THE STORY OF THE MINCE PIE
[Illustration: “Here! what’s this rolling across the floor?”
(_Page 142_)
]
THE STORY OF
THE MINCE PIE
BY
JOSEPHINE SCRIBNER GATES
Author of “Captain Billie,” “The Story of Live Dolls,”
“Little Girl Blue,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHN RAE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
By courtesy of _St. Nicholas_, in which “And Piped Those Children
Back Again” and “Anna Belle’s Christmas Eve” first appeared, they are
included in this volume.
The Mince Pie has always held an important place in Christmas Tales,
but it remained for Mrs. Mildred G. Potter to conceive the idea of
making it the main feature.
It is my pleasure to give to her my grateful acknowledgment for the
happy thought which it has been my privilege to embody in story form.
Here’s to the Dolls that will come to life,
Here’s to the Tales they’ll tell
Out of the depths of the Christmas Pie,
To the tune of a Christmas Bell!
Here’s to the Sugar and Fruit and Spice,
Here’s to the Story Elf,
Here’s to that Fragrance of Christmas Time,
Here’s to the Pie itself!
Big and spicy and rich and brown,
What does that top crust hide?
You know how it looks from an outside view,
Now read what it’s like inside!
BY
DOT AND NICK
WHO ALSO WANTED A FINGER
IN THIS PIE!
J. S. G.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MINCE PIE 1
RAISIN DOLL 10
CURRANT DOLL 18
CLOVE DOLL 21
DANCE OF THE ELVES 26
SPRITE’S TALE 27
ALLSPICE DOLL 37
NUTMEG DOLL 39
CINNAMON DOLL 42
PIED PIPER STORY 46
MRS. SUGAR 60
MOLASSES DOLL 66
VINEGAR KING 70
CITRON DOLL 74
TALES OF THE ORANGE AND LEMON DOLLS 76
ANNA BELLE’S CHRISTMAS EVE 79
TALES OF THE SALT AND PEPPER TWINS 104
APPLE DOLL 108
JOHNNY APPLESEED 110
STOLEN DOLL CLOTHES 129
BROWNIE DOLL 134
PIE CRUST 142
HOW JACK FILLED THE STOCKINGS 146
INTERROGATION POINT 157
ILLUSTRATIONS
“Here! what’s this rolling across the floor?” _Frontispiece_
(Page 142)
FACING
PAGE
“They’ve been peeking in that big book” 8
“Behold, the Story Sprite!” 16
“Great sport they had flying wonderful kites” 28
“We will both wish for her to come” 36
“The beauty of the scene almost overwhelmed him” 50
“Sometimes it is gingerbread, or maybe plump brown
cookies” 60
“Suddenly something startled the horse, and he ran
away” 70
“She was making dolls from bottles” 82
“‘Show what we are to take,’ cried the Fairy. ‘We
must hurry’” 94
“I am used very extensively as an April Fool” 104
“The children sat at his feet and listened to thrilling
tales” 112
“They looked like a lot of gnomes dressed for a party” 122
“She loved her home” 134
“He chose the busiest corner where there was a wonderful
toy store” 148
“Best pie you ever made, my dear” 160
THE STORY OF THE MINCE PIE
“Sing a Song o’ sixpence a pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty Dollies baked in a pie,
When the pie was opened the Dolls began to sing,
Wasn’t that an odd dish to set before the King?”
You have heard of many kinds of pie, but did you ever hear of a Doll
pie?
No one ever did, I am sure, and no one knew the pie was full of dolls;
everybody supposed it was just a plain mince pie; the kind that makes
your eyes twinkle, and makes you smack your lips when you sniff it
baking.
I have always thought it was the kind Jack Horner had when he sat in
the corner and pulled out a plum, but never did I dream that he might
have pulled out a doll!
I found it out in such an extremely funny and unexpected way that I
must tell you all about it.
It was Christmas Eve. Jack’s father was away but coming home on the
morrow in time for all the Christmas doings.
We had locked up the house and were just going upstairs to bed when
Jack exclaimed:
“Mother, you know the mince pie you baked to-day? We must take it up to
bed with us!”
“A pie, a mince pie to bed with us?” I cried in amazement, as I thought
of the spicy delicious thing safely stowed away on the pantry shelf.
“Yes, Mother, you know there is a mouse. It ate up my gingerbread doll;
didn’t leave even a crumb. How would we feel if it ate up our mince
pie!”
That was true. There had been a mouse spying about of late, and so I
said all right, we would.
I carried it up very carefully, and we stood in the middle of the room
looking about for a good place to put it.
It was a bitter night. The maid had built a grand fire of logs, and
they crackled and snapped a Christmas greeting as we stood seeking a
resting place for the pie.
“I see a fine spot!” cried Jack, as he ran to the big grandfather
clock, and sure enough it was. A shelf just under the pendulum that
seemed made on purpose for a pie. We placed it there and covered it
carefully with a napkin.
“The pie is going to bed, too,” I said, as I snuggled it up under its
cover.
Jack shouted over this, and we both had a merry time undressing before
the jolly fire.
We hung up our stockings and one for Father, then hopped into bed.
Jack nestled up close and begged for a bedtime story, which I always
told him. A drowsy tale which sent him to sleep, and me, too, before it
was barely finished.
I really didn’t know I was asleep, but suddenly a queer sound startled
me, and as I listened I heard Jack smothering a giggle.
“What is it, dear?” I whispered.
“Oh, Mother, such a funny thing! I heard the clock chain rattle, and
I looked and the mouse ran up the clock, and I heard voices singing:
‘Hickory Dickory Dock.’ Now look quick!”
We both stared at the napkin over the pie, for it began to get humpy.
You have played “tent” under the bedclothes, of course.
Well, there seemed a dozen somethings playing that game, for the napkin
humped up here and there till presently it was lifted off and fell to
the floor.
It was just like a matinée. The napkin seemed to be the curtain rolled
away, then the show began.
We heard queer voices singing, and then we saw such a sight! Out of
that pie filed a lot of dolls, the strangest looking dolls any one ever
saw.
One seemed to be made of raisins; another of currants—the dried sugary
kind. One had a round apple for a head, and such rosy cheeks it looked
like a blooming country maid wearing a Dutch blue gown and an apron as
white as snow.
Back of her was a brownie, holding the hand of a creamy white fat boy.
Following them was a group, one had a round nut-like head; another
was stuck full of what looked like cloves; another was tall and thin
just like a stick. With him was a pair of twins. They looked for all
the world like salt and pepper boxes. They were much smaller than the
others and teetered on the edge of the pie like tiny fairies.
Then came another pair, one with an orange for a head, the other a
lemon. As they pranced along, their fluffy orange and yellow skirts
stood out like ballet dancers.
Then came a dumpy maid all sparkly white.
“She’s the shape of a fat sugar bowl, Mother!” whispered Jack, and,
sure enough, she looked as though she had walked right off the tea tray.
Following her came one with a small oval brown head, looking so wise.
With her was one with a large green head.
Back of them strode another pair; one looking like a molasses jug, the
other like a vinegar cruet.
Such a funny lot as they were!
We looked and laughed, and laughed and looked. They raced about on the
very edge of the crust as though they were playing Ring around a Rosy;
then at a signal from the tall thin fellow they ran down the spiral
column of the clock over to the hearth.
“We can have a Christmas dance right here,” cried the rosy-cheeked
apple maid; at this joyful news they switched off their sashes.
The tall thin one fastened the ends to the top of an andiron, and there
in the firelight we saw a dance, such as no one ever saw before. Round
and round they danced, till the iron was bound with ribbon to its very
base; then the little creatures threw themselves on the hearth.
“Let’s play school!” cried the tall thin Stick Doll, who seemed to be
chairman for the occasion.
“Mercy, no!” cried another. “I don’t like school. I don’t want to learn
things.”
“I said let’s _play_ school. We don’t have to learn anything. It will
be fun. We’ll each tell a story.”
“A story!” echoed the whole bunch.
“What kind of a story?”
“A true story.”
“We don’t know any,” they all sighed.
“Oh, yes, you do. You all know fine stories, and if you’ll tell them,
something grand is going to happen!”
“What?” cried the audience.
“This is the one night of all the year when wonderful things happen.”
With wide open eyes and mouths they crept closer to the speaker, and
listened breathlessly.
“This is Christmas Eve. Didn’t you hear the mouse go up the clock? It’s
hiding and watching. Pretend you aren’t looking, but see the two bright
eyes peering at us, just at the end by the big hand. It wants the pie.
As long as we are here it will not come down. That is a Christmas pie
for the Christmas dinner to-morrow.
[Illustration: “They’ve been peeking in that big book”]
“If we go back the mouse will run down and gobble us all up. So there
is nothing for us to do but stay here. It’s a long time till morning,
and we better do something while we wait. How can we better while away
the time than with stories? We dare not go to sleep, you know. If
you’ll each tell a story you can have a gift, too.”
“A gift!” cried the chorus. “Well, that would be worth while. Pray tell
us what will the gift be?”
“That’s a secret I am not allowed to tell. The reason is, because I do
not know.”
“He does not know. He does not know,” sang the chorus, running down the
scale as a mouse runs across the piano keys.
“Well,” cried the wee Salt and Pepper Pair which seemed inseparable,
“since you know so much, you better begin the story-hour.”
TALE OF THE RAISIN DOLL
“I speak to be the teacher,” cried the Raisin Doll.
“Very well, you must tell the first story, then.”
“What must the stories be about?”
“Oh, there is only one thing to tell. We must each tell our history
from the time we were born, in order to have the gift.”
“Will the gift be good to eat?” asked the creamy white Fat Boy.
“Best ever you tasted. That’s all I could find out about it. Now begin.”
The Raisin Doll pranced over to the end of the hearth, made a quick
bow, and politely began:
“Ladies and Gentlemen:”
Everybody giggled, but he went bravely on.
“I don’t seem to remember the day I was born.”
“Not many do,” whispered one to another.
“It isn’t polite to interrupt,” frowned the speaker.
“The first thing I remember a whole bunch of us was hanging from a
vine—”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” shouted the chorus. “A whole bunch of him was hanging
from a vine!”
“Well, there was a whole bunch of us, and as I looked about I saw many
bunches and many, many vines.
“It was beautiful there in the sunlight. I never saw such glorious
sunshine—”
“Where?” cried the audience.
“In a place called California.”
“Where is that?” asked one.
“Don’t tell us; we don’t want to know,” hastily cried the audience. “We
aren’t to learn things here in this school.”
“I won’t tell you. I’ll show you,” and the speaker hopped on to the
large globe that stood in the corner.
He slid down one side and placed his big toe on the spot where
California claimed to be.
They all watched his antics closely, for in their hearts they did want
to know where those bunches of grapes grew, even though they didn’t
seem to want to learn anything.
“That’s exactly where my bunch of grapes grew, but I have cousins
called Malagas and Muscatels who come from Spain.
“You don’t want to know where that is, of course. I am now going to
take a little run around the world. Pretend I’m a top spinning, and
the spot where I stop and twirl will be where my relatives live. When
it’s time to twirl I’ll squeak and you can then close your eyes for the
moment, so you won’t add anything to your store of knowledge.
“For my part, I would feel quite pleased if I were sailing around the
world and could say, ‘Oh, Mr. Captain, just stop a few moments in
Mediterranean Spain. I want a pocket full of raisins to eat; the layer
kind, big fat juicy ones’; or if I were pudding hungry I’d wheedle
him a little. I’d say, ‘Now, Captain dear, I’d just like to run into
Valencia. We need a few pudding raisins. We’ll have a pudding that’ll
melt in your mouth if we can go there.’
“I think that’s much better than to stand around with my mouth open,
and when we steam into these places be wondering what grows there, and
why we stopped.”
That was a new idea. Journeys on ships were fun, and how proud one
would feel to be able to show the Captain just where to go for certain
things.
“Mother,” whispered Jack, “let’s watch where he twirls. Maybe a captain
might even beg us to go and show him where raisins grow, so he can
bring back a shipload of them!”
The Raisin Doll now skipped gaily along as though he were going to the
corner grocery for a stick of candy.
The audience gazed fascinated, and instead of closing eyes as he
squeaked, they hardly dared wink for fear they might miss some of that
raisin country.
“Where is he now?” one and another whispered as he paused and twirled,
crying:
“There! There is the very spot where many of my cousins live, and
because they live there instead of in California they are much sweeter.”
“Tell us why, tell us why,” clamoured the audience.
“For a very good reason. We are picked in bunches and dried in an oven
in sugar. They are dried in the sun, and are called sun raisins. Their
leaves are taken off, and a jolly time they have in the sunshine and
fresh air. A much better way than to be shut in an oven in the dark.
“However, we have to make the best of it; the cool nights and heavy
dews would ruin us if we stayed out, so we just cuddle up in the nice
warm dark, and look forward to the moment when the big oven door will
fly open, then we know something nice is to happen, for America sends
millions of pounds of raisins to other countries, and we just love to
go.
“The sun raisins are the kind used for Christmas goodies, and are
packed between layers of paper in large wooden boxes.
“Other places they come from are here, and here, and here, and here.”
As he spoke, he twirled over various parts of the globe, touching
Persia, Greece, Italy, and Southern France.
“It is quite grand to be a sun raisin and come in a box looking so
large and delicious, and to know you are the finest of your kind, but
I’d just about as soon be a pudding raisin, when the Cook comes in and
says:
“‘Dear suz me, Missus, we can’t have pudding to-day!’
“Then all the children set up a dismal wail and Missus says, ‘Why not,
I’d like to know!’
“‘Because we are just out of pudding raisins,’ but she adds cheerfully,
‘We have the layer kind. Could we use those?’
“‘Certainly not,’ says the Missus, with her head up like this and her
mouth turned down like this. ‘They cost too much. We’ll have to have
something else.’
“Then at dinner the Mister cries, ‘Why didn’t we have pudding to-day;
we always have it on Tuesday!’
“‘Cause no pudding raisins in the house,’ cry the children, sniffing
again.
[Illustration: “Behold, the Story Sprite!”]
“‘Send for a barrel of them,’ orders the Mister. ‘When that gives
out, get another at once. When I have my mouth made up for pudding on
Tuesdays I don’t want to be disappointed.’
“Wouldn’t that make a cute little pudding raisin hug herself?
“Another kind of raisin grows here in Smyrna; they are the small
seedless kind.”
“The Corinthian raisin currant—”
“Boo! hoo! hoo!” interrupted somebody, apparently much grieved.
“Who’s crying like that?” asked the Raisin Doll.
“I am,” came in sobbing tones.
“Why?” asked everybody, standing on tip toe to see the weeping one.
“He’s telling my story. There isn’t much to tell about me, and if he
tells it, I can’t; then I won’t get a gift!”
“To be sure you won’t!” said the tall Stick Doll. “Mr. Raisin, are you
going to tell everybody’s story, may I ask?”
“Why, no,” said the Raisin Doll, a bit fussed over the uproar; “I
forgot that one of my cousins was present.
TALE OF THE CURRANT DOLL
“Allow me to introduce to you the light-hearted, joyous-natured
Corinthian raisin Currant.”
The light-hearted, joyous-natured Currant Doll wiped his tears away as
he bowed and wailed:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am, though maybe I don’t look it.”
“Am what?” queried the audience sympathetically.
“Am what he said—light hearted and gay—and though my story is short
I am just as important as any of you. What good would a bun be without
currants? Just tell me that!” he cried in tragic tones, striking such
a funny attitude even Mother stifled a giggle.
“I came from a beautiful vine that grows in the lowlands of Zante of
the Ionian Islands belonging to Greece. I’ll show you the very spot.”
Here the audience was much surprised to see the light-hearted creature
turn a somersault down the slippery side of the globe and land in a
nest of small dots.
“These are islands,” he announced, “and here the vines are planted
in neat little rows three feet apart. Our grapes are like berries no
larger than a pea, and grow in clusters about three inches long.
“When about three years old the vine produces bunches of three kinds;
red, black, and white grapes without seeds. We play hide and seek under
the large leaves which protect us from the strong winds and hot sun.
“When we have grown as large as we can we are picked, dried, packed,
and sent many miles away. That’s all.”
And he sat down so hard he bounced up again like a rubber ball.
“Three cheers for the Currant!” cried the Stick Doll. “He seems to have
grown up under the figure three, and that brings good luck.
“Now, who wants to tell next?”
Nobody moved, and the Stick Doll cried:
“We’ll decide it by playing Ring around a Rosy. The last one down will
be it. Come, hold hands, circle, and sing.”
TALE OF THE CLOVE DOLL
Round and round they went, singing to an accompaniment of rollicking
laughter, and at the words: “Hush, hush, hush, we all fall down,” they
fell in a heap, the Clove Doll being the last to fall.
“Allow me,” cried the Stick Doll, as he gallantly set Miss Clove on her
feet.
“We will now have the pleasure of listening to this spicy creature. She
surely has a fine story to tell.”
Miss Clove had been slyly studying the dictionary, and longed to
impress the audience with the wonderful story of her life. She smoothed
her crimson sash, perked the butterfly bow on her hair till it seemed
almost ready to fly away, and with cheeks as red as her ribbons began
timidly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I am an undeveloped bud—”
“Ha! Ha!” cried one, who looked much like a vinegar cruet. “That is a
joke!”
“Why?” demanded the Stick Doll.
“She said undeveloped.”
“So she did, what of it? You may tell us what the word means.”
The sour-looking one, much confused, stalked away as he murmured under
his breath,
“We aren’t to learn anything here, I thought.”
“No, but if you knew the meaning of it, you would answer very promptly,
so the joke is on you. The speaker can, of course, tell us.”
The Clove Doll’s cheeks flushed even redder than before, and wished
with all her heart she had not used the large word of which she was so
proud.
“I am sure I cannot tell what it means. It’s what I am, and it’s the
way my story begins.”
“Who knows what the very large word used by the very small one means?”
asked the Stick Doll, of the audience.
The Pepper and Salt Twins now stepped forward. They swayed from side to
side and in sing-song tones cried:
“Un means not. Undeveloped means not developed; developed means
finished.”
“Excellent memory you have,” said the Stick Doll.
“They’ve been peeking in that big book, too; I saw them,” cried the
Vinegar Cruet. “Any one could do that.”
“Tell tale tit, your tongue shall be slit,” sang the whole crowd.
“Here! Here! This won’t do. Come, let us hear the rest of the story of
this unfinished maid.”
“It isn’t true that I am not finished! As a clove I am complete and
perfect. It is only that the buds are used before they are quite ready
to turn into blossoms.
“If my buds were allowed to blossom there would never be a clove. What
would the pickled peach do then, poor thing?”
“She’d stay in her jar,
And soon be sour,
And moulder away on the shelf, poor thing!”
promptly sang the audience.
At this Jack and Mother hid their heads in the blankets, shaking with
laughter, and came forth with very red faces just in time to hear Miss
Clove continue her spicy tale.
“The clove tree grows in the woods in hot countries, specially here and
here, and here.”
“She’s on roller skates,” whispered Jack, as the Clove Lady sailed
quickly and gracefully around the globe, touching with her wheeled feet
Zanzibar, Brazil, and the West Indies.
“The audience need not note especially the countries pointed out,” said
the Stick Doll, “but it is to me most interesting. You may continue.”
The Clove Doll had snatched the moment while she waited to again
improve her mind through the big book, and now announced importantly:
“I am very pungent. That means aromatic.”
“Oh!” cried the Vinegar Cruet, “you had to shut the book too quick to
find the meaning of that, but I happen to know it.
“Why are you like me?”
“Happy thought,” said the Stick Doll; “let’s turn this into a puzzle
contest. Why is the clove like vinegar?”
“Give it up. Give it up. What’s the answer?” sang the audience.
“Because we are both sharp,” politely answered the Vinegar Cruet,
strutting about like a peacock.
“Sharp! Ha! Ha!” cried Pepper and Salt. “S’pose you’ve been visiting
the scissors’ grinder.”
“Vinegar is right,” said the Clove Doll. “We are both smart.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Let’s all carry a pocket dictionary and we can be
smart and sharp, too,” laughed some one.
“Dear me!” cried the Clove Doll. “Did I really say smart? I mis-spoke.
I am sharp. I mean stinging to the tongue.”
Before she could say another word she was surrounded and tested so
vigorously by the many tongues, she shrieked indignantly:
“Stop! we don’t lick the ladder till the ice cream is done. Now let me
finish.
“My buds turn green, then red and hard. Then we are laid near the smoke
of a wood fire in the sun to dry. We don’t like that smudge and are
glad enough when we turn brown, then we know we are finished. I might
say developed,” she added, with a triumphant glance at her hearers.
DANCE OF THE ELVES
“The last night there in the woods we had a grand time. We looked like
a lot of elves dancing in the red glow shed by the fire.
“I’ll never forget what happened that night. We had just finished a
weird dance and were huddled together watching the sparks mount to the
sky, when there appeared in our midst a queer little Being, who seemed
to spring from the fire.
“She seated herself in our midst and told us the grandest stories I
ever heard!”
“Oh!” cried Allspice, “I wish she would come here!”
At that instant they heard a far-off voice. It seemed to come from the
flames. Singing, singing, nearer and nearer.
THE STORY SPRITE’S TALE
Suddenly from the very centre of the fire sprang a wonderful vision, a
tiny creature, who seemed clothed in wreaths of flame. With a joyous
greeting, as jolly as the fire itself, she cried:
“Your wish is granted. Behold, the Story Sprite! Since I attended the
clove party I have been around the world and have a fine collection of
tales.
“I am fresh from Japan, now, where I saw enacted a most exciting
tale. Creep close to my feet while I tell it. I wish you could see
the children in Japan. They are so beautiful; clad in their brilliant
coloured kimonos, they look like a mass of poppies nodding in the wind.
“One dear little Japanese maid did such a splendid thing!
“Without speaking a word, with only her dear two hands, she saved a
young man from being imprisoned for life. He was an American gentleman,
who had been sent to Japan on business.
“He was lonely so far from home, and became very friendly with Cherry
Blossom, the child of one with whom he had business relations.
“He was very much interested in the queer games she played, and spent
much time with her.
[Illustration: “Great sport they had flying wonderful kites”]
“Great sport they had flying wonderful kites that looked like gorgeous
birds with outspread wings, or maybe seated on the beach she would
make sand pictures, which were her great delight.
“They usually wound up these visits with a tea-party. The child seated
opposite him, looking like a brilliant butterfly, poised for a moment
as she handed him the fragile cup filled with the fragrant beverage.
“In time he became very dear to her, and one day while playing with
her dolly she overheard something that sorely troubled her little
heart. Her father was talking in low mysterious tones to some Japanese
friends. Suddenly she heard the American’s name. She pricked up her
ears.
“Dear! Dear! Such startling news she could hardly believe.
“They thought he was a spy and were going to put him in prison very
soon! They walked away, leaving the child grief-stricken.
“What a spy was, she did not know; but what she did know was that her
precious friend must be saved from that awful fate, for once in prison
he might never be released.
“He had told her of his own little girl, who was even now, in that far
away land called America, watching for his home coming. As she gazed
off seaward she saw a ship that might sail any day. He must go on it
and she must tell him why, but how could she?
“Never was she allowed to be alone with him for one moment. Always when
playing her childish games with him, her nurse sat near by, within
hearing of her voice, her beady eyes watching her every movement.
“As the child pondered on this startling state of affairs, her friend
suddenly appeared. At once the nurse glided to her post.
“‘See the ship,’ he cried in her native language. ‘It will sail this
evening. The next ship that comes will take me home to my baby. Let’s
go and buy her a doll.’
“To the shop they went, the nurse trotting along beside them.
“They bought a wonderful doll, an exact copy of Cherry Blossom in her
silken robes.
“They bought many other toys, among them a complete outfit for making
sand pictures.
“‘I’ll tell my baby how you helped me to choose her doll. Now let’s go
to the beach and you bring your sand bags and teach me how to make the
pictures so I can make them for her.’
“Happy thought! Now maybe she could have an instant, just a weenty
instant alone with him, and so she asked the nurse to bring the bags of
sand.
“‘You come, too,’ whispered the nurse, and refused to budge without the
child.
“Japanese children must be obedient, and she followed, not even daring
to allow her little feet to lag or to seem disturbed in any way.
“She was soon seated on the beach close beside her friend, while the
nurse sat a little apart knitting, her eyes fixed on the pair.
“Making pictures in the sand is a wonderful game, a game the Japanese
children adore.
“They have three bags of coloured sand and one of white. It is most
fascinating to see them spread in the form of a square the white sand,
till it resembles a sheet of white paper. On this with black and red,
yellow or blue, they produce wonderful landscape effects.
“Cherry Blossom plunged her hands into the bags, her thoughts far away
from the game.
“Suddenly her eyes flashed. She knew how to give him the message. Why
hadn’t she thought of it before! Pictures could tell most anything, and
so she eagerly began.
“Immediately from her tiny fingers the varicoloured sand trickled in a
thin stream.
“At first as he idly watched, he saw in her picture a bit of sea, on
which presently appeared a ship with spreading sail. On the fluffy
white waves, creeping up to the shore, rocked a tiny boat. On the land
appeared a prison, a perfect copy of one he had seen many times. In the
small boat an American was seated.
“The man watched in tense silence. The child was telling him something.
He lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, but as he remembered the
sentinel on guard, he began to hum a tune.
“The child’s hands never trembled as she next produced a number of
Japanese gentlemen.
“Now the man disappeared from the boat, and at once was seen peering
through the prison bars.
“Just here the nurse suspiciously drew near to see the picture.
“The man quickly pointed to the sky, crying gaily, ‘See the birds!’
“As the nurse gazed Skyward, one swift stroke of his hand destroyed the
picture, and he said quietly:
“‘Now let me make one. You do them so well I am afraid you will think I
am a bungler, but I want to try.’
“As he worked, he whistled a merry tune, and the child felt that
he meant her to know he understood. She soon saw that he, too, was
picturing a message, for in the twinkling of an eye he had fashioned a
tree, its green branches stretching out over the white background.
“On a low branch he placed a bird. It seemed to be making an effort
to free itself from a thong which held its little foot. From its beak
fluttered a banner. Under his fingers this banner was soon transfigured
into an American flag.
“As the man worked, the merry tune was replaced by sharp twitters and
chirps as though the bird were distressed.
“The child watched fascinated, as underneath the tree she saw a
Japanese child taking shape. Her fingers rested on the bird’s foot, and
suddenly by a quick twirl of his hand the bird was blotted out and in
an instant plainly to be seen poised on the mast of a ship, carolling a
glad song of freedom.
“Then the picture was swept away, and with one look into the child’s
beautiful eyes, a look that told volumes, he gathered up his purchases
and sauntered away.
“In his room he hastily packed his belongings, and later on under
cover of the darkness he was safely stowed on the ship.
“As Cherry Blossom drowsily closed her eyes she heard the ship’s shrill
whistle as it steamed away, and she rejoiced that she had been able
with her own little hands to send her dear friend back to his baby.
“There was great excitement the next day when it was learned the
American had vanished.
“The nurse was closely questioned. Never had she left the child alone,
and her mother also declared that she too had been on guard, and all
she saw was that they made pictures in the sand without even a word.
“And so the secret never was told till now, and it will still be a
secret, for pie people never never tell, and now good-bye till you wish
for me again.”
[Illustration: “We will both wish for her to come”]
With a graceful courtesy the Story Sprite vanished as suddenly as she
had appeared, and the audience sat for a moment listening spellbound
to her song fast dying away.
Then long-drawn breaths were heard and the Clove Doll cried, “Wasn’t
she perfect? I never dreamed she would come here, but I am glad she did.
TALE OF THE ALLSPICE DOLL
“Now will my cousin, Miss Allspice, please step forward and tell her
story.”
This dear little doll timidly made her way back of the speaker, and,
holding shyly to her skirt, peeped out, and said in low tones:
“I am just a small round berry from the Pimento. A wee evergreen tree
that grows on the limestone hills, on the Islands of the West Indies.
“We are about the size of a pea, gathered in August, and dried in the
sun for several days. The stems are then taken off and we are packed in
a bag and sent to America.
“There such a thing happened to us as you would never believe
possible. We were turned out of the bags, looking like a lot of dried
hard peas. We were so happy to be at the end of our journey, and see
daylight again.
“We smiled up at the blue sky as we merrily rolled out of the sacks,
but, alas, our joy was only for a moment, as we found ourselves
turned into a grinder of some sort. Suddenly we heard a whizzing sound,
and there we had turned from peas into a fine powder.
“They named us Allspice because we have the flavour of cinnamon,
nutmeg, and cloves, and everybody loves us.”
Out of breath, the modest little creature completely vanished in
Clove’s skirt, blown there by the applause which now filled the room.
“Well done!” cried the Stick Doll. “You mean a lot if you are small.
Now I think we should hear from the Nutmeg, since spice seems to hold
our attention at present.”
TALE OF THE NUTMEG DOLL
The doll with the small brown head now arose and walked over to the
place of honour. She was a study in green. Her gown was formed of
leaves from the tree upon which she grew, and an artistic picture she
made as she faced her audience.
“My dear friends,” she said, and paused.
“I take my pen in hand to say I am well—” came in an audible whisper.
“And hope you are the same,” flashed the Nutmeg. “I admit I was a bit
flurried. But thanks to your hurried letter just received I am myself
again. I need to be, for I am rather interesting.
“I come chiefly from the Banda Islands, and some of my poor relations
come from the West Indies and Brazil, where dear little Allspice lives.
“She forgot to welcome you to her home and I will show you where it
is,” and she took from her pocket some tiny round balls and tossed them
in various directions.
To the surprise of all, the balls lodged and stuck, and the onlookers
were so interested in learning whether they stuck where they should
they forgot they weren’t to learn anything.
“They did!” whispered Jack and Mother in one breath, and, sure enough,
some lodged in the Banda Islands, others in the West Indies.
“Some of us live in South America,” and she lightly tossed a few more
balls, all of which clung to their native lands.
“What do you mean by poor relations?” asked the Stick Doll.
“I mean the poorer quality of nutmegs. The Brazilian nutmeg brings oil
for hard soap and candles.
“I am the better quality, and am the kernel of a fruit which is round
and about the size of a walnut.
“The outside coat is two inches across before it splits open, and the
nutmeg, of course, comes out, just as the chestnut falls from the burr.
A network of tiny fibres is wound about it, and this second coat is
dried and ground and called mace.
“The olive-shaped nut, about an inch in length, is turned over every
day for two months, and treated with lime to preserve it. Then it is
the nutmeg which you see before you.”
“What are you good for, please, Mam?” asked the Vinegar Cruet with a
sour expression.
“What am I good for?” she cried indignantly. “What am I not good for?
Look in the cook-book on the pantry shelf and see if there is anything
worth while that hasn’t a dash of me in it.
“You’ll find every good housewife has one of me in a tiny grater
hanging where she can find it in the dark. Your puddings, and pies, and
gingerbreads, and cakes, and blanc-manges, and egg noggs, and—”
“Here! Here! my dear lady, we can’t wait to let you go through the
whole cook-book. We’ll take your word for it. Now since I seem to
belong to the same family, perhaps I had better entertain you next.
TALE OF THE CINNAMON DOLL
“I am called Cinnamon, and I’m just about as spicy as any of you. I am
exactly as important to the pickled peaches as is Miss Clove, and where
would the coffee cake be without me, I’d like to know?”
He paused and gazed about in a dramatic way that convulsed Jack, who
whispered:
“Isn’t he funny, Mother, so long and lank, and such an expression I
never saw!”
“Did any of you ever hear of cinnamon candy?” continued the speaker.
“Could it be cinnamon candy without me?”
As no one replied to this, he cried:
“Certainly not! and now I will show you where I grow. It is right
here,” and, with one stride of his long legs one foot rested on the
Island of Ceylon in the Indian Ocean near Persia.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cinnamon, but where did you get your seven-league
boots?” asked the Vinegar Cruet.
“They grew on me, so I didn’t need to buy them. You can’t tease me that
way. I can’t help it because I am long legged any more than you can
help looking sour. When you turn sweet I’ll have short legs; that’s a
bargain. Send me an invitation to your candy pull.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse this rude interruption, and I will
proceed.
“When the cinnamon trees are almost two years old small branches are
cut off and the outer bark removed, leaving the inner bark, which is
then peeled off and dried.
“In drying it takes the form of rolls called quills, the smaller ones,
as they dry, are thrust into the larger. Sometimes it is ground fine
and packed in bags.
“I am not only used in flavouring food, but in many medicines.
“Now I think the spices have finished their tales, and we can have a
complete change of programme.”
“Oh!” cried Allspice, “before we go on let’s have the Story Sprite
again.”
“Is it your desire that the Story Sprite appear?” asked Cinnamon Stick.
“If so, Allspice and I will break this wishbone I see hanging over the
hearth.”
“Oh! Do! Do!” cried one and all.
“Very well, we will both wish for her to come, then we can’t possibly
fail whichever way it breaks.”
And so snap went the bone, but much dismayed they were when it was
found each held the short end, for the centre had taken to itself wings.
“Oh, I _wish_ she would come anyhow!” they chorused, and once more from
the flames sprang the Story Elf.
“You do not need to break wishbones to bring me. All that is necessary
is just to _wish_, and here I am,” she announced.
“This time I want to tell you more about a story you all know very
well. It is called:
AND PIPED THOSE CHILDREN BACK AGAIN.
“Don’t you love the Pied Piper story, and didn’t your heart almost stop
beating when the door in the mountain closed, shutting the children in?
“And though you were glad one mother had her dear little boy left
behind, no doubt your tears mingled with his as he limped alone down
the mountain path trying in vain to comfort himself with the fleeting
glimpse he had of that joyous country where the horses had wings and
the bees no stings; where the birds were brighter than peacocks here
and flowers of rare beauty grew in profusion.
“Can’t you just see his beautiful, upturned, angel face? How could
that great door close and leave _him_ on the wrong side!
“But let me tell you a splendid fact. Sometimes the things that seem
all wrong are the grandest things that ever happened, and true it is,
though it may seem hard to believe, this little fellow was really on
the right side of the door after all. And though he seemed shut out
from the glad times awaiting them in that blissful land, just because
of this he was able to ring the joy bells of the village with his own
hands because he was the only one there who could finally enter the
magic door and carry the message that brought the children to their own
again. And now I must tell you this beautiful thing that happened:
“After the little hamlet was bereft of her children the parents turned
sadly back to their homes, while the muffled tones of the Pied Piper
came no more to their ears.
“They could hardly believe it true. It must be a bad dream from which
they would soon awaken.
“Many times a day the thrifty housewives stepped to their doors and
listened in vain for the shrill baby voices to call to one another in
their play.
“The wooden soldiers stood straight and stiff at their guns at ‘Present
arms!’ waiting for the cry of ‘Attention!’ but no order was given—no
sound of fife or drum disturbed the silence.
“The Dutch-faced dollies sat in corners, smiling so sweetly, waiting
expectantly for their little mothers to rock them to sleep, but no
lullabys came to their ears.
“The parents gazed at the various toys till their eyes were dim with
tears and one night when the moon was big and round, and oh, so
silvery, the Mayor tossed sleeplessly on his bed. Presently he arose,
dressed, and crept out into the cool sweet night. His wife heard and
followed.
“When they reached the street they found it peopled with many parents,
waiting for they knew not what.
“The silvery light of the moon shed its glow upon the mountain, and as
they looked, suddenly the portal opened wide, disclosing an inside gate
of golden fretwork.
“Silently and slowly the portal swung back, and they whispered to one
another, ‘Was that the great door that shut the children in?’
“With bated breath they waited, and suddenly sweet strains of music
filled the air.
“‘The Pied Piper!’ cried the Mayor, with upraised hand.
“Never had they heard such notes, as clear and silvery as the moonbeams
themselves. Then came the sound of children’s voices, singing as
never children sang, and though it was sweet it was so sad they could
scarcely bear to listen, but it seemed to beckon them on.
“They hurried up the path taken by the children, and as they neared the
door the words of the song amazed them, and drew forth exclamations.
“‘Keep your promise and we can come back!’ was the burden of the song,
and the Mayor cried:
“‘Come! The Piper must be told we are ready and eager to give him what
we owe.’
“He led the way, but alas! they found the inside gate so small, only a
child could enter. They called many times, but the only response was
the sad little song of the children.
“‘They cannot hear us. What will we do?’ cried one mother on her knees
before the gate, trying in vain to push her way through.
“‘The lame boy, where is he?’ queried the Mayor in anguished tones.
“‘Fast asleep in his bed,’ replied his mother.
“‘Go quickly and bring him!’ cried the Mayor. ‘No one knows how soon
the Portal may swing shut.’
[Illustration: “The beauty of the scene almost overwhelmed him”]
“The father and mother hastened to the little home and to the crib
where the boy lay sleeping sweetly, bathed in the glow of the
silvery light.
“‘Come,’ whispered the mother. ‘Come.’
“The boy opened his eyes, sprang into his father’s arms, and they
hastened again up the mountain path.
“‘The door is open,’ he cried joyously. ‘Now I can have some one to
play with!’
“‘I hope so,’ breathed the mother. ‘Go in and find the Piper. Tell him
we beg of him to let us keep our promise. If he will only give us back
our children we will give him all we have!’
“The little fellow limped through the golden portal and could go no
farther, for the beauty of the scene almost overwhelmed him.
“Such flowers! Such trees, whose waving branches of tender green were
filled with the most beautifully coloured birds he ever saw. Such
shrubs, with glistening leaves fluttering timidly in the gentle
breeze. Here the moon shone with a light that was never on land or sea.
“The boy gazed in raptures at the marvellous picture, then glanced
keenly about for the Piper.
“Presently he saw him standing beneath an arched bower of twining
roses, but so sad did he seem the boy hesitated to approach him.
“He took one step, then paused amazed. What had happened? He took
another. Oh, joy of joys! He was lame no more! He dropped his crutch
and ran. Ran as he had dreamed of running—just as other children did.
Ran straight to the Piper.
“As the Piper clasped him in his arms, a heavenly smile lighted his
face, and he cried:
“‘At last they have heard the song. You can never know the joy you have
brought to me this day. It was my anger that closed the gate and when
it clanged to I said, “Never will I forgive them. Never.” Ever since,
the gate has been as though frozen shut. I knew why, but I wouldn’t
forgive.
“‘I did my best to make the children happy, but you see by their sad
song, I failed. Have you noticed them?’
“The boy looked and for the first time really saw his playmates.
“‘What pretty clothes they have!’ he exclaimed.
“‘Yes, the boys are clad in green and silver leaves. The girls’ gowns
are of flowers. Flowers such as grow only here. They may have a fresh
gown every day, or oftener.’
“‘Where are their homes?’ asked the boy.
“‘They live like the birds in the trees. Look!’
“The boy gazed in wonder up into the tree tops, to see many tiny bowers
woven of vines and flowers.
“‘Their beds are of rose petals, the wind rocks them to sleep, and the
birds carol their lullaby. The humming birds hover over them as they
dream. They drink honey with the bees. They eat luscious fruits such as
one dreams of but never sees. With all of this they are not happy. They
sigh for their dolls and soldiers, and weep for their parents.
“‘Lately I have felt my anger melting, and last night I suddenly knew
I had forgiven all, and that instant the portal swung open. Soon I
heard voices, but I could not move. Only a little child could break the
spell. I am so thankful you could not follow with the others since only
a child could pass through the golden gate to bring the message.’
“‘Oh!’ cried the boy in ecstasy. ‘See! I can walk! I can run! I am so
happy!’
“‘Yes,’ said the Piper, ‘I know. No one could be lame here now that the
gate is open. This is the land of harmony; but tell me, boy, why did
you come? Do tell me they sent you.’
“‘They did. They want to keep their promise.’
“‘They do? Will they give me the gold?’ he asked eagerly.
“‘Oh, yes, they want to. They beg of you to take it.’
“‘Then tell them when the mountain path is paved with guilders I will
bring the children.’
“The boy bounded away, but as he passed the children he was at once
swept into the ring and in some mysterious way he also was clad in
a garb of silvery leaves, while on his head was placed a crown of
wondrous beauty, a crown of flowers which breathed forth a rare
perfume.
“As they danced round and round, the song was no longer sad but rang
out like joyous bells, filling the air with showers of gladness, while
the Piper piped, and the birds twittered and trilled the gayest of
tunes.
“They danced nearer and nearer the portal, and presently saw without, a
sea of hungry faces and many outstretched arms.
“The boy shook himself loose and ran through the gate. With shining
eyes he cried:
“‘See! I can walk! I can run! And I have more good news, but you must
obey. Bring the gold quickly and you will soon have your children.’
“They rubbed their eyes and stared, then turned and ran down the
mountain. Ran faster than the rats ever dreamed of running. Soon they
came trooping up again each carrying a bag of gold.
“‘The Piper said when the path was paved with gold he would bring the
children. Quick! I will help!’ cried the boy.
“You should have seen them dropping the gold pieces in place, and in a
twinkling the bags were empty and the road was one glittering ribbon.
“The boy ran through the portal to the Piper, crying: ‘It is finished;
come.’
“The Piper hurried to the entrance, looked down the shining path,
paused, and waited. The silence was tense, while all gazed into his
face wonderingly.
“‘The road is not finished,’ he said gently. ‘Look for yourselves. Some
one has kept back gold that is still due. We will wait.’
“The Mayor flushed and knelt at his feet. ‘It was I. I couldn’t give
quite all. Forgive me and I will bring more than enough.’
“He strode down the path, soon to return carrying a leathern bag which
clanked as he walked. At the feet of the Piper he shook out the golden
circlets, which seemed bewitched as one after another rolled toward the
empty spaces, where they spun round and round like so many golden tops,
and finally settled into place. Those remaining piled themselves about
the Piper’s feet.
“The onlookers gazed in astonishment till suddenly they heard heavenly
music. At once they stood either side of the golden pathway, watching
the Piper followed by the children.
“‘All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
Tripping and skipping ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.’
“On and on they went, their tiny feet treading silently the golden
ribbon.
“The parents, with tears of joy streaming o’er their faces, followed,
enraptured with the magic notes.
“Where the gleaming pathway ended the Piper paused, the parents
embraced their little ones, then knelt at the feet of the Piper.
“‘Arise!’ he cried in beseeching tones. ‘I, too, am guilty. We have
both made amends. Let us forget all wrongdoing and be happy. You have
emptied your coffers but you are richer than ever.
“‘I do not want the gold. Let it lie a glittering pathway to the land
of joy, where the children may dance and play to their hearts’ content.
“‘As long as we do right the Golden Portal will never close. Farewell.’
“With these words he turned and walked toward the mountain door. The
parents hurried to their homes, to find the boys ordering out the
wooden soldiers, and the dolls drowsily smiling into mother eyes and
listening to the far-away lullaby of the dear Pied Piper.”
As the Story Elf finished she again vanished, and during the silence
that followed the dolls thought they still heard the Piper’s far away
lullaby.
As it died away Allspice cried:
“How lovely to bring the children home again. I’m glad she told us
about it, for I always felt sorry for the parents and the dear little
lame boy all alone.
“I hope we can have her come again.”
“Perhaps we may, but now we must go on with _our_ stories.
“You know an old poem tells us little girls are made of sugar and spice
and all things nice. Therefore, since Sugar is classed so closely with
Spice, we might let that sweet lady talk to us for a while.”
MRS. SUGAR DOLL’S TALE
The fat Sugar Lady now came forward, and with a quick jerk of her
skirts, showing her slippered feet, made an old-fashioned courtesy.
[Illustration: “Sometimes it is gingerbread, or maybe plump brown
cookies”]
“Isn’t she dear!” cried one and another, as they gazed admiringly at
the quaint figure all dressed in white, which sparkled like frost on
the window pane. Dainty bunches of rosebuds adorned her bonnet, and
altogether she was a sweet picture.