IN WHICH DAN SPENDS A NIGHT IN THE VALLEY OF TICK TOCK
As Dan, guided by Beader, entered the town that lay in the center of
the Valley of Tick Tock, he saw that it had been built so that the trees
stood at the foot of it while the corn patches and the wheat fields
stretched on both sides and one end. From the fields and the woods
streets ran hither and thither at all sorts of angles. These were lined
with no end of queer houses. Some were of sticks, and some were of weeds
and still others were made of very fine grass. Now and then appeared a
dwelling more imposing than the rest. There was one that must have been
quite three stories high. All the houses faced on extremely scant
roadways that could not have been more than two-mouses wide.
But the street over which Beader took Dan was of a far different kind.
Indeed, it was almost as broad as a path in a park. It was well
sprinkled with sand and along both its sides were rows of tall corn. Dan
was about to ask if the street had a name when he noted a sign fixed to
the top of a stick. Stooping down he read:
CORNSTALK AVENUE
50 Dragoon Jumps to Public Square
And so, very shortly, he and his guide had reached the heart of the
town. Here, looking down, the visitor saw that they had stopped before
what he judged was the armory. In front of it stood a sentry box made
from the half of a corncob with windows cut in the sides. Out of this
stepped a mouse dressed exactly like Beader, only in place of a sword he
carried a lantern.
“Dickory Dock,” said Dan’s guide.
“Dickory Dock,” said the other. Then the two of them came to salute
after which Beader unbuckled his belt and handed it and the sword to the
one with the lantern.
“Now, then,” cried he, “I’m off duty till to-morrow! So, if you don’t
mind, I’ll come up there to your shoulder and conduct you wherever you
may care to go.”
“Do so, by all means,” answered Diggeldy Dan; and soon the other was
perched on the folds of his ruff.
“Of course,” began Beader, as he unbuttoned the top of his rather
tight-fitting coat, “you must understand that this particular town is
only one of several here in the valley. There is Stubbleton where the
Fielders live and that’s over in that direction. And there is
Nightsville, where most of the Muskers make their home. It’s back yonder
at the edge of the pond. Then there’s Dorton—that’s the Dormice
settlement and it lies well in among the trees. But it is here that we
hold most of our gatherings. I do wish you had been with us last
evening. There was a most exciting drill between the Jumping Dragoons
and the Nightsville Musketeers. We beat them all hollow at marching but
we couldn’t put up our tents quite as fast as they.”
“It must have been great sport,” said Dan, “I wish there was something
for us to see to-night.”
“Goodness, I wish so too,” answered Beader. “If it were only Clock
Night. But it isn’t for this is but the Day Before.”
“The day before,” repeated Dan, “the day before what?”
“The Day Before Clock Night. You see we of the Valley of Tick Tock have
only two kinds of days. There is the Day Before Clock Night and Clock
Night Day; then it becomes the Day Before Clock Night again; and so
on—over and over and over again.”
“But why do you give them such curious names?”
“Why because—but listen! What is that?” and Beader stood up and put his
head to one side. “Why, of course!” he exclaimed. “It’s the voices of
the Fielders. They must be out harvesting. If you’ve never been to a
moonlight harvest bee I know you’ll enjoy it. So come, let’s get over to
the wheat field as fast as we can.”
Off they went, taking another path which led in a direction opposite
from that by which they had entered the town. Soon they were at the edge
of the field. As they neared it Dan’s guide had leaped to the ground and
gone on in advance.
“Beader, of the Dragoons,” the clown heard him shout, “and I’m bringing
a friend with me.”
“Come along, then,” cried voices in answer.
“Now,” said Beader to Dan, “if you don’t mind getting down on your
knees, you’ll be able to see fairly well.”
Dan did still more; he stretched out quite flat and, with his chin
propped in his hands, peered in among the stalks of sweet-smelling
wheat. Of course there was the moon to help out but, as any one knows
who has peeped into a field even on the brightest of nights, there is
little save darkness in the depths underneath. So what was the visitor’s
surprise to see there quite clearly whole dozens of workers as busy as
bees.
Yes, there they all were, around a mite of a bonfire that was scarcely
larger than five candle flames. Yet, small as it was, it sent out its
flickerings in every direction and so lighted the wheat stalks for a
full yard away. Still other Fielders rushed about through the forest,
carrying lanterns and tiny leaf baskets. Up the stalks they would go,
fill their baskets with wheat, scurry back to the ground, take their
loads to the fireside, and then hurry away to do it all over again.
“The Fielders are the very best of all the harvesters,” said Beader, who
had by now taken a seat just under the end of Dan’s long, funny nose.
“They have a system for everything they do. Those that you see sitting
near the fire are the sack makers. They gather leaves and fashion them
into the bags that hold all the wheat. Those who are filling the bags
are called the sackers. They are mostly the younger Fielders, as are
those who bring straws to keep up the fire. The most important workers
are the gleaners. They must be good climbers and able to judge the very
best wheat. Hey, there, Friend Nibbler,” Beader suddenly cried to a
rather large mouse who seemed to be directing the work, “can you spare a
moment?”
“Never too busy to pass the time of night,” answered the one called
Nibbler, as he came toward them.
“This is Diggeldy Dan,” introduced Beader. “It’s his first time at a
harvest bee. Nibbler is in charge of the harvesting.”
“Glad to see you,” nodded the Fielder.
“It’s all very interesting,” returned Dan, “though from what I’ve seen
it mustn’t be very difficult to keep things going.”
“Everything does move pretty smoothly so far as the older Fielders go,”
agreed Nibbler, “but I have a number of youngsters among the sackers and
some of them can’t count as well as they might. You see the bags are
made to hold exactly fifty grains apiece and if more goes in—especially
if they are unusually fat grains—two or three too many may mean the
splitting of a bag. And then some of the other lads will stop to play
when they are out gathering straws and so let the fire get low. See! It
needs more fuel this very minute! So if you’ll excuse me I’ll go see to
it.”
And away he went in search of the boys who, as Dan plainly saw, were at
that moment in the midst of a game of hide-and-go-seek just beyond the
edge of the light.
“After the grains have been sacked,” Beader continued to explain, “the
bags are put away in storehouses for winter use. Our people of the
town—that is to say, the House-mice—trade cheese and cakes for wheat. We
also harvest quite a bit of corn.”
“Are those all the things you have to eat?” asked Dan.
“Oh, dear, no,” answered the other. “There are nuts, and the Muskers,
for instance, simply dote on apples. We always have an apple-rolling
when apples are ripe. That’s the best fun of all. Sometimes we get an
apple well up the side of a slope and then somebody starts laughing and
it slips away and goes scooting back again.”
“Does any one ever bother you here in the Valley of Tick Tock?” Dan
asked.
“No, indeed. To begin with I guess no one but the Pretty Lady with the
Blue-Blue Eyes and the White-White Horse would know how to find us.
And,” Beader added, drawing himself up to his full height, “even if they
did there are the Jumping Dragoons and the Nightsville Musketeers. Some
of us are always on guard.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Dan, very seriously, and very solemnly.
“But tell me, how is it you call yourselves dragoons and yet have no
horses?”
“Oh, but we have. You see, I’m a dragoon only on every Day Before Clock
Night. On Clock Night Day I’m a horse. That’s the way we do in almost
everything. We take turns. I wasn’t riding my mouse-horse to-night
because we do that only when we drill.”
“I see,” said Dan, “but about the different clock days. You were to tell
me—”
“Oh, look! Look!” broke in Beader. “There, coming down that biggest
stalk. It’s Bounder, isn’t it? Why, of course it’s Bounder! Who but he
could do such a thing. See! He’s bringing down a whole head at one time
and I’ll warrant there isn’t a lean grain in all of it. I must speak to
him.”
Off he sprang and in two jumps had reached the side of the one called
Bounder. Up went one end of the head to his shoulder and then, amid the
cheers of the others, the red-coated dragoon and the good-natured
Bounder carried the prize to the feet of the sackers. Of course there
was visiting and more or less handshaking that might have kept up even
longer than it did had not Nibbler come up just then and ordered
everybody back to their various tasks.
“Fine folks, those Fielders, fine folks,” vowed Beader, as he joined Dan
a half-minute after. “I do hope you’ll have time to get over to
Stubbleton to-morrow. They’d not be able to do enough for you.”
“Wha—what did you say,” asked Dan, suddenly lifting his head. “Please,
do forgive me—I really believe I was nodding!”
“And no wonder!” cried Beader. “We’ve already visited well into the
morning. But what a night it is! And what a moon! I say, it’s really too
nice to sleep indoors even if we had a roof that would cover you. So
what do you say if we both make our beds in the corn patch that lies
just across from this field?”
“Nothing would suit me better,” declared Dan. So he and Beader set out
for the patch.
“Here’s just the place for me,” said the mouse as he curled himself up
at the foot of a stalk.
“While this space to the left must have been just measured for me,”
echoed Dan.
“So, then, good night,” answered Beader. “And mind you, just sleep as
long as you like for I assure you you’ll not be disturbed.”
But, though Dan had nodded while watching the Fielders, the walk to the
corn patch had roused him again. As he lay there looking out through the
leaves into the face of the moon he was reminded of the time when he had
gone to sleep with his head on Gray Ears’ great trunk. The night was
quite as still as the one he had passed in the depths of the woods. Yet,
just as there had then been the song of the cricket so now was there a
sound to accompany his thoughts. He had all but forgotten it while
attending the harvest bee. But now he heard it more distinctly than
ever. Whether it came from the south or the north, or came from the west
or the east he could not be sure. Perhaps it was wafted on breezes that
swung over the hills. But, from no matter whence, the sound floated
toward him: “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.”
“Oh, Beader,” he called, determined to find out just what it was that
gave forth the strange note. “Oh, Beader.”
But Beader was fast, fast asleep. So Dan said no more. And soon he, too,
had followed the example of the little dragoon, while all through the
valley went the voice that seemed never to sleep, saying “Tick-tock,
tick-tock, tick-tock—”