There was whispering going on somewhere, and Jimmieboy felt that it was
his duty to find out where it was, who it was that was doing it, and
what it was that was being whispered. It was about an hour after supper
on the evening of July 3d when it all happened. A huge box full of
fire-works had arrived only a few hours before, and Jimmieboy was
somewhat afraid that the whisperings might have come from burglars who,
knowing that there were thirty-five rockets, twenty Roman candles,
colored lights by the dozen, and no end of torpedoes and fire-crackers
and other things in the house, had come to steal them, and, if he could
help himself, Jimmieboy was not going to allow that. So he began to
search about, and in a few minutes he had located the whisperers in the
very room at the foot of the back stairs in which the fire-works were.
His little heart almost stopped beating for a moment when he realized
this. It isn't pleasant to feel that perhaps you will be deprived, after
all, of something you have looked forward to for a whole month, and upon
the very eve of the fulfillment of your dearest hopes at that.
"I'll have to tell papa about this," he said; and then, realizing that
his papa was not at home, and that his mamma was up stairs trying to
convince his small brother that it would be impossible to get the moon
into the nursery, although it looked much smaller even than the nursery
window, Jimmieboy resolved that he would take the matter in hand
himself.
"A boygler wouldn't hurt me, and maybe if I talk gruff and keep out of
sight, he'll think I'm papa and run," he said.
Then he tried his gruff voice, and it really was tremendously
gruff--about as gruff as the bark of a fox-terrier. After he had done
this, he tip-toed softly down the stairs until he stood directly
opposite the door of the room where the fire-works were.
"Move on, you boygler you!" he cried, just as he thought his father
would have said it.
The answer was an explosion--not exactly of fire-works, but of mirth.
"He thinks somebody's trying to steal us," said a funny little voice,
the like of which Jimmieboy had never heard before.
"How siss-siss-sissingular of him," said another voice that sounded like
a fire-cracker missing fire.
"He thinks he can fool us by imitating the voice of his
pop-pop-pop-popper," put in a third voice, with a laugh.
At which Jimmieboy opened the door and looked in, and then he saw whence
the whispering had come, and to say that he was surprised at what he saw
is a too mild way of putting it. He was so astonished that he lost all
control over his joints, and the first thing he knew he was sitting on
the floor. The spectacle had, in fact, knocked him over, as well it
might, for there, walking up and down the floor, swarming over chairs
and tables, playing pranks with each other, and acting in a generally
strange fashion, were the fire-works themselves. It was interesting, and
at the same time alarming, for one or two reckless sky-rockets were
smoking, a lot of foolish little fire-crackers were playing with matches
in one corner, and a number of the great big cannon torpedoes were
balancing themselves on the arms of the gas-fixture, utterly heedless of
the fact that if they were to fall to the floor they would explode and
be done for forever.
"Hullo, Jimmieboy!" said one of the larger rockets, taking off his funny
little cap at the astonished youngster. "I suppose you've come down to
see us rehearse?"
"I thought somebody was stealing you, and I came down to frighten them
away," Jimmieboy replied.
The Rocket laughed. "Nobody can steal us," it said. "If anybody came to
steal us, we'd cry, and get so soaked with tears nobody could get us to
go off, so what good would we be?"
"Not much, I guess," said Jimmieboy.
"That's the answer," returned the Rocket. "You seem to be good at
riddles. Let me give you another. What's the difference between a man
who steals a whole wig and a fire-cracker?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Jimmieboy, still too full of wonderment
to think out an answer to a riddle like that.
"Why, one goes off with a whole head of hair," said the Rocket, "and the
other goes off only with a bang."
"That's good," said Jimmieboy. "Make it up yourself?"
"No," said the Rocket. "I got that out of the magazine."
"What magazine?" asked Jimmieboy, innocently.
"The powder-magazine," roared the Rocket, and then the Pin Wheel and
other fire-works danced about, and threw themselves on the floor with
laughter--all except the Torpedoes, which jumped up and down on a soft
plush chair, where they were safe.
When the laughter over the Rocket's wit had subsided, one of the Roman
Candles called to the Giant Cracker, and asked him to sing a song for
Jimmieboy.
"I can't sing to-night," said the Cracker. "I'm very busy making ready
my report for to-morrow."
[Illustration: THE GIANT CRACKER SINGING HIS SONG.]
Here the Cracker winked at Jimmieboy, as much as to say, "How is that
for a joke?" Whereat Jimmieboy winked back to show that he thought it
wasn't bad; which so pleased the Cracker that he said he guessed, after
all, he would sing his song if the little Crackers would stop playing
until he got through. The little Crackers promised, and the Giant
Cracker sang this song:
"THE GIANT CRACKER AND THE MANDARIN'S DAUGHTER.
"He was a Giant Cracker bold,
His name was Wing-Hi-Ee.
He wore a dress of red and gold--
Was handsome as could be.
His master was a Mandarin,
Who lived in old Shang-Hai,
And had a daughter named Ah Din,
With sweet blue almond eye.
"Now Wing he loved this Saffron Queen,
And Ah Din she loved him;
But Chinese law came in between
Them with its measures grim.
For you must know, in that far land,
Where dwell the heathen wild,
A Cracker may not win the hand
Of any noble's child.
"This made their love a hopeless one--
Alas! that it should be
That anywhere beneath the sun
Exists such misery!
So they resolved, since she could not
Become his cherished bride,
Together they'd seek out some spot
And there they'd suicide.
"They hastened, weeping, from the town,
Wing-Hi and fair Ah Din,
And on the river-bank sat down
Until the tide came in.
Then Wing-Hi whispered, sitting there,
With tear-drops in his eye,
'Good-by, Ah Din!' And, in despair,
She answered him, 'Good-by.'
"And then she grasped a sulphur match;
She lit it on her shoe,
Whereat, with neatness and dispatch,
Wing-Hi she touched it to.
There came a flash, there came a shriek,
A sound surpassing weird,
And Wing-Hi brave and Ah Din meek
In pieces disappeared."
"Isn't that lovely?" asked the Rocket, his voice husky with emotion.
"It's very fine," said Jimmieboy. "It's rather sad, though."
"Yes; but it might have been sadder, you know," said the Giant Cracker.
"She might not have loved him at all; and if she hadn't loved him, he
wouldn't have wasted a match committing suicide for her sake, and then
there wouldn't have been any tragedy, and, of course, no song would have
been written about it. Why, there is no end to the misery there might
have been."
Here one of the Torpedoes fell off the gas-fixture to the floor, where
he exploded with a loud noise. There was a rush from all sides to see
whether the poor little fellow was done for forever.
"Send for the doctor," said the Pin Wheel. "I think he can be mended."
"No, don't," said the injured Torpedo. "I can fix myself up again. Send
for a whisk broom and bring me a parlor match, and I'll be all right."
"What's the whisk broom for?" asked Jimmieboy, somewhat surprised at the
remedies suggested.
"Why," said the Torpedo, "if you will sweep me together with the whisk
broom and wrap me up carefully, I'll eat the head off the parlor match,
and I'll be all right again. The match head will give me all the snap I
need, and if you'll wrap me up in the proper way, I'll show you what
noise is to-morrow. You'll think I'm some relation to that Miss Din in
the Giant Cracker's song, unless I'm mistaken, when you hear me explode."
The Fire-crackers jeered a little at this, because there has always been
more or less jealousy between the Torpedoes and the Fire-crackers, but
the Rocket soon put a stop to their sneers.
"What's the use of jeering?" he said. "You don't know whether he'll make
much noise or not. The chances are he'll make more noise than a great
many of you Crackers, who are just as likely as not to turn out sissers
in the long-run."
The Fire crackers were very much abashed by the Rocket's rebuke, and
retired shamefacedly into their various packs, whereupon the Pin Wheel
suggested that the Rocket recite his poem telling the singular story of
Nate and the Rocket.
"Would you like to hear that story, Jimmieboy?" asked the Rocket.
"Very much," said Jimmieboy. "The name of it sounds interesting."
"Well, I'll try to tell it. It's pretty long, and your ears are short;
but we can try it, as the boy observed to the man who said he didn't
think the boy's mouth was large enough to hold four pieces of strawberry
short-cake. So here goes. The real title of the poem is
"THE DREADFUL FATE OF NAUGHTY NATE.
"Way back in eighty-two or three--
I don't recall the date--
There lived somewhere--'twixt you and me,
I really can't locate
The place exact; say Sangaree--
A lad; we'll call him Nate.
"His father was a grocer, or
A banker, or maybe
He kept a thriving candy store,
For all that's known to me.
Perhaps he was the Governor
Of Maine or Floridee.
"At any rate, he had a dad--
Or so the story's told;
Most youngsters that I've known have had--
And Nate's had stacks of gold,
And those who knew him used to add,
He spent it free and bold.
"If Nate should ask his father for
A dollar or a cent,
His father'd always give him more
Than for to get he went;
And then, before the day was o'er,
Nate always had it spent.
"Molasses taffy, circus, cake,
Tarts, soda-water, pie,
Hot butter-scotch, or rare beefsteak,
Or silk hats, Nate could buy.
His father'd never at him shake
His head and ask him 'Why?'
"'For but one thing,' his father cried,
'You must not spend your store;
Sky-rockets I cannot abide,
So buy them never more.
Let such, I pray, be never spied
Inside of my front door.'
"But Nate, alas! did not obey
His father's orders wise.
He hied him forth without delay,
Ignoring tarts and pies,
And bought a rocket huge, size A,
'The Monarch of the Skies.'
"He clasped it tightly to his breast,
And smiled a smile of glee;
And as the sun sank in the west,
He sat beneath a tree,
And then the rocket he invest-
I-g-a-t-e-d.
"Alas for Nate! The night was warm;
June-bugs and great fire-flies
Around about his head did swarm;
The mercury did rise;
And then a fine electric storm
Played havoc in the skies.
"Now if, perchance, it was a fly,
I'm not prepared to say;
Or if 'twas lightning from the sky,
That came along that way;
Or if 'twas only brought on by
The heat of that warm day,
"I am not certain, but 'tis clear
There came a sudden boom,
And high up in the atmosphere,
Enlightening the gloom,
The rocket flew, a fiery spear,
And Nate, too, I presume.
"For never since that July day
Has any man seen Nate.
But far off in the Milky Way,
Astronomers do state,
A comet brilliant, so they say,
Doth round about gyrate.
"It's head's so like small Natty's face,
They think it's surely he,
Aboard that rocket-stick in space,
Still mounting constantly;
And still must mount until no trace
Of it at all we see."
[Illustration: NATE AS A COMET.]
"Isn't that the most fearfully awfully terribly horribly horribly
terribly fearful bit of awfulness you ever heard?" queried the Rocket,
when he had finished.
"It is indeed," said Jimmieboy. "It really makes me feel unhappy, and I
wish you hadn't told it to me."
"I would not bother about it," said the Rocket; "because really the best
thing about it is that it never happened."
"Suppose it did happen," said Jimmieboy, after thinking it over for a
minute or two. "Would Nate ever get back home again?"
"Oh, he might," returned the Rocket. "But not before six or seven
million years, and that would make him late for tea, you know.
By-the-way," the Rocket added, "do you know the best kind of tea to have
on Fourth of July?"
"No," said Jimmieboy. "What?"
"R-o-c-k-e-tea," said the Rocket.
The Pin Wheels laughed so heartily at this that one of them fell over
on a box of Blue Lights and set them off, and the Rocket endeavoring to
put them out was set going himself, and the first thing Jimmieboy knew,
his friend gave a fearful siss, and disappeared up the chimney. The
sparks from the Rocket falling on the Roman Candles started them along,
and three or four balls from them landed on a flower piece which was
soon putting forth the most beautiful fiery roses imaginable, one of
which, as it gave its dying sputter, flew up and landed on the fuse of a
great set piece that was supposed to have a motto on it. Jimmieboy was
almost too frightened to move, so he just sat where he was, and stared
at the set piece until he could read the motto, which was, strange to
say, no motto at all, but simply these words in red, white, and blue
fire, "Wake up, and go to bed right." Whereupon Jimmieboy rubbed his
eyes, and opened them wider than ever to find his papa bending over him,
and saying the very words he had seen on the set piece.
Probably the reason why his papa was saying this was that Jimmieboy had
been found by him on his return home lying fast asleep, snuggled up in
the corner of the library lounge.
As for the fire-works, in some way or other they all managed to get
back into the box again in good condition, except the broken torpedo,
which was found in the middle of the floor just where it had fallen.
Which Jimmieboy thinks was very singular.