A POOR man having died and left his widow with little children to support, a neighbor of hers—who was known by the name of Kris, and who was almost as poor as herself—borrowed a horse and cart to go around among the farmers he was acquainted with, and beg some corn for her.

“All of them,” he said, “knew her husband and hired him now and then to do day’s work; I’ll go and see what they will give.”

He came to the first farmer, who listened to his story and without saying a word went to his corn-crib, filled his bushel-measure heaping full, and emptied it into the cart. Kris thanked him warmly for this, but the man, not seeming to notice what he said, returned to his crib, heaped up[203]
[204] the measure once more, and emptied it also into the cart. Then for the first time he spoke, saying:

“I can give to so worthy an object with a clear conscience. When she wants more, come again.”

As Kris drove out to the road he said to himself:

“I’ve made a mistake: I ought to have borrowed a wagon instead of a cart. This will be full presently, and I could just as easily have hauled her a two-horse load.”

Turning in at the next gate, he told his story to the farmer there, who, as soon as heard it, said:

“Why, if a man’s got any conscience at all, he can’t help giving to such a hard case.”

Saying which, he walked to his corn-crib, but with not quite so brisk a step as the first, and filled his bushel-measure, but not quite so full as the other, and, handing it to Kris, let him carry it out and empty it into the cart himself. Kris thanked him, but noticed that he did not say he was welcome.

About half a mile farther on Kris came to the third farm. As he drove in he met the farmer on the way to his barn. He stopped and listened to what his visitor had to say.

“I thought maybe,” said Kris, closing, “you’d like to give her some corn to help her out through the winter.”

“Of course I would,” replied the farmer. “I hate tramps[205]
[206] and beggars, but she’s none of them. I knew her husband well; he gave an honest day’s work for a day’s wages. Besides, it’s a duty to give. I’d do it to ease my conscience if it wasn’t for anything else. Come over to the crib.”

Kris followed him to the door and went in. The bushel-measure was lying there, but the man looked around, as if something were still wanting, and then hurried over to the stable.

“His big scoop is missing,” thought Kris. “He’s going to do the best yet.”

In a moment he was back again carrying a peck-measure in his hand (it looked scant even for a peck); filling which, he handed it to Kris, who, mute with surprise, silently emptied it into the cart.

From this farm Kris drove on to the one beyond. He passed by the farmer’s house—a comfortable stone dwelling—and turned into the barnyard. As he did so he noticed how fat the cattle and the pigs looked. The farmer came out to him, and Kris made his appeal.

“Well,” said the man, “I s’pose I’ll have to help too; and even if I didn’t want to, my conscience would make me. But I should think such a stout-lookin’, able-bodied woman ought to be able to help herself.”

By this time they reached the corn-crib, which Kris noticed was full up to the very top; and the farmer, gathering[207]
[208] up a dozen ears in his hands, pitched them into the cart, exclaiming:

“Whew! what a heap you’ve got there! Mind, Kris, don’t you come for any more.”

Kris drove out of the gate and turned his horse’s head toward home.

“The cart’s too big, after all,” he said. “It’s of no use to go any farther; the next one would want to take away some of what I’ve got. It’s wonderful what a crop of consciences grows in these parts! But I’ve a notion that a good deal of it’s only ‘cheat’ after all, and we might as well call it by the right name.”

Men who can be satisfied without any conscience are very uncomfortable without a base imitation of one to stand in its place.