-28T11:25:41-04:00'
describe
'9874' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKV' 'sip-files00078thm.jpg'
f025d44956a02ed70e3ec2cf72644328
810413b39f1025e9b227f9ab25d7ad943f3c0557
'2012-06-28T11:26:28-04:00'
describe
'49319' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKW' 'sip-files00083.pro'
34d63a24f947a0007bf87ff456a28bc3
b297f5fec66ec0cb84b65051ef449a725dd5f346
'2012-06-28T11:35:57-04:00'
describe
'10868' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKX' 'sip-files00022thm.jpg'
cca97562c0f288512784c553327e9ebf
33c7a4faa785cacf931aeb5cad326be32f839c6e
'2012-06-28T11:19:21-04:00'
describe
'1915' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKY' 'sip-files00062.txt'
789a1d0a9af418f69ba2c0effe8fdd72
ba945d72e76dd5ec141de69df5229a8805b279ff
'2012-06-28T11:36:16-04:00'
describe
'13909808' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANKZ' 'sip-files00031.tif'
dd5e113e7443f106b5b9e99b2053f115
c5c369e7b39e8608200240d96aa7d04c6d4c9248
'2012-06-28T11:36:10-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLA' 'sip-files00075.jp2'
6551dad5cf4c20ab22ec99fe88e23aff
302086e06739e8e58cba0843ac96d07e1f83c7ff
'2012-06-28T11:34:38-04:00'
describe
'57784' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLB' 'sip-files00136.pro'
c52cbe0fdd896f00a30dea7d564c4576
5a6527e7eeb42807035b7f914a27300f000bee69
describe
'1949' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLC' 'sip-files00011.txt'
b046b0cf16104d8e0812f35871d2498f
af17f6b44af916d06dbea3d754d17107fb0ea0f6
'2012-06-28T11:33:01-04:00'
describe
'149892' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLD' 'sip-files00141.jpg'
0549e80ed8d86716aadd7715faa65447
bc3b2ad03ac841d772719a24f5ecc3249de8c0d7
'2012-06-28T11:18:50-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLE' 'sip-files00058.jp2'
66b451942b7942af228669883f10c290
d426d0988984e7b375e0224bb0b6a8b6eb8e8ea3
'2012-06-28T11:34:19-04:00'
describe
'45358' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLF' 'sip-files00176.QC.jpg'
a82ac32520e0c9b71df56fb9db8327c8
e13f60df71b7a05ed2a1f47718ee356462b53b41
'2012-06-28T11:31:53-04:00'
describe
'40658' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLG' 'sip-files00081.QC.jpg'
7a258617ae8ee5441979db537dbb89e0
ff841768b4c1c242abc52c50f4948b4b66f0b705
'2012-06-28T11:18:07-04:00'
describe
'50298' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLH' 'sip-files00053.pro'
41633f0a611e75365bd21890314974b1
15cbe3fb4c9363d3799989f88519f27411eb1216
'2012-06-28T11:22:28-04:00'
describe
'1720371' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLI' 'sip-files00100.jp2'
6063740538f52237498e9009f94aeb90
269596d2f7e93c47dae073247c31c4b7e11e869a
'2012-06-28T11:31:37-04:00'
describe
'13514012' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLJ' 'sip-files00067.tif'
ef6a158226c822012129b0e97bc00983
ddb8985a05f63f9f57020c2bc98215106d79e87e
'2012-06-28T11:24:47-04:00'
describe
'190531' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLK' 'sip-files00084.jpg'
618978ee40f5b9bb50063cd7340f4a94
2848fcfe7811f39751d382b361c72d0b5d6a0274
'2012-06-28T11:23:33-04:00'
describe
'1752047' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLL' 'sip-files00063.jp2'
b538a0f543ebaf864421aa0dc6553f68
749866e1a8abf56122fe325fbc58a68c32402fa4
'2012-06-28T11:25:23-04:00'
describe
'11922' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLM' 'sip-files00042thm.jpg'
bf1fc4476e2c46fa7738771b7c12d6c0
036f9f9cace635abef6b86430a9047526f66569f
'2012-06-28T11:33:42-04:00'
describe
'13513940' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLN' 'sip-files00023.tif'
b809d1893ed4ec1b9fec1f517311a38e
b9f05acc1b3d0da5b0cca7f0b50ffa21987fe28c
'2012-06-28T11:21:51-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLO' 'sip-files00117thm.jpg'
2f40b1547d20b58c5105f5b3cfcf5728
ad81e41f779cc2f17299032c1e1118e3119add6f
'2012-06-28T11:32:04-04:00'
describe
'12499' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLP' 'sip-files00062thm.jpg'
f6a6a359f6ebd459a6d4fd10f1524f92
3d83284e2b376d591cb6bf78b9682b7d5ae3c6c7
'2012-06-28T11:23:35-04:00'
describe
'152356' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLQ' 'sip-files00013.jpg'
203ac4bd254b31dd4c98ebe975a36240
cab75ca629a46a2c614158159564dfee50057baf
'2012-06-28T11:19:16-04:00'
describe
'2004' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLR' 'sip-files00145.txt'
38a574e6f2bea062c7ec6884f4e0f47c
0447402731ec5a90e822abb85c352d8a3806c468
'2012-06-28T11:18:17-04:00'
describe
'38519' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLS' 'sip-files00174.QC.jpg'
a25c472900713503ab3293332d664a4e
6cf48bfb9947d835b95483144bab2fc064c50f6d
'2012-06-28T11:22:55-04:00'
describe
'1854' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLT' 'sip-files00098.txt'
6838e07aff395abe7e236c2ddd9de20e
20097c470b8f76289a1693fd8e26cdcce3620852
'2012-06-28T11:25:30-04:00'
describe
'1884' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLU' 'sip-files00024.txt'
41adb2cb18d16e84b61b628fd568b35c
e3e8e565e68b0cfd00913d1f011d7326b12addd5
'2012-06-28T11:18:43-04:00'
describe
'13785748' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLV' 'sip-files00061.tif'
a26e5393172f73e6f2926ea7580541c7
222b2869c08bdf32b8ee52d35292e21f7bf443da
'2012-06-28T11:28:03-04:00'
describe
'1687575' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLW' 'sip-files00166.jp2'
a9fb07628cf5f0b0dbcf0ae63a3c7d13
ac92d313b77a896c5f22e265ba348a8cd86d5b99
describe
'14038672' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLX' 'sip-files00063.tif'
c8f5eb22d6ba423cabf708897bb8b65e
c9d331893f52ecf393ee3433d0950d6c0b93d504
'2012-06-28T11:25:02-04:00'
describe
'13514180' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLY' 'sip-files00014.tif'
da8eb3d347c4ae4d121727ecd0950c0c
2add9ce55feee5a504f7d54c0f12d94749871919
'2012-06-28T11:31:02-04:00'
describe
'12851' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANLZ' 'sip-files00036thm.jpg'
f0f9558d7d00a098d0ed6f16d1a8547a
c5b4e863814123e3a357022676605cb068c051e8
'2012-06-28T11:22:07-04:00'
describe
'61145' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMA' 'sip-files00172.pro'
352040ebe73faa5219d3a7bb35558dab
139748434e4d1f72875dd3c8fe0870348a665f21
'2012-06-28T11:23:13-04:00'
describe
'1720364' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMB' 'sip-files00101.jp2'
c4cc753d2ba3d7b14c440c4d98a9815d
98d74902e7c440ec5340bad7da750ff68ad76632
'2012-06-28T11:29:18-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMC' 'sip-files00028.jp2'
6cdc88332a0a9b4b6f96d7f1ed0ade1c
71d16fd2e3e702ec7b49a820b7a0445c6655fcba
'2012-06-28T11:29:13-04:00'
describe
'47169' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMD' 'sip-files00093.QC.jpg'
326fce8eb5bbf173b6d0dba507179c35
438775e0ba177adf26e2fd9b063f41d48f752faa
describe
'13910584' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANME' 'sip-files00099.tif'
d41349789c0ad79538fcd91ee840e374
75062dbf8a0d163e634d5aa10654ff0102d3c7b2
'2012-06-28T11:33:47-04:00'
describe
'170248' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMF' 'sip-files00073.jpg'
375cf4cb94877682f8fbcb82e89f0723
29f38c6570fe5996d671e9edf66ca4d0b39e9f02
'2012-06-28T11:18:59-04:00'
describe
'1856' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMG' 'sip-files00085.txt'
b97cb733b420a66c8ce000c4fba8fe87
4b2163d30afcb5df80e671fb7ed121d4dc37206b
'2012-06-28T11:22:45-04:00'
describe
'1739743' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMH' 'sip-files00129.jp2'
d1642c77cc63425513df18929900fdf9
1ee07a6577a2ffb91e2fa594586edb836c996f94
'2012-06-28T11:27:29-04:00'
describe
'46489' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMI' 'sip-files00071.pro'
57511968704155eda5b48694abe7574b
95a34e8fcbbd93b6e366522262ff7007f17dd79d
'2012-06-28T11:32:41-04:00'
describe
'1752049' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMJ' 'sip-files00169.jp2'
fb41cf53dfcf7defbb3e9028e7e68689
a9cbed956997a4a22bdb5ee98f1d1adf40adb323
'2012-06-28T11:29:04-04:00'
describe
'50122' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMK' 'sip-files00062.pro'
3e2ed6708b1eaecfde5f5085ec8eb405
41cb4954a54e4514d4fa6d0bd4fca5f0823623ec
'2012-06-28T11:23:42-04:00'
describe
'47620' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANML' 'sip-files00030.pro'
8923ff28e533cc00fda78d694dbeab17
5061e7ed53c400ae87f1b7fb575ab51da6f2c54d
'2012-06-28T11:22:44-04:00'
describe
'1835' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMM' 'sip-files00169.txt'
dfb176b4388c11bd5f8f0b99dc55b29c
76552c19b1a2964f2edf6272f094749c07fce5ac
'2012-06-28T11:29:23-04:00'
describe
'13908620' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMN' 'sip-files00095.tif'
69e2d3ce326b7b82c8628dd3d3eecb5a
9b80c50bc6fb969c1661dcbd3c79f8058e6b83e5
'2012-06-28T11:20:09-04:00'
describe
'9115' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMO' 'sip-files00006.jpg'
455dd9f3c09c2592d07d2e4b803eb881
265f496c78feec44e7cf5823fe44de130bb73d77
'2012-06-28T11:23:59-04:00'
describe
'135025' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMP' 'sip-files00135.jpg'
24d8f118f0653c6f7694e3df1d4353be
9dce51e551d4e09c74bd4d4f6ed93d769281b540
'2012-06-28T11:23:20-04:00'
describe
'10682' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMQ' 'sip-files00013thm.jpg'
7eb228d27dc1b678f41c4e7ab7bd9291
2739318209e70d938d87cbfd3311e533a8aeb154
'2012-06-28T11:36:42-04:00'
describe
'13514532' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMR' 'sip-files00122.tif'
b44b41bc7be039934c4a3fa73427e760
6ec3dd20443df2dc9d57e4a9eeacd111a18d0bf3
'2012-06-28T11:23:15-04:00'
describe
'50321' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMS' 'sip-files00088.QC.jpg'
e6a73eec249f710eb42aeb0f56d27121
527ea7e0bf4b4b8a77284ab8245540c99c4bf25b
'2012-06-28T11:28:54-04:00'
describe
'13514500' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMT' 'sip-files00040.tif'
530eb523e7ebd6a2494a6a22e9b7bd33
f30edaf1127272e4b25d5f9ff09469b6304b4f71
'2012-06-28T11:25:45-04:00'
describe
'292' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMU' 'sip-files00002.txt'
c31d640f03a49bbe8dc3f92518f225fb
d26fbf6180184cf9e8a06adf94ea8661555f666c
'2012-06-28T11:19:49-04:00'
describe
'155602' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMV' 'sip-files00133.jpg'
4e4fea92b727988d205dd1f74aabf77a
56465d2530b2db0d369be09aa47558f677ed4f72
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMW' 'sip-files00032.jp2'
ee46158b00e2caf09635796ee1c76936
5241c599b3757fa355cc45f720da78fe6cc5f573
'2012-06-28T11:33:55-04:00'
describe
'13513976' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMX' 'sip-files00115.tif'
7fb4457b0cadd9980479eb706fd7ad43
9d7e2a11262f3235cd975b128c083b699727bbd2
'2012-06-28T11:23:16-04:00'
describe
'54352' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMY' 'sip-files00031.pro'
d6798806fec443cad8429dc9c727504b
51fd9826fc456d261def76f545b8275b9474ca0b
'2012-06-28T11:33:39-04:00'
describe
'1687586' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANMZ' 'sip-files00024.jp2'
01885ae6dd148ea0f19b2ed81537b5e3
55e28b9ceb42e4803b529335d18051ca0045f7f2
'2012-06-28T11:17:59-04:00'
describe
'1886' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNA' 'sip-files00088.txt'
2094235c25f3fad5533e2f2c5870063b
3adb2e87e37c5f8cf067acb0d64e1f8c85810a2f
'2012-06-28T11:26:22-04:00'
describe
'47990' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNB' 'sip-files00140.QC.jpg'
4a7f2d48933f4f9cbb38bd6bd1095e3e
a92e314a70106c555049a49ac6eebd23e7793c4b
'2012-06-28T11:20:27-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNC' 'sip-files00177.jp2'
3fcf748f9cfc43f506962d9268dd54a2
99579d0e8630a9e3182da92a2c9f02c3187329ee
'2012-06-28T11:20:15-04:00'
describe
'1775' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANND' 'sip-files00094.txt'
779cc98b68c27b802de62ca5787bd81e
1db7713ed160e241b04f0ed14a93dea1be42a7ed
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNE' 'sip-files00147.jp2'
7abd6d82a03dae49de566cce01f425e8
77d79b97e87b33ebdf0134ee740b77570a3bcea3
'2012-06-28T11:34:39-04:00'
describe
'1687523' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNF' 'sip-files00039.jp2'
08abedfd402e099ba318473e720194bb
c499caa7dd8aacb77134b1eb86afc19e84c617ba
'2012-06-28T11:32:27-04:00'
describe
'12184' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNG' 'sip-files00020thm.jpg'
a29cdf59b896a026591e49aea0c2505c
cfcec2d035a33ba1b0cbd2e9aaa69dbab1b61f7b
describe
'13514704' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNH' 'sip-files00136.tif'
bf90b3d31879b036b18b5acc16a4f8bc
5053d9b914f36833d52eab2668202babbb26c382
'2012-06-28T11:18:15-04:00'
describe
'56744' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNI' 'sip-files00079.pro'
415df58d6d80da04712a6961a33974e8
d6365f92aa849518715fd979bc83faa7eda3e665
'2012-06-28T11:25:32-04:00'
describe
'4295' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNJ' 'sip-files00005thm.jpg'
93a1ad3acb3d4a5d3adb474b36c8d314
6c5e92271af1e3ef69249f53bb0482f005846fc5
describe
'40480' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNK' 'sip-files00058.QC.jpg'
de610ca29605b1fb693becdb9b760f8b
3f9c44be95c9e10db0a66179cf020550f124763f
'2012-06-28T11:33:53-04:00'
describe
'13349' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNL' 'sip-files00172thm.jpg'
42716897efd1a16b97d7aebcd4b60891
c8583aafa61da77a23487e447bf70db457eae3a1
describe
'1687552' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNM' 'sip-files00026.jp2'
824fa9b66f47a16c9e72630b9dcb9f87
46780caf58f0d807d89af8917072f0edd710d7c7
'2012-06-28T11:36:40-04:00'
describe
'1821' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNN' 'sip-files00156.txt'
9939b61ac349941949fa68e9e702d9d8
013bd0bd8fafa74c25da6010fa026de69afb13df
'2012-06-28T11:25:22-04:00'
describe
'51203' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNO' 'sip-files00021.pro'
2fd70dc1ee8c03c33bbc9ab1c1bd3894
cf6a971efec1a808c7cd2738928dbf5756a2cfba
describe
'13513644' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNP' 'sip-files00133.tif'
e507c8e9fa9f79b53d577820ec9d5415
84f30e85a61934da6da83c8d6ea671956dccfb5f
'2012-06-28T11:24:33-04:00'
describe
'46153' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNQ' 'sip-files00066.pro'
aca2e216771a469310eeb0e75fad79df
be94093193f7625c0e6348a0be81db3b4bf350b7
'2012-06-28T11:25:12-04:00'
describe
'39711' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNR' 'sip-files00078.QC.jpg'
27f742d0a5fbc7d5d42ace16f3af76eb
370935473f5456572feee83b22ffb0cf4923ce34
'2012-06-28T11:22:59-04:00'
describe
'1735672' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNS' 'sip-files00053.jp2'
58939c26724ae628993658fa27be22d6
d518d71b62546f1e0622689dc08b3047e1f72d59
'2012-06-28T11:21:37-04:00'
describe
'8255' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNT' 'sip-files00179thm.jpg'
f9570d68c55b64741d4027f12ec64136
c98927fa87674fcc83e81aab0f128691e9b880ab
'2012-06-28T11:20:02-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNU' 'sip-files00086.jp2'
2d264045ff562ad8b5d61acdf82942ff
899e98dc84183295c688cb371a1b74a028659a75
'2012-06-28T11:30:44-04:00'
describe
'52592' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNV' 'sip-files00127.pro'
857b64b29090b24234e3d587e7642944
da568d612b18a9010d7b73465c522573a3050ada
'2012-06-28T11:32:53-04:00'
describe
'166652' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNW' 'sip-files00170.jpg'
09b682663fd4e4d48267237123d6df9a
b398352cd81553812c143afd477d7efffaa2c818
'2012-06-28T11:29:24-04:00'
describe
'164911' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNX' 'sip-files00011.jpg'
17eff572b29086ebced174be2470a5d1
4455400a6cb67b64125b5aae5444e549e0a0c507
'2012-06-28T11:20:03-04:00'
describe
'48503' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNY' 'sip-files00125.QC.jpg'
4574413053b1b3e3d23810a4d35d0a99
5a9fd80ea460fbcfb38a4fa9131676df91fbb3b7
'2012-06-28T11:31:25-04:00'
describe
'47114' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANNZ' 'sip-files00121.QC.jpg'
f623cc10f2224417c2e17d7df659bda6
0370b8a88560cbe0786924ed362ea1e4c88bb7db
describe
'13514752' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOA' 'sip-files00132.tif'
eee547a366ad3a1f961cf0cf16a96509
bd2d197d250b83c04ecd329edca0cfde2f031556
'2012-06-28T11:17:44-04:00'
describe
'46398' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOB' 'sip-files00064.pro'
aa7590485fe4229e233ff5297692d373
5c41fca5cefab485e075c96313c5f50d2c9b3b96
'2012-06-28T11:18:30-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOC' 'sip-files00111.jp2'
4a391ec2bfc3a6ebb369d47e088eb1a8
fcde387765cb38318bab1dc774089b93503ea4ef
'2012-06-28T11:27:36-04:00'
describe
'1912' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOD' 'sip-files00125.txt'
17c481f7257d3b142035eaff113238b2
af275a75eeb683b7c9cc0b71e8b3ff0c9e414fe3
'2012-06-28T11:22:05-04:00'
describe
'13514164' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOE' 'sip-files00125.tif'
5718c3f7c0123030f7499b043f7ee428
1d54b6ce1c85cc9f21f93134080a57a5d2bdd7f4
'2012-06-28T11:31:09-04:00'
describe
'45952' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOF' 'sip-files00124.pro'
745bcdff6384f64920c94b53a5a108e9
428c40b790c41c51c9735db43c4a66e1ba316d80
'2012-06-28T11:27:59-04:00'
describe
'1612' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOG' 'sip-files00017.txt'
3947d0807d3fa3d365f5878927657a4b
4b3a237582b1d827c5a6a16dca0dead6370082db
describe
'13514412' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOH' 'sip-files00126.tif'
37189640d770763ef76464057997077a
d0fd2690d09ccc481260625650721f64bac2be47
'2012-06-28T11:35:09-04:00'
describe
'48128' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOI' 'sip-files00085.QC.jpg'
5f3ffb90beef7241349c42829bf85fb7
7ad5ab04be3e35bb3be24f6a4f2c0ccbe6fac699
'2012-06-28T11:28:26-04:00'
describe
'11394' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOJ' 'sip-files00031thm.jpg'
c9fd744f2763a4ecdb58641a990be7b7
ebf85eedac03e88327dd3e2740b018cbcd5f4d0a
'2012-06-28T11:29:16-04:00'
describe
'13513772' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOK' 'sip-files00030.tif'
8ffc6a36a2b8730992e099b39e042226
2ccb7514d0db505f2dd3377eb9d1984403bef7ee
'2012-06-28T11:31:06-04:00'
describe
'51177' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOL' 'sip-files00155.pro'
d8e171637039488643f9c02c7f0353ed
a283d9756c51caaeff7eb8fb1e1556bf88f2ce4d
'2012-06-28T11:25:14-04:00'
describe
'11125' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOM' 'sip-files00146thm.jpg'
112bd494fb0538d4ed1c69f60a1e47c8
4b84c6a04d59fa7f801f0f04c6280059bbe2810e
describe
'13514588' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANON' 'sip-files00010.tif'
2d98bd7355db44d0a9e19591a1e390a1
2550b2e4b8a4041ddba4dd3c031a7e9a5734bf05
describe
'1687599' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOO' 'sip-files00056.jp2'
680074a354dc72f63d077a70c641e066
b51e398cbf2d1319e08c2ee198850d9e2a0c1de1
'2012-06-28T11:20:33-04:00'
describe
'3' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOP' 'sip-files00183.txt'
bc949ea893a9384070c31f083ccefd26
cbb8391cb65c20e2c05a2f29211e55c49939c3db
'2012-06-28T11:31:21-04:00'
describe
'141322' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOQ' 'sip-files00023.jpg'
b1f162dc05e0c4ca1108dfd7a91d60e0
69361617cc993db7e37c6653baf6bacf84282ba9
'2012-06-28T11:24:15-04:00'
describe
'2063' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOR' 'sip-files00050.txt'
98b0962d2d24957724e08ac31e541d2a
d04e0649e1c363363961eb54c6a91ef9093cfd1c
'2012-06-28T11:33:06-04:00'
describe
'48147' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOS' 'sip-files00107.pro'
fb297a5109aa22520f907942231ec202
691cfff74193b62a02e46a3ee8975fe1ba44d31b
'2012-06-28T11:30:11-04:00'
describe
'159209' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOT' 'sip-files00140.jpg'
12ec6810df07d0b12cb36f6c74825896
6dced5d106aabb21989460f72b60f15f54cfd223
'2012-06-28T11:26:03-04:00'
describe
'140902' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOU' 'sip-files00169.jpg'
76c31bc63f29c05ba35725fc924acc34
2bb4ad7188b82d77312bd5a0b3a02917ab7a9a18
'2012-06-28T11:34:53-04:00'
describe
'8686' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOV' 'sip-files00129thm.jpg'
319f590634b78a09e7d2dd56ad29d297
b62cff214d563f43157aad468bbe5674bc1113e4
'2012-06-28T11:21:39-04:00'
describe
'42400' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOW' 'sip-files00175.pro'
c5cd13a32623d3e56c279fd5e3d4dd5d
7f82a5323fa7df8ad290a3610200f5be05b293ae
'2012-06-28T11:32:23-04:00'
describe
'47121' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOX' 'sip-files00140.pro'
dff353a2a07b2ff951855f117d2161b7
371fce0c85bdf93a212aa70cd1539490a9477d0c
'2012-06-28T11:35:54-04:00'
describe
'50690' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOY' 'sip-files00025.pro'
72371bfdf67da09afb68fd2558db640a
66e3729abb3a5d3af5b0156868c99d72cf14c017
'2012-06-28T11:24:00-04:00'
describe
'11392' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANOZ' 'sip-files00066thm.jpg'
484269b2f5f540893284d611c3c38c44
5218079bd57ecaa308a5968d9140e165eddce5af
'2012-06-28T11:19:03-04:00'
describe
'138075' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPA' 'sip-files00069.jpg'
0e1c30bd05e21e64eaab68ecb7928c3d
dcc25abf0dec884eebf212e3580e56a86218f29d
'2012-06-28T11:36:11-04:00'
describe
'52248' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPB' 'sip-files00025.QC.jpg'
c8c52b449c0cad58cc2f3f7c4871ac12
d4949563704f4895921d6c41ddd09203e8108a38
'2012-06-28T11:30:23-04:00'
describe
'2180' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPC' 'sip-files00136.txt'
d0cb165ecc52c9241df4b37e9a5efc4f
e26b24d556e1e7348150a48cccfb2b61a5e46555
'2012-06-28T11:34:57-04:00'
describe
'1735686' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPD' 'sip-files00021.jp2'
cef724fc6fceea5814399158b751725d
915d895940e5136cd5f14af74e2cf6f7bc2810c6
describe
'1687570' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPE' 'sip-files00091.jp2'
4d2a885ce942f4bc9cc60fff3465d561
5d688cdda26b0dbc341d74434a7f3601984df05d
'2012-06-28T11:34:51-04:00'
describe
'1247' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPF' 'sip-files00180.txt'
da2570f1df475691350e92f4151f2e9b
d0e82f8fee5eb2efb5600a6fa6db4c45534b9959
'2012-06-28T11:25:35-04:00'
describe
'46559' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPG' 'sip-files00107.QC.jpg'
b3f58156df4e8501bd28e75dfebd5a5e
03ab8f0333edad5cb80cc2bb2e52d889f6b499c1
'2012-06-28T11:20:34-04:00'
describe
'54528' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPH' 'sip-files00010.QC.jpg'
8c47ae1f91d2522fa8f61c832abe7d43
260dbec0f29ee14e057645fad9def97ba1a10333
describe
'12142' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPI' 'sip-files00112thm.jpg'
b46c071a7f891bbe6bdfdd6f7f44e907
ffdfdb0903590a3cbcd90f288718de944ccf938c
'2012-06-28T11:24:16-04:00'
describe
'8476' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPJ' 'sip-files00157thm.jpg'
6c00428e8dd0b71ce71e63ee449eed3f
7e1cf9a67800455c41ef6775f28f04b3846b3db8
'2012-06-28T11:27:46-04:00'
describe
'13907960' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPK' 'sip-files00053.tif'
96c0b3da7b176323115321f71a0f5838
8e30374543296b48eafe76796795ef4c7ae47ee7
describe
'1684' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPL' 'sip-files00102.txt'
ffd761073768d4c7e70b133b60723a22
716fe4f417a52609802bef1e2041e17f60164aa0
describe
'53033' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPM' 'sip-files00132.QC.jpg'
abe8820e5c2b47c592e18eefc6fa93b0
53ac502df403b62c657d53909113f7c723903c65
'2012-06-28T11:35:06-04:00'
describe
'45932' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPN' 'sip-files00067.QC.jpg'
e0c07bacc5dcaadf3f007d63ac4c38af
1d8456ff821a630f95ba6da1c431e1bbea7da3e1
'2012-06-28T11:19:10-04:00'
describe
'2033' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPO' 'sip-files00131.txt'
5644cd4c681ba82f9912eec2cbf3643a
3aa9185a7c4e616e93efa8c27961c299713cb38b
'2012-06-28T11:26:23-04:00'
describe
'50447' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPP' 'sip-files00032.pro'
a7168f2241b63f639c5b9210f2bd1dc6
de2b2bd93186244e1dd903eaa57ac9e250e101a5
'2012-06-28T11:22:12-04:00'
describe
'13512608' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPQ' 'sip-files00059.tif'
68573e4ffbe7f027fc4d09728bde528e
06da7cf7737997e0bc14eee44cf4fc2c109aa555
'2012-06-28T11:17:37-04:00'
describe
'1841' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPR' 'sip-files00070.txt'
da9d469da418bf8417168a6b84305e30
f4cfa9de45f2a19b2367e85751a95918273b941a
'2012-06-28T11:22:06-04:00'
describe
'1687585' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPS' 'sip-files00107.jp2'
6336c47de6b5a2291506e02415d4d237
9c95705fa9efdbe5e8de0884dc36fa82e36b71f7
'2012-06-28T11:34:59-04:00'
describe
'1720367' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPT' 'sip-files00080.jp2'
568dafb9fa379d792070808884a5ca33
0626f6eeb4b182ff49bd20df0207c692b035e6f5
'2012-06-28T11:24:53-04:00'
describe
'1405' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPU' 'sip-files00078.txt'
6bd1f06b35c2b0a7cf4b73e726f91217
09f6f355b28c35a21486ec4c24d056e8be626236
'2012-06-28T11:34:29-04:00'
describe
'10743' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPV' 'sip-files00075thm.jpg'
303682277a0da3ce3bc88dc95d69b759
5baa1074bb312aad46d001ae1c0c6feea2189b87
'2012-06-28T11:19:14-04:00'
describe
'1836' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPW' 'sip-files00107.txt'
8af4cf97e74d426989a026144a967e6c
00a233d6a153ecc8a119db1cdfd61bdbe1480926
describe
'1687591' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPX' 'sip-files00088.jp2'
b77dcac7cbadadc6581475a20b7a3f17
5c024fba1def39355c84ec22e5a38670ef1dea8f
'2012-06-28T11:30:32-04:00'
describe
'156970' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPY' 'sip-files00042.jpg'
2be639b0c2cd899dcb543f9bb18a30b9
b7c6a928a5ec6f68870dfa387e5b2f6dbcee2285
'2012-06-28T11:24:07-04:00'
describe
'9667' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANPZ' 'sip-files00180thm.jpg'
e875cf84e165100dd2750e482a3c7e56
62f34288877dc48fce7483c4f4bdcccba5c5e3d5
'2012-06-28T11:23:05-04:00'
describe
'11962' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQA' 'sip-files00104thm.jpg'
c0e3a9a7dead01f5e03f973617c25562
f167cb8bba917fd3aa852feea4050798344b3673
'2012-06-28T11:19:19-04:00'
describe
'166363' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQB' 'sip-files00148.jpg'
c2666b79f0a210c6283a567924407a80
6cfb284b0bf528a469b70a42adec067cb0ff6166
describe
'13514088' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQC' 'sip-files00090.tif'
ee477b34a301a90bdda8a5d6319bd15b
5ccd0bcf7655e822fc6d44136fc61c3b711dca63
'2012-06-28T11:22:41-04:00'
describe
'1885' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQD' 'sip-files00148.txt'
227b347e3dd2ea19ab0e496a5f49a269
add73b1bc91fd4e85b1ea666eb223589a75cb6bf
'2012-06-28T11:19:56-04:00'
describe
'1388' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQE' 'sip-files00150.txt'
b15b49a5fc261e8cebd40b20b2e9240a
741e97b9bb9de5b8f4ec5600e49ef011c7386ab6
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQF' 'sip-files00067.jp2'
6a1bea90eedd1d55a337f43c16ab1ead
d2d2fb4a219356f394448cb596d263d762b0f687
'2012-06-28T11:22:56-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQG' 'sip-files00047.jp2'
6bfc86227ad706cd9dea6ca3c2ad51f2
3e424800c0433a8d104c394be8a76f559ebdd26a
'2012-06-28T11:32:02-04:00'
describe
'11270' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQH' 'sip-files00181.QC.jpg'
ba84a13ee8629f7a4e6acf0bdac51881
ef48d9aca4a2b59c4848f1401e10d4e00b4356df
'2012-06-28T11:36:03-04:00'
describe
'51817' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQI' 'sip-files00028.QC.jpg'
631fc8354294fa661be9b7a12b06fef1
e6851fbd0af4bf97c9c65c566168fafe75991be1
'2012-06-28T11:36:37-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQJ' 'sip-files00079.jp2'
070341eae76102fcb789bf1985248246
9a9b5bd9c72af0cf8d8032439e2ffbd90aaf391c
'2012-06-28T11:31:13-04:00'
describe
'13446140' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQK' 'sip-files00159.tif'
8c24e467631922eb10bee114bf745d30
4db0db25bb24ba803cb72c71e57a094a9d8c45e5
'2012-06-28T11:19:31-04:00'
describe
'20145' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQL' 'sip-files00167.pro'
c6982bd7ef3c253333c8b08114edfd57
09a95a8eab31fbfd5c507885abc2bd06cba5f1bb
describe
'42707' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQM' 'sip-files00177.QC.jpg'
3dab692036d4cd02b369a795600e4921
cbad41bd8b2ac5b59b0a08dc600d758df0668151
'2012-06-28T11:36:46-04:00'
describe
'54542' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQN' 'sip-files00037.pro'
914886ef600f2a5f940db7318d0a32aa
f44a32865177cc15e5c152a27c2cce66e00fb837
describe
'11748' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQO' 'sip-files00115thm.jpg'
0f14270a489b93252e40a03c1f9bd62e
022a9ffadc4aad8eb9e72f034080083c62236425
'2012-06-28T11:23:17-04:00'
describe
'13788200' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQP' 'sip-files00176.tif'
92c02d3f77b50a896db4562388ca683a
0d82b4d73dc0aa1d72fd7c87b045db21a36f2328
'2012-06-28T11:29:15-04:00'
describe
'1687608' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQQ' 'sip-files00120.jp2'
401e9cf715b4797515242c9368abca86
c100261a829c2b16262339ab765a87fb36737960
'2012-06-28T11:26:04-04:00'
describe
'13910020' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQR' 'sip-files00094.tif'
b2f9da43a8896046633189810e12e7a7
766662e4208f99a31d8922c7b14c7b2aab15b18f
'2012-06-28T11:33:34-04:00'
describe
'12530' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQS' 'sip-files00072thm.jpg'
e9b283a8bff8cdfcbdad43351dd4a60b
d86791060cd70029f49a8f0a202f63b2265ce69f
'2012-06-28T11:30:30-04:00'
describe
'13514724' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQT' 'sip-files00116.tif'
7d8a89946ae3f6d9a12b942065db5046
1f88bdbd15212499a5e53d6d6ea68d69c8c820fb
'2012-06-28T11:32:00-04:00'
describe
'10903' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQU' 'sip-files00163thm.jpg'
9ae92a3b6fe07b2cb77d7adb3f2e6dce
ba7e003add3499d7fc8db736eae570fdaaa0e300
'2012-06-28T11:32:08-04:00'
describe
'43063' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQV' 'sip-files00141.QC.jpg'
8b1d38b7ad7a64facb9ca7d31e281cb5
e921c66c24fa9b19028766782151dfd96dfc89db
describe
'44923' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQW' 'sip-files00163.QC.jpg'
0487c96bceb4c79ba4463b40f16586c9
b763525771cffd16f20b7d5c4939138ab9045c93
'2012-06-28T11:18:45-04:00'
describe
'153086' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQX' 'sip-files00033.jpg'
f24e95695dc012c261cade1b58091392
d7584d4295961ee3c8ca5321846a5bdabe9e4429
'2012-06-28T11:34:52-04:00'
describe
'652651' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQY' 'sip-files00005.jp2'
41abb0d42c5db6c305d2bd389006d952
4b0f3fce02466e8108da6d60bcbc8f988c6e1d0b
'2012-06-28T11:29:56-04:00'
describe
'49131' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANQZ' 'sip-files00148.pro'
14f379a766dcf23fb0290e4dc77dcfdf
e186824add19f0674d3844d7403e897dc99b8d58
'2012-06-28T11:23:02-04:00'
describe
'55021' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRA' 'sip-files00048.QC.jpg'
3a6b8168eb8e0a2db26b9eee4b06b728
c7e5703927943434a4e353b8aecd3a0a037879bd
'2012-06-28T11:24:21-04:00'
describe
'47156' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRB' 'sip-files00104.QC.jpg'
4c3918c2934f9102c54052860d4760e9
0727228cf891b5300eb322049264ec6e473f04cb
'2012-06-28T11:32:48-04:00'
describe
'142518' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRC' 'sip-files00029.jpg'
49ec2203dd5104cafc049a10a08d0942
cd893fb2aca3b833bec92aafbda5365f761c6d5c
describe
'47177' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRD' 'sip-files00035.QC.jpg'
c5799784397169966a246736d7d468f1
3cc4a181a18d9763830fe380dda2fd902c2d4832
'2012-06-28T11:27:18-04:00'
describe
'11749' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRE' 'sip-files00147thm.jpg'
5a73158395ccaa817395ed49acf12584
57279abd4791888d76bd39ac18a510a29d379e3f
'2012-06-28T11:30:40-04:00'
describe
'1665' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRF' 'sip-files00069.txt'
de91e7d18da331b6459dbe5eedcd0725
e3eb92228d262fc7f568320fba259f873d48c6f7
'2012-06-28T11:21:21-04:00'
describe
'2035' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRG' 'sip-files00134.txt'
2cc3350b620ccdbab3588f862096d2f0
015e57564809982a5ba985414765595466e24270
'2012-06-28T11:17:53-04:00'
describe
'13785744' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRH' 'sip-files00100.tif'
88b28635a953ab7b2600d8df42fa52c7
9004fa4717de5f0e7a8065ebfe16787d57597fe6
'2012-06-28T11:19:11-04:00'
describe
'42362' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRI' 'sip-files00130.pro'
bd68d2cdaa2eaea256042681a8953bf7
6d2e9fabcc4f7358510e751ebe3d33d1e9723091
describe
'49014' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRJ' 'sip-files00085.pro'
5b4518a5dd8e3c6a0afa5764c86689d8
b45770ef76f9fc417e5040b46b293526d7f7a8d1
'2012-06-28T11:32:44-04:00'
describe
'11547' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRK' 'sip-files00125thm.jpg'
abdf492deb13cde15c9f26dc10dae0f7
6e67a7545c32258d652d2a4145f2fe4c9949a6e0
'2012-06-28T11:26:32-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRL' 'sip-files00168.tif'
360274fee6e0516609fe96daf7f5456c
1f176b518d56c16c590aab6af129cac6080ac180
'2012-06-28T11:20:47-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRM' 'sip-files00152.jp2'
b3f2c472e993221142c2d6b3b1e0467d
dc12080c7f4511581dbcf955b69547d6104458cf
'2012-06-28T11:28:58-04:00'
describe
'13513432' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRN' 'sip-files00180.tif'
6e0af18cbf90b22dc52584d83c8c0c4d
a7255bb1a7aed397d10e0b1e499dac2afc21cc52
'2012-06-28T11:23:10-04:00'
describe
'149814' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRO' 'sip-files00061.jpg'
a61ff88c40c4f6873a4667fdc2df0256
5c3708070aa3c9c63c61d2a1d30272092dde0e95
'2012-06-28T11:27:07-04:00'
describe
'153960' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRP' 'sip-files00040.jpg'
329af5ba7355e9fa9925939cfc7cac04
0d7d6d2fca4fb97e32d3681418e42efb7da60836
'2012-06-28T11:36:04-04:00'
describe
'51284' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRQ' 'sip-files00126.QC.jpg'
5aa72671124d055f6ece645e46aab5b6
51fc262c579646e61f5c68f1871571fcbe5336c7
'2012-06-28T11:21:50-04:00'
describe
'50516' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRR' 'sip-files00086.QC.jpg'
34c46cb67aeb940a2db371ca69704c91
ccb42bc61201f91e6623d15e86f8e1e5ae4b397d
'2012-06-28T11:29:54-04:00'
describe
'163973' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRS' 'sip-files00121.jpg'
cab1008ffae914d7b500868ac0690111
2e34d3dcf7e4853037774a9a779d3efd838b82d4
describe
'169125' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRT' 'sip-files00165.jpg'
4775e55c1ad1d73f5790bdb1d7ebd5ac
75b43098b1ad36a4af6f53fe01c8aba14692ea02
describe
'1990' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRU' 'sip-files00043.txt'
b9c0224d5bbd398068615317085fd287
fe247fb66f07e2a1580ae4a65589857d0d366b4d
'2012-06-28T11:23:47-04:00'
describe
'50519' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRV' 'sip-files00142.pro'
6e8b9efb465a4493faefb9e7e4271b1b
c2c02db803dd86a8538d1cc767470dc42c7c49aa
'2012-06-28T11:34:33-04:00'
describe
'6862' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRW' 'sip-files00182thm.jpg'
89e4f0e0eddd7e70255393caea7fc07b
f0b60ddba87be2dec25206fc8836d5f3ee4d130b
'2012-06-28T11:26:29-04:00'
describe
'13514176' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRX' 'sip-files00131.tif'
bd87c6fd3bc76211884a5307c7271eba
ac4797d628725a9066f977684d41326abfcb3080
describe
'137222' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRY' 'sip-files00081.jpg'
3669dd7209a50a7bc0b70533bb30f43f
9e42c7dd5821245bc1772caeb1c2c4cb0c51ea8b
describe
'157120' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANRZ' 'sip-files00110.jpg'
485a615370b33d4cb59b77f40c6223d8
32860a99e63cc53585f0e347734e0bd8dcabc41b
describe
'13566540' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSA' 'sip-files00149.tif'
f2e4dc8e2e231779b4350c77303ace03
1a75c88dee197c9aa89a75849a02197adbcc6402
'2012-06-28T11:21:41-04:00'
describe
'48775' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSB' 'sip-files00090.QC.jpg'
76edb8c0c8e6ae8f1f4a114c47b65d8d
a17ed0c9d39529d52fc18f5bd46a0ab1c6f5c7f8
'2012-06-28T11:22:35-04:00'
describe
'12247' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSC' 'sip-files00105thm.jpg'
e1d9c220e15dc7e8003951868b703d8e
678f69a17e222c9fe92d7d4a78a5bab6b0e34759
'2012-06-28T11:20:59-04:00'
describe
'13515180' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSD' 'sip-files00172.tif'
7b4a3ed760b490f1fcf4f2e92ab1b6bb
d0676b97b8c8e798cb4401586c58e1c6e083973d
'2012-06-28T11:24:58-04:00'
describe
'50325' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSE' 'sip-files00020.pro'
cb34188516e9a3af0866b0f524920273
2c3b2eab2b93d78f91ad4973a2575561503ffbda
'2012-06-28T11:19:37-04:00'
describe
'52767' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSF' 'sip-files00142.QC.jpg'
222720a31d82606aeb2dbc8522fb9dcf
70d94d0505eaeddd863448aec5f60dbede62490f
'2012-06-28T11:19:04-04:00'
describe
'47488' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSG' 'sip-files00040.QC.jpg'
ea3bd399d42519c30fc86dd35cd571fa
063ca7c06dc2f54f338ec0aaa9f31eeafb0f7222
describe
'161902' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSH' 'sip-files00115.jpg'
a7ad4e2b833405920e73817e8d5df71a
3afeaef08ff376e8bce83c6ae7a2097264445be5
describe
'40517' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSI' 'sip-files00029.pro'
f915806487e52a7358ab653d1aa32165
c51f60a6d7cfb20ec8fc4f233d4a1bc3d0c87d27
'2012-06-28T11:32:31-04:00'
describe
'13513216' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSJ' 'sip-files00152.tif'
05b593b342ab413a90b6a38afcf7e3a2
f0aea0dd2ccfcb6402228798882a8855d6ed82f2
'2012-06-28T11:17:42-04:00'
describe
'50364' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSK' 'sip-files00151.pro'
28fb3ab225c90f1f1984cfb0415ebd5b
f306271201a2652da964a381e157e477663768b4
describe
'1687577' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSL' 'sip-files00112.jp2'
803a2a1b33ddcf5e91184757509031ab
8c435110a2a12cab8d81f556cdb43fd47c8076b6
'2012-06-28T11:27:27-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSM' 'sip-files00098.jp2'
19a966be977b001c78b6da415e52d6ef
a0892a7c55ed41188caed267dc317aa68ce4a98d
describe
'1687582' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSN' 'sip-files00001.jp2'
ed8e2607b2cca8058f8bd3e178ae2962
63c248c6042db54e6ca511af06005ab0120b08e6
describe
'177322' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSO' 'sip-files00159.jpg'
c9718af96029fe68e612915d3f76cca1
9285d24e53f46a36b06c64f6ccdd321c1a9affcc
'2012-06-28T11:24:39-04:00'
describe
'163675' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSP' 'sip-files00171.jpg'
b60817695e36d337ac8b49ea95352c07
d4f4c388cacde058e5bce8a4e3b30365bc2cdaad
'2012-06-28T11:17:47-04:00'
describe
'48857' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSQ' 'sip-files00139.QC.jpg'
27845aae5a97a11706332cf502ca441f
f4b5f8a4dc457d716cf3534c48610e58498a2663
describe
'178264' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSR' 'sip-files00068.jpg'
0bf7f3f7ba88a997b92b8699e8393203
756014fc9b484e1d8d73421262d1a9e46c6c4d6f
'2012-06-28T11:22:34-04:00'
describe
'9441' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSS' 'sip-files00001thm.jpg'
0c67d15c1ac05d965074dd198f31090b
63c82d4739370d1328ce722cd7fe1d94e05c65b7
'2012-06-28T11:20:16-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANST' 'sip-files00105.jp2'
2f5f7b81b8ff11eb2d514b084fb4f741
2943ab6391107f24c2571780993528ad16d1c80c
'2012-06-28T11:20:25-04:00'
describe
'12474' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSU' 'sip-files00128thm.jpg'
f6b11ed3c0df159da185e6c125605d97
1490b78bf2e46e6e6b1f7376a029c77f8e09cefc
'2012-06-28T11:21:02-04:00'
describe
'13937772' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSV' 'sip-files00129.tif'
3c7c7ecf4216ae2b50c520cbc08fff6e
b71cd8b00cb3fa18c230626975e8bfc96ce1d7da
'2012-06-28T11:27:14-04:00'
describe
'10184' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSW' 'sip-files00149thm.jpg'
41700543906757466fdebde11141d13f
096683214c9c2939626f08ed22cef394c212adc3
describe
'1926' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSX' 'sip-files00126.txt'
d1a72c7cb01a37bfa0d9b4ba1f0f09f2
19240c7c7e9a13fe809fd47c1140960285815ec1
'2012-06-28T11:21:25-04:00'
describe
'13514872' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSY' 'sip-files00037.tif'
ef21d47d5b1415b38286ea553354eebb
493018b6801f17f1ad84a2ad9fad78b6222d43d1
'2012-06-28T11:19:28-04:00'
describe
'13514584' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANSZ' 'sip-files00128.tif'
071b7a029563479f0d11bd3ead9e508f
25b737222e01e9b4147201614e7bb5d829972f8c
'2012-06-28T11:32:20-04:00'
describe
'13514104' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTA' 'sip-files00123.tif'
76bf2481a32d12f9d2443e05f2cabb34
325bda3c37e7d163e3fca502f075610f9d6ad18a
'2012-06-28T11:28:13-04:00'
describe
'1687563' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTB' 'sip-files00029.jp2'
0b87ae64b5e5caf96d4712f2c85d2d1c
fa73f73a2186f9ab0888c028cc6f61643aab9b01
'2012-06-28T11:23:30-04:00'
describe
'1914' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTC' 'sip-files00032.txt'
5024bffd6915b43858e7c51d3cbab236
e09a9d2483dc53ca60ec44a03384468f714476c2
describe
WARNING CODE 'Daitss::Anomaly' Invalid character
'13514488' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTD' 'sip-files00068.tif'
17cc9f1f8c6065fec8f7a67c39fc5f06
7373d58a5a2036e27e0ba98f35ba4b154e69a8c3
'2012-06-28T11:27:24-04:00'
describe
'140661' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTE' 'sip-files00041.jpg'
dad1cdc136dfe0542444aadac9c9b5c9
63252260c8a76c6f1b0c576d652c8bf697e178b5
'2012-06-28T11:25:25-04:00'
describe
'13156764' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTF' 'sip-files00161.tif'
17a40d2ddf4e14b21995fa8bd6563e54
65dde44cc6c4b6cbf446f4054900931d44583955
'2012-06-28T11:27:55-04:00'
describe
'11575' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTG' 'sip-files00106thm.jpg'
c2a3828dde32929bac44b7ec6dc7247a
1018e67683aaafd86d4685053b6fb53c4b5703ca
'2012-06-28T11:31:23-04:00'
describe
'13513204' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTH' 'sip-files00135.tif'
a68c56711014e01c24ee2bf4de3f8c5a
d66f12986fcaf619200125eb0425908c9ad0e6b2
'2012-06-28T11:26:45-04:00'
describe
'149078' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTI' 'sip-files00109.jpg'
cf47229e66e66e6e36cd4df4d03462c3
78e4626330579134bc7b1154a90b6095e0b366f0
'2012-06-28T11:18:52-04:00'
describe
'46064' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTJ' 'sip-files00017.QC.jpg'
1e52ea01a64e9bdd1a286257256d2fcb
13ed4601b37ac43ef96911eed7ab0d54f517447a
'2012-06-28T11:18:27-04:00'
describe
'142507' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTK' 'sip-files00176.jpg'
8bbd5d7d3460be4b148b9e665bdb83af
69d9b7ad6e473847c2cbf19153faa422bf03adcb
describe
'7314' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTL' 'sip-files00005.pro'
aaf1756efe6123d82bf38c39ec8b0143
14e10323289482bc236611095f98ebc3c63b27f5
'2012-06-28T11:17:54-04:00'
describe
'10675' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTM' 'sip-files00058thm.jpg'
2b354592e617d31abc5638bf26b93299
fda5d5cf8df0b1ffe52a2b2af60577297e8f1319
describe
'12100' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTN' 'sip-files00159thm.jpg'
adae72b2bec92d3c396d3a2b2e8aae4c
26afee3c7de3c4a0b5cd1157dca349d45656db15
'2012-06-28T11:30:33-04:00'
describe
'1929' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTO' 'sip-files00020.txt'
3c4fca4c9447fe77475fb99cf25b3f46
f92eec6980ae158fd715cf3d6af718343313f8b4
'2012-06-28T11:18:11-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'50187' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTP' 'sip-files00145.QC.jpg'
3d03143ea92059475033187ca705a3b2
56a42e6c5cc69b49596f8b76cba252d147d6f322
'2012-06-28T11:31:54-04:00'
describe
'1720365' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTQ' 'sip-files00077.jp2'
b6a6f8e6c02b2bfeb6248c320fce5645
b184d276d2a1987ccc0b0fab2dc985c82b9d4bdf
'2012-06-28T11:33:44-04:00'
describe
'143163' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTR' 'sip-files00177.jpg'
b4b79c2c8a1a8df7507e2ce03fbc8312
4c1aa2a5fa7e6555f93df91f85ef360ce658207a
'2012-06-28T11:23:49-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTS' 'sip-files00044.jp2'
3cc621f1985a16f2d938f6b72a3cc208
ef03d4af9809503dc149cc2b778915f4ce8ed0d6
'2012-06-28T11:30:22-04:00'
describe
'1467' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTT' 'sip-files00059.txt'
c4ad56e5457c796595c0637f343fa50b
2a22dd367e734513cf86aac38565b4bd39926970
'2012-06-28T11:35:27-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'153603' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTU' 'sip-files00019.jpg'
f6cc2df88b5801ec4b40ac88c0af0829
86b9374b366b411456c16cd9f9c07b37b3b6eb8c
'2012-06-28T11:36:29-04:00'
describe
'13514408' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTV' 'sip-files00054.tif'
69887b012a3689b5a298639125c936a5
2ab59e015a287485435addb34c66ee9622a2778d
'2012-06-28T11:28:33-04:00'
describe
'52543' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTW' 'sip-files00035.pro'
15c05c5ff3bf920d1ca78579056589ee
34207867c4014644f4c405dcdd47d64bd0e8bf2f
'2012-06-28T11:22:15-04:00'
describe
'47992' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTX' 'sip-files00090.pro'
5b17788b84478bd59779374bfc3bda89
3cf5da3f98edae47bca225796ec72bbde20284e1
'2012-06-28T11:30:52-04:00'
describe
'11216' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTY' 'sip-files00033thm.jpg'
a4060e7129d93ccec917554cfe0bd668
c9a9ade57b2612291b2d9d1f4f61466c19487ec0
describe
'1895' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANTZ' 'sip-files00140.txt'
948a51bb365bf5d8b91d833dea024c77
4483056b045ac8e2921d42a017c2f521e2facf1d
'2012-06-28T11:25:18-04:00'
describe
'159279' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUA' 'sip-files00107.jpg'
5e4511e5dceee8cad5818bfe40cd6ebe
031c2a0c5e05120e794fbd2d7c068876fca6d7bb
describe
'41695' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUB' 'sip-files00169.QC.jpg'
de8d2d7a60b094e7c1516aaa41540404
5e252ea66cc33411dce72f15246c9e19dcb6f064
'2012-06-28T11:20:22-04:00'
describe
'12314' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUC' 'sip-files00148thm.jpg'
e5f1e901f9241a0d6bc776708a90f361
24a9e8f4df3b4621aa59a9f3c4bf5e24a1035cee
'2012-06-28T11:30:45-04:00'
describe
'52201' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUD' 'sip-files00123.QC.jpg'
d5c3bbb272e4e9d7fd6560c6eb4b9386
74ff5034a7bfc978593bbe6a196951e56961f124
describe
'43487' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUE' 'sip-files00009.QC.jpg'
d381270140bdeeac2db8c7aa7d4ba73d
ee7102e3bc5726ef6b5383469535b522827ffb51
'2012-06-28T11:30:24-04:00'
describe
'9882' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUF' 'sip-files00063thm.jpg'
f09725974ba0b70d8e0ed6e054639e3e
c48d3bdcd0a21f2ad85e25dfebb26c19e24a07b5
'2012-06-28T11:23:01-04:00'
describe
'1538' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUG' 'sip-files00076.txt'
e1cbb7c62f0b3ba2bb1a5d23272a87b5
b2119f39459f52611a2b0857e5116484fcd91ffa
'2012-06-28T11:18:24-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUH' 'sip-files00114.jp2'
97990e2d696bcc16be2f70723b553fc8
5ff0cdbcc71905acf9ff485f46a49ff48a9386be
'2012-06-28T11:35:43-04:00'
describe
'44543' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUI' 'sip-files00046.QC.jpg'
6934008c41df694896debde9cc1e1574
0d619ec76c8628e1af9747577ee48a28da71f414
'2012-06-28T11:27:47-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUJ' 'sip-files00020.jp2'
8b7a85f59d0ac5decb9f67cf00680763
a8bc3e7ac3acc235ecfa67d81542a57645bf41d6
'2012-06-28T11:19:02-04:00'
describe
'13908932' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUK' 'sip-files00097.tif'
6b11a6976d0e186e5d0d2e21a6208f4f
383bea044312ad9ffdc63d874e01de7d37e9ef60
'2012-06-28T11:20:58-04:00'
describe
'1708' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUL' 'sip-files00130.txt'
01986e2c57eaa484cabe25a299edb026
f52d33669f0b653efedc9772a64017ab1345acbb
describe
'42797' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUM' 'sip-files00069.pro'
feecf7c31db9c780c3c7aebadc5f2ea9
90591bd8e3cb04ec1902b12b05d789b538289b8a
describe
'13514392' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUN' 'sip-files00072.tif'
ba2a632d3e6cdcfe97fc6e297fa79e5d
a8d32778bc564445d085420724247713f3977313
'2012-06-28T11:19:53-04:00'
describe
'2139' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUO' 'sip-files00079.txt'
3cf9bf94f38f6377e5491028da3aed42
2a348b92988d16df994499eafa790b28a81968d4
'2012-06-28T11:29:25-04:00'
describe
'59651' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUP' 'sip-files00170.pro'
ba3ff0086ce76726fc8558554a7d8d31
059c5b05124b123a7c46230d416058d4535a333d
'2012-06-28T11:19:18-04:00'
describe
'162639' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUQ' 'sip-files00127.jpg'
abfe1f2667e17e9dd9f461638ed194d3
a1bd2189e2a40b208aaf0b48bae63ccace526845
'2012-06-28T11:30:25-04:00'
describe
'13514620' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUR' 'sip-files00114.tif'
1d1b25fbb6ef4d2eacc8b92eae30ec6e
73ae37db870c39a3bcbd10d9b1b5d88b67f8ab0f
'2012-06-28T11:31:44-04:00'
describe
'13261148' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUS' 'sip-files00163.tif'
e0a7a464dfd1b0271900c68f60927488
40d10dc4c2c571367f5a71e84c43b7d11536750a
'2012-06-28T11:18:13-04:00'
describe
'48269' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUT' 'sip-files00030.QC.jpg'
17492e98cbcdf5a46e9f05334aaaa368
70a0bc8f11ab2cfdb4e8b0e46df10a9bed969d68
'2012-06-28T11:23:58-04:00'
describe
'160988' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUU' 'sip-files00085.jpg'
703bbc64fa7dc8bf6aa535b1d09fcf26
9216995023a44fbe5ec9a0d6c91c33daa30739c3
'2012-06-28T11:35:45-04:00'
describe
'53170' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUV' 'sip-files00154.pro'
075cd7dfa59c98ca95659c10a3e00556
cc493c58c435c6682b624eaa8eac4b653f95fe58
describe
'138740' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUW' 'sip-files00101.jpg'
5c0983dd30b7f6843b1a79255b568a20
9479b82fa8574e1df74b104088f4dd0e32e96a06
'2012-06-28T11:22:17-04:00'
describe
'12038' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUX' 'sip-files00096thm.jpg'
015bb2a47b1cf494b8b0fbf641b07eec
20ab09e0780af18a06466184c2d73e87547f8703
describe
'1652' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUY' 'sip-files00009.txt'
442db24fb9ea08511adc7e0e4b74b32c
2229e6d38f16f4cd0d5e8652ecee855fe310032e
'2012-06-28T11:34:36-04:00'
describe
'1194' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANUZ' 'sip-files00179.txt'
1a96b874501c58410157f70ad5221423
ae3125b7bd55d18b1bac54e6ac8cbd6f08954c99
'2012-06-28T11:22:46-04:00'
describe
'49752' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVA' 'sip-files00065.pro'
1ecac63365bcc681dbe47f553d61ce66
63bf651ca5e6abeb760f8bf9fe081345866cbf4b
describe
'12171' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVB' 'sip-files00158thm.jpg'
e1353df8eb9f832a18b98633e2f4a1d0
01216a1a926dab14592d5dcc2abab519098d3f29
'2012-06-28T11:31:19-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVC' 'sip-files00142.jp2'
92c88b92f8ff0ff133841da0b81c5fd2
381f7a123e0fd99d0610146e52a8b2a5cab197d1
describe
'13513848' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVD' 'sip-files00177.tif'
a4f21113fa911a869ce7a1a9325a7920
707c3196c3b282b71dc81f39170d08ee0c8d0e9b
'2012-06-28T11:24:17-04:00'
describe
'13514116' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVE' 'sip-files00011.tif'
59d6559691c1cd0529a9738eddca1b7b
941e4d0384b47acaca9123b18de7745fb7ae6c45
'2012-06-28T11:33:11-04:00'
describe
'56459' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVF' 'sip-files00084.pro'
4f5773eb42340a55e7cf3a290e2bdc94
26492bf25e4f84c69638f8c377629e55914e9922
describe
'1778' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVG' 'sip-files00030.txt'
4513d3fb44ce7ee7ca766e0c6fee94da
4557639f1193bda43308a3ae6cb9fd0a3d5b5749
'2012-06-28T11:34:55-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVH' 'sip-files00022.jp2'
7e2de6811e7b552af0a6aca466fa3087
1da76e280acb88b33773f74995956fc593d82192
describe
'162382' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVI' 'sip-files00080.jpg'
37cfebb9991c69883342ae6408e9e1b7
7e83193445a405d0d900583626e62a872df33bd0
'2012-06-28T11:27:15-04:00'
describe
'151067' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVJ' 'sip-files00104.jpg'
1d47aeb9eb8d193654ee4beeee0f8472
f69cb6aed0ec033aa68b7a0ff54d0a604521f605
'2012-06-28T11:30:12-04:00'
describe
'162203' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVK' 'sip-files00112.jpg'
ad07d85edaa61e0eac31d330822d617b
9e3647f1826a264795b79335c0589dd86dc2fef4
'2012-06-28T11:36:26-04:00'
describe
'13514420' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVL' 'sip-files00154.tif'
364c0e9a432213f49af1ec6de48c9459
659718eed78b12c22d63f00c9227663de6af04f8
'2012-06-28T11:28:48-04:00'
describe
'183865' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVM' 'sip-files00044.jpg'
35f90934e106863cdd3e25eef77713cf
1231d18c3541a35576aabf0665ae0262a8f3c00f
'2012-06-28T11:21:33-04:00'
describe
'37898' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVN' 'sip-files00176.pro'
1c8e1ed1f6eb522a40fefe5c373606b5
c26fb5dab7ca954f2894132790298d1641f27f90
describe
'155672' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVO' 'sip-files00056.jpg'
1b0aa7c742fc2cb925226c59af55ce35
f6c2ce1b756dd013288fc01e8ae9a74a3c12c5c3
describe
'11942' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVP' 'sip-files00131thm.jpg'
ae143d78f598789cafa1d1983cfe466c
3293f7b2b1621640362a937c9bea5561693d5fdb
describe
'11794' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVQ' 'sip-files00145thm.jpg'
9627533481c374cc2e353e10a896768c
bc11435ef696e142f22fa124e7f1318b9e71f8c8
'2012-06-28T11:19:43-04:00'
describe
'11990' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVR' 'sip-files00014thm.jpg'
402fbb840ad193daa1285a16918b10b5
ed1cc7df1c514a200241e57a15c460e61bbb5a8f
describe
'1687520' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVS' 'sip-files00131.jp2'
d18c6906fbde0369f2a8e9f38d86a605
8a544cfbb4c5f208ba0c63e1c21ade7429c8eee4
'2012-06-28T11:33:58-04:00'
describe
'1881' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVT' 'sip-files00119.txt'
dc4aa168e35565b6b344c1a238635563
b516d17346bee8989aced989efe7ebf3b0d1283a
'2012-06-28T11:20:06-04:00'
describe
'13101488' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVU' 'sip-files00027.tif'
42924caf0baf1871c610793f8fb745c6
29add1d3c331eea66173874b2099e24baef0967b
'2012-06-28T11:30:28-04:00'
describe
'50098' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVV' 'sip-files00024.pro'
22625b6db47945d6e908219b10e1c3c0
6d8ba8a6774ccc14036f16fd8a173b0fb0a0864c
'2012-06-28T11:28:36-04:00'
describe
'1780' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVW' 'sip-files00109.txt'
c3310769f09e81375175093097100237
0efbce527f76518a8cb235a6f51977ae261b89fb
'2012-06-28T11:28:40-04:00'
describe
'49525' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVX' 'sip-files00016.pro'
7b93de251501645759eff28b4f240028
c8c2684037181057a43ecd79c905a07a34b000ea
'2012-06-28T11:21:24-04:00'
describe
'195090' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVY' 'sip-files00136.jpg'
294cb54b557a2b6101b3b8265abd5d9d
86121e6c9f515f14462a5aeeea0c86118f899e0c
'2012-06-28T11:30:56-04:00'
describe
'1997' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANVZ' 'sip-files00052.txt'
d39ac30f89ea8f3b9f05af661086be0f
8eb445aa67e9e5ebf7e74550763e957a1bcee4c9
'2012-06-28T11:18:20-04:00'
describe
'50390' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWA' 'sip-files00143.pro'
0b232387dfa9dfce7c35f3c4428850d0
3bbe9d86a6a42371f385b1c47adb9108e87e5ba7
describe
'54332' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWB' 'sip-files00131.pro'
a8e580bdb1b63e8f3d22dc7718727083
fe7fb076904ad5d70c4d60cb2e06602d3d1a59d3
'2012-06-28T11:21:18-04:00'
describe
'10284' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWC' 'sip-files00065thm.jpg'
44359e79233ad9d3e5b778f11af1e650
94f5b0d441110efec540dc9301cc5c5bdf7ef4f8
'2012-06-28T11:17:31-04:00'
describe
'160422' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWD' 'sip-files00064.jpg'
e855fceccd782bb68562d3b87dd655d0
94948f87d41519fdfc9c384e6cbb6d56286ca4d5
'2012-06-28T11:20:20-04:00'
describe
'43689' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWE' 'sip-files00063.pro'
90f9a4845cbe30dd59fb7e5b9fbe493b
602bfdbb49a45106e94dafbefdd0d633e98a598c
'2012-06-28T11:34:46-04:00'
describe
'45166' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWF' 'sip-files00041.pro'
3be502e5d8f81dda014dd24e521a04dc
27cd85881cbae32ebe70e6be100096a4d5057cd3
'2012-06-28T11:22:24-04:00'
describe
'135867' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWG' 'sip-files00130.jpg'
e0e4ccb456127d393804e3d37d7901fd
bd3165882e9554a477bc5a8599831af61ad701c2
'2012-06-28T11:24:28-04:00'
describe
'1687588' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWH' 'sip-files00113.jp2'
14a0a23b0898c67dc8bd0c046cc9c280
67c57b98165d8e69a92f06d8a020192303ed0878
'2012-06-28T11:27:57-04:00'
describe
'12049' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWI' 'sip-files00040thm.jpg'
1429bef7498e58250287bc7888b35e52
96bdecb44021eaeeccbd0da887cd10b0fd50a948
'2012-06-28T11:17:41-04:00'
describe
'1695426' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWJ' 'sip-files00175.jp2'
b8d3c596869b015f22ecae73f05f5d70
d05468777223357affe9084ff9b49c8665417770
describe
'50180' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWK' 'sip-files00086.pro'
34370ad4338cf61194b34ba931f11960
d478f38f2345e4a41f8d7f68e013d4579d9274c4
describe
'10741' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWL' 'sip-files00160thm.jpg'
1ba3172172834d34c2f2ed3b973d7d18
78647bfabed6a5dddab7404549a9783984c7f0bc
'2012-06-28T11:33:51-04:00'
describe
'13207592' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWM' 'sip-files00065.tif'
99694c03ef60f781dd29084492f6f125
d29b5138432ca80eec8eb055ca13ffcfa6bdd99b
'2012-06-28T11:33:32-04:00'
describe
'11100' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWN' 'sip-files00097thm.jpg'
b54c85d03f1f57a04d2ab1f7a86ec173
80f0fd263f8f2be1708f36e553dc595e351c1de0
'2012-06-28T11:36:02-04:00'
describe
'46142' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWO' 'sip-files00111.QC.jpg'
d236105ea16220aab6059cd04e9407a0
f976c916314d6bb911d8277fb1a7bfe3cdc1bdb1
describe
'1899' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWP' 'sip-files00061.txt'
d94366db9f17ea87082287632d35f434
c155f4c9f3d73116d595e642a5bfe615d9403eb0
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWQ' 'sip-files00108thm.jpg'
94c4d045a04f8ff28818b820a1096c1b
5c1cf904d2cfcb7c9be78e904afea4d9e678ba12
'2012-06-28T11:25:31-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWR' 'sip-files00125.pro'
ac0c63d4bdd1b2743dcdf4a355530a4a
0311915ad8946591d3bec5bdb02662804756584f
'2012-06-28T11:29:12-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWS' 'sip-files00144.tif'
e2467057f75ec1a820a72505c08d46ae
561badebf84db22d516b67d21accbcca9ae10579
'2012-06-28T11:22:04-04:00'
describe
'45958' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWT' 'sip-files00141.pro'
7c4ec103184124ce49a303aa0a876af9
a171f74abb4a967dbf4dbe2489f1d110a1a91c9f
describe
'49856' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWU' 'sip-files00026.QC.jpg'
1a1af3f3bf91d2630ced60c477a60a8f
e257400485910c2c4a44c786a26c5ffb5aa4c7bc
describe
'47761' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWV' 'sip-files00124.QC.jpg'
7486a0d1928a524ae561b6986bb6f565
b38ab014f4bb04de8c0807d6f4221d5facdb3494
describe
'156197' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWW' 'sip-files00065.jpg'
0a49adfde0162a2cfd9e0fd0b274e516
df427562a84e3b5a22db5a306f556eca84301d33
describe
'10783' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWX' 'sip-files00035thm.jpg'
c780a002a553c7e003911d276b2a4d36
fb6f1b25b42c44b540db40649f6d1a65a3cdda1a
'2012-06-28T11:27:45-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWY' 'sip-files00110.jp2'
52bf59b6ecf849c2d98258cf6d1d934f
548afbe36aba3556bbffabe287c158d2b733597d
'2012-06-28T11:19:39-04:00'
describe
'1687505' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANWZ' 'sip-files00115.jp2'
97923ffd611d792065f4ea030cd89eb0
c9e9fddab125278763104d38a539e4025fb0c799
'2012-06-28T11:24:37-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXA' 'sip-files00012.txt'
0cbc9eb7cc3e34430031adb3ca1d761a
d5156f3ad1b524c8ee6d87e0004a894da0acb6a5
describe
Invalid character
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXB' 'sip-files00063.txt'
89da7ab9f68f594224509fccc11dad6a
6af6e04770f9c4eec8be3811970854e17129a96d
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXC' 'sip-files00126.jp2'
0c12e8d48a3b3141c5d09fa1dc36b7f2
7ebfdcaca7ee4e1e47494fd6264fbfd47e41481e
'2012-06-28T11:28:20-04:00'
describe
'1890' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXD' 'sip-files00065.txt'
3cbf83e7d20828430eb6299979275901
f462ef1eb7cb0b4dfd41b12d8ef2b098fe6a4cc7
'2012-06-28T11:19:17-04:00'
describe
'1459' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXE' 'sip-files00100.txt'
96e4ad4551cfe2516a1991f1ef0deb73
5403cb43f7281d7b218f647b0fbc9990f42a9efd
'2012-06-28T11:19:50-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'11833' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXF' 'sip-files00113thm.jpg'
895929e464f0e935609432303d3fa8c1
70bd1bf08ec634935f4b8ac3eb2cdf6f1f1572e1
'2012-06-28T11:31:03-04:00'
describe
'49907' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXG' 'sip-files00164.QC.jpg'
fd4931dbae9c33fac1b3d7bc36a7955f
e4ec56ca36fa357e5e45fe4dd3787ce56a5f1817
describe
'12475' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXH' 'sip-files00138thm.jpg'
a47892e0d62a8b255fc3a226c4f1ada4
a718dce0357283567e4b57ea09ff5238bc7bbbb8
'2012-06-28T11:18:38-04:00'
describe
'1982' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXI' 'sip-files00113.txt'
af4ebc45579f082bdef390a707d5ac2a
39c2560432c170ae9e0119d0472a0fe63f6c0664
'2012-06-28T11:20:51-04:00'
describe
'1811' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXJ' 'sip-files00112.txt'
05b81f74390810f47f4dd9b376668479
a69bc913e93acca4ef79787b2b17027351eeb967
describe
'10730' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXK' 'sip-files00049thm.jpg'
09c5147c5401538d21671e801a8c5c50
2d321901259fd77fd7c9f48db6c2b9f2071cbbb4
describe
'1677667' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXL' 'sip-files00159.jp2'
ed45ef36defcd1d1b379e428e963a4ac
d35b2fd3da4f111a3ec8c8eafa5f09e983ea6ef9
describe
'1720334' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXM' 'sip-files00160.jp2'
f6782d16e314210a80f4f4c570729b30
1202d07da7cefd5837c490c83fc6f7b719c017d3
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXN' 'sip-files00141.txt'
56d0339f1f7612aff00d7f3010421807
ccd1ce731d4599f663c99e1f4243346ca266ac45
'2012-06-28T11:19:40-04:00'
describe
'1964' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXO' 'sip-files00138.txt'
bc5416e675e18bde8c439147db3d27b4
1ed0808d04539c2a15aa097adf076f2401dff130
describe
'162766' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXP' 'sip-files00016.jpg'
4aadb640f7c1663edb93076753192533
f5b424c683d6569d3b3b7123b070e9933bd09faa
'2012-06-28T11:20:10-04:00'
describe
'158465' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXQ' 'sip-files00093.jpg'
93fc328f8866516aaabfc148580f0b66
7f6f101a7404dc4c49b19a7be4b31ee8ae3c0711
'2012-06-28T11:25:03-04:00'
describe
'1736' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXR' 'sip-files00117.txt'
b5b0eb0d2355dbe7ded6ed8871b2cc9e
e387cd96a5c44d478cfa0e93e69ca098d995e32a
'2012-06-28T11:18:12-04:00'
describe
'13511304' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXS' 'sip-files00167.tif'
502e893a39ba27ab73e17cf416fa2b1c
7d6409bca7257b814c479fc844637a81a050ceb7
'2012-06-28T11:21:46-04:00'
describe
'13513888' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXT' 'sip-files00145.tif'
73e36e72a0f82ea5089ebe86320fba43
a1e72181b0b8e1b78652dc89ec6f6bff0909a7ad
'2012-06-28T11:26:38-04:00'
describe
'43940' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXU' 'sip-files00046.pro'
9126d9d58e9ec92ae85187cf25fb9d49
1827272bf29a8c57f553b76736c8357e70dfb269
describe
'1687579' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXV' 'sip-files00040.jp2'
76ed6f03b52c8206527b0ad1568b1cb1
da97f3cd920750dc726e7906b384bf4327516e8c
'2012-06-28T11:18:05-04:00'
describe
'1898' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXW' 'sip-files00129.txt'
6e0d01964667c8f8744f54539b9ea841
4237a6ca4c69aa97496ac8540c860d094811078c
describe
'1948' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXX' 'sip-files00028.txt'
9023a65a82a583ce38cc9bd3f0cc5ed5
277c8e229b9f71ac17e737c8604caf6e54b8e59f
describe
'150982' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXY' 'sip-files00161.jpg'
81fb89c34b3f9ac95e3621fcac0f01c0
803c89f1011148d9f52593ee018b7d5322bcef1b
'2012-06-28T11:34:24-04:00'
describe
'1901' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANXZ' 'sip-files00074.txt'
a7b0d0014d97c465b8a9aa27833ec1a5
aa4c48d7cda23d95e044da39222c0da8e1ed73e8
'2012-06-28T11:26:49-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYA' 'sip-files00060.jp2'
ccc7a243a73621b7071b0cae6452e769
7be43dd61520a3cc1eb3d15fc96b4892b6cb269f
'2012-06-28T11:31:33-04:00'
describe
'1687545' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYB' 'sip-files00025.jp2'
ff7c0770d0cd0bb29de5f2dee09a910c
a70aa6482d2c11717acc86bea2bf3ed05636e198
'2012-06-28T11:22:30-04:00'
describe
'3104' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYC' 'sip-files00008.QC.jpg'
eff546701b1635c732145870bce4966d
84405cbec04dce7d7b6e3b3b0374b08ccba098df
'2012-06-28T11:21:35-04:00'
describe
'13513556' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYD' 'sip-files00130.tif'
2baa7f7999ed85361bd76eb5ac59ed03
29f8a0a7b19103a7c54d335e4f50782d2fbf534c
'2012-06-28T11:31:30-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYE' 'sip-files00036.jp2'
02902c6d9db7cac993f33a7edff3d799
9eb73c7177d579d0757855c22a699ba49e7bafee
'2012-06-28T11:26:47-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYF' 'sip-files00076.jp2'
0f29e52ed000f402c11f869c1d19109c
a773cc381ef23180d42eeae55043c8df6b88126d
'2012-06-28T11:36:18-04:00'
describe
'122886' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYG' 'sip-files00157.jpg'
2fd8468f58637d8d0aabbb79122a7670
6490e63e4aed3a1cc0d9218dc9f5f1f5aea4f442
describe
'1563555' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYH' 'sip-files00003.jp2'
2efb3a76b537fffd2701a96f29644f9c
97c2eeefe88505443481d5806ea6cc81d4d4d22d
'2012-06-28T11:30:19-04:00'
describe
'46673' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYI' 'sip-files00066.QC.jpg'
555dde0605ab9ffd340cc11169c41916
5d9e6f308605cf498fba4df8d31fce7b22ccdf73
'2012-06-28T11:22:32-04:00'
describe
'48997' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYJ' 'sip-files00067.pro'
e90fcda1b7b2d56c5b199f50af4662fb
7f4ab896b961012fa5f50169e151cb8efcb7d61e
'2012-06-28T11:23:19-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYK' 'sip-files00172.jp2'
bb49010a723021acbb27d6e50f96cb01
991a8522330b576175375550ce443eff8e757976
describe
'13514476' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYL' 'sip-files00112.tif'
5b3eaa44bed2ed90ed38bbf65d49985d
ee7bc56273c16da6472d6446d03fda2c46a5339e
describe
'13514048' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYM' 'sip-files00024.tif'
10580319ec597650ed4711a1f940c76e
c71ddd42f13ddf06051559d2ffb8e5076b7a7dbe
'2012-06-28T11:23:38-04:00'
describe
'11212' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYN' 'sip-files00043thm.jpg'
38ecf3ca178a276927c1ed742edeaf67
a5421450060c05a84af36463abbf04b031cc7a93
'2012-06-28T11:21:47-04:00'
describe
'9653' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYO' 'sip-files00178thm.jpg'
beae0c1fa79d5c9a64ad0191307f3252
861994c29d70dce5c0fcd169ed2dd7e7e8e95d84
'2012-06-28T11:28:07-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYP' 'sip-files00070.jp2'
079eeb189b5ee91a54cc4a95e7aa0467
d3f61c350ed769bf7e4edf808f5f90b1374873d3
'2012-06-28T11:20:30-04:00'
describe
'40305' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYQ' 'sip-files00120.pro'
acee34005cb37c57f207984d878d4f06
c3639ec500c18594670646d86c94117148a80775
'2012-06-28T11:33:15-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYR' 'sip-files00106.jp2'
fa358d9f53ae0dd0c78aa812dd1cbdb3
b99d9f41e30f1c38ea87ee7be2ad220b007fc4b4
'2012-06-28T11:34:03-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYS' 'sip-files00122.jp2'
93c8444a4c1fadc4338d4ee2a44d2e38
70df767ed5cbf2a7760eff486e581145ffac4d74
describe
'1687573' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYT' 'sip-files00174.jp2'
3185495c892f04b0cc70096682f34960
8555c0b1fc50aa003ee57f27005444960e2d81ea
describe
'131836' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYU' 'sip-files00058.jpg'
e747ff10df7d396cb8e031233abefd04
aec86f4384e0d407b5f0590eac114211dd28ab92
'2012-06-28T11:21:34-04:00'
describe
'49067' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYV' 'sip-files00127.QC.jpg'
be0f46201718a6eba85363b59e96fb39
f53e7304ef083a2200260949deb40cea2e0cb700
'2012-06-28T11:34:32-04:00'
describe
'48363' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYW' 'sip-files00015.QC.jpg'
098634222a735c29467e21cd07defc67
2bd3ea8ccf565d36e2507459d9699ddd70a20672
'2012-06-28T11:33:41-04:00'
describe
'40512264' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYX' 'sip-files00001.tif'
4ba59af47bd107497899591bc6b8d3dc
93cb81204ba6ac122c87efd5ee8b87f7d35aa5b1
'2012-06-28T11:18:23-04:00'
describe
'30541' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYY' 'sip-files00180.pro'
cc60400663566a56962ad657bde463c3
e727e2246108dd1cf052fbdacf39eac1deb479fe
'2012-06-28T11:34:56-04:00'
describe
'13513532' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANYZ' 'sip-files00141.tif'
d767b084d292f225e751ba5510c3299c
0c0f7e9304ce6b2386c2a6a8cf15f2b5376c129d
'2012-06-28T11:32:29-04:00'
describe
'176235' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZA' 'sip-files00014.jpg'
8a057cdf28fba8d763e5c01b1fd736b1
8fa6eae2c0a5a56a17c1283ea7c3a6477fc329c1
'2012-06-28T11:25:36-04:00'
describe
'11609' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZB' 'sip-files00012thm.jpg'
adceebb769247883db5fecde881e8e38
aa6db40087c98bb93611e11df8f5dddbded2c5c3
'2012-06-28T11:28:05-04:00'
describe
'12391' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZC' 'sip-files00118thm.jpg'
a2884a5bb95effb0f095f3ea68f516ea
291954113ead946df0aecd293d0659eb3de4fc22
'2012-06-28T11:17:39-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZD' 'sip-files00017.jp2'
f85801474e6c70e93b2cf133062bd1b7
47cc36f3f7e3f40fdb5d81f84626bbfc5cf6d5c2
describe
'54293' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZE' 'sip-files00154.QC.jpg'
bf9496f7760fa048710c9a4756c53c16
d0063e29aebec07777f9fadb59f22b64ab2f99fe
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZF' 'sip-files00108.jp2'
84a75c781c93e90a4b7e575621cc7f35
e2eca5fae4dd2302d45bc459bc48f0b301cac395
describe
'1493' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZG' 'sip-files00174.txt'
ed2b9844af4d52947af107a72d372722
e8873f1b4736086ae1e3e69688589b4ff07bc77f
'2012-06-28T11:20:44-04:00'
describe
'1959' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZH' 'sip-files00091.txt'
4bce739d38ce111f2ce6571dda26cd50
e581015465c87c3ef538da4d44fc6c9d69b1fa5f
'2012-06-28T11:33:28-04:00'
describe
'12990' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZI' 'sip-files00116thm.jpg'
4d758fbc4e0f1328ab4e38e8b63ed470
3f43678aa2ffd85d44d508775d655ae302d6813d
'2012-06-28T11:18:29-04:00'
describe
'13513824' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZJ' 'sip-files00013.tif'
9ffeadab5d41f27f8c4f3967f66c1dd2
3c24eeb359dd4acff6d175aa522d4deec3545fd4
'2012-06-28T11:25:33-04:00'
describe
'49605' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZK' 'sip-files00115.pro'
40ad5171b91cb08a517e0b989c0f4918
7812f7b47799bb18c1687d01df1f4837ff0151c1
describe
'44477' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZL' 'sip-files00161.QC.jpg'
cf35684e2389a1ade6a1d1f3591cf500
cbc2f6bf89655d73bd2a342ed1cfa2417382e4b0
'2012-06-28T11:18:01-04:00'
describe
'13513764' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZM' 'sip-files00121.tif'
b92feb5eec95c0e5cf827c66a464316d
2c37dc38919631bd556a648aeae4f53005ac79a6
'2012-06-28T11:17:57-04:00'
describe
'53010' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZN' 'sip-files00138.QC.jpg'
eb0daf140ed4e565b46397729458ca66
d20b34c91f04f734847fb7b7c8855027a2058295
'2012-06-28T11:19:15-04:00'
describe
'10852' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZO' 'sip-files00077thm.jpg'
20e2d15ad4bd38306cbb9cf87725b9ad
57166d87794086c8e35b7506afa75276f69ae809
'2012-06-28T11:21:10-04:00'
describe
'12053' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZP' 'sip-files00164thm.jpg'
6f8a6c0abc2ee4032ada5537f71de90b
51bd4f1e7ceba53f548f60b085da671b839f16a7
'2012-06-28T11:20:50-04:00'
describe
'169245' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZQ' 'sip-files00164.jpg'
0b4d2d25744cb852822992516a4f6721
d1fa84d3ad88be39585f40d4b9b146c83aa85911
describe
'168176' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZR' 'sip-files00086.jpg'
679f35d7f5f2f199806435297771093a
9b8adedd3c89fc0525935626f930f4d8055c8e1b
describe
'1702222' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZS' 'sip-files00083.jp2'
3cfca42bd98b31e793ef74594e6ae7a1
e45a6159cc1211119249ecc9c1c41e0f2d7ce045
'2012-06-28T11:21:12-04:00'
describe
'53365' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZT' 'sip-files00072.QC.jpg'
458233b49aa15c249369a617ca9814be
69542c11b498bb0de172780b2eb2bf3129d0c599
'2012-06-28T11:23:34-04:00'
describe
'13527252' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZU' 'sip-files00134.tif'
1c7879f9ff530ab8089daf6e618f66cf
da36805935ce008f662337332e4def5115594858
'2012-06-28T11:17:55-04:00'
describe
'261312' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZV' 'sip-files00006.jp2'
43c9e0b1e2a869547a91bba3e77c979c
c683766cfb450d4a32244281f331d241c07ad7f7
describe
'1788' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZW' 'sip-files00111.txt'
852e1fe55a41af0f84a9daa3f5375462
cd830812406b6606bba5c4e1651666b123420849
'2012-06-28T11:22:37-04:00'
describe
'11493' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZX' 'sip-files00011thm.jpg'
6f3d2c669b6ae32bc99e41044c4540e4
ad4f7e46981709af8aa5d6bf7f35bac28884ada5
'2012-06-28T11:29:20-04:00'
describe
'13508256' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZY' 'sip-files00006.tif'
1ccb8be7cb014b7b70f8445a9378c598
5b963e927a0a659a8bef0a698d2e9d1dd83e85d9
'2012-06-28T11:30:03-04:00'
describe
'50696' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAANZZ' 'sip-files00032.QC.jpg'
1d3af9e716771da8cb727dcf9fe96441
fd2653381a41dc9904702867020610d0532aa574
describe
'49340' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAA' 'sip-files00026.pro'
2863ad2cc0c8477f4ebb43581ca12c7e
b38a2c353ba587529cee463135da42f660dc4f70
describe
'56030' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAB' 'sip-files00044.pro'
7c4cd802f4d3933a6066709707f91508
3ca6fa118c35cec317dd5a34663ab5a69ccb0ba1
'2012-06-28T11:30:00-04:00'
describe
'44004' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAC' 'sip-files00023.QC.jpg'
f1eb2cdb1ff7574deb245795db1c97a2
283fbd0b8c24a24ac7330ca15634e0ddf4c1dc4b
describe
'111891' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAD' 'sip-files00059.jpg'
c44208931d399b6b6492f8ce4df39ef1
372e839527a2451893dc61b8436eafc5bb2db707
'2012-06-28T11:34:41-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAE' 'sip-files00115.txt'
f39a4a71902d241256e1cfc8bc13e99b
cfeb70a3175a409e2a1168889920c101cea2e373
'2012-06-28T11:26:39-04:00'
describe
'146452' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAF' 'sip-files00075.jpg'
ed435d49651fa907edb4d2d28bf65276
075815a1fee400a1ecc8542a1bf121e4c1385506
'2012-06-28T11:33:24-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAG' 'sip-files00059.jp2'
15878bccd26bb6a034842ed9fa71ea60
11c11ce0e93ab39483d8ad06993d4098167ef7c0
describe
'43512' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAH' 'sip-files00102.pro'
9324c42e035755539fec10210ae8d494
782f73607c575484bab52416bad7362f657b40b4
'2012-06-28T11:22:54-04:00'
describe
'54885' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAI' 'sip-files00010.pro'
57f71285b6a524928b9d1131f7c0d938
d478832bdc0351fb7740c465c10cab82aff6fe92
'2012-06-28T11:27:58-04:00'
describe
'1687489' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAJ' 'sip-files00030.jp2'
e66ffab2673f5889b3e0443293fcb53a
84094d0022996afc3a24f419c9d10be0dda76789
'2012-06-28T11:21:26-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAK' 'sip-files00135.jp2'
d7d54f520a10afd4cffcde8f2f210635
f6dae6a2752267907c24ec7beddb585ef6d1166a
describe
'115845' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAL' 'sip-files00178.jpg'
f25b0c13185b6d2c69810ec44795869c
a765346dbee87b3aaf7d7c1424b3e4729bbae075
describe
'46050' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAM' 'sip-files00045.QC.jpg'
eeab49d52dfb7cf04876aebebd5085e4
bc9173f2d7d03117999980d929b4bcf56db896a4
'2012-06-28T11:19:29-04:00'
describe
'57063' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAN' 'sip-files00084.QC.jpg'
328117a5d54d8d2afc82e78b1411027c
85100354ea9f07487d098acd7a5b376533de35e1
'2012-06-28T11:36:45-04:00'
describe
'13364928' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAO' 'sip-files00092.tif'
5dfdc0dfa5236ccd6e2518aefa02b2e9
98818b7073a59025f3bf7b8c18dbd1f92bb7002b
'2012-06-28T11:19:08-04:00'
describe
'13244' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAP' 'sip-files00005.QC.jpg'
3fe250c5833a605c435f28b52fb11ef2
0fab9d6835ae7e99abb964c59f3c1ab55f264df5
describe
'1870' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAQ' 'sip-files00016.txt'
45e9e047406cbb2f434e85bbf329dbbe
1c787118d097f48632000b628d7839732a63871b
'2012-06-28T11:18:47-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAR' 'sip-files00116.jp2'
642c11d8fcb438487486e456963f5a72
8552e97f0e9454d1a5039dd45ce62877d7e056c1
'2012-06-28T11:27:28-04:00'
describe
'13513596' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAS' 'sip-files00009.tif'
acb94e68f6ca076bf273b0049b07433b
a7134e10a4cb6f4449baea6003478bc7477646a1
'2012-06-28T11:18:03-04:00'
describe
'124745' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAT' 'sip-files00150.jpg'
8ec02d6c707151b2b231fce6b6c1d5bd
fcc1f2a5ccdde01cd7e828b74d9b5670c987aa9f
'2012-06-28T11:29:53-04:00'
describe
'1720324' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAU' 'sip-files00073.jp2'
cf755ad8481075ed3f4d20de6692414d
be7d592b8bbe524eda73e0e40fb4ea3b74a7a59e
describe
'12589' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAV' 'sip-files00054thm.jpg'
d5da05801084a2a90e4d4140ba902de6
dc27d5356020261cfa5c3f390839e7fefb2e83d8
'2012-06-28T11:25:13-04:00'
describe
'175132' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAW' 'sip-files00114.jpg'
ccd14caae82ff09d1c0fdaaa308437f4
aee1c03463dbaf58e56abed7df25a87b166fafa5
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAX' 'sip-files00033.pro'
efa5c66e279e4db3a3a53bd480527dd2
bf4a5edb50aaef089a8ed2927b85025fea4bf00a
'2012-06-28T11:35:23-04:00'
describe
'174578' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAY' 'sip-files00122.jpg'
ee6a18b48c926a1de7609091bdb8679d
f1aa87a69f50bf61cb4119aa7c39ec64bb6af9a9
describe
'49327' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOAZ' 'sip-files00096.QC.jpg'
e78c4d3d3db71f6569ec730541c1095f
6c19b6bc1ed0904eb6e8b020cdbec57e4212f408
'2012-06-28T11:31:22-04:00'
describe
'1680079' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBA' 'sip-files00153.jp2'
1d1ff90d2f3a596a72cb4bcfb8d392d3
e6da8c50a97179a50227eb8240522f34cf2fd8f2
describe
'45986' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBB' 'sip-files00133.QC.jpg'
e3a9b7826e1df379a7cffff5bca01485
8ecd001b870964876e811f27aad94c92cd1536b5
'2012-06-28T11:17:35-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBC' 'sip-files00096.tif'
7a0395887ef6148abc15d1b94b56c8a1
096e34eaa801fe21abcbbf287d70527b330fa6d2
'2012-06-28T11:28:38-04:00'
describe
'134066' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBD' 'sip-files00077.jpg'
92520462cbef8a6d2d9ccc8806df1320
45ce63160c8b91c2c38207d816704b8565b22c61
describe
'1622' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBE' 'sip-files00162.txt'
81f5c990d74b11ff13982ea8260ac977
af50f5c91061dc4cde411b754100e4396c4e1f8f
'2012-06-28T11:17:32-04:00'
describe
'51023' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBF' 'sip-files00138.pro'
faaf1fd75550c3445760dd5924540b38
9b2d183ee2299aab490a176a80d6ea31e4b2e989
'2012-06-28T11:34:02-04:00'
describe
'44784' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBG' 'sip-files00022.QC.jpg'
d87e28f96f673cb10e6002eead5a807a
56a4bbb700e046c9b0d7161af9f2fa35875ff2ab
describe
'140768' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBH' 'sip-files00047.jpg'
848e6575d45a27b794098f61641a191f
5c1d3c81c0bfb318752ea9450db32a70970e3f00
'2012-06-28T11:20:46-04:00'
describe
'13909472' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBI' 'sip-files00035.tif'
3fde8ffeefc0c335e08390633c2ad185
de832eb16950bd93e7bdd84b8b9d641630847eba
'2012-06-28T11:29:32-04:00'
describe
'11647' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBJ' 'sip-files00107thm.jpg'
b578d358a513e8402eed9cc19e09a858
3ac32f74ea3db1c69e398104936960459b57f951
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBK' 'sip-files00175.QC.jpg'
b6b2d8601a150a715764890175e790c3
e28eccc1075e1dbc358938f4292b3bf14057d49e
'2012-06-28T11:18:06-04:00'
describe
'1869' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBL' 'sip-files00026.txt'
a8d49326cb342ff16da485348cb3ed0d
c995a45f048cf127109c89a67d4cf1248d89dc8f
'2012-06-28T11:30:04-04:00'
describe
'10644' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBM' 'sip-files00137thm.jpg'
8881d4d3ef2806cdaa0872560de73732
d246a64380559de41e057481f34e699aa5183164
'2012-06-28T11:31:07-04:00'
describe
'10062' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBN' 'sip-files00002thm.jpg'
2ee99bbeade5b67da9e2bc1186b0b5f2
ac3931303e388ce276a6575d9faef33c521e27cc
describe
'12864' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBO' 'sip-files00114thm.jpg'
11f21b126da8e40378fb5cf1bf3f3a47
6f5114233a430e4c06c8fc9869edfe99388f59be
'2012-06-28T11:20:21-04:00'
describe
'47821' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBP' 'sip-files00074.QC.jpg'
1512e7ea6b7e36029d2f115416bbc172
c6765a49b172196a91cdbf4d0fbd3dc7bbab3605
'2012-06-28T11:17:28-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBQ' 'sip-files00123.jp2'
b895e28b86d0f9870eb1352808db65df
14932e70379683a7f62ca0c89e4c5afa56c757a0
'2012-06-28T11:19:54-04:00'
describe
'11805' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBR' 'sip-files00056thm.jpg'
3f73dfdd13731f00987fb6cb6101c682
51546bc1517edb0dea30fbb6acf406eaf683ac8c
describe
'54127' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBS' 'sip-files00050.QC.jpg'
7443595fb0f2fc84ee37cb7b4f4befa6
1768d89d120e13cc31dfee81e706f0abfbc5259b
'2012-06-28T11:25:06-04:00'
describe
'13514728' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBT' 'sip-files00170.tif'
a1eae2e74d21648b09e932542f600622
d17e8f6253441ff7b4aa8af619a31920691f90ef
'2012-06-28T11:21:16-04:00'
describe
'2115' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBU' 'sip-files00116.txt'
491bc3c690058eda66c231f52a725135
723555bb5a22c84dbe13ee38037af24c94ec7908
describe
'1456' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBV' 'sip-files00176.txt'
bab33742db31e548c750e4f29f1f15a2
c5e1c6c6711f877d538a7f0298d09022cf64be37
'2012-06-28T11:35:51-04:00'
describe
'13514288' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBW' 'sip-files00158.tif'
c0566b638afc1b6b5aa6865290e05794
e872527ee1be9ba7cfc6249857873a36d6d3b1d7
'2012-06-28T11:26:59-04:00'
describe
'10866' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBX' 'sip-files00004.jpg'
cabed41cdfa4f4ecc92af541ec7b6525
58d180b603678a0d1215eb22a6b61caf8392614f
'2012-06-28T11:32:43-04:00'
describe
'1955' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBY' 'sip-files00137.txt'
e9c7183edf93853bd0a5a45d4b1a525f
c21d86cbf111834dd002e654845b46bd0cd4c980
'2012-06-28T11:21:05-04:00'
describe
'875857' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOBZ' 'sip-files00004.jp2'
f97b65b250d900354fee21f0e68999fe
eecc8ed6d880cbade45a0fe422dd89a95e83cb4b
'2012-06-28T11:25:08-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCA' 'sip-files00011.jp2'
ac2c2f1b80a44a2856374ce7d543ccf8
6679e149a7695b17340f7caf1561b625ebeeabc2
describe
'1497' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCB' 'sip-files00177.txt'
38343fad1ebd4c6d280eec63320f9f18
f5def9a566f9dc5e0b00fae9b10f5b0177258c03
describe
'38630' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCC' 'sip-files00181.jpg'
52506101ccee944b54ff13cf55b6bbdb
2f92b6398e2213497e61b41be6fa8d4bca1f6b81
describe
'47659' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCD' 'sip-files00042.QC.jpg'
f183932a762cf93cd975b0b0d60753be
a7c67a44fe7fe1a787a8658ac25ea67ebfaf60d2
describe
'171316' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCE' 'sip-files00113.jpg'
8536835ebd442278249474614d5616d7
18012c46bdfdf2a9259f811e892571d2c45ece09
'2012-06-28T11:24:40-04:00'
describe
'11147' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCF' 'sip-files00111thm.jpg'
0df33cdf2298d136a5dd552c8469b1af
99d3a67405407193fcb8eed20d751015f188340d
'2012-06-28T11:25:29-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCG' 'sip-files00174.tif'
66e4809ea144d3ccb1282d3671be6927
48f72d04c142cd90b399ae1d5669fb28d4de75c7
'2012-06-28T11:36:14-04:00'
describe
'2013' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCH' 'sip-files00160.txt'
ffc1f281dcb09e9fbf2bf4826f560138
99aa9975b5e6f6fcfef4534e8a55978e1fba9071
describe
'12768' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCI' 'sip-files00028thm.jpg'
a5cdd72c6428e3c4155fb007b0e3fd47
701fd2e665d001fb32ee79cc86ee397cbed67b18
'2012-06-28T11:25:07-04:00'
describe
'1974' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCJ' 'sip-files00127.txt'
b4206184f560368e9caabb866fbc0cee
e06d2400b3970423f39185338280b16c1aa08f78
describe
'37549900' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCK' 'sip-files00003.tif'
072ccc9ac027bbe676e81ac23f6e63c6
bd620b6b505dff6e0aa410a66e55e0007048d14e
'2012-06-28T11:20:40-04:00'
describe
'41586' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCL' 'sip-files00029.QC.jpg'
b22d3e9a5bea94ad4d09e540126df523
03516fa813e963ce9a2a3c7683e1a30019782bfd
describe
'165321' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCM' 'sip-files00091.jpg'
9ccb424b65b16c84c9827508a14f8d1c
e6df7f9775bb6d1d2441280aab6024a92d077e92
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCN' 'sip-files00015.tif'
6ff305c0387d0f39086f794cb2a36cb2
5ceffeae742783d031ff374d601002f7a3cdbaa6
'2012-06-28T11:24:48-04:00'
describe
'13786816' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCO' 'sip-files00146.tif'
9500e7e5a634dded220d556d239ba81a
f1fec2cc12ed04befa619abde8a2333225c65eef
'2012-06-28T11:35:39-04:00'
describe
'11556' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCP' 'sip-files00073thm.jpg'
ae354f299d38ebb0c061181264437d28
7e9a151db25f8776c41f1041e5de59beb52d331d
describe
'10130' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCQ' 'sip-files00053thm.jpg'
1d5711b10333f5979e75bff9070e59b6
3a4c8f52376cb8bb1574046c084879c60cf3763b
describe
'53595' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCR' 'sip-files00050.pro'
8c09614b4a1d6255ad005cf44aa5c270
a1780a0807f74097e6f51b33e5c242d0efd1e6e5
'2012-06-28T11:18:18-04:00'
describe
'11900' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCS' 'sip-files00070thm.jpg'
ef44fac7bb3525715ceb048f601d10d6
f315dba8b195c512e66a66628b05e30147096b53
'2012-06-28T11:34:04-04:00'
describe
'1745' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCT' 'sip-files00041.txt'
137a6dafeed70ac8c51b11234f121514
dd788cde3ab45096d25f4644bea0d2158aa625e6
'2012-06-28T11:23:03-04:00'
describe
'49895' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCU' 'sip-files00087.pro'
d572d31dcdcb5eda3d03c09a1bfb70c8
e0e85873f5e5ed6eead9f5b8aea0bab4e88e9490
describe
'46172' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCV' 'sip-files00094.QC.jpg'
8a51d90ccb692137e56effc06adce155
a58ac5ae3bdffdc19402fb8850977c0a5b61a309
'2012-06-28T11:28:27-04:00'
describe
'133452' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCW' 'sip-files00063.jpg'
6688a312c8ee91e228772c3da7e66b9b
c0fe1f0478facf72732c89b641835a7d34a2ddad
'2012-06-28T11:27:01-04:00'
describe
'3798' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCX' 'sip-files00181thm.jpg'
e3aafb3792619c49d121813098fa1944
ec9dbe6b0ea0ee27267f584790b709958e682d2b
'2012-06-28T11:22:52-04:00'
describe
'1804' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCY' 'sip-files00022.txt'
d09156e85a48810320cddb778dd78314
8961c962a045f7f71587252d96050b799ee115c5
'2012-06-28T11:31:50-04:00'
describe
'2052' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOCZ' 'sip-files00036.txt'
b6582d8a4daf0bbd56591146e092dc16
2305f9e1801a5c282ca642b72cd061c8a73b5750
describe
'10961' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODA' 'sip-files00046thm.jpg'
4b6be7e84d163eb78d069ee1fa4845b9
b2b4981f96f85f05af2d61bd58b935264ae840f9
'2012-06-28T11:36:17-04:00'
describe
'53950' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODB' 'sip-files00054.QC.jpg'
17e8b1bbc5d3a4f6d2c357c6105835b3
8200c5853a4606790903e603ce41baf24a272cf4
'2012-06-28T11:34:20-04:00'
describe
'12697' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODC' 'sip-files00034thm.jpg'
3f7a77592166dfc4035cbb8c426034a7
873b4aed489f5175277f51e495e6d6f5c692462b
describe
'169679' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODD' 'sip-files00032.jpg'
a8f5ec0860cb283ee6dcdcb601c581d9
c98abbc4a063d8421096cf71d51f7ae23e2985c1
'2012-06-28T11:29:50-04:00'
describe
'44461' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODE' 'sip-files00023.pro'
7dd3db57a9b6b988b1c28abddf7b5b90
bcf77ba99a993368a70a2dfae921257e120a366f
describe
'12513' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODF' 'sip-files00124thm.jpg'
76f3acf6e750d4b60338528b109e74b6
e391e255af819c94977cdc79424ddc9363c1bcfa
'2012-06-28T11:21:40-04:00'
describe
'10255' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODG' 'sip-files00152thm.jpg'
58cdc754625f5581f86e2bcee7cff5e2
b1a8f0e2b8a710837c400d6790728f719469d8ad
'2012-06-28T11:18:46-04:00'
describe
'13642060' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODH' 'sip-files00083.tif'
d01eb583c97cd12d5a3f6ece2669bcf7
774fa2b1d4e0af3a0cb0ad11f121a4273f452bd8
'2012-06-28T11:21:29-04:00'
describe
'13513936' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODI' 'sip-files00173.tif'
88e392f20c535a17b1eb977c0c31aada
19aaa271f2fa53fbb84f0c44dcd652fb35883f23
'2012-06-28T11:30:55-04:00'
describe
'44222' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODJ' 'sip-files00013.QC.jpg'
f95ed6d71d86138211e4f8175280e4ab
ee9400add451e578d4adfc414a4109cc8f780149
describe
'5606' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODK' 'sip-files00167thm.jpg'
1ac9db7d82ca6e32776d2d30b0e31829
d4a3959810b2b66da83a40473159fdf3c89e04d2
'2012-06-28T11:29:51-04:00'
describe
'53184' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODL' 'sip-files00044.QC.jpg'
767e1c98ca735c1511013ffdef1799f9
4e0eb426b3462f4956e2b3abe5d6f407d2ac21af
describe
'11655' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODM' 'sip-files00165thm.jpg'
424efdac3c3268c210f7b03e32faecd9
c8b5979be9b92c09e004616d4bf274ccd95bc434
'2012-06-28T11:23:06-04:00'
describe
'2125' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODN' 'sip-files00044.txt'
0457af7da6bbda963753e2f2e734c9bc
809928535014a3b8229a56670fd320754972b564
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODO' 'sip-files00151.txt'
5539a1f4604e3e2dbc2453a799938355
d419685e4df175682526226731b29fc0febb2c51
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODP' 'sip-files00083.txt'
d4c346b9c3c909ce1aa7dc2d5dd262c1
2288a1c56c53cfdf8726c218bfcf4d09b0f6e9ea
'2012-06-28T11:20:48-04:00'
describe
'12011' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODQ' 'sip-files00024thm.jpg'
174af379b56c4d7deb0e6003ea1592a8
aabafcb4b40d2f46d4a375531d0665086ef8a7d0
describe
'1776' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODR' 'sip-files00045.txt'
ae949e0081cccc35e725f38c5888d2df
d5e758f8e594265b6c320b9d3087f1bf20383349
describe
'175149' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODS' 'sip-files00145.jpg'
989eb82a145fe82feaabd73ccd23e54f
426ab18b8cfccdf710e1b10f73c23baff83fdc05
describe
'35268' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODT' 'sip-files00002.QC.jpg'
2e47e40a8184bf033004554bc1f361af
707a29f8e62151313d3ca6e74842e213fadbf11e
'2012-06-28T11:35:41-04:00'
describe
'51389' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODU' 'sip-files00144.QC.jpg'
9e6d4e940a59d73c18d0c3be63b8f33d
7675ba9fb3edaf19971df0f7c5dfcc446ad77359
'2012-06-28T11:25:34-04:00'
describe
'48605' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODV' 'sip-files00108.QC.jpg'
80844d817a34003dedd2d4717098d180
154183b16b3f3f7c3351d4ad46a72718139450d2
describe
'11191' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODW' 'sip-files00140thm.jpg'
9b04b524a1142ee176cc866b8920c765
c82b5852541349ea332003a5f903e9010d90e828
'2012-06-28T11:28:55-04:00'
describe
'174158' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODX' 'sip-files00131.jpg'
361d912965387a4e71fdc086d2082e47
f29120fa72e6105330b4c201e18f4e2fb174c5f7
describe
'9681' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODY' 'sip-files00162thm.jpg'
5f5ba0d5c5ddcfc19e5a3295364b3e68
5b38f556af8f0323aebbbff4f9a94a793f2ea120
'2012-06-28T11:20:53-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAODZ' 'sip-files00166.txt'
5b131597dd3a437bf9da4a564da4ef53
c430ad23367d02d333b0848b8e6a467f435c3991
describe
'1687519' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEA' 'sip-files00087.jp2'
2d824ba282bed7addb4c133d573f6e54
e23d8e36ecdb04d6b6e7a0d4a5b1091979cd3dc5
'2012-06-28T11:29:34-04:00'
describe
'13514196' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEB' 'sip-files00105.tif'
e1fc0ae7797bb507d9bf82fc47de05d8
ab1e26bfcf0e52a5b02e04ef313d676476e68e71
'2012-06-28T11:34:00-04:00'
describe
'1687540' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEC' 'sip-files00140.jp2'
2428e2018c73ba0827b90a67ed88b77d
7f553ea0c4aff348210411f3fe18d3e39dc101ad
'2012-06-28T11:25:20-04:00'
describe
'1850' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOED' 'sip-files00027.txt'
302adcfecc1575050a1f25b81cf98607
193ff76e47c350b5e449a6e64b5bbdbc451398df
describe
Invalid character
'1719' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEE' 'sip-files00038.txt'
ae89996c04a842a8b28621f20743134e
b080891a0833a9ef0db046c788a5259921f0076a
'2012-06-28T11:29:19-04:00'
describe
'3703' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEF' 'sip-files00002.pro'
22aada0c3855c5936d07adfcb5ca6159
287d33b9430bdc4d300e697ca1659075c14353ca
describe
'40068' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEG' 'sip-files00149.QC.jpg'
cfb116ff6bf666b69bfbca4cc728d919
760df5a3f37006bd8267e19b775e5510ca93e20f
describe
'48649' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEH' 'sip-files00027.QC.jpg'
f540dc40c27870801d59f6e0383b7a7c
533cef5c0ea818e9bb5a2a99bcefb591bde2ae8e
'2012-06-28T11:31:51-04:00'
describe
'11600' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEI' 'sip-files00155thm.jpg'
c83b2192adb9a0b00f0b74c53517ba97
d8ba816c3b03035f253a01a3b227affe1d4538e4
'2012-06-28T11:31:34-04:00'
describe
'2062' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEJ' 'sip-files00010.txt'
fe6ebd9e8ccc4852457eda49bb9f3922
85068798358f88a447fc957727a820e319c31c25
describe
'10352' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEK' 'sip-files00168.jpg'
ee00e5d96b425c2634b4b199bbb37ec7
60ef89e39795fdd8f07997c9a70832f0f060514d
'2012-06-28T11:29:11-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEL' 'sip-files00139.jp2'
d3e83b0d66d207b82289227b563197aa
9c6865b11b819b7abbda4092bb88f089cea1c4d4
describe
'13513860' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEM' 'sip-files00119.tif'
08c3e699d1502dca7a7e99f2de3325e6
255f2409e6652761096b367f5b20b38f6197214d
'2012-06-28T11:34:18-04:00'
describe
'10327' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEN' 'sip-files00141thm.jpg'
25af1c229fc708deeb0cad3917651167
b93d6c7104857c5afe802b6bda9b6bd8d31ea5f3
describe
'12595' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEO' 'sip-files00010thm.jpg'
766408b0b4d41785f1195294ad3cacc6
1d84f00a110a79761859b2a4d7a6616c4f235ae8
describe
'39896' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEP' 'sip-files00100.QC.jpg'
1a4430e060cbccb0c6904b87b5096a96
52e6afbdad24cb689848066afb80dfba28a13dd0
describe
'1689072' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEQ' 'sip-files00162.jp2'
5dd059efe74831cf06bd6be003573253
6f887b62d16984ba59e8baef0f79faa7ed6a3473
'2012-06-28T11:23:56-04:00'
describe
'36904' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOER' 'sip-files00100.pro'
526c2d691b902d51d00633e36041ca2d
f9ebd477e61f2eea1f1a758f2cd786f286c044b3
'2012-06-28T11:26:54-04:00'
describe
'55690' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOES' 'sip-files00048.pro'
19a8fe5ac1236c815f94fe19593cd78f
7663beacebc50e7b271b05f6b2187c66ff8e9f8d
describe
'168973' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOET' 'sip-files00031.jpg'
1fc9ad76622e580be0e7c2ad9a465616
a97dd15f2e3540b57f28cc2b07fb0e48f311c8a6
'2012-06-28T11:19:23-04:00'
describe
'13514472' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEU' 'sip-files00142.tif'
6b6bffa44815814037d2535cad0933a2
f5cdb6e26a8e1f56e1caf5c017c514b9c4f975a6
describe
'54035' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEV' 'sip-files00092.QC.jpg'
7af7f1f4daeb7577b85ab62bf016148e
29d9249415e3611fbfc6f00bf4e0447e037a5bef
'2012-06-28T11:25:46-04:00'
describe
'13268544' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEW' 'sip-files00157.tif'
b1491db779ea952e12bd1ca3df26b993
c8195c0b7d3a76e52270fbcaa54766da9d325449
describe
'119724' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEX' 'sip-files00174.jpg'
db15bf7a210ba57a93298a6acfd24694
f6691e8eabe2b7fd8f3cd0417148e0f69cafce2f
'2012-06-28T11:32:09-04:00'
describe
'45010' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEY' 'sip-files00065.QC.jpg'
02801cf370505495636f9f7c099c3b34
1dac93a93ee57e9dd774f3c9086a9cbf948c2055
'2012-06-28T11:26:07-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOEZ' 'sip-files00034.tif'
a019730e5ef848edf066742b45d6354b
2aa2f2de67d6ddb01dfa31ef51799823181c4099
'2012-06-28T11:20:24-04:00'
describe
'46462' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFA' 'sip-files00153.QC.jpg'
611d7fca19452eab594c7f8f806a42ed
d46a9fef4c88e65de80cd1a8a103aab94c39f8ce
describe
'44800' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFB' 'sip-files00160.QC.jpg'
5b0f3a2b6230439fa31ff04b53235c62
b6eb0f890d22883096b4732ef3f8eb992d237844
describe
'51200' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFC' 'sip-files00099.QC.jpg'
debfb83d4ca355b01d46a0ded2ddfbdf
4003c632d26ae40ab99ac6a181d75c4cd6b6f635
'2012-06-28T11:29:55-04:00'
describe
'48579' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFD' 'sip-files00095.pro'
d82e07f24b183a265f65a7abe3b27f5f
12899166a1221caadbd41cbef1c7d9e159f33298
describe
'13514052' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFE' 'sip-files00113.tif'
17059d7e47118fc3083d338a8d8f0135
0c79248559aa769516e29c4951e939bd7c3eaefe
describe
'189396' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFF' 'sip-files00037.jpg'
990e87d856bdf4c6a71d14510239d1dd
3e4d4542688782b265d8d03bc681ba0d2db3b292
'2012-06-28T11:22:02-04:00'
describe
'10582' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFG' 'sip-files00100thm.jpg'
34e02d62c1ecf6ac4ab6e67eff441d67
2d56b653ececdb3dd7935b1311ef5fc473a1372b
describe
'53081' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFH' 'sip-files00072.pro'
dc12d047d0abc168c77a719f1fed3039
9a497c87ff270f55f0fd9381d15498452139152a
describe
'13514084' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFI' 'sip-files00074.tif'
d1a3511e882f6c515136af522c0d27a9
1ef18af8d4f1b91fbf0a3b7eb93f7fbcc044ea33
'2012-06-28T11:22:47-04:00'
describe
'51496' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFJ' 'sip-files00131.QC.jpg'
73664f6fa9bf6713b9c95663332a79de
35d557cb9d12f9599adf41325dab602cf1dc1958
'2012-06-28T11:33:22-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFK' 'sip-files00158.jp2'
f820e7d443e53f62964a4174feb252ba
3afe873891ed11f03d7b89f4e16ed10e17e3593b
'2012-06-28T11:25:19-04:00'
describe
'184691' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFL' 'sip-files00134.jpg'
f9737b5a4db0a1846899689cac52227e
91ad7267d9c27938ffa489b3bb76a34914be0b43
'2012-06-28T11:17:48-04:00'
describe
'1838' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFM' 'sip-files00163.txt'
cce834a06ac1af56274e040fe9d46a8f
13f53210854e572f9a9995b1d75ca627217b44c5
describe
'13513212' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFN' 'sip-files00029.tif'
2e6a4af944ebcf45936360c907888024
d75c6973cd5d12a0bd87b348ce91f62a98c56b26
'2012-06-28T11:18:51-04:00'
describe
'13514172' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFO' 'sip-files00087.tif'
e28ce7bbd2c11feb37d715aa2de34195
f194299b1112616a843516fc27d3a26a5751dc3a
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFP' 'sip-files00034.jp2'
4eb1429112479d16375893bc0c2fc8da
167bc30fc80b35a2e797c707835cb8efe2d1ba3e
describe
'259162' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFQ' 'sip-files00002.jp2'
c5b47f082396c9e2729d533bc5ede82e
f2c16546d8df970c4133c1ebfbcf4d55e4d15d8b
'2012-06-28T11:25:51-04:00'
describe
'36588' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFR' 'sip-files00078.pro'
d2623c49bcae960294e4f6a9d5c0ede5
1453119ba776f28e61686bdf96473f294827f642
'2012-06-28T11:32:54-04:00'
describe
'38797' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFS' 'sip-files00057.QC.jpg'
f237a48de2fd9118209b6163dffc5f03
b8e5e655fac6dbd2378cc21541d9b16c06625533
describe
'42788' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFT' 'sip-files00017.pro'
32cbd7a60353bfc29cb621f86387eabb
fb0c0407e59e0e96931dfa953cb91ab852343215
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFU' 'sip-files00043.tif'
6798c9d66470dfdbbe67cbf306fe7c93
250ff5b353e34895604dcdbfb8d07b3b8f908cce
'2012-06-28T11:18:53-04:00'
describe
'13785920' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFV' 'sip-files00160.tif'
30f67659cafc5399ac7f8b9c077ec850
0af43f0c4fb172beeed63755127004403a0a84cf
'2012-06-28T11:22:10-04:00'
describe
'162903' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFW' 'sip-files00049.jpg'
82fc47afd2f8c5fb3123be184d2c71ea
e295b2845196a093309b41a5cc9047ac492b8bee
'2012-06-28T11:35:31-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFX' 'sip-files00066.txt'
0e5e07453201e9a837541c6004b79c7a
6bcafabdad01aa5bdd88f999f668e2c86b07b1eb
describe
'13514388' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFY' 'sip-files00104.tif'
63f60840d8fca17cdcc439517e1f1ceb
66069d21668662e327510b384e5d1795a1e55293
'2012-06-28T11:28:53-04:00'
describe
'1720369' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOFZ' 'sip-files00176.jp2'
d3eabee586a9640691b1f2cbba384d1c
c47714f6026aaf4e22d3b4284737a32b7e33c3b4
'2012-06-28T11:24:55-04:00'
describe
'45919' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGA' 'sip-files00056.pro'
f4f573e5ad5b899612075fb55c968cf0
25f3af65a0f817f0863f64d9ca767fdaa1d94eb9
'2012-06-28T11:22:13-04:00'
describe
'46433' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGB' 'sip-files00109.pro'
dd2a25f332ca697b4684672996e546d3
4c18e187d9f339e316420e5db64e3273dba203eb
describe
'46618' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGC' 'sip-files00042.pro'
28af7eb4451b1fd86d39bc668f605e4b
1830fb7c9fbe398ef7fc0fe2accfc5249504511a
'2012-06-28T11:20:28-04:00'
describe
'9122' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGD' 'sip-files00007.pro'
88606f9d6bb3a33efee4d63cb30a9d9a
b33cd7b66c88292d2498c43ea34f86977ebfad01
describe
'13514000' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGE' 'sip-files00012.tif'
f90f4658e31712ce91aef56ae006944d
81374cc50724982c0b87436dd8221bd2c1abba7d
'2012-06-28T11:23:32-04:00'
describe
'42793' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGF' 'sip-files00076.QC.jpg'
d166fa3a5bdf7a8484f32e062307e67d
79b76d6a499b562c6df5c08f0daa0f7bc84c0482
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGG' 'sip-files00167.jp2'
1f1416279c26432abbab2d20597989b8
1532f60b757e5cf6016f7ee08aa2361800bede47
'2012-06-28T11:25:17-04:00'
describe
'49751' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGH' 'sip-files00080.pro'
feda7fa1a84c0ee56de6faf1813da039
71610525c3e8709b74cf78e0b213ae7bededaaf7
'2012-06-28T11:19:26-04:00'
describe
'1769' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGI' 'sip-files00161.txt'
4a4e002869b62f79d9ed5fc7d9f686e2
d34746e74aef79fd799f6fce51477292928e930f
'2012-06-28T11:24:42-04:00'
describe
'171948' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGJ' 'sip-files00126.jpg'
79ef4e1f453231a38e5f447f2cc1d6a1
0d48860b7267af041b1be952c0536275324b63d1
'2012-06-28T11:28:04-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGK' 'sip-files00171.jp2'
36e13cc7d4fe77c1121fa88a6b4fc3bf
e22a4159341e49aa0dfa4e645000c45344adad58
'2012-06-28T11:28:29-04:00'
describe
'44839' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGL' 'sip-files00106.QC.jpg'
b887b67f68fa473bcc7e179282614c23
5bf77205b42d1ff5eb2c676d53ca2750ec11e226
'2012-06-28T11:24:05-04:00'
describe
'13514684' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGM' 'sip-files00050.tif'
b0c1fa385dbd9edfc27c57eb7f5d532a
6273c8dc4f764a4d029e1ea369de734caac8e370
'2012-06-28T11:21:56-04:00'
describe
'53361' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGN' 'sip-files00114.QC.jpg'
08fc98c0b85ade51d4f3c4b4ffdf90f4
d77192724a2ba746d98a5836774c145480eb3525
'2012-06-28T11:23:51-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGO' 'sip-files00009.jp2'
2e012be152466e9cc0d22e292caa66d3
47ac84df43fcb342f095532bd999a69fc9c5c2fc
'2012-06-28T11:29:47-04:00'
describe
'11286' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGP' 'sip-files00091thm.jpg'
24350748cbcb98b5eca814ec4d7c5eb0
1f80ec3f2e3cfaa1a2baa07ee58029c936f40860
'2012-06-28T11:36:31-04:00'
describe
'46565' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGQ' 'sip-files00049.QC.jpg'
60acb2620b967b5684f403db11c32af7
3651790a7237481620a5f8b804816b2cd93e096f
'2012-06-28T11:19:38-04:00'
describe
'43680' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGR' 'sip-files00061.QC.jpg'
031c282c07960185d3db008219968efa
2aa8400bbdc889a41c0e76b34baeeeb6e09d2e30
describe
'1645' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGS' 'sip-files00058.txt'
41741f039a3d4045aade45894807b3ad
262fd17b9bc3c4a9c186b7f5077176471b5c295c
describe
Invalid character
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGT' 'sip-files00057.jp2'
965fed6d0099032b27c0ba3b85c9760d
43ed39e35592754584808326c58348330e2ec0bf
'2012-06-28T11:31:11-04:00'
describe
'6560' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGU' 'sip-files00003.pro'
fcb7e080b273b0849021d22340df4605
288224b4e685c456eecc0e5a08660079120147dd
'2012-06-28T11:21:11-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGV' 'sip-files00095.txt'
1d62ab004eb6f6752e09a1857bc770b4
6a1099288326e8209e80b0776638977b0a907028
'2012-06-28T11:34:45-04:00'
describe
'1920' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGW' 'sip-files00155.txt'
e0163d027b7dffa82c7e69687b0f7094
73f9ec3ab0db47a5b9448928eed142045770ddac
'2012-06-28T11:32:06-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGX' 'sip-files00050.jp2'
c21f7682d243b584c1511036d4c1d488
3e038429114fcfb58831b59dbe91a46abf1ebc7e
'2012-06-28T11:32:33-04:00'
describe
'174468' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGY' 'sip-files00132.jpg'
1e1d2c09353a52bd5a4c8e9587417199
1e668415f9bee8327453ed229475393272768aa0
describe
'537788' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOGZ' 'sip-files00008.jp2'
72db18c2bc67cd2a5a12ab3ed71ee910
fe6dd85fa6cf697346549e4407b010d66992fd45
'2012-06-28T11:18:54-04:00'
describe
'46774' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHA' 'sip-files00137.QC.jpg'
aa8ee26adffb641c9b60b4f62724304b
4c0fb82a13c873b300973aeac630eba897647cc8
'2012-06-28T11:22:26-04:00'
describe
'13787528' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHB' 'sip-files00089.tif'
8ebbe8962eb49f16f1997ba38bf0dc27
e7d6b0200d4ffe3687396c097939aa5410079540
'2012-06-28T11:17:46-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHC' 'sip-files00096.jp2'
11ea9086a90b873f8f64e9d081081591
a330b6564baec5431e46e5948f1540f31ed7a0c2
'2012-06-28T11:21:55-04:00'
describe
'1945' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHD' 'sip-files00153.txt'
b9f74706ddc05d082c6522fed9c4ffc0
ddac5807488ffac1b1c68857a356779f6d5de7f4
'2012-06-28T11:26:09-04:00'
describe
Invalid character
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHE' 'sip-files00144thm.jpg'
13a6c4670a51bfdc8cea0a96f829094e
676edb71733e48d0a73b9bad3c49526f53ac3f77
'2012-06-28T11:36:41-04:00'
describe
'169525' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHF' 'sip-files00024.jpg'
8c53fc32d434d17fe27368de11e4c646
59e1d03ab18e858ab61170f7c2b8d0fd15ede4a8
describe
'182797' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHG' 'sip-files00018.jpg'
0e0bc85aa9ca1c4e29a2caa07627af6e
d3b2fcda3dc05ad1e004958fc22b2c04320ee8a5
describe
'11769' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHH' 'sip-files00151thm.jpg'
a8c74035291999ac81b70fe5c520f7f1
9f48354f4a586b579bdd328e883dfa2c3684b3a1
'2012-06-28T11:19:36-04:00'
describe
'13513960' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHI' 'sip-files00111.tif'
770e2df795bf5cb8e0556d11ce02b511
4f47b9137d89b259e8dddc2825e3671e1682c874
'2012-06-28T11:23:55-04:00'
describe
'40515184' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHJ' 'sip-files00182.tif'
9c568a06867cc4a83f08a70f090ac95f
067bcdb1453c3ac8c1e44b32c2cf13519c970ea5
'2012-06-28T11:27:44-04:00'
describe
'11651' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHK' 'sip-files00119thm.jpg'
d1a311a2fe77c140151abe27ccad2dc2
47e6d06d176eb2fce6a0e28343ae66ea156f7304
describe
'119947' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHL' 'sip-files00180.jpg'
7675b48582b50f49281ea2c12367b3a5
70961fb42dff35469255061dc8ed27af42902c1a
describe
'13534296' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHM' 'sip-files00162.tif'
53f57b8157e629c524054eb9fc3d274a
e7b7eeec442948ab0edd90320f3f4fc6a37b6513
'2012-06-28T11:34:10-04:00'
describe
'49545' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHN' 'sip-files00151.QC.jpg'
68b509825d03ac672ee1b154c4bbfd13
33b2d0710938baaf4b8092d1fc640742017cb1c6
describe
'1687515' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHO' 'sip-files00132.jp2'
63270899d08c448af453ae667e04acc0
fa712316f7a2cc323502cf644e39b3d4c80e9a3e
'2012-06-28T11:31:24-04:00'
describe
'160207' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHP' 'sip-files00035.jpg'
474d203b18836a9f41278748aaaf7940
62d5ed52553ec8b054cede2219802885d3e5dd21
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHQ' 'sip-files00094.jp2'
bdd76a220b4b3bfde9096fa8aa118b99
bed5c1a5ac5d78805302622a4f6a4fba69fe2644
'2012-06-28T11:29:02-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHR' 'sip-files00104.jp2'
22970d6f8129d3fa7bd25cce994dc3fc
33e28d2ed6beece23181191efa5f70bb13482cc6
describe
'1687567' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHS' 'sip-files00144.jp2'
b9d164e5087c77a194a8b24b649fa31a
163ba1faa00127aa705d4c459a4bae1a1adcb2cd
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHT' 'sip-files00019.jp2'
c416e80701776879c64878fc50f70154
b2800b0bbb2b9ad1cef5bee9ad33f5e9ae15d41e
'2012-06-28T11:28:34-04:00'
describe
'11153' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHU' 'sip-files00083thm.jpg'
1ecc463b29e28397d2620d959e9d36b9
9095afe07fa0cb16e63fe3b8d2bc61e069404633
'2012-06-28T11:34:54-04:00'
describe
'45345' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHV' 'sip-files00001.QC.jpg'
39ba0149dc4a2ee1c57e09523713e599
e1fadbf5e14b86c99796a7f588176a94553c9907
'2012-06-28T11:29:42-04:00'
describe
'2245' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHW' 'sip-files00171.txt'
2e3a027001f4fcbe13ac5190f6df5e0f
1208c4c5001c66c06b72d67fd86966e169dfdb46
'2012-06-28T11:32:51-04:00'
describe
'43662' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHX' 'sip-files00022.pro'
bb16b9568dc7657fe103c0f89aaebc3c
08a0f5131c274be35dfde2b2780638e9b676eb27
'2012-06-28T11:18:41-04:00'
describe
'1720330' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHY' 'sip-files00055.jp2'
46a49d8c5004e28f9012ccc6d5814907
57cfe4d7108fe544d3d5857d910953f08f48d976
'2012-06-28T11:35:53-04:00'
describe
'48306' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOHZ' 'sip-files00031.QC.jpg'
3aca2c2c7feb42806514e292bb589dc2
107721abedc747e27e5b8c524b6495dfa6c76775
describe
'13513980' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIA' 'sip-files00033.tif'
a577bc0737c374ca18af3d6eee37b49d
0e6d409797c6976a3d00365a370ef2abbf7dc9e3
'2012-06-28T11:19:22-04:00'
describe
'156089' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIB' 'sip-files00066.jpg'
dec12e15119f2ddd0e7157ab5b328f1b
700f1981ad0d3b6b9a76c6437548ef1e89052597
'2012-06-28T11:28:41-04:00'
describe
'52189' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIC' 'sip-files00158.QC.jpg'
1f9316e7331cc0c618d0e2cb4cb2cf69
4beb28d8c24bb2604dbe5b9e2ddb3544d6566996
'2012-06-28T11:30:50-04:00'
describe
'10148' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOID' 'sip-files00069thm.jpg'
6ac6ed7984a8645c0bd0ca13e66997ea
e18e53713d9f16780087db47292e78c6881ba92e
describe
'38754' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIE' 'sip-files00162.pro'
10f0986fd91d1745bebf9b52622d496e
26cb94cd10765fb12315e0cc78b2723f2d71aef5
'2012-06-28T11:24:31-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIF' 'sip-files00075.tif'
8391bb53ea1449af9a51b6c72feb91fa
a133361664f517073371e87c8a002a96d1e64877
'2012-06-28T11:20:56-04:00'
describe
'13513864' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIG' 'sip-files00117.tif'
4ae0a8c365d76ddc731a3f738bf9676a
3c27bb9355020b90fe38da3ef81127cad96ffd1d
describe
'13907836' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIH' 'sip-files00041.tif'
87c3638a68bfe427277e188402336889
dd05287e7fc5a8a301f79f7da0190b4511ff0455
describe
'35896' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOII' 'sip-files00150.pro'
30fe8816ec03c2b188cea43b6d9f7c03
e59d8f565f4b9a8c89be88b3ee20bc8571ea6dc9
describe
'39076' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIJ' 'sip-files00063.QC.jpg'
db0a25c4086f46df2dbea91239620efa
9e6f6f81438a8be290e134a957034b122eb513ea
describe
'13514152' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIK' 'sip-files00120.tif'
0aab5e21ed70c06d458e0f1e5a841e82
2ad6787920170d4658b3ec40ea8bcd1fe1792783
'2012-06-28T11:24:25-04:00'
describe
'3681' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIL' 'sip-files00007thm.jpg'
bcb421d1ec76df5ffaf3654aa12223f2
994e79aa9ffbf40e7bc30d284d76944f1cc8fa85
'2012-06-28T11:22:33-04:00'
describe
'13318' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIM' 'sip-files00136thm.jpg'
9c1e8263380793d49cd37818f6e353f6
a862912646093694bff333525ff87cece8cdcaa7
'2012-06-28T11:18:16-04:00'
describe
'925' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIN' 'sip-files00006thm.jpg'
424429a0bc208a6d54f87de6abd82b8b
28f35f2442365d8e69cdc427b2d7731a48bf6034
'2012-06-28T11:29:33-04:00'
describe
'54057' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIO' 'sip-files00128.QC.jpg'
2825999f5c7395b2c1da54dc7f6d48d3
3c489c84e7c2372aa4e4f2ab852b2f28ec283a06
'2012-06-28T11:29:17-04:00'
describe
'13785228' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIP' 'sip-files00055.tif'
717dcb93c822ed549998d8d6822a10e8
e0baf5232828fc326144ad8844436c41afff3eb5
'2012-06-28T11:19:52-04:00'
describe
'172892' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIQ' 'sip-files00147.jpg'
28279cfc30f9cb3233029374b89823a0
cf385bac57bb2618b4107e09bac538c547f2fc4e
'2012-06-28T11:28:23-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIR' 'sip-files00103.jp2'
1c41b2c2b3ba3ab442a0db5ab4a0da79
dc50610234919ae2c6523299515f0a1c211d2c3e
'2012-06-28T11:29:27-04:00'
describe
'47158' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIS' 'sip-files00082.pro'
791902f64ff99ffa23d70bb9ea91976b
5a89abf8e22dfb6b97a446c186656147a8ee03bd
describe
'12129' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIT' 'sip-files00082thm.jpg'
2525820f7c2fb56aaa48e2a0ebac92ac
f915a163d0c6dabd310404691e0c42051b4c70c1
describe
'1537' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIU' 'sip-files00120.txt'
750601f229fc97c4615dbfb4032989fd
9bab4b233de0bfc241eede1ed7343f99b68dee5e
'2012-06-28T11:35:40-04:00'
describe
'173950' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIV' 'sip-files00142.jpg'
b892bb74d668cab82e4daf1da851f230
682808a5f1a2bd85bc444727725ee916f733ce85
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIW' 'sip-files00080.txt'
22b59f84f83c5eb7b019c5f43a1e0634
3fdf7b490e9eb255a6e70276e56b5cafe9a880fb
describe
'49546' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIX' 'sip-files00080.QC.jpg'
fe973f4179f82e32faab0bd3f511297b
c8b7f06c6ff5982e52a50f56b0f30bebe226482e
'2012-06-28T11:26:42-04:00'
describe
'170982' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIY' 'sip-files00144.jpg'
3924d5665ca6114f089bb65135e852dd
39738de39419b4fc7bfb0c353127bd54c1ec2a0e
describe
'55626' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOIZ' 'sip-files00036.QC.jpg'
b6de409938a36f1f9eef748d23e2d6f4
e028ed1ea47759be692621cee302db067e7a2f2c
describe
'10801' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJA' 'sip-files00039thm.jpg'
983a6dbfddd6a7f9092540feb2b1ae89
e9d7daedb6b86fde255f6fefb3606ce43c07600f
'2012-06-28T11:21:20-04:00'
describe
'12762' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJB' 'sip-files00132thm.jpg'
61118897e2377a35c435a3315723f53b
2a2aba7cb4de959fc29478acb61678236f8d1720
'2012-06-28T11:23:24-04:00'
describe
'52605' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJC' 'sip-files00073.pro'
155e13fb26d05855908f97fd4660cc9a
9b11be5c017744bcb526397c2d67936d5c2be615
'2012-06-28T11:33:07-04:00'
describe
'50597' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJD' 'sip-files00118.QC.jpg'
a0efa5b4a14a9a0e56e1bb87d9933374
010b2b5332adba97019217c3f3a4bf1045c5d3a3
describe
'50246' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJE' 'sip-files00091.pro'
cf1482d63087710ff22fde0432ef4b1b
f6940a8ac1fe91d4407d5830907e0c9ad1547dcd
describe
'46437' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJF' 'sip-files00146.QC.jpg'
948fc92678836fe5e8047258460d79be
9eb33efc7a6e334500bd18d9d515bc7b34a5fc1e
describe
'44719' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJG' 'sip-files00060.pro'
df323bef49aef33ce22e394252c2f2ef
9e1db5ab0bf5c6b973238d19ef354df0bd16b82e
'2012-06-28T11:17:56-04:00'
describe
'10183' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJH' 'sip-files00009thm.jpg'
627bb3e687a388894c9b93a365eaca6a
bdbacdb565520a54d402ce829671af72c46c69de
describe
'181821' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJI' 'sip-files00154.jpg'
e94633cc59162d7097d579efdd042ba7
14a46af8949199cc01eed5fd82cb907d1fec7d67
describe
'42416' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJJ' 'sip-files00104.pro'
f74995803996c51054f3710bd5a831ec
25671e1f97e08930793650ad9ffd79bd9ff2205e
'2012-06-28T11:35:50-04:00'
describe
'1893' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJK' 'sip-files00118.txt'
6470f3a31ba4ce5a70300bfa9b2c535e
b14c13066248674417187c4791cac207853f173a
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJL' 'sip-files00127.jp2'
f7e3c173b82c1d48f847ff9d7c7a87e2
81cce5fb62a1331ad1a6d91be0c34a580bb941db
'2012-06-28T11:18:56-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJM' 'sip-files00182.jp2'
9dfba97eb5e703f4eceebd2c0c294f64
7a88a9052e7068a43df2171cccbb01b26bc17de2
'2012-06-28T11:18:37-04:00'
describe
'12575' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJN' 'sip-files00092thm.jpg'
dbee2aacfdce98055ab87c499909dad4
d70ac10407df96933e80a2b83d8865d4cb4e63a7
'2012-06-28T11:33:49-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJO' 'sip-files00109.QC.jpg'
fe3854c4efe56a4ec256dda97789aafa
c041219a3a054872234409f124042f67b99297ad
describe
'1667298' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJP' 'sip-files00092.jp2'
40afc2d6c9de53f2af1c0862a56e2264
b513ce04255725fe2629054d8a1d256ee836b297
'2012-06-28T11:35:47-04:00'
describe
'132832' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJQ' 'sip-files00149.jpg'
d18dccefac0b7778622a523a4f1a5f6e
53fe60451e437534672cee618f019fd3cc310243
describe
'53316' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJR' 'sip-files00068.pro'
3a78219bc4645ebf600a9c7733a30fec
6a7a2e8bd242c0ffea86419c6d7c7af9e9fce932
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJS' 'sip-files00044.tif'
f61d3b75fa19ac3151cb30116df53286
9a7993ade62437d5a273a7eda7e8df24808c0a1e
'2012-06-28T11:33:05-04:00'
describe
'13514492' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJT' 'sip-files00084.tif'
b37ad925b0b4ca48ccbe548d7ff34cae
a1422b4074315f0275ac9824e3e949bdee367f20
'2012-06-28T11:30:35-04:00'
describe
'181065' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJU' 'sip-files00079.jpg'
84f4ae7e29c4b4e42e6a4835a1bb7150
a7aaef327eafbcbfaddee2c2703dd91e6646e923
'2012-06-28T11:33:26-04:00'
describe
'826' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJV' 'sip-files00167.txt'
c605006f8994d610c535173964d462ff
3d00b6a69ccf6e4233cfc5cbb63e136b6a9c7e96
'2012-06-28T11:36:30-04:00'
describe
'156794' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJW' 'sip-files00012.jpg'
3a6bb219aa6b90f5b11f23af45c480f1
db4bea62f0c628bbdf0cc961de799d84dec889a5
'2012-06-28T11:28:44-04:00'
describe
'48508' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJX' 'sip-files00091.QC.jpg'
d53d6e0324737b2f2c1f3435d7ff2c49
867bac3a5a42bfd4d1fad225a1296ea95bbcdaf0
describe
'51309' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJY' 'sip-files00132.pro'
fe551de6ef4d8270b0a0b2ad3fd35e8a
b8c922c71c88778ffe735f3c6edc97883c920276
'2012-06-28T11:27:17-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOJZ' 'sip-files00017.tif'
b033f5a52372b6ad27b78cac487070ea
bf1bdb4beda8ebb1338eb547551c96749cfaa54a
'2012-06-28T11:26:35-04:00'
describe
'1722' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKA' 'sip-files00046.txt'
cec5d3e3e7892ffbd2a310c3dee467ed
89555db2a208cbeb45d656edb6601f513706bace
describe
'57497' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKB' 'sip-files00171.pro'
01dd06fa0a9d95be39c0b9ba348f00fe
4d02bd83fdc06973c4de6b97d6d5ce121105d393
describe
'13786956' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKC' 'sip-files00016.tif'
63b99989f1aaea06cbd47ccec5a884f3
64e6d782e7df4e6dba98de48c1c40adef63b6526
'2012-06-28T11:24:20-04:00'
describe
'56607' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKD' 'sip-files00123.pro'
dfeb6b04fb51845f09607e0d185413a3
755d9f47e9e0cb6ef52371b657ec52e3fac39aca
describe
'9861' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKE' 'sip-files00150thm.jpg'
746c6f0e384e272f048a4df8f5e71338
a7112932f3231a7c8838c13c89305d13d31829a3
'2012-06-28T11:29:52-04:00'
describe
'41632' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKF' 'sip-files00047.QC.jpg'
c4dadcca87240dda99529577196a135d
ad9d616cb98c14de22ca4224bd3e65a43085df47
'2012-06-28T11:35:24-04:00'
describe
'54697' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKG' 'sip-files00134.QC.jpg'
704a1e6621e973f39dcdc3c37a0450fd
d125a28e91bb939ccd367e3438738839d49ecae0
'2012-06-28T11:25:54-04:00'
describe
'130596' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKH' 'sip-files00100.jpg'
9abe2911f1960d6028362afa751522e1
bda7c34ebe49fff23b256a0fa6c09b45d259c1eb
'2012-06-28T11:19:48-04:00'
describe
'41083' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKI' 'sip-files00149.pro'
f7c84bb6b3f9526f45a9d209c0bcb630
1cececb10960cce8fc6f818e9bc4760410732f8e
describe
'52027' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKJ' 'sip-files00051.pro'
964444c97ddcfa259c794ad1510f4057
00ff2e7eb5543822643243056c559dfc6310140e
describe
'1468' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKK' 'sip-files00152.txt'
1c1f96ebcb9e31569de6cfa25cdaa2b6
c4a8f033d86b43f7baaca76ab969525daa994fc4
'2012-06-28T11:34:07-04:00'
describe
'11645' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKL' 'sip-files00156thm.jpg'
3f28fe073f27ecd3c016b2aaeef7b849
9aa04f36a97de0aca1559ba67f235e400e3c916e
describe
'185337' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKM' 'sip-files00048.jpg'
26cdaf67537510bf50b1a94101646d69
c16121ebd44f14315bbfd433a176ddc126249f82
'2012-06-28T11:35:36-04:00'
describe
'1730' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKN' 'sip-files00047.txt'
c291555cdfbce179363342b03327f54e
7475eceffdfad2af1bf796ad3b21f9f45de39de0
'2012-06-28T11:35:44-04:00'
describe
'165690' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKO' 'sip-files00166.jpg'
5b1ed577d4274bdb900bc4d9badfa6eb
5d657ca24264bb1ef3915cacebf2c81f564775f3
describe
'1687513' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKP' 'sip-files00066.jp2'
32f2fc7981d7af00524395f75e1cf116
1f83e3d97f7c2f635b565f6b6ee3df18a8dc1581
'2012-06-28T11:26:31-04:00'
describe
'1988' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKQ' 'sip-files00035.txt'
b72333d5137e9e2e45ca941af94fca88
33db95c39c5de98945e37cabd0aa0f38bdeafb17
'2012-06-28T11:22:14-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKR' 'sip-files00096.txt'
6d334997c13e37fd82692c188d59c4c2
5a4fa2b3614b31edb310086be9efbaf16329cbf1
'2012-06-28T11:21:15-04:00'
describe
'11857' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKS' 'sip-files00052thm.jpg'
2f780e3f8ccdd8d5a59d1fd67e17dbed
0705239edf4cc0ef035ea2da8d989bdb30aa110b
'2012-06-28T11:28:18-04:00'
describe
'132119' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKT' 'sip-files00057.jpg'
95ab1cab914b01da8d814ad98fe2f684
643bdc2d5ce45c9a3d2ade4d68657e53238b2edd
'2012-06-28T11:31:12-04:00'
describe
'174405' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKU' 'sip-files00158.jpg'
3853ecdf3cd4babcff5d80fb0377bb16
46c94972b9f06e19c00ba98ee224e6a687c1dae9
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKV' 'sip-files00048.txt'
dae1f85f57aa208137b428fe5b64d284
7055d957bbbf156ce1885c2cc3b8ed00a8f1e1c7
'2012-06-28T11:22:50-04:00'
describe
'13514624' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKW' 'sip-files00062.tif'
c18b7e555a8d8ac0534bf45b8de1310c
3be99091ff31a3554b74345d97520dd485ebac5f
'2012-06-28T11:36:39-04:00'
describe
'13513164' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKX' 'sip-files00019.tif'
3122eb545da0c19485592ab748ad0bb9
496d3e69d1cfb935ea316deb412e4c4e8c4f3117
'2012-06-28T11:21:44-04:00'
describe
'43649' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKY' 'sip-files00106.pro'
35aeae619220beec657cb39536b8d67e
91cbf4e78c58c4d8f847e6ee745aeaca3af05a1b
describe
'43120' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOKZ' 'sip-files00057.pro'
f9cfde3b6769d12242e1af0d52e12246
4cb18cc6f06350d83d74a39aeb48da47d59ac1e6
'2012-06-28T11:35:26-04:00'
describe
'13514452' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLA' 'sip-files00124.tif'
464292e555689709479c9a2dd2a39ea2
db7da1d0b9c61a1ec4d0dc25a784f3ec1160ff87
'2012-06-28T11:30:10-04:00'
describe
'2049' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLB' 'sip-files00037.txt'
209491a167341d55a1d1ce71092b705c
1634a20714a88ec4e81584f2ce8c6dd5c3ae2232
describe
'52007' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLC' 'sip-files00158.pro'
bce2937aac499787a02b5524acc5abc8
2b1e76eba82e38270f7a9af4f42c1b24bff1eb3e
describe
'54227' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLD' 'sip-files00036.pro'
1e7ce29dac8b38017cca4e0ed04c2125
a69dc0033a4621f44d26e56e602684577e24959d
describe
'12741' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLE' 'sip-files00084thm.jpg'
7da63d01535bfaf17680fa13da119843
d0765d3e30d1ecd9df3c487e97f5180623f5ad8d
'2012-06-28T11:32:47-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLF' 'sip-files00107.tif'
9d90322fc063ed65eb91bbf3a394e08d
ab96a87fd13b345f563d54c094f5ae1cd6d25c50
'2012-06-28T11:20:01-04:00'
describe
'11762' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLG' 'sip-files00102thm.jpg'
f22ff027283bba2099a48bc088bad649
b5eba818dca9ba8836c3da4ce87651716b31ab47
'2012-06-28T11:35:56-04:00'
describe
'1894' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLH' 'sip-files00067.txt'
38bd3db81f6e1320220e0a36fd39efab
b2d1ab7553f42d9a717055e782dfd5c700b50cef
describe
'47458' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLI' 'sip-files00038.QC.jpg'
116f22301f808ac8deb04ad1d540588e
b217b4560acbd9afa867f2881453bd15b629f6a0
describe
'13514100' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLJ' 'sip-files00098.tif'
96c3b192ecbecf4e22b339e812ab6bfd
4ac860a867bb7cc7f70c122300b72575b5bd0c6e
'2012-06-28T11:18:44-04:00'
describe
'13397244' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLK' 'sip-files00151.tif'
4a292fce0c56dddd79abc7f33fc1821f
4ecc84730d5ae952fec9db8e8e3e8a7275219df5
'2012-06-28T11:34:28-04:00'
describe
'45777' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLL' 'sip-files00051.QC.jpg'
407444eb340ca19c6c6de2f74fe47b0c
b43bef0973e967e16305f753c8f17f03510292da
'2012-06-28T11:35:42-04:00'
describe
'276368' 'info:fdaE20100423_AAAABWfileF20100423_AAAOLM' 'sip-filesUF00026276_00001.xml'
abc350a5e49a20601ed08b28c25973e8
4ab2d341993fc451abadbbab0f789c0f83e5739b
'2012-06-28T11:26:15-04:00'
describe
TargetNamespace.1: Expecting namespace 'http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/sobekcm/', but the target namespace of the schema document is 'http://digital.uflib.ufl.edu/metadata/sobekcm/'.
'2013-12-10T06:48:33-05:00' 'mixed'
xml resolution
http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/sobekcm/sobekcm.xsd
BROKEN_LINK http://www.uflib.ufl.edu/digital/metadata/sobekcm/sobekcm.xsd
The element type "div" must be terminated by the matching end-tag "