P.M.]
THE WHOPPER THAT GEORGE WASHINGTON TOLD
Several times during the host’s narrative the Imp glanced in the
direction of his young friend to see whether the little fellow appeared
surprised at anything he heard. The child gave no signs, however, to
indicate that he had any doubt as to the perfect accuracy of the tale,
in which he was deeply interested, being visibly affected toward the
end, when his eyes were filled with tears. The Imp concluded that the
flower was working splendidly, and making the little boy quite sensible
in his way of seeing things.
After a moment or two of meditation into which all three had fallen when
the story was finished, the little boy said,
“That Wollerp did a fine thing for the country, didn’t he?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the host, “and it was appreciated, too. As you go
through Chymerline you’ll notice a monument on the village green; the
road goes right past it. It was put there by the road commissioners in
honour of the noble martyr who saved them the trouble of doing their
duty. You see, people used to try to follow the curious windings of the
neck, just for fun, until it got to be a kind of national game.
Expeditions started out continually, until finally ‘Hunting the Head’
became a perfect fad. They had little wollerps with long necks to play
with indoors, and they’d tangle the necks up on dining tables, and then
try to follow them with little pointers until they came to the end. Of
course, all this travelling outside made a beaten track, and the track
developed into a path, and the path into a road, and the road into this
beautiful endless highway which is the pride of the Kingdom and the
delight of tourists.
“I remember the day I first got here. It was the afternoon of the Fourth
of July, 1776, and everyone was saying a little poem. Some had gone
crazy trying to learn to say it. I didn’t know what it meant until I
heard the old road legend. This is how it went:—
“Said an imp as he buttoned his shoes,
‘I will follow that neck into Snooze,’
And he giggled with glee,
‘What a lark it would be,
I believe it would banish the blues!’
“And taking his suitcase, said he,
‘Now promise, don’t worry for me,
For I never shall flinch,
It’s a regular cinch,
And as easy as easy can be.’
[Illustration: A clock-headed figure wearing a watch-like top hat with a
winding key, carrying a suitcase while walking across uneven ground.]
“But when he arrived at the Ku-
Peremaliganundi of Soo,
He had to go back
On account of the crack
In the Nickuberamelegoo!
In the Nick, in the Nick, in the—”
“Don’t you think we’d better have dinner?” asked the host, rising. “It’s
long past time.”
The little boy did think so, and had thought so for an hour or more, so
he answered that he was perfectly agreeable, and they all went into the
dining-room where they were soon seated before a steaming tankard of
frizzled strikers with daybreak sauce.
“When is it going to be night?” asked the little boy, as they finished.
For he knew they must have been in Tockerlore for sometime, and yet it
was neither darker nor lighter than when they had passed the frontier.
“Why, it’s night now, I suppose,” said the landlord, “it’s never dark
here, you know; the light always remains as you see it now. Would you
like to go to bed?”
“If you don’t mind,” said the little boy.
“Mind! Why, certainly I don’t mind. You’ve no objection to your friend’s
sitting up with me a while, have you?”
“Oh, certainly not, not at all, but would someone be good enough to help
me undo the buttons? I don’t want to trouble you, but you know I always
have nurse to help me when I go to bed.”
So they both fell to and helped him undo the buttons, and then the host
showed him to his room. He felt a little homesick as he curled himself
up in the strange bed, and wished that he had his Teddy bear to talk
with and tell things to. However, as he couldn’t do that, he did the
next best thing, and talked to himself, which, as even grown up people
know, is one of the greatest pleasures in the whole world.
“If that Imp were only fond of school and knew something about history;
if he really cared for them, how nice it would be, for I suppose he’ll
stay here all the rest of his life. I don’t suppose he ever had a
governess to tell him things—it isn’t his fault. How many things Father
Time must know! Just to think how that landlord saw the Declaration of
Independence signed, maybe! I wonder if it was signed after lunch. I
think the host’s badge said 4 P. M. Anyway, if he didn’t see it signed
he saw some of the excitement after it was signed. Maybe he saw Benjamin
Franklin. I wonder if he’ll tell about it while I’m asleep. I wonder
what that place was where the young Imp had to go back; I suppose they
all laughed at him when they saw him come walking in. It served him
right; he was too sure. I wonder what that Nickub—that Nickuber—I wonder
what that name was.” But while he tried to think of it he fell fast
asleep.
When he awoke he knew it must be morning, for he heard voices in the
yard beneath his window. There seemed to be several voices and all of
them were very loud and angry in tone. Some were saying, “No, he
didn’t!” Others were calling, “Yes, he did!” And still others were
exclaiming, “Don’t you believe a word of it.” Then all the voices would
be heard together in excited argument, and it sounded as if the owners
of these voices might resort to blows at any minute if the matter under
discussion were not settled very soon. Finally the little boy heard
someone shout,
“Go on with what you were saying.”
“I intend to,” another voice answered.
“If it’s the truth, we want to hear it.”
“You’re going to hear it.”
“He’d better look out!”
“Who had?”
“You had.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Don’t you believe in free speech?”
“Not that kind.”
“Go on, tell the rest of it.”
“We’d like to see you do it!”
“You’ll _hear_ me do it.”
“He knows what he’s talking about.”
“He thinks he does, anyway.”
“Go on, tell it!”
“Where did I leave off—oh, I know—
“He did not always justify
The view that you have taken,
And when you say he couldn’t lie—
Why, simply, you’re mistaken.
“And now, in view of all this talk
I think it only proper
To say that on a certain day
I _heard_ him tell a whopper!”
“A _whopper_, did you really say?”
“We can’t believe it—name the day!”
“’Twas just before I came away,—
I _heard_ him tell a _whopper_!”
At this the little boy, who had risen and begun to dress, threw open the
window and gazed on the assemblage below. On the fence sat his friend,
Mr. Three O’clock, swinging his legs and laughing uproariously as if the
disclosure which had just been made pleased him greatly. There were
several little imps about the yard, all in colonial costume, some
standing, others sitting, and in the centre stood the imp who had
experienced such difficulty in telling his story. He had on a ragged
Continental uniform, and his badge said “June 15, 1775. 2 P. M.”
Altogether, he was very defiant looking and out of patience.
[Illustration: Three figures in period clothing with clock faces, one
holding a banner that reads "June 15 1775 2 P.M."]
“Good morning,” said the little boy.
“How do you do,” said the Continental Imp.
“I am very well, thank you; what is the trouble?”
“No trouble at all; who are you?”
“I’m a little boy visiting Minutel. May I ask you what the quarrelling
was about? Did you say someone told a whopper?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“You ought not to say it unless you’re sure it’s true. May I ask who you
said it about: who it was that told the whopper? It wasn’t my friend,
was it?”
[Illustration: A child leaning out of a pitched roof dormer window with
a lattice frame.]
“No.”
“May I ask who it was?”
“You may; it was George Washington.”
The little boy started. “Oh, that is a dreadful thing to say about
George Washington. I’m sure that George Washington never told a whopper;
you know all the school books—”
“Now you see how much good the school books are!” said Mr. Three
O’clock, from the fence. “Ha, ha, ha!”
The little boy gave an indignant look at his hilarious friend, for it
was no laughing matter, and continued his conversation with the
Continental Imp.
“How do you know he told a whopper?”
“I heard him.”
“With your own ears?”
“Yes, whose ears do you suppose I heard him with?”
The little boy felt to make sure his flower was safely fastened in his
buttonhole, for he did not know what the conversation might lead to, and
he wanted to be perfectly reasonable.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, “but are you sure it was a w-h-o-p-p-e-r?”
He was gaping as he said this, and it stretched the word out a little.
“Positive,” said the Continental Imp.
“Perhaps it was a small whopper?”
“There is no such thing.”
“Or a middle-sized one?”
“No such thing.”
“Oh, I’m sure there must be some mistake, for I’m sure that a
wh-a-a-a-aap-” and he gaped so that he couldn’t finish the word. “Just
wait a minute,” said he, “and I’ll come down there.”
In less than a minute the little boy came out into the yard arranging
the belt of his Russian suit.
“I have couldn’t all the didn’ts that I buttoned, but I didn’t the
couldn’ts that I didn’t when I buttoned the didn’ts,” said he, “and I
hope you will excuse me.”
“Go back to bed,” said Mr. Three O’clock, “you’re not awake yet.”
“I _am_ awake,” said the little boy.
“He said he couldn’t the didn’ts,” observed one imp.
“No, he didn’t, he said he didn’t the buttons that he couldn’t,” said
another.
“He said he buttoned the couldn’ts when he didn’t,” called a third.
“I didn’t,” said the little boy, “how could I?”
“Well, how could you didn’t if you couldn’t?”
“He said he buttoned the didn’ts.”
“He didn’t.”
“He said he _couldn’t_ the didn’ts that he buttoned when he didn’t the
buttons—what _did_ you say?”
“Now wait a minute,” said the little boy. “How easily you get into a
quarrel! I will tell you just what I said. I said that I buttoned all
the buttons that I _could_ button, but that I didn’t button the buttons
that I couldn’t button. There!”
“Talk about whoppers!” said the Continental Imp. “Well, now what is it
you want to know? Let’s get through with it.”
“I want,” said the little boy, “to know when George Washington told a
whopper.”
“On the 15th of June, 1775, at 2 P. M., just after they made him
commander of the army.”
“Would you mind telling me what the whopper was? You know all the
stories say that George Washington couldn’t—”
“Oh, yes,” said the Continental Imp, smiling at Mr. Three O’clock, “we
understand, of course, that George Washington couldn’t if he didn’t and
that if he didn’t—”
“He didn’t,” shouted the little boy, stamping his foot. “What was the
whopper?”
[Illustration: “_He tried to button it here when he couldn’t!_”]
“He said, right in my hearing,” said the Continental Imp, “that he
wasn’t fit for the exalted position. There!”
“Well?” said the little boy.
“Well, he _was_, that’s all,” replied the Continental Imp.
“You mean,” said the little boy, “that you think that was a whopper?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t true, was it?”
“N-no, perhaps not, but he—well, it wasn’t a whopper.”
“He said he wasn’t fit for the position when he _was_, and he said he
couldn’t win the war, and he _did_.”
Here the Continental Imp looked toward Mr. Three O’clock, who was still
sitting on the fence, and said,
“What do _you_ think about that?”
“Do I understand you to say that George Washington said he wouldn’t win
the war?” asked Mr. Three O’clock.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I think that, as a gentleman, he should have kept his
word.”
“That is perfectly ridiculous!” said the little boy. “If he hadn’t won
the war there wouldn’t be any America, and if there wasn’t any America
there wouldn’t be any Tockerlore, and where would you all be, I’d like
to know?”
“You don’t think Tockerlore is in America, do you?” asked one.
“Where is it, then?”
“It’s right here where Father Time put it.”
“He didn’t,” said the little boy, whose patience was almost exhausted.
“He tried to button it here when he couldn’t, so he didn’t!” roared the
Continental Imp.
“He couldn’t,” said the little boy, white with rage.
“Well, then, if he couldn’t, he probably didn’t!” yelled Mr. Three
O’clock.
“He didn’t, he couldn’t!” screamed the little boy, quite beside himself.
“And if I say he didn’t, he couldn’t, and don’t say that he couldn’t
when he buttoned the couldn’ts to the didn’ts, if he didn’t the
couldn’ts when the buttons didn’t—!!!”
“Come to breakfast!” called the genial host, standing in the doorway and
smiling broadly at the little boy. So they all scampered in to the
dining-room, where a large platter of delicate little second hands
(done, of course, to a turn), with delicious eight day gravy, was
awaiting them.
[Illustration: A platter piled high with second hands next to a lit lamp
on a stand.]
[Illustration: _Mr. Three O’clock’s Awful Confession._]
MR. THREE O’CLOCK’S AWFUL CONFESSION
And now could be heard in the village street
A monotonous calling sound,
And many a drowsy sluggard rose
From a slumber all profound;
’Twas the village crier of Minutel
On his early morning round.
[Illustration: A clock-headed figure wearing a tricorn hat and period
clothing, walking while ringing a handbell.]
“Be up and astir!” they could hear him cry,
As he paused at each door to knock,
And hearing no sound, would bang and call,
And angrily try each lock.
“Did ye sleep like this in ye olden time,
When ye lived inside the clock?”
For the old-fashioned hours in Minutel,
Regarding their duties as through,
Would frequently lie asleep all day,
At least, till their time was due;
For example, the “Twelves” would rise at noon,
But the “Twos” would sleep till two.
“You are up betimes,” said the genial host,
As he ladled the breakfast out,
“And to-day, I expect, you’ll see the town
By wandering all about.
Will you have your ticklets, my honoured guest,
With twinkling sauce, or without?
“These ticklets were made in Seventy-six,
They are nice as a second course.
Just hear the crier along the street;
He’s turning them out by force!
May I trouble you, Mr. Three O’clock,
To pass the twinkling sauce?”
“How luscious and rich,” said the little boy,
“Is this ‘pendulum shake’ with ice.”
“Ha, ha!” said the host, “Indeed it is,
But think of the dreadful price
To bring it a couple of billion miles!
These hunting case flips are nice.
“Won’t you have this dickery dock croquette,
The only one left on the plate?
That soft whipped cream which you see inside
Was whipped in Seventeen eight.
Ah, the rod, little boy, was seldom spared
At that very early date.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the host, as he wiped his mouth, and folded his
calendar-page napkin, “yes, indeed, they seldom spared the rod in those
good old days in your world. That’s why the children grew up so good, I
suppose, and that is probably why the good old cooking was so much
better than the cooking of to-day. Such mashings as the potatoes and
turnips got, such unmerciful beatings as the poor little eggs had to
undergo; it’s no wonder that few eggs were bad! And how they used to
whip the cream—no wonder it was good; if you were whipped as much as
this cream was, _you’d_ be good; they whipped it till it was white in
the face.”
“I _am_ good,” said the little boy. “Did you say that in Minutel they do
the same things they used to do when they lived in the world?”
“Don’t you be afraid,” said the Continental Imp. “They’ll not hurt
_you_.”
“No indeed,” said Mr. Three O’clock, as they all rose, “we’ll stay
together and protect ourselves.”
“By the way,” said the Continental Imp, “do you know, I believe I’ll run
up to Tickerleen when you go; it’s too slow and old-fashioned for me
here. I wonder if you’d have any objection to my going along?”
By this time, they had come out of the house and were looking about them
to determine which way they would go. The host said he would lock up the
inn for the day and join them. The other imps, whom the kindly landlord
had invited to breakfast out of the goodness of his heart, scampered off
about their business, and the little boy, the host, the Continental Imp,
and Mr. Three O’clock proceeded leisurely along the road.
[Illustration: A rounded, clock-faced building with a bell dome on top
and an awning over the entrance, where a figure stands outside.]
All through the beautiful little village of Minutel were the houses
where the old-fashioned hours lived. They were queer houses with domes,
and from a distance they looked like so many alarm clocks with the alarm
bells up on top. There was a low, drowsy ticking in the air all the time
which the little boy couldn’t locate. He heard it clearly enough, yet it
seemed to be far away—or rather, it seemed to be all about, like the
very breeze. Every now and then the church bell would chime, which the
little boy fancied to be a clock striking the hour, and he pictured to
himself the village of Minutel as a huge clock with the church bell as a
striker to notify each hour when it was time to get out, just as the
real striker did on the real clock.
The host and the Continental Imp pointed out to the newly arrived pair
the homes of the principal hours. The little boy was interested to see
the house where the hour lived who saw the Pilgrim Fathers land, and
also the hour which had the pleasure of witnessing the arrival of
Columbus on the shores of the western world. He also gazed for sometime
at the house where the host told him the hour resided which had seen
George Washington chop down the cherry tree.
“That hour,” said the Continental Imp, “is the greatest bore in Minutel;
he’s always telling what he saw, and nobody cares anything about it.”
“You know all about it, I suppose,” said the little boy.
“Yes, I know all about it; he claims that George Washington never told a
lie simply on the strength of his having told the truth on one
particular occasion when he was a little boy. I don’t deny that he told
the truth about the cherry tree, but I do say that on the 15th of June,
1775, I _heard_ him tell a whop—”
“Stop!” said the little boy.
“per. There!”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” said the little boy, “because I don’t
consider that that _was_ a whopper.”
“Yes, it was,” said Mr. Three O’clock, “and I agree with our Continental
friend here that the hour you’re speaking of—that Cherry Tree Hour—is a
bore.”
“How do _you_ know he’s a bore when you’ve never met him?” said the
little boy.
At this Mr. Three O’clock turned very white and seemed quite
uncomfortable.
“I don’t see how _you_ know anything about this land, anyway,” persisted
the little boy. “You’ve never been here before.”
“Yes, how _is_ that?” asked the Continental Imp; “of course, you’re
right, but I don’t see how you know that you’re right.”
“_My_ understanding,” said the host, “is that you just arrived—it seems
rather unusual—have you any explanation?”
There was a pause after this, and Mr. Three O’clock looked very
confused. Finally he looked all about him, and said, “Shh-h!”
“What is it?” asked the little boy.
“He said, ‘Shh-h,’” said the host.
“I know he did,” said the Continental Imp.
“There is a mystery about my life,” said Mr. Three O’clock, speaking in
an impressive whisper, “a mystery which I cannot reveal. But under my
light and airy nature, there is a burden on my soul. Do not force me to
reveal it!”
“I am sure you may confide in me,” said the little boy. “What is the
trouble? You seemed so free and happy when you came out of the clock. I
hope—Oh, I _hope_ that you have never done anything wrong!”
“Alas!” said Mr. Three O’clock, “I am not what you think I am—I have a
past!”
“Have you it with you?” asked the Continental Imp.
“Suppose you let us see it,” said the host.
“Tell us all about it,” said the little boy, soothingly, “and then you
will feel better. Maybe you are not as bad as you think you are. Tell
us, anyway.”
“I suppose I might as well,” sighed poor little Mr. Three O’clock, “for
Father Time’s secretary, Old Calendar, will only find it out when I
apply for my date badge, and the whole thing will be made public. They
have a great system; they say the red tape in the government offices is
longer and more tangled than the Wollerp’s neck! Try not to think ill of
me, and as we walk along I’ll tell you my sad tale.”
They all looked very grave as they paced along in silence and waited for
the culprit to begin. The poor little imp who had recently danced and
laughed so happily experienced a great deal of difficulty in starting
and several times began with, “’Twas in a little district—” and had to
break off again. Finally he succeeded in conquering his feelings, and
told the following extraordinary tale:
[Illustration: An elderly, bearded man writing with a large feather pen
that trails numbers, with a certificate on the wall that reads "This
Certifies that O. Calendar is duly appointed my secretary Father Time."]
“’Twas in a little district school,
Which I remember well;
A hundred restless little boys
Were waiting for the bell.
’Twas just about a year ago
This awful thing befell!
“The scene was in a country town;
The teacher, she was new.
It lacked an hour of closing time,
And tasks were nearly through.
And high upon the schoolroom wall
The clock was striking Two.
“Two hundred eyes were on that clock
To watch the minutes flee;
One hundred weary little boys
Were waiting there for me;
For, in pursuance of the rule,
They always closed at Three.
“Before me, in the old round clock,
Dragged out the hour Two—
The slowest hour in all the day,
As every urchin knew.
The tempter whispered in my ear,
‘I’ll tell you what you do!’
[Illustration: A partial clock face showing the numbers 1, 2, and 3,
with ornate hands pointing 2 o’clock.]
“I listened to his wicked voice,
And sought the hand at Two.
I had no business to go out
Till Two O’clock was through;
Another hour yet must pass
Before _my_ time was due.
“But there upon the figure Two
I straightway took my stand,
While just above me, moving down,
I saw the Minute Hand.
Alas, alas, he did not know
The scheme that I had planned!
[Illustration: A partial clock face showing the numbers 12, 1, 2, and 3,
with ornate hands pointing 2:06 o’clock.]
“How innocent he seemed to me,
As slowly down he stole.
I watched him pass the figure One,
And then the winding hole.
Ah, would that they who clean the clock
Could cleanse my guilty soul!
[Illustration: A partial clock face showing the numbers 12, 1, 2, and 3,
with ornate hands pointing 2:11 o’clock..]
“Past figure Two the two hands met.
My time had come at last!
Together they must pass to Three
(I see you stand aghast),
Yes, yes, I will confess it all;
I fixed those two hands fast!!
[Illustration: A partial clock face showing the numbers 12, 1, 2, and 3,
with ornate hands pointing 3:16 o’clock.]
“In just five little minutes more,
Those children heard with glee
The teacher, glancing at the clock,
Exclaim, ‘Why, goodness me!
’Twas Two O’clock a moment since,
But now ’tis after Three!’
“In just one minute more, my friends,
In just one minute more,
The scuffling sound of many feet
Was heard upon the floor,
And full a hundred happy boys
Were romping through the door.
[Illustration: An abstract pattern of diagonal Minute Hands sloping
downward to the left.]
“But now the thought of what I’d done
Came home with dreadful force;
An exile, I, before my time!
And, stricken with remorse,
I could not then undo the deed
And had but one recourse.
[Illustration: A shocked, round-faced figure wearing a clock-like hat
and an apron, leaning backward away from a dark, streaked shadow.]
“One frightened glance about I gave,
And then resolved to flee.
But, glancing upward at the clock,
I sank upon my knee.
For, lo, ten thousand Minute Hands
Were pointing down at me!
“One desperate dash, with hidden face,
And I had passed the door,
And closed it fast to keep those hands
From pointing at me more;
I dragged my heavy, guilty soul
To merry Tock-Tock-k-k-k-el—”
“We understand,” said the host, “don’t try to finish.”
“There’s only one syllable more, and I want to s-s-s-ay it!” said the
poor, little Imp, “it’s lore. There!”
There was a moment of silence after this pitiful narrative, during which
the poor, little Imp turned away and wept copiously. They all respected
his feelings, and no one spoke until his little fit of sorrow and
remorse had passed, when he faced about and began to put away a little
chamois handkerchief which had been the receptacle of his tears.