"We're afloat!
We're afloat!
In our trim ice-boat;
And we row--
Yeave ho!
"I guess I won't sing any more," said the Gas Stove. "It's a hard song
to sing, that is, particularly when you've never heard it before, and
can't think of another rhyme for boat."
"That's easy enough to find," returned Jimmieboy, pulling at the oars.
"Coat rhymes with boat, and so do note and moat and goat and----"
"Very true," assented the Stove, "but it wouldn't do to use coat because
we take our coats off when we row. Note is good enough but you don't
have time to write one when you are singing a sea-song. Moat isn't any
good, because nobody'd know whether you meant the moat of a castle, a
sun-moat, or the one in your eye. As for goats, goats don't go well in
poetry. So I guess it's just as well to stop singing right here."
"How fast we go!" said Jimmieboy.
"What did you expect?" asked the Stove. "The bottom of this boat is as
slippery as can be, and, of course, going up the river against the
current we get over the water faster than if we were going the other way
because we--er--because we--well because we do."
"Seems to me," said Jimmieboy, "I'd better turn out some of the gas in
my coat. I'm melting right through the seat here."
"So am I," returned the Stove, with an anxious glance at the icy craft.
"It won't be more than a minute before I melt my end of the boat all to
pieces. I'm afraid we'll have to take to our arctics after all. I
brought a pair of your father's along, and it's a good thing for us that
he has big feet, for you'll have to get in one and I in the other."
Just then the stern of the boat melted away, and the Stove, springing up
from his seat and throwing himself into one of the arctics, with his
ammunition and rubber hose, floated off. Jimmieboy had barely time to
get into the other arctic when his end of the ice-boat also gave way,
and a cross-current in the stream catching the arctic whirled it about
and carried it and its little passenger far away from the Stove who
shortly disappeared around a turn in the river, so that Jimmieboy was
left entirely alone in utter ignorance as to where he really was or what
he should do next. Generally Jimmieboy was a very brave little boy, but
he found his present circumstances rather trying. To be floating down a
strange river in a large overshoe, with absolutely no knowledge of the
way home, and a very dim notion only as to how he had managed to get
where he was, was terrifying, and when he realized his position, great
tears fell from Jimmieboy's eyes, freezing into little pearls of ice
before they landed in the bottom of the golosh, where they piled up so
rapidly that the strange craft sank further and further into the water
and would certainty have sunk with their weight had not the voice
Jimmieboy had encountered a little while before come to his rescue.
[Illustration: "GOLOSH, AHOY!"]
"Golosh, ahoy!" cried the voice. "Captain! Captain! Lean over the side
and cry in the river or you'll sink your boat."
The sound of the voice was a great relief to the little sailor who at
once tried to obey the order he had received but found it unnecessary
since his tears immediately dried up.
"Come out here in the boat with me!" cried Jimmieboy. "I'm awful
lonesome and I don't know what to do."
"Then there is only one thing you can do," said the voice from a point
directly over the buckle of the arctic. "And that is to sit still and
let time show you. It's a great thing, Jimmieboy, when you don't know
what to do and can't find any one to tell you, to sit down and do
nothing, because if you did something you'd be likely to find out
afterwards that it was the wrong thing. When I was young, in the days
when I was what I used to be, I once read a poem that has lingered with
me ever since. It was called 'Wait and See' and this is the way it went:
"When you are puzzled what to do,
And no one's nigh to help you out;
You'll find it for the best that you
Should wait until Time gives the clew.
And then your business go about--
Of this there is no doubt.
"Just see the cow! She never knows
What's going to happen next, so she
Contented 'mongst the daises goes,
In clover from her head to toes,
From care and trouble ever free--
She simply waits, you see!
"The horse, unlike the cow, in fear
Jumps to and fro at maddest rate,
Tears down the street, doth snort and rear,
And knocks the wagon out of gear--
And just because he does not wait,
His woes accumulate.
"D. Crockett, famous in the past,
The same sage thought hath briefly wed
To words that must forever last,
Wherever haply they be cast:
'Be sure you're right, then go ahead,'
"That's what D. Crockett said.
"Lots in that. If you don't know what to do," continued the voice, "don't
do it."
"I won't," said Jimmieboy. "But do you know where we are?"
"Yes," said the voice. "I am here and you are there, and I think if we
stay just as we are forever there is not likely to be any change, so why
repine? We are happy."
Just then the golosh passed into a huge cavern, whose sides glistened
like silver, and from the roof of which hung millions of beautiful and
at times fantastically shaped icicles.
"This," said the voice, "is the gateway to the Kingdom of Frostland. At
the far end you will see a troop of ice soldiers standing guard. I doubt
very much if you can get by them, unless you have retained a great deal
of that heat you had. How is it? Are you still lit?"
"I am," said Jimmieboy. "Just put your hand on my chest and see how hot
it is."
"Can't do it," returned the voice, "for two reasons. First, I haven't a
hand to do it with, and secondly, if I had, I couldn't see with it.
People don't see with their hands any more than they sing with their
toes; but say, Jimmieboy, wouldn't it be funny if we could do all those
things--eh? What a fine poem this would be if it were only sensible:
"A singular song having greeted my toes,
I stared till I weakened the sight of my nose
To see what it was, and observed a sweet voice
Come forth from the ears of Lucinda, so choice.
"I cast a cough-drop in the lovely one's eyes,
Who opened her hands in a tone of surprise,
And remarked, in a way that startled my wife,
'I never was treated so ill in my life.'
"Then tears in a torrent coursed over her arms,
And the blush on her teeth much heightened her charms.
As, tossing the cough-drop straight back, with a sneeze,
She smashed the green goggles I wear on my knees."
Jimmieboy laughed so long and so loudly at this poetical effusion that
he attracted the attention of the guards, who immediately loaded their
guns and began to pepper the invaders with snow-balls.
"Throw yourself down on your stomach in the toe of the golosh,"
whispered the voice, "and they'll never know you are there. Keep
perfectly quiet, and when any questions are asked, even if you are
discovered, let me answer them. I can disguise myself so that they won't
recognize me, and they'll think I'm your voice. In this way I think I
can get you through in safety."
So Jimmieboy threw himself down in the golosh, and the voice began to
sing.
"No, no, my dear,
I do not fear
The devastating snow-ball;
When it strikes me,
I shriek with glee,
And eat it like a dough-ball."
[Illustration: "HALT!" CRIED THE ICE-GUARDS.]
"Halt!" cried the ice-guards. "Who are you?"
"I am a haunted overshoe," replied the voice. "I am on the foot of a
phantom which only appears at uncertain hours, and is consequently now
invisible to you.
"And, so I say,
Oh, fire away,
I fear ye not, icicles;
Howe'er ye shoot,
I can't but hoot,
Your act so greatly tickles."
"Shall we let it through?" asked the Captain of the guards.
"I move we do," said one High Private.
"I move we don't," said another.
"All in favor of doing one thing or the other say aye," cried the
Captain.
"Aye!" roared the company.
"Contrary-minded, no," added the Captain.
"No!" roared the company.
"Both motions are carried," said the Captain. "We will now adjourn for
luncheon."
The overshoe, meanwhile, had floated on down through the gates and was
now out of the guards' sight and Jimmieboy sprang to his feet and looked
about him once more, and what he saw was so beautiful that he sat
speechless with delight. He was now in the heart of Frostland, and
before him loomed the Palace, a marvelously massive pile of richly
carven ice-blocks transparent as glass; and within, seated upon a throne
of surpassing brilliance and beauty, sat King Jack surrounded by his
courtiers, who were singing songs the like of which Jimmieboy never
before had heard.
"Now remember, Jimmieboy," said the voice, as the overshoe with its
passengers floated softly up to the huge snow-pier that ran out into the
river at this point where they disembarked--"remember I am to do all the
talking. Otherwise you might get into trouble."
"All right, Voicy," began Jimmieboy, and then there came a terrific
shout from within.
[Illustration: "WHO COMES HERE?"]
"Who comes here?" cried King Jack, rising from his throne and pointing
his finger at Jimmieboy.
"I am a traveling minstrel," Jimmieboy seemed to reply though in reality
it was the kind-hearted voice that said it. "And I have come a thousand
and six miles, eight blocks, fourteen feet, six inches to recite to your
Majesty a poem I have written in honor of your approaching Jubilee."
"Have I a Jubilee approaching?" roared Jack, turning to his Secretary of
State, who was so startled that his right arm melted.
"Y--yes, your Majesty," stammered the Secretary, with a low bow. "It is
coming along at the rate of sixty seconds a minute."
"Why have I not been informed of this before?" roared Jack, casting a
glance at the cowering Secretary that withered the nose straight off
his face. "Don't you know that Jubilees are useful to a man only because
other people give him presents in honor of the event? And here you've
kept me in ignorance of the fact all this time, and the chances are I
won't get a thing;--for I've neglected my relatives dreadfully."
"Sire," pleaded the Secretary, "all that you say is true, but I have
attended to all that. I have informed your friends that the Jubilee is
coming, and they are all preparing pleasant little surprises for you. We
are going to give your Majesty a surprise party, which is the finest
kind of a party, because you don't have to go home after it is over, and
the guests bring their own fried oysters, and pay all the bills."
"Ah!" said Jack, melting a little. "You are a good man, after all. I
will raise your salary, and send your children a skating-pond on
Christmas day; but when is this Jubilee to take place?"
"In eight hundred and forty-seven years," returned the voice, who did
not like the Secretary of State, and wanted to get him in trouble. "On
the eighty-second day of July."
"What--a--at?" roared the King, glaring at the Secretary.
"I didn't say a word, sire," cried the unfortunate Secretary.
"No?" sneered Jack. "I suppose it was I that answered my own question,
eh? That settles you. The idea of my waiting eight hundred and
forty-seven years for a Jubilee that is to take place on an impossible
date! Executioner, take the Secretary of State out to the furnace-room,
and compel him to sit before the fire until there's only enough of him
left to make one snow-ball. Then take that and throw it at the most
decrepit hack-driver in my domain. The humiliation of this delayer of
Jubilees must be complete."
The Secretary of State was then led weeping away, and Jack, turning to
the awed Jimmieboy, shouted out:
"Now for the minstrel. If the poem pleaseth our Royal Coolness, the
singer shall have the position made vacant by that unfortunate
snow-drift I have just degraded. Step right up, young fellow, and turn
on the poem."
"Step up to the foot of the throne and make a bow, and leave the rest to
me," whispered the voice to Jimmieboy. "All you've got to do is to move
your lips and wave your arms. I'll do the talking."
Jimmieboy did as he was bade. He took up his stand before the throne,
bowed, and the voice began to declaim as Jimmieboy's lips moved, and his
arms began to shoot out, first to the left and then to the right.
"This poem," said the voice, "is in the language of the Snortuguese, and
has been prepared at great expense for this occasion, fourteen gallons
of ink having been consumed on the first stanza alone, which runs as
follows:
"Jack Frigidos,
Jack Frigidos,
Oh, what a trope you are!
How you do shine
And ghibeline,
And conjugate afar!"
"It begins very well, oh, minstrel!" said Jack, with an approving nod.
"The ink was well expended. Mount thee yon table, and from thence
deliver thyself of the remnant of thy rhyme."
"Thanks," returned the voice; "I will."
"Get up on the table, Jimmieboy," the voice added, "and we'll finish 'em
off there. Be a little slow about it, for I've got to have time to
compose the rest of the poem."
So Jimmieboy clambered up the leg of the table, and in a few moments was
ready for the voice to begin, which the voice proceeded to do.
"I will repeat the first verse, your Majesty, for the sake of
completeness. And here goes:
"Jack Frigidos,
Jack Frigidos,
Oh, what a trope you are!
How you do shine,
And ghibeline,
And conjugate afar!
"How debonair
Is thy back hair;
Thy smile how contraband!
Would I could ape
Thy shapely shape,
And arrogate thy hand!
"That nose of thine,
How superfine!
How pertinent thy chin.
How manifest
The palimpsest
And contour of thy shin!
"How ormolu
Thy revenue!
How dusk thy silhouette!
How myrtilly
Thy pedigree
Doth grace thine amulet!
"What man is there,
Ay, anywhere,
What mortal chanticleer,
Can fail to find
Unto his mind
Thy buxom bandolier!
"Ah, Frigidos!
Jack Frigidos,
In parcel or in keg,
Another like
Thee none can strike
From Dan to Winnipeg."
Here the voice paused.
"Is that all?" queried Jack Frost.
"It is all I have written up to this moment," the voice answered. "Of
course there are seventy or eighty more miles of it, because, as your
Majesty is well aware, it would take many a league of poetry fitly to
commemorate your virtues."
"Your answer is pleasing unto me," replied the monarch of Frostland,
when the voice had thus spoken. "The office of the Secretary of State is
yours. The salary is not large, but the duties are. They are to consist
mainly of----"
Here the King was interrupted by a tremendous noise without. Evidently
some one was creating a disturbance, and as Jimmieboy turned to see what
it was, he saw the great ice mountain looming up over the far-distant
horizon melt slowly away and dwindle out of sight; and then messengers,
breathless with haste, rushed in and cried out to the King:
[Illustration: THE GAS-STOVE DESTROYING FROSTLAND.]
"We are attacked! we are attacked! A tribe from a far country, commanded
by the Gas Stove, is even now within our boundaries, armed with a
devastating hose, breathing forth fire, by which already has been
destroyed the whole western frontier."
"What is to be done?" cried Jack, in alarm, and springing to his feet.
"Can we not send a regiment of cold winds out against them, and freeze
them to their very marrows and blow out the gas?"
"We cannot, sire," returned the messenger, "for the heat is so deadly
that the winds themselves thaw into balmy zephyrs before they reach the
enemy."
"Not so!" cried the voice from Jimmieboy's lips. "For I will save you if
you will place the matter in my hands."
"Noble creature!" sobbed Jack, grasping Jimmieboy by the hand. "Save my
kingdom from destruction, and all that you ask of me in the future is
yours."
And Jimmieboy, promising to help Jack, started out, clad with all the
authority of his high office, to meet the Gas Stove.