LADY RUM-DI-DOODLE-DUM’S
CHILDREN

John and Mary leaned forward and saw in the
glass hundreds of lovely colors. (Page [126].)]

LADY
RUM-DI-DOODLE-DUM’S
CHILDREN

BY
S. B. DINKELSPIEL

Which is Dedicated to My Mother, Your Mother,
and Lady Rum-Di-Doodle-Dum, Who is the
Mother of all the Bald-Headed, Pug-Nosed Little
Baby Creatures in the World, and to the Child-Person
for whom Lady Rum-Di-Doodle-Dum
winked one evening when I asked her to do so.

New York
Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.

Copyright, 1914, by
Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.

PREFACE

(TO BE READ)

The Dictionary says that a Preface is something spoken before. Usually it gives the author an opportunity to talk about himself. Some authors talk very much, especially about themselves, in their Preface. Mr. George Bernard Shaw writes more Preface than Book, and Théophile Gautier simply uses the Book as an excuse for the Preface. But you do not need to worry, as you will not read either of them for a very long time.

My Preface is going to be different. It is about something that comes at the end and not the beginning; furthermore, I am not going to talk about myself.

Of course you do not know what in the world I am driving at; I will come at once to the point. I had all but finished the stories of Lady Rumdidoodledum’s children when I received the following letter. I have a pretty good idea that “L. H. D.” is no other than the Child-Person for whom Lady Rumdidoodledum winked.

“Mr. S. B. Dinkelspiel,
“Dear Sir,——

“I have the honor to inform you that Mrs. Sherman is the mother of a lovely new baby daughter, born this evening. She is to be christened ‘Margaret,’ but will be known to her friends (of whom I trust you will be among the number) as ‘Midge.’ Liza and Martha Mary are delighted over the new arrival—the boys have not yet seen the little lady.

“Hoping that she will prove as welcome to you as to the rest of her very devoted family, I am, sir,

“Your very obedient servant and humble collaborator,

L. H. D.”

The Planet Venus.

A day or so later, a thick envelope came through the mail for me.

“Is it,” said I to myself, “another of my stories rejected by a heartless editor?”

It was not! It was the story of “Midge,” written by “L. H. D.,” and it came just in time, for I had been having a miserable hour seeking a last chapter for the book, and here one fell—I might say—out of the sunny sky.

S. B. Dinkelspiel.

San Francisco, California.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH WE MEET FLIP, ALTHOUGH HE WAS SUPPOSED
TO BE A SECRET

Down on the edge of the Poppy Field there is a very large, wide lake; the largest lake you have ever seen. Of course there are deeper lakes across the mountains where you have never been, but Poppy Lake is quite deep enough. When you turn your back and lean down and look between your legs so that everything is upside-down, it looks still larger; almost as big as the sky and just as blue. Right on the shore, tied to a willow tree, is a wonderful green boat with two oars when you wish to go exploring alone, and four if you intend to take a crew with you.

John usually went alone, because crews never know their place and want to be Captain if they are men, or always talk about fairies and husbands and silly trifles if they are women. There is of course only one woman and she is Martha Mary; you see, Liza is only three years old and can’t really be called a woman. The fact is, John prefers traveling with Liza to any of the others. She respects John very much and will not mind anyone else—not even Nurse Huggins. John is quite a famous traveler; there have been times when he would sit at the helm of his good ship and Liza would sit on the deck on her legs and fold her arms and watch the Captain with very large, grey eyes. Then John would cough and bow to her and say in a voice almost as loud as Butcher Levy’s:

“Where does your Ladyship desire to sail to-day?”

Liza would say, “Yes,” which is not an answer at all.

Then John would pick up the oars and row with all his might, just as though the ship were not tied to the willow tree. Right into the ocean they would go. Sometimes they could travel almost as far as England before Nurse Huggins called them to come to tea. Nurse Huggins always called just as they were about to get somewhere.

Martha Mary thought it silly for John to play with Liza so much; you see, John was at least twelve and Martha Mary was ten, so they were much more fitted for each other than John and Liza. So Martha Mary would come down to the Lake and call to John and he would put his hands to his ears and shout:

“I can’t hear you. I’m miles and miles away.”

Then Martha Mary would stamp her foot, and go away to find Edward Lee Sherman, who was seven years old and her youngest brother, and Walter, who was eight and almost Edward’s twin. You see, the Sherman family was quite a large one; first, there was John and then Martha Mary; then Walter and Edward Lee, and then Liza. But that wasn’t all. Nurse Huggins was a very important member of the family, and there was Agnes, the cook, and Dawson, the gardener, and Mother Dear, who looked almost like a girl herself, sometimes, and Father, who was terribly old and had brown whiskers and the softest grey eyes, just like Liza’s. And I almost forgot Hermit. He was the huge St. Bernard and next to Mother Dear, the most important member of the household. No one knew just how old Hermit was. But Captain John was quite sure that the very first thing he heard when he opened his eyes in this world was Hermit’s welcoming bark. That was twelve years ago, and twelve is old for a dog.

And—there was one other. He was supposed to be a secret, but I never could keep a secret and, as long as I have told about Hermit and Hermit found him, I might as well tell. He was Flip. That wasn’t his real name, but Liza could not say Philip, so she called him Flip. And after a while everyone else did, too. This is the way we found him. You see, Hermit did not come home for dinner one night and everyone was very much frightened. They went all over the poppy field calling him, but he didn’t come. It grew so late that the stars came out, so Mother Dear put Liza and Edward Lee to bed. She was very quiet and not at all smily when she tucked them in, because she was worried about Hermit. For hours and hours John and Father and Gardener Dawson hunted with yellow lanterns; they called and whistled, but Hermit did not come. So they went to bed, and Father said:

“Leave the old boy alone. He is sure to come back.”

Father always did know everything!

The first thing next morning, all the family hurried out to the garden, but there was no Hermit. Father went East and John went West and all the others scattered in different directions, leaving Liza all alone to take care of Mother Dear. But Mother Dear was not at all good company; she wouldn’t crawl on the floor and she wouldn’t smile, so Liza slipped away, very unhappy. She took her Nigger Doll, Samuel, and walked way, way off, down into the Lily Place where the frogs live. And right there, perfectly happy and grinning, was Hermit—all muddy and with his tongue hanging out as though he had been running and was out of breath. Next to him, sprawled out on the grass, with one foot stuck up in the air and a cap on his toe, was a man and he was talking to Hermit. Liza did not pay any attention to him; she just jumped on Hermit’s back and rubbed her face in his neck. The man was very much surprised. He sat up, brushed the dirt off of his trousers, and said:

“Good morning.”

Liza laughed at him and pulled Hermit’s tail.

“I said ‘Good morning,’” said the man. “Can’t you talk?”

That sort of frightened Liza, so she jumped up and ran off to find John, with Hermit bounding after her. Just then John came through the trees, followed by Edward Lee and Walter and Martha Mary. They hugged Hermit to show how glad they were to see him, and then Liza took them to the new man.

“Hullo!” he said. “Are you the whole family?”

“We are the Shermans,” said John.

“Yes,” said Edward Lee, “and we wish you would go away so that we could play.”

“Edward Lee!” Martha Mary whispered. “You mustn’t be impolite.”

The man laughed. “Please,” said he, “may I play, too?”

“You are too old,” said Walter.

“No, I’m not.”

John did not mean to have any unfairness. “How old are you?” he asked.

The man held his fingers to his lips. “It’s a secret. Folks say I’m twenty-three,” he said. “But they really don’t know. The fact is I’m only twelve.”

“Swear it and hope to die?” demanded John.

“I swear.”

“And hope to die?”

“Do I have to?”

“No,” said Martha Mary. “If you want to be twelve, we will let you. Please, what can you play?”

“Everything.”

“That is lovely,” said Martha Mary. “We’ll play ‘Robinhood.’”

“And I’ll be Robinhood,” said John.

“And I’ll be Little John,” said Walter.

“I’m Little John,” said Edward Lee.

“You’re not. I am.”

“All right,” said Edward Lee. “Then I don’t want to play.”

The man frowned. “See here,” he said. “You can’t both be Little John. Suppose we play something else. Suppose I tell you a story.”

“Do you know any?” Martha Mary asked.

“Dozens of them.”

“How nice! I think I shall like you. What is your name?”

“Philip.”

“Flip,” said Liza, and that is how he got his name.

Meanwhile Mother Dear had joined Father. They hunted high and low for Hermit and for the children, too, for by this time Mother was growing really and truly frightened. All of a sudden they heard Edward Lee laughing. To the Lily Place they ran, and there—through the trees—guess what they saw! There was Flip leaning against a fat old oak tree, with one leg up in the air and his cap on his toe. Liza was sitting on the knee of the leg that wasn’t up in the air, while Martha Mary was lying on the ground on her stomach, weaving buttercups. John and Walter were sitting up in the tree; Edward Lee was on Hermit’s back, and Flip was telling his story. So Mother Dear sat down very quietly and pulled Father after her. She leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes, while Father smoothed her hair. And they listened to the story, too, and this was it:

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH PETER SPILLS THE DEW OUT OF HIS
POCKET AND IT CAUSES A GREAT DEAL OF
BOTHER, BUT MR. SMITH, WHO IS THE KING
OF FAIRIES, PUTS AN END TO THE TROUBLE

“Peter sat on a blade of wheat and swung backwards and forwards and up and down in the wind, till his feet were higher than his head and all the dewdrops spilled out of his pocket. I don’t suppose you have ever seen Peter. He is about this big—that is, as big as a red-headed match—and he has little thin wings made out of the fuzz that grows on the cowslips. Peter has red hair, too, just like the match, and he is freckled, but one can never see the freckles because they are so small. In ways, Peter is a very wonderful boy. You see, he can carry dewdrops in his pocket (when he doesn’t spill them) and he skips around the garden just before the stars go to bed putting a dewdrop on every flower, just as a mother cat would bathe her kitten. Peter likes his work; he knew that every boy has to do something worth while, so he chose the work that was the most fun. Of course it is fun to bathe flowers. They look so bright and sunshiny when they have their drop of dew, just as your face does when Nurse What-do-you-call-her——”

“Nurse Huggins, please,” said Martha Mary.

“Nurse Huggins rubs soap on it and in your eyes. So on this particular May morning Peter sat on the piece of wavy wheat and waited for the biggest and loveliest Mother star, Mrs. Rumdidoodledum, to go away, so that he could go to work.

“Finally, when Mrs. Rumdidoodledum had gone to bed and the sky grew pink like the eyes of Fluffytail, the white rabbit, Rosemary, who was the queen of the flower fairies, came out and clapped her hands to set all the morning elves to work. First, Mr. James, the butler fairy, appeared and pulled all of the dark-cloud curtains out of the sky. Then a hundred and three golden fairies tied daisy ropes to the sun and pulled him up over the hill. Lastly Nurse Agnes, the fattest fairy you ever saw, went around and opened all the flowers’ eyes. Then everyone stood still and waited for Peter to come down and wash them. Of course the stupid Peter couldn’t, because he had swung too high and spilled all the dewdrops. At this, Queen Rosemary was terribly angry—which wasn’t very bad, because the fairies have all been well trained and never lose their tempers. But she said Peter would have to be punished. What do you think Queen Rosemary did? She led Peter down to the red rosebush, tied him to it with a piece of green grass, and left him there for ever and ever so long. Next morning, when Nurse Agnes had opened all the flower children’s eyes, they waited for Peter to come and wash them, but he couldn’t, because he was tied up. The flower children were glad, because they didn’t very much like to be washed, either; it was such a nuisance to get the dewdrops in their eyes and have them burn. You see, flower children are just as silly as other children when they are silly, and just as pretty and happy when they are bright. So they went without washing all that day, and when Mr. James, the butler, pulled the cloud curtains into the sky that night the children were all tired and in bad humor, just like you when you are dirty. They didn’t sleep very well and they had queer dreams, and Midge, the violet baby, woke up and cried three times and kept everyone else awake. Then, the next morning, when the hundred and three small wood sprites went to pull up the sun, he came up frowning. He looked at all the flower children and it spoiled his pleasure to see how dirty and cross they were. So he simply refused to shine at all, but went behind a miserable black cloud that Butler James had forgotten. There he sulked all day. When they had no sun to brighten them, the flower children all fell sick and faded; even sulphur and molasses would not help them, for in that way they were different from you. You see, things were in a very bad way in the flower garden. The flower children were so sickly that the bees would not come to them for honey, because it had become too thin. The sun hid away day after day and refused to shine and there were large black clouds that frightened everyone. The ground got hard and stiff and squeezed the flowers terribly.

“Then Rosemary became very much worried, because she had to keep the flower children well and at the same time punish Peter. So she thought and thought and could not make up her mind what to do. Then along came Mr. Smith. You know, of course, that Mr. Smith is the king of the fairies and he rides on the Southeast Wind. He said to his wife:

“‘The flower children look very sickly and the sky is dark. What is the trouble, my dear?’

“She told him all the confusion she had had, but he laughed, because he was a man, and such things never bother men. He jumped on the Southeast Wind again and rushed up, up, right into the clouds and broke them to small pieces. Of course, when the clouds were all broken, the rain fell out of them and all over the flower children. And then—it was just like eating chocolate cake, it was so nice. The flower children were washed and became bright; the sun came out because he was glad; the bees came buzzing around again, and all the world was happy. Then Queen Rosemary, on her throne in the sweetpeas, was pleased, so she forgave Peter for spilling the dewdrops. She told him, though, that whenever he was bad in the future she would tie him up, because she could count on the Southeast Wind to bring rain and do Peter’s work.

“And so you see, whenever the sky grows black and the flowers look sickly and the sun hides, you may know that Peter has been misbehaving and cannot wash the children. But you must not mind, because the rain is sure to come to do his work, and there is always sunshine after the rain.”

When Flip had finished his story Mother Dear hugged Father and whispered, “Who in the world is this wonderful boy?”

She did not say it very loud, but Flip heard her and got up, with his cap in his hand, and almost spilled Liza. He bowed and said:

“It isn’t really wonderful. Stories like that always happen.”

“Ridiculous!” said Father, in a very stern way. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“I’m Flip, Liza says,” was the answer, “and so I must be.”

“Please, Mother Dear,” said Martha Mary. “He is nice, and Liza found him. Do you think he might stay for tea?”

“And tell more stories before bedtime,” said Walter.

“And he found Hermit,” said Liza.

Mother Dear whispered something to Father that no one else heard. Then Father said:

“Children, go up to the house and wait for us. We will ask Flip if he will stay this evening.”

The children went rather slowly, for they were anxious to hear what was going to happen. It must have been exciting, for ten minutes later Mother Dear came to the veranda smiling, and Flip’s eyes were all shiny, and Father was in the best of humor.

“Babes,” said Mother Dear, “would you like Flip to stay here?”

“All evening?” asked Edward Lee.

“No. Much longer. As long as he wishes to. Perhaps always.”

You should have heard the children shout. They hugged Mother Dear and hugged Father till his hair was all mussed and danced about Flip until he was all red; but Flip was easily embarrassed. Finally Father said:

“Silence,” in an awesome tone, and added: “Philip is going to stay to work about the place and do chores and care for the flowers—AND tell you stories when you are half-way good and he feels like it. So you had better be good.”

Away went the children to tell the wonderful news to Nurse Huggins, all excepting Martha Mary, who was rather curious.

“Mother Dear,” she said. “Please, who is Flip and how did you get Father to let him stay?”

“Flip is a very fine boy,” said Mother, “and he has aspirations.”

“What are aspirations?” asked Martha Mary.

“You explain to her, Father,” said Mother Dear.

“Well, it is this way,” said Father. “Aspirations are like—like—now let me see—you know—— Oh! You tell her, Mother.”

“Why, it is simple, Dear,” said Mother. “Aspirations—— Flip! Explain to Martha Mary what aspirations are.”

But Flip had followed the other children, to be introduced to Cook and Nurse Huggins, so Martha Mary did not find out for ages and ages why Flip had aspirations or what they were.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH WE BEGIN TO REALIZE HOW CONVENIENT
IT IS TO HAVE A PERSON LIKE FLIP ABOUT
THE PLACE, ESPECIALLY WHEN THERE IS NOTHING
MUCH TO DO; ALSO WE HEAR OF MR. MORIARITY
AND THE FAIRY WHO DID NOT HAVE A
RED CHIN BEARD AND A BALD HEAD

It was really quite surprising to learn how easily Flip could be depended upon. When it rained, Martha Mary would only need to say:

“Please, do you think we might have a story?” And Flip would lead the way to the fireplace and, before you half knew it, you were in the middle of a delightful story. Or Liza might tumble into the ash can and hurt her nose. She would cry dreadfully—and Flip would cure the damage with a story. John might go sailing on the lake Ocean and leave no one to be Captain of the land army. Away the army—Martha Mary, Walter, Edward Lee, and Liza—would go to Flip for sympathy—and Flip’s sympathy would be a story. Best of all were the stories he told in the Runaway Place where the poppies grew, lying on a small stack of hay, with his cap on his toe. There were so many told there that I hardly know which to tell to you first. Perhaps you would like the one about Mr. Moriarity.

“Of course you know,” said Flip, “that every child has a fairy just as there is a fairy for every flower. But what I am going to tell you is much more surprising than that. Every grown-up, no matter how big or important he may be, has just as nice a fairy in charge of his affairs. The fairies of the grown-ups do not show themselves nearly as often as flowers or children fairies. You see, grown-ups have not the time to think of such things. Furthermore, they are usually ashamed to recognize them, and of course the fairies are proud and will not go where they are not wanted. Would you believe that Father has a perfectly lovely fairy and there is another little, golden-winged one that belongs to Mother Dear? Well, there is! I have never seen them, but there must be. You see, Fairies are dreams, and everybody has dreams; even Mr. Moriarity, the green grocer.

“Mr. Moriarity’s fairy was the prettiest little fairy you have ever seen. Guess why? Because fairies do not take after their owners’ looks. If they did, Mr. Moriarity’s fairy would have to be a little red-faced creature with a red chin beard and watery blue eyes and a bald head. But fairies take after their owners’ dreams, and this was Mr. Moriarity’s dream: He wanted to be a great musician and play music that would make all the world glad. He had always loved music; in the olden days in Kerry County, when he was no larger than John, he used to creep out of his bed at night, tiptoe into the barn, and hide in the straw to listen to Tim, his big brother, sing about a girl called Kathleen Mavourneen, and Peggy Machree, and The Low Back Car to the cows and pigs. The cows would moo and the pigs would squeal their applause, and then Mr. Moriarity, who was called Andy in those days, would tiptoe back to his blankets and hide his head and sing Peggy Machree in a tiny voice. It was not at all good music, but it made him feel good. So he dreamed about the day that he should be a great musician and all the people would clap and the pigs squeal and the cows moo when he played. He wanted to play the violin because it sounds like the wind singing in the heather, but violins cost a great deal of money and lessons cost more, and Andy’s father was only a poor vegetable grower near the bogs. So it looked as though Andy would never be rich enough to have his dream. His fairy became unhappy and pale, because music fairies are the frailest, most delicate little things, and lovely melodies are sunshine for them.

“One day Andy was out in the heart of the moor listening to the wind in the purple heather and singing a song that he had made all himself. His fairy was sitting on a wild rosebush listening to the music. I know I have a perfectly awful voice, but this is the song he sang:

“‘The wild rose is my fairy love, my lady love, my pretty love.

The wild rose is my fairy love and I don’t care who knows it.

She dances for the moorland green, the Irish green, the hillside green,

And smiles and smiles and smiles upon the breeze that blows it.’

“Now, what do you think happened as he sang? Across the moor came a large, fat man with a violin case under his arm, and a smile upon his face. He hid in the heather until Andy had stopped singing, then came out and sat down in front of him, and the big man and the small boy talked about music. Then the big man took out his brown old violin and put it to his chin and began to play. Andy leaned back and closed his eyes and discovered the strangest thing! He could see just as well with his eyes closed as with them open. And this is what he saw! First the heather commenced to quiver as though the breeze were blowing from all four sides; then the twigs parted and out came his own fairy, all dressed in brown and gold. She danced a skipping dance on the twigs, then stamped her tiny foot rather impatiently and clapped her hands. The twigs parted again and out came another fairy, a boy fairy, dressed in grey and gold, and he took her hand and they danced together. Then the boy fairy sang the very same song that Andy had sung, and down from the East Wind came a whole world of little fairies, all gold and silver, with spiderweb wings and dresses of every color. They danced here and there and everywhere, the wildest, loveliest dance there ever was. Up and down and backwards and forwards, in circles and fairy rings they swung and then the heather began to sway and the wild rosebush to bend and the green grass to wave and all the fields danced to the fairy measure. Andy jumped up, threw his brown cap into the air, and crowed like a rooster. He folded his arms then and danced with them, a dance that was a jig and a hornpipe and a reel and a minuet all in one. The big man laughed as though he were ashamed and put away his violin and would play no more. But Andy told him how much he loved music, and what do you think? The wonderful man was so pleased that he told Andy to come to him every night and he should learn to play on the violin that was two hundred years old. Andy was so excited that he forgot to feed the pigs that night and hardly ate any bread himself. Off he skipped after dinner to the house across the moor for his first lesson. But when he played it did not sound at all nice. The big man said time would change things, and it was time that spoiled things, after all. Andy learned the C scale and the F sharp scale pretty well. But scales were not the kind of music he had dreamed of and he became tired of practicing. That ended things. He never practiced nor even learned the octave stretch. This was all his own fault, because his fingers were very lively and long, but that would not do any good without training. Finally, one night the big man became discouraged and said there was no use wasting time with a boy who would not help himself, so Andy’s music lessons ended.

“Many years passed and Andy came to California and became a green grocer. His music fairy hated money and business so much that she almost died. One evening in the Spring Andy came home, cross and tired from selling lettuce, and would not talk to his wife or five children at all. He went out into the poppy field and lay down and went to sleep. And there he dreamed the very same dream that had come to him when the big man had played on the moor. Down on the sea breeze came the gold and silver and many-colored fairies and they skipped and danced and bowed and pirouetted in a perfect dance of Spring. Up jumped old Moriarity, forgetting all about his rheumatism, and he danced with the fairies just as he had done when he was a boy. Right in the middle of it, when his face was all red and his eyes burning, out came Mrs. Moriarity and she held her hands on her hips and stared. But all of a sudden she caught Andy’s eye and he laughed, so up she pulled her skirts to her knees and commenced to dance with him, singing at the top of her voice all about Paddy Dear. She made such a noise that out came the five Moriarity children and they could hardly believe their eyes, for they had never seen their mother and father act that way before. But there was no need of worrying; out into the poppy field they skipped and there, by the light of Lady Rumdidoodledum and a million other stars, danced Mr. Moriarity and Mrs. Moriarity and the five little Moriaritys, with oodles and oodles of fairies. All of a sudden Mrs. Moriarity felt a stitch in her side and she stopped and took Mr. Moriarity by the ear and led him into the house. Moriarity’s fairy was so happy that she laughed and wept all night.

“So now, whenever things go a little bit wrong, Moriarity throws aside his vegetable bag, calls his wife and children, and out to the fields they go to dance in the evening light. Moriarity sings Kathleen Mavourneen and Peggy Machree and The Low Back Car, and out come all the fairies and dance, too. Of course, Mr. Moriarity’s voice is still pretty bad, so the cows all moo and the pigs all squeal, but the poppies smile and the wild rose bows and the fairies are happy as happy can be.”

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH MARTHA MARY INVADES THE CASTLE,
AND FATHER PROVES THAT HE CAN DO OTHER
THINGS BESIDES WRITING BUSINESS IN BIG BOOKS.
ALSO SOMEONE ARRIVES

Father was very busy in his den, with the blinds all drawn and the small log fire lit and a huge stack of papers on his desk. So Martha Mary was rather afraid when she tapped at his door; you see, the Den was Father’s private property, just like a castle, and no outsiders, not even the children, went in very often.

“Who is there?” called Father.

“Please, it is me,” said Martha Mary.

“Who is ‘me’?” demanded Father.

“Martha Mary, and may I come in?”

Father shoved the big pile of papers aside and opened the door.

“Well, Sister,” he said, “what is the trouble? Has Liza fallen in the lake?”

“Father! No! Liza never does.”

“Then what is the trouble?”

Martha Mary put her arm about Father’s waist just as she always did when she wanted to ask him a favor. Father always would grant the favor then.

“Please,” she said. “Do you think you could do something for us?”

“Depends what, Sister.”

“Well, Mother Dear has gone to town and Flip has driven her to the train and we have played everything and don’t know what to do. So we thought, as long as Flip wasn’t here, you might be able to tell us a story. Do you think you could?”

Father laughed. “The fact is,” he said, “I’m afraid my stories would not interest you. You see, I don’t know anything about fairies. But I might try, I suppose——”

Before he had finished what he supposed, Martha Mary had danced down the hall and back she came with the whole Sherman family, including Hermit. It only needed Mother Dear and Flip to make the invasion of the den complete. Hermit was the oldest, so he chose the rug before the fire and Liza lay down by his side. Walter and Edward Lee each sat on an arm of Father’s Morris chair, Martha Mary sat on the floor with her head on Father’s knee, and John lay on his stomach before the fire and pulled Hermit’s tail.

Father took some time to commence, so Martha Mary, who knew it would be hard work for him, tried to help him along.

“You don’t need to tell about Fairies,” she said. “Kings and queens will do, or even every-day people. And Flip never begins with ‘once upon a time.’”

“Is that so?” asked Father. “Well, I am going to be different. My story is going to commence with ‘once upon a time’ and it isn’t going to be about Kings or Queens or Fairies, or not even every-day people.”

“I know,” said John. “It’s about pirates.”

“It is not.”

“About ice cream,” said Liza.

“Sorry, Butterfly. Not even ice cream.”

“I give up,” said Edward Lee, although he hadn’t been guessing at all.

“You would never guess,” said Father. “So be quiet and I’ll tell you. It happened ever and ever and ever so long ago—I mean once upon a time.”

“When was that?” asked Walter.

“A long time ago. Now, if you are going to interrupt, I will not go on. It happened once upon a time, in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-four. There was a small boy—oh, about nine years old—and his name was Leonard. Of course people did not call him that; everybody has to have some short name. It would never do to call him Lenny, because that sounded girlish, like Jennie, so they called him Mick; you see, he had red hair and freckles just like a little Irishman.”

“Was he?” interrupted Martha Mary.

“Certainly not! He was an American. And he lived on a large farm and didn’t have much to do all day but build forts and shoot peas in a willow gun and fight heaps and heaps of make-believe enemies. His Father was a soldier, gone away to fight the Southerners, and the only reason he wasn’t perfectly happy was because he was not old enough to go to war himself. So he used to make-believe and he beat the Southerners almost every day. One morning he was in the chicken yard, fighting the hens with a wooden sword, and all at once he heard—— Guess what?”

“His Mother calling.”

“No, he heard real music, with fifes and drums and horns playing the most wonderful tune he had ever heard. He jumped up and rushed across the field as quickly as his short legs would carry him, stumbling all the time, because it was the kind of music a person tries to keep in step with. Down to the fence at the edge of the farm he went and way off down the road he saw a cloud of dust, coming nearer all the time, while the music grew louder and louder. It was so exciting that he became all hot and red and he cut his legs all up climbing on to the stone fence. There he sat until the cloud of dust came right across the field and he saw it was thousands and thousands of soldiers. But they weren’t like what he thought they would be; not at all like the way his Father looked when he marched away to war. They had no brass buttons or gold braid and their swords didn’t shine at all. They were all dirty and tired and hungry, but they walked just as lively as though they were on a picnic, and they danced—some of them—and cheered and sang the song that goes ‘while we were marching through Georgia.’”

“I know it,” said Martha Mary.

“I wish you would keep still,” said John. “This is a wonderful story.”

“Mary should know it,” said Father. “It’s a fine song. And so they tramped along, singing as loud as they could, and if you had heard them you wouldn’t have been able to keep still, either. Well, Mick was very much excited. He jumped up and down on the stone wall, waving his hat and almost crying, he was so happy. Then, what do you think? He jumped so much that he tumbled off the wall and right into the road. It hurt awfully, too, but he couldn’t cry, because all the soldiers would see him and he was a soldier’s son. He just lay still and bit his lower lip. Then the most wonderful thing happened. A big man rode along and saw Mick, and he swung his sword above his head so it shone in the sun, even if it was all rusty.

“‘Halt!’ he shouted, and all the soldiers stood still.

“The big man jumped off his horse and picked up Mick and said:

“‘What’s the matter, Son?’

“Mick just scowled and said, ‘Nothing.’

“‘Does it hurt much?’ asked the man.

“‘No,’ said Mick. He was determined not to cry.

“The big man winked to one of the soldiers and said:

“‘I know what will fix it. Swing him up.’

“The soldier saluted and said, ‘On your horse, General?’

“‘Certainly,’ said the General. So the soldier picked Mick up and put him on the neck of the big brown horse and the General swung up behind him.

“‘Now,’ he said, ‘give your orders!’

“‘What shall I say?’ asked Mick.

“‘You are the commander,’ said the General. ‘What are your orders?’

“At first Mick couldn’t believe his ears. Of course it sounded too good to be true, so you could hardly blame him. But he wasn’t going to lose the chance, so he swung around and faced the thousands of soldiers and shouted just as loud as he possibly could:

“‘Forward, march!’

“Then he remembered something Tom, the farmhand, had once shouted, so he shouted it:

“‘Down with the rebels! We’ll eat them alive! Forward!’

“You should have heard the soldiers shout. They cheered and shouted and called, ‘Eat ’em alive!’ and down the road went the whole army, with Mick leading them.

“He did not mind the way he bounced on the horse; he didn’t mind anything, excepting that he was a real soldier and commanding the most wonderful army. On and on the army marched, singing ‘Bring the good old bugle, boys,’ and Mick sang with them. He didn’t know the words so he just shouted, but that didn’t make any difference, because everyone was making such a noise that no one could hear what he was singing. Tramp, tramp, they marched and you could hear the bugles and almost hear the cannon if you closed your eyes and made-believe. And so they came to the end of the stone wall and the General whispered to Mick:

“‘Command them to stop!’

“Mick shouted, ‘Halt!’

“Then the General jumped down from his horse and lifted Mick off and gave him a whole pocket of empty cartridges. He saluted him just as though he were a grown-up soldier and said:

“‘Have you any further orders, Sir, before we leave you?’

“Mick thought a moment, then said: ‘Yes. Go ahead and beat all the rebels and eat ’em alive.’

“Again the General saluted him, and he saluted the General, and the General said:

“‘What is your name?’

“‘Mick Leonard Sherman. What is yours?’

“‘That’s queer,’ said the General. ‘Mine is Sherman, too. Now we are going to march ahead, all the way to the sea, and we’ll beat all the rebels.’

“Then he sprang to his horse and shouted, ‘Forward!’

“Down the road and around the turn went the whole army, while Mick sat on the fence and watched till the very last soldier was out of sight.

“That was the last Mick ever saw of them. But the soldiers, all cheered by their song and by the brightness of their flag of red and white and blue, marched on. Days and days they tramped, building bridges across the rivers they came to, helping one another when they grew very tired, capturing spies that they met, and winning all battles. Oh, but they were wonderful fighters! For miles and miles away you could hear their cannons roaring and every shot of their guns brought them nearer to victory and peace. For you know after all, Chicks, they had to fight, as every true American would fight, to help his country, but they longed for peace. They didn’t at all enjoy killing their enemies. But right was on their side and so they fought, on and on, and always their flag went on before them, and all enemies were swept away. Of course they had to win, because the last command Mick Leonard Sherman had given them was to beat all the rebels and eat them alive.

“And that is all.”

“That was a story,” said John.

“And I knew all the time,” said Martha Mary.

“Knew what, Sister?”

“It was General Sherman marching from Atlanta to the sea.”

“You’re right.”

“And I knew,” said Edward Lee.

“What did you know, Son?”

“Mick was Uncle Leonard.”

“Again right. And that is not all. Guess where Mother Dear has gone!”

“Give up!” they all shouted together.

“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.

“‘Good morning, Old One,’ said the disrespectful yellow bird. Then she danced on Smudge’s lip and tickled his ear. When he bent branches to capture her she darted away and came back to laugh and impudently put her fingers to her nose. Sentimental old Smudge sighed and whispered:

“‘Oh, Loveliness! I wish you were more serious so that I could love you the more.’

“Indignantly, Loveliness flew away, down into the valley and flirted with a baby daisy. Smudge laughed indulgently, in the manner of the aged, and called to him his counselor. Can you guess who his counselor was, Butterfly? It was a man-baby, a tiny pink one, with just a bit of sunny hair on his head and funny, fat little wrinkles on his baby body. He was the counselor because he was Youth, and only Youth and Smudge could live forever. Smudge became dignified and said:

“‘Oh, Wise One, what is the business of the day?’

“The baby-being laughed and caught a grasshopper and said:

“‘The Blackbird.’

“‘The Blackbird?’ stormed Smudge. ‘What have I to do with her? Day and day again I have said that she is nothing to me; poor, somber bit of ebony. I want sunshine and the crystal’s colors and dancing and happiness; not blackness.’

“The man-baby laughed and stuck a blade of grass in the grasshopper’s ear and whispered:

“‘Silly, silly! If the Blackbird loves you so much, then you must have to do with her, for her love makes her more precious than all your other subjects.’

“Smudge sneered and made a nasty remark about the words of infants.

“Then, Children, what do you think happened? A whole thousand years and a half passed and there came another sunrise. Smudge sat up and yawned and became frightened, for there was no golden flush in the sky and no poppy color in the fields. He shivered and called the man-baby, and the man-baby came riding on the back of a jack-rabbit, pulling its tail.

“‘Good morning, Lord Smudge,’ said the man-baby. ‘You look as though you needed medicine.’

“‘Don’t be impudent!’ shouted Smudge. ‘Where is the sun and the golden Butterfly bird?’

“‘Please,’ said the man-baby. ‘The sun has rheumatism and the golden bird has gone away with an eagle.’

“‘So!’ screamed Smudge, just like a peevish giant. ‘What am I to do all day alone?’

“‘Please,’ said the man-baby. ‘There is the Blackbird.’

“Smudge yawned. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Call the Blackbird!’

“The man-baby stood up on the jack-rabbit’s back and galloped down into the valley, into a cradle of violets and cream-cups. There he found the Blackbird and said to her, ‘Come!’ The Blackbird hopped to the jack-rabbit’s tail, and the three galloped back to Smudge.

“‘Good morning,’ grumbled Smudge, ungraciously. ‘So you’ve come at last to give me a day of blackness and creeps?’

“The man-baby giggled so that he tumbled right off the jack-rabbit and spilled into a wild rosebush. There he lay and you could hear him snickering.

“‘Well,’ shouted Smudge. ‘Why don’t you speak?’

“The Blackbird hid her head and whispered, ‘I love you.’

“‘Silly child,’ said Smudge. ‘Come out and let me see you!’

“He sat up so he could see better and then, Children, he almost fell right out of his valley bed. For the Blackbird was sitting on a branch of a willow tree, and right on each of her black wings was a large ruby of lovely crimson, brighter—oh, very much brighter than the brightest flower you have ever seen.

“‘Loveliness,’ shouted Smudge, using the same name he had used for the golden butterfly bird (men always do), ‘I thought you were black and somber.’

“‘I was,’ said the Blackbird, and her eyes became all teary.

“‘But the sunlight on your wings and the valley of green of your eyes and the rainbow of your neck! Where did they come from, Loveliness?’

“‘I love you,’ said the Blackbird-with-the-crimson-wings. ‘I have loved you for more than a thousand years, more years than there are buttercups on the hill. And so, with thinking of you and longing to have you love me, how could I help but grow the way you wished?’

“‘Loveliness, Loveliness,’ Smudge whispered, in a very gruff, choky whisper. The man-baby fell from a willow tree and bumped his nose on Smudge’s toe and sat up and laughed. Then all the valley grew golden and the sky was glory bright; the meadow larks sang as they sat on the twigs, and the violets and wild pansies and buttercups and golden cups and poppies and brown-eyed-susans and forget-me-nots and daisies danced a lovely, happy dance that frightened away the very grey old owl, and another day was born.”

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH EDWARD LEE AND WALTER GO ON THE
WARPATH BECAUSE THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT
ELSE TO DO, AND ON ACCOUNT OF THEM JOHN
AND MARTHA MARY MISS HEARING THE MELODRAMA

Edward Lee and Walter were on the warpath. The warpath leads through the orchard to the power-house where the big engine pumps water that irrigates all the farmland, even to Levy’s place. The cause of the two warriors’ fighting mood was this; they were bored with Life; bored with lessons, and bored through and through with the stories of fairies and other silliness that Flip always told. So, they went on the warpath, armed with all the clothes-line they could find in the laundry, and two wooden swords. The first victim, luckily for them, was John. He was seated on a wheelbarrow outside of the power-house, trying to smoke dried magnolia leaves. This made him feel cold and wobbly and not at all in fighting trim. So it was a simple matter for Edward Lee and Walter to jump on him from the rear, tie him in approved warrior fashion, gag him with a handkerchief, and lead him into the power-house. There they held a council of war; John was convicted of innumerable offences, including kissing Uncle Mick, and condemned to spend the afternoon in confinement, tied to the power engine. He struggled manfully when they tied him to his post, but it was no use; the magnolia leaf smoke had made him too sick to fight, and in short order he was a helpless, speechless prisoner. Then the warriors planned the strategic stroke that would trap Martha Mary. Up the warpath the two men marched boldly and to the door of Martha Mary’s sun-room. She was seated on a small trunk, painting red violets all over a cake-plate.

“Madame,” said Walter, “we have been sent by the King to bring you into his presence. You are to come at once, but you must be gagged and blindfolded because you mustn’t see the way to the Royal Palace. Are you ready?”

Of course Martha Mary knew that John was the king, and she was flattered that he had sent for her. So she allowed herself to be bound and gagged and blindfolded and led down the warpath. She knew all the time where she was going, because the power-house always was the Palace. But she didn’t know what was going to happen, so you can imagine her surprise when she found herself tied to the wall and then tried and convicted of crying at Flip’s last story and condemned to spend the afternoon, just like John, in solitary confinement. She didn’t know John was there already, and he could not tell her because he was gagged. So the warriors tied her to the wall next to John and then locked the power-house door and went off to find Flip. He was busy making a new bridle for Peggy, the Shetland pony, and as he did not work with his mouth the warriors knew that he would have no excuse for not telling a story. They jumped on his back when he didn’t expect it and refused to get off until he had agreed to tell them a tale that had no women or fairies in it at all. Flip agreed but first he rolled Walter and Edward Lee off his back and on to the floor to prove to them that he wasn’t beaten.

This is the story he told them, and although there is one woman in it, if the girl listeners do not like it they don’t have to listen because it is not intended for them anyhow.

“‘Doughnuts and Crullers,’ swore the pirate chief as he wiped a quantity of blood off his throat-ripper on to his red sleeve. ‘Doughnuts and Crullers! I have an idea!’

“‘Yoho, yoho,’ shouted all the pirate band gathered about. ‘The Chief has an idea.’

“‘A marvel-l-lous idea,’ quoth the Chief.

“‘Marvelous,’ shouted the band.

“‘Doughnuts and Crullers,’ shrieked the Chief, although he knew lots of other cusses, too. ‘You’ve made such a noise that I have forgotten it.’

“Then the Chief frowned and his temper became terrible because he seldom had ideas and he hated to lose them when they did come. He became so furious that he shouted:

“‘Bring out Red Blood Ike, the one-eyed Swede!’

“Immediately a dozen valiant pirates sprang into the black tent and came out with the one-eyed Swede. He was a terrible looking person. One eye was gone, altogether, and the other one was pink. But that wasn’t all. He had only one arm—the right one—and only one leg—the left one. His mouth was black as coal. That came from his habit of eating fire; he really could, just like drinking water or anything else. And he liked it. He said it tasted like fried spinach.

“‘Orange Marmalade,’ he shouted, for that was HIS favorite cuss. ‘What do you want with me? I was dreaming of cutting off the fingers of all Republicans and you have disturbed me.’

“‘Ike,’ said the Chief, ‘I had an idea and I lost it.’

“‘Yes, yes,’ said Ike.

“‘That is all,’ said the Chief. ‘Only now I feel so badly that unless you can give me a plan my whole day will be spoiled. And I wanted it to be a nice day. I have not killed anyone for a long time.’

“Red Blood Ike bit his mustache, which was a habit he had when he was thinking. It kept him cool and steady-nerved which is the way all true pirates must be.

“‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘if someone sings to me a sad, sweet song, I will be able to help you. You know, Chief, I can always think best when someone sings sad, sweet songs.’

“‘It is a good suggestion,’ said the Chief, ‘nothing is as soothing to the mind as sad, sweet songs, unless it be killing people or fighting Indians. Call out our singer, you lazy dogs!’

“They called out Hairslip Charles, the baritone of the gang. He sat on a whisky barrel and sharpened his throat-ripper and sang Ike’s favorite song: the one about the Pigs and little Fishes:

“There was me and Captain Harry in the Port of Monterey.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

Oh, the stars they all was shining and a-dancin’ on the bay.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes by the moon.

There was rum on Harry’s whiskers and was rum in Harry’s eye.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

So I sticks him with my sticker and was glad to see him die,

And they ups and makes me Captain by the moon.

Then I dumps ex-Captain Harry in the Port of Monterey.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

And we ’as a solemn funeral and for the body pray.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes by the moon.

Next we sails from Monterey in the sinking of the night.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

And we heads across the waters and an island heaves in sight

In the sickly, pale blue shining of the moon.

And on the shore was cannibals and all they wore was hair.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

And my mate he winks his winker and he ses he doesn’t care

If they stays right where they are by the moon.

But we lands and has a battle and we takes the Zulu band.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes by the moonlight.

And the blood it flew like water and it stained the island sand

In the Pale blue, sickly shining of the moon.

Then we builds a roarin’ fire and some water we did boil.

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

And we ups and eats the cannibals we’d boiled in old shark oil—

Oh, you hungry, hungry fishes by the moon.

And now we all are cannibals and live on human meat,

Sing, you pigs and little fishes in the moonlight.

And we’ve grown so strong and mighty that we never can be beat.

Singing, singing, singing, singing by the moon.

“The tears poured down Ike’s cheeks as Hairslip Charles sang, and when the song was through Ike raised his hand and said:

“‘I have it.’

“All the pirates sprang to their feet.

“‘He has it,’ they shouted.

“‘Proceed,’ commanded the Chief. I forgot to tell you that his name was Mr. Smith, but they usually called him Blue Murder Smith.

“‘This is my plan,’ said Ike. ‘We will send our bold men out to capture three prisoners. We will tie them to a stake and then, with threats of endless terrors, make each of them give us an idea. The one who has the best idea will be granted anything he wishes and then set free; the other two must——’