IN WHICH LIZA GOES UNDER THE SIDEBOARD; WALTER AND EDWARD LEE FIX THE
CAT, AND FLIP PROVES THAT THE CITY FOGS ARE NICE
It was Liza who discovered the secret. She was hiding from Hermit, and
the best place to hide is under the sideboard, because Hermit is too
large to crawl there. She was very quiet; so quiet that no one knew she
was there at all. When Mother Dear and Father came in to put flowers on
the table, she lay still as still could be and heard everything they
said. Then she went right off to tell John although it was supposed to
be a secret. John was busy taking an alarm clock apart, but he stopped
when Liza came, and kissed her nose.
“Hullo, Big Sister,” he said. “Which way is the wind blowing?” John
always asked Liza interesting things. He didn’t act at all grown-upish
with her like he did with the others.
“John,” said Liza, “what do you think?”
“Lots of things,” said John.
“It’s a secret,” said Liza.
“What?” said John.
Then Liza told him. The whole family was going to the City on Saturday
and Uncle Captain Mick was going to take Martha Mary and John to the
theater. The others were to go to the Cliff House and have lunch on the
beach with waffles and peanuts.
John pretended not to be very much excited. Even with Liza he was
annoying and superior when anyone was so happy that they could hardly
keep still. But the others acted differently when they heard. Edward
Lee and Walter had to do something big. So Walter put the white and
black cat in a bucket of whitewash and Edward Lee put ink on the
whitewash to make the black spots again. They always did queer things
when they were glad. As for Martha Mary--she sought out Flip to tell
him the news and there the rest of the younger part of the family,
which was of course the most important part, found her, an hour later.
“Cities aren’t so much,” said John.
Flip thought they were. He had lived in San Francisco years and years
ago.
“But you can’t do interesting things there, like rowing and such,” said
John.
“You certainly can,” argued Flip.
“And anyway,” said John, “it’s always foggy and cold, and things aren’t
alive there like the trees and hills and things in your stories.”
“You are mistaken,” said Flip. “I remember perfectly well----”
“It’s a story; isn’t it, please?” said Martha Mary.
“Well, not exactly a story.”
“Please,” said Martha Mary, and rubbed her soft, pink cheek against
Flip’s forehead. So what could Flip do but tell the story?--the story
of the Things that are alive in the City.
* * * * *
“You see, John really doesn’t know anything about it. There are just as
many dreams and fairies and sprites in the City as there are right here
in our own garden. Only everyone has to attend to business in the City
and can’t always remember these things. Why, the fairies that dance on
Tamalpais are the most gorgeously happy fairies, I think, in all the
world.”
“Who’s Tamperpies?” Liza wanted to know.
“Tamalpais is the biggest, oldest mountain you have ever dreamed of
anywhere.”
“Just like Smudge?”
“Exactly, only not quite so silly and spoiled as Smudge. It is a very
dignified old mountain even if it is so lovely, and it sits right at
the North Star corner of the bay and rules all the country for miles
and miles around. But old Tamalpais is not the same as it used to be.
When it was younger--oh, about twenty years ago--it was all covered
with nice, tall trees; some of them so high that one would think the
blue sky was resting on them. There were red berries, too, and vines
and tremendously big ferns and the green things grew so thickly that
one could hardly walk through them. There were wild things there, too;
bears and deer and wild cats and heaps of squirrels and more singing
birds than there are hairs on Hermit’s tail.
“Right across the sunset water was the loveliest city; a city that
rambled over a half-dozen queer old hills, up and down, twisting
about like a regular jig-saw puzzle. And oh, it was a proud City, just
as haughty and conceited as it could be. Of course it had lots to
be conceited about, for there never was such a happy city of people
before. They had wonderfully good times in such a perfectly nice way,
and were so lively and busy that of course they couldn’t help being
proud.
“More than any of these things, the City was proud of its lovely
mountain across the bay, and what do you think? The trees and flowers
were so thick on the mountain sides that it could never see through
them and had no idea that the City was there at all. The City grieved
at this because she loved the mountain so much and wanted it to love
her. She used to send messengers over to it on Sundays and holidays;
boys and girls by the dozen, in old tramping clothes, and they would
take their lunch along, and sit in the fields and pick the poppies and
violet-blue Lupin to bring back and put in vases and jugs in the City
homes. One Sunday,--the sunniest, brightest Sunday you ever saw,--one
of the messengers lay down in the grass under a bay tree and lit his
pipe and thought. I don’t know what he was thinking; it must have been
something uninteresting, for little by little, his eyes closed, and
the first thing you knew, he was sound asleep. The pipe fell out of
his mouth and right into some dried leaves. Then it was awful; the
grass caught on fire and before the messenger awakened the flames had
eaten way out into the forest. The messenger awoke and tried to fight
the fire alone, but it was useless. He cried for help and people came
rushing from all sides to do what they could, but it was no use; on and
on the fire spread till all the trees and bushes on the mountain were
burned away. All night the flames raged and the sky was red, like a
sunset, and smoke poured over the bay. And in the morning the mountain
lay, all bare and black, and oh, the City mourned to see it. But you
know, when anything unpleasant happens, something nice happens, too.
In this case all the growth of green being gone from Tamalpais, he
could look about him for miles and the very first thing he saw was the
wonderful City--and--it was a case of love at first sight!
“Well, the Mountain and the City loved each other for years and years
and years. Every morning, the soldiers in the City would fire a cannon
to welcome the sun and that would awaken Tamalpais. He would yawn and
look across the water; then he would smile and when he smiled it was
like oceans of sunshine. Then the City would smile an answer and the
day would begin. The hours were so short until dark, one hardly noticed
them pass. In the evening, millions of lights would come out in the
City like the loveliest diamond necklace of a fairy queen. Only fairies
wear dewdrops and not diamonds. Tamalpais would gaze and gaze at the
lights and the City would see the huge, black form standing out against
the night sky, and so--just like a couple of children--they grew so
interested watching each other that they forgot to go to bed at all.
That would never do, you know. First the North Wind scolded the City;
then the Lady Moon gave the mountain an awful lecture, but it didn’t do
any good. Tamalpais began to have wrinkles because he did not sleep,
and the City became rather ill-humored. So the North Wind went to the
Sun and asked him what he thought they had better do. Of course the
Sun had a good idea; he always does seem to manage things somehow. He
waited until late in the afternoon, then the very last thing, just
before bedtime, he went west, out into the ocean, and drew the water
up in the sky to make lovely white clouds of it. Then the North Wind
came over so gently. He took the white clouds through the Golden Gate
and heaped them just like hills and hills of white, soft pillows, all
over the City, and the mountain too. That night no one could sleep; the
Mountain grieved because it couldn’t see the City, and the City was
lonely because it couldn’t see the black form of Tamalpais. But that
was only the first night. After a while they grew rather used to it
and learned to watch for the ocean of white clouds. Then they would go
to sleep, and it was always more exciting for them to wake up in the
morning and see each other. Of course sometimes they would wake up and
the clouds would still be there. Then the Mountain would grumble and
the City would shiver, and down would come the North Wind to carry the
clouds away again--and there would be sunshine.
“Now, every night, when the bugles in the Presidio sound ‘Taps,’ which
is the soldiers’ song when they go to sleep, the North Wind hears the
soft, whispering music and brings in arms full of white clouds so that
Tamalpais and the City by the Golden Gate can go to sleep.”
* * * * *
Edward Lee laughed when Flip had finished the story.
“That is very impolite of you,” said Martha Mary. “I liked Tamalpais
and you shouldn’t laugh.”
“Wasn’t laughing at that,” said Edward Lee.
“What was it, then?” asked Martha Mary.
“It’s Liza,” said Edward Lee. “Look at her. Someone has been putting
white clouds over her.”
Sure enough, Liza was sound asleep with her arms about Hermit’s neck.
Hermit was asleep, too, with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out,
although it is very bad to sleep with one’s mouth open.
But, you see, Hermit is only a dog and dogs can’t understand
everything.