I
_JIMMIEBOY MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE_
The telephone was ringing, of that there was no doubt, and yet no one
went to see what was wanted, which was rather strange. The cook had a
great way of rushing up from the kitchen to where the 'phone stood in
the back hall whenever she heard its sounding bells, because a great
many of her friends were in the habit of communicating with her over the
wire, and she didn't like to lose the opportunity to hear all that was
going on in the neighborhood. And then, too, Jimmieboy's papa was at
work in the library not twenty feet away, and surely one would hardly
suppose that he would let it ring as often as Jimmieboy had heard it
this time--I think there were as many as six distinct rings--without
going to ask the person at the other end what on earth he was making all
that noise about. So it was altogether queer that after sounding six
times the bell should fail to summon any one to see what was wanted.
Finally it rang loud and strong for a seventh time, and, although he
wasn't exactly sure about it, Jimmieboy thought he heard a whisper
repeated over and over again, which said, "Hullo, Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy,
Hullo! Come to the telephone a moment, for I want to speak to you."
Whether there really was any such whisper as that or not, Jimmieboy did
not delay an instant in rushing out into the back hall and climbing upon
a chair that stood there to answer whoever it was that was so anxious to
speak to somebody.
"Hullo, you!" he said, as he got his little mouth over the receiver.
"Hullo!" came the whisper he thought he had heard before. "Is that you
Jimmieboy?"
"Yes. It's me," returned Jimmieboy. "Who are you?"
"I'm me, too," answered the whisper with a chuckle. "Some people call me
Hello Hithere Whoareyou, but my real name is Impy. I am the Imp of the
Telephone, and I live up here in this little box right over where your
mouth is."
"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy in pleased surprise. "I didn't know
anybody ever lived in that funny little closet, though I had noticed it
had a door with a key-hole in it."
"Yes, I can see you now through the key-hole, but you can't see me,"
said the Imp, "and I'm real sorry you can't, for I am ever so pretty. I
have beautiful mauve-colored eyes with eyelashes of pink, long and fine
as silk. My eyebrows are sort of green like the lawn gets after a sun
shower in the late spring. My hair, which is hardly thicker than the
fuzzy down or the downy fuzz--as you prefer it--of a peach, is colored
like the lilac, and my clothes are a bright red, and I have a pair of
gossamer wings to fly with."
"Isn't there any chance of my ever seeing you?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Why, of course," said the Imp. "Just the best chance in all the world.
Do you remember the little key your papa uses to lock his new cigar box
with?"
"The little silver key he carries on the end of his watch chain?"
queried Jimmieboy eagerly.
"The very same," said the Imp. "That key is the only key in this house
that will fit this lock. If you can get it and will open the door you
can see me, and if you will eat a small apple I give you when we do
meet, you will smallen up until you are big enough to get into my room
here and see what a wonderful place it is. Do you think you can get the
key?"
"I don't know," Jimmieboy answered. "I've asked papa to let me have it
several times already, but he has always said no."
"It looks hopeless, doesn't it?" returned the Imp. "But I'll tell you
how I used to do with my dear old father when he wouldn't let me have
things I wanted. I'd just ask him the same old question over and over
again in thirteen different ways, and if I didn't get a yes in answer to
one of 'em, why, I'd know it was useless; but the thirteenth generally
brought me the answer I wanted."
"I suppose that would be a good way," said Jimmieboy, "but I really
don't see how I could ask for the key in thirteen different ways."
"You don't, eh?" said the Imp, in a tone of disappointment. "Well, I am
surprised. You are the first little boy I have had anything to do with
who couldn't ask for a thing, no matter what it was, in thirteen
different ways. Why, it's as easy as falling up stairs."
"Tell me a few ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Well, first there is the direct way," returned the Imp. "You say just
as plainly as can be, 'Daddy, I want the key to your cigar box.' He will
reply, 'No, you are too young to smoke,' and that will make your mamma
laugh, which will be a good thing in case your papa is feeling a little
cross when you ask him. There is nothing that puts a man in a good humor
so quickly as laughing at his jokes. That's way number one," continued
the Imp. "You wait five minutes before you try the second way, which
is, briefly, to climb upon your father's knee and say, 'There are two
ends to your watch chain, aren't there, papa?' He'll say, 'Yes;
everything has two ends except circles, which haven't any;' then you
laugh, because he may think that's funny, and then you say, 'You have a
watch at one end, haven't you?' His answer will be, 'Yes; it has been
there fifteen years, and although it has been going all that time it
hasn't gone yet.' You must roar with laughter at that, and then ask him
what he has at the other end, and he'll say, 'The key to my cigar box,'
to which you must immediately reply, 'Give it to me, won't you?' And so
you go on, leading up to that key in everything you do or say for the
whole day, if it takes that long to ask for it thirteen times. If he
doesn't give it to you then, you might as well give up, for you'll never
get it. It always worked when I was little, but it may have been
because I put the thirteenth question in rhyme every time. If I wanted
a cream cake, I'd ask for it and ask for it, and if at the twelfth time
of asking I hadn't got it, I'd put it to the person I was asking finally
this way--
"I used to think that you could do
Most everything; but now I see
You can't, for it appears that you
Can't give a creamy cake to me."
"But I can't write poetry," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, yes you can!" laughed the Imp. "Anybody can. I've written lots of
it. I wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though
he said he was sorry I had discovered what he called his secret."
"Have you got it with you?" asked Jimmieboy, very much interested in
what the Imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected
about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be
the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him
as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the Imp had said,
write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps
of his father, whose every production, Jimmieboy's mamma said, was just
as nice as it could be.
"Yes, I have it here, where I keep everything, in my head. Just glue
your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and I'll recite it for you.
This is it:
"I've watched you, papa, many a day,
And think I know you pretty well;
You've been my chum--at work, at play--
You've taught me how to romp and spell.
"You've taught me how to sing sweet songs;
You've taught me how to listen, too;
You've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs;
You've made me love the good and true.
"Sometimes you've punished me, and I
Sometimes have wept most grievously
That yours should be the hand whereby
The things I wished were kept from me.
"Sometimes I've thought that you were stern;
Sometimes I could not understand
Why you should make my poor heart burn
By scoldings and by reprimand.
"Yet as it all comes back, I see
My sorrows, though indeed most sore
In those dear days they seemed to me,
Grieved you at heart by far the more.
"The frowns that wrinkled up your brow,
That grieved your little son erstwhile,
As I reflect upon them now,
Were always softened by a smile
"That shone, dear father, in your eyes;
A smile that was but ill concealed,
By which the love that in you lies
For me, your boy, was e'er revealed."
Here the Imp stopped.
"Go on," said Jimmieboy, softly.
"There isn't any more," replied the Imp. "When I got that far I couldn't
write any more, because I kind of got running over. I didn't seem to fit
myself exactly. Myself was too big for myself, and so I had to stop and
sort of settle down again."
"Your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Yes, he was," said the Imp; "although I noticed a big tear in his eye
when I read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and
I was glad I'd written it. But you must run along and get that key, for
my time is very short, and if we are to see Magnetville and all the wire
country we must be off."
"Perhaps if the rhyme always brings about the answer you want, it would
be better for me to ask the question that way first, and not bother him
with the other twelve ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"That's very thoughtful of you," said the Imp. "I think very likely it
would be better to do it that way. Just you tiptoe softly up to him and
say,
"If you loved me as I love you,
And I were you and you were me,
What you asked me I'd surely do,
And let you have that silver key."
"I think that's just the way," said Jimmieboy, repeating the verse over
and over again so as not to forget it. "I'll go to him at once."
And he did go. He tiptoed into the library, at one end of which his papa
was sitting writing; he kissed him on his cheek, and whispered the verse
softly in his ear.
"Why, certainly," said his papa, when he had finished. "Here it is,"
taking the key from the end of his chain. "Don't lose it, Jimmieboy."
[Illustration: BEFORE HIM STOOD THE IMP.]
"No, I'll not lose it. I've got too much use for it to lose it," replied
Jimmieboy, gleefully, and then, sliding down from his papa's lap, he ran
headlong into the back hall to where the telephone stood, inserted the
key in the key-hole of the little door over the receiver and turned it.
The door flew open, and before him stood the Imp.