BEGINS WITH SOMETHING ABOUT THE LITTLE SOODOPSIES, BUT BRANCHES OFF
ON ANOTHER SUBJECT; TO WIT;—THE SILENT SONG OF SINGING FINGERS,
THE FAIR MAID OF THE CITY OF SILVER.—BARREL BROW IS KIND ENOUGH TO
ENLIGHTEN ME ON A CERTAIN POINT, AND HE TAKES OCCASION TO PAY
BULGER A VERY HIGH COMPLIMENT, WHICH, OF COURSE, HE DESERVED.
The longer I stayed among the Soodopsies the more did I become convinced
that they were the happiest, the lightest hearted, the most contented
human beings that I had met in all my travels. If it were possible for
the links of a long chain suspended over a chasm to be living, thinking
beings for a short while, it seems to me they would hang together in the
most perfect accord, for each link would discover that he was no better
than his neighbor, and that the welfare of all the other links depended
upon him and his upon theirs. So it was with the Formifolk, having no
sense of sight they knew no such thing as envy, and all hands were alike
when reached out for a greeting.
I was amazed at times to see how they could feel my approach when I
would be ten or fifteen feet away from them, and I often amused myself
by trying to steal by one of them in the street. But no, it was
impossible; a hand would invariably be held out for a greeting. Little
by little, they got over their distrust of me, and made up their minds
that I had told them the truth when I said that no dancing spectre was
forever following at my heels. One of the most interesting sights was to
see a group of Soodopsy children at play, building houses with silver
blocks, or playing a game very much like our dominoes. I noticed that
they kept no tally, such wonderful memories had they that it was quite
unnecessary.
At first the children were so frightened upon feeling of me that they
fled with terror pictured upon their little faces. Their parents
explained to me that I made very much the same impression upon them as
if I should feel of a person whose skin was as rough as a sea urchin’s.
When at last I succeeded in coaxing several of them to my side, I was
astounded to see one little fellow who had by chance pressed his tiny
hand against my watch pocket spring away from me terror-stricken. He had
felt it tick and didn’t stop running until he had reached his mother’s
side.
His wonderful tale that the little baron carried some strange animal
around in his pocket soon caused a crowd to collect about me, and it was
some time before I could persuade even the parents that the watch was
not alive and that it was not the little animal’s heart which they felt
beating.
On one occasion, when a little Soodopsy was sitting on my lap with its
tiny arm twined affectionately around my neck, I happened to make some
remark to Bulger, when, to my amazement, the child sprang out of my arms
and darted away with a look of terror upon his little face.
What had I done to him?
Why, it seems that by the merest chance his tiny hand had been pressed
against my throat, and that he had been terrified by feeling the strange
vibration caused by my voice. Immediately the report was spread about
that the little baron carried another little baron around in his throat,
that any one could feel him, if I would only consent. It took me a long
while to convince them that what they felt was not another little baron,
but merely the vibration caused by my expelling my breath in a way
peculiar to the people of the upper world. But all the same, I was
obliged to say many hundreds of useless things to Bulger in order to
give their little hands a chance to feel something so wonderful.
From the little I have told you about the names of the Formifolk, dear
friends, you have no doubt understood that their names took their rise
from some physical quality, defect, or peculiarity. Besides the names I
have already mentioned, I remember Sharp Chin, Long Nose, Silk Ears,
Smooth Palms, Big Knuckle, Nail Off, Hammer Fist, Soft Touch,
Hole-in-Cheek, or Hole-in-chin (Dimple), Crooked Hair (Cowlick), and so
on, and so on.
But, to my amazement, one day, when asking the name of a young girl
whose long and delicate fingers had attracted my attention, I was
informed that her name was Singing Fingers, or, possibly, I might
translate it Music Fingers.
I had noticed that the Soodopsies had some idea of music, for the
children often amused themselves dancing, and, while so engaged, beat
time with their finger tips on each other’s cheeks or foreheads.
But I was completely in the dark as to what they meant by Singing
Fingers, or why the young girl should have been so named; hence was I
greatly pleased to hear the maiden’s mother ask me whether I would like
to feel one of her daughter’s songs, as she termed it. Upon my
acquiescing, the mother approached me and proceeded to roll up the
sleeves of my coat until she had laid my arms bare to the elbow, then
she took my arms and clasped them across my breast one above the other.
Bulger watched the proceeding with somewhat of displeasure in his eyes;
he had half an idea that these silent people might play some hurtful
trick upon his little master. But my smile soon disarmed his suspicion.
Singing Fingers now drew near, and as her sweet face with its sightless
eyes turned full upon me I could hardly keep back the tears.
And yet, why grieve for any one who seemed to be so perfectly happy? A
smile played around her dainty little mouth, disclosing her tiny silvery
white teeth like so many real pearls, and her bosom rose and fell
quickly, sending forth a faint breathing sound. She looked so like a
radiant child of some other world that before I thought, I cried out,—
“Speak, Oh, speak, beautiful child!”
In an instant she drew back affrighted, for the sudden vibration of the
air had startled her; but I reached out and touched her hand to give her
to understand that she need fear nothing, and then she drew near to me
again. Suddenly her beautiful hands with their long, frail, delicate
fingers were lifted into the air, and she began to sway her body and to
wave her hands in gentle and graceful motions as if keeping time with
some music. Gradually she drew nearer to me, and ever and anon her
silken finger tips touched my hands or arms as if they were a keyboard
and she was about to begin to execute a soft and dainty bit of music;
and I noticed that her fingers had some delightful perfume upon them.
Now fast and faster the gentle taps rain upon me with rhythmic
regularity. They soothe me, they thrill me, they reach my heart as if
they were the sweet notes of a flute or the soft tones of a singer’s
voice. The maiden is really singing to me! It seems to me that I can
understand what she is saying, or, rather, thinking, as her dainty
finger tips fairly fly hither and thither, and I can hear her low
breathing grow louder and louder. Suddenly she leaves my hands and arms
and I feel her gentle tapping on my cheeks and brow. So gently, Oh, so
gently and soothingly her fingers touch me that at last they feel like
rose leaves dragged across my face. The sensation is so delightful, so
like the soft touch of sleep to weary eyes, that I drop off in good
earnest, and when, after a moment or so, I opened my eyes there sat the
smiling Formifolk waiting for me to awake, and there stood the
radiant-visaged Singing Fingers in front of me, child-like, waiting to
be commended.
And so you see, dear friends, that it is not so hard to be happy after
all if you only set about it in the right way. The Formifolk seemed to
have set about it in the right way, judging by results, and they are the
only things we have to judge by. Some men will fish all day and not have
a bite, and some people will try their whole lives to catch happiness
and not get any more than a nibble. They don’t use the right kind of
bait. Let ’em try a kind act, a live one.
There was something I wanted to ask of the learned Barrel Brow, so the
next call I made on him I put this question to him:—
“Is it possible, learned Master, that thy people have absolutely no
guide, no overseer, no rulers?”
The great scholar of the Formifolk ceased reading the four books which
lay opened before him—one under each hand and one under each foot—as I
handed him my silver tablet.
“Little baron,” was his reply, “if there were only a bramble bush big
enough for all you people of the upper world to jump into and if you
could only get rid of your ears too, you would soon be rid of your
rulers who oppress you, who prey upon you; for no one would have any
desire to be a ruler if there was no one left to look at him and if he
couldn’t hear what the flatterers said about him. Vanity is the soil
that rulers spring from, as the mushrooms spring from the rich loam of
our dark caverns. They pretend that it is the exercise of power that
they are so fond of. Believe them not. It is the gratification of their
vanity and nothing else.
“If it were only in thy power to say to every man who itched to be a
ruler,—
“‘Well and good, brother, a ruler thou shalt be; but bear in mind, weak
man, that when thou hast donned thy gaudy uniform and mounted thy gayly
caparisoned steed, when thou ridest at the head of troop and cavalcade
with ten thousand armed men following thee on foot, as slaves their
master, and the plaudits of the foolish multitude rend the air, no eye
shall witness the splendor of thy triumph, no ear catch a sound of the
deafening cheers,’ take my word for it, little baron, no one would want
to be a ruler any more.
“Where there are no rulers, little baron,” continued the learned Barrel
Brow, “there can be no followers; where there are no followers, there
will be no quarrelling. When it becomes necessary in our nation we form
the Great Circle for deliberation. Each man writes out what he thinks on
his tablet. Then the opinions are read and counted and the majority
rules. But we form the Great Circle only in times of urgent need.
Generally speaking, the smaller circles answer all the purposes; in
fact, the family circle is in most cases quite sufficient.”
I touched first Barrel Brow’s heart in token of my gratitude for the
many things which he had taught me, and then the back of his head to bid
him good-night. You may imagine his and my delight, dear friends, when
the wise Bulger raised himself upon his hind legs, and with his right
paw also thanked the learned Barrel Brow, and then bade him good-night
by a light tap on the back of his head.
“Fortunate the traveller,” wrote the learned Soodopsy, “attended by so
wise and watchful a companion! True, like a child, he goes on all fours,
but by so doing he brings his heart and his brains on the same level—the
only way for a man to wear them if he would do his fellow-creatures any
good. The trouble with thy people in the upper world, little baron, is
that they think too much. They clasp minds instead of clasping hands;
they send messengers with gifts instead of giving themselves. They hire
people to dance for them, to sing for them, to be merry for them. They
will not be satisfied until they have hired people to help them be
sorry, to whom they may say, ‘My friend is dead; I loved him. Weep three
whole days for him.’”