was the Saturday before Christmas. Mollie and Whistlebinkie started out
in the afternoon to watch the boys skating for a while, after which they
went to the top of the great hill just outside the village to take a
coast or two. Whistlebinkie had never had any experience on a sled, and
he was very anxious to try it just once, and, as Mollie was a little
sleepy when he began persuading her to take him some time when she went,
for the sake of peace and rest she had immediately promised what he
wished of her. So here they were, on this cold, crisp December day,
laboriously lugging Mollie's sled up the hill.
"Tain-teesy!" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"What's that you say?" panted Mollie, for she was very much out of
breath.
"Tain-teesy," repeated Whistlebinkie. "I can't wissel well when I'm out
of breath."
"Well, I guess I know what you mean," said Mollie. "You mean that it
isn't easy pulling this sled up hill."
"Thassit!" said Whistlebinkie. "If this is what you call coasting, I
don't want any more of it."
"Oh, no!" said Mollie. "This isn't coasting. This is only getting ready
to coast. The coast comes when you slide down hill. We'll come down in
about ten seconds."
"Humph!" said Whistlebinkie. "All this pulling and hauling for ten
seconds' worth of fun?"
[Illustration: "Sliding down hill is never any fun unless you live at
the top of the hill."]
"That's what I say!" said a voice at Mollie's elbow. "Sliding down hill
is never any fun unless you live at the top of the hill and wish to go
down to the level to stay forever."
"Why," cried Mollie, delightedly, as she recognized the voice; "why it's
the Unwiseman!"
"Sotiz!" roared Whistlebinkie, intending, of course to say "so it is."
"Certainly it is," said the Unwiseman; "for how could it be otherwise,
seeing as I am not a magic lantern and so cannot change myself into some
one else? I've got to stay Me always."
"Magic lanterns can't change themselves into anything else," said
Mollie. "You must mean magician."
"Maybe I must," said the Unwiseman. "I guess you are right. Some people
call 'em by a long name like prestodigipotatoes, but your word is good
enough for me, so we'll let it go at that. I'm not a magellan, so I
can't transfigure myself. Therefore, I am still the Unwiseman at your
service. But tell me, are you going sliding?"
"Yes," said Mollie. "Want to come with us?"
"I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't. I'm very busy," replied the
Unwiseman. "I'm going into business."
"You?" cried Mollie, in amazement. "Why, didn't you tell me once that
you never worked? That no member of your family had ever worked, and
that you despised trade?"
"Iyeardim," put in Whistlebinkie.
"What's that?" queried the Unwiseman, frowning at Whistlebinkie. "What
does iyeardim mean?"
"It's Whistlebinkie for 'I heard him,'" explained Mollie. "He means to
say that he heard you say you had never worked and never intended to."
"No doubt," said the Unwiseman. "No doubt. But misfortune has overtaken
me. I have ceased to like apples."
"Ho!" laughed Mollie. "What has that to do with it?"
"I have ceased to like apples and have conceived an unquenchable thirst
for chocolate eclaires," said the Unwiseman. "Hitherto, as I once told
you, I have lived on apples, which cost me nothing, because I could pick
them up in the orchard, but chocolate eclaires cost money. I have been
informed, and I believe, they cost five cents a piece; that they do not
grow on trees, but are made by men calling themselves fakirs----"
"Bakers, you mean, I guess," interrupted Mollie.
"It may be," said the Unwiseman, "though neither fakir nor baker seems
to me to be so good a name for a man who makes cakes as the word caker."
"But there isn't any such word," said Mollie.
"Then that accounts for it," said the Unwiseman. "If there were such a
word those men would be called by it. But to come back to the chocolate
eclaires, whether they are made by bakers, fakirs, or plumbers, they
cost money; if I don't have them I shall starve to death, for I can
never more eat apples; therefore, to live I must make some money, and to
make money I must go into business."
"Well, I haven't any doubt it will be good for you," said Mollie. "It's
always well to have something to do. What business are you going into?"
"Ah!" said the Unwiseman, with a shake of his head. "That's my secret.
I've got a patent business I'm going into. It's my own invention. I was
going to be a lawyer at first, but I heard that lawyers gave advice. I
don't intend to give anything. There isn't any money in giving things,
so, of course, I decided not to be a lawyer--besides, I know of a man
who was a lawyer and he spent all of his life up to his ears in trouble,
and he didn't even own the trouble. It all belonged to his victims."
"Why don't you become a minister?" suggested Mollie.
"That's too hard work," said the Unwiseman. "You've got to go to church
three times every Sunday, and, besides, my house wouldn't look well with
a steeple on it. Then, too, I'd have to take a partner to ring the bell
and play the organ, and, of course, he'd want half the collections. No:
I couldn't be a minister. I'm too droll to be one, even if my house
would look well with a steeple on it. I did think some of being a
doctor, though."
"Why don't you?" said Mollie. "Doctors are awfully nice people. Our
doctor is just lovely. He gives me the nicest medicines you ever saw."
"That may be true; but I don't want to be a doctor," returned the
Unwiseman. "You have to study an awful lot to be a doctor. I knew a man
once who studied six weeks before he could be a doctor, and then what do
you suppose happened? It was awfully discouraging."
"What was it?" queried Mollie.
"Why, he practised on a cat he owned, to see what kind of a doctor he
had become, and the cat died all nine times at once; so the poor fellow,
after wasting all those weeks on study, had to become a plumber, after
all. Plumbing is the easiest profession of all, you know. You don't have
to know anything to be a plumber, only you've got to have strong eyes."
"I didn't know that," said Mollie.
"Oh my, yes!" returned the Unwiseman. "You can't be a plumber unless you
have strong eyes. It is very bad for a weak-eyed person to have to sit
on the floor and look at a pipe all day. That is one reason why I'm not
going to be a plumber. The other reason is that they never get any rest.
They work all day eying pipes, and then have to sit up all night making
out bills, and then they burn their fingers on stoves, and they
sometimes get their feet wet after springing a leak on a pipe, and,
altogether, it isn't pleasant. People play jokes on plumbers, too; mean
jokes. Why, I knew a plumber who was called out in the middle of the
night once by a city man who was trying to be a farmer during the summer
months, and what do you suppose the trouble was?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mollie. "What?"
"The city man said he'd come home late and found the well full of water,
and what was worse, the colander was riddled with holes. Twelve o'clock
at night, mind you, and one of these bitter cold summer nights you find
down in New Jersey."
"That was awfully mean," said Mollie. "That is, it was if the city man
didn't know any better."
"He did know better. He did it just for a joke," said the Unwiseman.
"And didn't the plumber put in a great big bill for that?" asked Mollie.
"Yes--but the city man couldn't pay it," said the Unwiseman. "That was
the meanest part of the joke. He went and lost all his money afterward.
I believe he did it just to spite the plumber."
"Well," said Mollie, "here we are at the top of the hill at last. Won't
you change your mind and go down with us, just once?"
"Nope," returned the Unwiseman. "I can't change my mind. Can't get it
out of my head, to change. Besides, I must hurry. I've got to get a
hundred pairs of stockings before Christmas Eve."
"Oh!" said Mollie. "I see. You are going into the stocking business."
"No, I'm not," said the queer old fellow, with a knowing smile. "There
isn't much money in selling stockings. I've got a better idea than that.
You come around to my house Christmas morning and I'll show you a thing
or two--that is, I will if I can get the hundred pairs of stockings--you
couldn't lend me a few pairs, could you?"
"I guess maybe so," said Mollie.
"All right--thank you very much," said the Unwiseman. "I'll be off now
and get them. Good-by."
And before Mollie could say another word he was gone.
"Isn't he the worst you ever saw?" said Mollie.
"Puffickly-digulous," said Whistlebinkie.
"I wonder what his business is to be," observed Mollie, as she seated
herself on the sled and made ready for the descent.
"I haven't the slightest ideeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeee-eeee-ah!" whistled
Whistlebinkie; a strange and long-drawn-out word that; but whistling
dolls are very like boys and girls when they are sliding down hill.
Mollie had set the sled in motion just as Whistlebinkie started to
speak, and her little rubber companion could not get away from the
letter _e_ in idea until he and his mistress ran plump into the
snow-drift at the foot of the hill.
"My!" said Whistlebinkie, blowing the snow out of his whistle. "Wasn't
that fine! I could do that all day."
"You could if the hill was long enough," said Mollie, sagely. "But
come, we must go home now." And home they went.
In the forty-eight or more hours that passed before Christmas morning
came, Mollie often wondered at the business venture of the Unwiseman.
What it could be she could not guess. The hundred pairs of stockings
mystified her exceedingly, and so, when Christmas morning finally
dawned, the first thing she and Whistlebinkie did was to post off at
full speed to the house of the Unwiseman.
"I wonder where his home is now?" said Whistlebinkie, as they walked
along.
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Mollie; "but it's had a way of
turning up where we least expected it in the past, so maybe we'll find
it in the same way now."
Mollie was right, for hardly were the words out of her mouth when
directly in front of her she saw what was unmistakably the house of the
Unwiseman, only fastened to the chimney was a huge sign, which had not
been there the last time she and Whistlebinkie had visited the
Unwiseman.
"What is that he's got on his chimmilly?" said Whistlebinkie, who did
not know how to spell, and who always pronounced words as he thought
they were spelled.
"It's a sign--sure as you live," said Mollie.
"What does it say?" Whistlebinkie asked.
"The Unwiseman's Orphan Asylum," said Mollie, reading the sign. "Notice
to Santa Claus: Dear Sir:--Too Hundred Orphans is Incarcerated Here.
Please leave Toys Accordingly."
"Ho!" said Whistlebinkie. "How queer."
"You don't suppose he has really gone into the Orphan Asylum business?"
said Mollie.
"I dono," said Whistlebinkie. "Let's wait till we see him before we
decide."
So they ran on until they got to the Unwiseman's front door, upon which
they knocked as hard as they knew how.
"Who's there?" came a reply in a mournful voice, from within.
"It's us," said Mollie.
"Who is Uss?" said the voice. "I know several Usses. Are you George W.
Uss, the trolley-car conductor, or William Peters Uss, the poet? If you
are the poet, I don't want to see you. I don't care for any poetry
to-day. If you are the conductor, I've paid my fare."
"It's Mollie and Whistlebinkie," said Mollie.
"Oh--well, that's different. Come in and see your poor ruined old
friend, who's got to go back to apples, whether he likes them or not,"
said the voice.
Mollie opened the door and walked in, Whistlebinkie following close
behind her--and what a sight it was that met their gaze! There in the
middle of the floor sat the Unwiseman, the perfect picture of despair.
Scattered about the room were hundreds of broken toys, and swinging from
the mantel-piece were two hundred stockings.
"Hello!" said the Unwiseman. "Merry Christmas. I'm ruined; but what of
that? You aren't."
"But how are you ruined?" asked Mollie.
"My business has failed--it didn't work," groaned the Unwiseman. "It was
the toy business I was going into, and as I had no money to buy the toys
with I borrowed a hundred pairs of stockings and hung 'em up. Then I put
out that notice for Santa Claus, telling him that this was an Orphan
Asylum."
"Yes," said Mollie, "I know. But it wasn't the truth, was it?"
"Of course it was," said the Unwiseman. "I'm an orphan. Very few men of
my age are not, and this is my asylum."
"Yes; but you said there were two hundred in here," said Mollie. "I saw
your sign."
[Illustration: The Unwiseman's "orphans."]
"Well there are," said the Unwiseman. "The piano hasn't any father or
mother, neither have the chairs, or the hundred and ninety-eight other
orphans in this house. It was all true."
"Well, anyhow," said Whistlebinkie, "you've got heaps of things. Every
stocking seems to have been filled."
"True," said the Unwiseman. "But almost entirely with old, cast-off
toys. I think it's pretty mean that boys and girls who are not orphans
should get all the new toys and that those who are orphans get the
broken ones."
Which strikes me as a very wise remark for an unwise man to make.
"Anyhow," continued the Unwiseman, "I'm ruined. I can't sell these toys,
and so I've got to go back to apples."
And here he fell to weeping so violently that Mollie and Whistlebinkie
stole softly out and went home; but on the way Mollie whispered to
Whistlebinkie:
"I'm rather sorry for him; but, after all, it was his own fault. He
really did try to deceive Santa Claus."
"Yes," said Whistlebinkie. "That's so. But he was right about the
meanness of giving only old toys to orphans."
"Yes, he was," said Mollie.
"Yesindeedy!" whistled Whistlebinkie through his hat, gleefully, for he
was very happy, as indeed I should be, if I were an old toy, to hear my
little master or mistress say it was mean to give me away.
"By the way," said Mollie. "He seems to have got over his anger with us.
I was afraid he wouldn't ever speak to us again after his call."
"So was I," said Whistlebinkie. "And I asked him if he wasn't mad at us
any more, and he said, yes he was, but he'd forgiven us for our
Christmas present."
[Illustration: VII. The Unwiseman's New Year's Resolutions.
In which the Unwiseman gives up some very distinguished words.