hippopotamus, and four legs like the legs of an ostrich. The body was
covered with greenish scales, its eyes were living fire, and scorching
flames issued from its mouth and ears. The boogaboo was none the less
frightful in its appearance. It resembled a monster ape, except that
instead of a hairy hide it had a scabby skin as red as a salamander's.
Its arms were long and muscular, and its bony hands were armed with
eleven fingers each, upon which were nails or claws shaped like fish
hooks and keen as razors. This boogaboo had skinny wings like a huge
bat, and at the end of its rat-like tail was a sting more deadly than
the poison of a snake.
These hideous reptiles--the catamaran and the boogaboo--stood glaring
at Wilhelm.
"Ow--wow--wow--wow!" roared the catamaran; "I will scorch you to a
cinder."
"Ow--wow--wow--wow!" bellowed the boogaboo, "I will tear your heart
from your bosom."
So, in the wise determination not to die until he had made a brave and
discreet struggle for the princess, Wilhelm left the castle and stole
down the highway towards the city.
That night he slept in a meadow, and the stars watched over him and the
daisies and buttercups bent their heads lovingly above him and sang
lullabies, while he dreamed of his mother and the princess, who seemed
to smile upon him all that night.
In the morning, Wilhelm pushed on to the city, and he went straight to
the palace gate and demanded to see the king. This was no easy matter,
but finally he was admitted and the king asked him what he wanted.
When the king heard that Wilhelm was determined to make an attempt to
rescue the princess, he burst out crying and embracing the youth,
assured him that it was folly for him--a simple country boy--to
undertake to accomplish what so many accomplished and skilled princes
had essayed in vain.
But Wilhelm insisted, until at last the king called his court together
and announced that the simple country lad had resolved to guess the
riddles of the old witch. The courtiers straightway fell to laughing
at the presumption of the rural wight, as they derisively called him,
but it was much to the credit of the court ladies that they admired the
youth for his comely person, ingenuous manners, and brave
determination. The end of it all was that, at noon that very day, a
long procession went with Wilhelm to the witch's castle, the courtiers
hardly suppressing their mirth, but the ladies all in tears for fear
the handsome youth would not guess the riddles and would therefore be
transformed by the witch.
The old witch saw the train approaching her castle and she went out
into the yard and sat on a rickety bench under a upas tree to receive
the king and his court. She was attended by twelve snapdragons, a
score of hobgoblins, and innumerable gnomes, elves, ghouls, and
hoodoos. On her left stood the catamaran, and on her right the
boogaboo, each more revoltingly hideous than ever before.
When the king and Wilhelm and the rest of the cavalcade came into the
castle yard and stood before the witch, she grinned and showed her
black gums and demanded to know why they had come.
"We have a youth here who would solve your three riddles," said the
king.
Then the old witch laughed, "Ha, ha, ha!" and the gnomes, ghouls, and
all the rest of the enchantress' followers took up the refrain and
laughed till the air was very dense with sulphurous fumes.
"Well, if the youth is resolved, let him see the doom that awaits him,"
said the witch, and she waved her stick.
Forthwith a strange procession issued from the castle. First came two
little imps, then came two black demons, and last of all the swans, two
by two, mournfully flapping their wings and giving utterance to sighs
and moans more dismal than any sounds ever before heard.
"You are going to have a new companion, my pretty pets," said the old
witch to the swans, whereupon the swans moaned and sighed with renewed
vigor.
The king and his court trembled and wept at the spectacle, for in these
unhappy birds they recognized the poor princes who had fallen victims
to the foul witch's arts. To add to the misery of the scene, the
beautiful princess Mary appeared at the barred window of her chamber in
the castle and stretched out her white arms beseechingly. But the king
and his court could avail her nothing, for the hideous catamaran and
the cruel boogaboo were prepared to pounce upon and destroy whosoever
attempted to rescue the unhappy maiden by violence.
"Let the presumptuous youth stand before me," cried the witch. And
Wilhelm strode boldly to the open spot between the witch and the kingly
retinue.
"A fine, plump swan will you make," hissed the old witch. "Now can you
tell me what is sweeter than the kiss of the princess' mother?"
Now the witch had supposed that Wilhelm would reply "The kiss of the
princess herself," for this was the reply that all the other youths had
made. But Wilhelm made no such answer. He faced the old witch boldly
and replied, "The kiss of my own mother!"
And hearing this, which was the correct answer, the witch quivered with
astonishment and rage, and the catamaran fell down upon the grass and
vomited its flaming breath upon itself until it was utterly consumed.
So that was the last of the hideous catamaran.
"Having said that, he will not think to repeat it," thought the old
witch, and she propounded the second question, which was: "What always
lieth next a good man's heart?"
Now for a long time Wilhelm paused in doubt, and the king and his
retinue began to tremble and the poor swans dolorously flapped their
wings and sighed more piteously. But the old witch chuckled and licked
her warty chops and muttered, "He will have feathers all over his back
presently."
And in his doubt Wilhelm remembered the words of his dear mother:
"Whenever in trouble, look at the talisman and it will preserve you
from harm." So Wilhelm put his hand in his bosom and drew forth the
talisman, and lo! the inscription seemed to burn itself into his very
soul. Gently he raised the talisman to his lips and reverently he
kissed it. And then he uttered the sacred name, "Mother."
And straightway the hideous boogaboo fell down upon the grass and with
its cruel talons tore out its own heart, so that the boogaboo perished
miserably in the sight of all. The old witch cowered and foamed at her
ugly black mouth and uttered fearful curses and imprecations.
It was never known what the third and last riddle was, for as soon as
they saw her deprived of her twin guardians, the catamaran and the
boogaboo, the king's swordsmen fell upon the witch and hewed off her
head, and the head and body tumbled to the ground. At that very
instant the earth opened and, with a sickening groan, swallowed up the
dead witch and all her elves, gnomes, imps, ghouls, snapdragons, and
demons. But the swans were instantaneously transformed back into human
beings, for as soon as the witch died, all enchantment over them was at
an end, and there was great joy.
The recovery of the beautiful princess Mary was easily accomplished
now, and the next day she was wedded to Wilhelm amid great rejoicing,
the rescued princes serving as the bridegroom's best men. The king had
it proclaimed that Wilhelm should be his successor, and there was great
rejoicing in all the kingdom.
In the midst of his prosperity, Wilhelm did not forget his dear old
mother. He sent for her at once, and she lived with Wilhelm and his
bride in the splendid palace, and she was always very particular to
tell everybody what a good, kind, and thoughtful son Wilhelm had always
been.
Dear little boys, God has put into your bosoms a talisman which will
always tell you that love of mother is the sweetest and holiest of all
human things. Treasure that sacred talisman, and heaven's blessings
will be always with you. And then each of you shall marry a beautiful
princess, or at least one who is every whit as good as a beautiful
princess.
GEORGE'S BIRTHDAY
Lawrence seemed to be lost in meditation. He sat in a rude arm-chair
under his favorite fig tree, and his eyes were fixed intently upon the
road that wound away from the manor house, through the broad gate, and
across the brown sward until it lost itself in the oak forest yonder.
Had it been summer the sight of Lawrence in the arm-chair under the fig
tree would not have been surprising, but the spectacle of Lawrence
occupying that seat in mid-winter, with his gaze riveted on the sear
roadway, was simply preposterous, as you will all admit.
It was a February morning--clear, bright, and beautiful, with a hint of
summer in the warmth of its breath and the cheeriness of its smile.
Pope's Creek, as it rippled along, made pleasant music, the partridges
drummed in the under brush, and the redbirds whistled weirdly in the
leafless chestnut grove near the swash. Now and then a Bohemian crow,
moping lazily from the Maryland border, looked down at Lawrence in the
old arm-chair and uttered a hoarse exclamation of astonishment.
But Lawrence heard none of these things; with stony stare he continued
to regard the roadway to the grove. Could it be that he was unhappy?
He was the proprietor of "Wakefield," the thirteen hundred acres that
stretched around him; five hundred slaves called him master; bounteous
crops had filled his barns to overflowing, and, to complete what should
have been the sum of human happiness, he had but two years before taken
to wife the beautiful Mary, daughter of Joseph Ball, Esq., of Epping
Forest, and the acknowledged belle of the Northern Neck. How, then,
_could_ Lawrence be unhappy?
The truth is, Lawrence was in a delirium of expectancy. He stood, as
it were, upon the threshold of an event. The experience which
threatened him was altogether a new one; he was in a condition of
suspense that was simply torturesome.
This event had been anticipated for some time. By those subtile
methods peculiar to her sex, Mary, the wife, had prepared herself for
it, and Lawrence, too, had declared ever and anon his readiness to face
the ordeal; but, now that the event was close at hand, Lawrence was
weak and nervous and pale, and it was evident that Mary would have to
confront the event without the hope of any practical assistance from
her husband.
"It is all the fault of the moon," muttered Lawrence. "It changed last
night, and if I had paid any attention to what Aunt Lizzie and Miss
Bettie said I might have expected this trouble to-day. A plague take
the moon, I say, and all the ills it brings with its monkeyshines!"
* * * * * *
Along the pathway across the meadow meandered three feminine figures
attired in the quaint raiment of those remote Colonial times--Mistress
Carter, her daughter Mistress Fairfax, and another neighbor, the
antique and angular Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster. At sight of
Lawrence they groaned, and Miss Culpeper found it necessary to hold her
big velvet bag before her face to conceal the blushes of indignation
which she felt suffusing her venerable features when she beheld the
horrid author of a kind of trouble to which, on account of her years
and estate, she could never hope to contribute save as a party of the
third part. And oh! how guilty Lawrence looked and how guilty he felt,
too, as he sat under his fig tree just then. He dropped his face into
his hands and ground his elbows into his knees and indulged in bitter
thoughts against the feminine sex in general and against the moon and
Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, in particular.
So absorbing were these bitter reflections that, although Lawrence had
posted himself under the fig tree for the sole purpose of discovering
and of heralding the approach of a certain expected visitor, he was not
aware of Dr. Parley's arrival until that important personage had issued
from the oak grove, had traversed the brown road, and was dignifiedly
stalking his flea-bitten mare through the gateway. Then Lawrence
looked up, gave a sickly smile, and bade the doctor an incoherent
good-morning. Dr. Parley was sombre and impressive. He seldom smiled.
An imperturbable gravity possessed him from the prim black-satin
cockade on his three-cornered hat to the silver buckles on his
square-toed shoes. In his right hand he carried a gold-headed cane
which he wielded as solemnly as a pontiff might wield a sceptre, and as
he dismounted from his flea-bitten mare and unswung his ponderous
saddlebags he never once suffered the gold head of his impressive cane
to lapse from its accustomed position at his nostrils.
"Go right into the house, doctor," said Lawrence, feebly, "_I 'll_ look
after the mare. You have n't come any too soon--Mary 's taking on
terrible."
It was mean of Dr. Parley, but at this juncture he _did_ really
smile--yes, and it was a smile which combined so much malevolent pity
and scorn and derision that poor Lawrence felt himself shrivelling up
to the infinitesimal dimension of a pea in a bushel-basket. He led the
flea-bitten mare to the cherry tree and tied her there. "If you bark
that tree I 'll tan you alive," said Lawrence hoarsely, to the
champing, frisky creature, for now he hated all animal life from Dr.
Parley down, down, down even to the flea-bitten mare. Then, miserable
and nervous, Lawrence returned to the arm-chair under the fig
tree--and, how wretched he was!
Pretty soon he heard a merry treble voice piping out: "Is ze gockter
tum to oo house?" and Lawrence saw little Martha toddling toward him.
Little Martha was Mistress Dandridge's baby girl. The Dandridges lived
a short way beyond the oak grove, and little Martha loved to visit
Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Mary, as she called Lawrence and his wife.
"Yes, Martha," said Lawrence, sadly, "the doctor's come."
"Ain't oo glad ze gockter's tum?" asked the child, anxiously, for she
recognized the weary tone of Lawrence's voice.
"Oh, yes," he answered, quickly and with an effort at cheerfulness, "I
'm glad he 's come. Ha, ha!"
"Is oo doing to have oo toof pulled?" she inquired, artlessly.
Lawrence shook his head.
"No, little one," said he, in a melancholy voice, "I wish I was."
Then Martha wanted to know whether the doctor had brought his
saddlebags, and when Lawrence answered in the affirmative a summer of
sunshine seemed to come into the child's heart and burst out over her
pretty face.
"Oh, I know!" she cried, as she clapped her fat little hands. "Ze
gockter has bwought oo a itty baby!"
Now Martha's innocence, naivete, and exuberance rather pleased
Lawrence. In fact, Martha was the only human being in all the world
who had treated Lawrence with any kind of consideration that February
morning, and all at once Lawrence felt his heart warm and go out toward
the prattling child.
"Come here, little Martha," said he, kindly, "and let me hold you on my
knee. Who told you about the--about the--the baby, eh?"
"Mamma says ze gockter _allers_ brings itty babies in his sagglebags.
Do oo want a itty baby, Uncle Lawrence?"
"Yes, Martha, I do," said he, kissing her, "and I want a little girl
just like you."
Now Martha had guessed at the event, and her guess was eminently
correct. Lawrence had told the truth, too; it was a little girl he
wanted--not one that looked like Martha, perhaps--one that looked like
his Mary would please him most. So the two talked together, and
Lawrence found himself concocting the most preposterous perjuries
touching the famous saddlebags and the babies, but it seemed to delight
little Martha all the more as these perjuries became more and more
preposterous.
For reasons, however, which we at this subsequent period can
appreciate, this confabulation could not last for aye, and when,
finally, little Martha trotted back homeward Lawrence bethought himself
it was high time to reconnoiter the immediate scene of action within
his house. He found a group of servants huddled about the door.
Chloe, Becky, Ann, Snowdrop, Pearl, Susan, Tilly--all, usually cheerful
and smiling, wore distressful countenances now. Nor did they speak to
him as had been their wont. They seemed to be afraid of him, yet what
had _he_ done--what had he _ever_ done that these well-fed,
well-treated slaves should shrink from him in his hour of trouble?
It was still gloomier inside the house. Aunt Lizzie and Miss Bettie,
the nurses, had taken supreme charge of affairs. At this moment Aunt
Lizzie, having brewed a pot of tea, was regaling Mistress Carter and
Mistress Fairfax and the venerable Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, with
a desultory but none the less interesting narrative of her performances
on countless occasions similar to the event about to take place. The
appearance of Lawrence well-nigh threw Miss Culpeper into hysterics,
and, to escape the dismal groans, prodigious sighs, and reproachful
glances of the others, Lawrence made haste to get out of the apartment.
The next room was desolate enough, but it was under Mary's room and
there was _some_ comfort in knowing _that_. Yet the nearer Lawrence
came to Mary's room the more helpless he grew. He could not explain
it, but he was lamentably weak and miserable. A strange fear undid him
and he fairly trembled.
"I will go up and ask if there is anything I can do," he said to
himself, for he was ashamed to admit his cowardice.
But his knees failed him and he sat down on the stairs and listened and
wished he had never been born.
Oh, how quiet the house was. Lawrence strained his ears to catch a
sound from Mary's room. He could hear a faint echo of the four
chattering women in the front chamber below, but not a sound from
Mary's room. Now and then a shrill cry of a jay or the lowing of the
oxen in the pasture by the creek came to him from the outside
world--but not a sound from Mary's room. His heart sank; he would have
given the finest plantation in Westmoreland County for the echo of
Mary's voice or the music of Mary's footfall now.
Presently the door of Mary's room opened. The cold, unrelenting,
forbidding countenance of Miss Bettie, the nurse, confronted Lawrence's
upturned, pleading face.
"Oh, it 's _you_, is it?" said Miss Bettie, unfeelingly, and with this
cheerless remark she closed the door again, and Lawrence was more
miserable than ever. He stole down-stairs into a back room, escaped
through a window, and slunk away toward the stables. The whole world
seemed turned against him--in the flower of early manhood he found
himself unwillingly and undeservedly an Ishmaelite.
He rebelled against this cruel injustice.
Then he grew weak and childish again.
Anon he anathematized humanity, and then again he ruefully regretted
his own existence.
In a raging fever one moment, he shivered and chattered like a sick
magpie the next.
But when he thought of Mary his heart softened and sweeter emotions
thrilled him. She, at least, he assured himself, would defend him from
these persecutions were she aware of them. So, after roaming aimlessly
between the barn and the creek, the creek and the overseer's house, the
overseer's house and the swash, the swash and the grove, the grove and
the servants' quarters, Lawrence made up his mind that he 'd go back to
the house (like the brave man he wanted to make himself believe he was)
and help Mary endure "the ordeal," as Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster,
was pleased to term the event. But Lawrence could not bring himself to
face the feminine quartet in the front chamber--now that he came to
think of it he recollected that he always _had_ detested those four
impertinent gossips! So he crept around to the side window, raised it
softly, crawled in through, and slipped noiselessly toward the stairway.
Then all at once he heard a cry; a shrill little voice that did not
linger in his ears, but went straight to his heart and kept echoing
there and twining itself in and out, in and out, over and over again.
This little voice stirred Lawrence strangely; it seemed to tell him
things he had never known before, to speak a wisdom he had never
dreamed of, to breathe a sweeter music than he had ever heard, to
inspire ambitions purer and better than any he had ever felt--the voice
of his firstborn--you know, fathers, what that meant to Lawrence.
Well, Lawrence _was_ brave again, but there was a lump in his throat
and his eyes were misty.
"She's here at last," he murmured thankfully; "heaven be praised for
that!"
Of course you understand that Lawrence had been hoping for a girl; so
had his wife. They had planned to call her Mary, after her mother, the
quondam belle of the Northern Neck. Grandfather Joseph Ball, late of
Epping Forest, was to be her godfather, and Colonel Bradford Custis of
Jamestown had promised to grace the christening with his imposing
presence.
"Well, you can come in," said Miss Bettie, with much condescension, and
in all humility Lawrence did go in.
Dr. Parley was quite as solemn and impressive as ever. He occupied the
great chair near the chimney-place, and he still held the gold head of
his everlasting cane close to his nose.
"Well, Mary," said Lawrence, with an inquiring, yearning glance. Mary
was very pale, but she smiled sweetly.
"Lawrence, it's a boy," said Mary.
Oh, what a grievous disappointment that was! After all the hopes, the
talk, the preparations, the plans--a boy! What would Grandfather Ball,
late of Epping Forest, say? What would come of the grand christening
that was to be graced by the imposing presence of Colonel Bradford
Custis of Jamestown? How the Jeffersons and Randolphs and Masons and
Pages and Slaughters and Carters and Ayletts and Henrys _would_ gossip
and chuckle, and how he--Lawrence--_would_ be held up to the scorn and
the derision of the facetious yeomen of Westmoreland! It was simply
terrible.
And just then, too, Lawrence's vexation was increased by a gloomy
report from the four worthy dames down-stairs--viz., Mistress Carter,
Mistress Fairfax, Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, and Aunt Lizzie, the
nurse. These inquiring creatures had been casting the new-born babe's
horoscope through the medium of tea grounds in their blue-china cups,
and each agreed that the child's future was full of shame, crime,
disgrace, and other equally unpleasant features.
"Now that it's a boy," said Lawrence, ruefully, "I 'm willing to
believe almost anything. It would n't surprise me at all if he wound
up on the gallows!"
But Mary, cherishing the puffy, fuzzy, red-faced little waif in her
bosom, said to him, softly: "No matter _what_ the _others_ say, my
darling; _I_ bid you welcome, and, by God's grace, my love and prayers
shall make you good and great."
And it was even so. Mary's love and prayers _did_ make a good and
great man of that unwelcome child, as we who celebrate his birthday in
these later years believe. They had a grand christening, too;
Grandfather Ball was there, and Colonel Bradford Custis, and the Lees,
the Jeffersons, the Randolphs, the Slaughters--yes, all the old
families of Virginia were represented, and there was feasting and
merry-making for three days! Such cheer prevailed, in fact, that even
Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, and Lawrence, the happy father, became
completely reconciled. Soothed by the grateful influences of barbecued
meats and draughts of rum and sugar, Lawrence led Miss Culpeper through
the minuet.
"A very proper name for the babe?" suggested Miss Culpeper.
"Yes, we will call him George, in honor of his majesty our king," said
Lawrence Washington, with the pride that comes of loyalty and
patriotism.
SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE DREAM-FAIRIES