ON account of the woodchuck’s illness, and at
the special request of Pigeon Pretty, the
story-telling was postponed for a day or two.
Very soon, however, Chucky recovered sufficiently
to ride as far as the cottage on Bruin’s
back; and on a fine afternoon the friends were
all once more assembled, and waiting for Toto’s
story.
“I don’t know any long stories,” said Toto,
“at least not well enough to tell them; so
I will tell two short ones instead. Will that
do?”
“Just as well,” said the raccoon. “Five minutes
for refreshments between the two, did you
say? My view precisely.”
Toto smiled, and began the story of
THE TRAVELLER, THE COOK, AND THE LITTLE
OLD MAN.
Once upon a time there was a little old man
who lived in a well. He was a very small little
old man, and the well was very deep; and the
only reason why he lived there was because he
could not get out. Indeed, what better reason
could he have?
He had long white hair, and a long red nose,
and a long green coat; and this was all he had in
the world, except a three-legged stool, a large
iron kettle, and a cook. There was not room in
the well for the cook; so she lived on the ground
above, and cooked the little old man’s dinner and
supper in the iron kettle, and lowered them down
to him in the bucket; and the little old man sat
on the three-legged stool, and ate whatever the
cook sent down to him, with a cheerful heart,
if it was good; and so things went on very
pleasantly.
“The old man thought it was raining.”
But one day it happened that the cook could
not find anything for the old man’s dinner. She
looked high, and she looked
low, but nothing could she
find; so she was very unhappy;
for she knew her
master would be miserable
if he had no
dinner. She sat
down by the
well, and wept
bitterly; and her
tears fell into the
well so fast that
the little old man
thought it was
raining, and put
up a red cotton
umbrella, which
he borrowed for
the occasion. You may wonder where he borrowed
it; but I cannot tell you, because I do not
know.
Now, at that moment a traveller happened to
pass by, and when he saw the cook sitting by the
well and weeping, he stopped, and asked her what
was the matter. So the cook told him that she
was weeping because she could not find anything
to cook for her master’s dinner.
“And who is your master?” asked the traveller.
“He is a little old man,” replied the cook;
“and he lives down in this well.”
“Why does he live there?” inquired the traveller.
“I do not know,” answered the cook; “I never
asked him.”
“He must be a singular person,” said the traveller.
“I should like to see him. What does he
look like?”
But this the cook could not tell him; for she
had never seen the little old man, having come to
work for him after he had gone down to live in
the well.
“Does he like to receive visitors?” asked the
traveller.
“Don’t know,” said the cook. “He has never
had any to receive since I have been here.”
“Humph!” said the other. “I think I will go
down and pay my respects to him. Will you let
me down in the bucket?”
“But suppose he should mistake you for his
dinner, and eat you up?” the cook suggested.
“Pooh!” he replied. “No fear of that; I can
take care of myself. And as for his dinner,” he
added, “get him some radishes. There are plenty
about here. I had nothing but radishes for my
dinner, and very good they were, though rather
biting. Let down the bucket, please! I am all
right.”
“What are radishes?” the cook called after him
as he went down.
“Long red things, stupid! with green leaves to
them!” he shouted; and then, in a moment, he
found himself at the bottom of the well.
The little old man was delighted to see him, and
told him that he had lived down there forty years,
and had never had a visitor before in all that time.
“Why do you live down here?” inquired the
traveller.
“Because I cannot get out,” replied the little
old man.
“But how did you get down here in the first
place?”
“Really,” he said, “it is so long ago that I
hardly remember. My impression is, however,
that I came down in the bucket.”
“Then why, in the name of common-sense,”
said the traveller, “don’t you go _up_ in the
bucket?”
The little old man sprang up from the three-legged
stool, and flung his arms around the
traveller’s neck. “My _dear_ friend!” he cried rapturously.
“My precious benefactor! Thank you
a thousand times for those words! I assure you
I never thought of it before! I will go up at
once. You will excuse me?”
“Certainly,” said the traveller. “Go up first,
and I will follow you.”
The little old man got into the bucket, and was
drawn up to the top of the well. But, alas!
when the cook saw his long red nose and his
long green coat, she said to herself, “This must
be a radish! How lucky I am!” and seizing the
poor little old man, she popped him into the
kettle without more ado. Then she let the bucket
down for the traveller, calling to him to make
haste, as she wanted to send down her master’s
dinner.
“’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good!”
Up came the traveller, and looking around,
asked where her master was.
“Where should he be,” said the cook, “but at
the bottom of the well, where you left him?”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the traveller.
“He has just come up in the bucket!”
“_Oh!_” cried the cook. “Oh! _oh!!_ o-o-o-h!!!
was that my master? Why, I thought he was
a radish, and I have boiled him for his own
dinner!”
“I hope he will have a good appetite!” said
the traveller.
The cook was a good woman, and her grief was
so excessive that she fell into the kettle and was
boiled too.
Then the traveller, who had formerly been an
ogre by profession, said, “’Tis an ill wind that
blows nobody any good! My dinner was very
insufficient;” and he ate both the little old man
and the cook, and proceeded on his journey with
a cheerful heart.
“The traveller was a sensible man,” said Bruin.
“Did you make up that story, Toto?”
“Yes,” replied Toto. “I made it up the other
day,—one of those rainy days. I found a forked
radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a
kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little
red man. So I thought that if there was a radish
that looked like a man, there might be a man that
looked like a radish, you see. And now—”
“Ahem!” said the raccoon softly. “_Did_ you
say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I
misunderstand you?” and he winked at the company
in a very expressive manner.
Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some
time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the
only ones that were heard, except the constant
“click, click,” of the grandmother’s needles.
Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the
endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits
of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl,—
“Excuse me, ma’am; do you make the gingerbread
with those things?”
“With what things, Mr. Bruin?” asked the
grandmother.
“Those bright things that go clickety-clack,”
said the bear. “I see some soft brown stuff on
them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and
I thought possibly—”
“Oh,” said the grandmother, smiling, “you
mean my knitting. No, Mr. Bruin, gingerbread
is made in a very different way. I mix it in
a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a
pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?”
Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly
at Coon. The latter, however, merely
grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing;
so he was obliged to answer the grandmother
himself.
“Oh, of course,” he said. “If you mix it with
a _spoon_, I should say certainly. As far as a spoon
goes, you know, I—ah—quite correct, I’m sure.”
Here the poor fellow subsided into a vague murmur,
and glared savagely at the raccoon.
But now the gentle wood-pigeon interposed,
with her soft, cooing voice. “Toto,” she said,
“were we not promised two stories to-day? Tell
us the other one now, dear boy, for the shadows
are beginning to lengthen.”
“I made this story myself, too,” said Toto,
“and it is called
THE AMBITIOUS ROCKING-HORSE.
There was once a rocking-horse, but he did not
want to be a rocking-horse. He wanted to be a
trotter. So he went to a jockey—
“What’s a jockey?” inquired the bear.
A man who drives fast and tells lies.
He went to a jockey and asked him if he would
like to buy a trotter.
“Where is your trotter?” asked the jockey.
“Me’s him,” said the rocking-horse. That was
all the grammar he knew.
“Oh!” said the jockey. “You are the trotter,
eh?”
“Yes,” said the rocking-horse. “What will you
give me for myself?”
“A bushel of shavings,” said the jockey.
The rocking-horse thought that was better than
nothing, so he sold himself. Then the jockey
took him to another jockey who was blind, and
told him (the blind jockey) that this was the Sky-born
Snorter of the Sarsaparillas, and that he
could trot two miles in a minute. So the blind
jockey bought him, and paid ten thousand dollars
for him.
“‘Me’s him,’ said the rocking-horse.”
There was a race the next day, and the blind
jockey took the Sky-born Snorter to the race-course,
and started him with the other horses.
The other horses trotted away round the course,
but the Sky-born Snorter stayed just where he
was, and rocked; and when the other horses came
round the turn, there he was waiting for them at
the judge’s stand. So he won the race; and the
judge gave the prize, which was a white buffalo,
to the blind jockey.
The jockey put the Sky-born Snorter in the
stable, and then went to get his white buffalo;
and while he was gone, the other jockeys came
into the stable to see the new horse.
“Why, he’s a rocking-horse!” said one of
them.
“Hush!” said the Sky-born Snorter. “Yes, I
am a rocking-horse, but don’t tell my master. He
doesn’t know it, and he paid ten thousand dollars
for me.”
“Whom did he pay it to?” asked the jockeys.
“To the other jockey, who bought me from
myself,” replied the Snorter.
“Oh! and what did _he_ give for you?”
“A bushel of shavings,” said the Snorter.
“Ah!” said one of the jockeys. “A bushel of
shavings, eh? Now, how would you like to have
those shavings turned into gold?”
“Very much indeed!” cried the Sky-born.
“Well,” said the jockey, “bring them here, and
we will change them for you.”
So the rocking-horse went and fetched the shavings,
and the jockeys set fire to them. The flames
shot up, bright and yellow.
“See!” cried the jockeys. “The shavings are
all turned into gold. Now we will see what we
can do for you.” And they took the Sky-born
Snorter and put him in the fire, and he turned
into gold too, and was all burned up. And the
blind jockey drove the white buffalo all the rest
of his life, and never knew the difference.
Moral: don’t be ambitious.
They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born
Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, “Both
your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto.
One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other
burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must
tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to
tell one that ends cheerfully.”
“Yes, yes!” cried all the others. “Pigeon
Pretty shall be the next story-teller!”
“And now,” continued the pigeon, “my Chucky
must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet,
by any means, and must be very careful of himself.
Climb up on Bruin’s back, Chucky dear!
so, that is right. Good-night, Toto. Good-night,
dear madam. Now home again, all!” and flying
round and round the bear’s head, Pigeon Pretty
led the way towards the forest.