THE LITTLE PULLWINGER’S DREAM.
“You must know, children,” said uncle Joe, “that I have taken great pains to collect dreams. Whenever strange ones or funny ones are told me, I write them down in this ‘dream-book.’ Some of them would make you laugh till the tears ran out of your eyes. It is really curious what singular things do come to us in dreams,—such wonders! such jumbles! such sillinesses! and yet they all seem right enough when we are dreaming them.
“Now, there was little Barnabas Springer, who dreamed he was ploughing with an ox on the sea-shore, (of all places in the world to be ploughing!) and that the ox made a stifled, ‘rumble-grumble’ sound in its throat several times. He dreamed, that, when they reached the end of the furrow, he saw standing there a tall lady, whose head—now mind this—was set on in such a way that her face came over her right shoulder; and that this tall lady spoke to him in a loud voice, like a person scolding,—
“‘Barnabas Springer! that ox was trying to tell you to say “Gee” to him, so that he might “gee,” and not wet his feet.’
“Now, ‘gee’ means ‘turn to the right,’ and the tall lady’s face looked over her right shoulder; and, when Barnabas woke up, he was lying on his right side, with his eyes, nose, and mouth in the pillows: all of which is something to think of.
“Then there was my pet niece Susie dreamed she was her own kitten, trying to catch her own canary-bird, and that she understood every thing the bird said in his flutterings, and just what his feelings were. The poor child cried herself awake, and no wonder.
“But among the strangest of the strange ones in this collection,” said uncle Joe, opening his dream-book, “is that of Jimmy, my little nephew. He dreamed he was a fly, and that he talked with a sorrowful butterfly (which died in the dream), and with a bluebird, and also with a curious being who wore five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. The curious being also wore a cow’s horn, standing in front of his hat; for which reason he was called the ‘Great Head-Horner.’
“He had ten ‘helpers.’ These helpers had each one plume, but no horn. Their plumes stood up straight, in the middle of the crowns of their tall hats. You will hear about them presently; for I have the whole dream written down here, just as Jimmy told it to me, dialogue-fashion.
“It happened in this way: One summer afternoon Jimmy had been doing something naughty (you will find out what it was by and by); and his mother, after talking with him, read to him a story about a boy who had done the same thing, and other things somewhat like it. She also told some true stories of cruel men whom she had known, and read several short pieces of poetry on the same subject.
“Now that I have spoken the word ‘cruel,’ I may as well say that Jimmy had been tormenting insects in ways which it would give me pain to tell, and give you pain to hear, and that the men of whom his mother spoke had been cruel to dumb animals.
“While she was talking, three or four officers in uniform passed by. I mention these things in order that you may the better account for Jimmy’s curious dream.
“Jimmy fell asleep during the reading of the verses, and dreamed of being in a strange place, where he saw close beside him a large golden-spotted butterfly. He dreamed that it was a moaning, sighing, sorrowing butterfly, and—what seemed more strange—that it spoke to him, and called him a fly; and, stranger yet, that he thought, for a time, he was a fly, though he felt like himself all the while. Even this, however, is not so strange as the rest.
“In the dream-dialogue I call Jimmy by his true name, because, as he said, he felt like himself. You will observe that the sorrowful butterfly begins.”
Butterfly.—Speak to him; ask him not to do it, dear, pretty fly!
Jimmy.—You are not talking to me, butterfly, are you?
Butterfly.—Yes, fly, I am talking to you.
Jimmy.—But I am not a fly, butterfly: I am a boy, a Jimmy.
Butterfly.—You are a fly, and this will prove it. Can a boy hear butterfly-talk, and know the meaning of it?
Jimmy.—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could fly.
Butterfly.—So you can fly, fly. Flap, and try!
“He flapped in his dream, flew up, then flew down.”
Jimmy.—But if I were a fly, butterfly, I could crawl on the wall.
Butterfly.—You can. Flap again, fly; fly to the wall, and crawl!
“He flapped in his dream, flew to the wall, and crawled.”
Butterfly.—Now do you believe you are a fly?
Jimmy.—Yes, butterfly: I am a fly, and I am a Jimmy; I am a Jimmy-fly.
Butterfly.—Oh, oh, oh! Help, he comes!
Jimmy.—Who comes?
Butterfly.—The giant. Ask him not to do it, dear, good fly! See, see the sharp rod! I tremble, I quiver!
Jimmy.—What will he do with it, butterfly?
Butterfly.—He will run it through my body. Oh, dear! oh, dear!
Jimmy.—Why don’t you fly away?
Butterfly.—The window is shut. Do, do speak to him!
Jimmy.—A fly cannot talk to a giant.
Butterfly.—But you can buzz to him. A poor butterfly cannot even buzz. See, he comes near!
Jimmy.—That is not a giant: that is only a boy.
Butterfly.—Oh, it is a giant! Won’t you, won’t you, buzz to him?
Jimmy.—What shall I buzz to him?
Butterfly.—Buzz that I want to live; that I long to live.
Jimmy.—What shall I buzz that you want to live for?
Butterfly.—To rock in the lily-bells.
Jimmy.—What else?
Butterfly.—To float up and down, up and down, all the summer-day.
Jimmy.—What else?
Butterfly.—For the honey of the flowers.
Jimmy.—What else?
Butterfly.—And for their fragrance. Flower fragrance is the breath of life to a butterfly. Buzz all this to him. Quick! Ah, too late, too late! Oh, oh, oh!
Jimmy.—Will it take a great while to die?
Butterfly.—A very great while. (Gasps for breath.) Oh, oh, dear! Cruel, cruel, cruel giant!
“The Jimmy-fly flies up to the ‘giant’s’ ear, and tries to buzz ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’
“A great hand strikes him off. He gets lost in the air; and when, after a long time, he finds his way back, the golden-spotted butterfly is almost dead. It takes no notice of any thing around, but murmurs, faintly and more faintly, of ‘clover, bees, honey, perfume, roses, mossy banks, lily-bells, dewdrops, humming-birds,’ and so passes away in a pleasant butterfly vision.
“The Jimmy-fly flies up again, and buzzes in the giant’s ear, as well as he can, ‘Cruel, cruel, cruel!’
“The window is opened, and he is driven out. He flies to a tree near by, where sits a bluebird. The bird appears frightened, and-utters cries of distress.”
Jimmy.—Bluebird, what troubles you so?
Bluebird.—There’s a gun below. It will kill me! Oh, if I could only live!
Jimmy.—It is strange. The butterfly wished the very same thing. Now, what do you want to live for, bluebird?
Bluebird.—Why, to sing with the other birds, and to swing on the boughs; to take care of my little birdies, and to spread my wings, and fly away and away over the treetops; also to go South with the summer. Oh, but we birds have rare sport then! Have you heard of the sunny South? Do you know that we go where the orange-trees bloom? We find no frost there, but sunshine always, and flowers, and a mild air. And then the fun of going all together! We sing, we fly races in the sky, we follow the leader. Ah! a bird’s life is a happy life, and—
“A gun has been fired.
“The Jimmy-fly flies down, and finds the bird on the ground, gasping for breath. Its bright eyes are closed. Its head fails on its breast. One little flutter of the wings,—dead! The bluebird will never sing again, nor swing on the boughs, nor fly away and away over the treetops, nor go South with the summer.
“And here enters into the dream the curious being spoken of just now, namely, the ‘Great Head-Horner,’ or captain, with his five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. Behind him, in single file, all keeping step, march his ten helpers.”
Captain (in a loud voice).—Halt! Here is the boy.—Boy, step this way!
Jimmy.—I am not—a boy. I am—a—a—fly.
Captain.—Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.
“It passes along the line, each helper saying to the next,—
“‘Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.’”
Captain.—If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?
“All repeat this, one after the other, ‘If he is a fly, why doesn’t he fly?’ till the noise of so many voices sounds like the bumbling of hoarse bumble-bees.
“Jimmy flaps his arms, but cannot rise.
“A laugh passes along the line.”
Captain.—Which are you now,—fly, or boy?
Jimmy.—I think—I am—a boy.
Captain.—He thinks he is a boy: we think he is a pullwinger-boy. Wheel about, my helpers.—Boy, these are my first company of helpers.—Wheel about, my helpers; form a hollow square around the boy; take him to the great “Bondenquol;” let him see what is being done there!
“Jimmy is now taken to the great ‘Bondenquol.’”
Captain.—First company of helpers, begin your work: bring in the abusers of dumb animals. (The ten helpers march out.)
Captain.—Helper No. 1, enter!
“Enter helper No. 1, driving before him a red-faced man who is harnessed to a wagon in which is a load too heavy for him to draw. Wagon moves slowly: man pulls with all his might. Helper No. 1 strikes him with a whip: man cries out, tries to move faster, but cannot. Another blow: he groans, quivers, bends himself nearly double.
“Meantime other helpers have come in at other doors, each driving a man who is trying to draw a load heavy beyond his strength. The helpers use their whips. The men suffer pain: some of them are lame; some blind; some are half starved, and so weak that their joints tremble. The great ‘Bondenquol’ resounds with shrieks and groans.”
Jimmy (to the captain).—What are they hurting those men for?
Captain.—To let them know how whip-blows feel. Those are the cruel: they abuse dumb animals. Do you know, that, were horses not dumb, whoever passes along the street would hear shrieks and groans worse than those you are now hearing? But come. You are waited for.—Boy-punishers, roll the wall.
“The heavy wall moves along on rollers. The noise of this, together with fright at the prospect of being punished, woke Jimmy from his sleep. A wagon loaded heavily with coal was passing the house. It was this which waked him. It came to a steep place in the road. The horses could scarcely move. The driver swore at them. He took his whip, and laid on the blows,—terribly hard blows!
“Jimmy ran out.
“‘Oh, don’t, Mr. Driver!’ he cried. ‘Please stop whipping the poor horses! You don’t know how it hurts!’
“The driver could hardly tell what to make of it to be spoken to in that way, and by a boy.
“‘And do you know?’ he asked.
“‘Yes, yes!’ cried Jimmy. ‘I dreamed all about it.’
“The driver seemed more puzzled than ever. He stood still, looked down at Jimmy; and at last said he,—
“‘Well, to please you, I’ll stop.”
THE BARREL-MAN LOOKING AT HIS POSSESSIONS.—FROM A SKETCH BY THE BARREL-MAN HIMSELF.