It's Your Fairy Tale, You Know

by Elizabeth Rhodes Jackson

HE SAW THE GIANT PASS THE WINDOW AGAIN

CHAPTER XIII
THE CAP OF THOUGHT

It was the Giant, thinking!

Wendell took a chance and jumped for the window. Just in time! As he landed on the porch roof, the window was slammed behind him. He went backwards down the trellis, and just before his eyes dropped below the level, he saw the Giant pass the window again, pursuing the scent, which doubtless still lingered. Spent and breathless though he was, fright urged the boy on, and he ran two blocks, then dropped under a tree in a garden and lay at full length on his back with the Cloak around him. He lay there a long while, slowly recovering from his terrible exhaustion and gradually getting his nerve back. At length he rose, took off and folded his Cloak, put on his cloth cap, which he had stuffed into his pocket on entering the Giant’s house, and walked on to the electric car. He had quite forgotten the Cap of Thought, which he was still wearing under his own cap,—and that single fact shows how dazed the encounter with the Giant had left him. But as soon as he got on the car, he was reminded of the Cap by the babel of thoughts that greeted him. The undercurrent was a low expressionless hum blending indistinctly from minds intent upon the newspapers; but other thoughts reached him clearly and stridently:—“If the stores aren’t closed, I’ll try to get some of that blue denim for Jackie’s overalls.” “If he does ask me to the next dance, I really think I ought to have a new pink georgette.” “I can’t account for that dollar—let me see, fifteen cents for the cigar, seventeen cents for the soda, that leaves sixty-eight and five”—. Above them all, one insistent thought reiterated, savagely, “If he calls me that again, I’ll show him where he gets off!”

Wendell was very anxious to examine the Cap of Thought more closely. The brief time that he had held it in his hands in the Giant’s house had been so crowded with other impressions that he had but an indistinct conception of his new treasure. He went straight to his room and took it off and was delighted with its beauty. At first sight it seemed to be made of gray cobwebs closely woven together into an almost colorless fabric, but in certain lights it looked as if woven of strands of glass in rainbow colors. As there was no one upstairs to try its magic properties on, Wendell decided to wear it in the library after dinner, and find out what his family was thinking about. He noticed in the glass, with great satisfaction, that the Cap took on the color of his own brown hair, so that it was barely visible.

There was a pleasant group in the library when he joined them after dinner. They were all very quiet. His mother was darning stockings, his father reading the Transcript and occasionally reading some item aloud, and his Latin School brother playing checkers with Cousin Virginia. Yet the room was filled, to Wendell’s sensitive consciousness, with a fine hum, as of conversation. He sat down quietly behind his mother, who had not heard him come in.

“And then,” she went on thinking, “he will step down from the stage, with everyone applauding wildly and saying, ‘Yes, that’s the one. That’s Wendell Cabot Bradford, the prize orator, the greatest public speaker Harvard has ever produced.’” Turning, she saw Wendell, gave him a loving smile, and wondered why he looked so red and uncomfortable.

He tried his father next, and was greatly interested to hear two trains of thought going on in his mind at once, one on the widening of State Street (the subject discussed in the editorial that he was reading), and the other apparently a memory of a telephone conversation he had held that afternoon with the head-master of Wendell’s school. He seemed to be turning over in his mind, while he read the editorial, the best method of introducing the subject under discussion into a conversation with Wendell; and as the subject under discussion had been the very painful one of Wendell’s low standing, Wendell decided to go to bed at once. He paused long enough to learn that his brother Otis’ thought had nothing to do with checkers, but was idly resting on a dimple in the cheek of a Dedham girl named Dorothy, whom Wendell had never heard of (but he treasured the name in memory for future diplomatic use); and that Cousin Virginia was thinking:—“Oh, to be in New York now the toddle’s there! Boston! Checkers!! Baked Beans!!! Antimacassars!!!! Silhouettes!!!!! Pantalettes!!!!!!! I shall die!”