A great storm of the far-flung astronomical elements arose without
cause. The like of it had never been before nor since and it disobeyed
all laws, both known and unknown, natural and unnatural. Gud was sore
puzzled because the storm was without cause but not without effect. He
ran hither and here and darted thither and yon, and in the turmoil he
was separated from Fidu, his faithful Underdog.
The impalpable ether that fills all space became palpable and vibrated
and palpated with incommensurate waves; and the non-popitent nether
which is beyond all space became popitent and gyrated and popitated with
calculatious ostenulations.
Throughout the abysmal reaches of indefinite dimension the far-flung,
flaming suns were exploding with blinding flashes and deafening roars,
and their molten fragments were spewing and spilling this way and that,
knocking constellations asunder and painting cold, dead worlds with
liquid fire and blazing splendor.
Comets fell, dragging their tails behind them, twisting and writhing as
if in pain. And the stars were falling, too. Meteors pattered as rain
upon the roof of heaven. Broken nebulae whipped along as snow-flakes
driven of the northwest wind. Pleiades smashed like hail through the
windows of space. Vile smelling gasses blew about all the interstellar
void and vastness. Tornadoes and mighty cyclones and vortices torned and
cycled vorted.
All this frightened Gud, so that he sought for shelter from the storm.
Just then a little world came rolling by, and it wabbled as it rolled.
It did not look very safe, but it was solid underfoot. Gud boarded it
and found himself before a tiny cabin on the wabbling world. The cabin
was built of old cracker boxes and looked frail as a ten-cent toy; but
there was no other cover at hand, so Gud knocked on the cabin door to
ask for shelter.
When no one answered, Gud entered and closed the door behind him. There
before him sat a dear little widow knitting a bellyband for someone
else's baby. She was so deaf she could not hear quinine, and so blind
she could not see a house afire, and had catarrah so badly that she
could not smell a herring; but for all that she was a very good cook.
Gud addressed her in telepathy, saying: "I wonder if you would make me a
cake?"
And the woman replied by thought transference and answered: "Alas, I
cannot make you a cake today, for I have but one hen and she has already
laid her one egg this morning, and I have eaten it for my breakfast."
Then Gud said: "If you will show me the hen, perhaps I can persuade her
to lay another egg."
So the woman called to the hen in the language of beasts and birds, and
the hen came out from under the bed where she had been looking for
insects. Gud saw that the hen had false teeth and was getting old, for
her comb was pale as roses in the night. So he flattered the vanity of
the hen by commenting on the beauty of her scarlet comb. Whereupon she
laid another egg, whilst without the cottage the astronomical storm
raged on.
The widow picked up the egg and found that it was as fresh as home grown
lettuce. She made a curtsy to Gud and said: "I perceive that you are a
wise magician, for who ever heard of a stupid one that could make a hen
lay two fresh eggs in one day? And now I will make a little cake, which
will be big enough for one to eat."
"Make it for two," said Gud, "for I would not like to eat alone."
"But," said the widow, "how can I unless I have another egg, and the hen
has already laid two eggs in one day. How can she lay another?"
"I do not know," said Gud, "but I will find out."
So he called to the little hen again and gave her a homily on the evils
of race suicide. The hen became as moral as a tombstone and grievously
wrought up over the way her sisters were neglecting their duty, so that
she laid yet another egg.
The widow picked up this egg and shook it also, and saw that it was even
fresher than the other one, and she made another curtsy to Gud and said:
"I perceive that you are a great fakir, but you are very clever, and so
I will make a cake for two and we shall eat it together, and perhaps
have a cup of tea, if there is any sugar in the house."
At last the cake was put into the oven. The fire of the oven waxed hot
and the cake began to rise nicely. And when it had risen above the top
of the pan and almost to the top of the oven, the dear little widow
opened the oven door ever so softly. As she peeked in, a nearby
constellation broke asunder; the crash of the breaking shook the
wobbling world like a great earthquake, the cottage jarred as with a
blow from the hand of wrath, and the cake fell and was ruined utterly.
Then the dear little widow began to weep because her cake had fallen,
and she was very angry through her tears and said: "What is the matter
and what happened and what ruined my cake?"
"I fear me, it is the storm outside," replied Gud.
"Then I think you ought to go out and stop it."
"I will," agreed Gud.
And he went out and stopped the storm, and while he was out he destroyed
the major portion of the local law of gravitation.
When he came back into the cottage, the moral little hen was all
a-cackling and the dear little widow was all a-smiling, for behold, the
hen was looking at the widow, who in her hand held the lightest cake she
had ever lifted.
After he had had his cake and eaten it, too, Gud returned to the
Impossible Curve, and as he reached it, Fidu came romping forth to meet
him.