“The wind is blowing North,” crowed Bill, disconsolately following the direction of the smoke as it curled up Grampa’s chimney. “If I see this wizard I’ll fall on his head. I’ll give him a peck in the eye, five pecks, but say!” Bill paused in his circling and swooped down upon the old soldier. “How about the medicine?” Grampa and Tatters had forgotten all about the wizard’s green bottle, but at Bill’s words the old soldier drew it quickly from his pocket.
“I don’t believe there’s any cure for chimneys,” puffed Grampa, running his finger anxiously down the list. He was so nervous that his hands shook. To tell the truth he expected to grow a flight of steps or a veranda any minute.
“Here, let me look,” begged Tatters, snatching the bottle from Grampa. But though there was everything on the green label from ear ache to lumbago, no mention was made of chimneys or bay windows at all.
“But it says ‘cure for everything,’” insisted Bill, perching stubbornly on Grampa’s shoulder.
“This is worse than a battle!” moaned Grampa, rolling up his eyes. “I’m poisoned, that’s what I am.”
“Poisoned!” cried Bill triumphantly. “Then find the cure for poison.” Hurriedly Tatters consulted the label. “For poison of any nature, two drops on the head,” directed the bottle. So while Urtha and Bill watched nervously, Tatters uncorked the bottle and let two drops of the magic liquid fall down Grampa’s chimney. There was a slight sizzle. Tatters rubbed his eyes and Bill gave a crow of delight. The chimney had melted and the bay window was gone and the gallant old soldier quite himself again. Urtha was so happy that she danced all the way round the golden bench and Grampa jumped up and ran to look at himself in a little pond.
“No worse for it,” mused the old soldier, stroking the top of his head tenderly and patting his belt with great satisfaction, “but that’s the last bite I’ll take in this garden.” As Grampa turned to go, a particularly bright little flower bed caught his attention. The flowers grew right before his eyes, dropped off their stems and were immediately succeeded by other ones. Even in the dim lantern light the old soldier could see that they were spelling out messages.
“Gorba will return to the garden at twelve o’clock.” This announcement bloomed gaily in red tulips, and while the old soldier was still staring at it in astonishment, the tulips faded away and another sentence formed in the bed:
Who stays all night shall leave here never,
He’ll be a lantern tree forever!