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Queer Stories
For Boys and Girls
BY
EDWARD EGGLESTON
AUTHOR OF "THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER," "THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY," ETC.
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1884
Copyright, 1884, by
EDWARD EGGLESTON
TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
PREFACE.
The stories here reprinted include nearly all of those which I have
written for children in a vein that entitles them to rank as "Queer
Stories," that is, stories not entirely realistic in their setting but
appealing to the fancy, which is so marked a trait of the minds of boys
and girls. "Bobby and the Key-hole" appeared eight or nine years ago in
_St. Nicholas_, and has never before been printed in book form. The
others were written earlier for juvenile periodicals of wide repute in
their time--periodicals that have now gone the way of almost all young
people's magazines, to the land of forgetfulness. Although I recall with
pleasure the fact that these little tales enjoyed a considerable
popularity when they first appeared, I might just as well as not have
called them "The Unlucky Stories." In two or three forms some of the
stories that form this collection have appeared in book covers in years
past, but always to meet with disaster that was no fault of theirs. Two
little books that contained a part of the stories herein reprinted were
burned up--plates, cuts and all--in the Chicago fire of 1871. Another
book, with some of these stories in it, was issued by a publisher in
Boston, who almost immediately failed, leaving the plates in pawn. These
fell into the hands of a man who issued a surreptitious edition, and then
into the possession of another, to whom at length I was forced to pay a
round sum for the plates, in order to extricate my unfortunate tales from
the hands of freebooters. This is therefore the first fair and square
issue in book form that these stories have had. For this they have been
revised by the author, and printed from plates wholly new by the
liberality of the present publisher.
E. E.
Owls' Nest, Lake George, 1884.
CONTENTS.
QUEER STORIES. PAGE
Bobby and the Key-hole, a Hoosier Fairy Tale, 3
Mr. Blake's Walking-stick, 23
The Chairs in Council, 60
What the Tea-kettle Said, 67
Crooked Jack, 72
The Funny Little Old Woman, 77
Widow Wiggins' Wonderful Cat, 83
CHICKEN LITTLE STORIES.
Simon and the Garuly, 91
The Joblilies, 101
The Pickaninny, 111
The Great Panjandrum Himself, 120
STORIES TOLD ON A CELLAR-DOOR.
The Story of a Flutter-wheel, 137
The Wood-chopper's Children, 143
The Bound Boy, 149
The Profligate Prince, 155
The Young Soap-boiler, 160
The Shoemaker's Secret, 168
MODERN FABLES.
Flat Tail the Beaver, 177
The Mocking-bird's Singing-school, 181
The Bobolink and the Owl, 185
Queer Stories.
BOBBY AND THE KEY-HOLE.
_A Hoosier Fairy Tale._
You think that folks in fine clothes are the only folks that ever see
fairies, and that poor folks can't afford them. But in the days of the
real old-fashioned "Green Jacket and White Owl's Feather" fairies, it
was the poor boy carrying fagots to the cabin of his widowed mother who
saw wonders of all sorts wrought by the little people; and it was the
poor girl who had a fairy godmother. It must be confessed that the
mystery-working, dewdrop-dancing, wand-waving, pumpkin-metamorphosing
little rascals have been spoiled of late years by being admitted into
fine houses. Having their pictures painted by artists, their praises sung
by poets, their adventures told in gilt-edge books, and, above all,
getting into the delicious leaves of St. Nicholas, has made them "stuck
up," so that it is not the poor girl in the cinders, nor the boy with a
bundle of fagots now, but girls who wear button boots and tie-back
skirts, and boys with fancy waists and striped stockings that are
befriended by fairies, whom they do not need.
But away off from the cities there still lives a race of unflattered
fairies who are not snobbish, and who love little girls and boys in
pinafores and ragged jackets. These spirits are not very handsome, and
so the artists do not draw their pictures, and they do not get into
gilt-edge Christmas books. Dear, ugly, good fairies! I hope they will not
be spoiled by my telling you something about them.
Little Bobby Towpate saw some of them; and it's about Bobby, and the
fairies he saw, that I want to speak. Bobby was the thirteenth child in
a rather large family--there were three younger than he. He lived in a
log cabin on the banks of a stream, the right name of which is "Indian
Kentucky Creek." I suppose it was named "Indian Kentucky" because it is
not in Kentucky, but in Indiana; and as for Indians, they have been gone
many a day. The people always call it "The Injun Kaintuck." They tuck up
the name to make it shorter.
Bobby was only four years and three-quarters old, but he had been in
pantaloons for three years and a half, for the people in the Indian
Kaintuck put their little boys into breeches as soon as they can
walk--perhaps a little before. And such breeches! The little white-headed
fellows look like dwarf grandfathers, thirteen hundred years of age. They
go toddling about like old men who have grown little again, and forgotten
everything they ever knew.
But Bobby Towpate was not ugly. Under his white hair, which "looked every
way for Sunday," were blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, and a mouth as pretty
as it was solemn. The comical little fellow wore an unbleached cotton
shirt, and tattered pantaloons, with home-made suspenders or "gallowses."
The pantaloons had always been old, I think, for they were made out of a
pair of his father's--his "daddy's," as he would have told you--and
nobody ever knew his father to have a new pair, so they must have been
old from the beginning. For in the Indian Kaintuck country nothing ever
seems to be new. Bobby Towpate himself was born looking about a thousand
years old, and had aged some centuries already. As for hat, he wore one
of his daddy's old hats when he wore any, and it would have answered well
for an umbrella if it had not been ragged.
Bobby's play-ground was anywhere along the creek in the woods. There were
so many children that there was nobody to look after him; so he just kept
a careful eye on himself, and that made it all right. As he was not a
very energetic child, there was no danger of his running into mischief.
Indeed, he never ran at all. He was given to sitting down on the ground
and listening to the crazy singing of the loons--birds whose favorite
amusement consists in trying to see which can make the most hideous
noise. Then, too, he would watch the stake-drivers flying along the
creek, with their long, ugly necks sticking out in front of them, and
their long, ugly legs sticking out behind them, and their long, ugly
wings sticking out on each side of them. They never seemed to have any
bodies at all. People call them stake-drivers because their musical
voices sound like the driving of a stake: "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" They also
call them "Fly-up-the-creeks," and plenty of ugly names besides.
It was one sleepy summer afternoon that Bobby sat on the root of a
beech-tree, watching a stake-driver who stood in the water as if looking
for his dinner of tadpoles, when what should the homely bird do but walk
right out on the land and up to Bobby. Bobby then saw that it was not a
stake-driver, but a long-legged, long-necked, short-bodied gentleman, in
a black bob-tail coat. And yet his long, straight nose did look like a
stake-driver's beak, to be sure. He was one of the stake-driver fairies,
who live in the dark and lonesome places along the creeks in the Hoosier
country. They make the noise that you hear, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" It may
be the driving of stakes for the protection of the nests of their friends
the cat-fish.
"Good-morning, Bobby, ke-whack!" said the long, slim gentleman, nodding
his head. He said ke-whack after his words because that is the polite
thing to do among the stake-driver fairies.
"My name haint Bobby Ke-whack, nur nothin'," answered Bobby. The people
on Indian Kaintuck say "nor nothin'," without meaning anything by it. "My
name haint on'y jeth Bob, an' nothin' elth."
But the slender Mr. Fly-up-the-creek only nodded and said ke-whack two or
three times, by way of clearing his throat.
"Maybe you'd like to see the folks underground, ke-whack," he added
presently. "If you would, I can show you the door and how to unlock it.
It's right under the next cliff, ke-whack! If you get the door open, you
may go in and find the Sleepy-headed People, the Invisible People, and
all the rest, ke-whack!"
"Ke-whack!" said Bob, mimicking, and grinning till he showed his row of
white milk-teeth. But the gentleman stake-driver must have been offended,
for he walked away into the water and disappeared among the willows,
saying, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" in an indignant way at every step.
When once the stake-driver fairy had gone, Bob was troubled. He was
lonesome. He had always been lonesome, because the family was so large.
There is never any company for a body where there are so many. Now Bob
wished that "Ole Ke-whack," as he called him, had not walked off into the
willows in such a huff. He would like to see who lived under the ground,
you know. After a while, he thought he would go and look for the door
under the cliff. Bobby called it "clift," after the manner of the people
on the Indian Kaintuck.
Once under the cliff, he was a long time searching around for a door. At
last he found a something that looked like a door in the rock. He looked
to see if there was a latch-string, for the houses in the Indian Kaintuck
are opened with latch-strings. But he could not find one. Then he said to
himself (for Bobby, being a lonesome boy, talked to himself a great deal)
words like these:
"Ole Ke-whack thed he knowed wharabout the key mout be. The time I went
down to Madison, to market with mammy, I theed a feller dretht up to kill
come along and open hith door with a iron thing. That mout be a key.
Wonder ef I can't find it mythelf! There, I come acrost the hole what it
goeth into."
He had no trouble in "coming acrost" the key itself, for he found it
lying on the ground. He took it up, looked at it curiously, and said:
"Thith thing muth be a key." So he tried to put it into the key-hole, but
an unexpected difficulty met him. Every time he tried to put in the key,
the key-hole, which before was in easy reach, ran up so far that he could
not get to it. He picked up some loose stones and piled them up against
the door, and stood on them on his tiptoes, but still the key-hole shot
up out of his reach. At last he got down exhausted, and sat down on the
pile of stones he had made, with his back to the door. On looking round,
he saw that the key-hole was back in its old place, and within a few
inches of his head. He turned round suddenly and made a dive at it, with
the key held in both hands, but the key-hole shot up like a rocket, until
it was just out of his reach.
After trying to trap this key-hole in every way he could, he sat down on
a stone and looked at it a minute, and then said very slowly: "Well, I
never! That beats me all holler! What a funny thing a key-hole muth be."
At last he noticed another key-hole in the rock, not far away, and
concluded to try the key in that. The key went in without trouble, and
Bob turned it round several times, until the iron key had turned to brass
in his hands.
"The blamed thing ith turnin' yaller!" cried little Towpate. You must
excuse Bob's language. You might have talked in the same way if you had
been so lucky as to be born on the Indian Kaintuck.
Seeing that he could not open anything by turning the key round in this
key-hole, since there was no door here, he thought he would now try what
luck he might have with the "yaller" key in opening the door. The
key-hole might admit a brass key. But what was his amazement to find on
trying, that the key-hole which had run upward from an iron key, now ran
down toward the bottom of the door. He pulled away the stones and stooped
down till his head was near the ground, but the key-hole disappeared off
the bottom of the door. When he gave up the chase it returned as before.
Bobby worked himself into a great heat trying to catch it, but it was of
no use.
Then he sat down again and stared at the door, and again he said slowly:
"Well, I never, in all my born'd days! That beats me all holler! What a
thing a keyhole ith! But that feller in town didn't have no trouble."
After thinking a while he looked at the key, and came to the conclusion
that, as the key-hole went up from an iron key, and down from a brass
one, that if he had one half-way between, he should have no trouble.
"Thith key ith too _awful_ yaller," he said. "I'll put it back and
turn it half-way back, and then we'll thee."
So he stuck it into the key-hole and tried to turn it in the opposite
direction to the way he had turned it before. But it would not turn to
the left at all. So he let go and stood off looking at it a while, when,
to his surprise, the key began turning to the right of its own accord.
And as it turned it grew whiter, until it was a key of pure silver.
"Purty good for you, ole hoss," said Bob, as he pulled out the bright
silver key. "We'll thee if you're any better'n the black one and the
yaller one."
But neither would the silver one open the door; for the key-hole was as
much afraid of it as of the brass one and the iron one. Only now it
neither went up nor down, but first toward one side of the door and then
toward the other, according to the way in which the key approached it.
Bobby, after a while, went at it straight from the front, whereupon the
key-hole divided into two parts--the one half running off the door to the
right, the other to the left.
"Well, that'th ahead of my time," said Bob. But he was by this time so
much amused by the changes in the key and the antics of the nimble
key-hole, that he did not care much whether the door opened or not. He
waited until he had seen the truant key-hole take its place again, and
then he took the silver key back to the other key-hole. As soon as he
approached it the key leaped out of his hand, took its place in the
key-hole, and began to turn swiftly round. When it stopped the silver had
become gold.
"Yaller again, by hokey," said Bob. And he took the gold key and went
back, wondering what the key-hole would do now. But there was now no
key-hole. It had disappeared entirely.
Bob stood off and looked at the place where it had been, let his jaw drop
a little in surprise and disappointment, and came out slowly with this:
"Well, I never, in all my born'd days!"
He thought best now to take the key back and have it changed once more.
But the other key-hole was gone too. Not knowing what to do, he returned
to the door and put the key up where the nimble key-hole had been,
whereupon it reappeared, the gold key inserted itself, and the door
opened of its own accord.
Bob eagerly tried to enter, but there stood somebody in the door,
blocking the passage.
"Hello!" said Bob. "You here, Ole Ke-whack? How did you get in? By the
back door, I 'low."
"Put my yellow waistcoat back where you got it, ke-whack!" said the
stake-driver, shivering. "It's cold in here, and how shall I go to the
party without it, ke-whack!"
"Your yaller wescut?" said Bob. "I haint got no wescut, ke-whack or no
ke-whack."
"You must put that away!" said the fly-up-the-creek, pecking his long
nose at the gold key. "Ke-whack! ke-whack!"
"Oh!" said Towpate, "why didn't you say so?" Then he tossed the gold key
down on the ground, where he had found the iron one, but the key stood
straight up, waving itself to and fro, while Bobby came out with his
drawling: "Well, I never!"
"Pick it up! Pick it up! Ke-whack! You've pitched my yellow waistcoat
into the dirt, ke-whack, ke-whack!"
"Oh! You call that a wescut, do you. Well, I never!" And Bobby picked up
the key, and since he could think of no place else to put it, he put it
into the key-hole, upon which it unwound itself to the left till it was
silver. Bobby, seeing that the key had ceased to move, pulled it out and
turned toward the open door to see the stake-driver wearing a yellow
vest, which he was examining with care, saying, "Ke-whack, ke-whack," as
he did so. "I knew you'd get spots on it, ke-whack, throwing it on the
ground that way."
Poor Bobby was too much mystified by this confusion between the gold key
and the yellow vest, or "wescut," as they call it on the Indian Kaintuck,
to say anything.
"Now, my white coat, put that back, ke-whack," said the fly-up-the-creek
fairy. "I can't go to the party in my shirt sleeves, ke-whack."
"I haint got your coat, Ole Daddy Longlegs," said Bobby, "'less you mean
this key."
On this suspicion he put the key back, upon which it again unwound itself
to the left and became brass. As soon as Bobby had pulled out the brass
key and turned round, he saw that the fairy was clad in a white coat,
which, with his stunning yellow vest, made him cut quite a figure.
"Now, my yellow cap," said the stake-driver, adding a cheerful ke-whack
or two, and Bobby guessed that he was to put the brass key in the
key-hole, whereupon it was immediately turned round by some unseen power
until it became iron, and then thrown out on the ground where Bobby
Towpate had found it at first. Sure enough, the fairy now wore a yellow
cap, and, quick as thought, he stepped out to where the key was lying,
and struck it twice with his nose, whereupon it changed to a pair of
three-toed boots, which he quickly drew on. Then he turned and bowed to
Bobby, and said:
"Ke-whack! You've ironed my coat and vest, and brushed my cap and blacked
my boots. Good-day, ke-whack, I'm going to the party. You can go in if
you want to."
Bobby stood for some time, looking after him as he flew away along the
creek, crying "ke-whack, ke-whack, ke-whack!" And Bobby said once again:
"Well, I never, in all my born'd days," and then added, "Haint Daddy
Longlegs peart? Thinks he's _some_ in his yaller wescut, I 'low."
When once the fly-up-the-creek had gone out of sight and out of hearing,
Bobby started on his search for the Sleepy-headed People. He travelled
along a sort of underground gallery or cave, until he came to a round
basin-like place. Here he found people who looked like fat little boys
and girls, rather than men and women. They were lolling round in a ring,
while one of the number read drowsily from a big book which was lying on
a bowlder in the middle of this Sleepy-hollow. All seemed to be looking
and listening intently. But as soon as those who sat facing Bobby caught
sight of him, they gave a long yawn and fell into a deep sleep. One after
another they looked at him, and one after another the little round, lazy
fellows gaped, until it seemed their heads would split open, then fell
over and slept soundly, snoring like little pigs. Bobby stood still with
astonishment. He did not even find breath to say, "Well, I never!" For
presently every one of the listeners had gone off to sleep. The reader,
whose back was toward the new-comer, did not see him. He was the only one
left awake, and Bobby looked to see him drop over at any moment. But the
little fat man read right along in a drawling, sleepy mumble, something
about the Athenians until Bob cried out: "Hello, Ole Puddin'-bag,
everybody'th gone to thleep; you'd jeth as well hole up yer readin' a
while."
The little man rolled his eyes round upon Bob, and said: "Oh, my! I'm
gone off again!" And then he stretched his fat cheeks in an awful yawn.
"Hey! You'll never get that mouth of your'n shet, ef you don't be mighty
keerful," cried Bob; but the fellow was fast asleep before he could get
the words out.
"Well now, that'th a purty lookin' crowd, haint it?" said Bob, looking
round upon the sleepers.
Just at that moment they began to wake up, one after another, but as soon
as they saw Bob, they sighed and said: "He's so curious," or, "He's so
interesting," or something of the sort, and fell away into a deep slumber
again. At last Bob undertook to wake some of them up by hallooing, but
the more noise he made, the more soundly they slept. Then he gave over
shaking them and shouting at them, and sat down. As soon as he was quiet
they began to wake up again.
"Hello!" cried Bob, when he saw two or three of them open their eyes.
"If you'd only keep still till I get awake," said one of them, and then
they all went to sleep again.
By keeping quite still he got them pretty well waked up. Then they all
fell to counting their toes, to keep from becoming too much interested in
Bobby, for just so sure as they get interested or excited, the
Sleepy-headed People fall asleep. Presently the reader awoke, and began
to mumble a lot of stuff out of the big book, about Epaminondas, and
Sesostris, and Cyaxeres, and Clearchus, and the rest, and they all grew a
little more wakeful. When he came to an account of a battle, Bobby began
to be interested a little in the story, but all the others yawned and
cried out, "Read across, read across!" and the reader straightway read
clear across the page, mixing the two columns into hopeless nonsense, so
as to destroy the interest. Then they all waked up again.
"I know a better thtory than that air!" said Bobby, growing tired of the
long mumbling reading of the dull book.
"Do you? Tell it," said the reader.
So Bobby began to tell them some of his adventures, upon which they all
grew interested and fell asleep.
"Don't tell any more like that," said the little reader, when he awoke.
"What'th the matter weth it? Heap better thtory than that big book that
you're a mumblin' over, Mr. Puddin'."
"We don't like interesting stories," said the sleepy reader. "They put us
to sleep. This is the best book in the world. It's Rollin's Ancient
History, and it hasn't got but a few interesting spots in the whole of
it. Those we keep sewed up, so that we can't read them. The rest is all
so nice and dull, that it keeps us awake all day."
Bobby stared, but said nothing.
"Can you sing?" said one of the plump little old women.
"Yeth, I can sing Dandy Jim."
"Let's have it. I do love singing; it soothes me and keeps me awake."
Thus entreated, little Bobby stood up and sang one verse of a negro song
he had heard, which ran:
"When de preacher took his tex'
He look so berry much perplex'
Fur nothin' come acrost his mine
But Dandy Jim from Caroline!"
Bobby shut his eyes tight, and threw his head back and sang through his
nose, as he had seen big folks do. He put the whole of his little soul
into these impressive words. When he had finished and opened his eyes to
discover what effect his vocal exertions had produced, his audience was
of course fast asleep.
"Well, I never!" said Bob.
"The tune's too awful lively," said the little old woman, when she woke
up. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now, hear me sing." And she
began, in a slow, solemn movement, the most drawling tune you ever heard,
and they all joined in the same fashion:
"Poor old Pidy,
She died last Friday:
Poor old creetur,
The turkey-buzzards----"
But before they could finish the line, while they were yet hanging to the
tails of the turkey-buzzards, so to speak, Bobby burst out with:
"La! that'th the toon the old cow died on. I wouldn't thing that."
"You wouldn't, hey?" said the woman, getting angry.
"No, I wouldn't, little dumplin'."
Whereupon the little woman got so furious that she Went fast asleep, and
the reader, growing interested and falling into a doze, tumbled off his
chair on his head, but as his head was quite soft and puttyish, it did
him no particular harm, except that the fall made him sleep more soundly
than ever.
When they had waked up again, Bobby thought it time to move on, but as
soon as he offered to move, the Sleepy-heads surrounded him and began to
sing a drawling song, which made Bobby sleepy. He soon found that they
meant to make him one of themselves, and this was not at all to his
taste. He struggled to get away, but something held him about the feet.
What should he do?
Suddenly a bright thought came to his relief. The Sleepy-heads were now
all standing in a ring around him. He began to tell a story at the top of
his voice:
"My gran'pappy, he fit weth a red Injun. An' the Injun he chopped my
gran'pappy's finger off weth his tomahawk, and----"
But at this point all the little people got intensely excited over
Bobby's gran'pappy's fight, and so, of course, fell asleep and fell
forward into a pile on top of Bobby, who had an awful time getting out
from under the heap. Just as he emerged, the people began to wake up and
to lay hold of his feet, but Bobby screamed out:
"And my gran'pappy, he up weth his hatchet and he split the nasty ole red
Injun's head open----"
They were all fast asleep again.
Bobby now ran off toward the door, not caring to go any further
underground at present, though he knew there were other wonders beyond.
He reached the door at last, but it was closed. There was no key-hole
even.
After looking around a long time he found the Fly-up-the-creek fairy, not
far from the door, sitting by a fire, with a large, old owl sitting over
against him.
"Give me the key to the door, Ole Ke-whack!" said Bobby.
"Oh, no! I will not give you my clothes, ke-whack! Do you think I would
give you my party clothes? If you hadn't sung so loud, the door wouldn't
have shut. You scared it. Now I can't give you my fine clothes, and so
you'll have to stay here, ke-whack!"
Poor Bobby sat down by the fire, not knowing what to do. "I don't want to
stay here, Ke-whack!" he whimpered.
"Tell him about the Sleepy-headed People," said the owl to Bobby,
solemnly.
"Shut up, old man, or I'll bite your head off!" said the Fly-up-the creek
to the owl.
"Do as I say," said the owl. "If you stay here, you'll turn to an owl or
a bat. Be quick. The Sleepy-heads are his cousins--he doesn't like to
hear about them."
"Don't mind a word the old man says, ke-whack!"
"Give me the key, then," said Bobby.
"Do as I say," said the owl.
The Fly-up-the-creek uttered an angry "ke-whack" and tried to bite off
the owl's head, but the "old man" hopped out of his way. Bobby began to
tell the story of his adventures among the Sleepy-heads, and the
stake-driver kept crying, "Ke-whack! ke-whack!" to drown his words; but
as Bobby's shrill voice rose higher the stake-driver's voice became
weaker and weaker. Bobby was so amazed that he stopped.
"Go on!" groaned the owl, "or you'll never get out, or I either."
So Bobby kept up his talk until the stake-driver was lying senseless on
the floor.
"Put the key in the lock, quick," cried the owl.
"Where is the key?"
"His fine clothes. Take them off, quick! Cap first!"
Bobby began with the cap, then stripped off the coat and vest and boots.
"Put them in the keyhole, quick!" said the owl, for the stake-driver was
reviving.
"Where is the key-hole?"
"There! there!" cried the owl, pointing to the fire. By this time the
Fly-up-the-creek had already begun to reach out for his clothes, which
Bobby hastily threw into the fire. The fire went out, the great door near
by swung open, and the big-eyed owl, followed by Bobby, walked out,
saying, "I'm free at last."
Somehow, in the daylight, he was not any longer an owl, but an old man in
gray clothes, who hobbled off down the road.
And Bobby looked after him until he saw the stake-driver, shorn of his
fine clothes, sweep over his head and go flying up the creek again. Then
he turned toward his father's cabin, saying:
"Well, I never! Ef that haint the beatinest thing I ever did see in all
my born'd days."
And I think it was.
MR. BLAKE'S WALKING-STICK.
I.
THE WALKING-STICK WALKS.
Some men carry canes. Some men make the canes carry them. I never could
tell just what Mr. Blake carried his cane for. I am sure it did not often
feel his weight. For he was neither old, nor rich, nor lazy.
He was a tall, straight man, who walked as if he loved to walk, with a
cheerful tread that was good to see. I am sure he didn't carry the cane
for show. It was not one of those little sickly yellow things, that some
men nurse as tenderly as they might a lapdog. It was a great black stick
of solid ebony, with a box-wood head, and I think Mr. Blake carried it
for company. And it had a face, like that of an old man, carved on one
side of the box-wood head. Mr. Blake kept it ringing in a hearty way upon
the pavement as he walked, and the boys would look up from their marbles
when they heard it, and say: "There comes Mr. Blake, the minister!" And I
think that nearly every invalid and poor person in Thornton knew the
cheerful voice of the minister's stout ebony stick.
It was a clear, crisp, sunshiny morning in December. The leaves were all
gone, and the long lines of white frame houses that were hid away in the
thick trees during the summer, showed themselves standing in straight
rows now that the trees were bare. And Purser, Pond & Co.'s great factory
on the brook in the valley below was plainly to be seen, with its long
rows of windows shining and shimmering in the brilliant sun, and its
brick chimney reached up like the Tower of Babel, and poured out a steady
stream of dense, black smoke.
It was just such a shining winter morning. Mr. Blake and his
walking-stick were just starting out for a walk together. "It's a fine
morning," thought the minister, as he shut the parsonage gate. And when
he struck the cane sharply on the stones it answered him cheerily: "It's
a fine morning!" The cane always agreed with Mr. Blake. So they were able
to walk together, according to Scripture, because they were agreed.
Just as he came round the corner the minister found a party of boys
waiting for him. They had already heard the cane remarking that it was a
fine morning before Mr. Blake came in sight.
"Good-morning! Mr. Blake," said the three boys.
"Good-morning, my boys; I'm glad to see you," said the minister, and he
clapped "Old Ebony" down on the sidewalk, and it said "I am glad to see
you."
"Mr. Blake!" said Fred White, scratching his brown head and looking a
little puzzled. "Mr. Blake, if it ain't any harm--if you don't mind, you
know, telling a fellow,--a boy, I mean----" Just here he stopped talking;
for though he kept on scratching vigorously, no more words would come;
and comical Sammy Bantam, who stood alongside, whispered, "Keep
a-scratching, Fred; the old cow will give down after a while!"
Then Fred laughed, and the other boys, and the minister laughed, and the
cane could do nothing but stamp its foot in amusement.
"Well, Fred," said the minister, "what is it? Speak out." But Fred
couldn't speak now for laughing, and Sammy had to do the talking himself.
He was a stumpy boy, who had stopped off short; and you couldn't guess
his age, because his face was so much older than his body.
"You see, Mr. Blake," said Sammy, "we boys wanted to know--if there
wasn't any harm in your telling--why, we wanted to know what kind of a
thing we are going to have on Christmas at our Sunday-school."
"Well, boys, I don't know any more about it yet than you do. The teachers
will talk it over at their next meeting. They have already settled some
things, but I have not heard what."
"I hope it will be something good to eat," said Tommy Puffer. Tommy's
body looked for all the world like a pudding-bag. It was an india-rubber
pudding-bag, though. I shouldn't like to say that Tommy was a glutton.
But I am sure that no boy of his age could put out of sight, in the same
space of time, so many dough-nuts, ginger-snaps, tea-cakes,
apple-dumplings, pumpkin-pies, jelly-tarts, puddings, ice-creams,
raisins, nuts, and other things of the sort. Other people stared at him
in wonder. He was never too full to take anything that was offered him,
and at parties his weak and foolish mother was always getting all she
could to stuff Tommy with. So when Tommy said he hoped it would be
something nice to eat, and rolled his soft lips about, as though he had a
cream-tart in his mouth, all the boys laughed, and Mr. Blake smiled. I
think even the cane would have smiled if it had thought it polite.
"I hope it'll be something pleasant," said Fred Welch.
"So do I," said stumpy little Tommy Bantam.
"So do I, boys," said Mr. Blake, as he turned away; and all the way down
the block Old Ebony kept calling back, "So do I, boys! so do I!"
Mr. Blake and his friend the cane kept on down the street, until they
stood in front of a building that was called "The Yellow Row." It was a
long, two-story frame building, that had once been inhabited by genteel
people. Why they ever built it in that shape, or why they daubed it with
yellow paint, is more than I can tell. But it had gone out of fashion,
and now it was, as the boys expressed it, "seedy." Old hats and old
clothes filled many of the places once filled by glass. Into one room of
this row Mr. Blake entered, saying:
"How are you, Aunt Parm'ly?"
"Howd'y, Mr. Blake, howd'y! I know'd you was a-comin', honey, fer I
hyeard the sound of yer cane afore you come in. I'm mis'able these yer
days, thank you. I'se got a headache, an' a backache, and a toothache in
de boot."
I suppose the poor old colored woman meant to say that she had a
toothache "to boot."
"You see, Mr. Blake, Jane's got a little sumpin to do now, and we can git
bread enough, thank the Lord, but as fer coal, that's the hardest of all.
We has to buy it by the bucketful, and that's mighty high at fifteen
cents a bucket. An' pears like we couldn't never git nothin' ahead on
account of my roomatiz. Where de coal's to come from dis ere winter I
don't know, cep de good Lord sends it down out of the sky; and I reckon
stone-coal don't never come dat dar road."
After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see Peter Sitles, the blind
broom-maker.
"I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake," said Sitles. "That air stick o'
yourn's better'n a whole rigimint of doctors fer the blues. An' I've been
a-havin' on the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last few days. I
remembered what you was a-saying the last time you was here, about
trustin' of the good Lord. But I've had a purty consid'able heartache
under my jacket fer all that. Now, there's that Ben of mine," and here
Sitles pointed to a restless little fellow of nine years old, whose pants
had been patched and pieced until they had more colors than Joseph's
coat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked hungry, as some poor children
always do. Their minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was rocking a
baby in an old cradle. "There's Ben," continued the blind man, "he's as
peart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn't
orter say it. Bennie hain't got no clothes. I can't beg. But Ben orter be
in school." Here Peter Sitles choked a little.
"How's broom-making Peter?" said the minister.
"Well, you see, it's the machines as is a-spoiling us. The machines makes
brooms cheap, and what can a blind feller like me do agin the machines
with nothing but my fingers? 'Tain't no sort o' use to butt my head agin
the machines, when I ain't got no eyes nother. It's like a goat trying it
on a locomotive. Ef I could only eddicate Peter and the other two, I'd be
satisfied. You see, I never had no book-larnin' myself, and I can't talk
proper no more'n a cow can climb a tree."
"But, Mr. Sitles, how much would a broom-machine cost you?" asked the
minister.
"More'n it's any use to think on. It'll cost seventy dollars, and if it
cost seventy cents 'twould be jest exactly seventy cents more'n I could
afford to pay. For the money my ole woman gits fer washin' don't go
noways at all towards feedin' the four children, let alone buying me a
machine."
The minister looked at his cane, but it did not answer him. Something
must be done. The minister was sure of that. Perhaps the walking-stick
was, too. But what?
That was the question.
The minister told Sitles good-by, and started to make other visits. And
on the way the cane kept crying out, "Something _must_ be done--something
MUST be done--something MUST be done," making the _must_ ring out sharper
every time. When Mr. Blake and the walking-stick got to the market-house,
just as they turned off from Milk Street into the busier Main Street, the
cane changed its tune and begun to say, "But what--but _what_--but
WHAT--but WHAT," until it said it so sharply that the minister's head
ached, and he put Old Ebony under his arm, so that it couldn't talk any
more. It was a way he had of hushing it up when he wanted to think.
II.
LONG-HEADED WILLIE.
"De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold as--as--ice, and dinner's
spiled!" said Curlypate, a girl about three years old, as Mr. Blake came
in from his forenoon of visiting. She tried to look very much vexed and
"put out," but there was always either a smile or a cry hidden away in
her dimpled cheek.
"Pshaw! Curlypate," said Mr. Blake as he put down his cane, "you don't
scold worth a cent!" And he lifted her up and kissed her.
And then Mamma Blake smiled, and they all sat down to the table. While
they ate, Mr. Blake told about his morning visits, and spoke of Parm'ly
without coal, and Peter Sitles with no broom-machine, and described
little Ben Sitles' hungry face, and told how he had visited the widow
Martin, who had no sewing-machine, and who had to receive help from the
overseer of the poor. The overseer told her that she must bind out her
daughter, twelve years old, and her boy of ten, if she expected to have
any help; and the mother's heart was just about broken at the thought of
losing her children.
Now, while all this was taking place, Willie Blake, the minister's son, a
boy about thirteen years of age, sat by the big porcelain water-pitcher,
listening to all that was said. His deep blue eyes looked past the
pitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking in all their
descriptions of poverty with a wondrous pitifulness. But he did not say
much. What went on in his long head I do not know, for his was one of
those heads that projected forward and backward, and the top of which
overhung the base, for all the world like a load of hay. Now and then his
mother looked at him, as if she would like to see through and read his
thoughts. But I think she didn't see anything but the straight, silken,
fine, flossy hair, silvery white, touched a little bit--only a little--as
he turned it in looking from one to the other, with a tinge of what
people call a golden, but what is really a sort of a pleasant straw
color. He usually talked, and asked questions, and laughed like other
boys; but now he seemed to be swallowing the words of his father and
mother more rapidly even than he did his dinner; for, like most boys, he
ate as if it were a great waste of time to eat. But when he was done he
did not hurry off as eagerly as usual to reading or to play. He sat and
listened.
"What makes you look so sober, Willie?" asked Helen, his sister.
"What you thinkin', Willie?" said Curlypate, peering through the pitcher
handle at him.
"Willie," broke in his father, "mamma and I are going to a wedding out at
Sugar Hill----"
"Sugar Hill; O my!" broke in Curlypate.
"Out at Sugar Hill," continued Mr. Blake, stroking the Curlypate, "and as
I have some calls to make, we shall not be back till bedtime. I am sorry
to keep you from your play this Saturday afternoon, but we have no other
housekeeper but you and Helen. See that the children get their suppers
early, and be careful about fire."
I believe to "be careful about fire" is the last command that every
parent gives to children on leaving them alone.
Now I know that people who write stories are very careful nowadays not to
make their boys too good. I suppose that I ought to represent Willie as
"taking on" a good deal when he found that he couldn't play all Saturday
afternoon, as he had expected. But I shall not. For one thing, at least,
in my story, is true; that is, Willie. If I tell you that he is good you
may believe it. I have seen him.
He only said, "Yes, sir."
Mrs. Blake did not keep a girl. The minister did not get a small fortune
of a salary. So it happened that Willie knew pretty well how to keep
house. He was a good brave boy, never ashamed to help his mother in a
right manly way. He could wash dishes and milk the cow, and often, when
mamma had a sick-headache, had he gotten a good breakfast, never
forgetting tea and toast for the invalid.
So Sancho, the Canadian pony, was harnessed to the minister's rusty
buggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake got in and told the children good-by. Then
Sancho started off, and had gone about ten steps, when he was suddenly
reined up with a "Whoa!"
"Willie!" said Mr. Blake.
"Sir."
"Be careful about fire."
"Yes, sir."
And then old blackey-brown Sancho moved on in a gentle trot, and Willie
and Helen and Richard went into the house, where Curlypate had already
gone, and where they found her on tiptoe, with her short little fingers
in the sugar-bowl, trying in vain to find a lump that would not go to
pieces in the vigorous squeeze that she gave in her desire to make sure
of it.
So Willie washed the dishes, while Helen wiped them, and Richard put them
away, and they had a merry time, though Willie had to soothe several
rising disputes between Helen and Richard. Then a glorious lot of wood
was gotten in, and Helen came near sweeping a hole in the carpet in her
eager desire to "surprise mamma." Curlypate went in the parlor and piled
things up in a wonderful way, declaring that she, too, was going to
"_susprise_ mamma." And doubtless mamma would have felt no little
surprise if she could have seen the parlor after Curlypate "put it to
rights."
Later in the evening the cow was milked, and a plain supper of bread and
milk eaten. Then Richard and Curlypate were put away for the night. And
presently Helen, who was bravely determined to keep Willie company, found
her head trying to drop off her shoulders, and so she had to give up to
the "sand man," and go to bed.
III.
THE WALKING-STICK A TALKING STICK.
Willie was now all by himself. He put on more wood, and drew the
rocking-chair up by the fire, and lay back in it. It was very still; he
could hear every mouse that moved. The stillness seemed to settle clear
down to his heart. Presently a wagon went clattering by. Then, as the
sound died away in the distance, it seemed stiller than ever. Willie
tried to sleep; but he couldn't. He kept listening; and after all he was
listening to nothing; nothing but that awful clock, that would keep up
such a tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. The curtains were down, and
Willie didn't dare to raise them, or to peep out. He could _feel_ how
dark it was out doors.
But presently he forgot the stillness. He fell to thinking of what his
father had said at dinner. He thought of poor old rheumatic Parm'ly, and
her single bucket of coal at a time. He thought of the blind broom-maker
who needed a broom-machine, and of the poor widow whose children must be
taken away because the mother had no sewing-machine. All of these
thoughts made the night seem dark, and they made Willie's heart heavy.
But the thoughts kept him company.
Then he wished he was rich, and he thought if he were as rich as Captain
Purser, who owned the mill, he would give away sewing-machines to all
poor widows who needed them. But pshaw! what was the use of wishing? His
threadbare pantaloons told him how far off he was from being rich.
But he would go to the Polytechnic; he would become a civil engineer. He
would make a fortune some day when he became celebrated. Then he would
give Widow Martin a sewing-machine. This was the nice castle in the air
that Willie built. But just as he put on the last stone a single thought
knocked it down.
What would become of the widow and her children while he was learning to
be an engineer and making a fortune afterward? And where would he get the
money to go to the Polytechnic? This last question Willie had asked every
day for a year or two past.
Unable to solve this problem, his head grew tired, and he lay down on the
lounge, saying to himself, "Something must be done!"
"Something must be done!" Willie was sure somebody spoke. He looked
around. There was nobody in the room.
"Something _must_ be done!" This time he saw in the corner of the room,
barely visible in the shadow, his father's cane. The voice seemed to come
from that corner.
"Something MUST be done!" Yes, it was the cane. He could see its head,
and the face on one side was toward him. How bright its eyes were! It
did not occur to Willie just then that there was anything surprising in
the fact that the walking-stick had all at once become a talking stick.
"Something MUST be done!" said the cane, lifting its one foot up and
bringing it down with emphasis at the word must. Willie felt pleased that
the little old man--I mean the walking-stick--should come to his help.
"I tell you what," said Old Ebony, hopping out of his shady corner; "I
tell you what," it said, and then stopped as if to reflect; then finished
by saying, "It's a shame!"
Willie was about to ask the cane to what he referred, but he thought best
to wait till Old Ebony got ready to tell of his own accord. But the
walking-stick did not think best to answer immediately, but took entirely
a new and surprising track. It actually went to quoting Scripture!
"My eyes are dim," said the cane, "and I never had much learning; canes
weren't sent to school when I was young. Won't you read the thirty-fifth
verse of the twentieth chapter of Acts."
Willie turned to the stand and saw the Bible open at that verse. He did
not feel surprised. It seemed natural enough to him. He read the verse,
not aloud, but to himself, for Old Ebony seemed to hear his thoughts. He
read:
"Ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord
Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive."
"Now," said the walking-stick, stepping or hopping up toward the lounge
and leaning thoughtfully over the head of it, "Now, I say that it is a
shame that when the birthday of that Lord Jesus, who said it is more
blessed to give than to receive, comes round, all of you Sunday-school
scholars are thinking only of what you are going to get."
Willie was about to say that they gave as well as received on Christmas,
and that his class had already raised the money to buy a Bible Dictionary
for their teacher. But Old Ebony seemed to guess his thought, and he only
said, "And that's another shame!"
Willie couldn't see how this could be, and he thought the walking-stick
was using very strong language indeed. I think myself the cane spoke too
sharply, for I don't think the harm lies in giving to and receiving from
our friends, but in neglecting the poor. But you don't care what I think,
you want to know what the cane said.
"I'm pretty well acquainted with Scripture," said Old Ebony, "having
spent fourteen years in company with a minister. Now won't you please
read the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter of----"
But before the cane could finish the sentence, Willie heard some one
opening the door. It was his father. He looked round in bewilderment. The
oil in the lamp had burned out, and it was dark. The fire was low, and
the room chilly.
"Heigh-ho, Willie, my son," said Mr. Blake, "where's your light, and
where's your fire. This is a cold reception. What have you been doing?"
"Listening to the cane talk," he replied; and thinking what a foolish
answer that was, he put on some more coal, while his mother, who was
lighting the lamp, said he must have been dreaming. The walking-stick
stood in its corner, face to the wall, as if it had never been a talking
stick.
IV.
MR. BLAKE AGREES WITH THE WALKING-STICK.
Early on Sunday morning Willie awoke and began to think about Sitles, and
to wish he had money to buy him a broom-machine. And then he thought of
widow Martin. But all his thinking would do no good. Then he thought of
what Old Ebony had said, and he wished he could know what that text was
that the cane was just going to quote.
"It was," said Willie, "the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the
fourteenth chapter of something. I'll see."
So he began with the beginning of the Bible, and looked first at Genesis
xiv. 12, 13. But it was about the time when Abraham had heard of the
capture of Lot and mustered his army to recapture him. He thought a
minute.
"That can't be what it is," said Willie, "I'll look at Exodus."
In Exodus it was about standing still at the Red Sea and waiting for
God's salvation. It might mean that God would deliver the poor. But that
was not just what the cane was talking about. It was about giving gifts
to friends. So he went on to Leviticus. But it was about the
wave-offering, and the sin-offering, and the burnt-offering. That was not
it, and so he went from book to book until he had reached the twelfth and
thirteenth verses of the fourteenth chapter of the book of Judges. He was
just reading in that place about Samson's riddle, when his mamma called
him to breakfast.