It was too true. Every one lacked something. September had no wheat-ears. May mourned over her want of violets. November raged up and down, declaring that he must have a turkey. “And what do you think,” grumbled March, “the world is going to say, when we all come in docked after this ridiculous fashion? The tides will be wrong and the almanac-makers will tear their hair. The moon will go wandering about like a lunatic. And all because a little boy in the Black Forest couldn’t keep his hands out of what didn’t belong to him. Oh, fie! fie! wait till my turn comes! won’t I blow you about!”
And the Months clustered about poor Max, scolding, threatening, crying, till he didn’t know which way to look. He began to feel dreadfully ashamed of himself, especially as Thekla was sobbing as loudly as April, and imploring him to make amends. But he kept up a bold front.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think you’re very unreasonable. Time belongs to us all. I never had so much to myself before, and I mean to keep it unless you make it worth my while to give it up.”
“What shall we do?” cried July. “Shall we all make you a present? or tell you a story?” said November.
“Or sing you a song?” chanted May.
“No music, thank you,” answered Max. “Little Thekla here sings to me, and that is sweet enough. But if you each will make us a gift, and each tell us a story, I will restore the sand you are making such a fuss about. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”
“I won’t,” said January. “I’ll have nothing to do with it: I am finished, and have no favors to ask of anybody.”
The others, however, all cried, “Yes!” And so the bargain was struck. Each Month was to come in turn on the last night of the month before, tell a story, bring a present, and get his missing moments. With this agreement, they said good-by. April gave Thekla a kiss, and they went away. For a time their voices could be heard growing more and more distant in the forest, then all was silent again.
“Isn’t that splendid?” cried Max, exultingly.
“It’s very nice about the presents and stories,” answered Thekla; “but I can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken the moments, Max. It’s dreadful to think of your stealing any thing.”