Mollie was very much excited, and for an excellent reason. Her Papa had
at last decided that it was about time that she and her Rubber-Doll,
Whistlebinkie, saw something of this great big beautiful world, and had
announced that in a few weeks they would all pack their trunks and set
sail for Europe. Mollie had always wanted to see Europe, where she had
been told Kings and Queens still wore lovely golden crowns instead of
hats, like the fairies in her story-book, and the people spoke all sorts
of funny languages, like French, and Spanish, and real live Greek. As
for Whistlebinkie, he did not care much where he went as long as he was
with Mollie, of whom like the rest of the family he was very fond.
"But," said he, when he was told of the coming voyage, "how about Mr.
Me?"
Now Mr. Me was a funny old gentleman who lived in a little red house not
far away from Mollie's home in the country. He claimed that his last
name was Me, but Mollie had always called him the Unwiseman because
there was so much he did not know, and so little that he was willing to
learn. The little girl loved him none the less for he was a very good
natured old fellow, and had for a long time been a play-mate of the two
inseparable companions, Mollie and Whistlebinkie. The latter by the way
was called Whistlebinkie because whenever he became excited he blew his
words through the small whistle in the top of his hat, instead of
speaking them gently with his mouth, as you and I would do.
"Why, we'll have to invite him to go along, too, if he can afford it,"
said Mollie. "Perhaps we'd better run down to his house now, and tell
him all about it."
"Guess-sweed-better," Whistlebinkie agreed through the top of his
beaver, as usual.
And so the little couple set off down the hill, and were fortunate
enough to find the old gentleman at home.
"Break it to him gently," whispered Whistlebinkie.
"I will," answered Mollie, under her breath, and then entering the
Unwiseman's house she greeted him cheerily. "Good Morning, Mr. Me," she
said.
"Is it?" asked the old gentleman, looking up from his newspaper which he
was reading upside-down. "I haven't tasted it yet. I never judge a day
till it's been cooked."
"Tasted it?" laughed Mollie. "Can't you tell whether a morning is good
or not without tasting it?"
"O I suppose you can if you want to," replied the Unwiseman. "If you
make up your mind to believe everything you see, why you can believe a
morning's good just by looking at it, but I prefer to taste mine before
I commit myself as to whether they are good or bad."
"Perfly-'bsoyd!" chortled Whistlebinkie through the top of his hat.
"What's that?" cried Mollie.
"Still talks through his hat, doesn't he," said the Unwiseman. "Must
think it's one of these follytones."
"Never-erd-o-sutcha-thing!" whistled Whistlebinkie. "What's a
follytone?"
"You _are_ a niggeramus," jeered the Unwiseman. "Ho! Never heard of a
follytone. Ain't he silly, Mollie?"
"I don't think I ever heard of one either, Mr. Unwiseman," said Mollie.
"Well-well-well," ejaculated the Unwiseman in great surprise. "Why a
follytone is one of those little boxes you have in the house with a
number like 7-2-3-J-Hokoben that you talk business into to some feller
off in Chicago or up in Boston. You just pour your words into the box
and they fall across a wire and go scooting along like lightning to this
person you're talkin' to."
"Oh," laughed Mollie. "You mean a telephone."
"I call 'em follytones," said the Unwiseman coolly. "Your voice sounds
so foolish over 'em. I never tried 'em but once"--here the old man began
to chuckle. "Somebody told me Philadelphia wanted me, and of course I
knew right away they were putting up a joke on me because I ain't never
met Philadelphia and Philadelphia ain't never met me, so I just got a
little squirt gun and filled it up with water and squirted it into the
box. I guess whoever was trying to make me believe he was Philadelphia
got a good soaking that time."
"I guess-smaybe-he-didn't," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"Well he didn't get me anyhow," snapped the Unwiseman. "You don't catch
me sending my voice to Philadelphia when the chances are I may need it
any minute around here to frighten burgulars away with. The idea of a
man's being so foolish as to send his voice way out to Chicago on a wire
with nobody to look after it, stumps me. But that ain't what we were
talking about."
"No," said Mollie gravely. "We were talking about tasting days. You said
you cooked them, I believe."
"That's what I said," said the Unwiseman.
"I never knew anybody else to do it," said Mollie. "What do you do it
for?"
"Because I find raw days very uncomfortable," explained the Unwiseman.
"I prefer fried-days."
"Everyday'll be Friday by and by," carolled Whistlebinkie.
"It will with me," said the old man. "I was born on a Friday, I was
never married on a Friday, and I dyed on Friday."
"You never died, did you?" asked Mollie.
"Of course I did," said the Unwiseman. "I used to have perfectly red
hair and I dyed it gray so that young people like old Squeaky-hat here
would have more respect for me."
"Do-choo-call-me-squeekyat!" cried Whistlebinkie angrily.
"All right, Yawpy-tile, I won't--only----" the Unwiseman began.
"Nor-yawpy-tile-neither," whistled Whistlebinkie, beginning to cry.
"Here, here!" cried the Unwiseman. "Stop your crying. Just because
you're made of rubber and are waterproof ain't any reason for throwing
tears on my floor. I won't have it. What do you want me to call you,
Wheezikid?"
"No," sobbed Whistlebinkie. "My name's--Whizzlebinkie."
"Very well then," said the Unwiseman. "Let it be Fizzledinkie----only
you must show proper respect for my gray hairs. If you don't I'll have
had all my trouble dyeing for nothing."
Whistlebinkie was about to retort, but Mollie perceiving only trouble
between her two little friends if they went on at this rate tried to
change the subject by going back to the original point of discussion.
"How do you taste a day to see if it's all right?" she asked.
"I stick my tongue out the window," said the Unwiseman, "and it's a good
thing to do. I remember once down at the sea-shore a young lady asked me
if I didn't think it was just a sweet day, and I stuck my tongue out of
the window and it was just as salt as it could be. Tasted like a pickle.
'No, ma'am, it ain't,' says I. 'Quite the opposite, it's quite briny,'
says I. If I'd said it was sweet she'd have thought I was as much of a
niggeramus as old Fizz----"
"Do you always read your newspaper upside-down?" Mollie put in hastily
to keep the Unwiseman from again hurting Whistlebinkie's feelings.
"Always," he replied. "I find it saves me a lot of money. You see the
paper lasts a great deal longer when you read it upside-down than when
you read it upside-up. Reading it upside-up you can go through a
newspaper in about a week, but when you read it upside-down it lasts
pretty nearly two months. I've been at work on that copy of the
_Gazette_ six weeks now and I've only got as far as the third column of
the second page from the end. I don't suppose I'll reach the news on the
first column of page one much before three weeks from next Tuesday. I
think it's very wasteful to buy a fresh paper every day when by reading
it upside-down backwards you can make the old one last two months."
"Do-bleeve-youkn-reada-tall," growled Whistlebinkie.
"What's that?" cried the old man.
"I-don't-be-lieve-you-can-read-at-all!" said Whistlebinkie.
"O as for that," laughed the old man, "I never said I could. I don't
take a newspaper to read anyhow. What's the use? Fill your head up with
a lot of stuff it's a trouble to forget."
"What _do_ you take it for?" asked Mollie, amazed at this confession.
"I'm collecting commas and Qs," said the Unwiseman. "I always was fond
of pollywogs and pug-dogs, and the commas are the living image of
pollywogs, and the letter Q always reminds me of a good natured pug-dog
sitting down with his back turned toward me. I've made a tally sheet of
this copy of the _Gazette_ and so far I've found nine thousand and
fifty-three commas, and thirty-nine pugs."
Whistlebinkie forgot his wrath in an explosion of mirth at this reply.
He fairly rolled on the floor with laughter.
"Don't be foolish, Fizzledinkie," said the Unwiseman severely. "A good Q
is just as good as a pug-dog. He's just as fat, has a fine curly tail
and he doesn't bite or keep you awake nights by barking at the moon or
make a nuisance of himself whining for chicken-bones while you are
eating dinner; and as far as the commas are concerned they're better
even than pollywogs, because they don't wiggle around so much or turn
into bull-frogs and splash water all over the place."
"There-raintenny-fleeson-cues-sneether," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"I didn't catch that," said the Unwiseman. "Talk through your nose just
once and maybe I'll be able to guess what you're trying to say."
"He says there are not any fleas on Qs," said Mollie with a reproving
glance at Whistlebinkie.
"As to that I can't say," said the Unwiseman. "I never saw any--but
anyhow I don't object to fleas on pug-dogs."
"You don't?" cried Mollie. "Why they're horrid, Mr. Unwiseman. They bite
you all up."
"Perfly-awful," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"You're wrong about that," said the Unwiseman. "They don't bite you at
all while they're on the pug-dog. It's only when they get on you that
they bite you. That's why I say I don't mind 'em on the pug-dogs. As
long as they stay there they don't hurt me."
Here the Unwiseman rose from his chair and walking across the room
opened a cupboard and taking out an old clay pipe laid it on one of the
andirons where a log was smouldering in the fire-place.
"I always feel happier when I'm smoking my pipe," he said resuming his
seat and smiling pleasantly at Mollie.
"Put it in the fire-place to warm it?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"Of course not, Stupid," replied the Unwiseman scornfully. "I put it in
the fire-place to smoke it. That's the cheapest and healthiest way to
smoke a pipe. I don't have to buy any tobacco to keep it filled, and as
long as I leave it over there on the andiron I don't get any of the
smoke up my nose or down my throat. I tried it the other way once and
there wasn't any fun in it that I could see. The smoke got in all my
flues and I didn't stop sneezing for a week. It was dreadful, and once
or twice I got scared and sent for the fire-engines to put me out. I was
so full of smoke it seemed to me I must be on fire. It wasn't so bad the
first time because the firemen just laughed and went away, but the
second time they came they got mad at what they called a second false
alarm and turned the hose on me. I tell you I was very much put out when
they did that, and since that time I've given up smoking that way. I
never wanted to be a chimney anyhow. What's the use? If you're going to
be anything of that sort it's a great deal better to be an oven so that
some kind cook-lady will keep filling you up with hot-biscuits, and
sponge-cake, and roast turkey."
"I should think so," said Mollie. "That's one of the nice things about
being a little girl----you're not expected to smoke."
"Well I don't know about that," said the Unwiseman. "Far as I can
remember I never was a little girl so I don't know what was expected of
me as such, but as far as I'm concerned I'm perfectly willing to let the
pipe get smoked in the fire-place, and keep my mouth for expressing
thoughts and eating bananas and eclairs with, and my throat for giving
three cheers on the Fourth of July, and swallowing apple pie. That's
what they were made for and hereafter that's what I'm going to use 'em
for. Where's Miss Flaxilocks?"
Miss Flaxilocks was Mollie's little friend and almost constant
companion, the French doll with the deepest of blue eyes and the richest
of golden hair from which she got her name.
"She couldn't come to-day," explained Mollie.
"Stoo-wexited," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"What's that?" asked the Unwiseman. "Sounds like a clogged-up
radiator."
"He means to say that she is too excited to come," said Mollie. "The
fact is, Mr. Unwiseman, we're all going abroad----"
"Abroad?" demanded the Unwiseman. "Where's that?"
"Hoh!" jeered Whistlebinkie. "Doesn't know where abroad is!"
"How should I know where abroad is?" retorted the Unwiseman. "I never
had any. What is it anyhow? A new kind of pie?"
"No," laughed Mollie. "Abroad is Europe, and England and----"
"And Swizz-izzer-land," put in Whistlebinkie.
"Swizz-what?" cried the Unwiseman.
"Switzerland," said Mollie. "It's Switzerland, Whistlebinkie."
"Thass-watised, Swizz-izzerland," said Whistlebinkie.
"What's the good of them?" asked the Unwiseman.
"O they're nice places to visit," said Mollie.
"Do you walk there?" asked the Unwiseman.
"No--of course not," said Mollie with a smile. "They're thousands of
miles away, across the ocean."
"Across the ocean?" ejaculated the Unwiseman. "Mercy! Ain't the ocean
that wet place down around New Jersey somewhere?"
"Yes," said Mollie. "The Atlantic Ocean."
"Humph!" said the Unwiseman. "How you going to get across? There ain't
any bridges over it, are there?"
"No indeed," said Mollie.
"Nor no trolleys?" demanded the Unwiseman.
Mollie's reply was a loud laugh, and Whistlebinkie whistled with glee.
"Going in a balloon, I suppose," sneered the Unwiseman. "That is all of
you but old Sizzerinktum here. I suppose he's going to try and jump
across. Smart feller, old Sizzerinktum."
"I ain't neither!" retorted Whistlebinkie.
"Ain't neither what--smart?" said the Unwiseman.
"No--ain't goin' to jump," said Whistlebinkie.
"Good thing too," observed the Unwiseman approvingly. "If you did you'd
bounce so high when you landed that _I_ don't believe you'd ever come
down."
"We're going in a boat," said Mollie. "Not a row boat nor a sail boat,"
she hastened to explain, "but a great big ocean steamer, large enough to
carry over a thousand people, and fast enough to cross in six days."
"Silly sort of business," said the Unwiseman. "What's the good of going
to Europe and Swazzoozalum--or whatever the place is--when you haven't
seen Albany or Troy, or New Rochelle and Yonkers, or Michigan and
Patterson?"
"O well," said Mollie, "Papa's tired and he's going to take a vacation
and we're all going along to help him rest, and Flaxilocks is so excited
about going back to Paris where she was born that I have had to keep her
in her crib all the time to keep her from getting nervous
procrastination."
"I see," said the Unwiseman. "But I don't see why if people are tired
they don't stay home and go to bed. That's the way to rest. Just lie in
bed a couple of days without moving."
"Yes," said Mollie. "But Papa needs the salt air to brace him up."
"What of it?" demanded the Unwiseman. "Can't you get salt air without
going across the ocean? Seems to me if you just fill up a pillow with
salt and sleep on that, the way you do on one of those pine-needle
pillows from the Dadirondacks, you'd get all the salt air you wanted, or
build a salt cellar under your house and run pipes from it up to your
bedroom to carry the air through."
"It wouldn't be the same, at all," said Mollie. "Besides we're going to
see the Alps."
"Oh--that's different. Of course if you're going to see the Alps that's
very different," said the Unwiseman. "I wouldn't mind seeing an Alp or
two myself. I always was interested in animals. I've often wondered why
they never had any Alps at the Zoo."
"I guess they're too big to bring over," said Mollie gravely.
"Maybe so, but even then if they catch 'em young I don't see," began the
Unwiseman.
Whistlebinkie's behavior at this point was such that Mollie, fearing a
renewal of the usual quarrel between her friends ran hastily on to the
object of their call and told the Unwiseman that they had come to bid
him good-bye.
"I wish you were going with us," she said as she shook the old
gentleman's hand.
"Thank you very much," he replied. "I suppose it would be nice, but I
have too many other things to attend to and I don't see how I could
spare the time. In the first place I've got all those commas and Qs to
look after, and then if I went away there'd be nobody around to see that
my pipe was smoked every day, or to finish up my newspaper. Likewise
also too in addition the burgulars might get into my house some night
while I was away and take the wrong things because I haven't been able
yet to let 'em know just what I'm willing to have 'em run off with, so
you see how badly things would get mixed if I went away."
"I suppose they would," sighed Mollie.
"There'd be nobody here to exercise my umbrella on wet days, either,"
continued the old gentleman, "or to see that the roof leaked just right,
or to cook my meals and eat 'em. No--I don't just see how I _could_
manage it." And so the old gentleman bade his visitors good-bye.
[Illustration: "TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, FIZZLEDINKIE, AND DON'T BLOW TOO
MUCH THROUGH THE TOP OF YOUR HAT"]
"Take care of yourself, Fizzledinkie," he observed to Whistlebinkie,
"and don't blow too much through the top of your hat. I've heard of
boats being upset by sudden squalls, and you might get the whole party
in trouble by the careless use of that hat of yours."
Mollie and her companion with many waves of their hands back at the
Unwiseman made off up the road homeward. The old gentleman gazed after
them thoughtfully for awhile, and then returned to his work on his
newspaper.
"Queer people--some of 'em," he muttered as he cut out his ninety-ninth
Q and noted the ten-thousand-six-hundred-and-thirty-eighth comma on his
pollywog tally sheet. "Mighty queer. With a country of their own right
outside their front door so big that they couldn't walk around it in
less than forty-eight hours, they've got to go abroad just to see an old
Alp cavorting around in Whizzizalum or whatever else that place
Whistlebinkie was trying to talk about is named. I'd like to see an Alp
myself, but after all as long as there's plenty of elephants and
rhinoceroses up at the Zoo what's the good of chasing around after other
queer looking beasts getting your feet wet on the ocean, and having your
air served up with salt in it?"
And as there was nobody about to enlighten the old gentleman on these
points he went to bed that night with his question unanswered.