When I Was a Little Girl

by Zona Gale

Now, since they had no pillows, Hazen took the picture-book which the princess had given him and made his pillow of that. And as soon as everything was quiet, and the Merry Lad and the talking bird were asleep and the pony was dozing at its picket, the princess’s picture-book began to talk to Hazen. I do not mean that it said words—it is a great mistake to think that everything that is said must be said in words—but it talked to him none the less, and better than with words. It showed him the princess in her blue gown sitting in the window-seat with her little blue slippers crossed. It showed him her face as she taught him about the sun and the world, and taught him her picture-book through. It reminded him that his page-boy’s dress was worn because, in his heart, he was her page. It brought back the picture of her standing at the window, with her hair partly brushed, to wave him a good-bye—“Now, good-bye,” he could hear her little voice. He remembered now that he had started out to find his fortune and to become wise, really good, loved, and beautiful. And lo, all this that he had done all day with the Merry Lad—was it helping him to any of these?

As soon as he knew this, he rose softly and, emptying his pockets of his share of the money earned that day, he laid it near the Merry Lad’s pillow, took the picture-book, and slipped away.

The Merry Lad did not wake, but the talking bird stirred on his perch and called after him: “Stay where you are! Stay where you are!” And the words seemed to echo in Hazen’s head and were repeated there as if another voice had said them, and while he hesitated at the door of the tent, he knew what that other voice was: It was within his head indeed, and it was the voice of that breezy little Self, all merry and fluffy and light as lace—the Fun Self itself!

And then he knew that all day long that was the voice that he had been obeying when he went with the Merry Lad, and all day long that Self had been guiding him, and had been his ruler. And he himself had not been king of the Selves at all!

Hazen slipped out into the night and ran as fast as he could. Nearly all that night he travelled without stopping, lest when day came the Merry Lad should overtake him. And when day did come, Hazen found himself far away, and passing the gate of a garden where, in the dawn, a youth was walking, reading a book. Him Hazen asked if he might come in the garden and rest for a little.

This Bookman, who was pleasant and gentle and seemed half dreaming, welcomed him in, and gave him fruit to eat, and Hazen fell asleep in the arbour. When he awoke, the Bookman sat beside him, still reading, and seeing that the boy was awake, he began reading to him.

He read a wonderful story about the elements of which everything in the world is made. He read that they are a great family of more than seventy, and so magically arranged that they make a music, done in octaves like the white keys of a piano. So that a man, if he is skilful, can play with these octaves as he might with octaves of sound, and with a thousand variations can make what he will, and almost play for himself a strain of the heavenly harmony in which things began. You see what wonderful music that would be? Hazen saw, and he could not listen enough.

Until dark he was in the garden, eating fruit and listening; and the Bookman, seeing how he loved to listen, asked him if he would not stay on in the garden, and live there awhile. And without stopping to think whether his fortune lay that way, Hazen said that he would stay.

Everything that the Bookman read to him was like magic, and it taught Hazen to do wonderful things. For example, he learned marvellous ways with sentences and with words. The Bookman showed him how to get inside of words, as if they had doors, so that Hazen could look from out the words that were spoken almost as if they had been little boxes, and he inside. The Bookman showed him how to look behind the words on a page and to see how different they seemed that way. He would say a sentence, and instantly it would become solid, and he would set it up, and Hazen could hang to it, or turn upon it like a turning-bar. It was all great sport. For sentences were not the only things with which he could juggle. He showed Hazen how to think a thing and have that become solid in the air, too. Just as one might think, “Now I will plant my garden,” and presently there the garden is, solid; or, “Now I will get my lesson,” and presently, sure enough, there the lesson is, in one’s head, so the Bookman taught Hazen to do with nearly all his thoughts, making many and many of them into actions or else into a solid, so that it could be handled as a garden can.

And at last, one night, Hazen thought of the Princess Vista, hoping that that thought would become solid too, and that the princess would be there before him, for he wished very much to see her. But it did not do so, and he asked the Bookman the reason.