Books by Joel Chandler Harris.

NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.

MINGO, AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.

BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, AND OTHER SKETCHES. 16mo, $1.25.

UNCLE REMUS AND HIS FRIENDS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.

LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER AND HIS QUEER COUNTRY. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

Boston and New York.

BROTHER LION WATCHED ME. Page [158]

MR. RABBIT AT HOME

A SEQUEL TO

Little Mr. Thimblefinger and his Queer Country

BY

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

1895

Copyright, 1894 and 1895,

By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

Copyright, 1895,

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.

Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MR. RABBIT AT HOME.

I.
BUSTER JOHN ALARMS MR. RABBIT.

When Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla returned home after their first visit to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, a curious thing happened. The children had made a bargain to say nothing about what they had seen and heard, but one day, when there was nobody else to hear what she had to say, Sweetest Susan concluded to tell her mother something about the visit she had made next door to the world. So she began and told about the Grandmother of the Dolls, and about Little Mr. Thimblefinger, and all about her journey under the spring. Her mother paid no attention at first, but after awhile she became interested, and listened intently to everything her little daughter said. Sometimes she looked serious, sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she laughed. Sweetest Susan couldn’t remember everything, but she told enough to astonish her mother.

“Darling, when did you dream such nonsense as that?” the lady asked.

“Oh, it wasn’t a dream, mamma,” cried Sweetest Susan. “I thought it was a dream at first, but it turned out to be no dream at all. Now, please don’t ask brother about it, and please don’t ask Drusilla, for we promised one another to say nothing about it. I didn’t intend to tell you, but I forgot and began to tell you before I thought.”

A little while afterward Sweetest Susan’s mother was telling her husband about the wonderful imagination of their little daughter, and then the neighbors got hold of it, and some of the old ladies put their heads together over their teacups and said it was a sign that Sweetest Susan was too smart to stay in this world very long.

One day, while Drusilla was helping about the house, Sweetest Susan’s mother took occasion to ask her where she and the children went the day they failed to come to dinner.

“We wuz off gettin’ plums, I speck,” replied Drusilla.

“Why, there were no plums to get,” said the lady.

“Well, ’m, ef ’t wa’n’t plums, hit must ’a’ been hick’y nuts,” explained Drusilla.

“Hickory nuts were not ripe, stupid.”

“Maybe dey wa’n’t,” said Drusilla stolidly; “but dat don’t hinder we chilluns from huntin’ ’em.”

“You know you didn’t go after hickory nuts, Drusilla,” the lady insisted. “Now I want you to tell me where you and the children went. I’ll not be angry if you tell me, but if you don’t”—

Drusilla could infer a good deal from the tone of the lady’s voice, but she shook her head.

“Well, ’m,” she said, “we went down dar by de spring, an’ down dar by de spring branch, an’ all roun’ down dar. Ef we warn’t huntin’ plums ner hick’y nuts, I done fergot what we wuz huntin’.”

Drusilla seemed so much in earnest that the lady didn’t push the inquiry, but when she went into another room for a moment, the negro girl looked after her and remarked to herself:—

“I done crossed my heart dat I wouldn’t tell, an’ I ain’t gwine ter. Ef I wuz ter tell, she wouldn’t b’lieve me, an’ so dar ’t is!”

Sweetest Susan was careful to say nothing to Buster John and Drusilla about the slip of the tongue that caused her to tell her mother about their adventures in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country; but she didn’t feel very comfortable when Drusilla told how she had been questioned by her mistress.

“Ef somebody ain’t done gone an’ tol’ ’er,” said Drusilla, “she got some mighty quare notions in ’er head.”

Buster John, who had ideas of his own, ignored all this, and said he was going to put an apple in the spring the next day and watch for Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Well, ef you gwine down dar any mo’,” remarked Drusilla, “you kin des count me out, kaze I ain’t gwine ’long wid you. I’m one er deze yer kind er quare folks what know pine blank when dey done got nuff. I been shaky ever since we went down in dat ar place what wa’n’t no place.”

“You will go,” said Buster John.

“Huh! Don’t you fool yo’self, honey! You can’t put no ’pen’ence in a skeer’d nigger.”

“If you don’t go, you’ll wish you had,” said Buster John.

“How come?” asked Drusilla.

“Wait and see,” replied Buster John.

The next morning, bright and early, Buster John put an apple in the spring. He watched it float around for awhile, and then his attention was attracted to something else, and he ran away to see about it. Whatever it was, it interested him so much that he forgot all about the apple in the spring, and everything else likely to remind him of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

Buster John went away from the spring and left the apple floating there. No sooner had he gone than one of the house servants chanced to come along, and the apple was seized and appropriated. The result was that neither Mr. Thimblefinger nor Mrs. Meadows saw the signal.

Buster John, thinking the apple had remained in the spring for some hours, waited patiently for two or three days for Mr. Thimblefinger, but no Mr. Thimblefinger came. Finally the boy grew impatient, as youngsters sometimes do. He remembered that the bottom of the spring, with the daylight shining through, was the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, and he concluded to give Mrs. Meadows and the rest a signal that they couldn’t fail to see. So, one morning, after water had been carried to the house for the cook, and the washerwoman’s tubs had been filled, Buster John got him some short planks, carrying them to the spring one by one. These he placed across the top of the gum, or curb, close together, so as to shut out the light. Then he perched himself on a stump not far away, and watched to see what the effect would be. He knew he had the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country securely roofed in, and he laughed to himself as he thought of the predicament Mr. Rabbit would be in, dropping his pipe and hunting for it in the dark.

Buster John sat there a long time. Mandy, the washerwoman, got through with her task and went toward the house, balancing a big basket of wet clothes on her head and singing as she went. Sweetest Susan and Drusilla had grown tired of playing with the dolls, and were hunting all over the place for Buster John. They saw him presently, and came running toward him, talking and laughing. He shook his head and motioned toward the spring. They became quiet at once, and began to walk on their tiptoes. They seated themselves on the stump by Buster John’s side, and waited for him to explain himself.

Presently Sweetest Susan saw the boards over the spring. “Oh, what have you done?” she cried. “Why, you have shut out the light! They can’t see a wink. I don’t think that’s right; do you, Drusilla?”

“Don’t ax me, honey,” replied Drusilla. “I ain’t gwine ter git in no ’spute. Somebody done gone an’ put planks on de spring. Dar dey is, an’ dar dey may stay, fer what I keer. I hope dey er nailed down.”

“Please take the boards off,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.

“No,” said Buster John. “I put an apple in the spring the other day, and they paid no attention to it. Maybe they’ll pay some attention now.”

Suddenly, before anybody else could say anything, Drusilla screamed and rolled off the stump. Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought a bee had stung her. But it was not a bee. She had no sooner rolled from the stump than she sprang to her feet and cried out, “Dar he is! Look at ’im!”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan turned to look, and there, upon the stump beside them, stood Mr. Thimblefinger with his hat in hand, bowing and smiling as politely as you please.

“I hope you are well,” he said. Then he began to laugh, as he turned to Buster John. “You may think it is a great joke to come to the spring, but it’s no joke to me. I have had a very hard time getting here, but I just had to come. Mrs. Meadows thinks there is a total eclipse going on, and Mr. Rabbit has gone to bed and covered up his head.”

“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?”

“How did you get here?” asked Buster John.

“Through the big poplar yonder,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It is hollow from top to bottom, but it was so dark I could hardly find my way. The jay birds used to go down through the poplar every Friday until I put up the bars and shut them out. I had almost forgotten the road.”

“Well,” said Buster John, “I covered the spring so that you might know we hadn’t forgotten you. I dropped an apple in the other day, but you paid no attention to it.”

“I saw the apple,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it didn’t stay in the spring long. It disappeared in a few minutes.”

“Aha! I know!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Dat ar Minervy nigger got it. I seed her comin’ long eatin’ a apple, and I boun’ you she de ve’y nigger what got it.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It makes no difference now, and if you’ll get ready we’ll go now pretty soon.”

“Why, I thought you couldn’t go down through the spring until nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve,” suggested Buster John.

“The water gets wet or goes dry with the tide,” Mr. Thimblefinger explained. “To-day we shall have to go at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. It was nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve before, and now it is nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. Multiply nineteen by nineteen, add the answer together, and you get nothing but nines. You see we have to go by a system.” Mr. Thimblefinger was very solemn as he said this. “Now, then, come on. We haven’t any time to waste. When the nines get after us, we must be going. There are four of us now, but if we were to be multiplied by nine there would be nine of us, and nine is an odd number.”

“How would we be nine?” asked Buster John.

“It’s very simple,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Nine times four are thirty-six. Three and six stand for thirty-six, and six and three are nine.”

Buster John laughed as he ran to remove the boards from the spring. In a few moments they were all ready in spite of Drusilla’s protests, and at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine they walked through the spring gate into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

II.
WHERE THE THUNDER LIVES.

Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Rabbit, Chickamy Crany Crow, and Tickle-My-Toes were very glad to see the children, especially Mrs. Meadows, who did everything she could to make the youngsters feel that they had conferred a great obligation on her by coming back again.

“I’ll be bound you forgot to bring me the apple I told you about,” said she.

But Sweetest Susan had not forgotten. She had one in her pocket. It was not very large, but the sun had painted it red and yellow, and the south winds that kissed it had left it fragrant with the perfume of summer.

“Now, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “To think you should remember an old woman! You are just as good and as nice as you can be!” She thanked Sweetest Susan so heartily that Buster John began to look and feel uncomfortable,—seeing which, Mrs. Meadows placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Never mind,” said she, “boys are not expected to be as thoughtful as girls. The next time you come, you may bring me a hatful, if you can manage to think about it.”

“He might start wid ’em,” remarked Drusilla, “but ’fo’ he got here he’d set down an’ eat ’em all up, ter keep from stumpin’ his toe an’ spillin’ ’em.”

Buster John had a reply ready, but he did not make any, for just at that moment a low, rumbling sound was heard. It seemed to come nearer and grow louder, and then it died away in the distance.

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Meadows, in an impressive whisper.

“Thunder,” answered Mr. Rabbit, who had listened intently. “Thunder, as sure as you’re born.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I saw a cloud coming up next door, just before we came through the spring gate.”

“I must be getting nervous in my old age,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “I had an idea that it was too late in the season for thunder-storms.”

“That may be so,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it’s never too late for old man Thunder to rush out on his front porch and begin to cut up his capers. But there’s no harm in him.”

“But the Lightning kills people sometimes,” said Buster John.

“The Lightning? Oh, yes, but I was talking about old man Thunder,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “When I was a boy, I once heard of a little girl”—Mr. Thimblefinger suddenly put his hand over his mouth and hung his head, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

“Why, what in the world is the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “I simply forgot my manners.”

“I don’t see how,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, frowning.

“Why, I was about to tell a story before I had been asked.”

“Well, you won’t disturb me by telling a story, I’m sure,” said Mr. Rabbit. “I can nod just as well when some one is talking as when everything is still. You won’t pester me at all. Just go ahead.”

“Maybe it isn’t story-telling time,” suggested Mrs. Meadows.

“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Sweetest Susan. “If it is a story, please tell it.”

“Well, it is nothing but a plain, every-day story. After you hear it you’ll lean back in your chair and wonder why somebody didn’t take hold of it and twist it into a real old-fashioned tale. It’s old fashioned enough, the way I heard it, but I always thought that the person who heard it first must have forgotten parts of it.”

“We won’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger settled himself comfortably and began:—

“Once upon a time—I don’t know how long ago, but not very long, for the tale was new to me when I first heard it—once upon a time there was a little girl about your age and size who was curious to know something about everything that happened. She wanted to know how a bird could fly, and why the clouds floated, and she was all the time trying to get at the bottom of things.

“Well, one day when the sky was covered with clouds, the Thunder came rolling along, knocking at everybody’s door and running a race with the noise it made; the little girl listened and wondered what the Thunder was and where it went to. It wasn’t long before the Thunder came rumbling along again, making a noise like a four-horse wagon running away on a covered bridge.

“While the little girl was standing there, wondering and listening, an old man with a bundle on his back and a stout staff in his hand came along the road. He bowed and smiled when he saw the little girl, but as she didn’t return the bow or the smile, being too much interested in listening for the Thunder, he paused and asked her what the trouble was.

“‘I hope you are not lost?’ he said.

“‘Oh, no, sir,’ she replied; ‘I was listening for the Thunder and wondering where it goes.’

“‘Well, as you seem to be a very good little girl,’ the old man said, ‘I don’t mind telling you. The Thunder lives on top of yonder mountain. It is not so far away.’

“‘Oh, I should like ever so much to go there!’ exclaimed the little girl.

“‘Why not?’ said the old man. ‘The mountain is on my road, and, if you say the word, we’ll go together.’

“The little girl took the old man’s hand and they journeyed toward the mountain where the Thunder had his home. The way was long, but somehow they seemed to go very fast. The old man took long strides forward, and he was strong enough to lift the little girl at every step, so that when they reached the foot of the mountain she was not very tired.

“But, as the mountain was very steep and high, the two travelers stopped to rest themselves before they began to climb it. Its sides seemed to be rough and dark, but far up on the topmost peak the clouds had gathered, and from these the Lightning flashed incessantly. The little girl saw the flashes and asked what they meant.

“‘Wherever the Thunder lives,’ replied the old man, ‘there the Lightning builds its nest. No doubt the wind has blown the clouds about and torn them apart and scattered them. The Lightning is piling them together again, and fixing a warm, soft place to sleep to-night.’

“When they had rested awhile, the old man said it was time to be going, and then he made the little girl climb on his back. At first she didn’t want the old man to carry her; but he declared that she would do him a great favor by climbing on his back and holding his bundle in place. So she sat upon the bundle, and in this way they went up the high mountain, going almost as rapidly as the little girl could run on level ground. She enjoyed it very much, for, although the old man went swiftly, he went smoothly, and the little girl felt as safe and as comfortable as if she had been sitting in a rocking-chair.

“When they had come nearly to the top of the mountain, the old man stopped and lifted the little girl from his back. ‘I can go no farther,’ he said. ‘The rest of the way you will have to go alone. There is nothing to fear. Up the mountain yonder you can see the gable of the Thunder’s house. Go to the door, knock, and do not be alarmed at any noise you hear. When the time comes for you to go, you will find me awaiting you here.’

“The little girl hesitated, but she had come so far to see where the Thunder lived that she would not turn back now. So she went forward, and soon came to the door of Mr. Thunder’s house. It was a very big door to a very big house. The knocker was so heavy that the little girl could hardly lift it, and when she let it fall against the panel, the noise it made jarred the building and sent a loud echo rolling and tumbling down the mountain. The little girl thought, ‘What have I done? If the Thunder is taking a nap before dinner, he’ll be very angry.’

SHE WAITED A LITTLE WHILE

“She waited a little while, not feeling very comfortable. Presently she heard heavy footsteps coming down the wide hall to the door.

“‘I thought I heard some one knocking,’ said a hoarse, gruff voice. Then the big door flew open, and there, standing before her, the little girl saw a huge figure that towered almost to the top of the high door. It wore heavy boots, a big overcoat, and under its long, thick beard there was a muffler a yard wide. The little girl was very much frightened at first, but she soon remembered that there was nothing for such a little bit of a girl to be afraid of.

“The figure, that seemed to be so terrible at first glance, had nothing threatening about it. ‘Who knocked at the door?’ it cried.

“Its voice sounded so loud that the little girl put her fingers in her ears.

“‘Don’t talk so loud, please,’ she said. ‘I’m not deaf.’

“‘Oh!’ cried the giant at the door. ‘You are there, are you? You are so small I didn’t see you at first. Come in!’

“The little girl started to go in, and then paused. ‘Are you the Thunder?’ she asked.

“‘Why, of course,’ was the reply; ‘who else did you think it was?’

“‘I didn’t know,’ said the little girl. ‘I wanted to be certain about it.’

“‘Come in,’ said the Thunder. ‘It isn’t often I have company from the people below, and I’m glad you found me at home.’

The Thunder led the way down the hall and into a wide sitting-room, where a fire was burning brightly in the biggest fireplace the little girl had ever seen. A two-horse wagon could turn around in it without touching the andirons. A pair of tongs as tall as a man stood in one corner, and in the other corner was a shovel to match. A long pipe lay on the mantel.

“‘There’s no place for you to sit except on the floor,’ said the Thunder.

“‘I can sit on the bed,’ suggested the little girl.

“The Thunder laughed so loudly that the little girl had to close her ears again. ‘Why, that is no bed,’ the Thunder said when it could catch its breath; ‘that’s my footstool.’

“‘Well,’ said the little girl, ‘it’s big enough for a bed. It’s very soft and nice.’

“‘I find it very comfortable,’ said the Thunder, ‘especially when I get home after piloting a tornado through the country. It is tough work, as sure as you are born.’

“The Thunder took the long pipe from the mantel and lit it with a pine splinter, the flame of which flashed through the windows with dazzling brightness.

“‘Folks will say that is heat lightning,’ remarked the little girl.

“‘Yes,’ replied the Thunder; ‘farmers to the north of us will say there is going to be a drought, because of lightning in the south. Farmers to the south of us will say there’s going to be rain, because of lightning in the north. None of them knows that I am smoking my pipe.’

“But somehow, in turning around, the Thunder knocked the big tongs over, and they fell upon the floor with a tremendous crash. The floor appeared to give forth a sound like a drum, only a thousand times louder, and, although the little girl had her fingers in her ears, she could hear the echoes roused under the house by the falling tongs go rattling down the mountain side and out into the valley beyond.

“The Thunder sat in the big armchair smoking, and listening with legs crossed. The little girl appeared to be sorry that she had come.

“‘Now, that is too bad,’ said the Thunder. ‘The Whirlwind in the south will hear that and come flying; the West Wind will hear it and come rushing, and they will drag the clouds after them, thinking that I am ready to take my ride. But it’s all my fault. Instead of turning the winds in the pasture, I ought to have put them in the stable. Here they come now!’

“The little girl listened, and, sure enough, the whirlwinds from the south and the west came rushing around the house of the Thunder. The west wind screamed around the windows, and the whirlwinds from the south whistled through the cracks and keyholes.

“‘I guess I’ll have to go with them,’ said the Thunder, rising from the chair and walking around the room. ‘It’s the only way to quiet them.’

“‘Do you always wear your overcoat?’ the little girl asked.

“‘Always,’ replied the Thunder. ‘There’s no telling what moment I’ll be called. Sometimes I go just for a frolic, and sometimes I am obliged to go. Will you stay until I return?’

“‘Oh, no,’ the little girl replied; ‘the house is too large. I should be afraid to stay here alone.’

“‘I am sorry,’ said the Thunder. ‘Come and see me get in my carriage.’

“They went to the door. The whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west had drawn the clouds to the steps, and into these the Thunder climbed.

“‘Good-by,’ he cried to the little girl. ‘Stay where you are until we are out of sight.’

“There was a flash of light, a snapping sound, a rattling crash, and the Thunder, with the clouds for his carriage and the winds for his horses, went roaming and rumbling through the sky, over the hills and valleys.”

Mr. Thimblefinger paused and looked at the children. They, expecting him to go on, said nothing.

“How did you like my story?” he asked.

“Is it a story?” inquired Buster John.

“Well, call it a tale,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Hit’s too high up in de elements for ter suit me,” said Drusilla, candidly.

“What became of the little girl?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“When the Thunder rolled away,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “she went back to where the old man was awaiting her, and he, having nothing to do, carried her to the Jumping-Off Place.”

III.
THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE.

The children looked at Mr. Thimblefinger to see whether he was joking about the Jumping-Off Place, but he seemed to be very serious.

“I have heard of the Jumping-Off Place,” remarked Mrs. Meadows, “but I had an idea it was just a saying.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “where you see a good deal of smoke, there must be some fire. When you hear a great many different people talking about anything, there must be something in it.”

“What did the little girl see when she got to the Jumping-Off Place?” inquired Sweetest Susan.

“It was this way,” said Mr. Thimblefinger: “When the whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west, working in double harness, carried the thick clouds away, and the Thunder with them, the little girl went back to the place where she had left the old man who had carried her up the mountain.

“She found him waiting. He was sitting at the foot of a tree, sleeping peacefully, but he awoke at once.

“‘You see I am waiting for you,’ he said. ‘How did you enjoy your visit?’

“‘I didn’t enjoy it much,’ replied the little girl. ‘Everything was so large, and the Thunder made so much fuss.’

“‘I hope you didn’t mind that,’ said the old man. ‘The Thunder is a great growler and grumbler, but when that’s said, all’s said. I am sorry, though, you didn’t have a good time. I suppose you think it is my fault, but it isn’t. If you say so, I’ll go to the Jumping-Off Place.’

“‘Where is that?’ asked the little girl.

“‘Just beyond the Well at the End of the World.’

“‘If it isn’t too far, let’s go there,’ said the little girl.

“So the old man lifted her on his back, and they went on their way. They must have gone very swiftly, for it wasn’t long before they came to the Well at the End of the World. An old woman was sitting near the Well, combing her hair. She paid no attention to the travelers, nor they to her. When they had gone beyond the Well a little distance, the little girl noticed that the sky appeared to be very close at hand. It was no longer blue, but dark, and seemed to hang down like a blanket or a curtain.”

“But that couldn’t be, you know,” said Buster John, “for the sky is no sky at all. It is nothing but space.”

“How comes it dey call it sky, ef ’t ain’t no sky?” asked Drusilla, indignantly. “An’ how come’t ain’t no sky, when it’s right up dar, plain ez de han’ fo’ yo’ face? Dat what I’d like ter know.”

“Why, the moon is thousands of miles away,” said Buster John, “and some of the stars are millions and millions of miles farther than the moon.”

“Dat what dey say,” replied Drusilla, “but how dey know? Whar de string what dey medjud ’em wid? Tell me dat!”

“What about our sky?” asked Mrs. Meadows, smiling. “You would never think it was only the bottom of the spring if you didn’t know it; now would you?”

Buster John had nothing to say in reply to this. Whereupon Sweetest Susan begged Mr. Thimblefinger to please go on with his story.

“Well,” said he, “if I am to go on with it, I’ll have to tell it just as I heard it. I’ll have to put the sky just where I was told it was. When the little girl and the old man came close to the Jumping-Off Place, they saw that the sky was hanging close at hand. It may have been far, it may have been near, but to the little girl it seemed to be close enough to touch, and she wished very much for a long pole, so that she could see whether it was made of muslin or ginghams.

PRESENTLY THEY CAME TO A PRECIPICE

“Presently they came to a precipice. There was nothing beyond it and nothing below it. ‘This,’ said the old man to the little girl, ‘is the Jumping-Off Place.’

“‘Does any one jump off here?’ said the little girl.

“‘Not that I know of,’ replied the old man, ‘but if they should take a notion to, the place is all ready for them.’

“‘Where would I fall to, if I jumped off?’ the little girl asked.

“‘To Nowhere,’ answered the old man.

“‘That is very funny,’ said the little girl.

“‘Yes,’ remarked the old man, ‘you can get to the End of the World, but you would have to travel many a long year before you get to Nowhere. Some say it is a big city, some say it is a high mountain, and some say it is a wide plain.’

“The little girl went to the Jumping-Off Place and looked over, the old man holding her hand.

“‘Why, I see the moon shining down there,’ she said. She was glad to see so familiar a face.

“The old man laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the moon is very fond of shining down there, and it runs away from the sun every chance it gets, and hunts up the darkest places, so that it may shine there undisturbed. To-day it is shining down there where the sun can’t see it, but to-night it will creep up here, when the sun goes away, and shine the whole night through.’

“Turning back, the old man and the little girl came again to the Well at the End of the World. The old woman was sitting there, combing her long white hair. This time she looked hard at the little girl and smiled, singing:—

“‘When the heart is young the well is dry—

Oh, it’s good-by, dearie! good-by!’

“But the old man shook his head. ‘We have not come here for nothing, Sister Jane,’ he said. With that he took a small vial, tied a long string to it, and let it down the well. He fished about until the vial was full of water, drew it to the top, and corked it tightly. The water sparkled in the sun as if it were full of small diamonds. Then he placed it carefully in his pocket, bowed politely to the old woman, who was still combing her long, white hair, and, smiling, lifted the little girl to his back, and returned along the road they had come, past the Thunder’s house and down the mountain side, until they reached the little girl’s home. Then he took the vial of sparkling water from his pocket. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and wherever you go keep it with you. Touch a drop of it to your forehead when Friday is the thirteenth day of a month, and you will grow up to be both wise and beautiful. When you are in trouble, turn the vial upside down—so—and hold it in that position while you count twenty-six, and some of your friends will come to your aid.’

“The little girl thanked the old man as politely as she knew how.

“‘Do you know why I have carried you to the Thunder’s house and to the Jumping-Off Place, and why I have given you a vial of this rare water?’ The little girl shook her head. ‘Well, one day, not long ago, you were sitting by the roadside with some of your companions. You were all eating cake. A beggar came along and asked for a piece. You alone gave him any, and you gave him all you had.’

“‘Were you the beggar?’ asked the little girl, smiling and blushing.

“‘That I leave you to guess,’ replied the old man. He kissed the little girl’s hand, and was soon hid from sight by a turn in the road.”

Mr. Thimblefinger stopped short here, and waited to see what the children would say. They had listened attentively, but they manifested no very great interest.

“I reckon they think there is more talk than tale in what you have told,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the way it appeared to me.”

“Well, I’ll not say that I have come to the end of my story,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, with some show of dignity, “but I have come to the part where we can rest awhile, so as to give Mr. Rabbit a chance to see if he can do any better. We’ll allow the little girl to grow some, just as she does in the story.”

IV.
THE BLUE HEN’S CHICKEN.

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and I never set up for one, but I will say that I like the rough-and-tumble tales a great deal better than I do the kind where some great somebody is always coming in with conjurings and other carryings-on. It’s on account of my raising, I reckon.”

“Well, stories can’t be all alike,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You might as well expect a fiddle to play one tune.”

“Tell us the kind of story you like best,” said Buster John to Mr. Rabbit.

“No, not now,” responded Mr. Rabbit. “I’ll do that some other time. I happened to think just now of a little circumstance that I used to hear mentioned when I was younger.

“In the country next door there used to be a great many chickens. Some were of the barnyard breed, some were of the kind they call game, some were black, some were white, some were brown, some were speckled, and some had their feathers curled the wrong way. Among all these there was one whose name, as well as I can remember, was Mrs. Blue Hen.”

“Was she really blue?” Sweetest Susan inquired.

“Well, not an indigo blue,” replied Mr. Rabbit, after reflecting a moment, “nor yet a sky blue. She was just a plain, dull, every-day blue. But, such as she was, she was very fine. She belonged to one of the first families and moved in the very best circles. She was trim-looking, so I’ve heard said, and, as she grew older, came to have a very bad temper, so much so that she used to fly at a hawk if he came near her premises. Some of her neighbors used to whisper it around that she tried to crow like a rooster, but this was after she had grown old and hard-headed.

“When Mrs. Blue Hen was growing up, she was very nice and particular. She couldn’t bear to get water on her feet, and she was always shaking the dust from her clothes. Some said she was finicky, and some said she was nervous. Once, when she fanned out little Billy Bantam, who called on her one day, a great many of her acquaintances said she would never settle down and make a good housekeeper.

“But after awhile Mrs. Blue Hen concluded that it was about time for her to have a family of her own, so she went away off from the other chickens and made her a nest in the middle of a thick briar patch. She made her a nest there and laid an egg. It was new and white, and Mrs. Blue Hen was very proud of it. She was so proud, in fact, that, although she had made up her mind to make no fuss over it, she went running and cackling toward the house, just as any common hen would do. She made so much fuss that away down in the branch Mr. Willy Weasel winked at Miss Mimy Mink.

“‘Do you hear that?’ says he.

“‘I never heard anything plainer in my life,’ says she.

“Mrs. Blue Hen was so proud of her new, white egg that she went back after awhile to look at it. There it was, shining white in the grass. She covered it up and hid it as well as she could, and then she went about getting dinner ready.

“The next morning she went to the nest and laid another egg just like the first one. This happened for three mornings; but on the fourth morning, when Mrs. Blue Hen went back, she found four eggs in the nest, and all four appeared to be dingy and muddy looking. She was very much astonished and alarmed, as well she might be, for here right before her eyes she saw four eggs, when she knew in reason that there should be but three; and not only that, they were all dingy and dirty.

“Mrs. Blue Hen was so excited that she took off her bonnet and began to fan herself. Then she wondered whether she had not made a miscount; whether she had not really laid four instead of three eggs. The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. She hung her bonnet on a blackberry bush and tried to count off the days on her toes. She began to count,—’One, two, three,’—and she would have stopped there, but she couldn’t. She had four toes on her foot, and she was compelled to count them all. There was a toe on the foot for every egg in the nest.

“This caused Mrs. Blue Hen to feel somewhat more comfortable in mind and body, but she was left in such a hysterical state that she went off cackling nervously, and postponed laying an egg until late in the afternoon. After that there were five in the nest, and she kept on laying until there were ten altogether. Then Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled up her feathers and got mad with herself, and went to setting. I reckon that’s what you call it. I’ve heard some call it ‘setting’ and others ‘sitting.’ Once, when I was courting, I spoke of a sitting hen, but the young lady said I was too prissy for anything.”

“What is prissy?” asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Rabbit shut his eyes and scratched his ear. Then he shook his head slowly.

“It’s nothing but a girl’s word,” remarked Mrs. Meadows by way of explanation. “It means that somebody’s trying hard to show off.”

“I reckon that’s so,” said Mr. Rabbit, opening his eyes. He appeared to be much relieved. “Well, Mrs. Blue Hen got mad and went to setting. She was in a snug place and nobody bothered her. It was such a quiet place that she could hear Mr. Willy Weasel and Miss Mimy Mink gossiping in the calamus bushes, and she could hear Mrs. Puddle Duck wading in the branch. One day Mrs. Puddle Duck made so bold as to push her way through the briars and look in upon Mrs. Blue Hen. But her visit was not relished. Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled her feathers up and spread out her tail to such a degree and squalled out such a harsh protest that Mrs. Puddle Duck was glad to waddle off with whole bones. But when she got back to the branch she spluttered about a good deal, crying out:

“‘Aha! aha! quack, quack! Aha! You are there, are you? Aha! you’ll have trouble before you get away. Aha!’

“Now the fact was that Mrs. Puddle Duck was the very one that had caused Mrs. Blue Hen all the trouble,” said Mr. Rabbit, nodding his head solemnly. “While wading in the branch, Mrs. Puddle Duck had seen Mrs. Blue Hen going to her nest for three days, slipping and creeping through the weeds and bushes, and she wanted to know what all the slipping and creeping was about. So, on the third day Mrs. Puddle Duck did some slipping and creeping on her own account. She crept up close enough to see Mrs. Blue Hen on her nest, and she was near enough to see Mrs. Blue Hen when she ran away cackling.

“Then Mrs. Puddle Duck waddled up and peeped in the nest. There she saw three eggs as white and as smooth as ivory, and the sight filled her with jealousy. She began to talk to herself:—

“‘I knew she must be mighty proud, the stuck-up thing! I can see that by the way she steps around here. Quack, quack! and I’ll just show her a thing or two.’

“Then and there Mrs. Puddle Duck, all muddy as she was, got in Mrs. Blue Hen’s nest and sat on her beautiful white eggs and soiled them. And even that was not all. Out of pure spite Mrs. Puddle Duck laid one of her own dingy-looking eggs in Mrs. Blue Hen’s nest, and that was the cause of all the trouble. That was the reason Mrs. Blue Hen found four dingy eggs in her nest when there ought to have been three clean white ones.

“Well, Mrs. Blue Hen went to setting, and after so long a time nine little chickens were hatched. She was very proud of them. She taught them how to talk, and then she wanted to get off her nest and teach them how to scratch about and earn their own living. But there was still one egg to hatch, and so Mrs. Blue Hen continued to set on it. One day she made up her mind to take her chicks off and leave the egg that wouldn’t hatch. The old Speckled Hen happened to be passing and Mrs. Blue Hen asked her advice. But the old Speckled Hen was very much shocked when she heard the particulars.

“‘What! with nine chickens!’ she cried. ‘Why, nine is an odd number. It would never do in the world. Hatch out the other egg.’

ONE OF THEM WAS ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FROM ALL THE REST

“But young people are very impatient, and Mrs. Blue Hen was young. She fretted and worried a good deal, but in a few days the tenth egg hatched. Mrs. Blue Hen felt very much better after this. In fact, she felt so comfortable that she didn’t take the trouble to look at the chicken that hatched from the tenth egg. But when she brought her children off the nest she was very much astonished to find that one of them was entirely different from all the rest. She was not only surprised, but shocked. Nine of her children were as neat-looking as she could wish them to be, but the tenth one was a sight to see. It had weak eyes, a bill as broad as a case-knife, and big, flat feet. Its feet were so big that it waddled when it walked, and all the toes of each foot were joined together.

“Mrs. Blue Hen had very high notions. She wanted everybody to think that she belonged to the quality, but this wabbly chicken with a broad bill and a foot that had no instep to it took her pride down a peg. She kept her children hid as long as she could, but she had to come out in public after a while, and when she did—well, I’ll let you know there was an uproar in the barnyard. The old Speckled Hen was the first to begin it. She cried out:—

“‘Look—look—look! Look at the Blue Hen’s chickens!’

“Then the Guinea hens began to laugh, and the old Turkey Gobbler was so tickled he came near swallowing his snout. Mrs. Blue Hen hung her head with shame, and carried her children away off in the woods.

“But her flat-footed chicken gave rise to a byword in all that country. When any stranger came along looking rough and ragged, it was the common saying that he was the Blue Hen’s chicken.”

“I’ve heard it many a time,” remarked Mrs. Meadows.

“There was no story in that,” Buster John suggested.

“No,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “Just some every-day facts picked up and strung together.”

“Speaking of stories,” said Mrs. Meadows, “I have one in my mind that is a sure enough story—one of the old-fashioned kind.”

“Well, please, ma’am, tell it,” said Buster John, so seriously that they all laughed except Mr. Rabbit.

V.
HOW A KING WAS FOUND.

“What about the little girl who had the vial of sparkling water?” said Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger, just as Mrs. Meadows was about to begin her story.

“Oh, she is growing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger.

Buster John frowned at his sister, as boys will do when they are impatient, and Sweetest Susan said no more.

“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Meadows began, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, “there was a country that suddenly found itself without a king. This was a long time ago, before people in some parts of the world began to think it was unfashionable to have kings. I don’t know what the trouble was exactly, whether the king died, or whether he was carried off, or whether he did something to cause the people to take away his crown and put him in the calaboose.

“Anyhow, they suddenly found themselves without a king, and it made them feel very uncomfortable. They were so restless and uneasy that they couldn’t sleep well at night. They were in the habit of having a king to govern them, and they felt very nervous without one.

“Now in that country there were eleven wise men whose trade it was to give advice. Instead of falling out and wrangling with one another and ruining their business, these eleven wise men had formed a copartnership and set up a sort of store, where anybody and everybody could get advice by the wholesale or retail. I don’t know whether they charged anything, because there never has been a time since the world had more than two people in it that advice wasn’t as cheap as dirt.

“The eleven wise men were there, ready to give advice, and so the people went to them and asked them how to select a king. The eleven wise men put their heads together, and after a while they told the people that they must select nine of their best men and send them out on the roads leading to the capital city, and when these nine men found a man sleeping in the shade of a tree, they were to watch him for four hours, and if the shadow of the tree stood still so as to keep the sun from shining on him, he was the one to select for their king. Then the eleven wise men, looking very solemn, bowed the people out, and the people went off and selected nine of their best men to find them a king.

“Now it happened that in a part of the country not far from the capital city there lived a boy with his mother and stepfather. They were not poor and they were not rich, but everybody said the boy was the handsomest and brightest that had ever been seen in that section. He was about sixteen years old, and was very strong and tall.

“One day, when the stepfather was in the village near which they lived, a stranger passed through on his way to the capital city. He had neither wallet nor staff, but he drew a great crowd of idle people around him. He was carrying a red rooster, and although the fowl’s feet were tied together and his head hanging down, he crowed lustily every few minutes. It was this that drew the crowd of idle people. One with more curiosity than the rest asked the stranger why the rooster crowed and continued to crow.

“‘He is a royal bird,’ the stranger replied. ‘There is no king in this country, and whoever eats this bird’s head will reign as king.’

“‘He must be worth a pretty sum,’ said one.

“‘By no means,’ answered the stranger. ‘He is worth no more than a silver piece.’

“But the people only laughed. They thought the stranger was making fun of them. He went on his way, and had soon passed beyond the village. Now it chanced that the stepfather of the bright and handsome boy was in the crowd that gathered around the stranger. He thought it was very queer that a rooster should be crowing so bravely when his legs were tied together and while his head was hanging down. So he said to himself that there might be some truth in what the stranger said. He ran after the man and soon overtook him.

“‘That is a fine fowl,’ said the boy’s stepfather.

“‘It is a royal bird,’ the stranger replied.

“‘What is he worth?’ asked the boy’s stepfather.

“‘I shall be glad to get rid of him,’ said the stranger. ‘Give me a piece of silver and take him.’

“This was soon done, and the stepfather took the rooster under his arm.

“‘Remember this,’ remarked the stranger; ‘if you eat the head of that bird you will reign in this country as king.’

“‘Oh, ho!’ laughed the boy’s stepfather, ‘you are a fine joker.’

“With the fowl under his arm he went toward his home. He had gone but a little way when he turned to look at the stranger, but the man had disappeared. The country was level for a long distance in all directions, but the stranger could not be seen.

“The boy’s stepfather carried the fowl home and said to his wife:—

“‘Cook this bird for supper. Cook the head also.’

“The man was afraid to tell his wife why he wanted the head cooked. He knew she was very fond of her son, and he reasoned to himself that if she knew what the stranger had said she would give the head to the boy. So he only told her to be careful to cook the fowl’s head and save it for him.

“The wife did as she was bid. She cooked the fowl and the fowl’s head, and placed them away in the cupboard until her husband and her son came home. It happened that something kept the husband in the village a little later than usual, and while the woman was waiting for him her son came in and said he was very hungry.

“‘You will find something in the cupboard,’ his mother said. ‘Eat a little now, and when your stepfather returns we will have supper.’

“The boy went to the cupboard. The fowl was on a big dish ready to be carved, and the head was in the saucer by itself. To save time and trouble the boy took the head and ate it, and then felt as if he could wait for supper very comfortably. The husband came, and the woman proceeded to set the table. When she came to look for the fowl’s head it was gone.

“‘Why, I ate it,’ said her son, when he heard her exclamation of surprise. ‘I found it in the saucer, and I ate it rather than cut the fowl.’

“The stepfather was angry enough to tear his hair, but he said nothing. The next day the boy went hunting. He was ready to return about noon, but, being tired, he stretched himself in the shade of a tree and was soon sound asleep.

THEY SAW THE HANDSOME BOY SLEEPING

“While he was sleeping his soundest, the nine men who had been appointed by the people to find them a king chanced to pass that way. They saw the handsome boy sleeping in the shade of the tree, and they stationed themselves around and watched him. For four long hours they watched the boy, but still the shadow of the tree kept the sun from his face. The nine men consulted among themselves, and they came to the conclusion that the shadow of the tree hadn’t moved, and that the boy was a well-favored lad who would look very well when he was dressed up and put on a throne with a crown on his head.

“So they shook the boy and aroused him from his sleep.

“‘What’s your name?’ asked the spokesman.

“‘Telambus,’ replied the boy.

“‘Where do you live?’

“‘Not far from here.’

“‘How would you like to be king?’

“‘I have never tried it. Is it an easy trade to learn?’

“The nine men looked at each other shrewdly and smiled. They each had the same thought.

“They went with the boy to his home and saw his mother, and inquired about his age and his education, and asked a hundred other questions besides. They cautioned the woman as they were leaving to say nothing of their visit except this, that they were going about hunting for a king and had called to make some inquiries.