Dreamland

by Julie M. Lippmann

WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL.

It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it is— But to go back.

The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no one had paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with long gray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly to and fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and his back was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fell forward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow. He carried a basket upon one arm, and a cane with a crook for a handle hung upon the other. He seemed very patient, for he was waiting, unmurmuringly, for some one to come in answer to the ring he had given the area-bell some fifteen minutes before. No one came, and he appeared to be considering whether to ring again or go away, when Lionel skipped nimbly from his chair by the drawing-room window, slipped noiselessly down the basement stairs, and opened the area-door just in time to prevent the beggar from taking his departure.

"What do you want, sir?" inquired Lionel, politely, through the tall iron gate.

The beggar turned around at the sound of the child's voice, and replied:

"I have come to beg—"

"Oh, yes, I know," cried Lionel, hurriedly (he was afraid some one might come, and then he would be snatched unceremoniously away from the open door, and the beggar sent smartly about his business by one of the pert-tongued maids); "but is it for cold victuals or money?"

The beggar looked down at the little lad, and a smile, half of pity, half of amusement, lit up his grave features for a moment. "I have come to beg," he said slowly, "that you will receive from me, not that you will give to me."

Lionel's eyes widened with amazement. "That I will receive from you?" he repeated slowly. "Then you are n't a beggar at all?"

"Most assuredly I am," responded the old man, promptly. "Do I not beg of you? What is a beggar? 'One who begs or entreats earnestly or with humility; a petitioner.' That is how your dictionary has it. It does n't say for what he begs or entreats. Where I come from things are so different,—there it is a mark of distinction, I can assure you, to be a beggar. One must have lived such a long life of poverty and self-sacrifice before one is permitted to beg—to beg others to receive one's benefits. Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Yes, it must be," assented Lionel. "Here beggars are just persons who go about and ask for cold bits or pennies; and we don't think much of them at all."

"That is because they are not the right kind of almsfolk, nor you the right kind of almoners," responded the beggar; and then he repeated: "Ah, yes, there it is so different!"

"Where?" inquired Lionel. "Won't you tell me about it?"

"Dear child," replied the beggar, gently, "it can't be described. It must be seen to be appreciated. If you once entered into that estate, you would never wish to return to this."

"Is it as nice as all that?" questioned Lionel, eagerly. "Guess I 'll go, then. Will you take me ?" he asked.

The beggar smiled down at him kindly. "I can't take you, dear boy," he said. "I have to travel on. But I can set you on the road, and you will reach there in safety if you follow my directions."

Lionel waited breathlessly for the beggar to continue; but the man almost seemed to have forgotten his existence, for he was gazing dreamily over his head into the darkness of the hallway, apparently seeing nothing but what was in his own mind's eye.

"Well?" asked Lionel, a little impatiently. "You were going to give me the directions, you know."

"Oh, yes!" returned the beggar, with a slight start. "Well, the directions are: Always turn to the right!"

Lionel considered a moment, and then he said: "But if I always turn to the right I should n't get anywhere at all. I 'd be only going round and round."

"No, no!" replied the beggar, hastily; "you must always go square, you know. And you 'll find you 'll get along beautifully if you always keep to the right."

"But s'pose," suggested Lionel, "I come to a place where the road is to the left,—some of the roads might be not to the right,—some might go quite the other way."

"Yes," assented the beggar, wistfully. "They all go the other way,—that is, they seem to go the other way. But when they seem to go to the wrong and you don't see any that go to the right, just keep as near to the right as you can, and by and by you 'll see one and it will be lovely. But if you turn down to the wrong, you run a chance of losing your way entirely. It is always so much harder to go back."

"But are those all the directions you are going to give me?" inquired
Lionel, with a doubtful glance.

"They are sufficient," replied the beggar. "You 'll find them sufficient;" and before Lionel could say another word the beggar had vanished from before his very eyes. He had not slipped away, nor slunk away, nor walked away, nor sped away,—he had simply vanished; and Lionel was left alone behind the grated door of the area-way gazing out upon a vacant space of pavement where, an instant before, the beggar had stood. The little boy rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, the beggar was gone, in very truth, and had left not so much as a rag behind him. But, look! what was that? Something lay upon the stone step just outside the gate, and it gleamed brightly from out its dusky corner. Lionel reached up and unlatched the heavy fastening. The great gate swung slowly in, and Lionel stepped briskly out. He bent down and grasped the shining object; it proved to be a little rule, and it was made of solid gold. He clasped it to his bosom.

"How beautiful!" he murmured. "Now I can measure things and carve them with my jack-knife, and they 'll be just exactly right. Before they have n't been quite straight, and when I 'd try to put the parts together they wouldn't fit; but now—"

And then suddenly the thought flashed across his mind: "Perhaps it belongs to the beggar and he might want it;" and without a moment's thought to his bare head, he passed quickly through the gateway and out into the street.

"It's such a beautiful rule," he thought, as he flew along. "I never saw such a darling. If it were mine, how I should hate to lose it! I must certainly find him and give it back to him; for I know he must feel just as I should if it were mine."

It never entered into his head to keep the thing; his one idea seemed to be to find the beggar and return to him his property. But before very long his breath began to come in gasps, and he found himself panting painfully and unable to run any farther. He paused and leaned against the huge newel-post at the foot of some one's outer steps. His cheeks were aglow, his eyes flashing, his thick curls rough and tumbled, and his bang in fine disorder. The deep embroidered cuffs and collar upon his blouse were crushed and rumpled; his little Zouave jacket was wind-blown and dusty, and his pumps splashed with mud from the gutter-puddles through which he had run. At home they would have said he "looked like distress;" but here, leaning wearily against the post, he was a most picturesque little figure.

Suddenly he felt a light touch upon his head, and then his bang was brushed back from his temples as though by the stroke of some kindly hand. He looked up, and there beside him stood the oddest-looking figure he had ever seen.

The stranger was clad from head to foot in a suit of silver gray. Upon his head he wore a peaked cap, upon his feet were the longest and most pointed of buskins; his doublet and hose were silver gray, and over his shoulders hung a mantle about which was a jagged border made after the most fantastic design, which shone and glittered like ice in sunlight. About his hips was a narrow girdle from which hung a sheathed dagger whose hilt was richly studded with clear, white crystals that looked to Lionel like the purest of diamonds.

Lionel felt that when he spoke it would probably be after some old-century fashion which he could scarcely understand; but there he was mistaken, for when the stranger addressed him, it was in the most modern manner and with great kindliness.

"Well, my son," he said cheerily, "tired out? I saw you run. You have a fine pair of heels. They have good speed in them."

"I wanted to catch up with someone,—an old beggar-man who lost something in our area-way. I wanted to return it to him," explained Lionel, breathlessly.

The stranger gazed down at him more kindly than ever. "So? But one can't expect to catch up with folks when one gets winded and has to stop every now and then for breath. Better try my mode."

"Please, sir, what is your mode?" inquired Lionel, with his politest manner.

"To begin with," explained his companion, "I have to accomplish the most astonishing feats in the manner of speed. Literally I have to travel so fast that I am in two places at once. You will the better believe me when I tell you who I am,—Jack Frost, at your service, sir. Now, by what means do you think I manage it ?"

"I 'm sure I don't know. I should like immensely to find out," Lionel returned.

"How do you get to places yourself?" inquired Jack Frost. "Do you always run?"

"Oh, no, indeed. I almost always ride on my bicycle. Then I can go like anything, 'specially down coasts. Upgrades are kind of hard sometimes, but not so very. Oh, I can go quick enough when I have my bicycle."

"Now then," broke in Jack Frost, "you use a bicycle,—that is, a machine having two wheels. Now I use a something having but one wheel; consequently it goes twice as fast,—oh! much more than twice as fast."

"One wheel?" repeated Lionel, thoughtfully; "seems to me I never heard of that kind of an one."

"Suppose you guess," proposed Jack Frost. "I 'll put it in the form of a conundrum: If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, what would a thing having but one be called?"

"Oh, that's an old one. I 've heard that before, and the answer is, a wheelbarrow, you know."

Jack Frost shook his head, "I see I shall have to tell you," he said. "If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, a thing having but one would naturally be an _i_cicle. Of course you might have known I should use an icicle."

"But oh, Mr. Frost," objected Lionel, "I never saw an icicle with a wheel in my life, and I never saw one go either."

"That's because you have n't seen me on one; and even if you had seen me on one, you wouldn't have known it,—we travel so fast. Did you ever notice that when things are going at the very rapidest rate possible, they seem to be standing perfectly still? That's the way with icicles. They have tremendous speed in them. They go so fast you can't realize it, and then when they are slowing up they don't do it with a clumsy jerk as bicycles do; they just gradually melt out of sight."

"Yes, I 've seen them do that. I 've seen them go that way," admitted Lionel. "But will you take me to the beggar? I'm 'fraid I sha'n't be able to give him his rule if I don't hurry up."

"But do you know in what direction he went?" asked Jack Frost. "If one wants to catch up with any one, one needs to have some idea of the direction he took. It's quite a desideratum,—when you get home, look that up."

Then Lionel felt deeply mortified. "What a silly I was!" he said. "Perhaps I was going just the opposite way from the one he went. Oh, dear! how can I ever give him back his rule? It is such a beauty. If it had been mine, I 'd just hate to lose it."

"Let us examine it," suggested Jack Frost, "and see if there is any sign upon it that would help to discover its owner;" and without a moment's doubt or hesitation Lionel drew it from his pocket and held it up for Jack Frost to see.

Then for a little space they both gazed at it carefully; Jack Frost bending down his tall head to get a nearer view of it, and Lionel standing upon the tips of his toes to accomplish the same purpose.

"Oh, see, see!" cried the boy, joyously. "It says, 'LIONEL,—HIS RULE FOR LIFE.' That means I can keep it for always, does n't it? Forever 'n' ever."

"It means," explained Jack Frosty gravely, "that you can keep it,—yes. But it means you are to measure your life with it. You are always to use it in everything you do. Then you 'll be true, and whatever you do will be straight and square."

"Why, that's what he said himself. He said I must always 'go square.' That was when he was giving me directions how to reach the beautiful place he came from. He called it an estate; and he said if I ever got there I 'd never want to come away. As long as I 'm on the way I guess I 'll try to find that place. Will you take me?"

"I 'm afraid," replied Jack Frost, with a very kindly seriousness,—"I 'm afraid one must depend on one's self in order to reach that place. But I 'll tell you what I will do; I 'll stay with you for a bit, and, perhaps, having company will hearten you, so if you happen to come across any specially bad places just at first, you won't be discouraged. And I want to tell you that if you are ever in doubt as to the way and no one is there to give you advice, just set yourself to work and use your rule and you 'll come out right. Now don't forget!" and with these words he vanished.

"Why, I thought he was going to stay with me," murmured Lionel, despondently. "He was so jolly, and I liked him so much. He said he wouldn't leave me just yet—"

"Nor have I," rejoined the hearty voice close by his ear. "But I can't neglect my business, you know; and at this moment I 'm here and 'way off in Alaska too. Stiff work, is n't it?"

But in spite of this Lionel heard him whistling cheerily beside him.

The boy trudged on, and every once in a while he and his invisible comrade would converse together in the most friendly manner possible, and Lionel did indeed feel encouraged by the knowledge of Jack Frost's companionship. But by and by, after quite a long time, Lionel noticed that when he addressed his unseen fellow-traveller the voice that came to him in reply seemed rather far away and distant, and later became lost to him altogether.

Then he knew that Jack Frost had left him for a season, and he felt quite lonely and deserted and was about to drop a tear or two of regret, when all at once, at his very feet, opened a new way which he had not noticed before. It looked bright and inviting, and wound along in the most picturesque fashion, instead of lying straight and level before him, as did the road from which it branched.

He was just about to turn down this fascinating side-path, and was in the very act of complaining about his loneliness and bemoaning it aloud, when he happened to notice that the sky looked a little overcast; the air had grown heavy and still, and a strange, sad hush brooded over everything; while the bare branches upon the trees appeared to droop, and the one or two birds that had perched upon them uttered low, plaintive little sounds that were disheartening to hear.

Lionel was struck with so great an awe that he entirely forgot himself and his sorrow; and in that one moment the skies seemed to brighten, the air to lighten, and the trees and birds had grown songful again.

"What does it mean?" he asked himself anxiously; and then, all at once, he bethought himself of Jack Frost's advice in case he ever was in doubt as to the course he was to take, and in a twinkling had whipped out his rule and was down on his knees applying it in good earnest. Then how glad he was that he had not turned into the inviting by-path, for his little rule showed how crooked and wrong it was,—whole yards and yards away from the right; and he knew he must have met with some mishap, or at the very least have wasted any amount of precious time trying to retrace his steps and regain the place upon which he now stood.

He was so relieved to think he had been saved from making such a sad mistake that he began to whistle merrily, and in an instant the whole world about him was bright of hue and joyous again, and looking, he saw, to his amazement, that the bare branches were abud.

"It's spring," he cried happily, and leaped along his way toward the right. In a flash the tempting little by-path had curled up like a scroll and disappeared from view; and then Lionel knew that it had not been real at all, but only imaginary, and he was more grateful than ever that he had not followed its lead.

"Now, you good little rule," said he, addressing the shining object in his hand, "I 'll put you in my breast-pocket and keep you safe and warm next to my heart. Then you 'll be ready if I want you again." And he was just about to thrust it in his bosom, when his eyes were caught by something unusual upon its surface, and on examining it very closely he saw, in exquisitely chased characters, the words,—

Nor sigh nor weep o'er thine own ills;
Such plaining earth with mourning fills.
Forget thyself, and thou shalt see
Thyself remembered blessedly.

For some time after he had read the lines he was plunged in thought. They seemed to teach him a lesson that it took him some little time to learn.

"I don't know why it should make the world sad if one complains," he mused. "But I s'pose it does. I s'pose one has n't any right to make things unpleasant for other people by crying about things. One ought to be brave and not bother folks with one's troubles. Well, I 'll try not to do so any more, because if it's going to make things so unpleasant it can't be right."

And this last word seemed to link in his mind his escape from the complaint of his loneliness and the by-path down which he did not turn; and he was so long trying to unravel the mystery of the connection that before he knew it he had almost stumbled into quite a bog, and there, in front of him, sat a wee child,—just where two roads met,—and he had well-nigh run over her in his carelessness.

"Oh, bother!" said he,—for he was irritated at the thought of having only so narrowly escaped doing himself serious damage,—"what do you get in a fellow's way for? You—" But the poor little mite gazed up at him so sadly, and wept so piteously at his hasty words that he paused suddenly and did not go on.

He looked down the two paths. The one was wide and curving, the other narrow and straight; the one was bordered with rich foliage, the other was bare and sandy. He might have run lightly along the one, he would have to toil wearisomely along the other. What wonder that his foot was turning in the direction of the first! But a queer pricking in his bosom and the child's cry stopped him.

He slowly drew forth his rule and began to measure, while the little one sobbed,—

"I 'm so told I tan't walt any more. My foots are all tired out, and I want sumpin to eat;" and there he found himself just on the verge of making a fearful blunder. He got up from his knees and turning to the tiny maid, said kindly,—

"There, there! don't cry, dear! We 'll fix you all right;" and he stripped off his jacket and wrapped it about her, taking her in his arms, and trudging on with his burden along the more difficult way. But it was the right one, and he knew it; and so his heart was light, and he did not have time to think of his own weariness; for all the time he was trying to comfort his forlorn little companion. And so well he succeeded that in no time at all she was asleep on his shoulder. Then he sat down by the roadside, and holding her still in his arms, began to think.

"There I was a little while ago complaining—no, not quite complaining, but almost—because I hadn't anybody to keep me company. Now I 've got somebody with a vengeance. She's awful heavy. But, oh, dear! what a narrow escape I had! I might have run into that bog, and that would have been a 'pretty how d 'ye do,' as Sarah says. I was so busy thinking I forgot everything, and ran almost over little Sissy; and that shows, I s'pose, how without meaning it one can hurt somebody if one does n't look out."

And then, very carefully, so as not to wake his sleeping charge, he slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out his rule again.

"What a good friend you are!" he said to it. "I really think you 're better than any sword or poniard a body could have. You 've saved me from danger twice now, and—" But here he stared at it in dumb surprise, for even as he looked he saw appear upon its polished surface the words,—

Deep is the bog in which they sink
Who ne'er on others' sorrow think;
Deeper the joy in which they rest
Who 've served the weary and distressed.

And, sure enough, he felt so happy he could have sung aloud in spite of his weariness and fatigue.

But I could not begin to tell you of all his experiences, nor how unfailingly his little rule helped him to meet them successfully.

He thought a great deal about it and its magical power; but once or twice he did get to wondering why it should point to the straight path when the winding one was so much the prettier to see.

"Are the right ways always the ones we should n't take if we had our own way?" he thought. "Why is it that the right one always seems not so pretty as the other? Seems to me some one told me once that the curved lines were 'the lines of beauty.'" But before he had time fairly to consider the subject, his rule, which he happened to be holding in his hand, showed him this little verse,—

"Straight is the line of duty,
Curved is the line of beauty;
Follow th' one and thou shalt see
The other ever following thee."

And this was always the way. Whenever Lionel was puzzled about anything, his rule always made it clear to him. And by and by, after he had met with all sorts of adventures, he began to wonder whether he was ever going to see the beggar again or reach his wonderful estate.

It was on a very beautiful day that he wondered this, and he was more than a little happy because he had just been applying his rule to unusually good effect, when, lo! there beside him stood the subject of his thoughts. But oh! how changed he was!

Every rag upon him glowed and shimmered with a wondrous lustre, and the staff he carried blazed with light, while the basket upon his arm overflowed with the most beautiful blessings.

"I thought," said the new-comer, "that I might risk giving you this encouragement. It will not make you content to go no farther on now. It will make you long to strive for greater good ahead. You will not reach it until you have travelled a lifetime; but you will not despair, for you are being so blessed. I have been permitted to give you a great gift. It is for that I was begging you that day. See, what a privilege it is to be able to beg so—"

"Oh, yes," cried Lionel; "you were going to beg me to accept the little rule, were n't you? And you left it for me when you disappeared, and it is a beauty, and it is gold, and it does strange, wonderful things for me, and—and—" In his enthusiasm he drew it from his breast and held it up, when, lo! it curved about his hand until it formed a perfect, beautiful circle. From its shining rim shot up points of radiance, and it was no more a simple little rule, but a golden crown fit for a king to wear.

Lionel gazed at it in mute wonderment, and the beggar put out his hand and touched it lovingly.

"When your journey is done you shall wear it, lad," he said; and then
Lionel closed his eyes for very ecstasy, and then—

But when extraordinary things are just on the point of getting too extraordinary, they are sure to meet with some sort of an interruption, and after that they are quite ordinary and every-day again. So when Lionel opened his eyes there he was curled up in the chair by the drawing-room window, and it had grown very dark and must have been late, for one of the maids was tripping softly about the room, lighting the lamps and singing as she did it.