Dreamland

by Julie M. Lippmann

BETTY'S BY-AND-BY.

"'One, two, three!
The humble-bee!
The rooster crows,
And away she goes!'"

And down from the low railing of the piazza jumped Betty into the soft heap of new-mown grass that seemed to have been especially placed where it could tempt her and make her forget—or, at least, "not remember"—that she was wanted indoors to help amuse the baby for an hour.

It was a hot summer day, and Betty had been running and jumping and skipping and prancing all the morning, so she was now rather tired; and after she had jumped from the piazza-rail into the heap of grass she did not hop up nimbly at once, but lay quite still, burying her face in the sweet-smelling hay and fragrant clover, feeling very comfortable and contented.

"Betty! Betty!"

"Oh dear!" thought the little maid, diving still deeper into the light grass, "there's Olga calling me to take care of Roger while she gets his bread and milk ready. I don't see why she can't wait a minute till I rest. It's too hot now. Baby can do without his dinner for a minute, I should think,—just a minute or so. He won't mind. He 's glad to wait if only you give him Mamma's chain and don't take away her watch. Ye-es, Olga,—I 'll come—by and by."

A big velvety humble-bee came, boom! against Betty's head, and got tangled in her hair. He shook himself free and went reeling on his way in quite a drunken fashion, thinking probably that was a very disagreeable variety of dandelion he had stumbled across,—quite too large and fluffy for comfort, though it was such a pretty yellow.

Betty lazily raised her head and peered after him. "I wonder where you're going," she said, half aloud.

The humble-bee veered about and came bouncing back in her direction again, and when he reached the little grass-heap in which she lay, stopped so suddenly that he went careering over in the most ridiculous fashion possible, and Betty laughed aloud. But to her amazement the humble-bee righted himself in no time at all, and then remarked in quite a dignified manner and with some asperity,—

"If I were a little girl with gilt hair and were n't doing what I ought, and if I had wondered where a body was going and the body had come back expressly to tell me, I think I 'd have the politeness not to laugh if the body happened to lose his balance and fall,—especially when the body was going to get up in less time than it would take me to wink,—I being only a little girl, and he being a most respected member of the Busy-bee Society. However, I suppose one must make allowances for the way in which children are brought up nowadays. When I was a little—"

"Now, please don't say, 'When I was a little girl,'—for you never were a little girl, you know," interrupted Betty, not intending to be saucy, but feeling rather provoked that a mere humble-bee should undertake to rebuke her. "Mamma always says, 'When I was a little girl,' and so does Aunt Louie, and so does everybody; and I 'm tired of hearing about it, so there!"

The humble-bee gave his gorgeous waistcoat a pull which settled it more smoothly over his stout person, and remarked shortly,—

"In the first place, I was n't going to say, 'When I was a little girl.' I was going to say, 'When I was a little leaner,' but you snapped me up so. However, it's true, isn't it? Everybody was a little girl once, were n't she?—was n't they?—hem!—confusing weather for talking, very! And what is true one ought to be glad to hear, eh?"

"But it is n't true that everybody was once a little girl; some were little boys. There!"

"Do you know," whispered the humble-bee, in a very impressive undertone, as if it were a secret that he did not wish any one else to hear, "that you are a very re-mark-a-ble young person to have been able to remind me, at a moment's notice, that some were little boys? Why-ee!"

Betty was a trifle uncomfortable. She had a vague idea the humble-bee was making sport of her. The next moment she was sure of it; for he burst into a deep laugh, and shook so from side to side that she thought he would surely topple off the wisp of hay on which he was sitting.

"I think you 're real mean," said Betty, as he slowly recovered himself; "I don't like folks to laugh at me, now!"

"I 'm not laughing at you now," explained the humble-bee, gravely; "I was laughing at you then. Do you object to that?"

Betty disdained to reply, and began to pull a dry clover-blossom to pieces.

"Tut, tut, child! Don't be so touchy! A body can laugh, can't he, and no harm done? You 'd better be good-tempered and jolly, and then I 'll tell you where I 'm going,—which, I believe, was what you wished to know in the first place, was n't it?"

Betty nodded her head, but did not speak.

"Oho!" said the humble-bee, rising and preparing to take his departure. And now Betty discovered, on seeing him more closely, that he was not a humble-bee at all, but just a very corpulent old gentleman dressed in quite an antique fashion, with black knee-breeches, black silk stockings, black patent-leather pumps with large buckles, a most elaborate black velvet waistcoat with yellow and orange stripes across, and a coat of black velvet to correspond with the breeches; while in his hand he carried a very elegant three-cornered hat, which, out of respect to her, he had removed from his head at the first moment of their meeting. "So we are sulky?" he went on. "Dear, dear! That is a very disagreeable condition to allow one's self to relapse into. H'm, h'm! very unpleasant, very! Under the circumstances I think I 'd better be going; for if you 'll believe me, I 'm pressed for time, and have none to waste, and only came back to converse with you because you addressed a civil question to me, which, being a gentleman, I was bound to answer. Good—"

He would have said "by;" but Betty sprang to her feet and cried: "Please don't leave me. I 'll be good and pleasant, only please don't go. Please tell me where you 're going, and if—if you would be so good, I 'd like ever and ever so much to go along. Don't—do—may I?"

The little gentleman looked her over from head to foot, and then replied in a hesitating sort of way: "You may not be aware of it, but you are extremely incautious. What would you do if I were to whisk you off and never bring you back, eh?"

"You don't look like a kidnapper, sir," said Betty, respectfully.

"A what?" inquired the little gentleman.

"A kidnapper," repeated Betty.

"What's that?" questioned her companion.

"Oh, a person who steals little children. Don't you know?"

"But why kidnapper?" insisted the little old man.

"I suppose because he naps kids. My uncle Will calls Roger and me 'kids.' It is n't very nice of him, is it?" she asked, glad to air her grievance.

"Child-stealer would be more to the point, I think, or infant-abductor," remarked the old gentleman, who saw, perhaps, how anxious Betty was for sympathy, and was determined not to give her another opportunity of considering herself injured.

He seemed to be very busy considering the subject for a second or so, and then he said suddenly: "But if you want to go, why, come along, for I must be off. But don't make a practice of it, mind, when you get back."

"You have n't told me where yet," suggested Betty.

"True; so I have n't," said the old gentleman, setting his three-cornered hat firmly on his head and settling the fine laces at his wrists. "It's to By-and-by. And now, if you 're ready, off we go!"

He took Betty's hand, and she suddenly found herself moving through the air in a most remarkable manner,—not touching the ground with her feet, but seeming to skim along quite easily and with no effort at all.

"If you please, Mr.—" She paused because she suddenly remembered that she did not know the name of the gentleman who was conducting her on so delightful a journey.

"Bombus," said he, cheerfully,—"B. Bombus, Esq., of Clovertop Manse,
Honeywell."

"But you 're not a minister, are you?" inquired Betty.

"No; why?" returned the gentleman, quickly.

"Because you said 'Manse.' A manse is a minister's house, is n't it?" asked Betty.

"No, not always," Bombus replied. "But I call my place Clovertop Manse because it belongs to me and not to my wife, do you see? I call it Manse because it is a man's. It is perfectly plain. If it was a woman's, I 'd say so."

"Well, I don't think you 're much of a humble-bee—" began Betty, and then caught herself up short and stopped.

Mr. Bombus gave her a severe look from under his three-cornered hat, but did not reply at once, and they advanced on their way for some little time in silence. Then the gentleman said:

"I 've been thinking of what you said about my not being a humble-bee.
Of course I am not a humble-bee, but you seemed to lay considerable
stress on the first part of the word, as if you had a special meaning.
Explain!"

Poor Betty blushed very red with shame and confusion; but the gentleman had a commanding way with him and she dared not disobey.

"I only meant, sir," she stammered,—"I only meant—I—did n't think you were very humble, because you seemed very proud about the place being yours. I thought you were 'stuck up,' as my brother says."

"Stuck up? Where?" queried Mr. Bombus, anxiously. "Pray don't make such unpleasant insinuations. They quite set my heart to throbbing. I knew—I mean I saw a humble-bee once," he remarked impressively, "and would you believe it, a little boy caught him and impaled him on a pin. It was horrible. He died in the most dreadful agony,—the bee, not the boy,—and then the boy secured him to the wall; made him fast there. So he was stuck up. You surely can't mean—"

"Oh, no, indeed! I meant only proud," replied Betty, contritely; for Mr. Bombus's face had really grown pale with horror at the remembrance of the bee's awful fate, and she was very sorry she had occasioned him such discomfort.

"Then why did n't you say only 'proud'?" asked her companion, sharply.
"You said 'proud,' and then added 'stuck up.'"

Betty thought it was about time to change the subject, so she observed quietly that By-and-by seemed a long way off.

"Of course it is a long way off," replied her companion. "Don't you wish it to be a long way off?"

Betty hesitated. "Well, I don't think I ever wished much about it. Can you tell me how many miles it is from some place I know about? You see, Mr. Bombus, I am pretty sure it is n't in the geography. At least, I don't remember that I ever saw it on the map. Could n't you tell me where it is?"

Mr. Bombus considered a moment, And then asked, "Do you know where Now is?"

Betty thought a minute, and then replied, "I suppose it is Here, sir."

"Right!" assented the old gentleman, promptly. "Now, if you had said There, it would have been wrong; for Then is There. You see, this is the way: When we have lived in Now until it is all used up, it changes into Then, and, instead of being Here, is There. I hope it's plain to you. Well, you asked me where By-and-by was. That 's the very thing about it: it never was, not even is; it's always going to be, and it's generally a rather long way from Now; so, if you know where Now is, you can make your own calculations as to the distance of By-and-by."

"But I don't know anything about calculating distances," said Betty, dolefully.

"It does n't matter," remarked Mr. Bombus; "for even if you did you could n't apply it in this case. But we 're getting on in our journey. Yes, indeed, we seem to be really getting on."

"Why, I should hope so!" returned Betty. "It seems to me I never flew so fast in all my life before and for such a long time. If we were n't getting on, I think I should be discouraged. We seem to be almost running a race, we go so quickly."

"We are running a race," observed Mr. Bombus.

Betty opened her eyes wide and said: "Why, I did n't know it. When did we begin?"

"When we started, Child. Pray, don't be stupid!" replied her friend, a little severely.

"But with whom are we running it?" queried Betty.

"With Time," whispered Mr. Bombus, confidentially. "One always has to beat him before one can get to By-and-by. And then it depends on one's self whether one likes it or not after one gets there."

But even as he spoke Betty seemed to feel herself hurried along more rapidly than ever, as if she were making a final effort to outstrip some one; and then she was brought to so sudden a standstill that she had to do her best to keep from falling forward, and was still quite dizzy with her effort when she heard a panting voice say, "That last rush quite took away my breath!" and found herself being addressed by Mr. Bombus, who was very red in the face and gasping rather painfully, and whom she had, for the moment, forgotten.

Betty said: "My, Mr. Bombus, how warm you are! Sit right down on the grass and cool off before we go any farther, please."

"Oh, dear, no!" objected her companion. "That would be terribly imprudent, with these cold autumn winds blowing so; and winter just over there. I 'd catch my death, Child."

"Why, I 'm sure," replied Betty, "I don't know what you mean. It's as summer as it can be. It's a hot August day, and if you can't sit outdoors in August, I 'd like to know when you can."

"Allow me to inform you, my dear child, that it isn't August at all; and if you had half an eye you 'd see it, let alone feel it. Do these leaves look as if it were August?" and he pointed to a clump of trees whose foliage shone red and yellow in the sunlight.

Betty started. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "How came they to change so early?"

"It is n't early," explained Mr. Bombus. "It's the last of
October,—even later,—and keeps getting more so every minute."

"But," insisted Betty, "it was August when I first saw you, a few hours ago, and—"

"Yes, then it was August," assented Mr. Bombus; "but we 've got beyond that. We 're in By-and-by. Did n't you hear your mother say it would be October by and by, and it is October. Time is jogging on, back there in the world; but we beat him, you see, and are safe and sound—far ahead of him—in By-and-by. Things are being done here that are always going to be done behind there. It's great fun."

But at these words Betty's face grew very grave, and a sudden thought struck her that was anything but "great fun." Would she be set to doing all the things she had promised to do "by and by"?

"I 'm afraid so," said Mr. Bombus, replying to her question though she had only thought it. "I told you it depended on one's self if one were going to like By-and-by or not. Evidently you 're not. Oh! going so soon? You must have been a lazy little girl to be set about settling your account as quick as this. See you later! Good—"

But again he was not permitted to say "by," for before he could fairly get the word out, Betty was whisked away, and Mr. Bombus stood solitary and alone under a bare maple-tree, chuckling to himself in an amused fashion and, it must be confessed, in a spiteful.

"It 'll be a good lesson for her. She deserves it," he said to himself; and Betty seemed to hear him, though she was by this time far away.

Poor child! she did not know where she was going nor what would take place next, and was pretty well frightened at feeling herself powerless to do anything against the unknown force that was driving her on.

But even while she was wondering she ceased to wonder; and what was going to happen had happened, and she found herself standing in an enormous hall that was filled with countless children, of all ages and nationalities,—and some who were not children at all,—every one of whom was hurrying to and fro and in and out, while all the time a voice from somewhere was calling out names and dates in such rapid succession that Betty was fairly deafened with the sound. There was a continual stir in the assembly, and people were appearing and reappearing constantly in the most perplexing manner, so that it made one quite dizzy to look on. But Betty was not permitted to look long, for in the midst of the haranguing of the dreadful voice she seemed to distinguish something that sounded strangely familiar.

"Betty Bleecker," it called, "began her account here when she was five years old by the World calculation. Therefore she has the undone duties of seven years—World count—to perform. Let her set about paying off her debt at once, and stop only when the account is squared;" whereupon Betty was again whisked off, and had not even time to guess where, before she found herself in a place that reminded her strangely of home and yet was not home at all. Then a wearisome round of tasks began.

She picked up pins, she opened doors, she shut windows, she raised shades, she closed shutters, she ran errands, she delivered messages, she practised scales, she studied lessons, she set her doll-house in order and replaced her toys, she washed her face and brushed her hair, she picked currants and stoned raisins, she hung up her skipping-rope and fastened her sash; and so she went on from one thing to another until she was almost ready to cry with weariness and fatigue. Half the things she did she had forgotten she had ever promised to do. But she had sent them into By-and-by, and here they were to be done, and do them she must. On and on she went, until after a while the tasks she had to perform began to gain a more familiar look, and she recognized them as being unkept promises of quite a recent date. She dusted her room, she darned her stockings, she mended her apron, she fed her bird, she wrote a letter, she read her Bible; and at last, after an endless space and when tears of real anguish were coursing down her cheeks, she found herself amusing the baby, and discovered that she had come to the last of her long line of duties and was cancelling her debt to By-and-by.

As soon as all was finished she felt herself being hurried, still sobbing and crying, back to the place from which she had started, and on entering heard the same voice she had listened to before, say,—

"Betty Bleecker's account is squared. Let a receipted bill be given her; advise her to run up no more accounts, and send her home."

At these words Betty wept afresh, but not now from sorrow, but from gladness at the thought of returning home. And before she could even realize it, she was standing beside Mr. Bombus again, with something in her hand which she clutched tightly and which proved to be a signed receipt for her debt to By-and-by. Then she heard her companion say,—

"Like to look about a bit before you leave? By-and-by's a busy place; don't you think so?"

And Betty replied promptly, "Oh, no, sir—yes, sir—not at all, sir—if you please, sir;" quite too frantic at the thought of having to go back, even for a moment, to answer the questions.

But all the while she was very angry with Mr. Bombus for bringing her there, quite forgetting she had pleaded with him to do so; and his smiling at her in that very superior fashion provoked her sadly, and she began upbraiding him, between her sobs and tears, for his unkindness and severity.

"It would only have been harder in the end," replied her companion, calmly. "Now you 've paid them and can take care not to run up any more debts; for, mark my words, you 'll have to square your account every time, and the longer it runs the worse it will be. Nothing in the world, in the way of responsibility, ever goes scot-free. You have to pay in one way or another for everything you do or leave undone, and the sooner you know it the better."

Betty was sobbing harder than ever, and when she thought she caught a triumphant gleam in Mr. Bombus's eyes and heard him humming in an aggravating undertone, "In the Sweet By-and-by," she could restrain herself no longer, but raised her hand and struck him a sounding blow. Instantly she was most deeply repentant, and would have begged his pardon; but as she turned to address him, his cocked hat flew off, his legs doubled up under him, his eyes rolled madly, and then with a fierce glare at her he roared in a voice of thunder: "BET-TY!"

And there she was in the soft grass-heap, sobbing with fright and clutching tightly in her hand a fistful of straw; while yonder in the wistaria-vine a humble-bee was settling, and a voice from the house was heard calling her name:

"Betty! BET-TY!"