But the oldest and wisest of the merchants, they who had talked with Prince Badfellah the same morning, whispered together, and gathered round the Brokah whose bond the Prince Bulleboye had torn up. “Hark ye,” said they, “our brother the Prince Bulleboye is cunning as a jackal. What bosh is this about ruining himself to save thee? Such a thing was never heard before in the bazaars. It is a trick, O thou mooncalf of a Brokah! Dost thou not see that he has heard good news from his godmother, the same that was even now told us by the Prince Badfellah, his confederate, and that he would destroy thy bond for fifty thousand sequins because his stokh is worth a hundred thousand! Be not deceived, O too credulous Brokah! for this that our brother the prince doeth is not in the name of Allah, but of Biz, the only god known in the bazaars of the city.”
When the foolish Brokah heard these things he cried, “Justice, Aga of the Brokahs,—justice and the fulfillment of my bond! Let the prince deliver unto me the stokh. Here are my fifty thousand sequins.” But the prince said, “Have I not told thee that my godmother is dying, and that my stokh is valueless?” At this the Brokah only clamored the more for justice and the fulfillment of his bond. Then the Aga of the Brokahs said, “Since the bond is destroyed, behold thou hast no claim. Go thy ways!” But the Brokah again cried, “Justice, my lord Aga! Behold, I offer the prince seventy thousand sequins for his stokh!” But the prince said, “It is not worth one sequin!” Then the Aga said, “Bismillah! I cannot understand this. Whether thy godmother be dead, or dying, or immortal, does not seem to signify. Therefore, O prince, by the laws of Biz and Allah, though art released. Give the Brokah thy stokh for seventy thousand sequins, and bid him depart in peace. On his own head be it!” When the prince heard this command, he handed the stokh to the Brokah, who counted out to him seventy thousand sequins. But the heart of the virtuous prince did not rejoice, nor did the Brokah when he found his stokh was valueless; but the merchants lifted their hands in wonder at the sagacity and wisdom of the famous Prince Bulleboye. For none would believe that it was the law of Allah that the prince followed, and not the rules of Biz.
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT
A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS
It was the Christmas season in California,—a season of falling rain and springing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds and flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death and resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay a joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places. There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields the farmer’s ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens which decorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows, as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.
“Now,” said the doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him, “I want it distinctly understood before I begin my story, that I am not to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shall stop. At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose of castor-oil all round. The boy that moves his legs or arms will be understood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me, and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise?”
“Yes, sir,” said six small voices simultaneously. The volley was, however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.
“Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword. Flora shall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest. Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little; there, that will do—just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody! The boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of the room.”
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside and nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the pockets of her little apron, put her arm upon the doctor’s shoulder, and permitted herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathen page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christmas revels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was at once sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on the mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like peace of the apartment,—a peace which held the odors of evergreens, new toys, cedar boxes, glue, and varnish in a harmonious combination that passed all understanding.