“I assume to myself the task of relating our joint history,” 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 myself in every quality that an apple should have. You perceive not only the fine rounding of my shape, but 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 permanent and deep impression. My behaviour towards 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 present, Beachamwell,” said Carl, “because I might eat you up before you got through your story, and that would be bad. 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 Beachamwell,—“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 I cut you up. 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 probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have 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 attains a particle of the true Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll 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: nor is that often obtained except 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 I 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.

“‘I 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?’

“‘I’ll make you some pies—if I can get anything to make them of,’ said Mrs. Penly.

“‘Ah but you can’t,’ said Mark, his countenance falling 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 troupe was just then performing.

“‘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 Thanksgiving without them.’

“‘I 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 hundred and third Psalm.’

“So Mark got his little 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 destruction; 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 I 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 posed 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 relishable things might exert a happy influence upon his complexion: but she stilled her heart with that word,—

“‘Your Father knoweth that ye have need of such things.’

“‘I am sure we have a great many good things, Mark,’ she answered cheerfully,—‘don’t you remember that barrel 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 says in another part of that Psalm, ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, 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 children. 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.’

“‘I 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 blackberries 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.’

“‘Maybe 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 can always find a way.’

“‘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 enough for thanksgiving, Marky, in a dear 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 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 before 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 stepping up and down the kitchen; and as she swept she sang.

“Mark listened awhile 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 always his work, and he began to wonder what they were going to have for breakfast. Then somebody knocked at the door.

“‘Here’s a quart of milk, Mis’ Penly,’ said a voice. ‘Mother guessed 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 into his trousers, he rushed out into the kitchen.

“‘Is it a whole quart, mother?’

“‘A whole quart of new milk, Mark. Isn’t that good?’

“‘Delicious!’ said Mark. ‘I should like to drink it all up, straight. I don’t mean that I should like to 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.’

“‘If 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. ‘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 tumblerful of milk for your breakfast—’

“‘A whole tumblerful!’ 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.

“‘I don’t want any.’

“‘But you must have it,’ said Mark. ‘Now I’ll tell you, mother. I’ll drink a tumblerful 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 left I’ll drink to-morrow.’

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

“‘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 tumbler and the plates.’

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

“The 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 sympathy 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 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.’

“‘I don’t wonder he was sorry to have it dry up, then,’ said Mark.

“‘No, it was very natural; though if one 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 fullest. 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 come 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.’

“‘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 right 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?’

“‘I don’t know,’ said Mark.

“‘I know what we’re going to have,’ said Tom, ’only I can’t remember everything. It 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, letting go of 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. ‘O 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. ‘I’ve got six, and I guess three’ll do me till dinner. O Mark! you ought to see the goose roasting in our kitchen! I’ll tell you what—I guess I may as well give you the whole six, ’cause I can run home and get some more; and I might as well be home, too, for they might have dinner earlier than they meant to.’

“And 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 tablecloth on; 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 pleasure.

“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 aren’t but five! there aren’t but five!’ said Mark. ‘I 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 hadn’t 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 apples rolled off the window-sill they would certainly fall inside?’

“‘I guess 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. ‘I hadn’t 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.

“O 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 say!” exclaimed Carl, catching hold of Beachamwell’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 grandson. And the other day he picked a whole wagon-load of us and set off to market; and we three were so tired jolting about that we rolled out and lay by the wayside. That’s where your mother found us.”

“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 sitting still by this time, so he went out and ran about on the beach till dinner; and after dinner he went up to his corner again. The sun came in through the little window, look-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 red cent 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 cent 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 red cent 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 red cent,” said Carl, “it is your turn. I’ll hear you before the purse, so make haste.”

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

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