What bothered Jimmieboy was to find out who that somebody was. It
couldn't have been mamma, because she had gone out that evening with
papa to take dinner at Uncle Periwinkle's, and for the same reason,
therefore, it could not have been papa that had sighed and said "Oh
dear!" so plainly. Neither was it Moggie, as Jimmieboy called his nurse,
companion, and friend, because Moggie, supposing him to be asleep, had
gone up stairs to her own room to read. It might have been little Russ
if it had only been a sigh that had come to Jimmieboy's ears, for little
Russ was quite old enough to sigh; but as for adding "Oh dear!" that was
quite out of the question, because all little Russ had ever been able
to say was "Bzoo," and, as you may have observed for yourself, people
who can only say "Bzoo" cannot say "Oh dear!"
It was so mysterious altogether that Jimmieboy sat up straight on his
pillow, and began to wonder if it wouldn't be well for him to get
frightened and cry. The question was decided in favor of a shriek of
terror; but the shriek did not come, because just as Jimmieboy got his
mouth open to utter it the strange somebody sighed again, and said:
"Aren't you sorry for me, Jimmieboy?"
"Who are you?" asked Jimmieboy, peering through the darkness, trying to
see who it was that had addressed him.
"I'm a poor unhappy Blank-book," came the answer. "A Blank-book with no
hope now of ever becoming great. Did you ever feel as if you wanted to
become great, Jimmieboy?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," returned the boy. "I do yet. I'm going to be a
fireman when I grow up, and drive an engine, and hold a hose, and put
out great configurations, as papa calls 'em."
"Then you know," returned the Blank-book, "or rather you can imagine, my
awful sorrow when I say that I have aspired to equally lofty honors,
but find myself now condemned to do things I don't like, to devote my
life not to great and noble deeds, but to miserable every-day affairs.
You can easily see how I must feel if you will only try to imagine your
own feelings if, after a life whose every thought and effort had been
directed toward making you the proud driver of a fire-engine, you should
find it necessary to settle down to the humdrum life of a lawyer, all
your hopes destroyed, and the goal toward which you had ever striven
placed far beyond your reach."
"You didn't want to be a fireman, did you?" asked Jimmieboy, softly.
"No," said the Blank-book, jumping off the table, and crossing over to
Jimmieboy's crib, into which he climbed, much to the little fellow's
delight. "No, I never wanted to be a fireman, or a policeman, or a car
conductor, because I have always known that those were things I never
could become. No matter how wise and great a Blank-book may be, there is
a limit to his wisdom and his greatness. It sometimes makes us unhappy
to realize this, but after all there is plenty in the world that a
Blank-book can do, and do nobly, without envying others who have to do
far nobler and greater things before they can be considered famous.
Everything we have to do in this world is worth doing well, and
everybody should be content to do the things that are given to his kind
to accomplish. The poker should always try to poke as well as he can,
and not envy the garden hose because the garden hose can sprinkle
flowers, while he can't. The rake should be content to do the best
possible rake's work, and not sigh because he cannot sing 'Annie Rooney'
the way the hand-organ does."
"Then why do you sigh because of the work they have given you to do?"
"That's very simple," returned the Blank-book. "I can explain that in a
minute. While I have no right to envy a glue-pot because it can hold
glue and I can't, I have a right to feel hurt and envious when it falls
to the lot of another Blank-book, no better than myself, to become the
medium through which beautiful poems and lovely thoughts are given to
the world, while I am compelled to do work of the meanest kind.
"It has always been my dream to become the companion of a poet, of a
philosopher, or of a humorist--to be the Blank-book of his heart--to lie
quiet in his pocket until he had thought a thought, and then to be
pulled out of that pocket and to be made the receptacle of that thought.
"Oh, I have dreamed ambitious dreams, Jimmieboy--ambitious dreams that
must now remain only dreams, and never be real. Once, as I lay with a
thousand others just like me on the shelf of the little stationery shop
where your mother bought me, I dreamed I was sold to a poet--a true
poet. Everywhere he went, went I, and every beautiful line he thought of
was promptly put down upon one of my leaves with a dainty gold pencil,
contact with which was enough to thrill me through and through.
"Here is one of the things I dreamed he wrote upon my leaves:
"'What's the use of tears?
What's the use of moping?
What's the use of fears?
Here's to hoping!
"'Life hath more of joy
Than she hath of weeping.
When grief comes, my boy,
Pleasure's sleeping.
"'Only sleeping, child;
Thou art not forsaken,
Let thy smiles run wild--
She'll awaken!'
"Don't you think that's nice?" queried the Blank-book when he had
finished reciting the poem.
"Very nice," said Jimmieboy. "And it's very true, too. Tears aren't any
good. Why, they don't even wash your face."
"I know," returned the Blank-book. "Tears are just like rain clouds. A
sunny smile can drive 'em away like autumn leaves before a whirl-wind."
"Or a clothes-line full of clothes before an east wind," suggested
Jimmieboy.
"Yes; or like buckwheat cakes before a hungry school-boy," put in the
Blank-book. "Then that same poet in my dream wrote a verse about his
little boy I rather liked. It went this way:
"'Of rats and snails and puppy-dogs' tails
Some man has said boys are made;
But he who spoke to be truthful fails,
If 'twas of my boy 'twas said.
"'For honey, and wine, and sweet sunshine,
And fruits from over the swim,
And everything else that's fair and fine,
Are sure to be found in him.
"'His kisses are nice and sweet as spice,
His smile is richer than cake--
Which, if it were known to rats and mice,
The cheeses they would forsake.
"'His dear little voice is soft and choice,
He giggles all day with glee,
And it makes my heart and soul rejoice,
To think he belongs to me.'"
"That's first rate," said Jimmieboy. "Only Mother Goose has something
very much like it about little girls."
"That was just it," returned the Blank-book. "She had been a little girl
herself, and she was too proud to live. If she had been a boy instead of
a girl, it would have been the boy who was made of sugar and spice and
all that's nice."
"Didn't your dream-poet ever write anything funny in you?" asked
Jimmieboy. "I do love funny poems."
"Well, I don't know whether some of the things he wrote were funny or
not," returned the Blank-book, scratching his cover with a pencil he
carried in a little loop at his side. "But they were queer. There was
one about a small boy, named Napples, who spent all his time eating
apples, till by some odd mistake he contracted an ache, and now with J.
Ginger he grapples."
"That's the kind," said Jimmieboy. "I think to some people who never ate
a green apple, or tasted Jamaica ginger, or contracted an ache, it
would be real funny. I don't laugh at it, because I know how solemn
Tommy Napples must have felt. Did you ever have any more like that?"
"Oh my, yes," returned the Blank-book. "Barrels full. This was another
one--only I don't believe what it says is true:
"A man living near Navesink,
Eats nothing but thistles and zinc,
With mustard and glue,
And pollywog stew,
Washed down with the best of blue ink.'"
"That's pretty funny," said Jimmieboy.
"Is it?" queried the Blank-book, with a sigh. "I'll have to take your
word for it. I can't laugh, because I have nothing to say ha! ha! with,
and even if I could say ha! ha! I don't suppose I'd know when to laugh,
because I don't know a joke when I see one."
"Really?" asked Jimmieboy, who had never supposed any one could be born
so blind that he could not at least see a joke.
[Illustration: "EVERYBODY LAUGHED BUT ME."]
"Really," sighed the Blank-book. "Why, a man came into the store where I
was for sale once, and said he wanted a Blank-book, and the clerk asked
him what for--meaning, of course, did he want an account-book, a diary,
or a copy-book. The man answered, 'To wash windows with, of course,'
and everybody laughed but me. I simply couldn't see the point. Can you?"
"Why, certainly," said Jimmieboy, a broad smile coming over his lips.
"It was very funny. The point was that people don't wash windows with
Blank-books."
"What's funny about that?" asked the Blank-book. "It would be a great
deal funnier if people did wash windows with a Blank-book. He might have
said 'to go coasting on,' or 'to sweeten my coffee with,' or 'to send
out to the heathen,' and it would have been just as funny."
"I guess that's true," said Jimmieboy. "But it was funny just the same."
"No doubt," returned the Blank-book; "but it seems to me what's funny
depends on the other fellow. You might get off a splendid joke, and if
he hadn't his joke spectacles on he'd think it was nonsense."
"Oh no," said Jimmieboy. "If he hadn't his joke spectacles on he
wouldn't think it was nonsense. Jokes are nonsense."
"But you said a moment ago the fun of the Blank-book joke was that you
couldn't wash windows with one. That's a fact, so how could it be
nonsense?"
"I never thought of it in that way," said Jimmieboy.
"Ah!" ejaculated the Blank-book. "Now that is really funny, because I
don't see how you could think of it in any other way."
"I don't see anything funny about that," began Jimmieboy.
"Oh dear!" sighed the Blank-book. "We never shall agree, except that I
am willing to believe that you know more about nonsense than I do.
Perhaps you can explain this poem to me. I dreamt my poet wrote this on
my twelfth page. It was called 'A Plane Tale:'
"'I used to be so surly, that
All men avoided me;
But now I am a diplomat,
Of wondrous suavity.
"'I met a carpenter one night,
Who wore a dotted vest;
And when I asked if that was right,
He told me to go West.
"'I seized his saw and brandished it,
As fiercely as I could,
And told him, with much show of wit,
I thought he was no good.
"'At that he looked me in the face,
And said my tone was gruff;
My manner lacked a needed grace,
In every way was rough.
"'He seized and laid me on a plank,
He gave a little cough;
And then, although my spirits sank,
_He planed me wholly off_!
"'And ever since that painful night,
When he so treated me,
I've been as polished, smooth a wight,
As any one can be.'"
"There isn't much sense in that," said Jimmieboy.
"Well, now, I think there is," said the Blank-book. "There's a moral to
that. Two of 'em. One's mind your own business. If the carpenter wanted
to wear a dotted vest it was nobody's affair. The other moral is, a
little plane speaking goes a great way."
"Oh, what a joke!" cried Jimmieboy.
"I didn't make any joke," retorted the Blank-book, his Russia-leather
cover getting red as a beet.
"Yes, you did, too," returned Jimmieboy. "Plane and plain--don't you
see? P-l-a-n-e and p-l-a-i-n."
[Illustration: "IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL A JOKE?"]
"Bah!" said the Blank-book. "Nonsense! That can't be a joke. That's a
coincidence. Is that what you call a joke?"
"Certainly," replied Jimmieboy.
"Well, then, I'm not as badly off as I thought. I wanted to be a poet's
book and couldn't, but it is better to be used for a wash-list as I am
than to help funny men to remember stuff like that. I am very grateful
to you, Jimmieboy, for the information. You have made me see that I
might have fared worse than I have fared, and I thank you, and as I hear
your mamma and papa coming up the stairs now, I'll run back to the desk.
Good-night!"
And the Blank-book kissed Jimmieboy, and scampered over to the desk as
fast as it could, and the next day Jimmieboy begged so hard for it that
his mamma gave it to him for his very own.
"What shall you do with it now that you have it?" asked mamma.
"I'm going to save it till I grow up," returned Jimmieboy. "Maybe I'll
be a poet, and I can use it to write poems in."