DADDY COAX.
KITTY stood looking at him, not quite knowing what to do, for she did
not like to wake him.
He looked such a dear old gentleman. He wore a snuff-colored coat and
brown breeches, and a wig. Although his eyes were shut, and his mouth
was open, and some mischievous child had given his wig a cock on one
side, he had yet the pleasantest face. His pockets bulged out with
sweets and toys: the head of a wooden horse peeped out of one, that of a
dolly looked out of the other.
“I am sure he is Daddy Coax,” said Kitty to herself joyously.
The little boy, with the queer curls and the queer yellow eyes and the
queer short legs, whom she had met on entering Naughty Children Land,
was standing a few paces from the old man. He held a small looking-glass
and caught the sunlight upon it. As he waved the mirror about a spot of
light like a golden bird or a butterfly danced up and down. Sometimes it
rested on the sleeper’s nose, sometimes on one eye, then on the other,
sometimes on his forehead. Every time the spot of light rested on his
face the old man moved in his sleep, lifted his hand, and tried to brush
it away. Just as Kitty came up a little girl began to tickle his ear
with a straw, and the spot of light danced so dazzlingly before his eyes
that the sleeper jumped up with a start, wildly waved his handkerchief,
beating the air with it. Then all at once he fell flat on the ground,
tripped up by a cord that had been tied across the path.
When this happened the children roared with laughter and ran indoors.
Kitty went to the old gentleman as he lay moaning, gently helped him to
rise, and led him back to his arm-chair. His wig had fallen on the
ground; she picked it up; he looked very odd with his bald head; but
Kitty pursed up her lips not to smile, for she feared to hurt his
feelings. She placed the wig on his head, made it straight, and then she
patted the old man’s cheek.
[Illustration]
“Why, who is this? who is this?” he asked, peering into Kitty’s face. He
had rosy cheeks, gentle eyes full of a gay light, and his lips trembled
as if ready to break out into smiles and laughter.
“No, no; that is not a naughty child. Daddy Coax knows better than
that.”
He shook his head so violently, to show he knew what he was saying, that
his wig went first on one side, then on the other, and at last it
tumbled right over his eyebrows. He did not seem to mind how his wig
went. Kitty thought it looked like a thatched roof.
“Then you are Daddy Coax!” she said.
“To be sure I am, honey! To be sure!” the old man answered, laughing,
and the laugh was so joyous that it set Kitty laughing also.
“They call me Daddy Coax because I pat the children’s heads when they
are sobbing, and because I keep school with toys and sweets and stories
instead of lessons.” He took out his snuff-box and took a pinch; then he
sneezed and sneezed till his head sank upon his chest, and his wig came
right over his eyes.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! Those children have put pepper into my snuff-box!”
He laughed; nothing seemed to put out Daddy Coax.
“I wonder you live with them!” said Kitty.
[Illustration]
“I used to live in Good Children Land,” he answered, pushing back his
wig and setting it all awry; “I was happy there; but you see I could not
bear the thought of the naughty children. They must be so miserable. So
I made up my mind to come and live among them, and whistle sweet tunes
to them, and tell them pretty stories that would put beautiful dreams
into their hearts, and give them toys. Bribe the little darlings to be
good.”
“They are not very good to you,” said Kitty, looking at his tattered
coat.
“No; I am often a mass of misery and rags,” said the old man; and as he
looked at her a moist brightness like tears came into his eyes. He
showed the skirts of his coat-tails all torn, his pockets ragged, his
hands scratched. “I sometimes think I’ll go back to Good Children Land,”
he continued. “Then I say they don’t want me there so much as they do
here. So here I remain, and I don’t mind being scratched and pulled
about, if only I keep one child out of Punishment Land.”
“Punishment Land!” said Kitty. “What is that?”
“Oh, it is a dreadful place!” said Daddy Coax, shaking his head till his
wig slipped right off, and then he gave it a pull over to his right
eyebrow. “I long to keep the children out of it. The little dears, I am
sometimes afraid of them, when they are getting angry, and going to have
a cry. They tell me I spoil them, and somehow the children don’t love me
as I love them; but I have not the heart to see a dear little thing
punished—not if it tears my coat-tails. Oh! I don’t know why they won’t
love me. They say the little dears won’t respect me, and they say a
dreadful thing, that one may be unjust by kindness as well as by
severity. It often makes me sad.” Then he gave a little chirruping
laugh.
“Ah! it makes me happy to coax the little dears out of their tantrums
and their passions. There is great virtue in a big burnt-almond, my
honey! Have one!”
He took out a transparent amber box full of bon-bons, and opened it.
“I think I had better wait till I am naughty to have one,” laughed
Kitty. The old man laughed also, as if Kitty’s joke delighted him.
“Come and see Daddy Coax’s school-room,” he said, getting up.
Kitty put her hand into his little plump old hand, and they went
indoors. The room was full of children.
It was not like a school-room, nor like a play-room either. It was more
like quarreling-room, screaming-room, sobbing-room.
Where the children’s hands could reach the room was spoiled and
disordered; but above that it was as pretty as a room in a fairy tale,
or as a Christmas-tree turned into a room. Bright balls shone there,
some of silver, some of glass, rainbow-colored, like solidified
soap-bubbles. There were bags of sweets, toys, flags in every corner.
Wonderful shells, with golden ears, strange seaweed, and branching
coral; flowers bloomed high up in the windows, and far out of the
children’s reach in a safe place hung a cage full of birds. There were
kaleidoscopes and musical boxes and pictures on the walls.
“Little angels! Hush—hush! Look, here’s a little friend come to see
you,” said Daddy Coax, in a voice that was gay and soft as a bird
chirruping in a tree, and calling to its young to come out into the
pleasant morning.
Only a roar of confused voices answered. All the children were
addressing the old man—all were speaking together; all were trying to
talk loudest; all trying to talk quickest; all telling tales of each
other.
“Hush—hush!” said Daddy Coax, putting up his finger. “Little lambs ought
to be good. Eh!” he went on, patting his pocket with his disengaged hand
in a suggestive manner. “Look—toys—sweets—all for my little darlings—a
fairing for each. Hey now!” and he waved his hand above his head, “we’ll
be as merry and good as if it were Christmas Day, and everybody’s
birthday together besides.”
Perhaps the children had already had so many sweets and good things that
they did not care for more. Not one look of thanks greeted the old man
gazing down upon them with an anxious smile that seemed to say: “Be
good, my little darlings. My heart thinks only of making you good by
making you happy.”
The next moment there was a grand rush of children making for Daddy
Coax’s pockets, with cries of “I! I! I!—me! me! me!” The rush turned to
a battle royal between the children who came first and the children
behind, who were hurrying up.
“Hush! hush! naughty to quarrel!” said Daddy Coax, feebly trying to make
his way through the combatants, dealing loving strokes on rough heads,
and uttering tender reproaches in a cooing voice. “Let me get to my
arm-chair and we’ll have a distribution of treasures. Hullo!” he
exclaimed, bending over a roaring boy and patting him gently on the
back. “Poor laddie—Daddy Coax’s laddie—and he has been hurt—he has—”
“No—o—o,” roared the boy louder, and kick—kick—kick went his angry feet.
“I am not hurt. I am—in a fu—u—ry!”
“A fury! Oh! oh! naughty,” said Daddy Coax, shaking his head till his
wig was all in a flurry of reproach.
“I wanted to see—what—made my tin frog—hop—and I broke—the spring. It
won’t hop any—more,” roared the boy, and kick went his feet, trying to
kick Daddy Coax’s shins because they were the nearest things to kick.
Daddy Coax began to fumble in his pocket, and as he fumbled, louder grew
the roarer’s shouts; but he opened slits of eyes to see what Daddy Coax
was searching for.
Out came the amber box, and out of it a crisp sugary almond.
[Illustration]
“There, that will sweeten the fury,” said Daddy Coax, chuckling over his
little joke.
The crunching of the almond softened the screams, and Daddy Coax winked
at Kitty.
“Did I not tell you, honey, there was virtue in a sweet?” he said,
gleefully rubbing his hands.
“I believe more in a whipping,” replied Kitty with a gleam in her eyes.
Daddy Coax now made his way to a corner of the room where stood a tiny
bed. As he bent over the child lying there, murmuring “Poor little sick
lamb,” his kind, foolish eyes grew brightly pitying.
“I won’t take my medicine,” said the invalid, shaking a resolute head on
the pillow.
“Medicine will make Daddy Coax’s sick lamb play again,” said the old
man. He took up a powder and spoon, and after he had mixed the dose,
“Good medicine first and jam after,” he said in a persuasive voice,
softly trying to get the tip of the spoon inside the firmly closed lips.
Out flashed a naughty hand from under the coverlid, and away spun the
medicine and the spoon to the furthest corner of the room.
“Oh, naughty! naughty!” said poor Daddy Coax, putting up his finger and
trying to ruffle his forehead into a frown. “If sick lamb be naughty,
sick lamb will have no jam.”
At this dreadful threat the sick face puckered itself up, and out of the
wide-open mouth came a doleful howl.
Daddy Coax fell into a dreadful flurry; his mild eyes grew full of pain.
He took the child out of its crib, rocked it soothingly in his arms,
murmuring softly:
“Sick lamb shall have all jam and no medicine. All good jam and no
naughty medicine.”
“All go—oo—od ja—am and no naugh—ty medi—cine,” agreed the sick child
with big sobs.
Gently Daddy Coax put the invalid back into its crib, went to the
cupboard, and took out the pot of raspberry jam. He looked over his
shoulder to make sure the child was not looking, and cautiously Kitty
saw him drop the powder into the jelly and turn it round and round until
not a grain was to be seen.
“Good jam!” he said, smacking his lips. “Good jam!”
[Illustration]
“Good jam!” assented the sick child, opening wide its mouth and smacking
its lips louder still.
“It was to make her take the medicine,” explained Daddy Coax
apologetically to Kitty. “I cannot bear to hear a sick child cry. It is
sickness makes the little angel cross.”
“Little angel indeed!” replied Kitty shortly. “I would have given her
all medicine and no jam.”
Kitty was growing severer and severer. Holding her hand the old man
trotted along once more, struggling through the children, who had
recovered their good-humor, and were rushing around him. He laughed
feebly, he patted their heads as they thumped him on the back as if he
were a drum, and squirted soapsuds into his eyes. Poor Daddy Coax wiped
his eyes, sneezed, tried to look as if he enjoyed the jokes and the
drummings, and presently nearly stumbled over a little girl who was
knocking her doll’s head against the floor.
Bang! bang! the tiny hand struck the ground with the doll. Its nose was
flattened out of all likeness to a nose, its cheeks were cracked, and
its hair torn out.
“Dear! dear!” cried Daddy Coax. “What has naughty dolly done?”
“She won’t get into her fock. She will put her leg into the seeve of her
fock instead of her arm,” explained little spitfire; and bang! once more
went poor dolly’s face against the floor.
[Illustration]
“Naughty dolly! naughty dolly!” cried Daddy Coax indignantly, flicking
dolly with a corner of his handkerchief and then drawing a fine new doll
from his pocket, with red cheeks and shining round eyes. “There’s a good
dolly, a pretty dolly, with its arms in its sleeves.”
But little spitfire only snorted at sight of the new dolly, pushed away
the gentle hand that offered it, and went on banging the old doll upon
the floor.
Nothing that Daddy Coax could do would please the “little angels,” as he
called them.
“Little angels indeed!” thought Kitty severely. “They are little imps.”
One little girl tumbled on her nose as she was hastening along; she
picked herself up, and was giving her plump small figure a shake, when
Daddy Coax, with a cry and extended arms, rushed toward her, dropping a
slipper in his haste. At sight of this offer of sympathy the child
lifted her voice and howled bitterly.
“Oh, the darling lamb!” cried Daddy Coax, taking her into his arms. “Is
she hurt—where is she hurt? Show her old Daddy where she is hurt?”
“Ded—ful—ly hurt on this knee!” sobbed the little one, pulling up her
frock and displaying a plump rosy knee without a scratch. “No! it’s a
mistake—it’s on this one,” she explained with bitterer sobs, showing the
other knee, that was as unbruised and unscratched as its fellow.
“Yes, it’s a mistake,” chirped Daddy Coax joyously, clasping the little
one nearer.
“It—’s not—a—mistake—it’s my no—o—ose,” roared the child in a deluge of
tears, slapping the kind old man’s cheek, and struggling out of his
arms.
“Daddy Coax’s school should be called the place where children are
taught to be naughty,” Kitty remarked to herself.
At last Daddy Coax struggled up to the middle of the room. He set Kitty
standing on the table, and looked round on the children with his mild,
kind, foolish eyes. There was some thing almost like silence for a
moment; a crowd of small faces gazed at Kitty, who had never before felt
so many eyes fixed upon her.
“When a friend comes to see one,” said Daddy Coax cheerily, “what ought
we to do? We ought to make it pleasant, for a friend’s visit is better
than cakes and sugar-plums. This little girl—bless her—is a dear, good
little girl!”
“We don’t want her, then!” shouted a voice. And all the children
shouted: “We don’t want her! we don’t want her!”
“Hush! hush! naughty!” said Daddy Coax, putting up his finger and trying
to frown. “Little children are always good. They are little angels.”
“That’s not true. We are not good, and we don’t want to be!” shouted
these spoiled children.
Daddy Coax stood looking round upon them with a puzzled, helpless,
piteous expression and trembling lips, then he burst into his merry
laugh and said to Kitty, “There’s no flattering them.”
Taking out of his pocket his box of sugar-plums, “Look, look!” he went
on. “In honor of our guest I shall give you a comfit apiece.”
“Shall we tell her the stories of the pictures round the room?” asked
Daddy Coax after the distribution of lollipops, as the children were
smacking their lips and staring at Kitty.
“No!” they cried with a sucking sound.
“No! But she has not seen the pictures yet,” gently insisted Daddy Coax.
He pointed to one with his softly shaking finger. Kitty thought she had
seen that picture before. It was that of a little girl sitting alone
under the shadow of a great wood, her hands crossed upon her breast.
“She is so good, she is so innocent—bless her! The picture is called
after her the ‘Age of Innocence,’” said Daddy Coax. “All nature seems to
love her. She thinks as she goes out that the trees look at her, and the
birds come and sing to her in the early morning. The flowers tell her
what hour it is and what the weather will be. No animal or insect is
afraid of her. As she goes out round her head hovers a little cloud of
butterflies. She looks about her and wonders. The flocks of birds
passing away over her head to the north pole actually seem to come down
as she looks at them. Lovely things with the sunshine upon their backs—”
“That’s a dull story!” cried a boy’s voice.
“Dull story!”
“Dull story!” went round all the room.
“Shall we tell her the story of the kind child, who gives her bit of
cake to the hungry child, who is gentle also with the sick and the old,
and how the pretty robin lights upon her wrist, and its little whistle
seems to say, ‘I love you—I love you’?”
“Play the flute!” interrupted the same boy’s voice.
“Yes, the flute! the flute!” echoed the children in a chorus.
“They always like my flute,” Daddy Coax whispered to Kitty with a
pleased wink. “I don’t take it out often—for next to the children I love
my flute.”
He drew from his breast-pocket a flute with keys of ivory and wiped it
softly on his coat-sleeve. “I’ll play the lullaby of the wind to the
good children. The words and the music came into my head last night as
the wind rattled against my window-panes. Listen, I’ll sing you the
words first—that is, what the wind says through the flute to the good
children.”
Nodding his head on one side, with one finger up, swaying it softly to
the measure, in a thin cracked voice Daddy Coax hummed:
“When all the world is blind with sleep
And birds are silent in the trees,
Around the house I whisp’ring creep
And rustle in a rising breeze,
To make the music of your dreams
With twittling leaves and purling streams.
“But I can rise and I can roar,
Can hurl great waves upon the shore,
Bring shoals of buds and blossoms down,
And blow the country into town;
Can tear an oak tree from its root,
Or throstle through a fairy flute.”
“That’s enough! enough!” cried the children; but Daddy Coax went on,
marking the time with his finger and his head:
“I like to twist the creaking cowl
And rock the rooks and oust the owl,
And pringle-prangle through the wires
Of telegraphs—and blow up fires
For smiths and farriers, sturdy fellows,
Who catch and send me through the bellows.”
“Play the flute! the flute!” cried the children.
But Daddy Coax raised his uplifted finger and marked the measure more
impressively:
“But I can sing and whisper low
To those I love and those I know,
Till they may close their dreamy eyes
And think of being good and wise.
So now let every one sit still
And listen——”
“No—no—no!” interrupted a roar of voices. “Play the flute!—the flute!”
Daddy Coax laughed, gave his wig a pull, and put the flute to his lips.
He drew out a note—long, piercing, and sweet. The children paused to
listen. Daddy Coax swayed softly backward and forward; his eyes were
half-closed, his wig shoved over his left eyebrow; he tapped with his
toe, which went up and down to the tune. It was a pretty, tender melody
that seemed to wind in and out. The children were quite silent
listening. Something in Kitty’s heart that she had forgotten stirred
there—it was memory waking—that of her mother’s voice speaking to her as
in a dream. She had forgotten where she was, when she was suddenly
roused by a great noise.
The children were surrounding Daddy Coax, pulling his arms, clambering
up his back, getting around his legs to pull him down, as they shouted,
“Give us the flute!—give us the flute!”
But he held the flute out of their reach, shaking his head and saying:
“No, no, the little dears would break it. It is like a pretty bird; if
you break it, you kill it. When it is dead, it will sing no more.”
But the children continued to pull, to clamber, and to clamor.
“You naughty children, to hurt the kind old man!” cried Kitty, jumping
down from the table and coming to the rescue of Daddy Coax. Her efforts
to protect him were of no avail. The next moment the children tripped
him up. He fell down flat on the ground, and the flute was snatched from
his hand. There was a loud laugh—shouts of hurrah. Then Kitty saw two
boys fighting over the flute, and snap—it broke in their hands.
[Illustration: THE FIGHT FOR THE FLUTE.—Page 108.]
All at once the noise was interrupted, there came a scamper round and
round the room. The two stern women stood there among the children. How
they entered—by the door, or through the floor, or in by the windows, or
down by the chimney—Kitty could not tell. There they were, pouncing upon
the children, who were vainly dodging to escape them.
Daddy Coax struggled to his feet, battered, bruised, and in rags.
“Don’t take the little darlings to Punishment Land,” he said with his
whole heart in his voice. “Poor little angels, they did not mean it.
They did not know how Daddy Coax loved his flute.” He put up his hand
and wiped away a tear.
“Daddy Coax, if you did not spoil the children you would spare them many
a punishment,” said one of the stern women, stopping upon the threshold
and turning round to speak. She had a load of children tucked under each
arm. They might kick as much as they liked; it did not trouble her. She
held them tight as a vise.
“It was their fun. Indeed I liked it,” said Daddy Coax apologetically.
“Don’t put your foot into Punishment Land,” continued the stern woman.
“Once you were allowed in, and you nearly ruined the place. Take my word
for it, Daddy Coax, you are a goose, and the children know it. As for
you,” she went on, addressing Kitty, “you had better run away, or you
will be spoiled too.”
“Well, she is severe,” thought Kitty; “but she is right.”
She watched the old woman with the load of children under each arm
striding down a long road that led away from Daddy Coax’s door.
“That must be the way to Punishment Land. Oh! I should like to see that
land!” cried Kitty.
Daddy Coax, bruised, tattered, looking as if he had just come out of a
dreadful railway accident, was picking up, with trembling hands, the
fragments of his broken flute. Kitty ran to him, helped him in his
search; then led him gently back to his chair, threw her arms round his
neck, and gave him a kiss.
“Good-by, dear Daddy Coax, I am going to Punishment Land—just for a
peep.”
She heard him give an exclamation of remonstrance; but she would not
stop to listen. She ran out into the road.
[Illustration]
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