_JIMMIEBOY--and SOMETHING_
It was a warm, summer afternoon--just the sort of an afternoon for a
drowse, and when the weather was just right for it Jimmieboy was a great
drowser. In fact, a little golden-haired fairy with a silver wand had
just whispered to a butterfly that when it came to drowsing in an
interesting way there was nobody in the world who could excel Jimmieboy
in that accomplishment. Jimmieboy had overheard this much himself, but
he had never told anybody about it, because he found drowsing so very
easy, and the pleasures of it so great, that he was a little afraid
somebody else might try it and make him divide up his fun with him. It
was somewhat selfish of him to behave this way, perhaps, but then no
one ever pretended that Jimmieboy was absolutely perfect, not even the
boy himself.
It so happened, that upon this particular afternoon, Jimmieboy was
swinging idly in the hammock under the trees. On one side of him babbled
a little mountain stream, while on the other lay a garden full of
beautiful flowers, where the bees hummed the whole day through, and
whence when day was done and the night shadows were coming over all even
the sun's rays seemed sorry to go. In the house, a hundred feet away,
Jimmieboy's mamma was playing softly on a zithern, and the music,
floating out through the flower-scented air, set the boy to thinking,
which with him is always the preliminary to a doze. His right eye
struggled hard to keep awake, long after the left eye had given up the
fight, and it was due possibly to this that Jimmieboy was wide enough
awake at the time to hear a quaint little voice up in the tree calling
to the tiger lilies over near the house.
"Say, Tige," the little voice cried, "what time is it?"
"I can't see the clock," returned the lily. "But," it added, dropping
into verse:
"I judge from sundry tinkles
Of the bell upon the cow
That if it isn't later,
It is pretty nearly now."
"Thank you," said the voice up the tree, "I was afraid I'd miss my
train."
"So! You are going away?" said another voice, which, if his ears did not
deceive Jimmieboy, came this time from the rose bush.
"Yes," said the voice up in the tree. "Yes, I'm going away. I don't know
where exactly, because I haven't bought my ticket yet. I may be going to
the North Pole, or I may only be coming here. In fact, if my ticket
turns out to be a return ticket, it will amount to that, which makes me
wonder what's the use of going any way."
"But when does your train go?" asked the voice in the rose bush.
"A week from next Thursday," said the tree voice. "I didn't know but
that it was then now. You see I always get mixed up as to what time it
is or what day it is. This isn't a date tree, and I haven't any
calendar."
"I guess you've got plenty of time," chuckled the tiger lily, nodding
its head gleefully at the holly-hock. "It won't be a week from next
Thursday for several days yet."
"Heigho," sighed the voice up in the tree. "Several days to wait, eh?
I'm sure I don't know what I shall do to pass the time away."
"Oh, as for that," observed the holly-hock; "I know an easy scheme for
passing time. I learned it from a fairy I met once.
"'Sit still and never raise your hands,'
Advised the little elf,
'Pay no attention to the clock,
And time will pass itself.'
"You have nothing to do with it doing it that way," the holly-hock
added.
"That's a good idea," said the voice up in the tree. "It's queer I never
thought of it, and I've been thinking and thinking ever so many years,
trying to get up a scheme to pass the time."
"You're not very deep, I'm afraid," said the rose bush. "You can't think
very valuable thoughts, can you?"
"I'm sure I don't know," the voice up the tree replied. "I've never
tried to sell them, so of course I can't tell whether they are valuable
or not. Do you sell what you think?"
"Certainly I do," returned the rose bush. "I suggested the idea of
making honey to the bees. Wasn't that a great thing to do?"
"Yes, indeed," returned the voice. "It was splendid. I've never had any
honey, but I'm told it's fine. It's very sticky, isn't it?"
"Very," said the rose bush. "I guess honey is about as sticky as
anything can be."
"And very useful for that reason," said the voice up in the tree,
kindly. "Very useful. I suppose, really, if it wasn't for honey, people
couldn't make postage stamps stay on letters. You ought to be very happy
to think that one of your thoughts has given people the idea of
mucilage. Do they ever use honey for anything else but its stickiness?"
"Hoh!" jeered the rose bush. "Don't you know anything?"
"Not much," said the tree voice. "I know you, and me, and several other
things, but that's not much, is it? It's really queer how little I know.
Why, would you believe it, a sparrow asked me the other day what was the
difference between a robin's egg and a red blackberry, and I didn't
know."
"What did you tell him?" asked the holly-hock.
"I told him I couldn't tell until I had eaten them."
"And what did he say?" put in the tiger lily, with a grin.
"He said that wasn't the answer; that one was blue and the other was
green, but how a red blackberry can be green I can't see," replied the
voice up in the tree.
Jimmieboy smiled quietly at this, and the voice up the tree continued:
"Then he asked me what color blueberries were, and I told him they were
blue; then he said he'd bet a mosquito I couldn't tell him what color
huckleberries were, and when I said they were of a delicate huckle he
laughed, and said I owed him a mosquito. I may owe him a mosquito, but I
haven't an idea what he was laughing at."
"That's easy," said the holly-hock. "He was laughing because there isn't
any such color as huckle."
"I don't think that's funny, though," said the voice in the tree.
"Indeed, I think it's sad, because it seems to me that a very pretty
color could be made out of huckle. Why do you suppose there isn't any
such color?"
The lily and the rose and holly-hock bushes were silent for a moment,
and then they said they didn't know.
"I'm glad you don't," said the tree voice. "I'm glad to find that there
are some things you don't know. Just think how dreadful it would be if
you knew everything. Why, if you knew everything, nobody could tell you
anything, and then there'd never be any news in the world, and when you
heard a joke you couldn't ever laugh because you'd have known it
before."
Here Jimmieboy, impressed by the real good sense of this remark, leaned
out of the hammock and peered up into the tree to see if possible who or
what it was that was speaking.
"Don't," cried the voice. "Don't try to see me, Jimmieboy, I haven't got
my company clothes on, and you make me nervous."
"But I want to see who you are," said Jimmieboy.
"Well you needn't want that any more," said the voice. "I'll tell you
why. Nobody knows what I am. I don't even know myself."
"But what do you look like?" asked Jimmieboy.
"I don't know that, either. I never saw myself," replied the voice. "I'm
something, of course, but just what I don't know. It may be that I am a
horse and wagon, only I don't think I am, because horses, and wagons
don't get up in trees. I saw a horse sitting on a whiffletree once, but
that was down on the ground and not up here, so, of course, you see the
chances are that I'm not that."
"What do you think you are?" asked Jimmieboy.
"I haven't thought much about it. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll
tell you what, perhaps, I am, and maybe that will help you to find out,
and if you do find out I beg that you will tell me, because I've some
curiosity on the subject myself."
"Go ahead," said Jimmieboy. "You give me the perhapses and I'll try to
guess."
"Well," began the voice, slowly, as if, whatever it was, the thing was
trying to think. Let me see.
"Perhaps I am a house and lot,
Perhaps I am a pussy cat,
Perhaps I am a schooner yacht,
Or possibly an inky spot,
Perhaps a beaver hat."
"I've never seen any of those up a tree," said Jimmieboy. "I guess you
aren't any of those."
"Very likely not," said the voice, "but I can try a few more.
"Perhaps I am a picture book,
It maybe I'm a candy box,
Perhaps I am a trolling-hook,
A tennis bat, or fancy cook,
Perhaps a pair of socks.
"Perchance I am a pair of shears,
Perhaps a piece of kindling-wood,
Perhaps I am a herd of deers,
Perhaps two crystal chandeliers,
Or some old lady's hood.
"No man can say I'm not a pad
On which a poet scribbles verse,
It may be I'm a nice fresh shad,
Or something else not quite as bad,
Or maybe something worse."
"But none of these things ever go up trees," protested Jimmieboy. "Can't
you tell me some of the things that perhaps you are that are found up in
trees?"
"No," said the voice, sadly. "I can't. I don't know what kind of things
go up trees--unless it's pollywogs or Noah's arks."
"They don't go up trees," said Jimmieboy, scornfully.
"Well I was afraid they didn't, and that's why I didn't mention them
before. But you see," the voice added with a mournful little tremor,
"you see how useless it is to try to guess what I am. Why, if you really
guessed, I wouldn't know if you'd guessed right--so what's the use?"
"I guess there isn't any use," said Jimmieboy. "If I could only see you
once, though, maybe I could tell."
Here he leaned far out of the hammock, in a vain effort to see the
creature he was talking to. He leaned so far out, in fact, that he lost
his balance and fell head over heels on to the soft green turf.
The mountain brook seemed to laugh at this mishap, and went babbling on
to the great river that bore its waters to the sea, while Jimmieboy,
somewhat dazed by his afternoon's experience, walked wonderingly back to
the house to make ready for supper. He was filled with regret that he
had not been able to catch a glimpse of the strange little being in the
tree, for he very much wished to know what manner of creature it was, so
stupid and yet so kindly--as, indeed, would I, for really I haven't any
more idea as to who or what it was than he. What do _you_ think it
was?