IN WHICH FLIP TELLS MY FAVORITE STORY, AND IF YOU DO NOT LIKE IT VERY
MUCH, FLIP KNOWS SOMEONE WHO WILL
“Smudge was asleep; very peacefully asleep for so huge a personage.”
“What’s a personage?” asked Walter.
“A very important person. Now, don’t interrupt! Smudge was asleep at
the sunset end of the valley. There was a bald spot on his head, all
grey and cold, and grey spots climbing up him, and dark grey-blue
corners that the firs shaded. You see, Smudge was the biggest mountain
you can possibly imagine. About the feet of him grew oaks that were
grey and they hid a very world of little folk. Smudge had sat at the
sunset end of the valley for several years; ten thousand years, the
owl says, and he knows. So, of course, there were many flower folks
hiding about, for in all of the ten thousand years there had been many
children born in the world beyond the valley and you, Butterfly, and
everyone else knows that every time a child creature is born in the
world beyond the valley there is another flower creature, sometimes
a gloriously bold California poppy, more often a rather silly little
violet, born in the flower world. As I told you, Smudge, all grey and
cold, was sleeping at the sunset end of the valley. As he slept, a
bird, somewhere in the trees, piped a morning song. Smudge shivered
and a cool, shivery breeze came through the groves. Again the tree
creature piped and then the stupid bald spot of grey on Smudge’s nice
old head took on a strange flush. As he flushed the sky in the other
end of the valley grew the color of a baby rose; the grass in the
valley stirred, and a rabbit-person with an adorable bunch of white
cotton for a tail sat up and cocked two pink ears. And Smudge, sleepy,
ten-thousand-year-old Smudge, yawned, and his stirring sent a family
of meadow larks dancing into the grey sky. They sang a song, all
golden and gay, and the grey-pink sky grew golden, and the fir tops
blushed and ripples of crimson laughter skipped on the silver-grey
stream in the valley. The Poppy folk bestirred themselves and stretched
wide their arms; the boldest of the violets peered above the frail
maidenhair and a Brown-Eyed-Susan sat up to greet Smudge. And lazy
Smudge slept on. But the morning would not have it so; down from the
bald spot and over the lazy creature’s body crept the dawn-flush,
painting bits of red below his eyes and golden tan in the many-year-old
wrinkles; the beard of cypress trees shook out their branches and the
stream that danced about Smudge’s mouth became boisterously happy. And
STILL Smudge slept.
“Out of the pussy willows, with a flutter of wings, came a
butterfly-person, so very yellow that the glow that was the sun hid in
dismay for a moment--only a moment--behind a copper cloud. Up to the
heights darted the butterfly, a spot of gold against the huge mountain
of grey-pink. It soared and danced an undignified minuet, then floated
down and tickled Smudge on the lips, and Smudge smiled in his sleep.
The golden butterfly snapped its eyes, for it was very much provoked;
up into the sky of blue it went again and flitted its wings, then came
down and again tickled the old creature, this time, most wisely, on the
nostril, and, just as you might expect, Smudge sneezed and woke up.
“Then it was very wonderful--it came like a wondrous burst of love
music. The sun poured over the world and all the Flower folk and bird
creatures and every rabbit and field mouse and worm danced out into
the morning sunshine and sang a lovely morning prayer that I, stupid
creature, have forgotten every word of. Smudge grunted and wiped the
sleep from his eyes and grinned and saw the golden yellowbird butterfly.
“‘Good morning, Loveliness,’ said Smudge.
“‘Good morning, Old One,’ said the disrespectful yellow bird. Then she
danced on Smudge’s lip and tickled his ear. When he bent branches to
capture her she darted away and came back to laugh and impudently put
her fingers to her nose. Sentimental old Smudge sighed and whispered:
“‘Oh, Loveliness! I wish you were more serious so that I could love you
the more.’
“Indignantly, Loveliness flew away, down into the valley and flirted
with a baby daisy. Smudge laughed indulgently, in the manner of the
aged, and called to him his counselor. Can you guess who his counselor
was, Butterfly? It was a man-baby, a tiny pink one, with just a bit of
sunny hair on his head and funny, fat little wrinkles on his baby body.
He was the counselor because he was Youth, and only Youth and Smudge
could live forever. Smudge became dignified and said:
“‘Oh, Wise One, what is the business of the day?’
“The baby-being laughed and caught a grasshopper and said:
“‘The Blackbird.’
“‘The Blackbird?’ stormed Smudge. ‘What have I to do with her? Day
and day again I have said that she is nothing to me; poor, somber bit
of ebony. I want sunshine and the crystal’s colors and dancing and
happiness; not blackness.’
“The man-baby laughed and stuck a blade of grass in the grasshopper’s
ear and whispered:
“‘Silly, silly! If the Blackbird loves you so much, then you must have
to do with her, for her love makes her more precious than all your
other subjects.’
“Smudge sneered and made a nasty remark about the words of infants.
“Then, Children, what do you think happened? A whole thousand years and
a half passed and there came another sunrise. Smudge sat up and yawned
and became frightened, for there was no golden flush in the sky and no
poppy color in the fields. He shivered and called the man-baby, and the
man-baby came riding on the back of a jack-rabbit, pulling its tail.
“‘Good morning, Lord Smudge,’ said the man-baby. ‘You look as though
you needed medicine.’
“‘Don’t be impudent!’ shouted Smudge. ‘Where is the sun and the golden
Butterfly bird?’
“‘Please,’ said the man-baby. ‘The sun has rheumatism and the golden
bird has gone away with an eagle.’
“‘So!’ screamed Smudge, just like a peevish giant. ‘What am I to do all
day alone?’
“‘Please,’ said the man-baby. ‘There is the Blackbird.’
“Smudge yawned. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Call the Blackbird!’
“The man-baby stood up on the jack-rabbit’s back and galloped down into
the valley, into a cradle of violets and cream-cups. There he found
the Blackbird and said to her, ‘Come!’ The Blackbird hopped to the
jack-rabbit’s tail, and the three galloped back to Smudge.
“‘Good morning,’ grumbled Smudge, ungraciously. ‘So you’ve come at last
to give me a day of blackness and creeps?’
“The man-baby giggled so that he tumbled right off the jack-rabbit
and spilled into a wild rosebush. There he lay and you could hear him
snickering.
“‘Well,’ shouted Smudge. ‘Why don’t you speak?’
“The Blackbird hid her head and whispered, ‘I love you.’
“‘Silly child,’ said Smudge. ‘Come out and let me see you!’
“He sat up so he could see better and then, Children, he almost fell
right out of his valley bed. For the Blackbird was sitting on a branch
of a willow tree, and right on each of her black wings was a large ruby
of lovely crimson, brighter--oh, very much brighter than the brightest
flower you have ever seen.
“‘Loveliness,’ shouted Smudge, using the same name he had used for the
golden butterfly bird (men always do), ‘I thought you were black and
somber.’
“‘I was,’ said the Blackbird, and her eyes became all teary.
“‘But the sunlight on your wings and the valley of green of your eyes
and the rainbow of your neck! Where did they come from, Loveliness?’
“‘I love you,’ said the Blackbird-with-the-crimson-wings. ‘I have
loved you for more than a thousand years, more years than there are
buttercups on the hill. And so, with thinking of you and longing to
have you love me, how could I help but grow the way you wished?’
“‘Loveliness, Loveliness,’ Smudge whispered, in a very gruff, choky
whisper. The man-baby fell from a willow tree and bumped his nose on
Smudge’s toe and sat up and laughed. Then all the valley grew golden
and the sky was glory bright; the meadow larks sang as they sat on the
twigs, and the violets and wild pansies and buttercups and golden cups
and poppies and brown-eyed-susans and forget-me-nots and daisies danced
a lovely, happy dance that frightened away the very grey old owl, and
another day was born.”