THE TRAINED HAGENBECKS.
Matinee To-Day.
Admission:
| Grown Animals | 50 cents. |
| Cubs, Puppies, etc. | 4 dollars. |
Jimmieboy laughed. "That's funny. They charge less for grown animals than they do for baby animals."
"Not so funny as your plan, mister," said a gruff voice at Jimmieboy's side, very respectfully however.
Jimmieboy looked around to see who it was that spoke and was a little startled at first to see that it was a fine specimen of a tiger that had addressed him.
"Don't shrink," said the tiger, seeing that the little boy was somewhat frightened. "I won't hurt you. I'm wild, but I'm kind. Let me show you my smile—you'll see what a big smile it is, and some day you'll learn that an animal with a fine open countenance like mine is when I smile can't be a bad animal. But to come back to what you think is a funny scheme. We charge more for cubs than for grown animals because they are more trouble. We talked it all over when we started the show and we found that there was ten times as much mischief in a cub or a puppy as there is in a grown up bear or dog, so we charged more; only as we don't mind a little mischief we make the babies pay only eight times as much as the others. It's simple and very natural, I think."
"That's true," said Jimmieboy. "It isn't so odd after all."
And then they went inside, where Jimmieboy was received by the mayor, a very handsome lion, and his wife the lioness. All the other animals cheered and the little boy soon came to feel that he was surrounded by friends; strange friends perhaps, but faithful ones. He sat in the front of the mayor's box and watched the cage-enclosed ring in which the Hagenbecks were to perform. A monkey band played several popular tunes in the gallery, after which the performance began.
First a baboon came out and announced a performance by six trained clowns, who he said would crack jokes and turn somersaults and make funny grimaces just as they did in their native lair. The monkey band struck up a tune and in ran the clowns. To Jimmieboy's eyes they were merely plain everyday circus clowns, but the way the baboon made them prance around was wonderful. One of the clowns was a trifle sulky and didn't want to crack his joke, but the baboon kept flicking him with the end of his whip until finally he did crack it, although he might better not have done so for he did it so badly that he spoiled it.
After this a pelican walked out and announced with a proud air that he would now exhibit his flock of trained dudes, who would dance and sing, and wear beautiful clothes and put the heads of their canes in their mouths as intelligently as though they were pelicans and not dudes. Jimmieboy was delighted with them, for after all he was quite like other boys and was accustomed to lavish a great deal of admiration upon such things as chewing gum and dudes. The most interesting feature of the dude exhibition was their chrysanthemum drill. It must have taken the pelican a long time to teach those dudes to pick up their chrysanthemums and place them in their little button-holes with such military precision as they displayed. Everybody applauded this wildly and a great roar of laughter greeted the dudes' acknowledgment of the applause, for the magnificent way in which they took off their silk hats and bowed was truly droll.
"It's hard to believe they are merely human!" said the tiger to Jimmieboy. "Their intelligence is more that of the pelican than of the human kind."
"With a slight mixture of the monkey mind I should say, too," said the elephant. "I'm told these dudes are very imitative."
"The Jumping Billikins!" cried the manager of the exhibition.
"What on earth is a Jumping Billikins?" asked Jimmieboy, who had never heard of an animal of that kind before.
"Wait and see," said the tiger, with a laugh. "Most people call him a nerve centre, but you wouldn't understand that, so I say wait and see."
As Jimmieboy could do nothing else he waited and in a minute the jumping Billikins appeared, followed by six men. The jumping Billikins was nothing more than a pretty little boy, about five years of age, and what he did chiefly was to jump. The six men would put sofas about the ring and the jumping Billikins would jump from one to the other as easily as though he were a real chamois-skin goat. Then he gave a remarkable exhibition of his hopping powers. He hopped up and down on one leg for twenty-eight minutes, much to the wonderment of the elephant, who strong as he was couldn't hop on one leg at all.
"Now watch the men," whispered the tiger. "The jumping Billikins is going to have a romping match with them, and you'd hardly believe it but he'll have them worn out in less than five minutes and yet he'll be as fresh as a rose when he gets through."
Jimmieboy watched, and such a romp as followed he never had seen before. The jumping Billikins was everywhere all the time. One second he'd be riding pickaback on one man, the next you'd find him sitting on another man's head trying to put his feet into the vest pockets of the third and fourth men, while with his hands he'd be playing tag with the others. There was no describing that romp, but as the tiger had said, before five minutes the men were exhausted and the jumping Billikins, fresh as ever, was bowing his thanks to the audience for their applause. Then he walked proudly from the ring and the worn-out men were carried off by the baboon's assistants.
The next thing on the programme was a talking contest between a parrot and a chatterbox, but this Jimmieboy never saw, for a sudden shriek from the engine waiting with the train at the station for his return called him away. The animals expressed their regret at his early departure and requested him to come again sometime, which the little fellow promised to do.
"I doan tink yo'll go again, mistah," said the porter, with a smile, as the train drew away from the station.
"Why not?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Because——" said the porter. "Be-cause——"
And then, strange to say, he faded out of sight and Jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes, was astonished to find that he wasn't on a railway train at all but in his papa's lap, where he had been all along.
[AN ELECTRICAL ERROR]
AN ELECTRICAL ERROR
Jimmieboy's father and mother had occasion to go to the city for a couple of days recently, and inasmuch as Jimmieboy is such a very movey young person they did not deem it well to leave him at home in the care of the nurse, who had as much as she could do taking care of his brothers, and so they took him along with them. One evening, having to go out to dinner, they invited a young man in Jimmieboy's father's employ to come up to the hotel and stay about and keep the little fellow amused until his bedtime, and to look out for him as well after that time until their return, which Fred was very willing to do since he received $2 reward for his trouble. He said afterward that he earned the two dollars in the first ten minutes playing Waterloo with Jimmieboy, in which pleasing game Jimmieboy was Wellington and Fred was Napoleon, but once a year he didn't mind earning a dollar or two extra in that way.
After the game of Waterloo was over and the Napoleonic Fred had managed to collect the buttons which had been removed from his vest in the first half of the game, the Wellingtonian Jimmieboy decided that he was tired enough to go to bed, and inasmuch as Fred didn't oppose him very hard, to bed he went, and a half hour later both the boys, young and old, were snoring away as though their lives depended on it. It was quite evident that neither of them was as yet sufficiently strong to stand the game of Waterloo for more than an hour—and I don't really wonder at it, for my own experience has led me to believe that even Bonaparte and Wellington themselves would have been wearied beyond endurance by an hour's play at that diversion, however well they may have stood up under the anxieties of the original battle. In my first game with Jimmieboy I lost five pounds, eight buttons, a necktie, two handfuls of hair and a portion of my temper. So, as I say, I do not wonder that they were exhausted by their efforts and willing to rest after them, though how either of them could sleep with the other snoring as loud as a factory whistle I could never understand.
Fred must have been unusually weary, for, as you will see, he slept more than Jimmieboy did—in fact, it wasn't later than nine o'clock when the latter waked up.
"Say, Fred," he cried.
Fred answered with a deeper snore than ever.
"Fred!" cried Jimmieboy again. "I want a drink of water."
"Puggrrh," snored Fred.
"Stop your growling and ring the telephone for some ice water," said Jimmieboy, and again Fred answered with a snore, and in his sleep muttered something that sounded like "It'll cost you $10 next time," the meaning of which Jimmieboy didn't understand, but which I think had some reference to what it would cost his father to secure Fred as a companion for Jimmieboy on another occasion.
"Guess I'll have to ring it up myself," said Jimmieboy, and with that he jumped out of bed and rushed to that delightful machine which is now to be found in most of the modern hotels, by means of which you can ring up anything you may happen to want, by turning a needle about on a dial until it points to the printed description of the thing you desire and pushing a red button.
"Wonder how they spell ice water," said Jimmieboy. "E-y-e spells I, and s-e spells sss-e-y-e-s-e, ice." But he looked in vain for any such thing on the dial.
"O, well," he said, after searching and searching, "I'll ring up anything, and when the boy comes with it I'll order the ice water."
So he gave the needle an airy twist, pushed the button, and sat down to wait for the boy. Meanwhile he threw a pillow at Fred, who still lay snoring away on the sofa, only now he was puffing like a freight train engine when its wheels slip on an icy railway track.
"Lazybones," snickered Jimmieboy, as the pillow landed on Fred's curly head. But Fred answered never a word, which so exasperated Jimmieboy that he got up with the intention of throwing himself at his sleeping companion, when he heard a queer noise over by the fireplace.
"Hullo, down there, 521. Is that you?" cried somebody.
Jimmieboy stared at the chimney in blank amazement.
"Hurry up below there, 521. Is that you?" came the voice again.
"This room is 521," replied Jimmieboy, realizing all of a sudden that it was no doubt to him that these words were addressed.
"Well, then, look sharp, will you? Turn off the fire—put it out—do something with it. You can't expect me to come down there with the fire burning, can you? I'm not fireproof, you know," returned the voice.
"There isn't any fire here," said Jimmieboy.
"Nonsense," cried the voice. "What's that roaring I hear?"
"Oh—that," Jimmieboy answered. "That's Fred. He's snoring."
"Ah! Then I will come down," came the voice, and in an instant there was a small fall of soot, a rustling in the chimney, and a round-faced, fat-stomached, white-bearded little old gentleman with a twinkling eye, appeared, falling like a football into the grate and bounding like a tennis ball out into the middle of the floor.
"Santa Claus, at your service," he said, bowing low to Jimmieboy.
The boy looked at him breathless with astonishment for a moment.
"Well—well——" put in the old man impatiently. "What is it you want with me? I'm very busy, so pray don't detain me. Is it one of my new Conversational Brownies you are after? If so, say so. Fine things, these Conversational Brownies."
"I never heard of 'em," said Jimmieboy.
"Coz why?" laughed Santa Claus, twirling airily about on the toes of his left foot. "Coz why? Bee-coz there ain't never been any for you to hear about. I invented 'em all by myself. You have Brownies in books that don't move. Good. I like 'em, you like 'em, we all like 'em. You have Brownies out of books. Better—but they can't talk and all bee-coz they're stuffed with cotton. It isn't their fault. It's the cotton's fault. Take a man and stuff him with cotton and he wouldn't be able to say a word, but stuff him with wit and anecdotes and he'll talk. Wherefore I have invented a Conversational Brownie. He's made of calico, but he's stuffed with remarks, and he has a little metal hole in his mouth, and when you squeeze him remarks oozes out between his lips and there you are. Eh? Fine?"
"Bully," said Jimmieboy.
"Was that what you rang for? Quick, hurry up, I haven't any time to waste at this season of the year."
"Well, no," Jimmieboy answered. "Not having ever heard of 'em, of course."
"Oh, then you wanted one of my live wood doll babies," said Santa Claus. "Of course. They're rather better than the Conversational Brownies, perhaps, I guess; I don't know. Still, they last longer, as long as you water 'em. Was it one of those you wanted?"
"What is a live wood doll baby?" asked Jimmieboy.
"One o' my newest new, new things," replied Santa Claus. "'Stead o' making wooden dolls out of dead wood, I makes 'em out o' live wood. Keep some o' the roots alive, make your doll, plant it proper, water it, and it'll grow just like a man. My live oak dolls that I'm making this year, a hundred years from now will be great giants."
"Splendid idea," said Jimmieboy. "But how about the leaves. Don't they sprout out and hide the doll?"
"Of course they do, if you don't see that they're pulled off," retorted Santa Claus. "You don't expect me to give you toys and look after 'em all at the same time, do you?"
"No," said Jimmieboy.
"Well, it's good you don't," said Santa Claus, turning a somersault backward. "It's werry good you don't, for should you had have you'd have been disappointed. But, I say, was that what you wanted, or were you after one of my new patent typewriters that you wind up? Don't keep me waiting all night——"
"I never heard of your new patent typewriters that you wind up," Jimmieboy answered.
"That isn't the question," interrupted Santa Claus nervously, "though I suppose it's the answer, for if you had heard of my windable writer it would have been the thing you wanted. It's a grand invention, that machine. You take a key, wind the thing up, having first loaded it with paper, and what do you suppose it does?"
"Writes?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Exactly," replied Santa Claus. "It writes stories and poems and jokes. There are five keys goes with each machine—one poetry key, one joke key, one fairy tale key, a story of adventure key, and a solemn Sunday school story key that writes morals and makes you wonder whether you're as good as you ought to be."
"Well," said Jimmieboy, "now that I know about that, that's what I want, though as a matter of fact I rang you up for a glass of ice water."
"What!" cried Santa Claus, indignantly, bounding about the room like a tennis ball again. "Me? Do you mean to say you've summoned me away from my work at this season of the year just to bring you a glass of ice water?"
"I—I didn't mean for you to bring it," said Jimmieboy, meekly. "I—I must have made a mistake——"
"It's outrageous," said Santa Claus, stamping his foot, "You hadn't oughter make mistakes. I won't bring you anything on Christmas—no, not a thing. You——"
A knock at the door interrupted the little old man, and Jimmieboy, on going to see who was there, discovered the hall boy with the pitcher of water.
"What's that?" asked Santa, as Jimmieboy returned.
"It's the water," replied the little fellow. "So I couldn't have made a mistake after all."
"Hum!" said Santa, stroking his beard slowly and thoughtfully. "I guess—I guess the wires must be crossed—so it wasn't your fault—and I will bring you something, but the man who ought to have looked after those wires and didn't won't find anything in his stocking but a big hole in the toe on Christmas."
The old fellow then shook hands good-by with the boy, and walked to the chimney.
"Let's see—what shall I bring you?" he asked, pausing.
"The windable writer," said Jimmieboy.
"All right," returned Santa, starting up the chimney. "You can have one if I get it finished in time, but I am afraid this annoying delay will compel me to put off the distribution of those machines until some other year."
And with that he was gone.
Meanwhile Jimmieboy is anxiously waiting for Christmas to see if it will bring him the windable writer. I don't myself believe that it will, for the last I heard Santa had not returned to his workshop, but whether he got stuck in the hotel chimney or not nobody seems to know.
[IN THE BROWNIES' HOUSE]
IN THE BROWNIES' HOUSE
Jimmieboy, like every other right-minded youth, was a great admirer of the Brownies. They never paid any attention to him, but went about their business in the books as solemnly as ever no matter what jokes he might crack at their expense. Nor did it seem to make any difference to them how much noise was being made in the nursery, they swam, threw snow-balls, climbed trees, floated over Niagara, and built houses as unconcernedly as ever. Nevertheless Jimmieboy liked them. He didn't need to have any attention paid to him by the little folk in pictures. He didn't expect it, and so it made no difference to him whatever whether they noticed him or not.
The other day, however, just before the Christmas vacation had come to an end Jimmieboy had a very queer experience with his little picture book acquaintances. He was feeling a trifle lonesome. His brothers had gone to a party which was given by one of the neighbors for the babies, and Jimmieboy at the last moment had decided that he would not go. He wasn't a baby any more, but a small man. He had pockets in his trousers and wore suspenders exactly like his father's, only smaller, and of course a proper regard for his own dignity would not permit him to take part in a mere baby party.
"I'll spend my afternoon reading," he said in a lordly way. "I don't feel like playing 'Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush' now that I wear suspenders."
So he went down into his father's library where his mother had put a book-case for him, on the shelves of which he kept his treasured books. They were the most beautiful fairy books you ever saw; Brownie books and true story books by the dozen; books of funny poetry illustrated by still funnier pictures, and, what I fancy he liked best of all, a half dozen or more big blank books that his father had given him, in which Jimmieboy wrote poems of his own in great capital letters, some of which stood on their heads and others on their sides, but all of which anybody who could read at all could make out at the rate of one letter every ten minutes. I never read much of Jimmieboy's poetry myself and so cannot say how good it was, but his father told me that the boy never had the slightest difficulty in making Massachusetts rhyme with Potato, or Jacksonville with Lemonade, so that I presume they were remarkable in their way.
Arrived in the library Jimmieboy seated himself before his book-case, and after gloating over his possessions for a few moments, selected one of the Brownie books, curled himself up in a comfortable armchair before the fire, and opened the book.
"Why!" he cried as his eye fell upon one of the picture pages. "That's funny. I never saw that picture before. There isn't a Brownie in it; nothing but an empty house and a yard in front of it. Where can the Brownies have gone?"
He hadn't long to wait for an answer. He had hardly spoken when the little door of the house opened and the Dude Brownie poked his head out and said softly:
"'Tis not an empty house, my dear.
The Brownies all have come in here.
We've played so long to make you smile
We thought we'd like to rest awhile.
We're every one of us in bed
With night-caps on each little head,
And if you'll list you'll hear the roar
With which the sleeping Brownies snore."
Jimmieboy raised the book to his ear and listened, and sure enough, there came a most extraordinary noise out of the windows of the house. It sounded like a carpenter at work with a saw in a menagerie full of roaring lions.
"Well, that is funny," said Jimmieboy as he listened. "I never knew before that Brownies ever got tired. I thought they simply played and played and played all the time."
The Dude Brownie laughed.
"Now there, my boy, is where you make
A really elegant mistake,"
he said, and then he added,
"If you will open wide the book
We'll let you come inside and look.
No other boy has e'er done that.
Come in and never mind your hat."
"I wouldn't wear my hat in the house anyhow," said Jimmieboy. "But I say, Mr. Brownie, I don't see how I can get in there. I'm too big."
"Your statement makes me fancy that
You really don't know where you're at;
For, though you're big and tall and wide,
Already, sir, you've come inside,"
replied the Dude Brownie, and Jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn't believe it, looked about him and discovered that even as the Dude Brownie had said, he had without knowing it already accepted the invitation and stood in the hall of the Brownie mansion. And O! such a mansion! It was just such a house as you would expect Brownies to have. There were no stairs in it, though it was three stories high. On the walls were all sorts of funny pictures, pictures of the most remarkable animals in the world or out of it, in fact most of the pictures were of animals that Jimmieboy had never heard of before, or even imagined. There was the Brownie Elephant, for instance, the cunningest little animal you ever saw, with forty pairs of spectacles running all the way down its trunk; and a Brownie Pug-dog with its tail curled so tightly that it lifted the little creature's hind legs off the floor; and most interesting of all, a Brownie Bear that could take its fur off in hot weather and put on a light flannel robe instead. Jimmieboy gazed with eyes and mouth wide open at these pictures.
"What queer animals," he said. "Do you really have such animals as those?"
"Excuse me," said the Dude Brownie anxiously, "but before I answer, must I answer in poetry or in prose? I'll do whichever you wish me to, but I'm a little tired this afternoon, and poetry is such an effort!"
"I'm very fond of poetry," said Jimmieboy, "especially your kind, but if you are tired and would rather speak the other way, you can."
The Dude Brownie smiled gratefully.
"You're a very kind little man," he said. "This time I'll talk the other way, but some day when I get it written I'll send you my book of poetry to make up for it. You like our animals, do you?"
"Very much," said Jimmieboy. "I'd like to see a Brownie zoo some time."
"I'll attend to that," said the Dude Brownie. "I'll make a note of it on the wall so that we won't forget it."
Here he seized a huge pencil, almost as big as himself, and wrote something on the wall which Jimmieboy could not read, but which he supposed was the Brownie's memorandum.
"Won't you spoil your wall doing that?" queried the little visitor.
"Oh no," said the Brownie. "All these walls are made of slate and we use 'em to write on. It saves littering the house all up with paper, and every Tuesday we have a house-cleaning bee and rub all the writing off. It's a very good scheme and I wonder your grown-up people don't have it, particularly in your nurseries. I've noticed children writing things on nursery walls lots of times and then they've been scolded for doing it because their nurses said it spoiled the paper. I can't understand why they don't have slate walls instead that can't be spoiled. It's such a temptation to write on a wall, but it does spoil paper. But to come back to our animals, they're really lovely, and have such wonderfully sweet dispositions. There is the Brownie Elephant, for instance—he's the most light hearted creature you ever saw, and he has holes bored through his trunk like a flute and at night he plays the most beautiful music on it, while we Brownies sit around and listen to him."
"What does he wear so many pairs of spectacles for?" asked Jimmieboy.
"He has weak eyes," said the Brownie. "That is, he has at night. He can't see his notes to play tunes by when it is dark, and so we've provided him with those spectacles to help him out. Then the Bear is very self-sacrificing. If anyone of us wants to go out anywhere in the cold he'll let us have his robe just for the asking. The Pug-dog isn't much use but he's playful and intelligent. If you tell him to go to the post-office for your mail he'll rush out of the front door, down the road to the grocer's and bring you back an apple or an orange, because he always knows that there isn't any mail. One of your hired men wouldn't know that, but would waste his time going to the post-office to find it out if you told him to."
Jimmieboy expressed his admiration of the intelligence of the Brownie Dog and the good nature of the other animals, and then asked if he mightn't go upstairs he was so curious to see the rest of the house.
"Certainly," said the Dude Brownie, "only you'll have to slide up the banisters. We haven't any stairs."
"Don't think I know how," said Jimmieboy. "I can slide down banisters, but I never learned to slide up 'em."
"You don't have to learn it," returned the Brownie. "All you have to do is to get aboard and slide. It's a poor banister that won't work both ways. The trouble with your banisters is that they are poor ones. Climb aboard and let yourself go."
The boy did as he was told, and pop! the first thing he knew he was in the midst of the Brownies on the second floor. Much to his surprise, while they were unquestionably snoring, they were all reading, or writing, or engaged in some other occupation.
"Well this beats everything!" said Jimmieboy. "I thought you said they were asleep?"
"They are," said the Dude Brownie. "So am I, for that matter, but we don't waste our time just because we happen to be asleep. Some of us do our best work while we are resting. The Chinese Brownie washes all our clothes while he's asleep, and the Dutch Brownie does his practising on his cornet at the same time. If people like you did the same thing you'd get twice as much work done. It's all very well and very necessary too to get eight hours of sleep every day, but what's the use of wasting that time? Take your sleep, but don't loaf while you're taking it. When I was only a boy Brownie I used to play all day and go to school after I'd gone to bed. In that way I learned a great deal and never got tired of school. You don't get tired while you are asleep."
"It's a wonderful plan," said Jimmieboy, "and I wish I knew how to work it. I'm not very fond of school myself and I'd a great deal rather play than go there in the daytime. Can't you tell me how it's done so that I can tell my papa all about it? Maybe he'd let me do it that way if I asked him."
"Of course I'll tell you," said the Dude Brownie. "It's just this way. You go to bed, pull the covers up over you, shut your eyes, fall asleep, and then—"
Alas! The sentence was never finished, for as the Brownie spoke a gong in the hallway below began to clang fearfully, and in an instant the whole Brownie troupe sprang to the banisters, slid down into the hall and rushed out into the yard. Their play time had come, and their manager had summoned them back to it. Jimmieboy followed, but he slid so fast that it made him dizzy. He thought he would never stop. Down the banisters he slid, out through the hall to the yard, over the heads of the Brownies he whizzed and landed with a thud in the soft embrace of the armchair once more, and just in time too, for hardly had he realized where he was when in walked his father and mother, and following in their train were his two baby brothers, their mouths and hands full of sweetmeats.
"Hullo," said Jimmieboy's father. "Where have you been, Jimmieboy?"
"In the Brown——" began the boy, but he stopped short. It seemed to him as if the Dude Brownie in the book tipped him a wink to be silent, and he returned the wink.
"I've been here, looking at my Brownie book," he said.
"Indeed?" said his father. "And do you never get tired of it?"
"No," said Jimmieboy quietly, "it seems to me I see something new in it every time I open it," and then in spite of the Brownie's wink he climbed out of the chair into his papa's lap and told him all that occurred, and his papa said it was truly wonderful, especially that part which told about how much could be done by an intelligent creature when fast asleep.
[JIMMIEBOY—and SOMETHING]
JIMMIEBOY—and SOMETHING
It was a warm, summer afternoon—just the sort of an afternoon for a drowse, and when the weather was just right for it Jimmieboy was a great drowser. In fact, a little golden-haired fairy with a silver wand had just whispered to a butterfly that when it came to drowsing in an interesting way there was nobody in the world who could excel Jimmieboy in that accomplishment. Jimmieboy had overheard this much himself, but he had never told anybody about it, because he found drowsing so very easy, and the pleasures of it so great, that he was a little afraid somebody else might try it and make him divide up his fun with him. It was somewhat selfish of him to behave this way, perhaps, but then no one ever pretended that Jimmieboy was absolutely perfect, not even the boy himself.
It so happened, that upon this particular afternoon, Jimmieboy was swinging idly in the hammock under the trees. On one side of him babbled a little mountain stream, while on the other lay a garden full of beautiful flowers, where the bees hummed the whole day through, and whence when day was done and the night shadows were coming over all even the sun's rays seemed sorry to go. In the house, a hundred feet away, Jimmieboy's mamma was playing softly on a zithern, and the music, floating out through the flower-scented air, set the boy to thinking, which with him is always the preliminary to a doze. His right eye struggled hard to keep awake, long after the left eye had given up the fight, and it was due possibly to this that Jimmieboy was wide enough awake at the time to hear a quaint little voice up in the tree calling to the tiger lilies over near the house.
"Say, Tige," the little voice cried, "what time is it?"
"I can't see the clock," returned the lily. "But," it added, dropping into verse:
"I judge from sundry tinkles
Of the bell upon the cow
That if it isn't later,
It is pretty nearly now."
"Thank you," said the voice up the tree, "I was afraid I'd miss my train."
"So! You are going away?" said another voice, which, if his ears did not deceive Jimmieboy, came this time from the rose bush.
"Yes," said the voice up in the tree. "Yes, I'm going away. I don't know where exactly, because I haven't bought my ticket yet. I may be going to the North Pole, or I may only be coming here. In fact, if my ticket turns out to be a return ticket, it will amount to that, which makes me wonder what's the use of going any way."
"But when does your train go?" asked the voice in the rose bush.
"A week from next Thursday," said the tree voice. "I didn't know but that it was then now. You see I always get mixed up as to what time it is or what day it is. This isn't a date tree, and I haven't any calendar."
"I guess you've got plenty of time," chuckled the tiger lily, nodding its head gleefully at the holly-hock. "It won't be a week from next Thursday for several days yet."
"Heigho," sighed the voice up in the tree. "Several days to wait, eh? I'm sure I don't know what I shall do to pass the time away."
"Oh, as for that," observed the holly-hock; "I know an easy scheme for passing time. I learned it from a fairy I met once.
"'Sit still and never raise your hands,'
Advised the little elf,
'Pay no attention to the clock,
And time will pass itself.'
"You have nothing to do with it doing it that way," the holly-hock added.
"That's a good idea," said the voice up in the tree. "It's queer I never thought of it, and I've been thinking and thinking ever so many years, trying to get up a scheme to pass the time."
"You're not very deep, I'm afraid," said the rose bush. "You can't think very valuable thoughts, can you?"
"I'm sure I don't know," the voice up the tree replied. "I've never tried to sell them, so of course I can't tell whether they are valuable or not. Do you sell what you think?"
"Certainly I do," returned the rose bush. "I suggested the idea of making honey to the bees. Wasn't that a great thing to do?"
"Yes, indeed," returned the voice. "It was splendid. I've never had any honey, but I'm told it's fine. It's very sticky, isn't it?"
"Very," said the rose bush. "I guess honey is about as sticky as anything can be."
"And very useful for that reason," said the voice up in the tree, kindly. "Very useful. I suppose, really, if it wasn't for honey, people couldn't make postage stamps stay on letters. You ought to be very happy to think that one of your thoughts has given people the idea of mucilage. Do they ever use honey for anything else but its stickiness?"
"Hoh!" jeered the rose bush. "Don't you know anything?"
"Not much," said the tree voice. "I know you, and me, and several other things, but that's not much, is it? It's really queer how little I know. Why, would you believe it, a sparrow asked me the other day what was the difference between a robin's egg and a red blackberry, and I didn't know."
"What did you tell him?" asked the holly-hock.
"I told him I couldn't tell until I had eaten them."
"And what did he say?" put in the tiger lily, with a grin.
"He said that wasn't the answer; that one was blue and the other was green, but how a red blackberry can be green I can't see," replied the voice up in the tree.
Jimmieboy smiled quietly at this, and the voice up the tree continued:
"Then he asked me what color blueberries were, and I told him they were blue; then he said he'd bet a mosquito I couldn't tell him what color huckleberries were, and when I said they were of a delicate huckle he laughed, and said I owed him a mosquito. I may owe him a mosquito, but I haven't an idea what he was laughing at."
"That's easy," said the holly-hock. "He was laughing because there isn't any such color as huckle."
"I don't think that's funny, though," said the voice in the tree. "Indeed, I think it's sad, because it seems to me that a very pretty color could be made out of huckle. Why do you suppose there isn't any such color?"
The lily and the rose and holly-hock bushes were silent for a moment, and then they said they didn't know.
"I'm glad you don't," said the tree voice. "I'm glad to find that there are some things you don't know. Just think how dreadful it would be if you knew everything. Why, if you knew everything, nobody could tell you anything, and then there'd never be any news in the world, and when you heard a joke you couldn't ever laugh because you'd have known it before."
Here Jimmieboy, impressed by the real good sense of this remark, leaned out of the hammock and peered up into the tree to see if possible who or what it was that was speaking.
"Don't," cried the voice. "Don't try to see me, Jimmieboy, I haven't got my company clothes on, and you make me nervous."
"But I want to see who you are," said Jimmieboy.
"Well you needn't want that any more," said the voice. "I'll tell you why. Nobody knows what I am. I don't even know myself."
"But what do you look like?" asked Jimmieboy.
"I don't know that, either. I never saw myself," replied the voice. "I'm something, of course, but just what I don't know. It may be that I am a horse and wagon, only I don't think I am, because horses, and wagons don't get up in trees. I saw a horse sitting on a whiffletree once, but that was down on the ground and not up here, so, of course, you see the chances are that I'm not that."
"What do you think you are?" asked Jimmieboy.
"I haven't thought much about it. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll tell you what, perhaps, I am, and maybe that will help you to find out, and if you do find out I beg that you will tell me, because I've some curiosity on the subject myself."
"Go ahead," said Jimmieboy. "You give me the perhapses and I'll try to guess."
"Well," began the voice, slowly, as if, whatever it was, the thing was trying to think. Let me see.
"Perhaps I am a house and lot,
Perhaps I am a pussy cat,
Perhaps I am a schooner yacht,
Or possibly an inky spot,
Perhaps a beaver hat."
"I've never seen any of those up a tree," said Jimmieboy. "I guess you aren't any of those."
"Very likely not," said the voice, "but I can try a few more.
"Perhaps I am a picture book,
It maybe I'm a candy box,
Perhaps I am a trolling-hook,
A tennis bat, or fancy cook,
Perhaps a pair of socks.
"Perchance I am a pair of shears,
Perhaps a piece of kindling-wood,
Perhaps I am a herd of deers,
Perhaps two crystal chandeliers,
Or some old lady's hood.
"No man can say I'm not a pad
On which a poet scribbles verse,
It may be I'm a nice fresh shad,
Or something else not quite as bad,
Or maybe something worse."
"But none of these things ever go up trees," protested Jimmieboy. "Can't you tell me some of the things that perhaps you are that are found up in trees?"
"No," said the voice, sadly. "I can't. I don't know what kind of things go up trees—unless it's pollywogs or Noah's arks."
"They don't go up trees," said Jimmieboy, scornfully.
"Well I was afraid they didn't, and that's why I didn't mention them before. But you see," the voice added with a mournful little tremor, "you see how useless it is to try to guess what I am. Why, if you really guessed, I wouldn't know if you'd guessed right—so what's the use?"
"I guess there isn't any use," said Jimmieboy. "If I could only see you once, though, maybe I could tell."
Here he leaned far out of the hammock, in a vain effort to see the creature he was talking to. He leaned so far out, in fact, that he lost his balance and fell head over heels on to the soft green turf.
The mountain brook seemed to laugh at this mishap, and went babbling on to the great river that bore its waters to the sea, while Jimmieboy, somewhat dazed by his afternoon's experience, walked wonderingly back to the house to make ready for supper. He was filled with regret that he had not been able to catch a glimpse of the strange little being in the tree, for he very much wished to know what manner of creature it was, so stupid and yet so kindly—as, indeed, would I, for really I haven't any more idea as to who or what it was than he. What do you think it was?
[JIMMIEBOY'S FIREWORKS]
JIMMIEBOY'S FIREWORKS
It was a very great misfortune indeed that Jimmieboy should make the acquaintance of the bumblebee at that particular time—that is to say, everybody thought it was. The bumblebee, as a rule, was one of the jolliest bees in the hive, and passed most of his days humming away as if he were the happiest of mortals; but at the particular moment when Jimmieboy, who wasn't looking where he was going, ran into him, the bee was mad about something, and he settled down on Jimmieboy's cheek and stung him. He was a very thorough bee, too, unhappily, and he never did anything by halves, which is why it was that the sting was about as bad a one and as painful as any bee ever stang. I use the word "stang" here to please Jimmieboy, by the way. It is one of his favorites in describing the incident.
Now, it is bad enough, I have found, to be stung by a bee at any time, but when it happens on the night of July Fourth, and is so painful that the person stung has to go to bed with a poultice over his cheek and eye, and so cannot see the fireworks he has been looking forward to for weeks and weeks, it is about the worst affliction that a small boy can have overtake him—at least it seems so at the time—and that was exactly poor Jimmieboy's case. He had thought and thought and thought about those fireworks for days and days and days, and here, on Fourth of July night, he found himself lying in bed in his room, with one side of his face covered with a bandage, and his poor little other blue eye gazing at the ceiling, while his ears listened to the sizzling of the rockets and pin wheels and the thunderous booming of the bombs.
"Mean old bee!" he said, drowsily, as his other blue eye tried to peer out of the window in the hope of seeing at least one rocket burst into stars. "I didn't mean to upset him."
"I know you didn't," sobbed a little voice at his side. "And I didn't mean to sting you, only I didn't know it was you, and I was mad because somebody's picked a rose I'd had my eye on for a week, and you ran into me and spilled all the honey I'd gug—gathered, and then I—I was so irritated I stuck my stingers out and stang you. Can't you forgive me?"
Jimmieboy withdrew his other blue eye from the window in wonderment. He was used to queer things, but this seemed the queerest yet. The idea of a bumblebee coming to apologize to a boy for stinging him made him smile in spite of his disappointment and his pain.
"Who are you?" he said, looking toward the foot of the bed, whence the voice had come.
"I used to be a bumblebee," sobbed the little voice, "but I've changed my first letter from 'b' to 'h.' I'm only an humble-bee now, and all because I've treated you so badly. I really didn't mean to, and I've come to help you have a good time to-night, so that you won't miss the fireworks because of my misbehavior."
"Don't mention it," said Jimmieboy, kindly. "It was my fault, after all. I hadn't ought to have run into you."
"Yes, you had ought to have, too," moaned the little bee. "You were just right in running into me. I hadn't ought to have got in your way."
"Well, anyhow, it's all right," said Jimmieboy. "You're forgiven—though you did hurt me like everything."
"I know it," sobbed the bee. "I almost wish you'd get a pin and stick it into me once, so as to sort of just even things up. It would hurt me, I know, but then I'd feel better after I got well."
"Indeed I won't," said Jimmieboy, with a determined shake of his head. "That won't do any good, and what's the use anyhow, as long as you didn't mean it?"
"I'm sure I don't know," the bee answered. "I'm only a bug, after all, you know, and so I don't understand things that human beings which has got brains can understand. I've noticed, though, that sometimes when a boy gets hurt it sort of makes him feel better if he hurts back."
"I wouldn't mind a bit if I could see the fireworks," said Jimmieboy. "That's what hurts the most."
"Well, I'll tell you what you do," said the bee; "if that's all you feel bad about, we can fix it up in a jiffy. Do you know what a jiffy is?"
"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy.
"Well, I'll tell you," said the bee, "but don't you ever tell:
"Sixty seconds make a minute,
Sixty minutes make an hour;
But a second has within it
Sixty jiffies full of power.
"In other words, a jiffy is just the same thing to a second as the second is to the minute or the minute to the hour; and, dear me, what billions of things can happen in a jiffy! Why, they're simply enormous."
"They must be," said Jimmieboy, "if, as you say, you can fix me up in regard to the fireworks in a jiffy."
"There isn't any if about it," returned the bee. "Just turn over and put your face into the pillow, and see what you can see."
"I can't see anything with both eyes in my pillow, much less with one," said Jimmieboy.
"Well—try it," said the bee. "I know what I'm buzzing about."
So Jimmieboy, just to oblige his strange little friend, turned over and buried his face in the pillow. At first, as far as he could see, there was nothing going on in the pillow to make it worth while; but all of a sudden, just as he was about to withdraw his face, a great golden pin wheel began to whizz and whirr right in front of him, only instead of putting forth fire it spouted jewels and flowers, and finally right out of the middle of it there popped a tiny bit of a creature all dressed in spangles, looking for all the world like a Brownie. He bowed to Jimmieboy politely and requested him to open his mouth as wide as he could.
"What for?" asked Jimmieboy, naturally a little curious to know the meaning of this strange proceeding.
"I am going to set off the sugar-plum bomb," the little creature replied. "But of course if you don't want the sugar-plums you can keep your mouth closed."
"Can't I catch 'em in my hands?" said Jimmieboy.
"You can if you want to, but they won't be of any use if you do," returned the little creature. "You see, this bomb shoots out candy instead of sparks, but the candy is so delicate that, like the sparks in fire fireworks, it goes out just as soon as it comes down. If you catch 'em in your hands you won't be able to see how good they taste, don't you see?"
"Yeh," said Jimmieboy, opening his mouth as wide as he could, and so speaking with difficulty. "Hire ahay!"—by which I presume he meant fire away, only he couldn't say it plainly with his mouth open.
And then the little creature set off the sugar-plum bomb, and the candies it put forth were marvelous in number and sweetness, and, strange to say, there wasn't one of them that, in falling, came down anywhere but in the mouth of the small boy who had been "stang."
"Got any cannon crackers?" asked Jimmieboy, delighted with what he had already seen, as soon as the sweet taste from the sugar-plums died away. "I'm fond of noise, too."
"Well," said the little creature, "we have great big crackers, only they don't break the silence in just the way you mean. They make a noise, but it isn't just a plain ordinary crash such as your cannon crackers make. We call 'em our Grand Opera Crackers. I'll set one off and let you see what I mean."
So the little creature opened a big chest that in some way happened to come up out of the ground beside him, and with difficulty hauled from it a huge thing that looked like the ordinary giant crackers that Jimmieboy was used to seeing. It was twice as big as the little creature, but he got it out nevertheless.
"My!" cried Jimmieboy. "That's fine. That ought to make lots of noise."
"It will," returned the little creature, touching a match to the fuse. "Just listen now."
The fuse burned slowly along, and then, with a great puff of smoke, the cracker burst, but not into a mere crash as the little creature had hinted, but into a most entrancing military march, that was inspiring enough to set even the four legs of the heaviest dinner-table to strutting about the room. Jimmieboy could hardly keep his own feet still as the music went on, but he did not dare draw his face away from the pillow so that he might march about the room, for fear that by so doing he would lose what might remain of this wonderful exhibition, whose like he had never even dreamed of before, and alongside of which he felt that the display he had missed by having to go to bed must be as insignificant as a pin compared to Cleopatra's great stone needle.
"That was fine!" he cried, ecstatically, as the last echoes of the musical cracker died away. "I wouldn't mind having a hundred packs of those. Have you got any music torpedoes?"
"No," returned the little creature. "But we've got picture torpedoes. Look at this." The little creature here took a small paper ball from the chest, and, slamming it on the ground with all his might, it exploded, and the spot whereon it fell was covered with a gorgeous little picture of Jimmieboy himself, all dressed in sailor's clothes and dancing a hornpipe.
"That's a very good picture of you," said the little creature, looking at the dancing figure. "It's so full of motion, like you. Here's another one," he added, as the picture from the first torpedo faded away. "This shows how you'd look if you were a fairy."
The second torpedo was slammed down upon the ground just as the first had been, and Jimmieboy had the pleasure of seeing himself in another picture, only this time he had gossamer wings and a little wand, and he was flying about a great field of poppies and laughing with a lot of other fairies, among whom he recognized his little brothers and a few of his playmates. He could have looked at this all night and not grown weary of it, but, like a great many other good things, the picture could not last forever, and just at the most interesting point, when he saw himself about to fly a race across the poppy-field with a robin, the picture faded away, and the little creature called out: "Now for the finest of the lot. Here goes the Fairy-Book Rocket!"
With a tremendous whizz, up soared the most magnificent rocket you ever saw. It left behind it a trail of golden fire that was dazzling, and then, when it reached its highest point in the sky, it burst as all other rockets do, but, instead of putting forth stars, all the people in Jimmieboy's favorite fairy tales jumped out into the heavens. There was a glittering Jack chasing a dozen silver giants around about the moon; there was a dainty little Cinderella, with her gorgeous coach and four, driving up and down the Milky Way; Puss-in-Boots was hopping about from one cloud to another, as easily as if he were an ordinary cat jumping from an ordinary footstool on to an ordinary sofa. They were all there cutting up the finest pranks imaginable, when suddenly Jack of the beanstalk fame appeared at the side of the little creature who had set the rocket off, and planted a bean at his feet, and from it there immediately sprang forth a huge stalk covered with leaves of gold and silver, dropping showers of rubies and pearls and diamonds to the ground, as it grew rapidly upwards to where the fairy-land folk were disporting themselves in the skies. These, when the stalk had reached its full growth, rushed toward it, and in a moment were clambering back to earth again, and then, when they were all safely down, they ranged themselves in a row, sang a beautiful good-night song to the boy with his face in the pillow, and disappeared into the darkness.
"There!" said the little voice back of Jimmieboy. "That's what one jiffy will do."
Jimmieboy turned about and smiled happily at the bee—for it was the bee who had spoken.
"Sometime we'll have another," the bee added. "But now I must go—I've got to get ready for to-morrow, which will be bright and sunshiny, and in every way a great day for honey. Good-by!"
And Jimmieboy, as the bee flew out of the window, was pleased to notice that the pain in his cheek was all gone. With a contented smile on his face he turned over and went to sleep, and when his papa came in to look at him as he lay there in his little bed, noticing the smile, he turned to his mamma and said, "Well, he doesn't look as if he'd missed the fireworks very much, after all, does he?"
"No," said his mamma. "He seems to be just the same happy little fellow he always was."
And between us, I think they were both right, for we know that he didn't miss the fireworks, and as for being happy, he was just as much so as are most boys who know what it is to be contented, and who, when trials come upon them, endeavor to make the best of them, anyhow.
[HIGH JINKS IN THE BARN]
HIGH JINKS IN THE BARN
It was unquestionably a hot day; so hot, indeed, that John, the hired man, said the thermometer had had to climb a tree to get high enough to record the degree of the heat. Jimmieboy had been playing out under the apple-trees for two or three hours, and now, "just for greens," as the saying went, he had climbed into the old barouche in the barn, where it was tolerably cool and there was a soft cushion to lie off on. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then a strange thing happened.
The Wheelbarrow over by the barn door unmistakably spoke. "Say," it said to the Farm Wagon, "there's one thing I like about you."
"What's that?" said the Wagon.
"You have such a long tongue, and yet you never say an unkind word about anybody," replied the Barrow, with a creak of its wheel that sounded very much like a laugh.
"That may be so," said the big gray Horse that was used with the fat old bay to pull the farm wagon. "It may be just as you say, but that tongue has come between me and one of my best friends many a time, I tell you."
"I couldn't help that," retorted the Wagon. "The hired man made me do it; besides, I have a grudge against you."
"What's the grudge?" queried the Horse.
"You kicked me and my friend the Whiffletree that day you ran away down in the hay field," replied the Wagon. "I was dreadfully upset that day."
"I should say you were," put in the Rake. "And when you were upset you fell on me and knocked out five of my teeth. I never had such a time."
"You needed to have something done to those teeth, anyhow," said the Sickle. "They were nearly all gone when that happened."
"Oh, were they?" retorted the Rake. "And why were they nearly all gone? Do you know that?"
"I do not. I suppose you had been trying to crack chestnuts with them. Was that it?"
"No, it wasn't," retorted the Rake. "They were worn out cleaning up the lawns after you pretended to have finished them off."
"You think you're bright, don't you?" replied the Sickle, with a sneer.
"Well, if I was as dull as you are," returned the Rake, angrily, "I'd visit the Grindstone and get him to put a little more edge on me."
"Come, come; don't be so quarrelsome," said the Hose. "If you don't stop, I'll drown the whole lot of you."
"Tut!" retorted the Rake. "You look for all the world like a snake."
"He is a snake," put in the Curry-comb. "He's a water-snake. Aren't you, Hosey?"
"I'd show you whether I am or not if the faucet hadn't run dry."
"Dear me!" laughed the Sled. "Hear Hosey talk! The idea of a faucet running! It hasn't moved an inch since it came here. Why, I've got two runners that'll beat it out of sight on the side of a hill."
"Yes, the down side," said the Pony. "Anything can run down hill. Even a stupid old millstone can do that. But when it comes to running up hill, I'm ahead of you all. Why, the biggest river or avalanche in the world couldn't run up hill beside me."
"That's so," put in the Riding-Whip. "And you and I know who makes you do it—eh?"
"I didn't say anything about that," said the Pony. "But I'll tell you one thing: if you'll come down here where I can reach you with one of my hind legs, I'll show you what nice shoes I wear."
"Much obliged," said the Whip. "I don't wear shoes myself, and am not interested in the subject. But if any man who is interested in bugs wants to know how to make a horse fly, I can show him."
"You are a whipper-snapper," said the Pony angrily.
"Ho! ho!" jeered the Whip.
"Anybody call me?" queried the Hoe, from the corner where he had been asleep while all this conversation was going on.
Then they all burst out laughing, and peace was restored.
"They say the Fence is worn out," put in the Sickle.
"I should think it would be," replied the Rake. "It's been running all around this place night and day without ever stopping for the last twenty years."
"How many miles is that?" queried the Wagon.
"Well, once around is half a mile, but if it has gone around every night and every day for twenty years," said the Grindstone, "that's one mile every twenty-four hours—365 miles a year—3,650 miles in ten years, and 7,300 miles in twenty years. Quite a record, eh?"
"That's a good way for a Picket-fence to go," said the Wheelbarrow. "It would kill me to go half that distance."
"Well, if you live until you do go half that distance," put in the Hose, "you'll never die."
"Ho! ho!" jeered the Barrow.
"Somebody did call me that time!" cried the Hoe, waking up again. "I'm sure I heard my name."
"Yes, you did," said the Rake. "We waked you up to tell you that breakfast would be ready in about a month, and to say that if you wanted any you'd do well to go down to the river and see if you can't buy its mouth, because if you don't, nobody knows how you can eat it."
Here the loud and prolonged laugh caused Jimmieboy once more to open his eyes, and as his papa was standing by the side of the carriage holding out his hands to help him down and take him into the house to supper, the little fellow left the quarrelsome tools and horses and other things to themselves.
[JIMMIEBOY'S VALENTINE]
JIMMIEBOY'S VALENTINE
Jimmieboy had been watching for the postman all day and he was getting just a little tired of it. It was Valentine's Day, and he was very naturally expecting that some of his many friends would remember that fact and send him a valentine. Still the postman, strange to say, didn't come.
"He'll be later than usual," said Jimmieboy's mamma. "The postman always is late on Valentine's Day. He has so many valentines to leave at people's houses."
"Well, I wish he'd hurry," said Jimmieboy, "because I want to see what my valentimes look like."
Jimmieboy always called valentines valentimes, so nobody paid any attention to that mistake—and then the front door bell rang.
"I guess, maybe, perhaps that's the postman—though I didn't hear his whistle," said Jimmieboy, rushing to the head of the stairs and listening intently, but no one went to the door and Jimmieboy became so impatient that he fairly tumbled down the stairs to open it himself.
"Howdy do," he said, as he opened the door, and then he stopped short in amazement. There was no one there and yet his salutation was returned.
"Howdy do!" something said. "I'm glad you came to the door, because I mightn't have got in if the maid had opened it. People who don't understand queer things don't understand me, and I rather think if the girl had opened that door and had been spoken to by something she couldn't see she'd have started to run and hide, shrieking Lawk, meanwhile."
"I've half a mind to shriek Lawk, myself," said Jimmieboy, a little fearfully, for he wasn't quite easy about this invisible something he was talking to. "Who are you, anyhow?"
"I'm not a who, I'm a what," said the queer thing. "I'm not a person, I'm a thing—just a plain, homely, queer thing. I couldn't hurt a fly, so there's no reason why you should cry Lawk."
"Well, what kind of a queer thing are you?" asked Jimmieboy. "Are you the kind of a queer thing I can invite into the house or would it be better for me to shut the door and make you stay outside."
"I don't like to say," said the queer thing, with a pathetic little sigh. "I think I'm very nice and that anybody ought to be glad to have me in the house, but that's only my opinion of myself. Somebody else might think differently. In fact somebody else has thought differently. You know rhinoceroses and crocodiles think themselves very handsome, and that's why they sit and gaze at themselves in the water all the time. Everybody else though knows that they are very ugly. Now that's the way with me. As I have said, I'm sure in my own mind that I am perfectly splendid, and yet your Uncle Periwinkle, who thought of me, wouldn't write me and send me to you."
"You must be very wise if you know what you mean," said Jimmieboy. "I don't."
"Oh, no—I'm not so wise—I'm only splendid, that's all," said the other. "You see I'm a valentine, only I never was made. I was only thought of. Your Uncle Periwinkle thought of me and was going to send me to you and then he changed his mind and thought you'd rather have a box of candy; so he didn't write me and sent you a box of chocolate creams instead. The postman's got 'em and if he doesn't find out what they are and eat 'm all up you'll receive them this afternoon. Won't you let me come in and tell you about myself and see if you don't like me? I want to be liked—oh ever so much, and I was awfully disappointed when your uncle decided not to send me. I cried for eight minutes and then resolved to come here myself and see if after all he wasn't wrong. Let me come in and if you don't like me I'll go right out again and never come back."
"I like you already, without knowing what kind of a valentime you are," said Jimmieboy, kindly. "Of course you can come in, and you can stay as long as you want to. I don't believe you'll be in anybody's way."
"Thank you very much," said the valentine, gratefully, as it moved into the house, and, to judge from where its voice next came, settled down on the big sofa cushion. "I hoped you'd say that."
"What kind of a valentime are you?" asked Jimmieboy in a moment. "Are you a funny one or a solemn one, with paper frills all over it in a box and a little cupid peeping out from behind a tree?"
"I am almost afraid to tell you," said the valentine, timidly. "I am so afraid you won't like me."
"Oh, yes I will," said Jimmieboy, hastily. "I like all kinds of valentimes."
"Well, that's a relief," said the other. "I'm comic."
"Hooray!" cried Jimmieboy, "I just love comic valentimes with red and blue pictures in 'em and funny verses."
"Do you really?" returned the valentine, cheerfully. "Then I can say hooray, too, because that's what I was to be. I was to be a picture of a boy with red trousers on, sitting crosswise on a great yellow broomstick, galloping through a blue sky, toward a pink moon. How do you like that?"
"It is splendid, just as you said," returned Jimmieboy, with a broad smile. "Those are my favorite colors."
"You like those colors better than you do chocolate cream color?" asked the valentine.
"Oh, my yes," said Jimmieboy. "Probably you wouldn't be so good to eat as a chocolate cream, but for a valentime, you're much better. I don't want to eat valentimes, I want to keep 'em."
"You don't know how glad you make me," said the pathetic little valentine, its voice trembling with happiness. "Now, if you like my verses as well as you do my picture, I will be perfectly content."
"I guess I'll like 'em," said Jimmieboy. "Can you recite yourself to me?"
"I'm not written—didn't I tell you?" returned the valentine. "That's the good part of it. I can tell you what I might have been and you can take your choice."
"That's good," said Jimmieboy. "Then I'm sure to be satisfied."
"Just so," said the valentine. "Now let me think what I might have been! Hum! Well, what do you think of this:
"If I had a cat with a bright red tail,
And a parrot whose voice was soft and low
I'd put 'em away in a water pail,
And send 'em to where the glowworm's glow.
"And then I would sit on an old whisk broom
And sail through the great, soft starlit sky,
To where the bright moonbeams gaily froom
Their songs to the parboiled Gemini.
"And I'd say to the frooming moonbeams that,
I'd come from the home of the sweet woodbine,
Deserting my parrot and red-tailed cat,
To ask if they'd be my valentine."
"I guess that's good," said Jimmieboy. "Only I don't know what frooming is."
"Neither do I," said the valentine, "but that needn't make any difference. You see, it's a nonsense rhyme any how, and I couldn't remember any word that rhymed with broom. Froom isn't a bad word, and inasmuch as it's new to us we can make it mean anything we want to."
"That's true," said Jimmieboy. "But why do you send the cat and the parrot off?"
"They aren't in the picture," said the valentine, "and so of course we have to get rid of them before we have the boy start off on the broomstick. It would be very awkward to go sailing off through the sky on a broomstick with a parrot and cat in tow. Then to show the moonbeams how much the boy thinks of them you have to have him leave something behind that he thinks a great deal of, and that something might just as well be a parrot and a cat as anything else."
"And what does it all mean?" asked Jimmieboy. "Is the boy supposed to be me?"
"No," explained the valentine. "The boy is supposed to be Uncle Periwinkle, and you are the moonbeams. In putting the poem the way I've told you it's just another and nonsense way of saying that he'll be your valentine and will take a great deal of trouble and make sacrifices to do it if necessary."
"I see," said Jimmieboy. "And I think it very nice indeed—though I might like some other verse better."
"Of course you might," said the valentine. "That's the way with everything. No matter how fine a thing may be, there may be something else that might be better, and the thing to do always is to look about and try to find that better thing. How's this:
"'The broom went around to Jimmieboy's,
And cried, 'Oh, Jimmieboy B.,
Come forth in the night, desert your toys,
And take a fine ride with me.
"I'll take you off through the starlit sky,
We'll visit the moon so fine,
If you will come with alacrity,
And be my valentine.'"
"That isn't so bad, either," said Jimmieboy. "I sort of wish a broomstick would come after me that way and take me sailing off to the moon. I'd be its valentime in a minute if it would do that. I'd like to take a trip through all the stars and see why they twinkle and——"
"Why they twinkle?" interrupted the valentine. "Why they twinkle? Hoh! Why, I can tell you that—for as a secret just between you and me, I know a broomstick that has been up to the stars and he told me all about them. The stars twinkle because from where they are, they are so high up, they can see all that is going on in the world, and they see so many amusing things that it keeps 'em laughing all the time and they have to twinkle just as your eyes do when they see anything funny."
"That's it, is it?" said Jimmieboy.
"Yes, sir!" said the valentine, "and it's fine, too, to watch 'em when you are feeling sad. You know how it is when you're feeling sort of unhappy and somebody comes along who feels just the other way, who laughs and sings, how you get to feel better yourself right off? Well, remember the stars when you don't feel good. How they're always twinkling—watch 'em, and by and by you'll begin to twinkle yourself. You can't help it—and further, Jimmieboy," added this altogether strange valentine, "when anybody tries to make you think that this world has got more bad things than good things in it, look at the stars again. They wouldn't twinkle if that was so and until the stars stop twinkling and begin to frown, don't you ever think badly of the world."
"I won't," said Jimmieboy. "I always did like the world. As long as I've been in it I've thought it was a pretty fine place."
"It is," said the valentine. "Nobody can spoil it either—unless you do it yourself—but, I say, if you'd like to have me I'll introduce you to my broomstick friend sometime and maybe some day he'll give you that ride."
"Will you?" cried Jimmieboy with delight. "That will be fine. You are the dearest old valentime that ever was."
Saying which, forgetting in his happiness that the valentine was not to be seen and so could not be touched, Jimmieboy leaned over to hug him affectionately as he sat on the sofa cushion.
Which may account for the fact that when Jimmieboy's papa came home he found Jimmieboy clasping the sofa cushion in his arms, asleep and unconscious of the fact that the postman had come and gone, leaving behind him six comic valentines, four "solemn ones," and a package of chocolate creams from Uncle Periwinkle.
When he waked he was rejoiced to find them, but he has often told me since that the finest valentine he ever got was the one Uncle Periwinkle thought he wouldn't like as well as the candy; and I believe he still has hopes that the invisible valentine may turn up again some day, bringing with him his friend the broomstick who will take Jimmieboy off for a visit to the twinkling stars.
[THE MAGIC SLED]
THE MAGIC SLED
When Jimmieboy waked up the other morning the ground was white with snow and his heart was rejoiced. Like many another small youth Jimmieboy has very little use for green winters. He likes them white. Somehow or other they do not seem like winters if they haven't plenty of snow and he had been much afraid that the season was going to pass away without bringing to him an opportunity to use the beautiful sled Santa Claus had brought him at Christmas.
It was a fine sled, one of the finest he had ever seen. It had a red back, yellow runners and two swan heads standing erect in front of it to tell it which way it should go. On the red surface of the back was painted its name in very artistic blue letters, and that name was nothing more nor less than "Magic."
"Hooray," he cried as he rushed to the window and saw the dazzling silver coating on the lawn and street. "Snow at last! Now I can see if Magic can slide."
He dressed hastily—so hastily in fact that he had to undress again, because it was discovered by his mother, who came to see how he was getting along, that he had put on his stocking wrong side out, and that his left shoe was making his right foot uncomfortable.
"Don't be in such a hurry," said his Mamma. "There was a man once who was always in such a hurry that he forgot to take his head down town with him one day, and when lunch time came he hadn't anything with him to eat his lunch with."
"But I want to slide," said Jimmieboy, "and I'm afraid there'll be a slaw come along and melt the snow."
Jimmieboy always called thaws slaws, so his mother wasn't surprised at this remark, and in a few minutes the boy was ready to coast.
"Come along, Magic!" he said, gleefully catching up the rope. "We'll see now if Uncle Periwinkle was right when he said he didn't think you'd go more'n a mile a minute, unless you had a roller-skate on both your runners."
And then, though Jimmieboy did not notice it, the left-hand swan-head winked its eye at the other swan-head and whispered, "Humph! It's plain Uncle Periwinkle doesn't know that we are a magic sled."
"Well, why should he?" returned the other swan-head, with a laugh. "He never slode on us."
"I'm glad I'm not an uncle," said the left-hand head. "Uncles don't know half as much as we do."
"And why should they!" put in the other. "They haven't had the importunities we have for gaining knowledge. A man who has lived all his days in one country and which has never slad around the world like us has, don't see things the way us would."
And still Jimmieboy did not notice that the swan-heads were talking together, though I can hardly blame him for that, because, now that he was out of doors he had to keep his eyes wide open to keep from bumping his head into the snow balls the hired man was throwing at him. In a few minutes, however, he did notice the peculiar fact and he was so surprised that he sat plump down on the red back of the sled and was off for—well, where the sled took him, and of all the slides that ever were slid, that was indeed the strangest. No sooner had he sat down than with a leap that nearly threw him off his balance, the swans started. The steel runners crackled merrily over the snow, and the wind itself was soon left behind.
"C-can you sus-swans tut-talk?" Jimmieboy cried, in amazement, as soon as he could get his breath.
"Oh, no, of course not," said the right-hand swan. "We can't talk, can we Swanny?"
"No, indeed, Swayny," returned the other with a laugh. "You may think we talk, you may even hear words from our lips, we might even recite a poem, but that wouldn't be talk—oh, no, indeed. Certainly not."
"It's a queer question for him to ask, eh Swanny?" said the right-hand head.
"Extraordinary, Swayny," said the one on the left. "Might as well ask a locomotive if it smokes."
"Well, I only wanted to know," said Jimmieboy.
"He only wanted to know, Swanny," said Swayny.
"I presume that was why he asked—as though we didn't know that," said Swanny. "He'd ask a pie-man with a tray full of pies, if he had any pies, I believe."
"Yes, or a cat if he could miaou. Queer boy," returned Swayny. And then he added:
"I think a boy, who'd waste his time
In asking questions such as that,
Would ask a man, who dealt in rhyme
If he'd a head inside his hat."
Jimmieboy laughed.
"You know poetry, don't you," he said.
"Well, rather," said Swayny. "That is to say, I can tell it from a church steeple."
"Which reminds me," put in Swanny, as strange to say, this wonderful sled began to slide up a very steep hill, "of a conundrum I never heard before. What's the difference between writing poetry the way some people do and building a steeple as all people do?"
"I can't say," said Swayny, "though if you'll tell me the answer now next time you ask that conundrum I'll be able to inform you."
"Some people who write poetry run it into the ground," said Swanny, "and all people who build steeples, run 'em up into the air."
"That's not bad," said Jimmieboy, with a smile.
"No," said Swanny, "it is not—but you don't know why."
"I don't indeed," observed Jimmieboy. "Why?"
"Because my conundrums never are," said Swanny.
"Europe!" cried Swayny. "Five minutes for refreshments."
"What do you mean?" said Jimmieboy, as the sled came to a standstill.
"What does any conductor mean when he calls out the name of a station?" said Swayny scornfully. "He means that's where you are at of course. Which is what I mean. We've arrived at Europe. That's the kind of a fast mail sled we are. In three minutes we've carried you up hill and down dale, over the sea to Europe."
"Really?" cried Jimmieboy, dumfounded.
"Certainly," said Swanny. "You are now in Europe. That blue place you see over on the right is Germany, off to the left is France and that little pink speck is Switzerland. See that glistening thing just on the edge of the pink speck?"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy.
"That's an Alp," said Swanny. "It's too bad we've got to get you home in time for breakfast. If we weren't in such a hurry, we'd let you off so that you could buy an Alp to take home to your brother. You could have snow-balls all through the summer if you had an Alp in your nursery, but we can't stop now to get it. We've got to runaway immediately. Ready Swayny?"
"Yes," said Swayny. "All Aboard for England. Passengers will please keep their seats until the sled comes to a standstill in the station."
And then they were off again.
"How did you like Europe?" asked Swanny, as they sped along through a beautiful country, which Swayny said was France.
"Very nice what I saw of it," said Jimmieboy. "But, of course I couldn't see very much in five minutes."
"Hoh! Hear that, Swayny?" said Swanny. "Couldn't see much in five minutes. Why you could see all Europe in five minutes, if you only looked fast enough. You kept your eye glued on that Alp, I guess."
"That's what he did," said Swayny. "And that's why it was so hard to get the sled started. I had to hump three times before I could get my runner off and it was all because he'd glued his eye on the Alp! Don't do it again, Jimmieboy. We haven't time to unglue your eye every time we start."
"I don't blame him," said Swanny. "Those Alps are simply great, and I sometimes feel myself as if I'd like to look at 'em as much as forty minutes. I'd hate to be a hired man on an Alp, though."
"So would I," said Swayny. "It would be awful if the owner of the Alp made the hired man shovel the snow off it every morning."
"I wasn't thinking of that so much as I was of getting up every morning, early, to push the clouds away," said Swanny. "People are very careless about their clouds on the Alps, and they wander here and there, straying from one man's lawn onto another's, just like cows where Jimmieboy lives. I knew a man once who bought the top of an Alp just for the view, and one of his neighbor's clouds came along and squatted down on his place and simply killed the view entirely, and I tell you he made his hired man's life miserable. Scolded him from morning until night, and fed him on cracked ice for a week, just because he didn't scare the cloud off when he saw it coming."
"I don't see how a man could scare a cloud off," said Jimmieboy.
"Easy as eating chocolate creams," said Swayny. "You can do it with a fan, if you have one big enough—but, I say, Swanny, put on the brakes there quick, or we'll run slam-bang into——"
"LONDON!" cried Swanny, putting on the brakes, and sure enough that's where they were. Jimmieboy knew it in a minute, because there was a lady coming out of a shop preceded by a band of music, and wearing a big crown on her head, whom he recognized at once as the great and good Queen, whose pictures he had often seen in his story books.
"Howdy do, little boy," said the Queen, as her eye rested on Jimmieboy.
"I'm very well, thank you, Ma'am," said Jimmieboy, holding out his hand for Her Majesty to shake.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I'm sliding until breakfast is ready," he replied.
"Until breakfast is ready?" she cried. "Why, what time do you have breakfast?"
"Eight o'clock, so's papa can catch the 8:30 train, Ma'am," said Jimmieboy.
"But—it is now nearly one o'clock!" said the Queen.
"That's all right, Your Roily Highnishness," said Swanny. "This is an American boy and he breakfasts on the American plan. It isn't eight o'clock yet where he lives."
"Oh, yes—so it isn't," said the Queen. "I remember now. The sun rises earlier here than it does in America."
"Yes, Ma'am," put in Swayny. "It has to in order to get to America on time. America is some distance from here as you may have heard."
And before the Queen could say another word, the sled was sliding merrily along at such a rapid pace that Jimmieboy had to throw his arms about Swayny's neck to keep from falling overboard.
"W-where are we g-g gug-going to now?" he stammered.
"China," said Swanny.
"Egypt," said Swayny.
"I said China," cried Swanny, turning his eyes full upon Swayny and glaring at him.
"I know you did," said Swayny. "I may not show 'em, but I have ears. I, on the other hand said Egypt, and Egypt is where we are going. I want to show Jimmieboy the Pyramids. He's never seen a Pyramid and he has seen Chinamen."
"No doubt," said Swanny. "But this time he's not going to Egypt. I'm going to show him a Mandarin. He can build a Pyramid with his blocks, but he never in his life could build a Mandarin. Therefore, Ho for China."
"You mean Bah! for China," said Swayny, angrily. "I'm not going to China, Mr. William G. Swanny and that's all there is about that. Last time I was there a Chinaman captured me and tied me to his pig-tail and I vowed I'd never go again."
"And when I was in Egypt last time, I was stolen by a mummy, who wanted to broil and eat me because he hadn't had anything to eat for two thousand years. So I'm not going to Egypt."
Whereupon the two strange birds became involved in a dreadful quarrel, one trying to run the sled off toward China, the other trying, with equal vim, to steer it over to Egypt. The runners creaked; the red back groaned and finally, there came a most dreadful crash. Swanny flew off with his runner to the land of Flowers, and Swayny, freed from his partner, forgetting Jimmieboy completely, sped on to Egypt.
And Jimmieboy.
Well, Jimmieboy, fell in between and by some great good fortune, for which I am not at all prepared to account, landed in a heap immediately beside his little bed in the nursery, not dressed in his furs at all but in his night gown, while out of doors not a speck of snow was to be seen, and strangest of all, when he was really dressed and had gone down stairs, there stood Magic and the two swan heads, as spick and span as you please, still waiting to be tried.
[THE STUPID LITTLE APPLE-TREE]
THE STUPID LITTLE APPLE-TREE
Jimmieboy was playing in the orchard, and, as far as the birds and the crickets and the tumble-bugs could see, was as happy as the birds, as lively as the crickets, and as tumbly as the tumble-bugs. In fact, one of the crickets had offered to bet an unusually active tumble-bug that Jimmieboy could give him ten tumbles start and beat him five in a hundred, but the tumble-bug was a good little bug and wouldn't bet.
"I'm put here to tumble," said he. "That's my work in life, and I'm going to stick to it. Other creatures may be able to tumble better than I can, but that isn't going to make any difference to me. So long as I do the best I can, I'm satisfied. If you want to bet, go bet with the dandelions. They've got more gold in 'em than we tumble-bugs have."
Now, whether it was the sweet drowsiness of the afternoon, or the unusual number of tumbles he took on the soft, carpet-like grass in and out among the apple-trees, neither Jimmieboy nor I have ever been able to discover, but all of a sudden Jimmieboy thought it would be pleasant to rest awhile; and to accomplish this desirable end he could think of nothing better than to throw himself down at the foot of what he had always called the stupid little apple-tree. It was a very pretty tree, but it was always behind-time with its blossoms. All the other trees in the orchard burst out into bloom at the proper time, but the stupid little apple-tree, like a small boy in school who isn't as smart as some other boys, was never ready, when the others were, and that was why Jimmieboy called it stupid.
"Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy!"
He turned about to see who had addressed him, but there was nothing in sight but a huge bumblebee, and he was entirely too busy at his daily stint to be wasting any time on Jimmieboy.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Jimmieboy asked.
"I'm—I'm a friend of yours," said the voice. "Oh, a splendid friend of yours, even if I am stupid. Do you want to earn an apple?"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "I'm very fond of apples—though I can get all I want without earning 'em."
"That's true enough," returned the voice; "but an apple you have given you isn't half so good as one you really earn all by yourself—that's why I want you to earn one. Of course I'll give you all the apples I've got, anyhow, but I'd like to have you earn one of 'em, just to show you how much better it tastes because you have earned it."
"All right," said Jimmieboy, politely. "I'm very much obliged to you, and I'll earn it if you'll tell me how. But, I say," he added, "I can't see you—who are you?"
"Can't see me? That's queer," said the voice. "I'm right here—can't you see the stupid little apple-tree that's keeping the sun off you and stretching its arms up over you?"
"Yes," Jimmieboy replied. "I can see that, but I can't see you."
"Why, I'm it," said the voice. "It's the stupid little apple-tree that's talking to you. I'm me."
Jimmieboy sat up and looked at the tree with a surprised delight. "Oh! that's it, eh?" he said. "You can talk, can you?"
"Certainly," said the tree. "You didn't think we poor trees stood out here year in and year out, in cold weather and in warm, in storm and in sunshine, never lying down, always standing, without being allowed to talk, did you? That would be dreadfully cruel. It's bad enough not to be able to move around. Think how much worse it would be if we had to keep silent all that time! You can judge for yourself what a fearfully dull time we would have of it when you consider how hard it is for you to sit still in school for an hour without speaking."
"I just simply can't do it," said Jimmieboy. "That's the only thing my teacher don't like about me. She says I'm movey and loquacious."
"I don't know what loquacious means," said the tree.
"Neither do I," said Jimmieboy, "but I guess it has something to do with talking too much when you hadn't ought to. But tell me, Mr. Tree, how can I earn the apple?"
"Don't be so formal," said the tree. "Don't call me Mr. Tree. You've known me long enough to be more intimate."
"Very well," said Jimmieboy. "I'll call you whatever you want me to. What shall I call you?"
"Call me Stoopy," said the tree, softly. "Stoopy for short. I always liked that name."
Jimmieboy laughed. "It's an awful funny name," he said. "Stoopy! Ha-ha-ha! What's it short for?"
"Stupid," said the tree. "That is, while it's quite as long as Stupid, it seems shorter. Anyhow, it's more affectionate, and that's why I want you to call me by it."
"Very well, Stoopy," said Jimmieboy. "Now, about the apple. Have you got it with you?"
"No," returned the tree. "But I'm making it, and it's going to be the finest apple you ever saw. It will have bigger, redder cheeks than any other apple in the world, and it'll have a core in it that will be just as good to eat as marmalade, and it'll be all for you if you'll do something for me to-morrow."
"I'll do it if I can," said Jimmieboy.
"Of course—that's what I mean," said Stoopy. "Nobody can do a thing he can't do; and if you find that you can't do it, don't do it; you'll get the apple just the same, only you won't have earned it, and it may not seem so good, particularly the core. I suppose you know that to-morrow is Decoration Day?"
"Yes, indeed," said Jimmieboy. "Mamma's going to send a lot of flowers to the Committee, and papa's going to take me to see the soldiers, and after that I'm going over to the semingary to see them decorate the graves."
"That's what I thought," said the tree, with a sigh. "I wish I could go. There's nothing I'd like to do better than to go over there and drop a lot of blossoms around on the graves of the men who went to war and lost their lives so that you might have a country, and we trees could grow in peace without being afraid of having a cannon-ball shot into us, cutting us in two—but I want to tell you a little story about all that. You didn't know I was planted by a little boy who went to the war and got killed, did you?"
"No," returned Jimmieboy, softly. "I didn't know that. I asked papa one day who planted you, and he said he guessed you just grew."
"Well, that's true, I did just grow," said Stoopy, "but I had to be planted first, and I was planted right here by a little boy only ten years old. He was awfully good to me, too. He used to take care of me just as if I were a little baby. I wasn't more than half as tall as he was when he set me out here, and I was his tree, and he was proud as could be to feel that he owned me; and he used to tell me that when I grew big and had apples he was going to sell the apples and buy nice things for his mother with the money he got for 'em. We grew up together. He took such good care of me that I soon got to be taller than he was, and the taller I became the prouder he was of me. Oh, he was a fine boy, Jimmieboy, and as he grew up his mother and father were awfully proud of him. And then the war broke out. He was a little over twenty years old then, and he couldn't be kept from going to fight. He joined the regiment that was raised here, and after a little while he said good-by to his mother and father, and then he came out here to me and put his arms around my trunk and kissed me good-by too, and he plucked a little sprig of leaves from one of my branches and put it in his buttonhole, and then he went away. That was the last time I saw him. He was killed in his first battle."
Here Stoopy paused for an instant, and trembled a little, and a few blossoms fell like trickling tear-drops, and fluttered softly to the ground.
"They brought him home and buried him out there in the semingary," the tree added, "and that was the end of it. His father and mother didn't live very long after that, and then there wasn't anybody to take care of his grave any more. When that happened, I made up my mind that I'd do what I could; but around here all the apple-blossoms are withered and gone by the time Decoration Day comes, and nobody would take plain leaves like mine to put on a soldier's grave, so I began to put off blossoming until a little later than the other trees, and that's how I came to be called the stupid little apple-tree. Nobody knew why I did it, but I did, and so I didn't mind being called stupid. I was doing it all for him, and every year since then I've been late, but on Decoration Day I've always had blossoms ready. The trouble has been, though, that nobody has ever come for 'em, and I've had all my work and trouble so far for nothing. It's been a great disappointment."
"I see," said Jimmieboy, softly. "What you want me to do is to take some of your blossoms over there to-morrow and put 'em—put 'em where you want 'em put."
"That's it, that's it!" cried the stupid little apple-tree, eagerly. "Oh, if you only will, Jimmieboy!"
"Indeed I will," said Jimmieboy. "I'll come here in the morning and gather up the blossoms, and take every one you have ready over in a basket, and I'll get papa to find out where your master's grave is, and he'll have every one of them."
"Thank you, thank you," returned Stoopy; "and you'll find that all I've said about your apple will come true, and after this I'll be your tree forever and forever."
Jimmieboy was about to reply, when an inconsiderate tumble-bug tripped over his hand, which lay flat on the grass, and in an instant all of the boy's thoughts on the subject fled from his mind, and he found himself sitting up on the grass, gazing sleepily about him. He knew that he had probably been dreaming, although he is by no means certain that that was the case, for, as if to remind him of his promise, as he started to rise, a handful of blossoms loosened by the freshening evening breezes came fluttering down into his lap, and the little lad resolved that, dream or no dream, he would look up the whereabouts of the young soldier-boy's grave, and would decorate it with apple-blossoms, and these from the stupid little apple-tree only.
And that is why one long-forgotten soldier's grave in the cemetery across the hills back of Jimmieboy's house was white and sweetly fragrant with apple-blossoms when the sun had gone down upon Decoration Day.
As for the stupid little apple-tree, it is still at work upon the marvelously red-cheeked apple which Jimmieboy is to claim as his reward.