Mollie]

[Illustration: "Should any queen read these lines, the author hopes she

will see that her daughter is brought up to look after household

affairs."]

had been very busy setting things to rights in Cinderella's house one

autumn afternoon not long after her visit to the Unwiseman. Cinderella

was a careless Princess, who allowed her palace to get into a very

untidy condition every two or three weeks. Bric-a-brac would be strewn

here and there about the floor; clocks would be found standing upside

down in the fire-places; andirons and shoe buttons would litter up the

halls and obstruct the stairways--in short, all things would get

topsy-turvy within the doors of the Princess' house, and all because

Princesses are never taught house-keeping. Should any King or Queen read

these lines, the author hopes that his or her Majesty will take the hint

and see to it that his or her daughters are properly brought up and

taught to look after household affairs, for if they do not, most

assuredly the time may come when the most magnificent palace in the

world will be allowed to go to ruin through mere lack of attention.

It was a long and hard task for the little mistress of the nursery, but

she finally accomplished it; apple-pie order once more ruled in the

palace, the Princess' diamonds had been swept up from the floor, and

stored away in the bureau drawers, and Mollie was taking a well-earned

rest in her rocking-chair over by the window. As she gazed out upon the

highway upon which the window fronted, she saw in the dim light a

strange shadow passing down the walk, and in a minute the front

door-bell rang. Supposing it to be no one but the boy with the evening

paper, Mollie did not stir as she would have done if it had been her

papa returning home. The paper boy possessed very little interest to

her--indeed, I may go so far as to say that Mollie despised the paper

boy, not because he was a paper boy, but because he was rude, and had,

upon several occasions recently made faces at her and told her she

didn't know anything because she was a girl, and other mean things like

that; as if being a girl kept one from finding out useful and important

things. So, as I have said, she sat still and gazed thoughtfully out of

the window.

Her thoughts were interrupted in a moment, however, by a most

extraordinary proceeding at the nursery door. It suddenly flew open with

a bang, and Whistlebinkie came tumbling in head over heels, holding the

silver card-receiver in his hand, and whistling like mad from

excitement.

"Cardfew," he tooted through the top of his hat. "Nwiseman downstairs."

"What are you trying to say, Whistlebinkie?" asked Mollie, severely.

"Here is a card for you," said Whistlebinkie, standing up and holding

out the salver upon which lay, as he had hinted, a card. "The gentleman

is below."

Mollie picked up the card, which read this way:

Mr. ME.

My House.

"What on earth does it mean?" cried Mollie, with a smile, the card

seemed so droll.

"It is the Unwiseman's card. He has called on you, and is downstairs in

the parlor--and dear me, how funny he does look," roared Whistlebinkie

breathlessly. "He's got on a beaver hat, a black evening coat like your

papa wears to the theatre or to dinners, a pair of goloshes, and white

tennis trousers. Besides that he's got an umbrella with him, and he's

sitting in the parlor with it up over his head."

Whistlebinkie threw himself down on the floor in a spasm of laughter as

he thought of the Unwiseman's appearance. Mollie meanwhile was studying

the visitor's card.

"What does he mean by 'My House'?" she asked.

"That's his address, I suppose," said Whistlebinkie. "But what shall I

tell him? Are you in?"

"Of course I'm in," Mollie replied, and before Whistlebinkie could get

upon his feet again she had flown out of the room, down the stairs to

the parlor, where, sure enough, as Whistlebinkie had said, the Unwiseman

sat, his umbrella raised above his head, looking too prim and absurd for

anything.

"How do you do, Miss Whistlebinkie?" he said, gravely, as Mollie entered

the room. "I believe that is the correct thing to say when you are

calling, though for my part I can't see why. People do so many things

that there's a different way to do almost all of them. If I said, 'how

do you do your sums?' of course there could be a definite answer. 'I do

them by adding, or by substracting.' If any one calling on me should

say, 'how do you do?' I'd say, 'excuse me, but how do I do what?'

However, I wish to be ruled by etiquette, and as I understand that is

the proper question to begin with, I will say again, 'how do you do,

Miss Whistlebinkie?' According to my etiquette book it is your turn to

reply, and what you ought to say is, 'I'm very well, I thank you, how

are you?' I'm very well."

"I'm delighted to hear it, Mr. Me," returned Mollie, glad of the chance

to say something. "I have thought a great deal about you lately."

"So have I," said the Unwiseman. "I've been thinking about myself all

day. I like to think about pleasant things. I've been intending to

return your call for a long time, but really I didn't know exactly how

to do it. You see, some things are harder to return than other things.

If I borrowed a book from you, and wanted to return it, I'd know how in

a minute. I'd just take the book, wrap it up in a piece of brown paper,

and send it back by mail or messenger--or both, in case it happened to

be a male messenger. Same way with a pair of andirons. Just return 'em

by sending 'em back--but calls are different, and that's what I've come

to see you about. I don't know how to return that call."

"But this is the return of the call," said Mollie.

"I don't see how," said the Unwiseman, with a puzzled look on his face.

"This isn't the same call at all. The call you made at my house was

another one. This arrangement is about the same as it would be in the

case of my borrowing a book on Asparagus from you, and returning a book

on Sweet Potatoes to you. That wouldn't be a return of your book. It

would be returning _my_ book. Don't you see? Now, I want to be polite

and return your call, but I can't. I can't find it. It's come and gone.

I almost wish you hadn't called, it's puzzled me so. Finally, I made up

my mind to come here, and apologize to you for not returning it. That's

all I can do."

"Don't mention it," said Mollie.

"Oh, but I must! How could I apologize without mentioning it?" said the

Unwiseman, hastily. "You wouldn't know what I was apologizing for if I

didn't mention it. How have you been?"

"Quite well," said Mollie. "I've been very busy this fall getting my

dolls' dresses made and setting everything to rights. Won't

you--ah--won't you put down your umbrella, Mr. Me?"

[Illustration: "No, thank you," said the unwiseman, with an anxious peep

at the ceiling.]

"No, thank you," said the Unwiseman, with an anxious peep at the

ceiling. "I am very timid about other people's houses, Miss

Whistlebinkie. I have been told that sometimes houses fall down without

any provocation, and while I don't doubt that your house is well built

and all that, some nail somewhere might give way and the whole thing

might come down. As long as I have the umbrella over my head I am safe,

but without it the ceiling, in case the house did fall, would be likely

to spoil my hat. This is a pretty parlor you have. They call it white

and gold, I believe."

"Yes," said Mollie. "Mamma is very fond of parlors of that kind."

"So am I," said the Unwiseman. "I have one in my own house."

"Indeed?" said Mollie. "I didn't see it."

[Illustration: "I don't like to get angry."]

"You were in it, only you didn't know it," observed the Unwiseman. "It

was that room with the walls painted brown. I was afraid the white and

gold walls would get spotted if I didn't do something to protect them,

so I had a coat of brown paint put over the whole room. Good idea that,

I think, and all mine, too. I'd get it patented, if I wasn't afraid

somebody would make an improvement on it, and get all the money that

belonged to me, which would make me very angry. I don't like to get

angry, because when I do I always break something valuable, and I find

that when I break anything valuable I get angrier than ever, and go

ahead and break something else. If I got angry once I never could stop

until I'd broken all the valuable things in the world, and when they

were all gone where would I be?"

"But it seems to me," said Mollie, as she puzzled over the Unwiseman's

idea, of which he seemed unduly proud, "it seems to me that if you cover

a white and gold parlor with a coat of brown paint, it doesn't stay a

white and gold parlor. It becomes a brown parlor."

"Not at all," returned the Unwiseman. "How do you make that out? Put it

this way: You, for instance, are a white girl, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Mollie.

"That is, they call you white, though really you are a pink girl.

However, for the sake of the argument, you are white."

"Certainly," said Mollie, anxious to be instructed.

"And you wear clothes to protect you."

"I do."

"Now if you wore a brown dress, would you cease to be a white girl and

become a nigrio?"

"A what?" cried Mollie.

"A nigrio--a little brown darky girl," said the Unwiseman.

"No," said Mollie. "I'd still be a white or pink girl, whatever color I

was before."

"Well--that's the way with my white and gold parlor. It's white and

gold, and I give it a brown dress for protection. That's all there is

to it. I see you keep your vases on the mantel-piece. Queer notion that.

Rather dangerous, I should think."

Mollie laughed.

"Dangerous?" she cried. "Why not at all. They're safe enough, and the

mantel-piece is the place for them, isn't it? Where do you keep yours?"

"I don't have any. I don't believe in 'em," replied the Unwiseman. "They

aren't any good."

"They're splendid," said Mollie. "They're just the things to keep

flowers in."

"What nonsense," said the Unwiseman, with a sneer. "The place to keep

flowers is in a garden. You might just as well have a glass trunk in

your parlor to hold your clothes in; or a big china bin to hold oats or

grass in. It's queer how you people who know things do things. But

anyhow, if I did have vases I wouldn't put 'em on mantel-pieces, but on

the floor. If they are on the floor they can't fall off and break unless

your house turns upside down."

"They might get stepped on," said Mollie.

[Illustration: "I'm fond of the wet."]

"Poh!" snapped the Unwiseman. "Don't you wise people look where you

step? I do, and they say I don't know enough to go in when it rains,

which is not true. I know more than enough to go in when it rains. I

stay out when it rains because I like to. I'm fond of the wet. It keeps

me from drying up, and makes my clothes fit me. Why, if I hadn't stayed

out in the rain every time I had a chance last summer my flannel suit

never would have fitted me. It was eight sizes too big, and it took

sixteen drenching storms to make it shrink small enough to be just

right. Most men--wise men they call themselves--would have spent money

having them misfitted again by a tailor, but I don't spend my money on

things I can get done for nothing. That's the reason I don't pay

anything out to beggars. I can get all the begging I want done on my

place without having to pay a cent for it, and yet I know lots and lots

of people who are all the time spending money on beggars."

"There is a great deal in what you say," said Mollie.

"There generally is," returned the Unwiseman. "I do a great deal of

thinking, and I don't say anything without having thought it all out

beforehand. That's why I'm so glad you were at home to-day. I mapped out

all my conversation before I came. In fact, I wrote it all down, and

then learned it by heart. It would have been very unpleasant if after

doing all that, taking all that trouble, I should have found you out.

It's very disappointing to learn a conversation, and then not converse

it."

"I should think so," said Mollie. "What do you do on such occasions?

Keep it until the next call?"

"No. Sometimes I tell it to the maid, and ask her to tell it to the

person who is out. Sometimes I say it to the front door, and let the

person it was intended for find it out for herself as best she can, but

most generally I send it to 'em by mail."

Here the Unwiseman paused for a minute, cocking his head on one side as

if to think.

"Excuse me," he said. "But I've forgotten what I was to say next. I'll

have to consult my memorandum-book. Hold my umbrella a minute--over my

head please. Thank you."

Then as Mollie did as the queer creature wished, he fumbled in his

pockets for a minute and shortly extracting his memorandum-book from a

mass of other stuff, he consulted its pages.

"Oh, yes!" he said, with a smile of happiness. "Yes, I've got it now. At

this point you were to ask me if I wouldn't like a glass of lemonade,

and I was to say yes, and then you were to invite me up-stairs to see

your play room. There's some talk scattered in during the lemonade, but,

of course, I can't go on until you've done your part."

He gazed anxiously at Mollie for a moment, and the little maid, taking

the hint, smilingly said:

"Ah! won't you have a little refreshment, Mr. Me? A glass of lemonade,

for instance?"

"Why--ah--certainly, Miss Whistlebinkie. Since you press me, I--ah--I

don't care if I do."

And the caller and his hostess passed, laughing heartily, out of the

white and gold parlor into the pantry.

[Illustration: V. The Unwiseman is Offended.

In which the Old Gentleman takes his leave.]

"How do you like your lemonade?" asked Mollie, as she and the Unwiseman

entered the pantry. "Very sour or very sweet?"

"What did you invite me to have?" the Unwiseman replied. "Lemonade or

sugarade?"

"Lemonade, of course," said Mollie. "I never heard of sugarade before."

"Well, lemonade should be very lemony and sugarade should be very

sugary; so when I am invited to have lemonade I naturally expect

something very lemony, don't I?"

"I suppose so," said Mollie, meekly.

"Very well, then. That answers your question. I want it very sour. So

sour that I can't drink it without it puckering my mouth up until I

can't do anything but whistle like our elastic friend with the tootle in

his hat."

"You mean Whistlebinkie?" said Mollie.

"Yes--that India-rubber creature who follows you around all the time and

squeaks whenever any one pokes him in the ribs. What's become of him?

Has he blown himself to pieces, or has he gone off to have himself made

over into a golosh?"

"Oh, no--Whistlebinkie is still here," said Mollie. "In fact, he let you

into the house. Didn't you see him?"

"No, indeed I didn't," said the Unwiseman. "What do you take me for?

I'm proud, I am. I wouldn't look at a person who'd open a front door. I

come of good family. My father was a Dunderberg and my mother was a Van

Scootle. We're one of the oldest families in creation. One of my

ancestors was in the Ark, and I had several who were not. It would never

do for one in my position to condescend to see a person who opened a

front door for pay.

"That's why I don't have servants in my own house. I'd have to speak to

them, and the idea of a Dunderberg-Van Scootle engaged in any kind of

conversation with servants is not to be thought of. We never did

anything for pay in all the history of our family, and we never

recognize as equals people who do. That's why I have nothing to do with

anybody but children. Most grown up people work."

"I don't see how you live," said Mollie. "How do you pay your bills?"

"Don't have any," said the Unwiseman. "Never had a bill in my life. I

leave bills to canary birds and mosquitoes."

"But you have to buy things to eat, don't you?"

"Very seldom," said the Unwiseman. "I'm never hungry; but when I do get

hungry I can most generally find something to eat somewhere--apples, for

instance. I can live a week on one apple."

"Well, what do you do when you've eaten the apple?" queried Mollie.

"What an absurd question," laughed the Unwiseman. "Didn't you know that

there was more than one apple in the world? Every year I find enough

apples to last me as long as I think it is necessary to provide. Last

year I laid in fifty-three apples so that if I got very hungry one week

I could have two--or maybe I could give a dinner and invite my friends,

and they could have the extra apple. Don't you see?"

"Well, you are queer, for a fact!" said Mollie, getting a large lemon

out of the pantry closet and cutting it in half.

As the sharp steel blade of the knife cut through the crisp yellow lemon

the eyes of the Unwiseman opened wide and bulged with astonishment.

"What on earth are you doing, Miss Whistlebinkie?" he said. "Why do you

destroy that beautiful thing?"

It was Mollie's turn to be surprised.

"I don't know what you mean," she said. "Why shouldn't I cut the lemon?

How can I make a lemonade without cutting it?"

"Humph!" said the Unwiseman, with a half sneer on his lips. "You'll go

to the poor-house if you waste things like that. Why, I've had lemonade

for a year out of one lemon, and it hasn't been cut open yet. I drop it

in a glass of water and let it soak for ten minutes. That doesn't use up

the lemon juice as your plan does, and it makes one of the bitterest

sour drinks that you ever drank--however, this is your lemonade treat,

and it isn't for me to criticize. My book of etiquette says that people

out calling must act according to the rules of the house they are

calling at. If you asked me to have some oyster soup and then made it

out of sassafras or snow-balls, it would be my place to eat it and say I

never tasted better oyster soup in my life. That's a funny thing about

being polite. You have to do and say so many things that you don't

really mean. But go ahead. Make your lemonade in your own way. I've got

to like it whether I like it or not. It isn't my lemon you are wasting."

Mollie resumed the making of the lemonade while the Unwiseman looked

about him, discovering something that was new and queer to him every

moment. He seemed to be particularly interested in the water pipes.

"Strange idea that," he said, turning the cold water on and off all the

time. "You have a little brook running through your house whenever you

want it. Ever get any fish out of it?"

"No," said Mollie, with a laugh. "We couldn't get very big fish through

a faucet that size."

[Illustration: "Why don't you have larger faucets and catch the fish?"]

"That's what I was thinking," said the Unwiseman, turning the water on

again; "and furthermore, I think it's very strange that you don't fix it

so that you can get fish. A trout isn't more than four inches around.

You could get one through a six-inch pipe without any trouble unless he

got mad and stuck his fins out. Why don't you have larger faucets and

catch the fish? I would. If there aren't any fish in the brook you can

stock it up without any trouble, and it would save you the money you pay

to fish-markets as well as the nuisance of going fishing yourself and

putting worms on hooks."

A long hilarious whistle from the pantry door caused the Unwiseman to

look up sharply.

"What was that?" he said.

"Smee," came the whistling voice.

"It's Whistlebinkie," said Mollie.

"Is his real name Smee?" asked the Unwiseman. "I thought Whistlebinkie

was his name."

"So it is," said Mollie. "But when he gets excited he always runs his

words together and speaks them through the top of his hat. By 'smee' he

meant 'it's me.' Come in, Whistlebinkie."

"I shall not notice him," said the Unwiseman, stiffly. "Remember what I

said to you about my family. He opens front doors for pay."

"Donteither," whistled Whistlebinkie.

"You wrong him, Mr. Unwiseman," said Mollie. "He isn't paid for opening

the front door. He just does it for fun."

"Oh! well, that's different," said the proud visitor. "If he does it

just for fun I can afford to recognize him--though I must say I can't

see what fun there is in opening front doors. How do you do,

Whistlebinkie?"

"Pretwell," said Whistlebinkie. "How are you?"

"I hardly know what to say," replied the Unwiseman, scratching his head

thoughtfully. "You see, Miss Mollie, when I got up my conversation for

this call I didn't calculate on Whistlebinkie here. I haven't any

remarks prepared for him. Of course, I could tell him that I am in

excellent health, and that I think possibly it will rain before the

year is over; but, after all, that's very ordinary kind of talk, and

we'll have to keep changing the subject all the time to get back to my

original conversation with you."

"Whistlebinkie needn't talk at all," said Mollie. "He can just whistle."

"Or maybe I could go outside and put in a few remarks for him here and

there, and begin the call all over again," suggested the Unwiseman.

"Oh, no! Dodoothat," began Whistlebinkie.

"Now what does he mean by dodoothat?" asked the visitor, with a puzzled

look on his face.

"He means don't do that--don't you, Whistlebinkie? Answer plainly

through your mouth and let your hat rest," said Mollie.

"That--swat--I--meant," said Whistlebinkie, as plainly as he

could. "He--needn't--botherto--talk--toomee--to me, I mean. I

only--want--to--listen--towhim."

"What's towhim?" asked the Unwiseman.

"To you is what he means. He says he's satisfied to listen to you when

you talk."

"Thassit," Whistlebinkie hurried to say, meaning, I suppose, "that's

it."

"Ah!" said the Unwiseman, with a pleased smile. "That's it, eh? Well,

permit me to say that I think you are a very wonderfully wise rubber

doll, Mr. Whistlebinkie. I may go so far as to say that in this view of

the case I think you are the wisest rubber doll I ever met. You like my

conversation, do you?"

"Deedido," whistled Whistlebinkie. "I think it's fine!"

"I owe you an apology, Whistlebinkie," said the Unwiseman, gazing at the

doll in an affectionate way. "I thought you opened front doors for pay,

instead of which I find that you are one of the wisest, most interesting

rubber celebrities of the day. I apologize for even thinking that you

would accept pay for opening a front door, and I will esteem it a great

favor if you will let me be your friend. Nay, more. I shall make it my

first task to get up a conversation especially for you. Eh? Isn't that

fine, Whistlebinkie? I, Me, the Unwiseman, promise to devote fifteen or

twenty minutes of his time to getting up talk for you, talk with

thinking in it, talk that amounts to something, talk that ninety-nine

talkers out of a hundred conversationalists couldn't say if they tried;

and all for you. Isn't that honor?"

"Welliguess!" whistled Whistlebinkie.

"Very well, then. Listen," said the Unwiseman. "Where were we at, Miss

Mollie?"

"I believe," said Mollie, squeezing a half a lemon, "I believe you were

saying something about putting fish through the faucet."

"Oh, yes! As I remember it, the faucets were too small to get the fish

through, and I was pondering why you didn't have them larger."

"That was it," said Mollie. "You thought if the faucets were larger it

would save fish-hooks and worms."

"Exactly," said the Unwiseman. "And I wonder at it yet. I'd even go

farther. If I could have a trout-stream running through my house that I

could turn on and off as I pleased, I'd have also an estuary connected

with the Arctic regions through which whales could come, and in that way

I'd save lots of money. Just think what would happen if you could turn

on a faucet and get a whale. You'd get oil enough to supply every lamp

in your house. You wouldn't have to pay gas bills or oil bills, and

besides all that you could have whale steaks for breakfast, and whenever

your mother wanted any whale-bone, instead of sending to the store for

it, she'd have plenty in the house. If you only caught one whale a

month, you'd have all you could possibly need."

"It certainly is a good idea," said Mollie. "But I don't think----"

"Wait a minute, please," said the Unwiseman, hastily. "That don't think

remark of yours isn't due until I've turned on this other faucet."

Suiting his action to his word, the Unwiseman turned on the hot-water

faucet, and plunging his hand into the water, slightly scalded his

fingers.

[Illustration: "Ouch!" he cried; "the brook must be afire!"]

"Ouch!" he cried. "The brook must be afire! Now who ever heard of that?

The idea of a brook being on fire! Really, Miss Whistlebinkie, you ought

to tell your papa about this. If you don't, the pipes will melt and who

knows what will become of your house? It will be flooded with burning

water!"

"Oh, no!--I guess not. That water is heated down stairs in the

kitchen, in the boiler."

"But--but isn't it dangerous?" the Unwiseman asked, anxiously.

"Not at all," said Mollie. "You've been mistaken all along, Mr. Me.

There isn't any brook running through this house."

"I?" cried the Unwiseman, indignantly. "Me? I? The Unwiseman mistaken?

Never! I never made a mistake but once, Miss Mary J. Whistlebinkie, and

that was in calling upon you. I'm going home at once. You have

outrageously offended me."

"I didn't mean to," pleaded Mollie. "I was only trying to tell you the

truth. This water comes out of a tank."

[Illustration: "I am going straight home."]

"Excuse me," said the Unwiseman, indignantly. "You have said that I have

made a mistake. You charge me with an act of which I have never been

guilty, and I am going straight home. You said something that wasn't in

the conversation, and we can never get back again to the point from

which you have departed."

"Oh! do stay," said Whistlebinkie. "You haven't seen the nursery yet,

and the hardwood stairs, and all the lovely things we have here."

"No, I haven't--and I sha'n't now!" retorted the Unwiseman. "I had some

delicious remarks to make about the nursery, but now they are

impossible. I shall not even drink your lemonade. I am going home!"

And without another word the Unwiseman departed in high dudgeon.

"Isn't it too bad," said Mollie, as she heard the front door slam after

the departing guest.

"Yes," said Whistlebinkie. "I wanted him to stay until it was dark. I

should like so much to know what he'd have to say about gas."

[Illustration: VI. The Christmas Venture of the Unwiseman.

In which the Unwiseman goes into an unprofitable business.