Books by Joel Chandler Harris.
--------------
NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.
MINGO, AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50
cents.
BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, AND OTHER SKETCHES. 16mo, $1.25.
UNCLE REMUS AND HIS FRIENDS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER AND HIS QUEER COUNTRY. Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
$2.00.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
BROTHER LION WATCHED ME. PAGE 158
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MR. RABBIT AT HOME
A SEQUEL TO
Little Mr. Thimblefinger and his Queer Country
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1895
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1894 and 1895,
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
Copyright, 1895,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
All rights reserved.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
--------------
PAGE
I. BUSTER JOHN ALARMS MR. RABBIT 5
II. WHERE THE THUNDER LIVES 15
III. THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE 28
IV. THE BLUE HEN’S CHICKEN 36
V. HOW A KING WAS FOUND 46
VI. THE MAGIC RING 57
VII. THE COW WITH THE GOLDEN HORNS 69
VIII. BROTHER WOLF’S TWO BIG DINNERS 82
IX. THE LITTLE BOY OF THE LANTERN 91
X. A LUCKY CONJURER 106
XI. THE KING OF THE CLINKERS 119
XII. THE TERRIBLE HORSE 132
XIII. HOW BROTHER LION LOST HIS WOOL 144
XIV. BROTHER LION HAS A SPELL OF 154
SICKNESS
XV. A MOUNTAIN OF GOLD 164
XVI. AN OLD-FASHIONED FUSS 178
XVII. THE RABBIT AND THE MOON 191
XVIII. WHY THE BEAR IS A WRESTLER 197
XIX. THE SHOEMAKER WHO MADE BUT ONE 209
SHOE
XX. THE WOOG AND THE WEEZE 240
XXI. UNCLE RAIN AND BROTHER DROUTH 252
XXII. THE SNOW-WHITE GOAT AND THE 266
COAL-BLACK SHEEP
XXIII. THE BUTTING COW AND THE 282
HITTING STICK
XXIV. THE FATE OF THE DIDDYPAWN 294
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
BROTHER LION WATCHED ME. Frontispiece
“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?” 12
SHE WAITED A LITTLE WHILE 22
PRESENTLY THEY CAME TO A 32
PRECIPICE
ONE OF THEM WAS ENTIRELY 42
DIFFERENT FROM ALL THE REST
THEY SAW THE HANDSOME BOY 52
SLEEPING
HER STEPMOTHER CREPT INTO THE 66
ROOM
SHE WOULD HAVE KNELT, BUT HE 80
LIFTED HER UP
HE WENT A LITTLE WAY DOWN ONE 86
ROAD
A LADY, RICHLY DRESSED, CAME 96
OUT OF THE WOODS
AS HE DID SO, A CROW HOPPED 114
OUT
HE SAW AN OLD MAN, NO BIGGER 124
THAN A BROOMSTICK
THE WOODEN HORSE HAD STAMPEDED 142
THE ENEMY’S ARMY
YOU NEVER HEARD SUCH HOWLING 150
SINCE YOU WERE BORN
HE WAS SO WEAK THAT HE 174
COULDN’T GET UP
THE MONKEYS WOULD MAKE FACES 180
AND SQUEAL AT THE DOGS
“WHAT IS THE TROUBLE?” SAYS 184
THE OLDEST RABBIT
HE RUBBED THE SIDE OF HIS HEAD 204
A QUEER-LOOKING LITTLE MAN 216
CAME JOGGING ALONG THE ROAD
“HAVE YOU SEEN ANYTHING OF A 232
STRAY SHOE?”
A HORRIBLE MONSTER GLARED AT 244
THEM
THE BOY TOLD UNCLE RAIN THE 258
WHOLE STORY
AT LAST THE ROBBERS MANAGED TO 274
ESCAPE
“HIT, STICK! STICK, HIT!” SHE 292
CRIED
IT MADE HIM GRIN FROM EAR TO 298
EAR
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MR. RABBIT AT HOME.
--------------
I.
BUSTER JOHN ALARMS MR. RABBIT.
When Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla returned home after
their first visit to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, a curious thing
happened. The children had made a bargain to say nothing about what they
had seen and heard, but one day, when there was nobody else to hear what
she had to say, Sweetest Susan concluded to tell her mother something
about the visit she had made next door to the world. So she began and
told about the Grandmother of the Dolls, and about Little Mr.
Thimblefinger, and all about her journey under the spring. Her mother
paid no attention at first, but after awhile she became interested, and
listened intently to everything her little daughter said. Sometimes she
looked serious, sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she laughed.
Sweetest Susan couldn’t remember everything, but she told enough to
astonish her mother.
“Darling, when did you dream such nonsense as that?” the lady asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t a dream, mamma,” cried Sweetest Susan. “I thought it was
a dream at first, but it turned out to be no dream at all. Now, please
don’t ask brother about it, and please don’t ask Drusilla, for we
promised one another to say nothing about it. I didn’t intend to tell
you, but I forgot and began to tell you before I thought.”
A little while afterward Sweetest Susan’s mother was telling her husband
about the wonderful imagination of their little daughter, and then the
neighbors got hold of it, and some of the old ladies put their heads
together over their teacups and said it was a sign that Sweetest Susan
was too smart to stay in this world very long.
One day, while Drusilla was helping about the house, Sweetest Susan’s
mother took occasion to ask her where she and the children went the day
they failed to come to dinner.
“We wuz off gettin’ plums, I speck,” replied Drusilla.
“Why, there were no plums to get,” said the lady.
“Well, ’m, ef ’t wa’n’t plums, hit must ’a’ been hick’y nuts,” explained
Drusilla.
“Hickory nuts were not ripe, stupid.”
“Maybe dey wa’n’t,” said Drusilla stolidly; “but dat don’t hinder we
chilluns from huntin’ ’em.”
“You know you didn’t go after hickory nuts, Drusilla,” the lady
insisted. “Now I want you to tell me where you and the children went.
I’ll not be angry if you tell me, but if you don’t”—
Drusilla could infer a good deal from the tone of the lady’s voice, but
she shook her head.
“Well, ’m,” she said, “we went down dar by de spring, an’ down dar by de
spring branch, an’ all roun’ down dar. Ef we warn’t huntin’ plums ner
hick’y nuts, I done fergot what we wuz huntin’.”
Drusilla seemed so much in earnest that the lady didn’t push the
inquiry, but when she went into another room for a moment, the negro
girl looked after her and remarked to herself:—
“I done crossed my heart dat I wouldn’t tell, an’ I ain’t gwine ter. Ef
I wuz ter tell, she wouldn’t b’lieve me, an’ so dar ’t is!”
Sweetest Susan was careful to say nothing to Buster John and Drusilla
about the slip of the tongue that caused her to tell her mother about
their adventures in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country; but she didn’t
feel very comfortable when Drusilla told how she had been questioned by
her mistress.
“Ef somebody ain’t done gone an’ tol’ ’er,” said Drusilla, “she got some
mighty quare notions in ’er head.”
Buster John, who had ideas of his own, ignored all this, and said he was
going to put an apple in the spring the next day and watch for Mr.
Thimblefinger.
“Well, ef you gwine down dar any mo’,” remarked Drusilla, “you kin des
count me out, kaze I ain’t gwine ’long wid you. I’m one er deze yer kind
er quare folks what know pine blank when dey done got nuff. I been shaky
ever since we went down in dat ar place what wa’n’t no place.”
“You will go,” said Buster John.
“Huh! Don’t you fool yo’self, honey! You can’t put no ’pen’ence in a
skeer’d nigger.”
“If you don’t go, you’ll wish you had,” said Buster John.
“How come?” asked Drusilla.
“Wait and see,” replied Buster John.
The next morning, bright and early, Buster John put an apple in the
spring. He watched it float around for awhile, and then his attention
was attracted to something else, and he ran away to see about it.
Whatever it was, it interested him so much that he forgot all about the
apple in the spring, and everything else likely to remind him of Mr.
Thimblefinger’s queer country.
Buster John went away from the spring and left the apple floating there.
No sooner had he gone than one of the house servants chanced to come
along, and the apple was seized and appropriated. The result was that
neither Mr. Thimblefinger nor Mrs. Meadows saw the signal.
Buster John, thinking the apple had remained in the spring for some
hours, waited patiently for two or three days for Mr. Thimblefinger, but
no Mr. Thimblefinger came. Finally the boy grew impatient, as youngsters
sometimes do. He remembered that the bottom of the spring, with the
daylight shining through, was the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer
country, and he concluded to give Mrs. Meadows and the rest a signal
that they couldn’t fail to see. So, one morning, after water had been
carried to the house for the cook, and the washerwoman’s tubs had been
filled, Buster John got him some short planks, carrying them to the
spring one by one. These he placed across the top of the gum, or curb,
close together, so as to shut out the light. Then he perched himself on
a stump not far away, and watched to see what the effect would be. He
knew he had the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country securely roofed
in, and he laughed to himself as he thought of the predicament Mr.
Rabbit would be in, dropping his pipe and hunting for it in the dark.
Buster John sat there a long time. Mandy, the washerwoman, got through
with her task and went toward the house, balancing a big basket of wet
clothes on her head and singing as she went. Sweetest Susan and Drusilla
had grown tired of playing with the dolls, and were hunting all over the
place for Buster John. They saw him presently, and came running toward
him, talking and laughing. He shook his head and motioned toward the
spring. They became quiet at once, and began to walk on their tiptoes.
They seated themselves on the stump by Buster John’s side, and waited
for him to explain himself.
Presently Sweetest Susan saw the boards over the spring. “Oh, what have
you done?” she cried. “Why, you have shut out the light! They can’t see
a wink. I don’t think that’s right; do you, Drusilla?”
“Don’t ax me, honey,” replied Drusilla. “I ain’t gwine ter git in no
’spute. Somebody done gone an’ put planks on de spring. Dar dey is, an’
dar dey may stay, fer what I keer. I hope dey er nailed down.”
“Please take the boards off,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.
“No,” said Buster John. “I put an apple in the spring the other day, and
they paid no attention to it. Maybe they’ll pay some attention now.”
Suddenly, before anybody else could say anything, Drusilla screamed and
rolled off the stump. Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought a bee had
stung her. But it was not a bee. She had no sooner rolled from the stump
than she sprang to her feet and cried out, “Dar he is! Look at ’im!”
Buster John and Sweetest Susan turned to look, and there, upon the stump
beside them, stood Mr. Thimblefinger with his hat in hand, bowing and
smiling as politely as you please.
“I hope you are well,” he said. Then he began to laugh, as he turned to
Buster John. “You may think it is a great joke to come to the spring,
but it’s no joke to me. I have had a very hard time getting here, but I
just had to come. Mrs. Meadows thinks there is a total eclipse going on,
and Mr. Rabbit has gone to bed and covered up his head.”
[Illustration:
“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?”
]
“How did you get here?” asked Buster John.
“Through the big poplar yonder,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It is hollow
from top to bottom, but it was so dark I could hardly find my way. The
jay birds used to go down through the poplar every Friday until I put up
the bars and shut them out. I had almost forgotten the road.”
“Well,” said Buster John, “I covered the spring so that you might know
we hadn’t forgotten you. I dropped an apple in the other day, but you
paid no attention to it.”
“I saw the apple,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it didn’t stay in
the spring long. It disappeared in a few minutes.”
“Aha! I know!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Dat ar Minervy nigger got it. I seed
her comin’ long eatin’ a apple, and I boun’ you she de ve’y nigger what
got it.”
“Well, well!” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It makes no difference now, and
if you’ll get ready we’ll go now pretty soon.”
“Why, I thought you couldn’t go down through the spring until nine
minutes and nine seconds after twelve,” suggested Buster John.
“The water gets wet or goes dry with the tide,” Mr. Thimblefinger
explained. “To-day we shall have to go at nineteen minutes and nineteen
seconds after nine. It was nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve
before, and now it is nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine.
Multiply nineteen by nineteen, add the answer together, and you get
nothing but nines. You see we have to go by a system.” Mr. Thimblefinger
was very solemn as he said this. “Now, then, come on. We haven’t any
time to waste. When the nines get after us, we must be going. There are
four of us now, but if we were to be multiplied by nine there would be
nine of us, and nine is an odd number.”
“How would we be nine?” asked Buster John.
“It’s very simple,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Nine times four are
thirty-six. Three and six stand for thirty-six, and six and three are
nine.”
Buster John laughed as he ran to remove the boards from the spring. In a
few moments they were all ready in spite of Drusilla’s protests, and at
nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine they walked through the
spring gate into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
II.
WHERE THE THUNDER LIVES.
Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Rabbit, Chickamy Crany Crow, and Tickle-My-Toes were
very glad to see the children, especially Mrs. Meadows, who did
everything she could to make the youngsters feel that they had conferred
a great obligation on her by coming back again.
“I’ll be bound you forgot to bring me the apple I told you about,” said
she.
But Sweetest Susan had not forgotten. She had one in her pocket. It was
not very large, but the sun had painted it red and yellow, and the south
winds that kissed it had left it fragrant with the perfume of summer.
“Now, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “To think you should remember
an old woman! You are just as good and as nice as you can be!” She
thanked Sweetest Susan so heartily that Buster John began to look and
feel uncomfortable,—seeing which, Mrs. Meadows placed her hand gently on
his shoulder. “Never mind,” said she, “boys are not expected to be as
thoughtful as girls. The next time you come, you may bring me a hatful,
if you can manage to think about it.”
“He might start wid ’em,” remarked Drusilla, “but ’fo’ he got here he’d
set down an’ eat ’em all up, ter keep from stumpin’ his toe an’ spillin’
’em.”
Buster John had a reply ready, but he did not make any, for just at that
moment a low, rumbling sound was heard. It seemed to come nearer and
grow louder, and then it died away in the distance.
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Meadows, in an impressive whisper.
“Thunder,” answered Mr. Rabbit, who had listened intently. “Thunder, as
sure as you’re born.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I saw a cloud coming up next door, just
before we came through the spring gate.”
“I must be getting nervous in my old age,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “I had
an idea that it was too late in the season for thunder-storms.”
“That may be so,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it’s never too late
for old man Thunder to rush out on his front porch and begin to cut up
his capers. But there’s no harm in him.”
“But the Lightning kills people sometimes,” said Buster John.
“The Lightning? Oh, yes, but I was talking about old man Thunder,”
replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “When I was a boy, I once heard of a little
girl”—Mr. Thimblefinger suddenly put his hand over his mouth and hung
his head, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.
“Why, what in the world is the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “I simply forgot my manners.”
“I don’t see how,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, frowning.
“Why, I was about to tell a story before I had been asked.”
“Well, you won’t disturb me by telling a story, I’m sure,” said Mr.
Rabbit. “I can nod just as well when some one is talking as when
everything is still. You won’t pester me at all. Just go ahead.”
“Maybe it isn’t story-telling time,” suggested Mrs. Meadows.
“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Sweetest Susan. “If it is a story, please
tell it.”
“Well, it is nothing but a plain, every-day story. After you hear it
you’ll lean back in your chair and wonder why somebody didn’t take hold
of it and twist it into a real old-fashioned tale. It’s old fashioned
enough, the way I heard it, but I always thought that the person who
heard it first must have forgotten parts of it.”
“We won’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.
Mr. Thimblefinger settled himself comfortably and began:—
“Once upon a time—I don’t know how long ago, but not very long, for the
tale was new to me when I first heard it—once upon a time there was a
little girl about your age and size who was curious to know something
about everything that happened. She wanted to know how a bird could fly,
and why the clouds floated, and she was all the time trying to get at
the bottom of things.
“Well, one day when the sky was covered with clouds, the Thunder came
rolling along, knocking at everybody’s door and running a race with the
noise it made; the little girl listened and wondered what the Thunder
was and where it went to. It wasn’t long before the Thunder came
rumbling along again, making a noise like a four-horse wagon running
away on a covered bridge.
“While the little girl was standing there, wondering and listening, an
old man with a bundle on his back and a stout staff in his hand came
along the road. He bowed and smiled when he saw the little girl, but as
she didn’t return the bow or the smile, being too much interested in
listening for the Thunder, he paused and asked her what the trouble was.
“‘I hope you are not lost?’ he said.
“‘Oh, no, sir,’ she replied; ‘I was listening for the Thunder and
wondering where it goes.’
“‘Well, as you seem to be a very good little girl,’ the old man said, ‘I
don’t mind telling you. The Thunder lives on top of yonder mountain. It
is not so far away.’
“‘Oh, I should like ever so much to go there!’ exclaimed the little
girl.
“‘Why not?’ said the old man. ‘The mountain is on my road, and, if you
say the word, we’ll go together.’
“The little girl took the old man’s hand and they journeyed toward the
mountain where the Thunder had his home. The way was long, but somehow
they seemed to go very fast. The old man took long strides forward, and
he was strong enough to lift the little girl at every step, so that when
they reached the foot of the mountain she was not very tired.
“But, as the mountain was very steep and high, the two travelers stopped
to rest themselves before they began to climb it. Its sides seemed to be
rough and dark, but far up on the topmost peak the clouds had gathered,
and from these the Lightning flashed incessantly. The little girl saw
the flashes and asked what they meant.
“‘Wherever the Thunder lives,’ replied the old man, ‘there the Lightning
builds its nest. No doubt the wind has blown the clouds about and torn
them apart and scattered them. The Lightning is piling them together
again, and fixing a warm, soft place to sleep to-night.’
“When they had rested awhile, the old man said it was time to be going,
and then he made the little girl climb on his back. At first she didn’t
want the old man to carry her; but he declared that she would do him a
great favor by climbing on his back and holding his bundle in place. So
she sat upon the bundle, and in this way they went up the high mountain,
going almost as rapidly as the little girl could run on level ground.
She enjoyed it very much, for, although the old man went swiftly, he
went smoothly, and the little girl felt as safe and as comfortable as if
she had been sitting in a rocking-chair.
“When they had come nearly to the top of the mountain, the old man
stopped and lifted the little girl from his back. ‘I can go no farther,’
he said. ‘The rest of the way you will have to go alone. There is
nothing to fear. Up the mountain yonder you can see the gable of the
Thunder’s house. Go to the door, knock, and do not be alarmed at any
noise you hear. When the time comes for you to go, you will find me
awaiting you here.’
“The little girl hesitated, but she had come so far to see where the
Thunder lived that she would not turn back now. So she went forward, and
soon came to the door of Mr. Thunder’s house. It was a very big door to
a very big house. The knocker was so heavy that the little girl could
hardly lift it, and when she let it fall against the panel, the noise it
made jarred the building and sent a loud echo rolling and tumbling down
the mountain. The little girl thought, ‘What have I done? If the Thunder
is taking a nap before dinner, he’ll be very angry.’
[Illustration:
SHE WAITED A LITTLE WHILE
]
“She waited a little while, not feeling very comfortable. Presently she
heard heavy footsteps coming down the wide hall to the door.
“‘I thought I heard some one knocking,’ said a hoarse, gruff voice. Then
the big door flew open, and there, standing before her, the little girl
saw a huge figure that towered almost to the top of the high door. It
wore heavy boots, a big overcoat, and under its long, thick beard there
was a muffler a yard wide. The little girl was very much frightened at
first, but she soon remembered that there was nothing for such a little
bit of a girl to be afraid of.
“The figure, that seemed to be so terrible at first glance, had nothing
threatening about it. ‘Who knocked at the door?’ it cried.
“Its voice sounded so loud that the little girl put her fingers in her
ears.
“‘Don’t talk so loud, please,’ she said. ‘I’m not deaf.’
“‘Oh!’ cried the giant at the door. ‘You are there, are you? You are so
small I didn’t see you at first. Come in!’
“The little girl started to go in, and then paused. ‘Are you the
Thunder?’ she asked.
“‘Why, of course,’ was the reply; ‘who else did you think it was?’
“‘I didn’t know,’ said the little girl. ‘I wanted to be certain about
it.’
“‘Come in,’ said the Thunder. ‘It isn’t often I have company from the
people below, and I’m glad you found me at home.’
The Thunder led the way down the hall and into a wide sitting-room,
where a fire was burning brightly in the biggest fireplace the little
girl had ever seen. A two-horse wagon could turn around in it without
touching the andirons. A pair of tongs as tall as a man stood in one
corner, and in the other corner was a shovel to match. A long pipe lay
on the mantel.
“‘There’s no place for you to sit except on the floor,’ said the
Thunder.
“‘I can sit on the bed,’ suggested the little girl.
“The Thunder laughed so loudly that the little girl had to close her
ears again. ‘Why, that is no bed,’ the Thunder said when it could catch
its breath; ‘that’s my footstool.’
“‘Well,’ said the little girl, ‘it’s big enough for a bed. It’s very
soft and nice.’
“‘I find it very comfortable,’ said the Thunder, ‘especially when I get
home after piloting a tornado through the country. It is tough work, as
sure as you are born.’
“The Thunder took the long pipe from the mantel and lit it with a pine
splinter, the flame of which flashed through the windows with dazzling
brightness.
“‘Folks will say that is heat lightning,’ remarked the little girl.
“‘Yes,’ replied the Thunder; ‘farmers to the north of us will say there
is going to be a drought, because of lightning in the south. Farmers to
the south of us will say there’s going to be rain, because of lightning
in the north. None of them knows that I am smoking my pipe.’
“But somehow, in turning around, the Thunder knocked the big tongs over,
and they fell upon the floor with a tremendous crash. The floor appeared
to give forth a sound like a drum, only a thousand times louder, and,
although the little girl had her fingers in her ears, she could hear the
echoes roused under the house by the falling tongs go rattling down the
mountain side and out into the valley beyond.
“The Thunder sat in the big armchair smoking, and listening with legs
crossed. The little girl appeared to be sorry that she had come.
“‘Now, that is too bad,’ said the Thunder. ‘The Whirlwind in the south
will hear that and come flying; the West Wind will hear it and come
rushing, and they will drag the clouds after them, thinking that I am
ready to take my ride. But it’s all my fault. Instead of turning the
winds in the pasture, I ought to have put them in the stable. Here they
come now!’
“The little girl listened, and, sure enough, the whirlwinds from the
south and the west came rushing around the house of the Thunder. The
west wind screamed around the windows, and the whirlwinds from the south
whistled through the cracks and keyholes.
“‘I guess I’ll have to go with them,’ said the Thunder, rising from the
chair and walking around the room. ‘It’s the only way to quiet them.’
“‘Do you always wear your overcoat?’ the little girl asked.
“‘Always,’ replied the Thunder. ‘There’s no telling what moment I’ll be
called. Sometimes I go just for a frolic, and sometimes I am obliged to
go. Will you stay until I return?’
“‘Oh, no,’ the little girl replied; ‘the house is too large. I should be
afraid to stay here alone.’
“‘I am sorry,’ said the Thunder. ‘Come and see me get in my carriage.’
“They went to the door. The whirlwinds from the south and the winds from
the west had drawn the clouds to the steps, and into these the Thunder
climbed.
“‘Good-by,’ he cried to the little girl. ‘Stay where you are until we
are out of sight.’
“There was a flash of light, a snapping sound, a rattling crash, and the
Thunder, with the clouds for his carriage and the winds for his horses,
went roaming and rumbling through the sky, over the hills and valleys.”
Mr. Thimblefinger paused and looked at the children. They, expecting him
to go on, said nothing.
“How did you like my story?” he asked.
“Is it a story?” inquired Buster John.
“Well, call it a tale,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.
“Hit’s too high up in de elements for ter suit me,” said Drusilla,
candidly.
“What became of the little girl?” asked Sweetest Susan.
“When the Thunder rolled away,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “she went back
to where the old man was awaiting her, and he, having nothing to do,
carried her to the Jumping-Off Place.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
III.
THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE.
The children looked at Mr. Thimblefinger to see whether he was joking
about the Jumping-Off Place, but he seemed to be very serious.
“I have heard of the Jumping-Off Place,” remarked Mrs. Meadows, “but I
had an idea it was just a saying.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “where you see a good deal of smoke,
there must be some fire. When you hear a great many different people
talking about anything, there must be something in it.”
“What did the little girl see when she got to the Jumping-Off Place?”
inquired Sweetest Susan.
“It was this way,” said Mr. Thimblefinger: “When the whirlwinds from the
south and the winds from the west, working in double harness, carried
the thick clouds away, and the Thunder with them, the little girl went
back to the place where she had left the old man who had carried her up
the mountain.
“She found him waiting. He was sitting at the foot of a tree, sleeping
peacefully, but he awoke at once.
“‘You see I am waiting for you,’ he said. ‘How did you enjoy your
visit?’
“‘I didn’t enjoy it much,’ replied the little girl. ‘Everything was so
large, and the Thunder made so much fuss.’
“‘I hope you didn’t mind that,’ said the old man. ‘The Thunder is a
great growler and grumbler, but when that’s said, all’s said. I am
sorry, though, you didn’t have a good time. I suppose you think it is my
fault, but it isn’t. If you say so, I’ll go to the Jumping-Off Place.’
“‘Where is that?’ asked the little girl.
“‘Just beyond the Well at the End of the World.’
“‘If it isn’t too far, let’s go there,’ said the little girl.
“So the old man lifted her on his back, and they went on their way. They
must have gone very swiftly, for it wasn’t long before they came to the
Well at the End of the World. An old woman was sitting near the Well,
combing her hair. She paid no attention to the travelers, nor they to
her. When they had gone beyond the Well a little distance, the little
girl noticed that the sky appeared to be very close at hand. It was no
longer blue, but dark, and seemed to hang down like a blanket or a
curtain.”
“But that couldn’t be, you know,” said Buster John, “for the sky is no
sky at all. It is nothing but space.”
“How comes it dey call it sky, ef ’t ain’t no sky?” asked Drusilla,
indignantly. “An’ how come’t ain’t no sky, when it’s right up dar, plain
ez de han’ fo’ yo’ face? Dat what I’d like ter know.”
“Why, the moon is thousands of miles away,” said Buster John, “and some
of the stars are millions and millions of miles farther than the moon.”
“Dat what dey say,” replied Drusilla, “but how dey know? Whar de string
what dey medjud ’em wid? Tell me dat!”
“What about our sky?” asked Mrs. Meadows, smiling. “You would never
think it was only the bottom of the spring if you didn’t know it; now
would you?”
Buster John had nothing to say in reply to this. Whereupon Sweetest
Susan begged Mr. Thimblefinger to please go on with his story.
“Well,” said he, “if I am to go on with it, I’ll have to tell it just as
I heard it. I’ll have to put the sky just where I was told it was. When
the little girl and the old man came close to the Jumping-Off Place,
they saw that the sky was hanging close at hand. It may have been far,
it may have been near, but to the little girl it seemed to be close
enough to touch, and she wished very much for a long pole, so that she
could see whether it was made of muslin or ginghams.
[Illustration:
PRESENTLY THEY CAME TO A PRECIPICE
]
“Presently they came to a precipice. There was nothing beyond it and
nothing below it. ‘This,’ said the old man to the little girl, ‘is the
Jumping-Off Place.’
“‘Does any one jump off here?’ said the little girl.
“‘Not that I know of,’ replied the old man, ‘but if they should take a
notion to, the place is all ready for them.’
“‘Where would I fall to, if I jumped off?’ the little girl asked.
“‘To Nowhere,’ answered the old man.
“‘That is very funny,’ said the little girl.
“‘Yes,’ remarked the old man, ‘you can get to the End of the World, but
you would have to travel many a long year before you get to Nowhere.
Some say it is a big city, some say it is a high mountain, and some say
it is a wide plain.’
“The little girl went to the Jumping-Off Place and looked over, the old
man holding her hand.
“‘Why, I see the moon shining down there,’ she said. She was glad to see
so familiar a face.
“The old man laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the moon is very fond of shining
down there, and it runs away from the sun every chance it gets, and
hunts up the darkest places, so that it may shine there undisturbed.
To-day it is shining down there where the sun can’t see it, but to-night
it will creep up here, when the sun goes away, and shine the whole night
through.’
“Turning back, the old man and the little girl came again to the Well at
the End of the World. The old woman was sitting there, combing her long
white hair. This time she looked hard at the little girl and smiled,
singing:—
“‘When the heart is young the well is dry—
Oh, it’s good-by, dearie! good-by!’
“But the old man shook his head. ‘We have not come here for nothing,
Sister Jane,’ he said. With that he took a small vial, tied a long
string to it, and let it down the well. He fished about until the vial
was full of water, drew it to the top, and corked it tightly. The water
sparkled in the sun as if it were full of small diamonds. Then he placed
it carefully in his pocket, bowed politely to the old woman, who was
still combing her long, white hair, and, smiling, lifted the little girl
to his back, and returned along the road they had come, past the
Thunder’s house and down the mountain side, until they reached the
little girl’s home. Then he took the vial of sparkling water from his
pocket. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and wherever you go keep it with you. Touch
a drop of it to your forehead when Friday is the thirteenth day of a
month, and you will grow up to be both wise and beautiful. When you are
in trouble, turn the vial upside down—so—and hold it in that position
while you count twenty-six, and some of your friends will come to your
aid.’
“The little girl thanked the old man as politely as she knew how.
“‘Do you know why I have carried you to the Thunder’s house and to the
Jumping-Off Place, and why I have given you a vial of this rare water?’
The little girl shook her head. ‘Well, one day, not long ago, you were
sitting by the roadside with some of your companions. You were all
eating cake. A beggar came along and asked for a piece. You alone gave
him any, and you gave him all you had.’
“‘Were you the beggar?’ asked the little girl, smiling and blushing.
“‘That I leave you to guess,’ replied the old man. He kissed the little
girl’s hand, and was soon hid from sight by a turn in the road.”
Mr. Thimblefinger stopped short here, and waited to see what the
children would say. They had listened attentively, but they manifested
no very great interest.
“I reckon they think there is more talk than tale in what you have
told,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the way
it appeared to me.”
“Well, I’ll not say that I have come to the end of my story,” remarked
Mr. Thimblefinger, with some show of dignity, “but I have come to the
part where we can rest awhile, so as to give Mr. Rabbit a chance to see
if he can do any better. We’ll allow the little girl to grow some, just
as she does in the story.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV.
THE BLUE HEN’S CHICKEN.
“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and I never set up
for one, but I will say that I like the rough-and-tumble tales a great
deal better than I do the kind where some great somebody is always
coming in with conjurings and other carryings-on. It’s on account of my
raising, I reckon.”
“Well, stories can’t be all alike,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You might as
well expect a fiddle to play one tune.”
“Tell us the kind of story you like best,” said Buster John to Mr.
Rabbit.
“No, not now,” responded Mr. Rabbit. “I’ll do that some other time. I
happened to think just now of a little circumstance that I used to hear
mentioned when I was younger.
“In the country next door there used to be a great many chickens. Some
were of the barnyard breed, some were of the kind they call game, some
were black, some were white, some were brown, some were speckled, and
some had their feathers curled the wrong way. Among all these there was
one whose name, as well as I can remember, was Mrs. Blue Hen.”
“Was she really blue?” Sweetest Susan inquired.
“Well, not an indigo blue,” replied Mr. Rabbit, after reflecting a
moment, “nor yet a sky blue. She was just a plain, dull, every-day blue.
But, such as she was, she was very fine. She belonged to one of the
first families and moved in the very best circles. She was trim-looking,
so I’ve heard said, and, as she grew older, came to have a very bad
temper, so much so that she used to fly at a hawk if he came near her
premises. Some of her neighbors used to whisper it around that she tried
to crow like a rooster, but this was after she had grown old and
hard-headed.
“When Mrs. Blue Hen was growing up, she was very nice and particular.
She couldn’t bear to get water on her feet, and she was always shaking
the dust from her clothes. Some said she was finicky, and some said she
was nervous. Once, when she fanned out little Billy Bantam, who called
on her one day, a great many of her acquaintances said she would never
settle down and make a good housekeeper.
“But after awhile Mrs. Blue Hen concluded that it was about time for her
to have a family of her own, so she went away off from the other
chickens and made her a nest in the middle of a thick briar patch. She
made her a nest there and laid an egg. It was new and white, and Mrs.
Blue Hen was very proud of it. She was so proud, in fact, that, although
she had made up her mind to make no fuss over it, she went running and
cackling toward the house, just as any common hen would do. She made so
much fuss that away down in the branch Mr. Willy Weasel winked at Miss
Mimy Mink.
“‘Do you hear that?’ says he.
“‘I never heard anything plainer in my life,’ says she.
“Mrs. Blue Hen was so proud of her new, white egg that she went back
after awhile to look at it. There it was, shining white in the grass.
She covered it up and hid it as well as she could, and then she went
about getting dinner ready.
“The next morning she went to the nest and laid another egg just like
the first one. This happened for three mornings; but on the fourth
morning, when Mrs. Blue Hen went back, she found four eggs in the nest,
and all four appeared to be dingy and muddy looking. She was very much
astonished and alarmed, as well she might be, for here right before her
eyes she saw four eggs, when she knew in reason that there should be but
three; and not only that, they were all dingy and dirty.
“Mrs. Blue Hen was so excited that she took off her bonnet and began to
fan herself. Then she wondered whether she had not made a miscount;
whether she had not really laid four instead of three eggs. The more she
thought about it, the more confused she became. She hung her bonnet on a
blackberry bush and tried to count off the days on her toes. She began
to count,—’One, two, three,’—and she would have stopped there, but she
couldn’t. She had four toes on her foot, and she was compelled to count
them all. There was a toe on the foot for every egg in the nest.
“This caused Mrs. Blue Hen to feel somewhat more comfortable in mind and
body, but she was left in such a hysterical state that she went off
cackling nervously, and postponed laying an egg until late in the
afternoon. After that there were five in the nest, and she kept on
laying until there were ten altogether. Then Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled up
her feathers and got mad with herself, and went to setting. I reckon
that’s what you call it. I’ve heard some call it ‘setting’ and others
‘sitting.’ Once, when I was courting, I spoke of a sitting hen, but the
young lady said I was too prissy for anything.”
“What is prissy?” asked Sweetest Susan.
Mr. Rabbit shut his eyes and scratched his ear. Then he shook his head
slowly.
“It’s nothing but a girl’s word,” remarked Mrs. Meadows by way of
explanation. “It means that somebody’s trying hard to show off.”
“I reckon that’s so,” said Mr. Rabbit, opening his eyes. He appeared to
be much relieved. “Well, Mrs. Blue Hen got mad and went to setting. She
was in a snug place and nobody bothered her. It was such a quiet place
that she could hear Mr. Willy Weasel and Miss Mimy Mink gossiping in the
calamus bushes, and she could hear Mrs. Puddle Duck wading in the
branch. One day Mrs. Puddle Duck made so bold as to push her way through
the briars and look in upon Mrs. Blue Hen. But her visit was not
relished. Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled her feathers up and spread out her tail
to such a degree and squalled out such a harsh protest that Mrs. Puddle
Duck was glad to waddle off with whole bones. But when she got back to
the branch she spluttered about a good deal, crying out:
“‘Aha! aha! quack, quack! Aha! You are there, are you? Aha! you’ll have
trouble before you get away. Aha!’
“Now the fact was that Mrs. Puddle Duck was the very one that had caused
Mrs. Blue Hen all the trouble,” said Mr. Rabbit, nodding his head
solemnly. “While wading in the branch, Mrs. Puddle Duck had seen Mrs.
Blue Hen going to her nest for three days, slipping and creeping through
the weeds and bushes, and she wanted to know what all the slipping and
creeping was about. So, on the third day Mrs. Puddle Duck did some
slipping and creeping on her own account. She crept up close enough to
see Mrs. Blue Hen on her nest, and she was near enough to see Mrs. Blue
Hen when she ran away cackling.
“Then Mrs. Puddle Duck waddled up and peeped in the nest. There she saw
three eggs as white and as smooth as ivory, and the sight filled her
with jealousy. She began to talk to herself:—
“‘I knew she must be mighty proud, the stuck-up thing! I can see that by
the way she steps around here. Quack, quack! and I’ll just show her a
thing or two.’
“Then and there Mrs. Puddle Duck, all muddy as she was, got in Mrs. Blue
Hen’s nest and sat on her beautiful white eggs and soiled them. And even
that was not all. Out of pure spite Mrs. Puddle Duck laid one of her own
dingy-looking eggs in Mrs. Blue Hen’s nest, and that was the cause of
all the trouble. That was the reason Mrs. Blue Hen found four dingy eggs
in her nest when there ought to have been three clean white ones.
“Well, Mrs. Blue Hen went to setting, and after so long a time nine
little chickens were hatched. She was very proud of them. She taught
them how to talk, and then she wanted to get off her nest and teach them
how to scratch about and earn their own living. But there was still one
egg to hatch, and so Mrs. Blue Hen continued to set on it. One day she
made up her mind to take her chicks off and leave the egg that wouldn’t
hatch. The old Speckled Hen happened to be passing and Mrs. Blue Hen
asked her advice. But the old Speckled Hen was very much shocked when
she heard the particulars.
“‘What! with nine chickens!’ she cried. ‘Why, nine is an odd number. It
would never do in the world. Hatch out the other egg.’
[Illustration:
ONE OF THEM WAS ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FROM ALL THE REST
]
“But young people are very impatient, and Mrs. Blue Hen was young. She
fretted and worried a good deal, but in a few days the tenth egg
hatched. Mrs. Blue Hen felt very much better after this. In fact, she
felt so comfortable that she didn’t take the trouble to look at the
chicken that hatched from the tenth egg. But when she brought her
children off the nest she was very much astonished to find that one of
them was entirely different from all the rest. She was not only
surprised, but shocked. Nine of her children were as neat-looking as she
could wish them to be, but the tenth one was a sight to see. It had weak
eyes, a bill as broad as a case-knife, and big, flat feet. Its feet were
so big that it waddled when it walked, and all the toes of each foot
were joined together.
“Mrs. Blue Hen had very high notions. She wanted everybody to think that
she belonged to the quality, but this wabbly chicken with a broad bill
and a foot that had no instep to it took her pride down a peg. She kept
her children hid as long as she could, but she had to come out in public
after a while, and when she did—well, I’ll let you know there was an
uproar in the barnyard. The old Speckled Hen was the first to begin it.
She cried out:—
“‘Look—look—look! Look at the Blue Hen’s chickens!’
“Then the Guinea hens began to laugh, and the old Turkey Gobbler was so
tickled he came near swallowing his snout. Mrs. Blue Hen hung her head
with shame, and carried her children away off in the woods.
“But her flat-footed chicken gave rise to a byword in all that country.
When any stranger came along looking rough and ragged, it was the common
saying that he was the Blue Hen’s chicken.”
“I’ve heard it many a time,” remarked Mrs. Meadows.
“There was no story in that,” Buster John suggested.
“No,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “Just some every-day facts picked up and
strung together.”
“Speaking of stories,” said Mrs. Meadows, “I have one in my mind that is
a sure enough story—one of the old-fashioned kind.”
“Well, please, ma’am, tell it,” said Buster John, so seriously that they
all laughed except Mr. Rabbit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
V.
HOW A KING WAS FOUND.
“What about the little girl who had the vial of sparkling water?” said
Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger, just as Mrs. Meadows was
about to begin her story.
“Oh, she is growing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger.
Buster John frowned at his sister, as boys will do when they are
impatient, and Sweetest Susan said no more.
“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Meadows began, rubbing her chin thoughtfully,
“there was a country that suddenly found itself without a king. This was
a long time ago, before people in some parts of the world began to think
it was unfashionable to have kings. I don’t know what the trouble was
exactly, whether the king died, or whether he was carried off, or
whether he did something to cause the people to take away his crown and
put him in the calaboose.
“Anyhow, they suddenly found themselves without a king, and it made them
feel very uncomfortable. They were so restless and uneasy that they
couldn’t sleep well at night. They were in the habit of having a king to
govern them, and they felt very nervous without one.
“Now in that country there were eleven wise men whose trade it was to
give advice. Instead of falling out and wrangling with one another and
ruining their business, these eleven wise men had formed a copartnership
and set up a sort of store, where anybody and everybody could get advice
by the wholesale or retail. I don’t know whether they charged anything,
because there never has been a time since the world had more than two
people in it that advice wasn’t as cheap as dirt.
“The eleven wise men were there, ready to give advice, and so the people
went to them and asked them how to select a king. The eleven wise men
put their heads together, and after a while they told the people that
they must select nine of their best men and send them out on the roads
leading to the capital city, and when these nine men found a man
sleeping in the shade of a tree, they were to watch him for four hours,
and if the shadow of the tree stood still so as to keep the sun from
shining on him, he was the one to select for their king. Then the eleven
wise men, looking very solemn, bowed the people out, and the people went
off and selected nine of their best men to find them a king.
“Now it happened that in a part of the country not far from the capital
city there lived a boy with his mother and stepfather. They were not
poor and they were not rich, but everybody said the boy was the
handsomest and brightest that had ever been seen in that section. He was
about sixteen years old, and was very strong and tall.
“One day, when the stepfather was in the village near which they lived,
a stranger passed through on his way to the capital city. He had neither
wallet nor staff, but he drew a great crowd of idle people around him.
He was carrying a red rooster, and although the fowl’s feet were tied
together and his head hanging down, he crowed lustily every few minutes.
It was this that drew the crowd of idle people. One with more curiosity
than the rest asked the stranger why the rooster crowed and continued to
crow.
“‘He is a royal bird,’ the stranger replied. ‘There is no king in this
country, and whoever eats this bird’s head will reign as king.’
“‘He must be worth a pretty sum,’ said one.
“‘By no means,’ answered the stranger. ‘He is worth no more than a
silver piece.’
“But the people only laughed. They thought the stranger was making fun
of them. He went on his way, and had soon passed beyond the village. Now
it chanced that the stepfather of the bright and handsome boy was in the
crowd that gathered around the stranger. He thought it was very queer
that a rooster should be crowing so bravely when his legs were tied
together and while his head was hanging down. So he said to himself that
there might be some truth in what the stranger said. He ran after the
man and soon overtook him.
“‘That is a fine fowl,’ said the boy’s stepfather.
“‘It is a royal bird,’ the stranger replied.
“‘What is he worth?’ asked the boy’s stepfather.
“‘I shall be glad to get rid of him,’ said the stranger. ‘Give me a
piece of silver and take him.’
“This was soon done, and the stepfather took the rooster under his arm.
“‘Remember this,’ remarked the stranger; ‘if you eat the head of that
bird you will reign in this country as king.’
“‘Oh, ho!’ laughed the boy’s stepfather, ‘you are a fine joker.’
“With the fowl under his arm he went toward his home. He had gone but a
little way when he turned to look at the stranger, but the man had
disappeared. The country was level for a long distance in all
directions, but the stranger could not be seen.
“The boy’s stepfather carried the fowl home and said to his wife:—
“‘Cook this bird for supper. Cook the head also.’
“The man was afraid to tell his wife why he wanted the head cooked. He
knew she was very fond of her son, and he reasoned to himself that if
she knew what the stranger had said she would give the head to the boy.
So he only told her to be careful to cook the fowl’s head and save it
for him.