It was one Tuesday noon coming home from school that we stopped the Lady
on the street.
She was a very interesting looking lady. She looked like all sorts of
different-colored silk roses. And a diamond brooch.
"Excuse us, Madam," I said. "But we are making a book! And we have
decided to begin it with you! If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a
Beautiful Lady,--what Beautiful Smell in the Whole Wide World would you
choose to be?"
The lady reeled back against the wall of the Post Office. And put on a
gold eyeglass to support her.
"Merciful Impudences!" she said. "What new kind of census is this?"
We knew what a "census" was.
"No! It isn't that at all!" I explained. "This is something important."
Carol showed her the book. He showed her the pencil he was going to
write the book with.
"When it's all done," I explained, "everybody will want to read it!"
"I can well believe it," said the Lady. She looked at Carol. Everybody
looks at Carol.
"Who are you children, anyway?" she said.
"My name is Ruthy," I explained. "And this is my brother Carol."
She began to look at Carol all over again. She reached out and shook him
by the shoulder.
"Dumbness!" she said. "Why let Sister do all the talking?"
My stomach felt pretty queer.
"My brother Carol _can't_ talk," I explained. "He _is_ dumb!"
The Lady turned very red.
"Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh dear," she said. She opened her purse. She took
out a dollar bill. "Surely something could be done about it!" she said.
"We are not looking for money," I explained. "We are perfectly rich. We
have warm underalls. And two parents. And an older sister. We have a
tame coon. And a tame crow. Our Father could paint the house any Autumn
he wanted to if he'd rather do it than plant Tulips."
The Lady looked at her watch. It was a bright blue watch no bigger than
a violet is.
"This is all very interesting," she said. "But at the obnoxious hotel
which you run in this village dinner is at twelve o'clock and if I'm
not there at exactly that moment there will not be another dinner, I
suppose, until twelve o'clock the next day. So----"
"Probably not," I said. "So if you don't feel timid at all about walking
out with strangers, my brother Carol and I will walk home to the Hotel
with you and write our book as we go."
The Lady bit herself. She bit herself in the lip. She began to walk very
fast.
Carol walked very fast on one side of her. I walked very fast on the
other. Carol carried the book. He carried it wide open so as to be all
ready any moment. I carried the pencil.
"Can you tell me," said the Lady, "just why you and your brother have
picked upon me as the first victim of your most astonishing
interrogations?"
"Because you are the only Lady we ever saw in our lives that we didn't
know who she was!" I explained. "And that makes it more interesting!"
"O--h," said the Lady. She gave a queer little gasp. It was the Hotel
happening! She ran up the hotel steps. There was a Gentleman waiting for
her at the top of the steps. He was a tall Gentleman with a very cross
mustache. The Lady whispered something to him. He shook his mustache at
us.
"Get out of here, you Young Scamps!" he cried. "Get out of here, I say!
_Get out!_"
No one had ever shaken his mustache at us before. We sat down on the
step to think about it.
The Gentleman ran off to call the Hotel Proprietor.
The Lady looked a little sorry. She came running back. She stooped down.
She took the book from Carol. And the pencil from me. She laughed a
little.
"You funny--funny children," she said. "What is it you want to know?
The Most Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world,--is that it?--The Most
Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world?" She looked back over her
shoulder. She wrote very fast. Her cheeks looked pink. She banged the
book together just the first second she had finished. She pulled my ear.
"I'm--I'm sorry," she said.
"Oh, that's all right," I assured her. "We'll be round and write the
rest of the book some other day!"
The Man with the Cross Mustache kept right on hunting all around.
When the Hotel Proprietor came running and saw who we were he gave us
two oranges instead, and a left-over roll of wall-paper with parrots on
it, and all the old calendars that were in his desk.
We had to race home across the railroad trestle to get there in time. It
wasn't till we reached the Blacksmith Shop that we had a chance to stop
and see what the Lady had written in our book. There was a Smoke Tree
just outside the Blacksmith Shop. It was all in smoke. We sat down under
it and opened our book.
This is what the Lady had written in our book.
The most beautiful smell in the world is the smell of an old
tattered baseball glove--that's been lying in the damp
grass--by the side of a brook--in June Time.
I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. We felt surprised. It wasn't
exactly what you would have expected. Carol rolled over on his stomach.
He clapped his heels in the air. He pounded his fists in the grass.
We forgot all about going home. We went into the Blacksmith's Shop
instead. It was a very earthy place. But nothing grew there. Not grass.
Not flowers. Not even vines. Just Junk!
The Blacksmith's name was Jason. He looked something like a Stove that
could be doubled up in its stomach and carried round to all four corners
of a horse for the horse to put his foot on. He was making shoes for a
very stout black horse. The horse's name was Ezra. There were a great
many sparks around! And iron noises! And flames! And smouches! Ezra's
hoofs seemed to be burning! It smelt so funny we didn't think it would
be polite to ask Jason what he'd rather smell like instead! So we
decided to begin the other way about. But whatever way you decided you
had to scream it.
"Jason," I screamed. "If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of a
Beautiful Blacksmith, what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world would
you choose to be?"
"_Eh?_" screamed Jason. He stopped hammering. He stopped thumping. He
stopped boiling poor Ezra's hoof with a red hot poker. "_Eh?_" he said
all over again. "Well, that's a new one on me! What's the Big Idea?"
"Well--I want to know," said Jason. He sat down on a great block of
wood. He wiped his sleeve on his face. It made his sleeve all black. "If
I was a Sound--?" he said. "Instead of a Man?--Instead of a man?" It
seemed to puzzle him a good deal. "Not to be a man--any more you mean?
No arms? Legs? Stomach? Eyes?--To get all worn out and busted stayin' on
forever in one place? And then thrung away?--But to be just a--just a
Sound?--Just a Sound? Well, of all the comical ideas! Of all the----"
Then quite suddenly he whacked his hand down in a great black smouch on
his knee and clanged his feet like dungeon chains across a clutter of
horseshoes. "I've got it!" he cried. "I've got it!--If I was a Sound
instead of a man I'd choose to be a Song!--Not great loud band-tunes, I
mean, that nobody could play unless he was hired! And charged tickets!
But some nice--pretty little Song--floatin' round all soft and easy on
ladies' lips and in men's hearts. Or tinklin' out as pleasant as you
please on moonlight nights from mandolin strings and young folks
sparkin'. Or turnin' up just as likely as not in some old guy's whistle
on the top of one of these 'ere omnibuses in London Town. Or travellin'
even in a phonograph through the wonders of the great Sahara Desert.
Something all simple--I mean that you could hum without even botherin'
with the words. Something people would know who you was even if there
_wasn't_ any words!--Something all sweet and low----'Sweet and Low,'
that's it! My Mother used to sing it! I hain't thought of it for forty
years! _That's_ the one I mean!"
"Sweet and Low"--he began to sing.
Sweet and low--Sweet and low--
Wind of the Western Sea----
His voice was all deep and full of sand like the way a bass drum makes
you feel in your stomach. I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. We felt
pretty surprised. Jason the Blacksmith looked more surprised than
anyone! But he kept right on singing!
Over the rolling waters go--
Come from the--the something--moon and blow--
While my little one--while my pretty one--sleeps.
Father will come to his babe in the nest--
S-silvery--something--all out of the West--
Silvery----
We ran!
When we got to the Smoke Tree and looked back there was no sound at all
in the Blacksmith Shop except the sound of Ezra thumping his hoofs. And
Jason being a Song instead of a man!
The faster we ran the more surprised we felt.
When you _read_ a book, of course, you expect to be surprised. If you
didn't think the person who made the book was going to tell you
something that you didn't know before you wouldn't bother to read it.
But when you're _writing_ a book it doesn't seem exactly as though so
many unexpected things ought to happen to you!
We were pretty glad when we ran right into the Old Minister who preaches
sometimes when all the young ministers can't think of anything more to
preach about.
The Old Minister was leaning against the Bridge. The Old Lawyer was
leaning against the Bridge with him. They were waving their canes. And
their long white beards. And arguing about the "Thirty-Nine
Articles."--Carol thinks it was the "Fifty-Seven Varieties" they were
arguing about. But the "Fifty-Seven Varieties" I'm almost sure is
Pickles. It's the "Thirty-Nine Articles" that is Arguments!
The Old Minister laughed when he saw us coming. "Well--Well--Well!" he
cried. "See who's here! And carrying such a big book too! And all out
of breath!" He put his arm round Carol. I thought he was going to ask us
our Catechisms. And there wasn't any breath left in our catechisms.
"Oh, if you were a Beautiful Sound," I gasped, "instead of a Beautiful
Preacher--what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world--would you--would
you choose to be?"
"Eh?" said the Old Minister. "Eh?--What's--that? A--A--Sound instead of
a Preacher? Well, upon my word!--This minute, you mean? Or any minute?
If I was a Beautiful Sound instead of----?" He mopped his forehead. He
looked pretty hot. He twinkled his eyes at the Old Lawyer. "Well--just
_this_ minute," he said, "I'd rather be the Sound of Foaming Beer than
anything else in the world that I can think of!" He thumped his cane on
the ground. The Old Lawyer thumped his cane on the ground. They both
started off down the road thumping as they walked. We heard them
chuckling as they thumped. They weren't arguing any more about the
"Thirty-Nine Articles." They were arguing about Cheese.
And that was surprising too!
There wasn't any dinner left when we got home except just knives and
forks and spoons. My Mother found us two bowls to go with the spoons.
And some milk to go with the bowls. And some crackers to go with the
milk. Everything went very well.
We told my Mother we were sorry to be late but that we were writing a
book and it was very important.
My Mother said yes,--she knew that writing books was very important and
had always noticed that people who wrote 'em were very apt to be late to
things. Her only regret, she said, was that Carol and I hadn't had a
little more time in which to form habits of promptness before we began
on such a chronic career as Literature.
My Father said "Stuff and Nonsense!" My Father said that if we'd kindly
condescend to tear ourselves away from the Charms of Literature for one
brief afternoon he'd like to have us weed the Tulip Bed.
We said we would.
We forgot all about our book. It isn't that pulling up weeds is any
special fun. It's the putting flowers back that you've pulled up by
mistake that is such a Game in itself. You have to make little splints
for them out of Forsythia twigs. You have to build little collars of
pebble-stone all around them to keep marauding beetles from eating up
their wiltedness. You have to bring them medicine-water from the brook
instead of from the kitchen--so that nobody will scream and say, "Oh,
what have you done now?--Oh, what have you done _now_?"
It was Supper Time before we knew it. There was creamed chicken for
supper. And wild strawberry preserve. And a letter from our sister
Rosalee. Our sister Rosalee is in Cuba visiting her Betrother. She wrote
seven pages about it. She seemed to like her Betrother very much.
My Mother cried a little. My Father said "Oh, Pshaw! Oh, Pshaw! You
can't keep 'em babies forever!" My Mother tried not to look at my
Father's eyes. She looked at his feet instead. When she looked at his
feet instead she saw that there were holes in his slippers. She seemed
very glad. She ran and got a big needle. And a big thread. My Father had
to sit very still.
It seemed a very good time to remember about the Book.
Carol went and got the Book. He put it down on the Dining Room table. It
was a gray book with a red back to it. It said "Lanos Bryant" across the
back of it. It was Lanos Bryant who had given us the book. Lanos Bryant
was the Butcher. It was an old Account Book. The front of it was all
mixed up with figurings. It was in the back of it that we were making
Our Book.
My Mother looked up. She smiled at us.
"Why, bless my heart," she said, "we mustn't forget about the children's
Book!"
"No such luck," said my Father.
Everybody smiled a little.
"What's the Book about?" said my Mother.