Santa Claus, were talking about it in Santa Claus’s shed that very
morning.
“They could house-clean to-morrow. I wouldn’t mind living in a dirty
house one more day,” ruminated Jack.
“I wouldn’t mind it forever,” spoke up Jill. Which was probably true,
for Jill was not the tidiest little girl in the world.
Then Simple Simon jumped up quite suddenly and began to dance, throwing
his long legs gleefully around and laughing as he did so,--quite a
spectacle, I can assure you. Even the children, who were used to his
queer ways, were astonished, and they were still more astonished when
he abruptly sat down, and drawing them all close about him on the shed
floor, began to tell them a wonderful secret, in a whispering voice so
full of “shishes” and “shushes” they could hardly hear what he said.
And as soon as Simple Simon had finished, the children all jumped to
their feet and ran off together, so that in another moment not one of
them was to be seen in Pudding Lane. Their mothers did not even miss
them, so deep were they in the business of house-cleaning.
A deadly earnest business it was too. You could see by the way Mrs.
Dumpty pressed her lips together that this was no laughing matter.
You could tell by the set of Mother Hubbard’s jaw that she’d see this
affair through to the finish, come what would. And as for the tiny Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater, well, although her rug was three times as big as she
was, and she herself was only one third as big as she ought to have
been, she shook that offending piece of carpet as if to shake its very
red roses off, and I think she would have loosened a petal or two, if
they had been any but woolen roses.
But if all this were deadly serious to those excellent housewives
themselves, it was an even grimmer business for their husbands. If ever
a man is miserable, it is during spring house-cleaning, and already on
this day uncomfortable things had begun to happen to the men of Pudding
Lane. Mr. Claus, for one, had risen to find the kitchen table upside
down in the back garden and had been forced to eat his breakfast from
the window sill, no good way to start the day, certainly. But it was
rather worse for Jack Spratt, who got no breakfast at all. Mrs. Spratt
simply told him she couldn’t be bothered, unless, she added, he’d “do
with a piece of fat meat”, which of course, being the man he was, he
_couldn’t_ do with.
Mr. Horner, poor man, slipped on a piece of wet soap which was on the
kitchen floor--though it certainly had no business there--and nearly
broke his neck. And Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater was forced to appear in
public in his shirt sleeves, because, when he had marched to his old
peg that morning to fetch his coat as usual, it was to discover that
not only had the coat disappeared, but the peg had too--which shows how
far things had gone in the pumpkin shell that morning.
But the most miserable of all men in Pudding Lane that day was Old
King Cole, the merry old soul himself. It does seem as if a King ought
not be bothered with such unpleasant affairs as house-cleaning. But
Old King Cole was bothered, for the Queen of Hearts was nothing if
she was not a good housekeeper. Consequently, the king had awakened
that morning to find carpets up and curtains down, furniture stacked,
dishes, brushes, paint cans, brooms, buckets everywhere, and the Queen,
her royal head in a dust cap, chasing the servants about in what looked
like a mad game of tag.
Moreover, as the Queen was having the throne regilded and the chairs
all resilvered, poor Old King Cole had to stand up all the time, unless
he chose to sit on wet paint, which he didn’t. And worse than that, he
had to stand perfectly still too, for when he tried to walk, he found
himself stumbling over mattresses, crashing into glass dishes, stepping
into buckets of water, and slipping on wet paint brushes. My goodness,
how uncomfortable he was, standing there in the midst of all that
higgledy-piggledy, while the Queen and the fiddlers three and all the
king’s men rushed insanely around, never once looking at him.
His legs soon began to ache dreadfully; his head buzzed with the noise.
He called for his pipe. Nobody paid the least attention. He called for
his bowl. It was not brought. He called for his fiddlers three. They
leaped up to him, made deep hurried bows, offered their apologies, and
were off to help the Queen of Hearts again, who at that moment was at
the top of a stepladder, wrestling with a curtain rod.
“This is enough,” said Old King Cole bitterly to himself, and, smashing
through the glass dishes, paint buckets and wet mops on the floor, he
bounded out of the throne room and through the front door. Old King
Cole had run away from home and family. Not that the Queen of Hearts
cared in the least. In fact, as she saw her liege lord departing, she
was heard to murmur something about “good riddance”, hardly the way to
speak of a king, I should think. Then she continued battling with that
curtain rod with the greatest relish in the world. There’s something
about a curtain rod that makes women--well, anyway, the Queen of Hearts
was certainly enjoying herself, that was evident.
He ran and ran, did Old King Cole, and he didn’t know in the least
where he was going, and finally, being fat, he just had to stop for
breath. So he did. And then he saw that, although he had been running a
long time, he really hadn’t run far at all, having gone in a circle, as
people so often do when they think they’re going straight.
“Fiddlesticks,” said Old King Cole. “I thought I’d be halfway to Dover
by this time.”
Dover? Dover? What was he going to Dover for, do you suppose? Could it
be that Old King Cole had reached such a pitch that he was thinking
of going away over to France to see the King of France for a while? I
shouldn’t be surprised. He really was quite worked up.
Well, anyway, there he stood on Pinafore Pike, puffing and blowing and
saying “Fiddlesticks”, and goodness knows what he would have done next
if he hadn’t seen Simple Simon ambling along the road. But he did see
him, and Simple Simon told him the secret, and the first thing that
old king knew, he and Simon had gone off in just the opposite direction
from Dover.
Meanwhile, however, something pretty serious was happening in
the palace. For just at the moment when everything was at its
topsy-turviest, who should walk in on the Queen of Hearts but the King
of France? Yes, right through the front door came that elegant fellow,
and there was the Queen of Hearts, dust cap and all, on the top step
of the ladder. Was ever a woman so humiliated? Was ever a Queen caught
in such a condition? The Queen of Hearts thought not, and as she
climbed, blushing and confused, down that horrible ladder, she wished
desperately to herself that she had never heard of house-cleaning.
And what was her chagrin when the King of France told her that the
very reason he had left France was to escape the house-cleaning in
his own palace. And he had walked right into the same muss here in
Pudding Lane! The King of France laughed heartily as he told the Queen
of Hearts this, because he thought it was funny, but it wasn’t funny
to the Queen of Hearts--no indeed--and she wrung her grimy hands in
despair.
The news spread quickly through Pudding Lane that Old King Cole had
slipped away, and that the King of France had walked in suddenly and
caught the Queen in her dust cap. And you may be quite sure that the
people of Pudding Lane soon gathered together to talk it over.
“We ought to Pay our Respects to him,” said the candlestick-maker.
They all agreed that they ought.
“But how do you Pay Respects?” asked Mr. Horner.
The candlestick-maker, not having the least idea, pretended to be too
deep in thought to hear.
“It’s certain and sure the poor Queen can’t entertain him for long,”
spoke up Mrs. Grundy, who had a small opinion of Her Majesty, as we
know.
“She ain’t exactly the brilliant talker,” admitted the
candlestick-maker, who wasn’t exactly the brilliant talker himself,
when it came to that.
Then Mrs. Claus, looking quickly around, gave a little cry, at which
everybody jumped.
“Where are the children?” she cried. “I haven’t seen a child since
early morn.”
Great goodness, where were the children? Pudding Lane had forgotten
them completely in the excitement of house-cleaning, foreign visitors,
and suchlike. But they were aroused to action now, those mothers and
fathers. They ran around the village, calling and shouting, until the
Queen of Hearts and her regal guest heard them and came down to see
what the noise was about. They joined the search party then, and just
as everybody had begun to think that the children had been swallowed
by the earth, or eaten by bears, or something else terrible, they came
across them all, down behind Honeysuckle Hill. And what do you suppose
they were doing?
They were dancing around a Maypole, a beautiful, flower-covered
Maypole, which stood a little tipsy in the ground, it is true, but
which, nevertheless, was one of the best Maypoles that Pudding Lane had
ever seen. They were dancing and singing, every one of them, and what’s
more, there was Old King Cole himself, between Mistress Mary and Polly
Flinders, galloping around that pole as if he had never heard of gout.
For once, Simple Simon had thought of something really worth while. For
this, you see, had been his secret. He had suggested to the children
that they build their own Maypole, and they had done it.
[Illustration: _They were dancing around a Maypole, a beautiful,
flower-covered Maypole. Page 76._]
Well, how surprised the parents were, to see what a beautiful Maypole
the children had made. How surprised Old King Cole was to see the
King of France. And how surprised the Queen of Hearts was to find her
husband there with the children. Indeed, everybody had something to be
surprised about, and so, of course, it was a most exciting occasion.
Then Old King Cole proposed that the mothers and fathers, with the King
of France and the Queen, should join in the dance. Then the ladies
protested that they weren’t dressed fit and proper. Then Old King Cole
said “Nonsense”, and finally it all ended up with everybody’s getting
in, and dancing and singing, and having a perfectly riotous time.
They had a Queen of the May too. Everybody thought the Queen of Hearts
ought to be the May Queen, except the Queen of Hearts herself, who was
so tired of being a Queen, and Mrs. Grundy, who wanted to be the May
Queen herself. So Mr. Spratt, who knew what to do and when to do it,
suggested that “our royal and honored guest, the King of France, crown
the Queen of the May, whomsoever he would.”
The King of France looked critically around the circle of ladies. He
looked at Mrs. Grundy and passed her by. He looked at Humpty Dumpty’s
mother, and that little lady thought she should faint from agitation.
Then he looked at the Old Woman, at Mrs. Horner, at Mrs. Flinders, and
passed them all by. After which, to everybody’s intense excitement and
joy, he marched straight up to--Mrs. Claus, of all people!
Oh, dear, what a stir that created! And can you imagine how Mrs. Claus
herself felt at this honor? Can you see her blushing and bobbing and
saying, “Yes, Your Majesty,” two dozen times without stopping? Can you
see her grow glassy-eyed with embarrassment when, a moment later, the
King of France laid the crown of roses on her topknot,--which, as she
thought to herself bitterly, hadn’t been crimped for days? Can you see
her sitting stiff as a ramrod and burning with blushes, at the side of
the resplendent King of France, who was also King of the May?
Well, perhaps a May Queen should not be goggle-eyed and red-faced as
Mrs. Claus was. Perhaps she should not gulp and wring her hands as Mrs.
Claus did. Perhaps she should have had her hair crimped, and perhaps
she would have been better dressed in a gown without those big patches
under the arms. But Pudding Lane was well satisfied with their May
Queen, and thought her most queenly and elegant. So they danced around
her, singing and clapping, and never did a woman feel more proud and
happy than did Mrs. Claus on that day. Only one person felt prouder
and happier than she, and that was Mr. Claus, who at all times thought
his wife a remarkable woman, but in this new glory considered her too
wonderful for speech. And of course, Santa Claus and the twins nearly
burst with pride in their mother.
As for the real Queen, she was having a lovely time. It seemed so nice
not to have to be regal for once, and she skipped and frolicked between
Jack Spratt and Peter, Peter quite like an ordinary woman. Peter,
Peter, by the way, was the only person there who was not quite happy.
For Peter’s coat never had been found in the frenzy of his wife’s
house-cleaning, and the poor little man was therefore dancing there in
his shirt sleeves, to his great mortification and shame.
And when it was quite dark, and they couldn’t dance any more, if the
Queen of Hearts, in a spasm of generosity, didn’t invite them all up
to the palace for tarts and lemonade, a fine finish for any May-Day
party. After which the King of France said he thought he ought to be
off. So he went away, and the people of Pudding Lane went home at last,
after a happy and eventful day.
And ever after that, while the mothers of Pudding Lane cleaned house on
the first of May, the children and the men prepared the May-Day party,
which turned out to be just the way to manage the first-of-May problem,
so that everybody should be happy. So Old King Cole never ran away
from the palace again, of course. And by the way, Old King Cole never
did tell anybody that he had started out for France that time when he
ran away, for he didn’t want to confess that he had gotten lost. But
wouldn’t it have been funny if he _had_ gotten to France only to find
the French palace in the same uproar as his own? There might be a moral
to that, something about home-keeping hearts, or sticking to the ship,
or some such, but I guess we won’t bother with morals.
[Illustration: _On the same stagecoach from Dover came a present from
the King of France to Mrs. Claus. Page 81._]
VI
THE POODLE THAT DIDN’T KNOW ENGLISH
It was about a month after the King of France had been to visit Pudding
Lane that the stagecoach from Dover brought the Jack of Hearts on a
visit to Old King Cole and the Queen of Hearts. As you remember, the
Jack had no use for Pudding Lane because it wasn’t Paris, and nobody
quite knew, indeed, why he ever came to the little village which he
held in such scorn. Mrs. Grundy said he came when he ran out of funds
and wanted to live a while on his relatives. Perhaps that was merely
Mrs. Grundy’s rather vulgar way of putting it, and perhaps it was true.
Anyway, he came and upset the palace quite as much as usual with his
French and his fine manners and his old habit of stealing tarts.
But on the same stagecoach from Dover came a present from the King of
France to Mrs. Claus, which was far more exciting to Pudding Lane than
the presence of the Jack of Hearts. You remember, of course, what an
impression Mrs. Claus had made on His Majesty on May Day, but did you
ever dream he would go so far as to send her a gift? Well, nobody else
did, least of all Mrs. Claus herself, who almost fainted when the coach
drove up to her house and the driver climbed down and handed her a
large square wooden box.
“Whatever--?” shrieked Mrs. Claus excitedly.
“Great snakes!” ejaculated the baker, who was standing by.
“What could be in such a box?” inquired Mrs. Claus of the world at
large.
“Fine French china,” guessed Mr. Claus.
Mrs. Claus’s eyes glittered hopefully.
“A lamp,” suggested the candlestick-maker, who was there too.
“A dog,” burst out Santa Claus.
Santa was right. The King’s present was a French poodle, as jolly a
little puppy as Pudding Lane had ever seen. It was surely very kind of
the King of France, and Mrs. Claus was deeply sensible of the honor
paid her by His Majesty, but what did she want with a puppy dog, she
who had six children? as she rather clumsily put it. Santa Claus and
the twins begged so hard to keep him, however, that Mrs. Claus said
well, if they would feed him and wash him and make him mind, he might
stay.
But the Clauses could not keep the poodle, after all, and all because
of Misery. For that wretched cat began to act like a feline possessed
the minute he laid his green eyes on the newcomer, and clawed and
scratched and spat at the poor little dog until he squealed with terror.
After a few hours of this, Mrs. Claus shut Misery up in the
woodhouse and locked the poodle in the kitchen and ran over to Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater’s.
“But I thought Misery loved company,” said Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, when the
story was finished.
“Not when the company’s a dog,” said Mrs. Claus. “And, oh, dear, Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater, I don’t know what we’ll do unless--unless--well, unless
you’ll take the dog off our hands as a kind and neighborly act.”
“But, Mrs. Claus,” objected Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, “isn’t the pumpkin
shell too small for a poodle? There is really so little room here.”
Mrs. Claus looked around the pumpkin shell appraisingly.
“It is a bit small; he’s a fat poodle.” Then she brightened. “But
perhaps the carpenter would build you a kennel in the back garden, Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater, and you could keep the poodle there.”
And so it was decided, and that very afternoon the carpenter built the
kennel and the poodle was brought over to the Pumpkin-Eaters.
The Pumpkin-Eaters were rather nervous over the prospect of keeping a
poodle, but they did consider it an honor to have a gift that the King
of France had sent, and so they met the situation unflinchingly. Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater fed the poodle with the rarest of titbits, beef-steak,
and cream, and mashed potatoes with gravy, until the greedy little
puppy was panting and breathless. Mr. Pumpkin-Eater diddle-daddled
around the kennel, patting the poodle and talking to him, and when Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater wasn’t looking, he brought his own pillow from their bed,
so that the poodle should lie comfortably in his new home. Yes, Mr. and
Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater were just as kind as people could be to that poodle,
and there was no earthly excuse for his acting the way he did.
But it soon became apparent that he was just about the most troublesome
poodle that ever lived. Not that he was really bad; you could hardly
say that of him. He just acted as if he didn’t have any sense.
It began after he had recovered his breath from eating. Until then he
was very quiet, except for little grunts, just little happy, eating
grunts that nobody could have objected to. Then, when he did get his
breath, up he jumped from his pillow, and the trouble began.
The first thing he did was to run straight from the kennel into the
pumpkin shell and upset every stick of the tiny furniture that the poor
Pumpkin-Eaters were so proud of. I don’t think he meant to upset the
furniture, but puppies are not the most graceful beasts in the world,
and so as he waddled through the shell, which was pretty small for him
anyway, he just naturally bumped into the tables and chairs and sent
them spinning.
How agitated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was then.
“Shush!” she called imperiously. “Shoo! Get out! Scat!” She said
everything she could think of, and still the puppy kept running
around, knocking over more things, until he finally bumped into
Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and knocked her over too! Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was
extremely small, as you know, and I suppose it didn’t take much to
upset her. She screamed weakly as she hit the floor, at which Mr.
Pumpkin-Eater came running in from the garden.
“Hey!” called out Mr. Pumpkin-Eater angrily to the poodle. Then he
shushed and shooed and scatted at the poodle, but the blessed dog just
jumped up against him as if he had done something praiseworthy, and the
next thing they all knew, Mr. Pumpkin-Eater was flat on his back too,
bellowing for help, as the poodle ran excitedly about, yelping with joy.
The neighbors came running in to help, the Clauses, the butcher, Mrs.
Dumpty (who was sure somebody else must have fallen off the wall), the
Old Woman, Mr. Horner, Mr. and Mrs. Flinders, all of them. Of course,
they didn’t all go inside the shell, for there wasn’t room. But Mr.
Horner did and gallantly picked up the prostrate Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater,
and the butcher squeezed his way in and lifted Mr. Pumpkin-Eater to his
feet. Then Mr. Pumpkin-Eater made a dive for the poodle, who by that
time was on the bed, chewing up Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s best lace spread.
The puppy, still thinking it all the greatest joke in the world, ran
out of the shell into the garden and jumped right up into the Old
Woman’s arms, squealing as happily as if he had found an old friend.
“Well,” said the Old Woman, “here he is.”
“Put him in the kennel!” cried everybody.
The Old Woman started for the kennel with the puppy wriggling
delightedly in her arms--he still thought it all a lovely lark--and
maybe all would have been well then, if a certain perky little sparrow
had not chosen that particular moment in which to poke his nose into
the kennel.
He did choose that moment, however, and so the tragedy happened. The
sparrow was halfway into the kennel, pecking at some toothsome crumbs,
when the poodle suddenly leaped from the Old Woman’s arms full on
the back and tail of the unsuspecting little bird. A cry of joy from
the poodle, a shower of feathers, then out backed the poor sparrow,
tottering and surprised, with his tail nipped off.
How indignant Pudding Lane was at that! How they all scolded the poodle
and sympathized with the sparrow. Sparrows until then had not had very
good standing in the village, as perhaps they have not in yours, but
this calamity made the people forget their old grievances against the
_passeres_ (that’s the sparrow’s dress-up name) and they could only
feel sorry now for the particular _passer_, oh, very sorry. True,
the sparrow, though he staggered uncertainly around and blinked in
amazement, did not act as if he were in pain. But if you’re used to
tails, of course you miss them, and the sparrow’s had disappeared so
suddenly.
Meanwhile, the poodle was acting just as absurdly as before. He was
running and rolling and yapping in a perfectly abandoned way, and the
more the Old Woman and the butcher and all the rest of them scolded
him, ordered him down and bade him be quiet, the more he cut up. It was
almost as if he were a mad dog, and yet you could see, just by looking
at him, that he was innocent as could be, that he didn’t know in the
least he was doing wrong. Puppies don’t naturally have morals, you
know, and this one apparently hadn’t been taught any.
Well, things finally got to such a pitch that Mr. Pumpkin-Eater said
firmly that he wouldn’t have such a beast about any more, and Mrs.
Claus declared she wouldn’t have him either, even if he were a royal
poodle straight from the King of France. They decided that the only
thing to do was to put the poodle back in the box and send him home to
Paris.
“But the King!” remonstrated Mrs. Flinders.
“I know,” said Mrs. Claus. “But Pudding Lane would be in ruins if we
let this dog stay.”
“But nobody ever sends presents back to a king,” chimed in Mrs. Grundy.
“Well, I know somebody that’s a-going to,” said Mrs. Claus stubbornly.
“He might throw you in prison or something,” suggested Mrs. Grundy.
At which Mrs. Claus turned white, but stood her ground: she’d have no
dog that threatened the future happiness and safety of Pudding Lane.
Just then who should come dawdling down Pudding Lane but the Jack of
Hearts, airy as usual? When he saw the commotion in the Pumpkin-Eaters’
garden, he stepped in. The people curtseyed obediently; they had
manners, even though they didn’t like the Jack. Then they told him what
was the matter.
“And he won’t do a thing you tell him to!” concluded Mrs.
Pumpkin-Eater. “I never saw such a disobedient dog.”
At that, the poodle leaped up against Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s skirts.
“Down!” she commanded.
He barked joyously and leaped the higher.
“Hush!” she ordered.
But he didn’t down and he didn’t hush.
“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater exasperatedly to the Jack. “You
see, he doesn’t mind a single thing.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” replied the Jack of Hearts quietly.
“Of course!” repeated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. “I don’t see any ‘of course’
about it.”