Mollie]

had been romping in the hay all the afternoon. With her were Flaxilocks,

the French doll, and young Whistlebinkie, the rubber boy, who had got

his name from the fact that he had a whistle set in the top of his

beaver hat. Flaxilocks and Whistlebinkie could stand a great deal of

romping, and so also could Mollie, but, on the whole, the little girl

was not so strong as the dolls were, and in consequence along above

five o'clock, having settled herself down comfortably on the shaded side

of the hay-stack, a great pillow of sweet-scented clover grass under her

head, it is not to be wondered at that Mollie should begin to ponder.

Now it is a curious thing, but Mollie always has singular adventures

when she ponders. Things happen to her then which happen at no other

times, and which also, as far as I have been able to find out, never

happen to other little girls.

It was this way upon this particular afternoon, as you will see when you

read on. She had been pondering for three or four minutes when almost

directly at her side she heard a sob.

"Who's that?" she asked, sleepily, gazing around her.

"Who's what?" said Flaxilocks, sitting up and opening her great blue

eyes so suddenly that something inside of her head seemed to click.

[Illustration: "Somebody's sobbing," said Mollie.]

"Somebody's sobbing," said Mollie.

"I guess not," returned Flaxilocks. "We are all alone here. Nobody could

have sobbed unless it was Whistlebinkie. Whistlebinkie, did you sob?"

"No," said Whistlebinkie, "'twasn't me. I can't sob because I haven't

got a sobber to sob with. I've only got a whistle."

"Maybe I dreamed it," said Mollie, apparently satisfied for the moment,

and then the three threw themselves back on the hay once more and began

their pondering anew.

They did not ponder very long, however, for in a few moments Flaxilocks

rose up again and observed:

"I heard a sob myself just now, Mollie."

"So-_di_," whistled Whistlebinkie, through the top of his hat.

"Whistlebinkie," said Mollie, severely, "how often must I tell you not

to talk through your hat, but through your mouth? So-_di_ doesn't mean

anything. It isn't English. If you will only remember to use your hat to

whistle through and your mouth for conversation every one will be able

to understand. What do you mean by So-_di_?"

"So--did--I," said Whistlebinkie, meekly, this time using his mouth as

Mollie had instructed him to do.

"Then you heard the sob?"

"Yes--ma'am--plain--as--can--be," returned Whistlebinkie.

"And no wonder," observed Flaxilocks, pointing one of her kid fingers

off to her left. "Why shouldn't we all hear a sob when there is a poor

little maid weeping so near at hand?"

"So there is," said Mollie, looking toward the spot at which Flaxilocks

was pointing, where there sat a pretty little shepherdess with tears

streaming down her cheeks. "Isn't it queer?"

"Very," said Whistlebinkie. "Shall I give a whistle of surprise, ma'am?"

"No," said Mollie. "I'm not surprised enough for that."

Then she got up and walked over to the strange little girl's side, and

taking her hand in hers asked her softly why she wept.

"I'm little Bopeep," said the stranger. "And I've lost my sheep, and I

don't know where to find them."

"Oh, is that all?" asked Mollie.

"Isn't it enough?" returned Bopeep, gazing with surprise at Mollie

through her tears. "They were all spring lambs and I'm very much afraid

some hungry man may have stolen them away and drowned them in the mint

sauce pond."

"Dear me, how dreadful!" cried Mollie.

"Shall I give a whistle of terror, ma'am?" asked Whistlebinkie.

"No, don't," said Flaxilocks. "Save your breath. We ought to help Bopeep

to find her flock."

"That's so," said Mollie. "Would you like to have us do that, Bopeep?"

"Oh, it would be very sweet of you if you would," sobbed the little

shepherdess. "I can't tell you how glad I'd be."

[Illustration: "I'll whistle it for you."]

"I'll whistle it for you if you want me to," said the obliging

Whistlebinkie, which, as no one objected, he immediately proceeded to

do. When he had finished Bopeep thanked him, and asked him if he were

any relation to her old friend Flutiboy who was the only person she

knew who could whistle as charmingly as he, which pleased Whistlebinkie

very much because he had heard of the famous Flutiboy, and was well

aware that he was the champion whistler of the world.

"Now let us be off to find the sheep," said Mollie. "Which way did they

go, Bopeep?"

"They went every way," said Bopeep, her eyes filling with tears again.

"I don't see how that could be," said Flaxilocks, "unless one quarter of

lamb went one way, and another another, and so on."

"Oh, it was easy enough for them," said Bopeep. "There were four of

them, and one went north, one south, one east, and one west. If they had

all run off together I could have run away with them, but as it was all

I could do was stand still and let them go. I love them all equally, and

since I couldn't favor any special one, or divide myself up into four

parts, I had to let them go."

"Perflyawfle," whistled Whistlebinkie through his hat.

"Whistlebinkie!" cried Mollie, reprovingly.

"Puf-fick-ly or-full," said Whistlebinkie distinctly through his little

red rubber teeth.

"Well, I say we keep together in looking for them, anyhow," said

Flaxilocks. "Because it's bad enough to lose the sheep without losing

ourselves, and it seems to me there being four of us we can find the

first sheep four times as quickly if we stick together as we could if we

went alone; and that of course means that we'll find the four sheep

sixteen times as quickly as we would if we went alone."

"I don't quite see that," said Bopeep.

"It's plain enough," observed Flaxilocks. "Four times four is sixteen."

"Oh, yes," said Bopeep. "I see."

"Sodwi," whistled Whistlebinkie. "I mean so--do--I," he added quickly,

as he noted Mollie's frown.

So the four little folk started off in search of the missing sheep,

Whistlebinkie and Flaxilocks running on ahead, and Mollie and Bopeep

with their arms lovingly about each other bringing up in the rear.

"Did you ever lose the sheep before, Bopeep?" asked Mollie, after they

had walked a little way in silence.

"Oh my, yes," returned Bopeep. "I'm losing them all the time. It is a

part of my duty to lose them. If I didn't, you know, the nursery rhyme

couldn't go on."

"And you always find them again?" Mollie put in.

"Always. That's got to happen, too. If they didn't come back and bring

their tails behind them the nursery rhyme would be spoiled again."

"Then I don't see why you feel so badly about it," said Mollie.

[Illustration: "And I only get five cents a quart."]

"I have to," replied Bopeep. "That's part of my business, too. I

sometimes wish old Mother Goose hadn't employed me to look after the

sheep at all, because it keeps me crying all the time, and I don't find

crying very pleasant. Why, do you know, I have been in this sheep-losing

business for nearly two hundred years now, and I've cried about seventy

gallons of tears every year. Just think of that. That means fourteen

thousand gallons of tears, and I only get five cents a quart, which

doesn't more than pay my dressmaker's bills. I asked my employers some

years ago to let me have an assistant to do the crying for me, but they

wouldn't do it, which I think was very mean, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," said Mollie. "I should think just losing the sheep was hard

enough work for a little girl like you to attend to."

"That's what I think--but dear me, where are Whistlebinkie and

Flaxilocks going?" said Bopeep. "They mustn't go that way. The first

place we must go to is the home of the Unwiseman."

"The what?" demanded Mollie.

"The Unwiseman. He's an unwiseman who doesn't know anything," explained

Bopeep. "The rules require that we go to him first and ask him if he

knows where the sheep are. He'll say he doesn't know, and then we'll go

on to the little old woman who lives under the hill. She'll know where

they are, but she'll tell us wrong. Hi! Whistlebinkie and Flaxilocks!

Turn off to the left, and stop at that little red house under the oak

tree."

"There isn't any little red house under the oak tree," said Mollie.

"Oh, yes, there is," said Bopeep. "Only you've got to know it's there

before you can see it. The Unwiseman lives there."

[Illustration: Sat in the doorway trying to smoke a pipe filled with

soapsuds.]

Whistlebinkie and Flaxilocks did as they were told, and, sure enough, in

a minute there appeared a little red house under the oak tree just as

Bopeep had said. Mollie was delighted, it was such a dainty little

house, with its funny gables and a roof made of strawberry icing. The

window-panes were shining like silver, and if Bopeep was not mistaken

were made of sugar. But funnier still was the Unwiseman himself, a

queer-looking, wrinkled-up little old man who sat in the doorway trying

to smoke a pipe filled with soapsuds.

"Good-afternoon, O Unwiseman," said Bopeep.

"Hoh!" sneered the Unwiseman. "Good-afternoon! This isn't afternoon.

It's day before yesterday morning."

Mollie giggled.

"Hush!" whispered Bopeep. "He doesn't know any better. You can see that

he doesn't know anything by looking at his pipe. He's been trying to

smoke those soapsuds now for a week. The week before he was trying to

blow bubbles with it, only he had corn-silk in it then instead of

soapsuds. That shows what kind of a man he is."

"What can I do for you to-day, Bopeep?" asked the Unwiseman as he

touched a lighted match to the suds, which immediately sputtered and

went out.

"I wanted to know if you had seen anything of my sheep," said Bopeep.

[Illustration: "They aren't anything like telegraph poles or

wheelbarrows, are they?"]

"Let's see," said the Unwiseman. "Let's see. Sheep are what? They aren't

anything like telegraph poles or wheelbarrows, are they?"

"No," said Bopeep, "they are not."

"Then maybe I have seen them," said the Unwiseman, with a smile of

satisfaction. "Maybe I have. Several things went by here day after

to-morrow that weren't a bit like wheelbarrows or telegraph poles. They

may have been your sheep. One of the things had four red wheels on

it--have any of your sheep got four red wheels on them?"

Whistlebinkie nearly exploded as the Unwiseman said this, but the queer

old gentleman was not learned enough to know mirth when he saw it, so

that no harm was done.

"No," said Bopeep. "My sheep had no wheels."

"Then I must have seen them," said the Unwiseman. "There was a thing

went by here a week from next Tuesday noon that hadn't any wheels. It

had two legs and carried a fan, or a fish-pole--I couldn't tell which it

was--and it was whistling. Maybe that was one of the sheep."

"No," said Bopeep again, shaking her head. "My sheep don't whistle and

they have four legs."

"Nonsense," said the Unwiseman, with a wink. "You can't fool me that

way. I know a horse when I hear one described, and when any one tells me

that the thing with four legs and no whistle is a sheep I know better.

And so my dear, since you've tried to trifle with me you can go along. I

won't tell you another thing about your old sheep. I don't know anything

about 'em anyhow."

Whereupon the old man got up from his chair and climbed the oak tree to

look for apples, while the searching party went on to the little old

woman who lived under the hill, and Bopeep asked her if she knew

anything about the sheep.

[Illustration: "One of 'em's gone to the moon."]

"Yes," said the little old woman, with a frown which frightened poor

Whistlebinkie so that he gasped and whistled softly in spite of his

efforts to keep quiet. "Yes, I've seen your sheep. I know just where

they are, too. One of 'em's gone to the moon. Another has been adopted

by a girl named Mary, who is going to take it to school and make the

children laugh. Another has sold his wool to a city merchant, and the

fourth has accepted an invitation to dinner from a member of Congress.

He will reach the dinner at half-past seven to-night on a silver

platter. He will be decorated with green peas and mint sauce. Now get

along with you."

Mollie felt very sorry for poor Bopeep as she listened to this dreadful

statement, and she was very much surprised to see Bopeep smiling through

it all.

"Why did you smile?" she asked the little shepherdess as they wended

their way home again.

[Illustration: "She lives on ink and it makes her disagreeable."]

"Because I knew from what she said that she knew the sheep were

safe--but she lives on ink, and that makes her disagreeable. She just

wanted to make me feel as disagreeable as she does, and she told me all

that nonsense to accomplish that purpose."

"The horrid thing!" said Mollie.

"No," said Bopeep. "She isn't really horrid. It's only because she lives

on ink that she seems so. Suppose you had to live on ink?"

"I'd be horrid, too," said Mollie.

"There they are!" cried Bopeep joyfully, and sure enough there were the

sheep, and they had brought their tails behind them, too. They were

grazing close beside the hay-stack on which Mollie had been pondering.

"I am very much obliged to you for your help and company," said Bopeep,

"and now as it is six o'clock, I must drive my sheep home. Good-by."

"Good-by," said Mollie, kissing the little shepherdess affectionately.

"Good-by," said Flaxilocks, sinking back on the clover pillow, and

closing her great blue eyes again.

"Gubby," whistled Whistlebinkie through his hat.

"Wasn't it queer?" said Mollie later as they wended their way home

again.

"Very," said Flaxilocks.

"Queeresperiensieverad," whistled Whistlebinkie.

"What's that?" cried Mollie.

"Queerest--experience--I--ever--had," said Whistlebinkie.

"Ah!" said Mollie. "I didn't care much for the little old woman under

the hill, but that funny old Unwiseman--I'd like to meet him again."

And the others agreed that it would indeed be pleasant to do so.

[Illustration: II. A Visit to the Unwiseman.

In which Mollie renews an

acquaintance.

"Whistlebinkie,"]

said Mollie, one afternoon, as she and he were swaying gently to and fro

in the hammock, "do you remember the little red house under the oak

tree?"

"Yessum," whistled Whistlebinkie, "I mean yes--ma'am," he added

hurriedly.

"And the Unwiseman who lived there?"

"Yes, I remember him puffickly," said Whistlebinkie. "I think he knows

less than any person I ever sawed."

"Not sawed but saw, Whistlebinkie," said Mollie, who was very anxious

that her rubber doll should speak correctly.

"Oh, yes!" cried Whistlebinkie. "I think he sawed less than any man I

ever knew--or rather--well--I guess you know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," said Mollie, with a smile. "But tell me, Whistlebinkie

dear, wouldn't you like to go with me, and pay the Unwiseman a visit?"

"Has he sent you a bill?" asked Whistlebinkie.

"What for, pray?" queried Mollie, with a glance of surprise at

Whistlebinkie.

"To tell you that you owed him a visit, of course," said Whistlebinkie.

"There isn't any use of our paying him anything unless we owe him

something, is there?"

"Oh, I see!" said Mollie. "No, we don't owe him one, but I think we'd

enjoy ourselves very much if we made him one."

"All right, let's," said Whistlebinkie.

[Illustration: A pasteboard visit.]

"What'll we make it of, worsted or pasteboard?"

"Whistlebinkie," observed Mollie, severely, "you are almost as absurd as

the old man himself. The idea of making a visit out of worsted or

pasteboard! Come along. Stop your joking and let us start."

The rubber doll was quite willing to agree to this, and off they

started. In a very little while they were down under the spreading

branches of the great oak tree, but, singular to relate, the little red

house that had stood there the last time they had called was not to be

seen.

"Dear me!" cried Mollie, "what can have become of it, do you suppose,

Whistlebinkie?"

"I give it up," said the rubber doll, scratching his hat so that he

could think more easily. "Haven't an idea--unless the old man discovered

that its roof was made of strawberry icing, and ate it up."

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" laughed some one from behind them.

Mollie and Whistlebinkie turned quickly, and lo and behold, directly

behind them stood the little Unwiseman himself, trying to dig the oak

tree up by the roots with a small teaspoon he held in his hand.

"The idea of my eating up my house! Hoh! What nonsense. Hoh!" he said,

as the visitors turned.

"Well, what has become of it, then?" asked Mollie.

"I've moved it, that's what," said the Unwiseman. "I couldn't get any

apples on this oak tree, so I moved my house over under the willow tree

down by the brook."

"But you can't get apples on a willow tree, either, can you?" asked

Mollie.

"I don't know yet," said the Unwiseman. "I haven't lived there long

enough to find out, but I can try, and that's all anybody can do."

"And what are you doing with that teaspoon?" asked Whistlebinkie.

[Illustration: "You see, I don't want to swallow an acorn and have a

great big tree like that grow up in me."]

"I'm digging up this oak tree," said the Unwiseman. "I want to get the

acorn it grew out of. I'm very fond of acorns, but I'm afraid to eat

them, unless the tree that's in 'em has grown out. You see, I don't want

to swallow an acorn, and have a great big tree like that grow up in me.

It wouldn't be comfortable."

Whistlebinkie said he thought that was a very good idea, because there

could not be any doubt that it would be extremely awkward for any man,

wise or unwise, to have an oak tree sprouting up inside of him.

"What are you so anxious to know about my house for?" asked the

Unwiseman, suddenly stopping short in his work with the teaspoon. "You

don't want to rent it for the summer, do you?"

"Whistlebinkie and I have come down to call upon you, that's all,"

explained Mollie.

"Well now, really?" said the Unwiseman, rising, and dropping the

teaspoon. "That's too bad, isn't it? Here you've come all this way to

see me and I am out. I shall be so disappointed when I get home and find

that you have been there and I not there to see you. Dear! Dear! How

full of disappointments this world is. You couldn't come again last

night, could you? I was home then."

[Illustration: Turning the clock back.]

"Not very well," said Whistlebinkie. "Mollie's father doesn't like it if

we turn the clock back."

"Dear me! That's too bad, too! My!" said the old fellow, with a look of

real sadness on his face. "What a disappointment, to be sure. You call

and find me out! I _do_ wish there was some way to arrange it, so that

I might be at home when you call. You can't think of any, can you, Miss

Whistlebinkie?"

"Perhaps now that you know we are coming," said Mollie, who, while her

last name was _not_ Whistlebinkie, did not think it necessary to pay any

attention to the old man's mistake, which amused her very much, "perhaps

now that you know we are coming you might run ahead and be there when we

arrive."

"That's the scheme!" said Whistlebinkie.

"Yes, that's a first-rate plan," said the old man, nodding his head.

"There's only one thing against it, perhaps."

"What's that?" asked Whistlebinkie.

"That I don't know," replied the Unwiseman, "which is very unfortunate,

because it may be serious. For instance, suppose the objection should

turn out to be in the shape of a policeman, who had a warrant to arrest

me for throwing stones at somebody's pet tiger. What could I do?"

"But you haven't been throwing stones at anybody's pet tiger, have you?"

asked Mollie.

[Illustration: "Not while I was awake, but I may have done it in my

sleep, you know."]

"Not while I was awake," said the Unwiseman. "But I may have done it in

my sleep, you know. People do lots of things in their sleep that they

never do while awake. They snore, for instance; and one man I know, who

always rides when he is awake, walks in his sleep."

"Let's try it, anyway," said Whistlebinkie. "It may be that there won't

be any trouble, after all."

"Very well," assented the Unwiseman. "I'm willing if you are, only if I

am arrested it will be all your fault, and you must promise to tell the

policeman that it was you who threw the stones at the tiger and not I."

Mollie and Whistlebinkie feeling sure that nothing of the kind would

happen, readily made the promise, and the queer little old man started

off for his house as fast as his legs could carry him.

The two small visitors followed slowly, and in a few minutes had reached

the Unwiseman's door down by the willow tree. The door was tightly

closed, so they knocked. For a while there was no answer, and then they

knocked again. In response to this they heard a shuffling step within,

and a voice which they recognized as that of the Unwiseman called out:

[Illustration: "Is that a policeman?"]

"Is that a policeman? Because if it is, I'm not at home. I went out

three weeks ago and won't be back again for six years, and, furthermore,

I never threw stones at a pet tiger in my life unless I was asleep, and

that don't count."

"We aren't policemen," said Mollie. "We're Mollie and Whistlebinkie come

to see you."

"Oh, indeed!" cried the Unwiseman from within, as he threw the door open

wide. "Why, what a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were coming.

Walk right in. So glad to see you."

Whistlebinkie giggled slightly through his beaver hat as he and Mollie,

accepting the invitation, walked in and seated themselves in a droll

little parlor that opened on the left-hand side of the hall.

"So this is your house, is it?" said Mollie, glancing about her with

much interest.

"Yes," said the Unwiseman; "but, Miss Whistlebinkie, won't you kindly

sit on the table instead of on that chair? So many people have been hurt

by chairs breaking under them--many times more than are hurt from

sitting on tables--that I have to be very careful. I have no doubt the

chairs are strong enough to hold you, but I don't want to take any

chances. I think it will rain next year, don't you?" he added. "And you

haven't brought any umbrellas! Too bad, too bad. If you should get wet,

you'd find it very damp. Really, you ought never to go out without an

umbrella. I always do, but then I know enough to go in when it rains, so

of course don't need one."

"I see you have a piano," said Whistlebinkie, taking in the furniture of

the parlor.

"Yes," replied the Unwiseman. "It's a very fine one, too. It has lots of

tunes locked up in it."

[Illustration: "Are you fond of music?" asked Mollie. "No, I hate it,"

said the Unwiseman.]

"Are you fond of music?" asked Mollie.

"No, I hate it," said the Unwiseman. "That's why I have the piano.

There's just so much less music in the world. Nobody can get at the keys

of that piano, so you see it's never played, which pleases me very much.

If I were rich enough, I'd buy all the pianos, and organs, and fiddles,

and horns, and drums in the world, and I'd keep 'em all locked up so

that there never would be any more music at all."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Mollie. "I love music."

"Well," said the old man, generously, "you can have my share. Whenever

anybody brings any music around where I am hereafter, I'll do it up in a

package, and send it to you."

"Thank you very much," said Mollie. "It's very good of you."

"Oh, it's no favor to you, I am sure!" put in the Unwiseman, hastily.

"In fact, it's the other way. I'm obliged to you for taking it off my

hands. If you want to you can open the piano right away, and take out

all the tunes there are in it. I'll go off on the mountains while you

are doing it, so that it won't annoy me any."

"Oh, no!" said Mollie. "I'd a great deal rather have you to talk to than

all the tunes in the piano."

"Very well," said the old man, with a smile of pleasure. "What shall we

talk about, frogs?"

"I don't know anything about frogs," said Mollie.

"Neither do I," returned the Unwiseman. "I don't know the difference

between a frog and a watch-chain, except that one chains watches and the

other doesn't, but which does and which doesn't I haven't a notion."

"I see you have all your pictures with their faces turned to the wall,"

said Mollie, looking about the room again so as to avoid laughing in the

Unwiseman's face. "What is that for?"

"That's to make them more interesting," replied the Unwiseman. "They're

a very uninteresting lot of pictures, and I never could get anybody to

look at 'em until I turned them hind side before, that way. Now

everybody wants to see them."

Mollie rose up, and turned one of them about so that she could see it.

"It's very pretty," she said. "What is it a picture of--a meadow?"

[Illustration: "It's a picture of me."]

"No. It's a picture of me," said the Unwiseman. "And it's one of the

best I ever had taken."

"But I don't see you in it," said Mollie. "All I can see is a great

field of grass and a big bowlder down in one corner."

"I know it," said the Unwiseman. "I'm lying on my back behind the

bowlder asleep. If you could move the bowlder you could see me, but you

can't. It's too heavy, and, besides, I think the paint is glued on."

"I hope you don't lie on the ground asleep very much," said Mollie,

gravely, for she had taken a great liking to this strange old man who

didn't know anything. "You might catch your death of cold."

"I didn't say I was lying on the ground," said the Unwiseman. "I said I

was lying on my back. People ought not to catch cold lying on a nice

warm back like mine."

"And do you live here all alone?" asked Mollie.

"Yes, I don't need anybody to live with. Other people know things, and

it always makes them proud, and I don't like proud people."

"I hope you like me," said Mollie, softly.

"Yes, indeed, I do," cried the Unwiseman. "I like you and Whistlebinkie

very much, because you don't either of you know anything either, and so,

of course, you aren't stuck up like some people I meet who think just

because they know the difference between a polar bear and a fog horn

while I don't that they're so much better than I am. I like you, and I

hope you will come and see me again."

"I will, truly," said Mollie.

"Very well--and that you may get back sooner you'd better run right home

now. It is getting late, and, besides, I have an engagement."

"You?" asked Mollie. "What with?"

"Well, don't you tell anybody," said the Unwiseman; "but I'm going up to

the village to the drug store. I promised to meet myself up there at six

o'clock, and it's quarter past now, so I must hurry."

"But what on earth are you going to do there?" asked Mollie.

"I'm going to buy myself a beaver hat just like Whistlebinkie's,"

returned the Unwiseman, gleefully, "I've got to have something to keep

my tablecloth in, and a beaver hat strikes me as just the thing."

[Illustration: The unwiseman sped off like lightning to the village drug

store.]

Saying which the Unwiseman bowed Mollie and Whistlebinkie out, and sped

off like lightning in the direction of the village drug store, but

whether or not he succeeded in getting a beaver hat there I don't know,

for he never told me.

[Illustration: III. In the House of the Unwiseman.

In which Mollie reads some strange rules.