The Joyous Story
of
TOTO.
by
LAURA E. RICHARDS.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. H. GARRETT._
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1885.
_Copyright, 1885_,
By Roberts Brothers.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
_TO MY CHILDREN_
This Story
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
CHAPTER I.
TOTO was a little boy, and his grandmother
was an old woman (I have noticed that
grandmothers are very apt to be old women); and
this story is about both of them. Now, whether
the story be true or not you must decide for yourselves;
and the child who finds this out will be
wiser than I.
Toto’s grandmother lived in a little cottage far
from any town, and just by the edge of a thick
wood; and Toto lived with her, for his father
and mother were dead, and the old woman was
the only relation he had in the world.
The cottage was painted red, with white window-casings,
and little diamond-shaped panes of
glass in the windows. Up the four walls grew a
red rose, a yellow rose, a woodbine, and a clematis;
and they all met together at the top, and
fought and scratched for the possession of the top
of the chimney, from which there was the finest
view; so foolish are these vegetables.
Inside the cottage there was a big kitchen, with
a great open fireplace, in which a bright fire
was always crackling; a floor scrubbed white and
clean; a dresser with shining copper and tin
dishes on it; a table, a rocking-chair for the
grandmother, and a stool for Toto. There were
two bedrooms and a storeroom, and perhaps another
room; and there was a kitchen closet,
where the cookies lived. So now you know all
about the inside of the cottage. Outside there
was a garden behind and a bit of green in front,
and three big trees; and that is all there is to
tell.
As for Toto, he was a curly-haired fellow, with
bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and a mouth that
was always laughing.
His grandmother was the best grandmother in
the world, I have been given to understand,
though that is saying a great deal, to be sure.
She was certainly a very good, kind old body; and
she had pretty silver curls and pink cheeks, as
every grandmother should have. There was only
one trouble about her; but that was a very serious
one,—she was blind.
Her blindness did not affect Toto much; for
he had never known her when she was not blind,
and he supposed it was a peculiarity of grandmothers
in general. But to the poor old lady
herself it was a great affliction, though she bore
it, for the most part, very cheerfully. She was
wonderfully clever and industrious; and her fingers
seemed, in many ways, to see better than
some people’s eyes. She kept the cottage always
as neat as a new pin. She was an excellent cook,
too, and made the best gingerbread and cookies
in the world. And she knit—oh! how she _did_
knit!—stockings, mittens, and comforters; comforters,
mittens, and stockings: all for Toto.
Toto wore them out very fast; but he could
not keep up with his grandmother’s knitting.
Clickety click, clickety clack, went the shining
needles all through the long afternoons, when
Toto was away in the wood; and nothing answered
the needles, except the tea-kettle, which
always did its best to make things cheerful. But
even in her knitting there were often trials for
the grandmother. Sometimes her ball rolled off
her lap and away over the floor; and then the
poor old lady had a hard time of it groping about
in all the corners (there never was a kitchen that
had so many corners as hers), and knocking her
head against the table and the dresser.
The kettle was always much troubled when
anything of this sort happened. He puffed
angrily, and looked at the tongs. “If _I_ had legs,”
he said, “I would make some use of them, even
if they _were_ awkward and ungainly. But when a
person is absolutely _all_ head and legs, it is easy
to understand that he should have no heart.”
The tongs never made any reply to these
remarks, but stood stiff and straight, and pretended
not to hear.
But the grandmother had other troubles beside
dropping her ball. Toto was a very good boy,—better,
in fact, than most boys,—and he loved his
grandmother very much indeed; but he was forgetful,
as every child is. Sometimes he forgot
this, and sometimes that, and sometimes the
other; for you see his heart was generally in the
forest, and his head went to look after it; and
that often made trouble. He always _meant_ to get
before he went to the forest everything that his
grandmother could possibly want while he was
away. Wood and water he never forgot, for he
always brought those in before breakfast. But
sometimes the brown potatoes sat waiting in the
cellar closet, with their jackets all buttoned up,
wondering why they were not taken out, as their
brothers had been the day before, and put in a
wonderful wicker cage, and carried off to see the
great world. And the yellow apples blushed with
anger and a sense of neglect; while the red apples
turned yellow with vexation. And sometimes,—well,
sometimes _this_ sort of thing would happen:
one day the old lady was going to make some
gingerbread; for there was not a bit in the house,
and Toto could _not_ live without gingerbread. So
she said, “Toto, go to the cupboard and get me
the ginger-box and the soda, that’s a good
boy!”
Now, Toto was standing in the doorway when
his grandmother spoke, and just at that moment
he caught sight of a green lizard on a stone at a
little distance. He wanted very much to catch
that lizard; but he was an obedient boy, and
always did what “Granny” asked him to do. So
he ran to the cupboard, still keeping one eye on
the lizard outside, seized a box full of something
yellow and a bag full of something white,
and handed them to his grandmother. “There,
Granny,” he cried, “that’s ginger, and _that’s_
soda. Now may I go? There’s a lizard—” and
he was off like a flash.
“Oh, oh! what a dreadful face he made!”
Well, Granny made the gingerbread, and at tea-time
in came Master Toto, quite out of breath,
having chased the lizard about twenty-five miles
(so he said, and he ought to know), and hungry as
a hunter. He sat down, and ate his bread-and-milk
first, like a good boy; and then he pounced
upon the gingerbread, and took a huge bite out
of it. Oh, oh! what a dreadful face he made!
He gave a wild howl, and jumping up from
the table, danced up and down the room, crying,
“Oh! what _nasty_ stuff! Oh, Granny, how _could_
you make such horrid gingerbread? Br-r-rr! oh,
dear! I never, never, _never_ tasted anything so
horrid.”
The poor old lady was quite aghast. “My dear
boy,” she said, “I made it just as usual. You
must be mistaken. Let me—” and then _she_ tasted
the gingerbread.
Well, she did not get up and dance, but she
came very near it. “What does this mean?” she
cried. “I made it just as usual. What can it be?
Ah!” she added, a new thought striking her.
“Toto, bring me the ginger and the soda; bring
just what you brought me this afternoon. Quick!
don’t stop to examine the boxes; bring the same
ones.”
Toto, wondering, brought the box full of something
yellow, and the bag full of something white.
His grandmother tasted the contents of both,
and then she leaned back in her chair and laughed
heartily. “My dear little boy,” she said, “you
think I am a very good cook, and I myself think
I am not a very bad one; but I certainly can_not_
make good gingerbread with mustard and salt
instead of ginger and soda!”
Toto thought there _were_ some disadvantages
about being blind, after all; and after that his
grandmother always tasted the ingredients before
she began to cook.
Now, it happened one day that the grandmother
was sitting in the sun before the cottage door,
knitting; and as she knitted, from time to time
she heaved a deep sigh. And one of those sighs is
the reason why this story is written; for if the
grandmother had not sighed, and Toto had not
heard her, none of the funny things that I am
going to tell you would have happened. Moral:
always sigh when you want a story written.
Toto was just coming home from the wood,
where he had been spending the afternoon, as
usual. As he came round the corner of the cottage
he heard his grandmother sigh deeply, as if
she were very sad about something; and this
troubled Toto, for he was an affectionate little
boy, and loved his grandmother dearly.
“Why, Granny!” he cried, running up to her
and throwing his arms round her neck. “Dear
Granny, why do you sigh so? What is the matter?
Are you ill?”
The grandmother shook her head, and wiped a
tear from her sightless eyes. “No, dear little
boy!” she said. “No, I am not ill; but I am very
lonely. It’s a solitary life here, though you are
too young to feel it, Toto, and I am very glad of
that. But I do wish, sometimes, that I had some
one to talk to, who could tell me what is going on
in the world. It is a long time since any one has
been here. The travelling pedler comes only once
a year, and the last time he came he had a toothache,
so that he could not talk. Ah, deary me!
it’s a solitary life.” And the grandmother shook
her head again, and went on with her knitting.
Toto had listened to this with his eyes very
wide open, and his mouth very tight shut; and
when his grandmother had finished speaking, he
went and sat down on a stone at a little distance,
and began to think very hard. His grandmother
was lonely. The thought had never occurred to
him before. It had always seemed as natural for
her to stay at home and knit and make cookies,
as for him to go to the wood. He supposed all
grandmothers did so. He wondered how it felt
to be lonely; he thought it must be very unpleasant.
_He_ was never lonely in the wood.
“But then,” he said to himself, “I have all my
friends in the wood, and Granny has none. Very
likely if I had no friends I should be lonely too.
I wonder what I can do about it.”
Then suddenly a bright idea struck him.
“Why,” he thought,—“why should not my friends
be Granny’s friends too? They are very amusing,
I am sure. Why should I not bring them to see
Granny, and let them talk to her? She _couldn’t_
be lonely then. I’ll go and see them this minute,
and tell them all about it. I’m sure they will
come.”
Full of his new idea, the boy sprang to his feet,
and ran off in the direction of the wood. The
grandmother called to him, “Toto! Toto! where
are you going?” but he did not hear her. The
good woman shook her head and went on with her
knitting. “Let the dear child amuse himself as
much as he can now. There’s little enough
amusement in life.”
But Toto was not thinking of his own amusement
this time. He ran straight to the wood, and
entered it, threading his way quickly among the
trees, as if he knew every step of the way, which,
indeed, he did. At length, after going some way,
he reached an open space, with trees all round it.
Such a pretty place! The ground was carpeted
with softest moss, into which the boy’s feet sunk
so deep that they were almost covered; and all
over the moss were sprinkled little star-shaped pink
flowers. The trees stood back a little from this
pretty place, as I said; but their long branches met
overhead, as they bent over to look down into—what
do you think?—the loveliest little pool of
water that ever was seen, I verily believe. A tiny
pool, as round as if a huge giant had punched a
hole for it with the end of his umbrella or walking-stick,
and as clear as crystal. The edge of the
pool was covered all round with plants and flowers,
which seemed all to be trying to get a peep into
the clear brown water. I have heard that these
flowers growing round the pool had become excessively
vain through looking so constantly at
their own reflection, and that they gave themselves
insufferable airs in consequence; but as this
was only said by the flowers which did _not_ grow
near the pool, perhaps it was a slight exaggeration.
They were certainly very pretty flowers, and I
never wondered at their wanting to look at themselves.
You see I have been in the wood, and
know all about it.
It was in this pretty place that Toto stopped.
He sat down on a great cushion of moss near the
pool, and began to whistle. Presently he heard
a rustling in the tree-tops above his head. He
stopped whistling and looked up expectantly. A
beechnut fell plump on his nose, and he saw the
sharp black eyes of a gray squirrel peering at him
through the leaves.
“Hello, Toto!” said the squirrel. “Back again
already? What’s the matter?”
“Come down here, and I’ll tell you,” said
Toto.
The squirrel took a flying leap, and alighted
on Toto’s shoulder. At the same moment a
louder rustling was heard, among the bushes this
time, a sound of cracking and snapping twigs, and
presently a huge black bear poked his nose out of
the bushes, and sniffed inquiringly. “What’s
up?” he asked. “I thought you fellows had
gone home for the night, and I was just taking
a nap.”
“So we had,” said Toto; “but I came back
because I had something important to say. I
want to see you all on business. Where are the
others?”
“Well,” said Toto, “it’s about my grandmother.”
“Coon will be here in a minute,” answered
the bear. “He stopped to eat the woodchuck’s
supper. Chucky was so sound asleep it seemed
a pity to miss such an opportunity. The birds
have all flown away except the wood-pigeon, and
she told me she would come as soon as she had
fed her young ones. What’s your business,
Toto?” and Bruin sat down in a very comfortable
attitude, and prepared to listen.
“Well,” said Toto, “it’s about my grandmother.
You see, she—oh! here’s Coon! I’ll wait for
him.” As he spoke, a large raccoon came out
into the little dell. He was very handsome, with
a most beautiful tail, but he looked sly and lazy.
He winked at Toto, by way of greeting, and sat
down by the pool, curling his tail round his legs,
and then looking into the water to see if the
effect was good. At the same moment a pretty
wood-pigeon fluttered down, with a soft “Coo!”
and settled on Toto’s other shoulder.
“Now then!” said the squirrel, flicking the
boy’s nose with his tail, “go on, and tell us all
about it!”
So Toto began again. “My grandmother, you
see: she is blind; and she’s all alone most of the
time when I’m out here playing with all of you,
and it makes her lonely.”
“Lonely! What’s that?” asked the raccoon.
“I know what it is!” said the bear. “It’s
when there aren’t any blueberries, and you’ve
hurt your paw so that you can’t climb. It’s a
horrid feeling. Isn’t that it, Toto?”
“N-no, not exactly,” said Toto, “for my grandmother
never climbs trees, anyhow. She hasn’t
anybody to talk to, or listen to; nobody comes to
see her, and she doesn’t know what is going
on in the world. That’s what she means by
‘lonely.’”
“Humph!” said the raccoon, waving his tail
thoughtfully. “Why don’t you both come and
live in the wood? She couldn’t be lonely here, you
know; and it would be very convenient for us all.
I know a nice hollow tree that I could get for you
not far from here. A wild-cat lives in it now, but
if your grandmother doesn’t like wild-cats, the
bear can easily drive him away. He’s a disagreeable
fellow, and we shall be glad to get rid of him
and have a pleasanter neighbor. Does—a—does
your grandmother scratch?”
“No, certainly not!” said Toto indignantly.
“She is the best grandmother in the world.
She never scratched anybody in her life, I am
sure.”
“No offence, no offence,” said the raccoon.
“_My_ grandmother scratched, and I thought yours
might. Most of them do, in my experience.”
“Besides,” Toto went on, “she wouldn’t like
at all to live in a hollow tree. She is not used to
that way of living, you see. Now, _I_ have a plan,
and I want you all to help me in it. In the
morning Granny is busy, so she has not time to
be lonely. It’s only in the afternoon, when she
sits still and knits. So I say, why shouldn’t you
all come over to the cottage in the afternoon, and
talk to Granny instead of talking here to each
other? I don’t mean _every_ afternoon, of course,
but two or three times a week. She would enjoy
the stories and things as much as I do; and she
would give you gingerbread, I’m sure she would;
and perhaps jam too, if you were _very_ good.”
“What’s gingerbread?” asked the bear. “And
what’s jam? You do use such queer words sometimes,
Toto.”
“Gingerbread?” said Toto. “Oh, it’s—well,
it’s—why, it’s _gingerbread_, you know. You don’t
have anything exactly like it, so I can’t exactly
tell you. But there’s molasses in it, and ginger,
and things; it’s good, anyhow, very good. And
jam—well, jam is sweet, something like honey,
only better. You will like it, I know, Bruin.
“Well, what do you all say? Will you come
and try it?”
The bear looked at the raccoon; the raccoon
looked at the squirrel; and the squirrel looked at
the wood-pigeon. The pretty, gentle bird had
not spoken before; but now, seeing all the other
members of the party undecided, she answered
quietly and softly, “Yes, Toto; I will come, and
I am sure the others will, for they are all good
creatures. You are a dear boy, and we shall all
be glad to give pleasure to you or your grandmother.”
The other creatures all nodded approval to the
wood-pigeon’s little speech, and Toto gave a sigh
of relief and satisfaction. “That is settled, then,”
he said. “Thank you, dear pigeon, and thank
you all. Now, when will you come? To-morrow
afternoon? The sooner the better, I think.”
The raccoon looked critically at his reflection in
the water. “Chucky bit my ear yesterday,” he
said, “and it doesn’t look very well for making
visits. Suppose we wait till it is healed over.
Nothing like making a good impression at first,
you know.”
“Nonsense, Coon!” growled the bear. “You
are always thinking about your looks. I never
saw such a fellow. Let us go to-morrow if we
are going.”
“Besides,” said Toto, laughing, “Granny is
blind, and will not know whether you have any
ears or not, Master Coon. So I shall expect you
all to-morrow. Good-by, all, and thank you very
much.” And away ran Toto, and away went all
the rest to get their respective suppers.
CHAPTER II.
“GRANNY,” said Toto the next day, when the
afternoon shadows began to lengthen, “I
am expecting some friends here this afternoon.”
“Some friends, Toto!” exclaimed his grandmother
in astonishment. “My dear boy, what
friend have you in the world except your old
Granny? You are laughing at me.”
“No, I am not, Granny,” said the boy. “Of
course you are the _best_ friend, very much the
best; but I have some other very good ones.
And I have told them about your being lonely,”
he went on hurriedly, glancing towards the wood,
“and they are coming to see you this afternoon,
to talk to you and tell you stories. In fact, I
think I hear one of them coming now.”
“But _who are they_?” cried the astonished old
woman, putting her hand up at the same time to
settle her cap straight, and smoothing her apron,
in great trepidation at the approach of these unexpected
visitors.
“Oh,” said Toto, “they are—here is one of
them!” and he ran to meet the huge bear, who at
that moment made his appearance, walking slowly
and solemnly towards the cottage. He seemed ill
at ease, and turned frequently to look back, in
hopes of seeing his companions.
“Grandmother, this is my friend Bruin!” said
Toto, leading the bear up to the horrified old lady.
“I am very fond of Bruin,” he added, “and I
hope you and he will be great friends. He tells
the most _delightful_ stories.”
Poor Granny made a trembling courtesy, and
Bruin stood up on his hind-legs and rocked slowly
backwards and forwards, which was the nearest
approach he could make to a bow. (N. B. He
looked so very formidable in this attitude, that if
the old lady had seen him, she would certainly
have fainted away. But she did not see, and
Toto was used to it, and saw nothing out of the
way in it.)
“Your servant, ma’am,” said the bear. “I hope
I see you well.”
Granny courtesied again, and replied in a faltering
voice, “Quite well, thank you, Mr. Bruin. It’s—it’s
a fine day, sir.”
“It is indeed!” said the bear with alacrity. “It
is a _very_ fine day. I was just about to make the
same remark myself. I—don’t know when I
have seen a finer day. In fact, I don’t believe
there ever _was_ a finer day. A—yesterday was—a—_not_
a fine day. A—
“Look here!” he added, in a low growl, aside
to Toto, “I can’t stand much more of this. Where
is Coon? He knows how to talk to people, and I
don’t. I’m not accustomed to it. Now, when I
go to see _my_ grandmother, I take her a good
bone, and she hits me on the head by way of saying
thank you, and that’s all. I have a bone
somewhere about me now,” said poor Bruin hesitatingly,
“but I don’t suppose she—eh?”
“No, certainly not!” replied Toto promptly.
“Not upon any account. And here’s Coon now,
and the others too, so you needn’t make any
more fine speeches.”
Bruin, much relieved, sat down on his haunches,
and watched the approach of his companions.
The raccoon advanced cautiously, yet with a
very jaunty air. The squirrel was perched on his
back, and the wood-pigeon fluttered about his head,
in company with a very distinguished-looking gray
parrot, with a red tail; while behind came a fat
woodchuck, who seemed scarcely more than half-awake.
The creatures all paid their respects to Toto’s
grandmother, each in his best manner; the raccoon
professed himself charmed to make her acquaintance.
“It is more than a year,” he said,
“since I had the pleasure of meeting your accomplished
grandson. I have esteemed it a high privilege
to converse with him, and have enjoyed his
society immensely. Now that I have the further
happiness of becoming acquainted with his elegant
and highly intellectual progenitress, I feel that I
am indeed most fortunate. I—”
But here Toto broke in upon the stream of eloquence.
“Oh, _come_, Coon!” he cried, “your
politeness is as bad as Bruin’s shyness. Why
can’t we all be jolly, as we usually are? You need
not be afraid of Granny.
“Come,” he continued, “let us have our story.
We can all sit down in a circle, and fancy ourselves
around the pool. Whose turn is it to-day? Yours,
isn’t it, Cracker?”
“No,” said the squirrel. “It is Coon’s turn.
I told my story yesterday.”
“You see, Granny,” said Toto, turning to his
grandmother, “we take turns in telling stories,
every afternoon. It is _such_ fun! you’d like to
hear a story, wouldn’t you, Granny?”
“Very much indeed!” replied the good woman.
“Will you take a chair, Mr.—Mr. Coon?” she
asked.
“Thank you, no,” replied the raccoon graciously.
“My mother earth shall suffice me.”
And sitting down, he curled up his tail in a
very effective manner, and looked about him
meditatively, as if in search of a subject for his
story.
“My natural diffidence,” he said, “will render
it a difficult task, but still—”
“Oh yes, we know!” said the squirrel. “Your
natural diffidence is a fine thing. Go ahead, old
fellow!”
At this moment Mr. Coon’s sharp eyes fell upon
the poultry-yard, on the fence of which a fine
Shanghai cock was sitting. His face lighted up,
as if an idea had just struck him. “That is a very
fine rooster, madam!” he said, addressing the
grandmother,—“a remarkably fine bird. That
bird, madam, reminds me strongly of the Golden-breasted
Kootoo.”
“And what is the Golden-breasted Kootoo?”
asked the grandmother.
The raccoon smiled, and looked slyly round
upon his auditors, who had all assumed comfortable
attitudes of listening, sure that the story was
now coming.
“The story of the Golden-breasted Kootoo,” he
said, “was told to me several years ago by a distinguished
foreigner, a learned and highly accomplished
magpie, who formerly resided in this
vicinity, but who is now, unhappily, no longer in
our midst.”
“That’s a good one, that is!” whispered the
wood chuck to Toto. “He ate that magpie about
a year ago; said he loved her so much he couldn’t
help it. What a fellow he is!”
“Hush!” said Toto. “He’s beginning!”
And Mr. Coon, dropping his airs and graces,
told his story in tolerably plain language, as
follows:—
THE GOLDEN-BREASTED KOOTOO.
Once upon a time—and a good time it was—there
lived a king. I do not know exactly what
his name was, or just where he lived; but it doesn’t
matter at all: his kingdom was somewhere between
Ashantee and Holland, and his name sounded a
little like Samuel, and a little like Dolabella, and a
good deal like Chimborazo, and yet it was not quite
any of them. But, as I said before, it doesn’t matter.
We will call him the King, and that will be
all that is necessary, as there is no other king in
the story.
This King was very fond of music; in fact, he
was excessively fond of it. He kept four bands of
music playing all day long. The first was a brass
band, the second was a string band, the third was
a rubber band, and the fourth was a man who
played on the jews-harp. (Some people thought
he ought not to be called a band, but he said he
was all the jews-harp band there was, and that was
very true.) The four bands played all day long
on the four sides of the grand courtyard, and the
king sat on a throne in the middle and transacted
affairs of state. And when His Majesty went to
bed at night, the grand chamberlain wound up a
musical-box that was in his pillow, and another one
in the top bureau-drawer, and they played “The
Dog’s-meat Man” and “Pride of the Pirate’s
Heart” till daylight did appear.
One day it occurred to the King that it would be
an excellent plan for him to learn to sing. He
wondered that he had never thought of it before.
“You see,” he said, “it would amuse me very much
to sing while I am out hunting. I cannot take the
bands with me to the forest, for they would frighten
away the wild beasts; and I miss my music very
much on such occasions. Yes, decidedly, I will
learn to sing.”
“Take this man and behead him!” said the King.
So he sent for the Chief Musician, and
ordered him to teach him to sing. The Chief
Musician was delighted, and said they would begin
at once. So he sat down at the piano, and struck
a note. “O King,” he said, “please sing this
note.” And the King sang, in a loud, deep voice,
The Chief Musician was enchanted.
“Superb!” he cried. “Magnificent!
Now, O King, please to sing _this_ note!” and he
struck another note:
The King sang,
in a loud, deep voice,
The Chief Musician looked grave.
“O King,” he said, “you did not quite understand
me. We will try another note.” And he
struck another:
The King sang, in
a loud, deep voice,
The Chief Musician looked dejected.
“I fear, O King,” he said, “that you can never
learn to sing.” “What do you mean by that,
Chief Musician?” asked the King. “It is your
business to teach me to sing. Do you not know
how to teach?” “No man knows better,” replied
the Chief Musician. “But Your Majesty has
no ear for music. You never can sing but one
note.”
At these words the King grew purple in the face.
He said nothing, for he was a man of few words;
but he rang a large bell, and an executioner appeared.
“Take this man and behead him!” said
the King. “And send me the Second Musician!”
The Second Musician came, looking very grave,
for he had heard the shrieks of his unhappy superior
as he was dragged off to execution, and he had
no desire to share his fate. He bowed low, and
demanded His Majesty’s pleasure. “Teach me to
sing!” said His Majesty. So the Second Musician
sat down at the piano, and tried several notes, just
as the Chief Musician had done, and with the same
result. Whatever note was struck, the King still
sang,
Now the Second Musician was a quick-witted
fellow, and he saw in a moment what the trouble
had been with his predecessor, and saw, too, what
great peril he was in himself. So he assumed a
look of grave importance, and said solemnly,
“O King, this is a very serious matter. I cannot
conceal from you that there are great obstacles in
the way of your learning to sing—” The King
looked at the bell. “But,” said the Second Musician,
“they can be overcome.” The King looked
away again. “I beg,” said the Second Musician,
“for twenty-four hours’ time for consideration. At
the end of that time I shall have decided upon the
best method of teaching; and I am bound to say
this to Your Majesty, that if you learn to sing—”
“What?” said the King, looking at the bell
again. “That when you learn to sing,” said the
Second Musician hastily,—“_when_ you learn to
sing, your singing will be like no other that has
ever been heard.” This pleased the King, and he
graciously accorded the desired delay.
Accordingly the Second Musician took his leave
with great humility, and spent all that night and
the following day plunged in the deepest thought.
As soon as the twenty-four hours had elapsed he
again appeared before the King, who was awaiting
him impatiently, sitting on the music-stool.
“Well?” said the King. “Quite well, O King, I
thank you,” replied the Second Musician, “though
somewhat fatigued by my labors.” “Pshaw!”
said the King impatiently. “Have you found a
way of teaching me to sing?” “I have, O King,”
replied the Second Musician solemnly; “but it is
not an easy way. Nevertheless it is the only one.”
The King assured him that money was no object,
and begged him to unfold his plan. “In order to
learn to sing,” said the Second Musician, “you
must eat a pie composed of all the singing-birds in
the world. In this way only can the difficulty
of your having no natural ear for music be overcome.
If a single bird is omitted, or if you do not
consume the whole pie, the charm will have no
effect. I leave Your Majesty to judge of the
difficulty of the undertaking.”
Difficulty? The King would not admit that
there was such a word. He instantly summoned
his Chief Huntsman, and ordered him to send
other huntsmen to every country in the world, to
bring back a specimen of every kind of singing-bird.
Accordingly, as there were sixty countries
in the world at that time, sixty huntsmen started
off immediately, fully armed and equipped.
After they were gone, the King, who was very
impatient, summoned his Wise Men, and bade
them look in all the books, and find out how
many kinds of singing-birds there were in the
world. The Wise Men all put their spectacles
on their noses, and their noses into their books,
and after studying a long time, and adding up
on their slates the number of birds described in
each book, they found that there were in all nine
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine varieties
of singing-birds.
They made their report to the King, and he
was rather troubled by it; for he remembered
that the Second Musician had said he must eat
every morsel of the pie himself, or the charm
would have no effect. It would be a _very_ large
pie, he thought, with nine thousand nine hundred
and ninety-nine birds in it. “The only way,” he
said to himself, “will be for me to eat as little as
possible until the huntsmen come back; then I
shall be very hungry. I have never been _very_
hungry in my life, so there is no knowing how
much I could eat if I were.” So the King ate
nothing from one week’s end to another, except
bread and dripping; and by the time the huntsmen
returned he was so thin that it was really
shocking.
At last, after a long time, the sixty huntsmen
returned, laden down with huge bags, the contents
of which they piled up in a great heap in the
middle of the courtyard. A mountain of birds!
Such a thing had never been seen before. The
mountain was so high that everybody thought the
full number of birds must be there; and the Chief
Cook began to make his preparations, and sent to
borrow the garden roller from John the gardener,
as his own was not big enough to roll out such a
quantity of paste.
The King and the Wise Men next proceeded to
count the birds. But alas! what was their sorrow
to find that the number fell short by one! They
counted again and again; but it was of no use:
there were only nine thousand nine hundred and
ninety-eight birds in the pile.
The next thing was to find out what bird was
missing. So the Wise Men sorted all the birds,
and compared them with the pictures in the books,
and studied so hard that they wore out three pairs
of spectacles apiece; and at last they discovered
that the missing bird was the “Golden breasted
Kootoo.” The chief Wise Man read aloud from
the biggest book:—
“The Golden-breasted Kootoo, the most beautiful
and the most melodious of singing birds,
is found only in secluded parts of the Vale of
Coringo. Its plumage is of a brilliant golden
yellow, except on the back, where it is streaked
with green. Its beak is—”
“There! there!” interrupted the King impatiently;
“never mind about its beak. Tell the
Lord Chamberlain to pack my best wig and a clean
shirt, and send them after me by a courier; and,
Chief Huntsman, follow me. We start this moment
for the Vale of Coringo!”
“He rode on horseback, and was accompanied only by the Chief Huntsman and the jews-harp band.”
And actually, if you will believe it, the King
_did_ start off in less than an hour from the counting
of the birds. He rode on horseback, and was accompanied
only by the Chief Huntsman and the
jews-harp band, the courier being obliged to wait
for the King’s best wig to be curled.
The poor Band had a hard time of it; for he
had a very frisky horse, and found it extremely
difficult to manage the beast with one hand and
hold the jews-harp with the other; but the King,
with much ingenuity, fastened the head of the
horse to the tail of his own steady cob, thereby
enabling the musician to give all his attention to
his instrument. The music was a trifle jerky at
times; but what of that? It was music, and the
King was satisfied.
They rode night and day, and at length arrived
at the Vale of Coringo, and took lodgings at
the principal hotel. The King was very weary,
as he had been riding for a week without stopping.
So he went to bed at once, and slept for
two whole days.
“Seizing his gun, he hastily descended the stairs.”
On the morning of the third day he was roused
from a wonderful dream (in which he was singing
a duet with the Golden-breasted Kootoo, to a
jews-harp accompaniment) by the sound of music.
The King sat up in bed, and listened. It was a
bird’s song that he heard, and it seemed to come
from the vines outside his window. But what a
song it was! And what a bird it must be that
could utter such wondrous
sounds! He listened,
too enchanted to
move, while the magical
song swelled louder
and clearer, filling the
air with melody.
At last
he rose, and
crept softly
to the window.
There,
on a swinging vine, sat a beautiful bird, all golden
yellow, with streaks of green on its back. It was
the Golden-breasted Kootoo! There could be no
doubt about it, even if its marvellous song had
not announced it as the sweetest singer of the
whole world. Very quietly, but trembling with
excitement, the King put on his slippers and his
flowered dressing-gown, and seizing his gun, he
hastily descended the stairs.
It was early dawn, and nobody was awake in
the hotel except the Boots, who was blacking his
namesakes in the back hall. He saw the King
come down, and thought he had come to get his
boots; but the monarch paid no attention to him,
quietly unbolted the front door, and slipped out
into the garden. Was he too late? Had the
bird flown? No, the magic song still rose from
the vines outside his chamber-window. But even
now, as the King approached, a fluttering was
heard, and the Golden-breasted Kootoo, spreading
its wings, flew slowly away over the garden wall,
and away towards the mountain which rose just
behind the hotel. The King followed, clambering
painfully over the high wall, and leaving fragments
of his brocade dressing-gown on the sharp
spikes which garnished it. Once over, he made
all speed, and found that he could well keep the
bird in sight, for it was flying very slowly. A
provoking bird it was, to be sure! It would fly a
little way, and then, alighting on a bush or hanging
spray, would pour forth a flood of melody, as
if inviting its pursuer to come nearer; but before
the unhappy King could get within gunshot, it
would flutter slowly onward, keeping just out of
reach, and uttering a series of mocking notes,
which seemed to laugh at his efforts. On and on
flew the bird, up the steep mountain; on and on
went the King in pursuit. It is all very well to
_fly_ up a mountain; but to crawl and climb up, with
a heavy gun in one’s hand, and one’s dressing-gown
catching on every sharp point of rock, and
the tassel of one’s nightcap bobbing into one’s
eyes, is a very different matter, I can tell you.
But the King never thought of stopping for an
instant; not he! He lost first one slipper, and
then the other; the cord and tassels of his dressing-gown
tripped him up, so that he fell and
almost broke his nose; and finally his gun slipped
from his hold and went crashing down over a
precipice; but still the King climbed on and on,
breathless but undaunted.
At length, at the very top of the mountain, as
it seemed, the bird made a longer pause than
usual. It lighted on a point of rock, and folding
its wings, seemed really to wait for the King,
singing, meanwhile, a song of the most inviting
and encouraging description. Nearer and nearer
crept the King, and still the bird did not move.
He was within arm’s-length, and was just stretching
out his arm to seize the prize, when it fluttered
off the rock. Frantic with excitement, the
King made a desperate clutch after it, and—
PART II.
At eight o’clock the landlady knocked at the
King’s door. “Hot water, Your Majesty,” she
said. “Shall I bring the can in? And the Band
desires his respects, and would you wish him to
play while you are a-dressing, being as you didn’t
bring a music-box with you?”
Receiving no answer, after knocking several
times, the good woman opened the door very
cautiously, and peeped in, fully expecting to see
the royal nightcap reposing calmly on the pillow.
What was her amazement at finding the room
empty; no sign of the King was to be seen,
although his pink-silk knee-breeches lay on a
chair, and his ermine mantle and his crown were
hanging on a peg against the wall.
The landlady gave the alarm at once. The
King had disappeared! He had been robbed,
murdered; the assassins had chopped him up into
little pieces and carried him away in a bundle-handkerchief!
“Murder! police! fire!!!!”
In the midst of the wild confusion the voice
of the Boots was heard. “Please, ’m, I see
His Majesty go out at about five o’clock this
morning.”
Again the chorus rose: he had run away; he
had gone to surprise and slay the King of Coringo
while he was taking his morning chocolate; he
had gone to take a bath in the river, and was
drowned! “Murder! police!”
The voice of the Boots was heard again. “And
please, ’m, he’s a sittin’ out in the courtyard now;
and please, ’m, I think he’s crazy!”
Out rushed everybody, pell-mell, into the courtyard.
There, on the ground, sat the King, with
his tattered dressing-gown wrapped majestically
about him. An ecstatic smile illuminated his face,
while he clasped in his arms a large bird with
shining plumage.
“Bless me!” cried the poultry-woman. “If he
hasn’t got my Shanghai rooster that I couldn’t
catch last night!”
The King, hearing voices, looked round, and
smiled graciously on the astonished crowd.
“Good people,” he said, “success has crowned my
efforts. I have found the Golden-breasted Kootoo!
You shall all have ten pounds apiece, in
honor of this joyful event, and the landlady shall
be made a baroness in her own right!”
“But,” said the poultry-woman, “it is my
Shang—”
“Be still, you idiot!” whispered the landlady,
putting her hand over the woman’s mouth. “Do
you want to lose your ten pounds and your head
too? If the King has caught the Golden-breasted
Kootoo, why, then it _is_ the Golden-breasted Kootoo,
as sure as I am a baroness!” and she added
in a still lower tone, “There hasn’t been a Kootoo
seen in the Vale for ten years; the birds have
died out.”
Great were the rejoicings at the palace when
the King returned in triumph, bringing with him
the much-coveted prize, the Golden-breasted Kootoo.
The bands played until they almost killed
themselves; the cooks waved their ladles and set
to work at once on the pie; the huntsmen sang
hunting-songs. All was joy and rapture, except
in the breast of one man; that man was the Second
Musician, or, as we should now call him, the
Chief Musician. He felt no thrill of joy at sight of
the wondrous bird; on the contrary, he made his
will, and prepared to leave the country at once;
but when the pie was finished, and he saw its huge
dimensions, he was comforted. “No man,” he said
to himself, “can eat the whole of that pie and
live!”
Alas! he was right. The unhappy King fell a
victim to his musical ambition before he had half
finished his pie, and died in a fit. His subjects ate
the remainder of the mighty pasty, with mingled
tears and smiles, as a memorial feast; and if the
Golden-breasted Kootoo _was_ a Shanghai rooster,
nobody in the kingdom was ever the wiser for it.