“I 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 grey 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 ’em 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.”
“I say,” 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 little 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.”
“Well why don’t you begin then?” said Carl, laying him down again.
“It’s not always pleasant to recount one’s misfortunes,” 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 anybody 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 sort of woman for her station in life,—very neat about her house, and I presume makes most excellent chowder. But you see, where I used to live, chowder had never even been heard of. I declare,” said the stocking, “I can hardly believe it myself,—I think my senses are getting blunted. I have lain in that chest so long with a string of red onions, that I have really almost forgotten what musk smells like! 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 old gentleman he was: not very tall, but as straight almost as ever; and with ruddy cheeks, and hair that was not white but silver colour. His hand shook a little sometimes, but his heart never—and his voice was a clear as a whistle. His step went cheerily 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 people 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.