Seven Little People and their Friends

by Horace Elisha Scudder

It was down this Fountain Court—though people now generally called it Pump Court—that little Peter Mit ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He stopped at the fourth house on the right-hand side; it was a low building, only a story and a half high, yet a respectable merchant had lived there formerly. Before the door stood a battered wooden image of a savage Indian, holding out a bunch of cigars in his hand, and looking as if he meant to tomahawk you if you didn't take one. The Indian was quite stuck over with snow-balls, for he was a fine mark for the boys in the court, who divided their attention between his head and the knob on top of the Pump. If it were not so dark, one might spell out on the dingy sign over the door, the names "Morgridge and Mit Dealers in Tobacco." The only window was adorned with half a dozen boxes of cigars, a few pipes, a bottle of snuff, and a melancholy plaister sailor, who had been smoking one pipe, with his hands in his pockets, as long as the oldest inhabitant in the court could remember.

Peter Mit opened the door from the street and entered the shop; one solitary oil lamp stood upon the counter, behind which sat David Morgridge, the surviving partner of the firm of Morgridge and Mit Dealers in Tobacco. Solomon Mit, the uncle of little Peter had been dead five years, and on dying had bequeathed his orphan-nephew to his partner, and so as Mr. Morgridge had no children, and Peter had no father, the two lived together alone in the old house.

Mr. Morgridge was not a talkative man—one would see that at a glance; his mouth looked as if it shut with a spring. Mr. Mit, when living had been even more silent, but when he did speak—then one would look for golden words; for so small a man he was surely very wise. Mr. Morgridge used to say that it was because his name was Solomon, and that was the only thing Mr. Morgridge had ever said that came near being witty. All the court knew it, and the saying almost turned the corner at the head of the court. They divided the business between them Mr. Morgridge attending to the snuff department, Mr. Mit to the cigar and pipe branch. It was the intention of Mr. Mit, expressed soon after the adoption of little Peter, to bring him up to take charge of the chewing tobacco branch. In consequence of this division of the business, David Morgridge took snuff incessantly, but never smoked. Solomon Mit smoked all the while but never took snuff. They did this to recommend their wares. Besides, it served to explain the duty of each partner. If a customer came in for pipes or cigars he invariably went directly to Mr. Mit; if he came for snuff, he as surely turned to Mr. Morgridge.

When Peter entered the shop, Mr. Morgridge was just wiping his face after a pinch of snuff; the whole air of the shop was snuffy, and no one came in without instantly being tempted to sneeze. Peter sneezed as a matter of course, and Mr. Morgridge, after his usual fashion, replied with a "God bless you!" He seldom got the compliment in return, however, as in his case the blessing would have become so common as to be quite worthless. Mr. Morgridge then inquired into Peter's sales, and with that his regular conversation ended. His mouth shut so closely, with the corners turned down to cover any possible opening, that one would know immediately that no accidental words could escape. But to-night Peter did not mean to let his guardian keep his usual silence; he was too much concerned about the picture he had seen in the shop-window. He waited however till after tea. Then, as they returned to the shop, Mr. Morgridge taking his customary seat upon his bench, with a pot of snuff beside him, set about his work of putting up tobacco in divers shapes. Peter took his customary seat also, much above Mr. Morgridge. It was a seat which he had inherited from his uncle. Solomon Mit, being a contemplative man, was desirous of being lifted above ordinary things when he pursued his meditations, and had accordingly built a sort of watch-tower out of several boxes, placed one upon another, and topped by an arm-chair, deprived of its legs. Into this chair Solomon used to climb, and when there, his head was not far from the ceiling. Here he would sit in his lofty station, and wrapped in the smoke from his own pipe, would revolve in his mind various questions, occasionally dropping from the clouds a remark to his partner, who sat snuffing below on the bench. Customers, when they entered the shop, had become used to the sight of the little man's legs as they appeared below the cloud, and a classical scholar chancing in one day to fill his pipe, had likened him to Zeus upon the top of Olympus.

Peter valued this watch-tower above all his possessions, and here every night he sat perched, and counted the fly-specks on the ceiling, or fished up things from the floor by means of a hook and line which he kept by him. To-night, however, after he had climbed into the chair, he broke the usual silence by putting the following question to Mr. Morgridge:

"Mr. Morgridge, is this Christmas Eve?" to which David Morgridge, after taking a pinch of snuff cautiously replied:

"It may be;" and then added, as if to explain his uncertainty of mind—"I don't keep the run o' Christmas."

"Mr. Morgridge, is this Christmas Eve?"

"Does Santa Klaus really come down a chimney Christmas night and fill the stocking with presents?" proceeded Peter. And then, getting no answer, he gave an account of what he had seen in the window, and being very much interested, he told also what he thought of it all, and the resolution that he had finally come to, namely, to hang up his own stocking that very night. Mr. Morgridge having listened to what Peter had to say, took more snuff and seemed disposed to let that end the matter, but Peter persisted in getting his opinion.