Blunder was going to the Wishing-Gate, to wish for a pair of Shetland
Ponies, and a little coach, like Tom Thumb’s. And of course you may have
your wish, if you once get there. But the thing is, to find it; for it
is not, as you imagine, a great gate, with a tall marble pillar on each
side, and a sign over the top, like this, WISHING-GATE,—but just an old
stile, made of three sticks. Put up two fingers, cross them on the top
with another finger, and you have it exactly,—the way it looks, I mean,—a
worm-eaten stile, in a meadow; and as there are plenty of old stiles in
meadows, how are you to know which is the one?
Blunder’s fairy godmother knew, but then she could not tell him, for that
was not according to fairy rules and regulations. She could only direct
him to follow the road, and ask the way of the first owl he met; and over
and over she charged him, for Blunder was a very careless little boy, and
seldom found anything, “Be sure you don’t miss him,—be sure you don’t
pass him by.” And so far Blunder had come on very well, for the road was
straight; but at the turn it forked. Should he go through the wood or
turn to the right? There was an owl nodding in a tall oak-tree, the first
owl Blunder had seen; but he was a little afraid to wake him up, for
Blunder’s fairy godmother had told him that this was a great philosopher,
who sat up all night to study the habits of frogs and mice, and knew
everything but what went on in the daylight, under his nose; and he could
think of nothing better to say to this great philosopher than, “Good Mr.
Owl, will you please show me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”
“Eh! what’s that?” cried the owl, starting out of his nap. “Have you
brought me a frog?”
“No,” said Blunder, “I did not know that you would like one. Can you tell
me the way to Wishing-Gate?”
“Wishing-Gate! Wishing-Gate!” hooted the owl, very angry. “Winks and
naps! how dare you disturb me for such a thing as that? Do you take me
for a mile-stone? Follow your nose, sir, follow your nose!”—and, ruffling
up his feathers, the owl was asleep again in a moment.
But how could Blunder follow his nose? His nose would turn to the right,
or take him through the woods, whichever way his legs went, and “what was
the use of asking the owl,” thought Blunder, “if this was all?” While he
hesitated, a chipmunk came scurrying down the path, and, seeing Blunder,
stopped short with a little squeak.
“Good Mrs. Chipmunk,” said Blunder, “can you tell me the way to the
Wishing-Gate?”
“I can’t, indeed,” answered the chipmunk, politely. “What with getting
in nuts, and the care of a young family, I have so little time to
visit anything! But if you will follow the brook, you will find an old
water-sprite under a slanting stone, over which the water pours all day
with a noise like wabble! wabble! who, I have no doubt, can tell you all
about it.”
So Blunder went on up the brook, and, seeing nothing of the water-sprite,
or the slanting-stone, was just saying to himself, “I am sure I don’t
know where he is,—I can’t find it,” when he spied a frog sitting on a wet
stone.
“Mr. Frog,” asked Blunder, “can you tell me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”
“I cannot,” said the frog. “I am very sorry, but the fact is, I am an
artist. Young as I am, my voice is already remarked at our concerts, and
I devote myself so entirely to my profession of music that I have no time
for general information. But in a pine-tree beyond, you will find an old
crow, who, I am quite sure, can show you the way, as he is a traveler,
and a bird of an inquiring turn of mind.”
“I don’t know where the pine is,—I am sure I can never find him,”
answered Blunder, discontentedly; but still he went on up the brook,
till, hot and tired, and out of patience at seeing neither crow nor
pine, he sat down under a great tree to rest. There he heard tiny voices
squabbling. And looking about him, Blunder spied a bee, quarreling with
a morning-glory elf, who was shutting up the morning-glory in his face.
“Elf, do you know which is the way to the Wishing-Gate?” asked Blunder.
“No,” said the elf, “I don’t know anything about geography. I was always
too delicate to study. But if you will keep on in this path, you will
find a Dream-man, coming down from fairyland, with his bags of dreams on
his shoulder; and if anybody can tell you about the Wishing-Gate, he can.”
“But how can I find him?” asked Blunder, more and more impatient.
“I don’t know, I am sure,” answered the elf, “unless you look for him.”
So there was no help for it but to go on; and presently Blunder passed
the Dream-man, asleep under a witch-hazel, with his bags of good and bad
dreams laid over him to keep him from fluttering away. But Blunder had
a habit of not using his eyes, for at home, when told to find anything,
he always said, “I don’t know where it is,” or, “I can’t find it,” and
then his mother or sister went straight and found it for him. So he
passed the Dream-man without seeing him, and went on till he stumbled on
Jack-o’-Lantern.
“Can you show me the way to the Wishing-Gate?” said Blunder.
“Certainly, with pleasure,” answered Jack, and, catching up his lantern,
set out at once.
Blunder followed close, but, in watching the lantern, he forgot to look
to his feet, and fell into a hole filled with black mud.
“I say! the Wishing-Gate is not down there,” called out Jack, whisking
off among the tree-tops.
“But I can’t come up there,” whimpered Blunder.
“That is not my fault, then,” answered Jack, merrily, dancing out of
sight.
Oh, a very angry little boy was Blunder, when he clambered out of the
hole. “I don’t know where it is,” he said, crying; “I can’t find it, and
I’ll go straight home.”
Just then he stepped on an old, moss-grown, rotten stump; and it
happening, unluckily, that this rotten stump was a wood-goblin’s chimney,
Blunder fell through, headlong, in among the pots and pans in which the
goblin’s cook was cooking the goblin’s supper. The old goblin, who was
asleep upstairs, started up in a fright at the tremendous clash and
clatter, and, finding that his house was tumbling about his ears, as he
thought at first, stumped down to the kitchen to see what was the matter.
The cook heard him coming, and looked about her in a fright to hide
Blunder.
“Quick!” cried she. “If my master catches you, he will have you in a pie.
In the next room stands a pair of shoes. Jump into them, and they will
take you up the chimney.”
Off flew Blunder, burst open the door, and tore frantically about the
room, in one corner of which stood the shoes; but of course he could not
see them, because he was not in the habit of using his eyes. “I can’t
find them! Oh, I can’t find them!” sobbed poor little Blunder, running
back to the cook.
“Run into the closet,” said the cook.
Blunder made a dash at the window, but—“I don’t know where it is,” he
called out.
Clump! clump! That was the goblin, halfway down the stairs.
“Mercy me!” exclaimed cook. “He is coming. The boy will be eaten in spite
of me. Jump into the meal-chest.”
“I don’t see it,” squeaked Blunder, rushing towards the fireplace. “Where
is it?”
Clump! clump! That was the goblin at the foot of the stairs, and coming
towards the kitchen door.
“There is an invisible cloak hanging on that peg. Get into that,” cried
cook, quite beside herself.
But Blunder could no more see the cloak than he could see the shoes, the
closet, and the meal-chest; and no doubt the goblin, whose hand was on
the latch, would have found him prancing around the kitchen, and crying
out, “I can’t find it,” but, fortunately for himself, Blunder caught his
foot in the invisible cloak, and tumbled down, pulling the cloak over
him. There he lay, hardly daring to breathe.
“What was all that noise about?” asked the goblin gruffly, coming into
the kitchen.
But as he could see nothing amiss, he went grumbling upstairs again,
while the shoes took Blunder up chimney, and landed him in a meadow,
safe enough, but so miserable! He was cross, he was disappointed, he was
hungry. It was dark, he did not know the way home, and, seeing an old
stile, he climbed up, and sat down on the top of it, for he was too tired
to stir. Just then came along the South Wind, with his pockets crammed
full of showers, and, as he happened to be going Blunder’s way, he took
Blunder home. The boy was glad enough of this, only he would have liked
it better if the Wind had not laughed all the way. For what would you
think, if you were walking along a road with a fat old gentleman, who
went chuckling to himself, and slapping his knees, and poking himself,
till he was purple in the face, when he would burst out in a great windy
roar of laughter every other minute?
“What are you laughing at?” asked Blunder, at last.
“At two things that I saw in my travels,” answered the Wind; “a hen, that
died of starvation, sitting on an empty peck-measure in front of a bushel
of grain; and a little boy who sat on the top of the Wishing-Gate, and
came home because he could not find it.”
“What? what’s that?” cried Blunder; but just then he found himself at
home. There sat his godmother by the fire, her mouse-skin cloak hung
up on a peg, and toeing off a spider’s silk stocking an eighth of an
inch long; and though everybody cried, “What luck?” and, “Where is the
Wishing-Gate?” she sat mum.
“I don’t know where it is,” answered Blunder. “I couldn’t find it;” and
thereon told the story of his troubles.
“Poor boy!” said his mother, kissing him, while his sister ran to bring
him some bread and milk.
“Yes, that is all very fine,” cried his godmother, pulling out her
needles, and rolling up her ball of silk; “but now hear my story. There
was once a little boy who must needs go to the Wishing-Gate, and his
godmother showed him the road as far as the turn, and told him to ask
the first owl he met what to do then; but this little boy seldom used
his eyes, so he passed the first owl, and waked up the wrong owl; so he
passed the water-sprite, and found only a frog; so he sat down under
the pine-tree, and never saw the crow; so he passed the Dream-man, and
ran after Jack-o’-Lantern; so he tumbled into the goblin’s chimney, and
couldn’t find the shoes and the closet and the chest and the cloak; and
so he sat on the top of the Wishing-Gate till the South Wind brought him
home, and never knew it. Ugh! Bah!” And away went the fairy godmother
up the chimney in such deep disgust that she did not even stop for her
mouse-skin cloak.
—LOUISE E. CHOLLET