LADY RUM-DI-DOODLE-DUM’S
  CHILDREN




[Illustration: 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._

  [Illustration]

  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                                                           PAGE

     I. IN WHICH WE MEET FLIP, ALTHOUGH HE WAS SUPPOSED
          TO BE A SECRET                                               1

    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             10

   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                                  19

    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                 28

     V. IN WHICH FLIP TELLS MY FAVORITE STORY, AND IF YOU DO
          NOT LIKE IT VERY MUCH, FLIP KNOWS SOMEONE WHO WILL          40

    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                                               49

   VII. IN WHICH LIZA GOES UNDER THE SIDEBOARD; WALTER AND
          EDWARD LEE FIX THE CAT, AND FLIP PROVES THAT THE
          CITY FOGS ARE NICE                                          67

  VIII. IN WHICH MARTHA MARY HAS A WONDERFUL DAY AND LEARNS
          THE LOVELIEST OF SECRETS AND FLIP’S ASPIRATIONS
          ARE EXPLAINED                                               76

    IX. IN WHICH IS TOLD THE STORY OF ALFRED OF THE LOW COUNTRY,
          AND JANICE, WHO LOVED THE QUEEN’S PAGE                      85

     X. IN WHICH JANE STAYS LONGER THAN SHE HAD EXPECTED TO AND
          WE ENTERTAIN HER. AS USUAL, FLIP TELLS A STORY              99

    XI. IN WHICH WALTER DOES NOT WANT NINE EIGHTS TO BE
          SEVENTY-TWO; AND MARTHA MARY FEELS SO BADLY FOR HIM
          THAT SHE GOES TO SEEK ADVENTURE. SHE FINDS IT              110

   XII. IN WHICH ANOTHER JOHN AND ANOTHER MARY WANDER FURTHER
          FROM HOME THAN THEY EVER HAVE BEEN BEFORE, AND FIND
          A MARVELOUS BALL OF GLASS, IN WHICH ONE SEES THE
          STRANGEST THINGS                                           120

  XIII. IN WHICH FLIP USES NEEDLESSLY LONG WORDS, BUT, TO WIN
          OUR GOOD-WILL AGAIN, HE TELLS A REAL OLD-FASHIONED
          FAIRY TALE                                                 133

   XIV. IN WHICH WINFRED IS GIVEN THE MOST WONDERFUL WISH IN
          THE WORLD, AND I ADVISE YOU ALL TO READ IT AND LEARN
          WHAT IT IS, SO THAT IF, SOME DAY WHEN YOU ARE LEAST
          EXPECTING IT, A FAIRY COMES AND OFFERS YOU A WISH,
          YOU WILL KNOW FOR WHAT TO ASK                              155

    XV. IN WHICH, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME, I DO NOT
          TALK AT ALL, BUT AM WELL CONTENT TO SIT QUIETLY BY
          AND LISTEN TO THE LOVELY NEWS THAT L. H. D., WHO, YOU
          WILL REMEMBER, I TOLD YOU ABOUT IN THE PREFACE,
          HAS BROUGHT                                                167




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----’

“‘Die,’ roared the band.

“‘Die,’ said Ike.

“Mr. Blue Murder Smith was delighted with the idea. He sent his men
out to find three prisoners and they rode miles across the mountains
until they came to the stage road. Down the road came a coach drawn
by six huge horses. Ike, who was leading the assaulting party, hid in
the bushes with his men until the coach came by; then they sprang out
and Ike put his ten-inch gun to the driver’s head while the gang held
the horses. Then Shivering Sam threw open the door of the coach and
commanded the people in it to come out. There were exactly three. The
first was a traveling man who sold underwear when business was good. He
got out, moaning and praying for them not to take his samples. The next
was a handsome officer with gold braid on his uniform and a bold look
in his eye. And the third was the loveliest, most golden-haired girl
you have ever seen. The pirates tied them together and drove them back
to the camp, leaving the coach-driver bound to a tree. For all I know
he may still be there. They came into camp and Blue Murder Smith arose,
twisted his mustache and greeted his prisoners. His orders were that
they be fastened to stakes and then given a chance to tell the three
ideas. The traveling salesman was the only one who struggled; he had an
appointment with a customer at seven o’clock and he knew his firm would
be furious if he didn’t keep it. So they gave him the first chance to
tell an idea. After much thought, this is what he said:

“‘I am supposed to be in the next town to-night to sell a carload of
underwear--W. & W. quality, selling at fifty per cent. off, I recommend
that you gentlemen use it. If I don’t get there my firm will be in
danger of losing a good customer and I of losing my position. So you
let me go ahead and I’ll sell my bill and get the money for it; then
I’ll take the stage back to-morrow, you can hold us up again and take
the money away from me and then let me go. As long as I don’t lose the
customer the firm won’t be so angry that the money was stolen.’

“‘Bah!’ sneered Shivering Sam. ‘That is a poor idea. We’ll send to
your customer and take the money away from him and keep you, too, and
probably roast you. And we’ll make new flags for our fleet out of the
underwear if it is red.’

“‘Right-O!’ said Mr. Blue Murder Smith. ‘Now let’s hear the soldier’s
idea.’

“They tied the salesman up again and dragged the soldier out and got
his lovely uniform all mussed. As they pulled him he clutched the
fingers of the golden-haired girl and kissed them, and she looked so
sad that tears came into the single pink eye of Red Blood Ike. But he
was a pirate’s son and had to be hard of heart.

“The soldier looked very frightened. He bowed politely to the pirate
band and told his idea and it was even worse than the salesman’s plan.

“He wanted the pirates to let him go if he would sing them a song.
Now, you know they were musical pirates and liked music, so they
were inclined to accept his offer. But when he began to sing in a
heart-breaking tone, ‘Darling, I am growing old, Silver threads amongst
the gold,’ they all began to hoot and shriek to drown his simply awful
voice. Then they led him away without further words.

“Mr. Blue Murder Smith smacked his lips and shouted, ‘Doughnuts and
Crullers! Have out the woman!’

“She didn’t seem to be at all frightened. She shook hands with Hairslip
Charles and asked Mr. Smith how all the little Smiths were, although
there were none at all because Mr. Smith never had time to be married.
Then she told her plan, and you can be sure it was exciting. This was
it:

“She said that way down in the Southern Seas there was an island
inhabited by a tribe of one-legged negroes. They lived on cocoanuts and
whisky; they were very gentle and had no cannibalistic habits (which
means that they were not cannibals). A long time ago, nearly ten years,
a ship had been wrecked off the island with a cargo of Spanish gold and
fruit cake. Also a brand new crown that had been made in Paris for the
Island King. When the ship was on the rocks two sailors had swum ashore
with the chests of gold and the crown. Then the weight of the fruit
cake sunk the leaking ship. The two sailors had dragged the treasure
way up on the island and buried it. But it would be quite easy to find.
You landed and walked right to the very center of the island, then wet
your finger and held it up in the air. The side of the finger that was
coldest was the direction you had to dig and you were sure to find the
treasure.

“‘Orange Marmalade,’ cussed Ike. ‘This sounds good. But how do we know
you are speaking the truth?’

“‘Here,’ said the golden-haired girl, ‘is a piece of the gold. You see
my father was one of the sailors who was saved.’

“She held out her hand and sure enough there was a piece of the gold,
all yellow and shiny. Smith bit it and said it was all right. Then
the pirate chief took a vote and found that the girl’s idea had been
the only good one, and that, as they had agreed, she should be given
anything she wished and allowed to go free.

“‘Please,’ said the girl, ‘may I have anything I really and truly
wish?’

“‘Absolutely anything,’ said Smith, and then he got frightened for the
golden-haired girl said:

“‘Oh, you lovely, lovely pirate,’ and tried to kiss him.

“‘Well,’ shouted Smith. ‘What do you want?’

“‘If I can have anything,’ said the girl, and looked with soft eyes at
the soldier, ‘I want you to hold these two prisoners for just two days
so that I can have prayers said for them before they die.’ Her eyes
twinkled; she looked at the salesman and said to Smith:

“‘And please, when you roast this man, put in plenty of salt.’

“‘We will,’ said Smith, and ‘We will,’ shouted his men.

“Then they brought a horse and lifted the girl on to the saddle. As she
leaned over to kiss the soldier good-by, she whispered something in
his ear that no one else could hear, but Smith didn’t bother because
he thought it was just a good-by. It wasn’t, though, as you soon shall
hear.

“Down the road the girl went at a gallop, as fast as her horse could
carry her. All afternoon she rode and just before sunset came into the
soldier’s camp. Up to the General’s tent she cantered and then stood
before him, all breathless. She told him everything that had happened
and begged him to take his men and save the soldier, and the salesman,
too, if he wished, although she didn’t mind so much about him. The
General scratched his white beard and said:

“‘Why should I do this?’

“‘Oh, Sir,’ she said, ‘the soldier is your son.’

“‘Murder and Death,’ roared the General. ‘I’ll have their heads; the
villains!’

“He ordered out a whole company of cavalry, and jumped on his own horse
and down the road they went, led by the golden-haired girl. They rode
all night as fast as the wind, and came in sight of the land pirates’
camp just before sunrise.

“‘We must go slowly,’ said the General. In a loud whisper he ordered
his men off their horses and then, with guns in hand, they crept into
the camp on their hands and knees. The first thing they heard was
the soldier prisoner snoring. He was making such a noise that the
golden-haired girl thought he would wake the pirates, so she crept
up and put her fingers over his lips. He dreamed someone was trying
to poison him and bit, just as hard as he could. Of course the girl
screamed, and out came the whole company of pirates. Then, how they
fought! You never heard such a racket in your life; there was screaming
and shouting and firing of guns and blood all about, and over all you
could hear Blue Murder Smith cussing:

“‘Crullers and Doughnuts.’

“And Ike shrieking, ‘Orange Marmalade.’

“They fought for hours and hours. That is, all but the salesman. As
soon as the General cut his ropes, he grabbed his samples and ran like
the wind.

“The others fought on, and the first thing you knew, every last pirate
was stretched cold and dead on the hard, hard ground. And then the
soldier held out his arms and the golden-haired girl came into them and
the cavalry all cheered and the General blessed them (I mean the girl
and her soldier) and--they, no doubt, lived happily ever after.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Phew!” said Edward Lee.

“Phew!” said Walter.

“Orange Marmalade,” shouted Edward Lee. “Here come the pirates.” Down
the road he charged straight into the arms of Mother Dear, almost
knocking her over.

All afternoon Edward Lee and Walter were soldiers and pirates and they
attacked everybody on the place before dinner. Even then they did not
want to go in, but Father insisted.

“And by the way,” said Father. “Where are Martha Mary and John?”

Edward Lee looked at Walter and Walter looked at Edward Lee and then
they remembered. Down to the power-house they rushed and there were
the prisoners, all pale and tired and wobbly in the legs. Edward Lee
really felt badly. He kissed Martha Mary and begged her not to care.
He offered to shake hands with John, but John wouldn’t shake. As for
Walter, he got a laughing fit and wouldn’t stop until Father ordered
him off to bed without any dinner. Later Martha Mary sneaked up the
back stairs with a tray for him and no one knew it. Then Mother Dear
felt worried and said it wasn’t wise to let him go to sleep without
eating, so she took him another tray and found Martha Mary’s. And still
later, when he thought no one would notice, Father tiptoed up the back
stairs with still more, and Walter had a gorgeous time. And Father
laughed and spanked him and then hugged him.




CHAPTER VII

  IN WHICH LIZA GOES UNDER THE SIDEBOARD; WALTER AND EDWARD LEE FIX THE
    CAT, AND FLIP PROVES THAT THE CITY FOGS ARE NICE


It was Liza who discovered the secret. She was hiding from Hermit, and
the best place to hide is under the sideboard, because Hermit is too
large to crawl there. She was very quiet; so quiet that no one knew she
was there at all. When Mother Dear and Father came in to put flowers on
the table, she lay still as still could be and heard everything they
said. Then she went right off to tell John although it was supposed to
be a secret. John was busy taking an alarm clock apart, but he stopped
when Liza came, and kissed her nose.

“Hullo, Big Sister,” he said. “Which way is the wind blowing?” John
always asked Liza interesting things. He didn’t act at all grown-upish
with her like he did with the others.

“John,” said Liza, “what do you think?”

“Lots of things,” said John.

“It’s a secret,” said Liza.

“What?” said John.

Then Liza told him. The whole family was going to the City on Saturday
and Uncle Captain Mick was going to take Martha Mary and John to the
theater. The others were to go to the Cliff House and have lunch on the
beach with waffles and peanuts.

John pretended not to be very much excited. Even with Liza he was
annoying and superior when anyone was so happy that they could hardly
keep still. But the others acted differently when they heard. Edward
Lee and Walter had to do something big. So Walter put the white and
black cat in a bucket of whitewash and Edward Lee put ink on the
whitewash to make the black spots again. They always did queer things
when they were glad. As for Martha Mary--she sought out Flip to tell
him the news and there the rest of the younger part of the family,
which was of course the most important part, found her, an hour later.

“Cities aren’t so much,” said John.

Flip thought they were. He had lived in San Francisco years and years
ago.

“But you can’t do interesting things there, like rowing and such,” said
John.

“You certainly can,” argued Flip.

“And anyway,” said John, “it’s always foggy and cold, and things aren’t
alive there like the trees and hills and things in your stories.”

“You are mistaken,” said Flip. “I remember perfectly well----”

“It’s a story; isn’t it, please?” said Martha Mary.

“Well, not exactly a story.”

“Please,” said Martha Mary, and rubbed her soft, pink cheek against
Flip’s forehead. So what could Flip do but tell the story?--the story
of the Things that are alive in the City.

       *       *       *       *       *

“You see, John really doesn’t know anything about it. There are just as
many dreams and fairies and sprites in the City as there are right here
in our own garden. Only everyone has to attend to business in the City
and can’t always remember these things. Why, the fairies that dance on
Tamalpais are the most gorgeously happy fairies, I think, in all the
world.”

“Who’s Tamperpies?” Liza wanted to know.

“Tamalpais is the biggest, oldest mountain you have ever dreamed of
anywhere.”

“Just like Smudge?”

“Exactly, only not quite so silly and spoiled as Smudge. It is a very
dignified old mountain even if it is so lovely, and it sits right at
the North Star corner of the bay and rules all the country for miles
and miles around. But old Tamalpais is not the same as it used to be.
When it was younger--oh, about twenty years ago--it was all covered
with nice, tall trees; some of them so high that one would think the
blue sky was resting on them. There were red berries, too, and vines
and tremendously big ferns and the green things grew so thickly that
one could hardly walk through them. There were wild things there, too;
bears and deer and wild cats and heaps of squirrels and more singing
birds than there are hairs on Hermit’s tail.

“Right across the sunset water was the loveliest city; a city that
rambled over a half-dozen queer old hills, up and down, twisting
about like a regular jig-saw puzzle. And oh, it was a proud City, just
as haughty and conceited as it could be. Of course it had lots to
be conceited about, for there never was such a happy city of people
before. They had wonderfully good times in such a perfectly nice way,
and were so lively and busy that of course they couldn’t help being
proud.

“More than any of these things, the City was proud of its lovely
mountain across the bay, and what do you think? The trees and flowers
were so thick on the mountain sides that it could never see through
them and had no idea that the City was there at all. The City grieved
at this because she loved the mountain so much and wanted it to love
her. She used to send messengers over to it on Sundays and holidays;
boys and girls by the dozen, in old tramping clothes, and they would
take their lunch along, and sit in the fields and pick the poppies and
violet-blue Lupin to bring back and put in vases and jugs in the City
homes. One Sunday,--the sunniest, brightest Sunday you ever saw,--one
of the messengers lay down in the grass under a bay tree and lit his
pipe and thought. I don’t know what he was thinking; it must have been
something uninteresting, for little by little, his eyes closed, and
the first thing you knew, he was sound asleep. The pipe fell out of
his mouth and right into some dried leaves. Then it was awful; the
grass caught on fire and before the messenger awakened the flames had
eaten way out into the forest. The messenger awoke and tried to fight
the fire alone, but it was useless. He cried for help and people came
rushing from all sides to do what they could, but it was no use; on and
on the fire spread till all the trees and bushes on the mountain were
burned away. All night the flames raged and the sky was red, like a
sunset, and smoke poured over the bay. And in the morning the mountain
lay, all bare and black, and oh, the City mourned to see it. But you
know, when anything unpleasant happens, something nice happens, too.
In this case all the growth of green being gone from Tamalpais, he
could look about him for miles and the very first thing he saw was the
wonderful City--and--it was a case of love at first sight!

“Well, the Mountain and the City loved each other for years and years
and years. Every morning, the soldiers in the City would fire a cannon
to welcome the sun and that would awaken Tamalpais. He would yawn and
look across the water; then he would smile and when he smiled it was
like oceans of sunshine. Then the City would smile an answer and the
day would begin. The hours were so short until dark, one hardly noticed
them pass. In the evening, millions of lights would come out in the
City like the loveliest diamond necklace of a fairy queen. Only fairies
wear dewdrops and not diamonds. Tamalpais would gaze and gaze at the
lights and the City would see the huge, black form standing out against
the night sky, and so--just like a couple of children--they grew so
interested watching each other that they forgot to go to bed at all.
That would never do, you know. First the North Wind scolded the City;
then the Lady Moon gave the mountain an awful lecture, but it didn’t do
any good. Tamalpais began to have wrinkles because he did not sleep,
and the City became rather ill-humored. So the North Wind went to the
Sun and asked him what he thought they had better do. Of course the
Sun had a good idea; he always does seem to manage things somehow. He
waited until late in the afternoon, then the very last thing, just
before bedtime, he went west, out into the ocean, and drew the water
up in the sky to make lovely white clouds of it. Then the North Wind
came over so gently. He took the white clouds through the Golden Gate
and heaped them just like hills and hills of white, soft pillows, all
over the City, and the mountain too. That night no one could sleep; the
Mountain grieved because it couldn’t see the City, and the City was
lonely because it couldn’t see the black form of Tamalpais. But that
was only the first night. After a while they grew rather used to it
and learned to watch for the ocean of white clouds. Then they would go
to sleep, and it was always more exciting for them to wake up in the
morning and see each other. Of course sometimes they would wake up and
the clouds would still be there. Then the Mountain would grumble and
the City would shiver, and down would come the North Wind to carry the
clouds away again--and there would be sunshine.

“Now, every night, when the bugles in the Presidio sound ‘Taps,’ which
is the soldiers’ song when they go to sleep, the North Wind hears the
soft, whispering music and brings in arms full of white clouds so that
Tamalpais and the City by the Golden Gate can go to sleep.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Edward Lee laughed when Flip had finished the story.

“That is very impolite of you,” said Martha Mary. “I liked Tamalpais
and you shouldn’t laugh.”

“Wasn’t laughing at that,” said Edward Lee.

“What was it, then?” asked Martha Mary.

“It’s Liza,” said Edward Lee. “Look at her. Someone has been putting
white clouds over her.”

Sure enough, Liza was sound asleep with her arms about Hermit’s neck.

Hermit was asleep, too, with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out,
although it is very bad to sleep with one’s mouth open.

But, you see, Hermit is only a dog and dogs can’t understand
everything.




CHAPTER VIII

  IN WHICH MARTHA MARY HAS A WONDERFUL DAY AND LEARNS THE LOVELIEST OF
    SECRETS AND FLIP’S ASPIRATIONS ARE EXPLAINED


It was Martha Mary’s birthday; the brightest, happiest birthday she
could remember. But, of course, the last birthday a person has always
seems the nicest. Everyone had presents for her. From Father and Uncle
Captain Mick there were oodles of books and ribbons and things for a
sewing-basket. John borrowed fifty cents from Levy, the butcher, and
bought a perfectly good spy-glass. Martha Mary could use it, he said,
to spy out the rest of the family when she wanted company, or Liza
when she got lost. Personally, I think he expected some pretty good
times with it himself. Walter and Edward Lee sold forty bottles to the
rags-bottles-sacks-man for fifteen cents, and with the aid of a nail
managed to get eleven cents more out of their penny-bank. They bought
five molasses sticks, one for each of the children, which left just a
penny over. Mother’s presents were the nicest of all. First there was a
white linen cushion to be embroidered with golden poppies; then there
was a book of the Secret Garden and a perfectly beautiful edition of
Peter Pan. Best of all! Guess what! There was a corset! It wasn’t a
really and truly corset because Mother Dear did not approve of them,
not even for grown-up women, but it had whalebone all up and down it
like the strait-jacket they keep prisoners in.

Martha Mary went under the trees with all her presents, and John was
particularly nice and not at all grown-upish. He built a throne on the
stump of the old oak tree and Martha Mary sat there, surrounded by the
trees and flowers and birds, and John made her a wreath of buttercups
and a daisy chain. Then he tooted a blast on the cook’s dinner-horn and
called all the court to do homage to Queen Mary.

Flip was out in the field planting alfalfa. When he heard the horn he
stopped work, although he was quite sure it was not lunch time. Still,
he wasn’t going to take any chances because he certainly did like to
eat. Across the lawn he came and there he saw the queen, surrounded by
all her subjects.

“What is this?” asked Flip. “Why the celebration?”

“Please,” said Martha Mary, a little bit choky, “you have forgotten,
Flip, and I did not want you to forget.”

“What did I forget, Ladykin Dear?” asked Flip.

Martha Mary would not tell because she did not want him to feel badly.
Neither would John.

“You tell me, Butterfly,” Flip coaxed Liza.

“It’s her birfday,” said Liza, “and there is going to be cake with
candles for tea.”

Well, at first Flip felt so badly that he couldn’t talk at all; then he
got an idea.

“Queen Mary,” he said, “I did forget and it was hateful of me. But
there was a reason for my forgetting. You see I have a secret, too, and
I’ve been thinking and thinking about it and almost forgot everything
else. Will you forgive me?”

“Please,” said Martha Mary. “Yes, but I should like to know the secret.”

Flip bit his lip. He really wanted to tell but did not know if he had
the right. You see when people know nice things it is much more fun
to tell them to everybody. So he agreed. He said the secret was only
for Martha Mary, so the boys and Liza would have to go away for ten
minutes. Martha Mary raised her willow branch scepter and ordered them
away. Then Flip lay on the grass and rested his head against Martha
Mary’s knees and closed his eyes.

“Please,” said Martha Mary. “I am waiting.”

“It’s hard to tell, Silly,” said Flip.

“But you promised.”

“Well,” said Flip, and got all red. “I’m in love!”

“Flip!” said Martha Mary, so surprised that she almost tumbled off her
throne. “Only grown-ups fall in love.”

“But I am grown-up. I’m more than twenty-four years old.”

“Is that old enough?”

“Yes, if the person you love is more sensible than you are.”

“Is she? And is she nice?”

“Nice! Martha Mary, let me tell you about her. In the first place,
she is very small for such a grown-up person. She looks no more than
fifteen, but she is all of twenty years old. And she is so fine--and
really very pretty, Ladykin. She has oodles and oodles of brown hair
and the kindest, softest brown eyes and the dearest funny little nose
and a strong, mannish jaw. You couldn’t help liking her. And she likes
nice things; birds and flowers and books--and fairies, too. And she
likes me!”

“Now I know,” said Martha Mary.

“What?”

“You told Mother Dear when you came that you had aspirations. Mother
would not tell me what aspirations were, but now I know. She is it.”

“Not exactly,” said Flip. “But she has to do with them. Shall I tell
you all about them?”

“Please,” said Martha Mary.

“Well, it began years and years ago. I lived in San Francisco with a
splendid father and a mother as lovely and fine as Mother Dear. My best
friend was a little, brown-haired girl. Her name was Janet, but that
was too grown-up and old-fashioned, so we called her Jane although that
is rather old-fashioned, too. But, you see, Jane was an old-fashioned
girl. We played the nicest games, Martha Mary, and when we were tired
I would tell Jane stories just like I tell you. One day a man came
to Jane’s house. He stood behind the door and listened to one of my
stories. Later he made me tell him others. When I had finished he
said that when I was older I would be an author and write books. That
became my aspiration. I made up my mind to be an author; not a great
one who would try to change the world, but just a simple, quiet one who
could tell stories that would make people just a little more happy.
Then, Ladykin, one night something awful happened. I will not tell you
much about it. There came a terrible earthquake. I don’t like to talk
about it. A brick chimney fell right on my mother and father’s bed and
killed them. It was awfully lonely then. I had learned to love Jane
meanwhile but I was quite poor and so I had to go away. I couldn’t make
money writing stories because my work was not good enough and I was not
known. So I decided to work on a farm and write when I found the time.
And here I am. Now, Martha Mary, guess what!”

“What?” asked Martha Mary.

“I have been working very hard every night on my stories all the time
I have been here. Did you see the envelope the postman brought for me
this morning?”

“Yes.”

“It was from the publishers who print books. They have really and truly
bought my stories and sent a perfectly good check and--I am an author.”

Martha Mary’s eyes were all watery. “Flip,” she said, “I am so happy I
have to hug you.” She hugged him and then remembered about her birthday.

“I forgive you and excuse you altogether for forgetting,” she said.
“Your secret is the nicest thing that has happened to-day.”

“But that is not the secret.”

“Flip. Is there more?”

“There is.”

“Tell me, please.”

“I was so excited when my letter came that Mother Dear said when she
heard of it--guess what!”

“I give up.”

“She said I could ’phone to Jane and tell her to come right down so
that she could tell me how happy she is.”

“And will she?”

“Will she! I should just say so! She is on her way now and will be here
in an hour.”

“Oh!” said Martha Mary; “I didn’t know that so many wonderful things
could happen in one day. Now I want to call the children.”

Flip blew the horn and across the lawn came all of the queen’s court.

“I want to know the secret,” said John.

“Can’t tell,” said Martha Mary. “But it is nice. Someone is coming.”

“Captain Mick,” shouted Walter.

“Not at all. It is a girl-person.”

“Do we know her?”

“No, but you will and you will like her,” said Flip. “Her name is Jane.”

“I wish an hour was not so long,” said Martha Mary.

“Perhaps,” said John, “if you told us a story, Philip, it wouldn’t seem
so long.”

“Perhaps,” said Flip. Then because it was a birthday and Martha Mary
was queen, he told a queen story with Kings and Knights and Ladies.
This was it:




CHAPTER IX

  IN WHICH IS TOLD THE STORY OF ALFRED OF THE LOW COUNTRY, AND JANICE,
    WHO LOVED THE QUEEN’S PAGE


“In the days of the good and splendid King Arthur there was an old
letter-writer named Baudin. He lived in a small garden below the Castle
wall, and the loveliest hollyhocks and jasmine grew about the door of
the cottage. He had everything he desired and that was not a great
deal. His business was to write letters; love letters and business
letters for the Knights and Ladies who had never been to school and
could not write for themselves. His daughter was a very pretty little
sunshiny girl who kept his house in order and cooked his meals. She
sang as she worked and was always happy.”

“Please, what was her name?” asked Martha Mary.

“Her name? Why, I have really forgotten.”

“Was it Jane? I should like it to be Jane.”

“Jane? Now, perhaps, it was. Or Janice. I think it must have been
Janice in those days. So we will call her that. Janice used to do her
work early in the morning so that she might spend the afternoon sewing
or caring for the garden flowers. Next to her father she loved flowers
more than anything else in this wide, wide world. They were happiness,
just as the song of the birds and the shining of Lady Rumdidoodledum
and the other stars is happiness. Janice was so very happy that she
never wished to have things changed. She wanted to go on forever caring
for her father and living in the cottage by the Castle wall. True, at
times, she thought of the lad who hoped to marry her some day, but he
does not come into the story for a long time.

“One day, as Janice was sitting under a cypress tree, a handsome Knight
came down the road, mounted on a splendid black horse. The stranger
wore a blue satin jerkin, black knee-breeches, and stockings of blue.
There was gold braid on his suit and a golden tassel dangling on his
hat. From the brim waved a lovely grey-blue plume. Very straight he
rode, and dignified, looking neither to right nor left. As he passed
the cottage Janice looked up and saw that the black horse was very
tired.

“‘Kind Sir,’ she said, and blushed at her boldness, ‘your horse is worn
with the heat. May I fetch him water?’

“The Knight looked down and when he saw lovely Janice he swept his
plumed hat to his breast.

“‘Lady,’ said he, ‘your kindness well becomes your fairness. If you
will but show me to the well I shall thank you and carry the water
myself.’

“Janice curtsied and led him through the ivy-covered gate, bringing a
bucket to the trough for him. When he had filled it and would carry it
out she took it up.

“‘Good Sir,’ she said, ‘you may spill it and harm your beautiful suit.
I will bear it for you.’

“The Knight bowed. ‘Our Good Lady would be annoyed,’ said he, ‘were
I to appear before her in disarray. It were best that I do not soil
myself.’

“So Janice took the pail and smiled to herself at the conceit of the
good Knight. While the horse drank the girl rubbed its silky coat and
patted its neck. Then the Knight bowed again and sprang to his saddle.
Janice curtsied and went in to darn her father’s sox.

“You may think she would be excited at having aided a Knight of King
Arthur’s Round Table, but she was not at all. She thought much of the
splendid black horse but not at all of its conceited master. With him,
however, it was different. When he had ridden away he could not forget
the girl’s beauty and he saw her face wherever he went. He became very
unhappy, then, for he found himself very much in love, and a Knight of
Arthur’s Court could never marry the daughter of a letter-writer. Every
day he rode by the cottage and saw Janice under the trees, sewing or
trimming flowers. He would sweep his hat to his breast and she would
bow without smiling, although often she came out with a pail of water
for the horse. Naturally the more the Knight saw her the more he loved
her, and the more miserable he became.

“On the birthday of Guinivere, Arthur’s Queen, there was a royal
tournament planned, with fencing and lance bouts and dancing on the oak
lawns. Tents were raised and they flew the Queen’s colors: a pavilion
was built with a canopied box where the Queen sat surrounded by her
Ladies and attendants. All morning there were gaming and May dances.
In the early afternoon the Queen’s Herald blew a blast on his silver
trumpet and announced the Queen’s bout in which all Knights might
compete. The prize was to be a crimson ribbon from Guinivere and the
granting of any request in her power that the winner might make. Again
the Herald blew a blast and out from the tents came the Knights astride
the finest of Arabian and Russian horses. Their lances were under
their arms; their Ladies’ colors on their sleeves. To the center of
the oak lawn they charged where the din of fighting and the crashing
of lances against shields became so uproarious that one could scarcely
hear the cheers of the spectators. For an hour they fought until Alfred
of The Low Country--(that being the name of the Knight who loved
Janice)--and Herbert of The Blue Feather, were left. Again and again
they charged--lance met shield and shield glanced off lance, till
suddenly, Alfred’s horse reared and Knight Alfred slid to the ground.
He sprang up and struck the animal across the haunches with his lance,
so that the horse dashed away across the field. Then Alfred threw down
his lance and drew a dagger, all shiny and sharp. Immediately Knight
Herbert sprang to the ground with his dagger drawn and they fell to
fighting again.

“Meanwhile Alfred’s horse, freed of his rider, whinnied a moment, then
stampeded toward the further edge of the oak lawn where the villagers
and their wives and daughters were gathered to see the sports. Right
into the center of them he rushed, directly at Janice, who stood
terrified at the side of the old letter-writer. The crowd cried out in
fear when, just as the horse reached and would have trampled Janice to
the ground, a page boy, who had stolen away from his place by Queen
Guinivere, dashed forward, grasped the horse by the mane, and stopped
his rush. Only a moment the animal hesitated, then turned his head and
sprang forward into the field again with the boy clinging to his mane
with all his might. The steed plunged and reared and finally, just as
he was captured by guards who rushed forward, he shook the boy off.
The page lay where he had fallen, his head buried in his arm. Past the
guard and out to him, Janice rushed and sank down and took his wounded
head on her knee.

“Meanwhile, across the field, the combat had continued as though
nothing else had happened. But King Arthur had seen all and determined
to reward the boy.

“Thrusting and sparring, Alfred of The Lowland and Herbert of the Blue
Feather fought, till suddenly Alfred’s dagger pierced his opponent’s
side and Herbert fell, bleeding. Alfred was winner of the tournament.

“To Guinivere he came, flushed and happy, and kneeled before her. He
kissed her hand, offering her, at the same time, his victorious dagger.
She smiled and took the weapon, then pinned to Alfred’s sleeve the red
ribbon she wore at her heart.

“‘Arise, Sir Conqueror,’ she said. ‘Ask of me what you will and if it
be in my power I shall grant it.’

“‘My Lady,’ said Alfred, ‘all things are in your power; the very birds
sing when you smile upon them.’

“‘Flatterer,’ said Guinivere. ‘You frighten me, I fear you are going to
ask a very great favor of me.’

“‘For me,’ said Alfred, ‘it will be greater than vast estates. For you,
Dear Queen, it will be little more than a spoken word. I ask that you
raise Janice, daughter of Baudin, the letter-writer, to my rank, so
that I may marry her.’

“‘Your wish shall be granted,’ said the Queen. ‘You may go to your
love, and tell her my pleasure.’

“Across the field, on his black horse, went Alfred, to find Janice on
her knees, bathing and bandaging the page’s head. She rose as Alfred
approached. He bowed proudly and sprang to the ground. Before all the
gathered villagers, he spoke, saying to Baudin, the father:

“‘Good man, the Queen, knowing the love that is in my heart for your
daughter, has ordained that she be raised to my rank so that I may
make her my wife.’

“Old Baudin became so embarrassed that he could hardly speak.

“‘The honor you do us is great, Good Knight,’ he said. ‘It is very
wonderful tidings, you bring. Janice, my child, what say you?’

“‘Verily, we are deeply honored,’ she said. ‘And we thank you and beg
you to ask the forgiveness of my Lady, the Queen, but I do not love
you, Sir Knight; I would ask that you do not demand that I marry you.’

“‘Great Saints!’ shouted Alfred. ‘Am I to understand that you refuse a
chance to marry with one of my station and bearing? Strike me, but you
are a proud one and the more to be desired. Sir, what say you of the
girl’s nonsense? Command her to rise up and go to the Queen that she
may be made of high rank and a fitting bride for me!’

“‘Sir Knight,’ said old Baudin, now very proud and calm, ‘I am the
father of my child’s happiness, not the keeper of her heart. Her wish
is my wish ever. She will thank our good Queen for her graciousness
and beg to decline the honor.’

“‘We shall see,’ said Alfred. ‘Come, I shall lead you to the Queen.
Perhaps her Gracious Self will be able to drive this stupidity out of
your head.’

“Janice put her fingers in his and allowed him to lead her to the
Queen’s box. At Guinivere’s feet sat the page, his head bandaged, his
chin in his hands.

“Janice kneeled and bowed her head.

“‘Oh, kindest of queens,’ she whispered. ‘I thank you for your favor.
I am honored more than my dreams had ever hoped for. But I beg, Dear
Lady, that you will not demand my acceptance.’

“‘I do not understand,’ said Guinivere.

“Then Janice told her that she did not love the Knight; that she loved
the page who had saved her and who had loved her long and secretly. She
went on:

“‘Dear Queen, on this, your birthday, when you are trying to make all
the world happy, do not force me to accept the kind offer of this good
Knight. Let me go back to my father’s garden.’

“As she spoke, Knight Alfred had become red and furious. He spoke,
finally, saying:

“‘I take back my request, O Queen. I could never take to wife a hussy
who would bestow her love upon a page. I do not wish her; I ask no
other prize than your red ribbon and your kind thoughts.’

“‘Sir,’ said Guinivere, ‘your request shall be granted. And,’ she said,
turning to the page, ‘you, sir. Do you love this girl?’

“‘As I love the music of the winds and the birds and your voice,’ said
the page.

“‘Then,’ said Guinivere, ‘for your bravery you may have her and make
her your wife.’

“The page kneeled, first at the feet of the Queen and then before
Janice. She rested her trembling fingers on his shoulders and kissed
him upon the brow.

“Then arose King Arthur.

“‘Lad,’ said he, ‘you have pleased me twice to-day: firstly in saving,
secondly in loving this child. Therefore, I shall grant you whatever
you wish. Think well! What does your heart most desire?’

“‘Sire,’ said the page, rising and bowing humbly, ‘I am allowed to
serve the fairest queen and the bravest king in the world. I am loved
by the dearest maiden in the kingdom. I have nothing to ask; there is
no more I desire of Life but to live and die for you.’

“‘Well spoken,’ said Arthur, the King. Then he turned to Janice.

“‘I know not which of you is the more fortunate,’ he said. ‘Life should
hold much for you. Go, then, with your husband, and remember that
Arthur ordains that you shall honor, respect, and ever love him, and be
happy, both of you, always.’

“And they were!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Of course they were,” said a strange voice when Flip had finished. “If
they loved each other they couldn’t help but be happy always.”

The children all jumped up and looked through the trees. There was a
girl standing there; a brown-haired girl with laughing eyes and a jaw
just like a man’s. Martha Mary knew who it was right away. It was Jane.
Even if you weren’t sure you could tell by the color of Flip’s face.
He stood up, all red, and said:

“Hullo, child,” and shook hands with her, just like a couple of almost
strangers would do. Then he introduced her to the children.

“Jane, this is John Sherman, by far the most important member of the
family. John, this is Jane. And this, Jane, is Martha Mary, but we will
call her Sister. These are the almost twins: Edward Lee who dips cats
in whitewash, and Walter, who puts new spots on them with blue ink.
This is Liza alias Elizabeth alias Butterfly. And this, if you please,
is Hermit. You know he was really the one who discovered me.”

Hermit, when he heard his name, got up and yawned, then wagged his tail
and smiled as politely as could be.

“Please,” said Martha Mary, when they were all introduced. “It’s my
birthday and we should like you to stay and help me celebrate.”

“But Jane has--er----” Flip started to grumble.

“Jane has nothing, Young Man,” said Jane. “I know you are all on edges
to show me the proofs of your book and tell me how wonderful you are,
but you will have to wait. I’m going to celebrate.”

“All right,” said Flip. “Then I’ll go jump in the lake--or eat a snail
or something.”

It was John who saved the day. “Last one to the stable is it and a
nigger-baby,” he shouted.

Away rushed all the children, and Jane would have followed, but her
skirts were too tight. So she sat on the haystack next to Flip and when
Martha Mary turned around just once, she saw--but Martha Mary would not
tell us what she saw.




CHAPTER X

  IN WHICH JANE STAYS LONGER THAN SHE HAD EXPECTED TO AND WE ENTERTAIN
    HER. AS USUAL, FLIP TELLS A STORY


Everyone was rather anxious to see how Mother Dear would receive Jane.
Mother did not take to strange women as a general thing, but, as Flip
explained later, Jane was hardly a woman, so it made matters easy.
Flip was the only one who was embarrassed. He almost ruined his hat,
twisting it out of shape, as he said:

“Mrs. Sherman, this is Jane Houghton. I hope you will like her.”

Mrs. Sherman shook hands with Jane, and the grip of the two women was
like the grip of two men. Jane was not at all ill-at-ease. Then Mrs.
Sherman put her two hands on Jane’s shoulders and suddenly kissed her
on the forehead.

Walter giggled and turned a handspring.

And so, instead of taking the afternoon train back, Jane was invited
to stay as the Shermans’ guest until Monday. Of course, Mother Dear
explained that it was because Martha Mary had asked it and it was her
birthday, but I think Mother was romantic and liked to see Jane and
Flip together. You can never tell what these grown-ups are thinking!

Saturday afternoon, Flip hitched up the do-si-do-cart and in piled
all the children, with Jane and Flip, and they went on the loveliest
picnic they had ever had. Parts of it were a surprise. For example,
they had had no idea that Mother Dear and Father were invited, but when
they reached the Cypress trees near the ocean beach, at sunset, the
first thing they saw was Mother standing near a campfire that Father
had built. There was the most wonderful smell in the air; it was like
fried bacon, and fried bacon it was. There was green corn, too, roasted
in the fire, and chicken cooked on a forked stick, and watermelon and
pancakes and heaps of doughnuts. Everyone ate as much as they could,
and then Father lit his pipe and Mother sat on the ground next to him
and the Children all lay on their stomachs on the sand, with Jane and
Flip, to watch the moon come up over the ocean. Once, when he thought
no one was looking, Flip kissed Jane on the ear, but Edward Lee caught
him, and for punishment Flip had to tell a story. He grumbled and said
it was too nice a night to spoil with his nonsense, but when Jane said:

“Please, Dear,” he couldn’t help it.

“This is to be a story of the trees,” said Flip.

John sniffed. “You always tell about things that are not alive,” he
said. “Father doesn’t. Neither does Captain Mick.”

“But, John,” said Martha Mary, very much surprised, “the trees are
alive.”

“They can’t talk.”

“They could, once,” said Flip. “And they still do talk in their own
language, but of course you cannot understand them.”

“Can Father?” asked Edward Lee.

“I don’t think so,” answered Father.

“Can you, Flip?”

“No, but I know what they mean to say. Listen, now, and I will try
to finish the story before anyone interrupts again. Elizabeth, stop
sticking things in Hermit’s ear! Now--where was I?”

“You hadn’t started,” said Martha Mary.

“All right; then I’ll start with once, years and years ago. It was in a
large forest, way up in the mountains, where there are only wild things
and no men. The trees grow very tall and straight there; the branches
are heavy and the trunks all covered with grey moss, and everything
else is green. The forest, many years ago, was ruled by a lovely
princess. Her name was Shade of the Mountain Lake and she was a large,
lovely, blue crane. The trees just called her ‘Princess,’ because that
was easy to say when the wind hummed in the branches, and ‘Shade of the
Mountain Lake’ was much too long. Princess ruled her tree land for many
years and the wood-folk were glad that they had chosen her, because
she was so wise and graceful and lovely. You see, her soft breast
feathers were colored with the blue of the sky of a Spring morning,
and the grey of her slender neck was taken from the shaded spots near
an old mountain. The green of her eyes once belonged to two splendid
emeralds, and when the emeralds lost their color they became priceless
diamonds. So how could Princess help but be beautiful?

“She was very proud of her kingdom; of the tall green trees and the
blue-green lake and the very blue sky. All day she would fly over the
hills, smiling on her people, sailing here and there, down and up,
sometimes almost to the sun. One day, when she was very high in the
Heavens, she saw, way off across the valley, a spot of red. That was
a color that was not known in the mountains, so she flew with the
wind, out across her valley and another valley until she came to a
land where men lived. And there, what do you think she saw? Fields and
fields and fields of the loveliest wild flowers, all golden and purple
and pink, and gardens with red, red roses, and sweet-smelling lilacs
climbing over the stone walls, and soft-colored fruit blossoms--there
were more flowers than days in a hundred years. All afternoon she flew
over the gardens, smelling the perfumes and always finding something
new to surprise her. When night came she flew back to her kingdom in
the mountains. But she was very sad, for she had thought her land
the loveliest in the world and now she knew that it had none of the
wonderful flowers that grew in the man’s world. All night she grieved
and in the morning called her council to her--a branch of a pine and
a branch of a redwood and a branch of the single oak that grew at the
foot of the mountain. She told them how she had spent the day and how
very, very much she wished her land to have all the colors and not only
the green in Spring and the brown in Autumn. Then the branch of the
single oak spoke and said:

“‘Let me help you. The Pine has always been the most plentiful tree in
the mountains and the Redwood has been the tallest. I have been out of
place and able to do but little save giving shade. Now I think I can
help.’

“She whispered her idea to Princess, and when Princess heard she was so
pleased that she soared high into the sky and sang to the morning sun.
Then down again she flew, and told the silver stream her secret. And
this is what she did:

“First she went to the single oak and took from it several fine, green
branches, all covered with fresh leaves. These she carried one at a
time up the side of the hill and laid them side by side on the grass.
Then she called to the sun and he came over the treetops and warmed the
oak leaves with his golden light. When they were all glowing Princess
called to the clouds and asked for just a little rain. Down it came, so
very quietly that not even the sun went away. And so the drops, falling
through the sunshine to the oak leaves, formed a lovely rainbow. Then
the rain stopped, but the rainbow remained, coloring the oak leaves
with blue and red and gold and amber and violet. Princess was so happy,
then, that she could hardly wait to carry the beautiful colored sprays
into the forest to plant them at the foot of the tall trees. All the
wood-folk--the rabbits and the snakes and the silly young bears--came
out to watch her as she worked. When her task was through she called
all her subjects to her and introduced them to the new color she had
brought into the mountains, and she called it Child of The Oak.

“Child of The Oak grew very much in a short time. She had the form of a
clinging vine; up over the branches of the other trees she crept, just
like a really and truly baby. Her colors were the loveliest you have
ever seen. Just think of leaves that were golden red as the loveliest
poppies and green as the wildest hillside and violet like the softest
field flowers and blue like the morning sky. She was so beautiful that
all the trees grew to love her in a very short time.

“Then, one day, the most awful thing happened.

“It was early morning in the month of May. Across the further valley
and right through the Valley of Shade of The Mountain Lake and up the
hillside and into the mountain land, came a whole school of children,
to the place where no man had ever been before. It was very nice at
first. They sang songs about Angels and Fairies and the one that went
like this:

  “I’ll sing you a song of the fields in the Spring
  With a chatter of birds in the treetops,
  And the poppies and daisies will dance as I sing
  And the birdlings will warble and flutter a wing
  And the sleepy, fat owl will wake up, the old thing!
  As I sing to the birds, the gay happy birds,
  The silly young birds in the tree tops.

“Then they tied ribbons to the tallest pine and took hold of the ends
and danced a May dance, and their pink and white dresses, with their
baby cheeks all flushed, and their golden hair waving, they looked just
like the South Wind.

“But of course such nice things could never last. Pretty soon one of
the children found a spray of Child of The Oak and plucked it and
carried it to the awfully awesome person who was in charge of the
party. She said it was:

“‘Remarkably beautiful and most ethereal,’ and, although I haven’t an
idea what that means, I know by the way she said it that it must be
something hateful. Back she sent the children to gather as much as
they could find. They rushed about tearing Child of The Oak up by the
roots and it hurt just as much as though someone were to pull Liza’s
hair. The tall trees all hung their heads so they wouldn’t see Child
of The Oak suffer and the Mother Oak moaned and held out her arms, but
of course no human being could understand her. It was so pitiful, so
unfair, and no one knew the least thing to do. And then, what do you
think? Guess what, Edward Lee! What do you think, Walter? Oh, you never
can guess!

“Down from the top of the mountain came the North Wind. Princess went
to him, weeping, and, ‘Father Wind,’ she cried, ‘can’t you help Child
of The Oak?’

“‘Certainly,’ said North Wind. Down to the May party he swept and blew
deep breaths of the pollen that grows on dryads’ wings all over the
Child of Oak branches. The pollen that grows on dryads’ wings is deadly
poison, you know. So, as soon as the children touched it, they became
ill; they found spots of red on their arms, and their faces became
swollen as though they had mumps. They itched simply miserably, and all
went home sick, and had to be put to bed with salves all over them. And
so, they never dared touch Child of The Oak again, because the North
Wind had put the poison on her to protect her. When the men came to the
mountains they never touched the lovely colored leaves, for they called
them ‘Poison Oak.’

“But Princess did not mind, because she knew that the real name was
Child of The Oak and that Child of The Oak was the loveliest child in
all the hill world.”




CHAPTER XI

  IN WHICH WALTER DOES NOT WANT NINE EIGHTS TO BE SEVENTY-TWO; AND
    MARTHA MARY FEELS SO BADLY FOR HIM THAT SHE GOES TO SEEK ADVENTURE.
    SHE FINDS IT


It all happened because Walter couldn’t learn how many times eight was
seventy-two. The eight tables are hard enough, but when it comes to
dividing by eight even John made mistakes at times. Walter insisted
that eight sevens were seventy-two. Mother Dear said they were not, but
Walter said he knew best. Mother Dear looked sorry and said if Walter
were quite positive he was right, then she supposed he must be, but she
had learned that nine eights were seventy-two.

“They’re not,” said stubborn Walter.

“What are they then, Dear?” asked Mother.

“Don’t know,” said Walter. “But I won’t have them seventy-two.”

Then Mother Dear almost lost her patience.

“Very well, Walter,” she said. “But, if you cannot believe your mother,
I hardly think it worth while helping you, so you may leave the room.”

Walter lost his temper altogether and went out, slamming the door and
kicking his feet. Later, Martha Mary, who felt as badly for him as she
did for Mother Dear, although she knew Mother was right, found him in
the hayloft, with a miserable look in his eyes and a smudge of dirt
where tears had been.

“Please, Mr. Brother,” she said, “don’t feel badly.”

“Go away,” said Walter. “I hate you.”

“Walter,” pleaded Martha Mary, “you shouldn’t. It hurts when you are
that way. Please come play.”

“Won’t,” said Walter. “Get out of here; I hate you.”

Really miserable and almost crying herself, Martha Mary crept away to
find the rest of the family. Father was busy writing Things in a large
book. Mother Dear was bathing Liza; John was rowing Edward Lee on the
lake Ocean.

“Don’t bother me,” he called. “I can’t hear you. I am miles away.”

More unhappy than before, Martha Mary walked down the gravel path to
the gate. Then she opened it, a thing she rarely did, and went out.
It was rather dusty on the county road, and the wind was blowing, and
it fluffed her hair all about her face. It felt good--the wind always
does. Almost immediately Martha Mary became more cheerful, and as
soon as she became cheerful she had an idea. They always come when
one is happy. She made up her mind to have an adventure; she didn’t
know exactly what it would be, but an adventure she would have. She
had never had a really and truly one all to herself; John had them; so
did Walter and Edward Lee, like whitewashing and inking the cat, or
finding a bird’s nest in the old straw hat in the hayloft. But nothing
had ever really happened to Martha Mary and she didn’t know just how to
begin. She thought for a long time; then a brown squirrel popped up in
the middle of the road, cocked its ears, and scampered into the poppy
field.

“I’ll follow ‘him,’” decided Martha Mary, “and see what happens.
Perhaps it will be like Alice in Wonderland.”

Away the two of them went, lickety-split, down a hillside and up
another to the crest and over it. Right there, just on the other
side---- Guess what! There was a group of children, at least a dozen,
all of the boys in blue jumpers and the girls in blue Kate Greenaway
dresses, and they were gathered around one of the boys who was a little
bigger than the others; even bigger than John. He was talking quite
excitedly, and Martha Mary stood, fascinated, watching him and quite
forgot little Mr. Squirrel, who had by this time completely disappeared
up a tree. Finally the big boy saw Martha Mary and took off his hat and
said, “Hullo!”

“Hullo!” said Martha Mary.

Again the boy said, “Hullo!” and looked at the tips of his shoes; then
suddenly he smiled a perfectly good smile and said:

“Perhaps you could tell us?”

“Please, what?” asked Martha Mary.

“We are hunting for wild violets and there don’t seem to be any. Do
you know where they grow?”

Of course Martha Mary knew. There were oodles and oodles of them on the
Sherman Place, just at the edge of the lake Ocean. She thought it would
be lovely to bring all of the children home to pick them and perhaps,
if there was enough, to have tea.

“Wouldn’t your Mother care?” asked the big boy. “Or are you like us?
Haven’t you one?”

Martha Mary could hardly believe her ears. “Haven’t any of you
mothers?” she asked.

“Nope,” said the boy. “Nor fathers, either.”

“How awful!” said Martha Mary. “Where do you live? Who takes care of
you?”

“We live at the Charity,” said the boy. “We take care of ourselves,
excepting at meal-time or lessons.”

“How nice!” said Martha Mary. “Can anyone live there?”

“Yes,” said the boy, “if you are an orphan. But it’s not nice. No one
takes an interest or anything in you. The only excitement is when
ladies with eyeglasses on sticks come from the Affiliated Charities to
pat you on the head and say, ‘Dear little shaver,’ and make you want to
run away.”

“And they look to see if your ears are clean,” said one little girl.

“And ask if you are good and say your prayers,” said another.

“And of course we say ‘Yes,’” said the big boy, “and then they give us
pennies and tell us to save them and we will be rich when we grow up.”

“It’s not true,” said Martha Mary. “You always spend them before you
grow up. Things are very expensive! I know!”

Then they remembered the violets, so down the hills and to the road
they scampered, Martha Mary at the head of the lot (to be exact, there
were six boys and eight girls). Through the gates and up to the house
she took them to introduce them to Mother Dear, who was still feeling
pretty badly at the way Walter had behaved. When she saw Martha Mary
with all her company she dropped her sewing and said:

“What in the world has the child done?”

Martha Mary told her as quickly as she could all about their being
orphans and about the violets and the affiliated ladies who gave them
pennies to save. Mother Dear’s eyes grew soft in the way they have and
she kissed Martha Mary and shook hands with the children, no matter how
dirty they were. She told Martha Mary to take them to the violets by
the lake and not let them fall in, for some of them were quite small
and liable to. Martha Mary promised, then called Edward Lee and John
and they brought along Walter, who was now in a sensible frame of mind.
John was inclined to be standoffish until Martha Mary, who knew him
like a book, told him that the biggest little boy liked men better than
women, and then John became quite nice.

In a little while Martha Mary had learned the names of all the orphans,
and I’ll tell them to you, although you’ll no doubt forget.

First there was the biggest little boy; he was called “Slats,” because
he was thin. The Home name for him was Thomas Dorne. Then there was
the biggest little girl, Helen Dolittle, and then Reddy Smith and
Sammy O’Reilly and Sue Patience Grey and John Shaw and Margaret
something--her parents had died before she was able to find out
what the last name was--and Pansy and Amy Rebecca Isaacs and Skinny
Dawson and Patrick O’Harahan, and finally the most adorable little
golden-haired girl I have ever seen and her name was awful. It was
Dolcerina Vennicci, but they called her “Piffy.”

Away went the eighteen children to the edge of the lake, where there
were so many violets under the green leaves that everyone fell to
picking and became too busy to talk. After a while, when hats and arms
and aprons were full of flowers, Martha Mary said:

“Let’s play.”

“Play skin the Fox,” said Skinny Dawson.

“Ich tee goo,” said Piffy. “Ich tee goo” means something like “Oof” or
“Horrid” or “Dirty” or “Creepy” or “Slimy.” So you could tell what she
meant, although I confess it’s hard to find the word that explains it.

“We’ll play ring around a rosy,” said Amy Rebecca.

“Sissy game!” said Slats.

“I have an idea,” said Martha Mary. “We’ll have a story.”

“Can you tell them?” asked Sue Patience.

“No--not exactly, but Flip can. Perfectly wonderful ones!”

“Who is Flip?” they all wanted to know.

“I’ll show you,” said Martha Mary. Away she rushed and in a moment she
was back, dragging Flip after her and he holding in his hand the pages
of a letter from Jane that he had not had half time enough to read
twice.

“Hullo, You!” he said to them all, without waiting for an introduction.
You see, Mother Dear had told him that they were there and that he must
be nice.

“What do you want?”

“We want a story!” they all shouted.

Flip turned to Martha Mary and struck a pose like an old-time actor.

“Alas! Madam,” he said, “my fame precedes me. I fain would accommodate
you, but it wearies me to ever seek new plots.”

“Don’t be hateful,” said Martha Mary.

“’Tis well,” said Flip. “What nature of story-do you desire?”

They all shouted at once:
“Pirates--dolls--fairies--ghosts--love--shipwreck--creepy--bloody----”
until you couldn’t tell who was talking.

“Wait!” roared Flip. “You can’t expect me to think if you don’t be
quiet. I’m going to tell just the kind of a story I wish and, if you
don’t like it, you can go jump in the lake and drown. But I hope you
won’t, because then I’ll be insulted.”

This is the story he told them:




CHAPTER XII

  IN WHICH ANOTHER JOHN AND ANOTHER MARY WANDER FURTHER FROM HOME THAN
    THEY EVER HAVE BEEN BEFORE, AND FIND A MARVELOUS BALL OF GLASS, IN
    WHICH ONE SEES THE STRANGEST THINGS


“Way off in the furthest corner of San Francisco, just where the sun
comes over to light up the bay, there is a hill. Of course there are
many other hills in San Francisco, but none of them quite so important
as Russian Hill. You see, the families who live there are quieter and
happier and more old-fashioned than those in other parts of the city.
I don’t know why; they just are. Right at the steepest part of the
hill, and you can believe me when I tell you the Hill is steep, there
is a Spanish Castle; not a really and truly one, but just exactly as
nice as though it were. No one lived in it, nor had for several years,
excepting an old, white-haired caretaker; a splendid man. He liked
children. That is why John and Mary were allowed in the Castle so much.
John was a rather spoiled, selfish boy who lived in the Mansion next
to the Castle, with his married sister. Mary was his best friend. She
had freckles and you would have liked her. They played nice games up on
the Hill; dozens of fascinating make-believes that you never would have
thought of. They fought pirates--oodles of them--and baked potatoes in
ovens under the rock and did other things just as nice.

“But, just like other children, they grew tired of these things at
times and wanted something new. So one day, when there were no potatoes
left, Mary suggested going down the Hill. John did not like to; he
hated to go where there were other people. Mary laughed at him and told
him he was a sissy, although he wasn’t really. He became ashamed of her
taunts, so down the Hill they went. First you go down some lovely old
steps cut right in the stone, then you come to another hill so steep
that it is easier to lie down and roll than to walk. They must have
gone at least six blocks when, all at once, Mary said to John:

“‘We are not in San Francisco any more.’

“‘Where are we, then?’ asked John.

“‘We are in China.’

“They were not really; they were in Chinatown, but it looked like
another city, altogether. There were hundreds of Chinamen shuffling
along the street, with long pig-tails and funny, large pipes in their
mouths. They talked in a queer sing-song, the funniest language you
have ever heard. There were Chinese women with gold jewelry and green
jade in their hair, and the most adorable little Chinese babies, who
looked like dolls, dressed in splendid colored silks. Up on a balcony,
where there were a dozen brightly lighted lanterns, a Chinese musician
was playing upon an instrument that sounded like dying pigs and broken
drums and tin whistles. In the shop-windows there were white lilies and
flaming oriental silks and queer toys. Also there were skinned pigs and
skinned chickens and strings of bacon hanging from nails.

“John and Mary became so interested that they forgot all about going
home. Before they knew it, darkness had fallen, lanterns on the
balconies were lighted, and Chinatown looked like Fairyland.

“Down the street came a tall, fine-looking Chinaman, in loose, blue
silk trousers and a blue silk coat with black embroidery. He seemed
very much surprised to find two American children in Chinatown at that
time of night. He came to them and said, in even better English than I
use:

“‘I assume that your small selves are lost. Is it not so?’

“‘Not exactly,’ said Mary, who was always the spokesman. ‘You see, we
came for a walk and just sort of stumbled into Fairyland and now we
don’t want to go home.’

“‘But your August Parent? Will he not be worried?’

“‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘although John’s sister will not mind.’

“‘So,’ said the Chinaman. ‘Well, perhaps, if we were to ’phone to the
August Parent, he might feel relief. Then we could perhaps have tea and
ginger before returning.’

“‘That would be lovely,’ said Mary, and, ‘Great,’ said John.

“So the Chinaman stepped into a store and ’phoned to Mr. Devine, Mary’s
father.

“‘This is Fong Kee, Doctor of Law of the Hong Kong University,’ he
said. ‘I have just found young John and Mary enjoying the sights of
Stockton Street. I beg that you will have no worriment, as I shall give
them tea and bring them home at an early hour.’

“John and Mary could not hear what Mr. Devine said, but it must have
been satisfactory, for Mr. Fong Kee came out of the booth, smiling, and
took a hand of each of the children.

“‘Now,’ he said, ‘we shall visit my worthy friend, Fong Charles.’

“They went down a flight of narrow steps into a dark basement. There
was an odor of punks, like one uses on the Fourth of July, and the
strong breath of China Lilies. In through a latticed door went Fong
Kee, with Mary and John clinging to each other’s hands, just the least
bit frightened.

“The room they came to was decorated in beautiful golden scrolls of
carved wood. At the end of the room was a queer wooden man, and at his
feet was a bowl from which came a long ribbon of beautiful blue smoke.
On a wooden couch another Chinaman was resting, smoking a small bronze
pipe.

“Fong Kee spoke to him in Chinese and he arose and shook hands with
John and Mary. Then he struck a metal bell and a Chinese slave girl
appeared. He ordered her to bring tea and ginger. Then he turned to
John.

“‘I am the old Fong Charles,’ he said. ‘More years I have lived in San
Francisco than there are hairs on an old pig’s tail. I welcome you.’

“‘You look pretty old,’ said John. ‘What do you do? Are you a cook?’

“‘No,’ smiled Fong Charles. ‘I am a philosopher. I dream--and smoke my
pipes.’

“‘I like nice dreams,’ said Mary.

“‘So!’ said Fong Charles. ‘Then, perhaps, while we await Sanka, my
servant, who is as slow as the race of the turtles, I might tell you a
dream or two.’

“He lifted John and Mary to a black wood table, where they sat,
cross-legged, like tailors. Then he put between them a small black
pedestal, on which rested a large, round ball of glass.

“‘So,’ said Fong Charles. ‘Into the dream glass you must look and the
dreams you shall see.’

“John and Mary leaned forward and saw in the glass hundreds of lovely
colors, as though the rainbow had broken in it. Then the colors divided
and circled about like a fairy dance. Softly, oh, so very softly! Fong
Charles began to speak, in his sing-song voice, stopping only to draw
at his pipe and blow a bit of smoke into the curtains above his head.
And as he spoke, little by little, figures became clear in the glass
until John and Mary could see the dreams, just as Fong Charles told
them. There were three dreams he told, all quite short and strange:


_The Dream of The Girl’s Gift_

“Out of Ta Chung Sz, which is, August One, the Temple of the Bell, came
Tchi Niu, the Bellmaker.

“‘Those of you who are pure of heart,’ he called, ‘bring to me your
metal mirrors that I may make of them a new bell. Come, my children.’

“They came, many of them and gladly, the daughters and the mothers,
bearing in their arms the mirrors that showed their beauty, for it was
honorable to give, and what more worthy gift could be made than a new
bell for the temple?

“Tcho-Kow came last and slowly. On the mound of mirrors she placed
hers and stood aside. Then, as the torch was carried to the fire
builded to melt the mirrors, her heart grew sad, for the mirror she had
brought was the mirror that had been in her mother’s family and her
grandmother’s family, and the family of many generations before that.
And so she grew cold with grief and cried out.

“Slowly the flames crept up and slowly the mass of metal melted into a
river of shining gold. But the mirror of Tcho-Kow would not burn.

“‘How now,’ said Tchi Niu. ‘The gift burns not; you have brought
disgrace on your house, oh, daughter of a Thousand Lilies, by not
giving your heart with your gift. How, then, will you redeem yourself
in the eyes of Dong, the Great Bell?’

“Then was Tcho-Kow smitten with a great repentance and she longed for
the goodwill of Dong. So she thought and thus made her gift worthy. As
the flames crept up about the mass of metal, she cast aside her dress
and saying:

“‘Gladly I give myself as gift,’ she stepped into the flames and
disappeared. Then did the flames burn joyfully and the mirror of
Tcho-Kow melted with the others and Dong was appeased.

“Now hangs the bell in Ta Chung Sz, and when it is rung to call its
song to the world:

“‘Ko-gnai, Ko-gnai, Ko-gnai,’ it calls, and thus renders thanks to
Tcho-Kow for her gift.”


_The Dream of Hoa-Tchao_

“Kiang-Kow-Jin, who dwelled in the body of a stork in the Pearl River,
was the God of Children. He ruled for a million years and was beloved
by all the race of River Men. He ruled well and happily and knew no
worry. Came a year, then, when the Children of the River grew few and
Kiang-Kow-Jin grieved. So to him he called Chung Li, the girl child,
and said to her:

“‘I grieve because your companions are few. What then, Daughter of
Wisdom, am I to do?’

“Chung Li knew all things.

“‘Go to Ta Chung Sz, The Temple of the Bell, and pray,’ she said, ‘that
many flowers shall grow.’

“To Ta Chung Sz went Kiang-Kow-Jin and prayed, and when he came out
of the Temple all the fields were glad with myriad wondrous colored
flowers.

“‘It is Hoa-Tchao, the Birthday of A Hundred Flowers,’ he said. Then he
sought his home and slept.

“When he had slept and awakened he came again to the fields. There
played Chung Li with many new children. And so Kiang-Kow-Jin learned
that children are flowers.”


_The Dream of Bo_

“Bo is the God of The River Fish. His home is of glass and seaweed.
Yearly came the River Men to make gifts to Bo, for Bo was of great
greed. One year, with the other Men of The River, came Fong Soy, the
silk merchant.

“‘Bountiful Bo,’ said he, ‘this year I have no gift. The rains have
been few and I have sold no silks. I have no wealth or fruits to bring
to you. So, that you will bear well with me, I have brought that which
I treasure more than Life itself.’

“He opened the folds of his dress and out stepped Fong Sing, his oldest
son. Fong Sing, garbed in red, stepped into the waters and disappeared.
Then, though parted from his dearest possession, Fong Soy returned to
his home and learned that his wife had given him two sons and they were
visaged as Bo, the God of The River.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Slowly the forms in the crystal ball disappeared and Fong Charles
stopped speaking. John and Mary shook themselves as though they had
been sleeping. Down from the black table Fong Kee lifted them, and
there, on a small stand, was very black tea in lovely transparent
cups. Mary tasted it, but it was bitter, so she did not drink. Then
Sanka, the slave girl, brought dishes with cakes and candied gingers
and strange fruits and almonds. Fong Charles filled the children’s
pockets, and then Fong Kee led them away. Slowly they climbed their
Hill and to the door of the Mansion. There stood John’s sister and
Mary’s Father to welcome them, and you may believe they were relieved
when the children appeared. They shook hands with Fong Kee and made him
promise that he would come again to the Hill to visit them and perhaps,
some time, take them again to Fong Charles to look in the round glass
again.”

“Gee, that was a queer story,” said Slats, when Flip had finished.

“Yes,” said Piffy. “It made me sleepy.”

Martha Mary was afraid that the children would hurt Flip’s feelings if
they said more, so she raced them up the lawn to the house, and there
on the veranda Mother Dear had placed pitchers of lemonade and enough
cake for six times eighteen children. And so they ate till they could
eat no more and then, with their wild violets in their arms, went back
to the Charity, with Martha Mary’s promise that she would come to play
with them whenever Mother Dear gave her permission.




CHAPTER XIII

  IN WHICH FLIP USES NEEDLESSLY LONG WORDS, BUT, TO WIN OUR GOOD-WILL
    AGAIN, HE TELLS A REAL OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALE


For a perfectly good story-teller Flip had some rather queer ideas.
He didn’t believe in fairy tales: that is, the kind that told about
witches and Godmothers and Princes and such. He said he could not
explain just why--it had something to do with inefficient education.
Of course we do not know what “inefficient education” is, but Father
and Mother Dear know, so it must be all right. Nevertheless, everyone
knows that real fairy tales are nice even if they are not efficient
education, so one night, about an hour before bedtime, when the
children were all in the living-room before the fire, Martha Mary
asked if, please, Flip would tell one. Flip was in a particularly
good humor; there had been a thickish letter from someone during the
day, and of course the someone was Jane. So he agreed. Only he was
rather annoying; he started by using needlessly long words that no one
understood. He said they would have to “create the right atmosphere.”
John said he would, although he didn’t know what it meant. But Flip
didn’t alone. He put out all the lights so that there was only the
log fire to keep people from bumping. The flames really looked like a
witch’s fire, only there were no witches in the story. Then he heaped
cushions on the floor for Martha Mary to sit on; Flip had been very
polite to Martha Mary since Jane’s visit. Walter and Edward Lee lay on
their stomachs on a rug. Liza was the only one who was not there. Flip
piled some lovely-smelling pine cones on the fire, which sputtered and
flamed like a blacksmith’s forge, only didn’t smell at all the same.

“Once, in the days before Mother Dear was born, or Mother Dear’s
Grandmother, or her Grandmother’s Great Grandmother’s Great
Grandmother, which was many years ago,” said Flip, although everyone
knew that, “there lived a King whose lands were so great that it took
the birds a whole month to fly across them. He was the richest king
who lived in the days of the fairies. His chests were of the finest
gold, lined with purple satin, and in them were so many beautiful
emeralds and rubies that it would hurt your eyes to look at them. In
his garden grew the rarest of flowers; roses that had been brought
from England and yellowish brown and purple orchids from Brazil; iris,
lilac, cherry blossoms, and St. Joseph’s lilies were there, too, from
all the four corners of the earth. In his stables there were Arabian
horses and splendid dogs: deerhounds and greyhounds, and had there been
St. Bernards in those days, he no doubt would have had some of them,
too. In the Palace there were wonderful ancestral paintings, beautiful
furniture, table service of pure gold, and glass of the rarest cut.
Best of all, there was his very dear Queen Wife and the little prince
who would be King when he grew up. It was the sunniest of days when the
prince came. The Queen Mother had longed for a son and heir for a very
long time. She dreamed one night that when the King had grown to love
her very much she would be given a son; you know, there can only be
children where there is love. The dream made her more pure and lovely
than ever; her thoughts and her ways so delighted the King that he
learned to love her more than he thought a mortal could love. And so,
just as the rosebush grows until it is lovely and old and wise enough
to be a mother, and then the seed develops in it under the petals and
finally wins strength and goes away on the breeze to take root for
itself and become a rose child, so the seed was born within the Mother
Queen. While it was gaining strength within her, she kept her thought
cheerful and clean, so that when her child came he would be cheerful
and clean always. Then came the sunniest of days; just the day for a
Prince’s birth, and early in the morning the King was allowed to come
to his wife’s room and there, beside her, on a soft little cushion, was
his son, the Prince.

“You can well believe that the King was filled with gladness. He went
to the balcony of the Palace with the tiny baby in his arm and held it
up so that all the subjects could see it. They cheered and the bronze
church bells rang and there was gladness throughout the kingdom.

“From the wisest of the courtiers, guardians were chosen for the
Prince. There was the chief astrologer to teach him the knowledge that
was in books. The grey-haired old Lord of The Park taught him the
beauty of flowers and the song of the bird, and the Master of The Whip
showed him the correct way to trot a horse and the manner in which a
King’s son should hold his sword. So, surrounded by wealth and the
dearest of parents and the wisest of teachers, Prince Winfred grew
strong and wise. At the time of my story he was about ten years old,
the finest young prince you have ever seen, only of course you have
never seen a prince.

“You would think that, with all his wealth and splendor, he would be
perfectly happy, but he wasn’t. You see, one day he was riding down
the Park road on his white horse and he saw through the Castle gates a
farmer’s boy pass by on a burro. It was a perfectly good, young grey
burro with a collar of wild flowers and tinkling bells hanging from
it. As soon as Winfred saw it he knew that he did not have everything
in the world. He made up his mind that he wanted a burro very much. He
told his wish to old Esau, the astrologer, but Esau raised his hands
in horror and said it would be disgraceful and undignified for His
Grace to ride a burro. He would speak to the Master of The Whip, he
said, and order new horses. That was not what the Prince wished for;
he had plenty of horses already. He did not know just why he wanted
a burro; personally, I think I can guess. There was something simple
and modest in the small creature that would have been a welcome change
from the show and pomp of the Castle. So Winfred went to the Lord of
The Park and told him his desire; that proud official sneered rather
disrespectfully and said:

“‘Perhaps Your Highness desires a goat, too, to milk when you tire of
the burro.’

“Winfred almost lost his temper, but he remembered that Princes had to
be dignified, so he went to his father, the King, and in a most proper
fashion, said:

“‘Your Majesty, I have a request to make.’

“It pleased the King to be asked favors by his son, and so he smiled
and demanded what it might be.

“‘If it please you, Sire,’ said Winfred, ‘I would like a burro.’

“‘A burro?’ said the King. ‘What will you do with a burro?’

“‘Ride him,’ said Winfred.

“At first the King laughed at the idea of seeing his son and heir
astride a donkey, but when he found that the boy was serious he went
into a rage and Winfred crept away, miserable and frightened. Out into
the Park he went and lay down under a large oak, where he wept in a
most unprincely manner. He wept until the tears were smeared all over
his silk collar and ran down his neck. You should have seen him; one
would never have guessed that it was a prince sprawled there, for all
the world like a badly trained baby. He really was unhappy, though, so
you could not blame him altogether.

“He cried and cried until he heard a rustling above him in the tree.
He looked up, and perched on a branch just above his head was a
small person, not a great deal larger than a pocket-knife. It was a
girl-person, dressed in bright green, with the tiniest of green hats on
her bit of sunny hair. She looked down at Winfred and frowned.

“‘What do you want?’ demanded Winfred.

“‘Stop crying,’ said the girl-person.

“‘You are disrespectful,’ said Winfred. ‘I am the Prince.’

“‘I don’t care who you are,’ said the girl-person. ‘I wish you would
stop crying.’

“Winfred was so surprised at her lack of respect that he forgot to cry
for a moment, but he soon began again.

“‘Stop it, I say,’ said the little thing. ‘Stop it! I hate you when you
do that.’

“Winfred cried on.

“Then the girl-person commenced to coax. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘stop and
I will give you any wish you ask of me.’

“‘Why should I stop?’ asked Winfred. ‘And who are you that you can
grant wishes to a prince?’

“‘You should stop,’ said the girl-person, ‘because I hate tears, and I
can grant wishes, because I am a fairy.’

“‘That is very nice,’ said Winfred. ‘I’ve always wished to meet a
fairy. Are they all like you?’

“‘Silly,’ said the fairy. ‘Of course not. I am the laughter fairy; I go
about the world collecting children’s smiles and giving them to solemn
grown-ups. I’m much nicer than most of the fairies; I think I am the
nicest fairy there ever was.’

“‘You conceited creature,’ said Winfred. ‘You are not at all nice.’

“The fairy laughed and reached down a tiny foot and kicked Winfred in
the nose.

“‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really mean that. There are
other fairies as nice--almost--as I am. And I’m not a creature and I
wish you wouldn’t call me one. I’m a fairy and my name is--guess what?’

“‘Christine,’ guessed Winfred.

“‘How silly! Christine is not a fairy name at all. Christines are
always fat and good cooks. My name is Merrylip. Do you like it?’

“‘Pretty well,’ said Winfred. ‘What does it mean?’

“‘Nothing. It’s just a name, and names never mean anything.’

“‘Oh!’ said Winfred.

“All at once Merrylip commenced to laugh; laughed so hard that her
little foot got tangled in a spiderweb and she almost ruined the web
getting loose.

“‘Stop it,’ said Winfred. ‘I can’t see anything funny.’

“‘You are funny,’ said Merrylip.

“‘Why?’ demanded Winfred, and showed signs of remembering that he was
the King’s son and entitled to respect.

“‘Because,’ said Merrylip.

“‘Because what?’

“‘Because I asked you to stop crying and I talked to you a little and
you had to stop.’

“‘Didn’t. I stopped because you said you would grant me a wish.’

“‘I forgot,’ said Merrylip. ‘What do you want?’

“In a flash Winfred remembered what he wanted more than anything else
in the world.

“‘Please--a burro,’ he said.

“‘A burro?’ said Merrylip, much surprised. ‘Why in the world do you
waste a good wish on a burro? There are much nicer things than that to
ask for. Wish, why don’t you, for heaps of money, and then you can buy
anything!’

“‘I have plenty of money,’ said Winfred. ‘And all the treasures I want.
But a burro is different. You can’t just buy them; you have to be born
not a prince to have one. I wish I was a train-engineer or a policeman
or a farmhand. A prince has so many duties that it is tiresome. When I
am King I shall have a whole stable full of burros.’

“‘Then you won’t enjoy them at all,’ said Merrylip. She was really wise
for such a small fairy. ‘You’ll get tired of them. People always do
when they have finally got what they wanted very much.’

“‘I wouldn’t,’ said Winfred. ‘I am different.’

“‘I bet you,’ said Merrylip.

“‘Bet what?’

“‘Bet I will show you something nicer than a burro; even nicer than two
burros. You’ll be perfectly happy for two hours--then you’ll want to
be a prince again and forget everything else.’

“‘You just say that because you are a girl,’ said Winfred. ‘Girls never
understand boys.’

“‘I’ll prove it,’ said Merrylip. ‘Come under my cape.’

“‘I can’t,’ said Winfred. ‘I’m too big.’

“‘That is easy,’ said Merrylip. ‘You must kiss me on my ear, then see
what happens.’

“‘Kisses are horrid,’ said Winfred. Still he was not going to take
any chances of not having his wish, so he reached up and just put the
smallest kind of a kiss on Merrylip’s ear. It tasted like marshmallows.
As soon as he touched her, Winfred began to grow small. You have never
seen a boy as small as he became--about so big. Then he climbed up and
drew Merrylip’s cape over him and away they went. Up over the very
tops of the trees, out across the Castle wall, down into the valley,
pop over a stream, high again so as not to bump into a fat old oak,
and--before you knew it--they were right above the city. Far below them
were the people, walking about, and they didn’t, any of them, look
larger than Merrylip.

“‘Now,’ said Merrylip. ‘Be ready!’

“Down they swooped right to the middle of the street, where a whole
dozen children were playing London Bridges. They were rather dirty
children; their clothes were not at all nice and their hair was mussed.
As soon as the Prince’s feet touched the cobblestones, he became his
natural size. Merrylip disappeared altogether, but Winfred heard her
buzzing about his ear, telling him what to do.

“You can imagine how surprised all the children were when they found
that a strange boy had popped up out of nowhere. They gathered around
him and shouted, ‘Who are you?’

“Winfred was going to say, ‘The King’s Son,’ but Merrylip whispered in
his ear, so he just said, ‘Winfred.’

“The children didn’t care very much who he was, after all. You see,
Merrylip had touched his clothes with her lavender stick and they had
become old and dirty just like those of the others. They decided that
they would start another game: Rum-ba-loo-pum-ba-loo. The oldest of
them counted out loud:

“‘Eny, meny, miny, mo. Catch a fairy by the toe. If he hollers let
him go. Fairy, meny, miny, mo. O-U-T spells out, with the Old Mother
Witch’s hat turned in--side--out.’ And Winfred was out.

“‘But I don’t know how to play,’ said Winfred.

“‘It’s perfectly easy!’ they shouted. ‘You know, the one who is out is
It.’

“‘How can you be It if you are Out?’ asked Winfred.

“They couldn’t explain, but that was the way it was played. The one who
was Out was It, and he or she was called Mrs. Rumbaloopumbaloo. She had
to be the old witch and live on a stump of a tree. That was all the
home she had. Then the children came up and said:

“‘Mother Rumbaloopumbaloo, what are you thinking of?’

“Rumbaloopumbaloo would say the first letter of the word. If it
was ice cream, she would say ‘I’; if it was music, she would say
‘M,’ and so on. Then, if one of the children guessed right, Mother
Rumbaloopumbaloo would chase them all and the one who was caught was It.

“Up to Winfred came the children and said:

“‘Mother Rumbaloopumbaloo, what are you thinking of?’

“‘It begins with B,’ said Winfred.

“‘Books,’ said one.

“‘Nope.’

“‘Bells?’

“‘Nope.’

“‘Beans?’

“‘No.’

“Then a little girl, whom no one had noticed before, said:

“‘I know. It’s a burro.’

“‘Uhu!’ shouted Winfred, and chased them down the street. He caught the
little girl who had guessed rightly and whispered to her:

“‘How did you know?’

“‘Silly, silly,’ said the girl, for it was Merrylip, grown big.

“They played for a very long time, and Winfred was never so happy
before.

“‘Isn’t this nicer than a burro?’ asked Merrylip, and Winfred said:

“‘A thousand times nicer.’

“After a while they all were tired and didn’t think the game was fun
any more, so they took up their hats and started for home.

“‘You can come home with me for lunch if you want,’ said one of the
boys to Winfred. Winfred whispered to Merrylip, and she said he might,
so they went. Only Merrylip made herself small again and hid in the
Prince’s pocket. They came to a small hut, and the boy, whose name
was Michael, rushed in with Winfred after him. They threw their hats
on a chair and shouted, and in came a woman, all fat and grey, with a
gingham apron. Michael jumped into her arms and shouted: ‘Mother, I’ve
brought a boy to lunch. His name is Winfred.’

“The fat Mother kissed Winfred; then they sat down in the kitchen and
had oodles of beans and black bread.

“‘Isn’t this nicer than burros?’ whispered Merrylip.

“‘A thousand times nicer,’ whispered Winfred.

“‘And nicer than dinner at home with servants all about?’

“‘A thousand times nicer.’

“When they couldn’t eat any more, the old Mother went to sleep in her
chair, and Winfred said good-by to Michael and went out.

“‘Where now?’ he asked Merrylip.

“‘Now the best of all,’ she answered.

“Down the road they went to a large field, where a grey burro was
eating grass.

“‘Get on,’ said Merrylip. Winfred patted the burro on the nose, then
climbed up. Away they went, much faster than burros usually travel,
rushing across the fields till the wind hummed about Winfred’s ears
like music. They galloped up across the hills and down into new grass
valleys that Winfred had never seen before.

“‘Isn’t this nice?’ shouted Merrylip.

“‘There is nothing nicer in the world!’ Winfred shouted back.

“‘Silly,’ said Merrylip.

“On and on they rode until Winfred grew tired.

“‘Please,’ he said, ‘I would like to stop, now.’

“Immediately the burro disappeared and Winfred was standing under a
tree, with Merrylip next to him.

“‘Where do you want to go now?’ she asked.

“‘I’m hungry,’ said Winfred.

“‘Shall we go to the old Mother’s and have more beans?’

“‘I’d rather have fried chicken and strawberries,’ said Winfred.

“‘But the old Mother only eats beans.’

“‘I can eat at home,’ said Winfred.

“‘I’m tired of burros.’

“‘Don’t you want to go back and play with the children?’

“‘No, they were dirty and disrespectful.’

“‘You are horrid,’ said Merrylip. ‘But I knew you would be this way.’

“She thought a moment, frowning the tiniest, most adorable frown.

“Then, ‘I hate boys,’ she said, ‘especially selfish ones. I am going to
punish you for growing tired so quickly of the things you wanted more
than anything else in the world.’

“All at once there came a rush of wind, and Winfred was alone, and, to
his horror, as tiny as a string bean.

“‘Merrylip!’ he called. ‘Don’t leave me alone! I am frightened.’

“But there was no answer.

“Again he called: ‘I can’t go home if you don’t come! My feet are so
small and my legs so tiny that I never would get there!’

“Still there was no answer.

“So how do you think he got home?”

None of the children could guess.

“Well,” said Flip, “it is nine o’clock and you all ought to be in bed.
So I’m not going to tell you another word, and there will be a second
chapter to-morrow night.”

“Please, please!” the children all shouted. “We want to know now.”

“Not a word,” said Flip.

Then suddenly Walter sprang on to Flip’s stomach and Edward Lee sat on
his face and Walter shouted for help. John got a rope, and with the
aid of Martha Mary they tied Flip to the leg of the library table. The
noise was something terrific. In rushed Mother Dear and Father.

“Here, here!” said Father. “What is the noise about?”

“Please,” said Martha Mary, “Walter is a hero and Flip is a villain.”

Then Mother Dear laughed, and when Mother laughs Father always laughs,
too. It really is quite funny to see Mother laugh. She is becoming just
the least bit stout. Well, when Father laughed, the children jumped on
him, too, and tied him to another leg of the table. Father tried to
look scandalized, but you could see a laugh lurking out of the corner
of his mouth.

Said he, “I consider this very undignified.”

“No,” said Walter, “it is jail. You have to give bail before you can
get out.”

“And may I ask how much the bail is?” asked Father, digging his hand
into his money pocket.

“It’s not that kind of a bail,” said Edward Lee. “Mother Dear, what
shall the bail be?”

Mother Dear had a splendid idea. “We’ll punish Father,” she said, “by
making Flip sing, and punish Flip by making Father sing.”

Father did not want to, but the children would not let him go, so he
sang in an awful, awful voice:

  “There once was a silly old whale
  Who drowned himself in a pail.
  Amongst folks it is said
  There was room for his head,
  But not the least bit for his tail.”

“Oh, oh!” moaned Flip. “Spare me, spare me!”

So they spared him, but made him sing to torture Father. Then it was
the most surprising thing. He sang in the softest, nicest voice,
a voice that just seemed to fit in with the firelight and the
“atmosphere”:

  “Way up above the blackest trees that tease the sky at night
  A million young star children dance a merry, fairy dance.
  The fat old moon comes through the clouds and giggles with delight
  To see the myriad youngsters as they skip and hop and prance.
  Then, when the night is growing old and skies are fading grey
  A mother star comes softly out a lullaby to hum.
  She warns the dancing children of the coming of the day,
  For a very careful Mother is Mrs. Rumdidoodledum.”

Then the children looked out of the window and, sure enough, Lady
Rumdidoodledum was just appearing, big and bright, above the pine trees.

“Flip,” coaxed Martha Mary, “don’t you think you could tell us just a
bit of how Winfred got home?”

“To-morrow night,” said Flip, and so everyone said good night and went
to bed.




CHAPTER XIV

  IN WHICH WINFRED IS GIVEN THE MOST WONDERFUL WISH IN THE WORLD, AND I
    ADVISE YOU ALL TO READ IT AND LEARN WHAT IT IS, SO THAT IF, SOME DAY
    WHEN YOU ARE LEAST EXPECTING IT, A FAIRY COMES AND OFFERS YOU A
    WISH, YOU WILL KNOW FOR WHAT TO ASK


The following day came a surprise for the children. While they were at
their lessons Mother Dear constantly looked at her watch and then gazed
out of the window. Martha Mary was sure something was going to happen,
but she could not for a moment imagine what it was to be. Finally
Mother Dear could keep the secret no longer.

“Babes,” she said, “you may all put away your books, and then I have
something to tell you.”

“Is it nice?” asked Edward Lee.

“Yes--and no,” said Mother. “I want you to be happy about it and be
nice to Flip. You see----”

Martha Mary’s lips began to tremble. She came to Mother and hid her
face in her lap so that the boys could not see her eyes. Mother Dear
smoothed the long curls that fell over Martha Mary’s shoulders and
patted her cheeks, just as you would a baby’s. The boys did not know
what to think.

Finally Martha Mary looked up and smiled the most unhappy little smile
imaginable, because it was hard to make-believe.

“I know,” she said. “I just knew it had to happen.”

“What, Dear?” asked Mother.

“He is going away; I am sure he is.”

Mother Dear’s eyes were all watery. “Yes,” she said, “but you must not
be selfish. Flip is going to be very, very happy.”

“I suppose it is the Jane-person,” grunted John.

Mother Dear frowned a little and then smiled a perfectly good smile.

“It is the Jane-person,” she said, “and I am happy as happy can be. You
see, Flip has received a great deal of money for his book and so the
publisher wants him to come to New York to discuss the work he is to do
from now on. And so Flip is going--going in a few weeks, but first he
is going to the City and he and Jane are to be married, and John and
Martha Mary are going with Father and myself to the wedding. So, you
see, it is to be nice, after all.”

“And,” said Liza, “isn’t my Flip ever, ever going to come back no more?”

“Certainly, Butterfly! In much less than a year he will return.”

“And live here?”

Mother smiled. “I’m afraid not. But he is to have a lovely cottage just
a short distance down the road and---- Ssh! Flip is coming. I want you
to be very nice to him and not say anything about what I have told you.”

Flip came in with a perfectly happy smile. Immediately he saw that
something was wrong. The children were always more noisy when he came.
But he looked at Mother Dear and she nodded, so he pretended to notice
nothing.

“Well, I’m here,” he said. “Supposing we find out now what happened to
Winfred.”

“Yes!” the children shouted, forgetting for the moment that it might be
the last story he would tell them in a long time. (Personally, I know
that it wasn’t.)

“Well,” said Flip (he always said “Well” when he started to speak),
“I’ll tell you, and please, Martha Mary, will you sit on my knee just
this once while I tell it?”

Martha Mary came and climbed to his knee just like a baby and hid her
face in his big coat, because she was afraid of crying. Then Flip
coughed to clear his throat and told the second chapter of Winfred’s
story:

“Now, let me see! Winfred was standing in the middle of the field,
alone, and he was no larger than a string bean. Every time a small
breeze came along it picked him up, just like a leaf, and carried him
to another part of the field. That was rather good fun at first, but
after a while it was unpleasant to have to fly whether you would or
not. So Winfred crept under a wild rosebush and hid in the leaves,
where he could think without being disturbed. But thinking did not do
any good, for that would not make him large again. He sat with his
tiny face in his hands and frowned. Then the sky grew dark and it was
night. Lady Rumdidoodledum and thousands of star children came into the
sky and the moon appeared like the largest gold plate you have ever
seen. Soon voices were heard in the field--voices of people calling
and shouting, ‘Prince Winfred!’ They were the guards seeking the lost
boy. They tramped here and there and everywhere and could not hear when
Winfred answered them, for his voice was as small as his body. Once a
guard came along, swinging a blue lantern, and he almost stepped on
Winfred. Finally they said he could not be in that field, so they went
ahead, the men shouting and blowing trumpets, and the women calling and
moaning. Last of all came the Queen Mother. She did not speak or cry,
but walked with her head bowed and tears in her eyes. Winfred held out
his arms and called, ‘Mother Dearest!’ but she could not see or hear
him. And so she passed out of sight with the others. Then Winfred crept
out from the wild rosebush and commenced to climb the hill. It was a
hard climb for his short legs and he was very much out of breath when
he reached the top. He rested a moment and then looked down. Far below
him he saw the ocean, grey and cold, and very great, reaching all the
way to the shores of Japan. Along the beach the huge waves splashed
like white horses. The winds came skipping across the waters, mussing
them in all directions. Winfred gasped, for he had never seen the ocean
before. Then, suddenly, he remembered--(and this is true, I assure you)
the first time you see or do anything, such as eating the first grape
of the season, or seeing the first firefly, or anything like that, if
you make a wish it is sure to come true. So Winfred reached out his
arms to the sea and whispered:

  “‘Oh, ocean blue, oh, ocean grey,
  I’ve never seen you before to-day.
  Grant to me, oh, grant, I pray,
  The wish I wish to you to-day.’

“Out of the wildest of the waves skipped a tiny veil of blue, waving
and swaying across the sky like a bit of smoke. Straight to Winfred
it came and fluttered to his feet. Then he saw that it was a sprite,
a tiny blue one, no larger than himself. The water sprite was dressed
like a Queen’s page, all golden and blue, and he carried the smallest
imaginable trumpet in his hand. He took off his hat and bowed.

“‘Prince Winfred,’ he said, ‘I have come from the salty sea with a
message for you.’

“‘I saw you coming,’ said Winfred. ‘I should think you would lose your
breath when you travel through the water.’

“‘One does,’ said the sprite, ‘if one keeps one’s mouth open. But I
breathe through my ears. Why don’t you try it?’

“Winfred tried, but he couldn’t.

“‘Please,’ he said, ‘what is your message?’

“‘I am Lovelight, the messenger of King Neptune who rules the ocean,’
said the sprite. ‘King Neptune’ (he said ‘King’ like ‘kink’) ‘heard
your wish and he says that he will grant it, because he likes to have
people believe in him. What will you wish?’

“‘I wish----’ said Winfred.

“‘Wait!’ said Lovelight. ‘Don’t be silly and wish for something that
is not worth while. And, for Goodness’ Sake, don’t wish for a burro!’

“‘How did you know about that?’ asked Winfred.

“‘Why, as soon as Merrylip left you she came straight to the sea to
tell all the waves and collect laughs from them. When they heard that a
King’s Son had asked for a burro, they laughed so hard that the sailors
all thought a storm was coming up.’

“‘I could choke Merrylip,’ said Winfred, although he laughed himself.
‘But,’ said he, ‘I do not know how to make a worth-while wish.’

“Lovelight came close and put his lips to Winfred’s ear.

“‘There is one wish,’ he said, ‘that is more wonderful than anything
else in the world. Shall I tell it to you?’

“‘Please do!’

“‘Well, wish that any wish you make at any time, as long as it is
sensible, will come true. You see, that is really only one wish.’

“‘And will it come true?’

“‘Certainly.’

“So again Winfred looked out to the sea and said:

  “‘Oh, ocean blue, oh, ocean grey,
  I’ve never seen you before to-day.
  Grant to me, oh, grant, I pray,
  The wish I wish to you to-day!’

“Then he added: ‘I wish that any wish I make at any time will come true
as long as it is sensible.’

“When he stopped, a golden light ran across the waters.

“‘You see,’ said Lovelight, ‘Neptune is smiling. He says he will grant
your wish. Try once!’

“‘All right,’ said Winfred. ‘I wish that Merrylip would come back.’

“Almost immediately Merrylip came skipping through the grass, with her
golden hair waving in the moonlight. Winfred put his arms about her and
kissed her on the nose. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I wish, Merrylip, that you
would not think me hateful any more.’

“‘Smile, Silly!’ said Merrylip. ‘And I won’t.’

“So Winfred smiled and that part of his trouble was ended.

“‘Now,’ said Lovelight, ‘I must return to King Neptune.’

“‘I wish you a pleasant journey back,’ said Winfred.

“‘Thanks,’ said Lovelight, and skipped into the sky.

“‘I wish you would give the King my regards,’ Winfred called after
him, and Lovelight had a pleasant journey and gave the King Winfred’s
regards as soon as he arrived.

“‘Now,’ said Merrylip, ‘I don’t suppose you will have any more to do
with me.’

“‘But I will,’ said Winfred. ‘I don’t suppose you will have any more to
do with me.’

“He didn’t really mean it to be a wish, although he wanted it very
much, but he forgot that every time he said ‘I wish’ it would come
true. So Merrylip stayed and that is why, even when he grew up and was
King, Winfred always smiled.

“‘Next on the programme is Home,’ said Winfred. ‘I wish I was my
regular size and was sitting on Mother’s lap and she was singing to
me, and Merrylip was hiding in my pocket, and things were just as
though I had never gone away at all.’

“Almost before he had finished the very long sentence, it came true.
Winfred found himself on his Mother’s knee (although he was a pretty
big boy to be held that way) and she was pressing her lips on his hair
and humming him a Queen Song. In his pocket slept Merrylip and no one
knew it excepting Winfred, because she was so tiny that, even when she
sneezed, people could not hear her. And so everything came out well,
after all, you see.

“Later, Winfred grew to be King, and with his wonderful wish made his
people the happiest on earth, for when anything sensible had to be
arranged he needed but to wish and it would come true. As a matter of
fact, it was fortunate that Merrylip was always there, for often he
thought of silly wishes and then Merrylip would pinch his ear and he
would not make them. And this is all.”

“Well, it is a relief to know that he got home all right,” said John.
John was forming the habit of using long words. It would have been just
as easy for him to say “glad” as “relief.”

Then Martha Mary climbed off Flip’s knee, and he held her hands and she
leaned forward and whispered in his ear:

“I’m sorry as sorry can be, Flip Dear, that you are going away, but I
am happy because you and Jane will be happy.”

Flip smiled and gazed out of the window, and then took Martha Mary into
his arms and kissed her, and the boys all shouted, and Martha Mary
rushed from the room, all red and happy.

And so Flip told the last but one of his stories before he went to New
York, and, as you shall see, the last one I had nothing to do with.




CHAPTER XV

  IN WHICH, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME, I DO NOT TALK AT ALL,
    BUT AM WELL CONTENT TO SIT QUIETLY BY AND LISTEN TO THE LOVELY NEWS
    THAT L. H. D., WHO, YOU WILL REMEMBER, I TOLD YOU ABOUT IN THE
    PREFACE, HAS BROUGHT


One gloriously sunny morning Liza opened her grey eyes wide, yawned,
and decided that she would really stay awake and consider the business
of the day. She sat up in her little crib, looking adorably pink and
white and very huggable, with her tousled golden curls playing hide
and seek with each other on her neck. Across the room, in her own bed,
still sound asleep, lay Martha Mary.

“Sister Lazy Bones,” thought Butterfly, and wondered how anyone could
want to sleep when Mr. Cock Robin was singing such a splendid song in
the vines at the windows. Liza looked around the room expectantly,
then the corners of her mouth drooped pitifully, and a big tear rolled
down her cheek. For where was Mother Dear this beautiful morning? Never
before, as long as Liza could remember, had she failed to find Mother
bending over her when she awakened, with a big kiss waiting in the
corner of her mouth for her baby daughter.

Just at that minute, luckily, Nurse Huggins came in, smiling, oh, so
happily! Liza, of course, just couldn’t help smiling, too, though she
had not any idea at all why she was so glad.

“Please,” said she, “where’s my Muvver Dear?”

(She never took time to say Mother quite distinctly, though she really
could if she wanted to.)

Nurse just laughed mysteriously, in the annoying way that grown-ups
sometimes have, kissed the little Butterfly, and bade her get quickly
into her wrapper and slippers. By this time Martha Mary was awake,
too, and following Liza’s example. In another moment the two children
were standing before Mother Dear’s door, which was very quietly
opened from the inside by a brown-eyed lady, dressed all in white,
whom they had never seen before. Mother lay in the big, four-poster
bed, looking a little pale and a little tired, but oh, so “smily.”
Right next to her was a little cradle, all blue lace and ribbons, and
inside-- Guess what! There was a baby, a teeny, tiny bit of a one, all
red and wrinkled, and not half so big as Liza’s doll. At first Martha
Mary could only look from the big bed to the cradle and then back
again. Then, when they realized what a wonderful present Mother Dear
had given them, they nearly smothered her with kisses. No one said a
word, because, you see, when a person is really and truly happy they
can’t talk much because of the choky feeling in their throat. But after
Martha Mary and Liza had each touched the crumpled rose-leaf hands of
the new baby, and looked into its tiny face.

“Please,” said Mary, “is it a sister or a brother?”

Mother laughed, then,--she just couldn’t help it. How silly she had
been not to have told them!

“It’s a sister, Ladykin Dear,” said Father, who came into the room just
in time to hear the question. “And she is just as glad to see you as
you are to see her, only she sleeps so much that she hasn’t time to
tell you so, herself.”

While Father was speaking Liza’s eyes had grown very wide indeed, for
the tiny sister had yawned, then opened her eyes, and was looking
straight at Liza.

“Muvver Dear! Father!” said she excitedly, “she is going to talk to
me.” Then Butterfly’s golden curls, which just reached to the top of
the cradle, bent over anxiously toward the little bald head of the new
baby. No one spoke for at least a minute, which was evidently long
enough for Miss Little Sister to deliver her message, for at the end
of that time, away flew Liza across the room like a little sunbeam,
dancing and singing,

  “I know a secret I won’t tell you,
  Sister told me and it is true.”

No amount of begging on the part of Martha Mary could persuade Liza to
tell what the little stranger had said. I am sorry to say that Mary
felt just the least bit jealous, for she didn’t see why Liza should be
the only person in the family to know such wonderful things. Just as
the two children were leaving the room, Liza went over to the big bed,
took Mother Dear’s hand and kissed it.

“Baby says her name’s ‘Midge,’” said Butterfly. “That is part of the
secret.”

Everyone smiled and was glad.

“Well,” said Father, “Midge it shall be, although her really, truly
name is to be ‘Margaret,’ just like Mother’s.”

Liza’s eyes fairly danced with delight at the news, and Martha Mary had
to keep a very tight hold on her lips, so as not to shout how happy she
was, and so awaken Miss Midge.

No one could seem to eat any breakfast that morning, though there
were delicious berries from the garden, with mush, and new-laid
eggs, and the thickest cream that Cow Bess could give. The boys had
been introduced to Miss Margaret Sherman, the second, while Liza and
Martha Mary were dressing, so it was small wonder that with the new
addition to the family to discuss the importance of such an every-day
occurrence as breakfast faded to almost nothing.

“She’s not so much,” said Walter, with a rather disgusted look, while
he balanced a raspberry on the end of his fork. “Little bit of a red
thing without any hair at all! and, do you know, it hasn’t even a
single tooth.”

“Well, supposing it hasn’t,” said John, his pride very much hurt at the
idea of a sister of his not being perfect, “it’s much happier without
them, I’m sure. Doesn’t have to bother with any old dentist.”

“John! Walter! How can you?” said Martha Mary, almost in tears. “You
are simply hateful to talk like that about the loveliest baby there
ever was. You ask Miss Mason if she isn’t. I heard her tell Father that
Midge was a ‘perfectly normal child,’ and although it sounds awful, he
looked so happy that I know it must be something nice.”

“But where did she come from, my Sister Midge Margaret?” said Liza, who
had been perfectly still ever since she had left Mother Dear’s room. No
one knew, but Edward Lee suggested that they find Flip, and perhaps
he could tell them. So away they all scampered, but not a trace of him
could they find. Just as they were about to give up, Liza spied him way
down in the sunken garden, his arms full of baby roses which he had
gathered for the baby in the house who looked so like a rose herself.
The children had never before seen him look so happy, except the day
that Jane came and his book was accepted. So, of course, they knew it
would be easy to get him to tell a story. Martha Mary took his hand and
patted it and said:

“Please, Flip, we would like a really and truly story about Margaret.”
Flip was delighted and said he had intended to tell one, anyway, and
was coming to look for them.

“For,” said he, “I am very, very happy to-day, Ladykin Dear, so you
shall have the nicest story I know how to tell.”

And this is what he told them--the story of Little Sister Margaret:

“Did you ever wonder, Children,” he began, “when you look at the sky at
night, and see the millions of fairy stars twinkling and dancing up
there, just why they are so bright and happy? Well, I’ll tell you the
reason. It is the most wonderfullest secret there ever was, and the
only people who are allowed to know it are the ones who love the star
children very much.”

“I do,” said Liza. “Please tell me!”

“Me, too--and Me--and Me--and Me,” came in chorus from the others.

“Now,” Flip continued, “you all know that everybody and everything in
the world must have some use, no matter how little it may be. It is
just the same in Star-land, though most silly people never think what
the little twinkling lights are for. Do you know that every single
one of them, down to the teeniest, tiniest baby, that you can hardly
see, is a world of loveliness all by itself? There is the Rose Star,
where gloriously deep red roses, and little shy yellow buds and pink
lady-roses grow, and the air is sweeter than the sweetest perfume you
can imagine. Then there is the Forget-me-not Star, all covered with
the little blue flowers that look like Sister Margaret’s eyes; and
the Violet Star, and Pansy Land, and Sun Flower Place (very large and
important) and heaps and heaps of other flower stars whose names I
have forgotten. Of course there is Fairy Story Star, too, where Puss in
Boots, and Little Red Riding Hood, and Cinderella, and Jack the Giant
Killer, and all the rest of them live. Right near IT is the Grown-Up
Book Star, where there are so very many people that they never get time
to know each other. But the most important star, outside, of course,
of the Music Land Star and the Bird Star where the loveliest of songs
come from, and really, even more important than them, is--guess who!
Butterfly Dear!”

“Lady Rumdidoodledum,” said Liza, without even stopping to think.

“Right,” said Flip, “and that is just whom I am going to tell you
about.”

“But I thought it was to be about baby sister,” said Martha Mary,
rather disappointedly, for she really could think of nothing else this
morning.

“It is about them both, Impatient,” answered Flip.

“You see, since Lady Rumdidoodledum is the biggest and brightest and
happiest star of them all, she must of course have something very nice
to make her so glad. Now, what do you suppose it would be that is even
lovelier than all the loveliest flowers or books, or birds, or anything
else that you can think of?”

“Give up,” said Walter, although everyone was much too busy listening
to Flip to pay any attention.

“I know,” said Martha Mary, her eyes shining. “It’s Babies.”

“Exactly, Ladykin Dear,” answered Flip. “Lady Rumdidoodledum is the
Baby Star, and she shines specially for little children all over the
world. I must tell you about her. There are oodles and oodles of babies
living there, creeping and laughing and cooing all day. They are happy
as happy can be, for they have the most adorable little playmates that
you ever saw. They are little fairy creatures, scarcely as large as
Martha Mary’s finger-nails, and they live in the soft, silky green
centers of eucalyptus blossoms. When a Mother down here on the earth
wants a little boy child or girl child very badly, she goes out
into the woods and picks a eucalyptus blossom. Then, if she is very
wise she opens it, whispers her wish, and lets out the tiny creature
inside, who flies away up beyond the clouds in the gentle arms of the
Southeast wind, straight to Lady Rumdidoodledum. There, the first
thing the little fairy-person sees is a big silver cloud. She goes
right through it, for she is both a fairy and a dream and can do many
wonderful things. Right there, who do you think is waiting? A smiling
Mother-person who looks like your Mother Dear, as well as every other
Mother in the world.

“‘Happy Day, Little Dream,’ she says, which is Rumdidoodledum for ‘How
do you do?’ The little creature whispers the message of the Mother who
sent her from earth, then flies back to tell her that all is well, and
her wish will be granted.

“Well, one lovely evening, several months ago, just after the sun
had set and the sky was all rosy and gold in the west, your Mother
Dear went out for a little walk in the garden with Father. Lady
Rumdidoodledum had just come out and was shining very brightly over
the top of the big eucalyptus tree. Mother Dear saw her first; she
always does, you know. So, she wished very, very hard for another
little daughter, at the same time opening the eucalyptus blossom
that she held in her hand. There was a little breeze at that moment,
and away flew the tiny creature. When she reached the Baby Star, she
stayed a very, very long time indeed. For she was most particular for
so small a personage and wished to find just the very sweetest of all
the Rumdidoodledum babies to be Margaret Sherman. So she searched and
searched but none of them suited exactly, until way off in a corner she
found what she was looking for: an adorable little golden-haired mite
with eyes that danced and were the color of forget-me-nots. Then the
fairy-person knew that she had found the right little sister for John,
Martha Mary, Walter and Edward Lee and Liza, so she flew off, happy as
happy could be.

“Ever since, Mother Dear has been waiting, waiting for her dream to
come true. This morning, just as Lady Rumdidoodledum was fading from
the sky, the Baby-person arrived, for all the world as lovely and pink
as the dawn that brought her.

“That, Butterfly Dear, is the story of Little Sister Margaret, the
dearest of all Lady Rumdidoodledum’s children. And that, you see, is
the reason that Mr. Cock Robin sang so happily outside your window this
morning and the flowers were all so gay and the sky so blue and bright.
You see, all the world is happy at the sound of a baby’s voice.

“Listen, there she is, calling now, for someone to come and love her.”

“I do,” said Butterfly Liza. “And I--and I--and I--and I,” sang all the
others.


FINIS




_THE “MOTHER DEAR” BOOKS_


THE GOLDEN SPEARS AND OTHER FAIRY TALES

By EDMUND LEAMY

With a preface

By JOHN E. REDMOND, M.P.

_Illustrated. Small 4to, cloth. Net $1.00_


“‘=The Golden Spears and Other Fairy Tales=’ is a book of absorbing
interest for children, and will be read with pleasure by grown-up
people. It is by the Irish writer, Edmund Leamy, who understood the
child nature and loved to minister to it. The delight which children
have in the world of fields and flowers, birds and blue skies, finds
abundant expression in the stories. In each tale the dramatic feature
is well developed and holds the reader’s interest to the end. The book
has real literary merit, the author’s style being graceful and well
adapted to the child mind. There are not enough such books in the
world. Books that are free from objectionable features and meet the
child’s craving for the wonderful, at the same time portraying the
beautiful and noble in the world and in human life, are very rare.
Brightness, beauty, nobility of sentiment, brave deeds, generous
conduct, kindness, gratitude, fidelity, appreciation of the good and
true in humanity, kindness to the lower orders of life, purity of
thought, all find abundant expression in the stories. There are seven
of them in the volume. Each has an attractive illustration drawn by
Corinne Turner. They are printed on paper of an excellent quality and
handsomely bound in cloth, with an appropriate cover design in colors.
Educators would do well to consider this volume as well adapted to meet
the need for suitable reading matter in certain school grades.”--_The
Springfield Republican._


THE FAIRY MINSTREL OF GLENMALURE

By EDMUND LEAMY

Illustrated in color

By VERA CASSEAU

A book of beautiful imaginative tales for children of all ages, a
companion to “The Golden Spears and Other Fairy Tales” by the same
author, which Mr. John E. Redmond, M.P., pronounced the most winsome
and educative of its kind.

_Small 4to. Cloth. 75c. net_


THE HEART OF AN ORPHAN

By AMANDA MATHEWS

Illustrated by W. T. Benda

“‘The Heart of an Orphan’ introduces another lovable child to the
wealth of American child-lore.

“Giovanna, the little Italian orphan, is so ingenuous and natural as
to suggest the boys and girls of Myra Kelly’s tales. It is a book that
should be known and loved.”--_The Boston Herald._

_12mo. Cloth. $1.00 net_


  PUBLISHED BY
  DESMOND FITZGERALD, Inc.
  156 FIFTH AVENUE      NEW YORK




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.