“She has gone to the City to meet Uncle Leonard and bring him here.”
Even as he said it the do-si-do cart rolled into the garden and out rushed all the children to greet the wonderful uncle who had commanded General Sherman’s army years and years ago. He laughed and got red, because he didn’t know why they were all so very glad to see him. They almost forgot Mother Dear, all excepting Liza, and she was too young, anyway, to care very much about soldiers and Generals and fighting for the Stars and Stripes.
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH FLIP TELLS MY FAVORITE STORY, AND
IF YOU DO NOT LIKE IT VERY MUCH, FLIP
KNOWS SOMEONE WHO WILL
“Smudge was asleep; very peacefully asleep for so huge a personage.”
“What’s a personage?” asked Walter.
“A very important person. Now, don’t interrupt! Smudge was asleep at the sunset end of the valley. There was a bald spot on his head, all grey and cold, and grey spots climbing up him, and dark grey-blue corners that the firs shaded. You see, Smudge was the biggest mountain you can possibly imagine. About the feet of him grew oaks that were grey and they hid a very world of little folk. Smudge had sat at the sunset end of the valley for several years; ten thousand years, the owl says, and he knows. So, of course, there were many flower folks hiding about, for in all of the ten thousand years there had been many children born in the world beyond the valley and you, Butterfly, and everyone else knows that every time a child creature is born in the world beyond the valley there is another flower creature, sometimes a gloriously bold California poppy, more often a rather silly little violet, born in the flower world. As I told you, Smudge, all grey and cold, was sleeping at the sunset end of the valley. As he slept, a bird, somewhere in the trees, piped a morning song. Smudge shivered and a cool, shivery breeze came through the groves. Again the tree creature piped and then the stupid bald spot of grey on Smudge’s nice old head took on a strange flush. As he flushed the sky in the other end of the valley grew the color of a baby rose; the grass in the valley stirred, and a rabbit-person with an adorable bunch of white cotton for a tail sat up and cocked two pink ears. And Smudge, sleepy, ten-thousand-year-old Smudge, yawned, and his stirring sent a family of meadow larks dancing into the grey sky. They sang a song, all golden and gay, and the grey-pink sky grew golden, and the fir tops blushed and ripples of crimson laughter skipped on the silver-grey stream in the valley. The Poppy folk bestirred themselves and stretched wide their arms; the boldest of the violets peered above the frail maidenhair and a Brown-Eyed-Susan sat up to greet Smudge. And lazy Smudge slept on. But the morning would not have it so; down from the bald spot and over the lazy creature’s body crept the dawn-flush, painting bits of red below his eyes and golden tan in the many-year-old wrinkles; the beard of cypress trees shook out their branches and the stream that danced about Smudge’s mouth became boisterously happy. And STILL Smudge slept.
“Out of the pussy willows, with a flutter of wings, came a butterfly-person, so very yellow that the glow that was the sun hid in dismay for a moment—only a moment—behind a copper cloud. Up to the heights darted the butterfly, a spot of gold against the huge mountain of grey-pink. It soared and danced an undignified minuet, then floated down and tickled Smudge on the lips, and Smudge smiled in his sleep. The golden butterfly snapped its eyes, for it was very much provoked; up into the sky of blue it went again and flitted its wings, then came down and again tickled the old creature, this time, most wisely, on the nostril, and, just as you might expect, Smudge sneezed and woke up.
“Then it was very wonderful—it came like a wondrous burst of love music. The sun poured over the world and all the Flower folk and bird creatures and every rabbit and field mouse and worm danced out into the morning sunshine and sang a lovely morning prayer that I, stupid creature, have forgotten every word of. Smudge grunted and wiped the sleep from his eyes and grinned and saw the golden yellowbird butterfly.
“‘Good morning, Loveliness,’ said Smudge.