place where he had hidden his hive and his old doublet.
“If I am certain of anything,” he thought, “it is that I was never a
person who would kick a poor old man. I will leave this place. I was
transformed from nothing that I see here.”
He now travelled for a day or two longer, and then he came to a great
black mountain, near the bottom of which was an opening like the mouth
of a cave.
This mountain he had heard was filled with caverns and underground
passages, which were the abodes of dragons, evil spirits, horrid
creatures of all kinds.
“Ah me!” said the Bee-man with a sigh, “I suppose I ought to visit this
place. If I am going to do this thing properly, I should look on all
sides of the subject, and I may have been one of those horrid creatures
myself.”
Thereupon he went to the mountain, and, as he approached the opening of
the passage which led into its inmost recesses, he saw, sitting upon
the ground, and leaning his back against a tree, a Languid Youth.
“Good-day,” said this individual when he saw the Bee-man. “Are you
going inside?”
“Yes,” said the Bee-man, “that is what I intend to do.”
“Then,” said the Languid Youth, slowly rising to his feet, “I think I
will go with you. I was told that if I went in there I should get my
energies toned up, and they need it very much; but I did not feel equal
to entering by myself, and I thought I would wait until some one came
along. I am very glad to see you, and we will go in together.”
So the two went into the cave, and they had proceeded but a short
distance when they met a very little creature, whom it was easy to
recognize as a Very Imp. He was about two feet high, and resembled in
color a freshly polished pair of boots. He was extremely lively and
active, and came bounding toward them.
“What did you two people come here for?” he asked.
“I came,” said the Languid Youth, “to have my energies toned up.”
“You have come to the right place,” said the Very Imp. “We will tone
you up. And what does that old Bee-man want?”
“He has been transformed from something, and wants to find out what it
is. He thinks he may have been one of the things in here.”
“I should not wonder if that were so,” said the Very Imp, rolling his
head on one side, and eying the Bee-man with a critical gaze.
“All right,” said the Very Imp; “he can go around, and pick out his
previous existence. We have here all sorts of vile creepers, crawlers,
hissers, and snorters. I suppose he thinks anything will be better than
a Bee-man.”
“It is not because I want to be better than I am,” said the Bee-man,
“that I started out on this search. I have simply an honest desire to
become what I originally was.”
“Oh! that is it, is it?” said the other. “There is an idiotic moon-calf
here with a clam head, which must be just like what you used to be.”
“Nonsense,” said the Bee-man. “You have not the least idea what an
honest purpose is. I shall go about and see for myself.”
“Go ahead,” said the Very Imp, “and I will attend to this fellow who
wants to be toned up.” So saying he joined the Languid Youth.
“Look here,” said the Youth, “do you black and shine yourself every
morning?”
“No,” said the other, “it is water-proof varnish. You want to be
invigorated, don’t you? Well, I will tell you a splendid way to begin.
You see that Bee-man has put down his hive and his coat with the bees
in it. Just wait till he gets out of sight, and then catch a lot of
those bees, and squeeze them flat. If you spread them on a sticky rag,
and make a plaster, and put it on the small of your back, it will
invigorate you like everything, especially if some of the bees are not
quite dead.”
“Yes,” said the Languid Youth, looking at him with his mild eyes, “but
if I had energy enough to catch a bee I would be satisfied. Suppose you
catch a lot for me.”
“The subject is changed,” said the Very Imp. “We are now about to visit
the spacious chamber of the King of the Snap-dragons.”
“That is a flower,” said the Languid Youth.
“You will find him a gay old blossom,” said the other. “When he has
chased you round his room, and has blown sparks at you, and has snorted
and howled, and cracked his tail, and snapped his jaws like a pair of
anvils, your energies will be toned up higher than ever before in your
life.”
“No doubt of it,” said the Languid Youth; “but I think I will begin
with something a little milder.”
“Well, then,” said the other, “there is a flat-tailed Demon of the
Gorge in here. He is generally asleep, and, if you say so, you can slip
into the farthest corner of his cave, and I’ll solder his tail to the
opposite wall. Then he will rage and roar, but he can’t get at you, for
he doesn’t reach all the way across his cave; I have measured him. It
will tone you up wonderfully to sit there and watch him.”
“Very likely,” said the Languid Youth; “but I would rather stay outside
and let you go up in the corner. The performance in that way will be
more interesting to me.”
“You are dreadfully hard to please,” said the Very Imp. “I have offered
them to you loose, and I have offered them fastened to a wall, and now
the best thing I can do is to give you a chance at one of them that
can’t move at all. It is the Ghastly Griffin, and is enchanted. He
can’t stir so much as the tip of his whiskers for a thousand years. You
can go to his cave and examine him just as if he were stuffed, and then
you can sit on his back and think how it would be if you should live to
be a thousand years old, and he should wake up while you are sitting
there. It would be easy to imagine a lot of horrible things he would
do to you when you look at his open mouth with its awful fangs, his
dreadful claws, and his horrible wings all covered with spikes.”
“I think that might suit me,” said the Languid Youth. “I would much
rather imagine the exercises of these monsters than to see them really
going on.”
“Come on, then,” said the Very Imp, and he led the way to the cave of
the Ghastly Griffin.
The Bee-man went by himself through a great part of the mountain,
and looked into many of its gloomy caves and recesses, recoiling in
horror from most of the dreadful monsters who met his eyes. While
he was wandering about, an awful roar was heard resounding through
the passages of the mountain, and soon there came flapping along an
enormous dragon, with body black as night, and wings and tail of fiery
red. In his great fore-claws he bore a little baby.
“Horrible!” exclaimed the Bee-man. “He is taking that little creature
to his cave to devour it.”
He saw the dragon enter a cave not far away, and, following, looked
in. The dragon was crouched upon the ground with the little baby lying
before him. It did not seem to be hurt, but was frightened and crying.
The monster was looking upon it with delight, as if he intended to make
a dainty meal of it as soon as his appetite should be a little stronger.
“It is too bad!” thought the Bee-man. “Somebody ought to do something.”
And turning around, he ran away as fast as he could.
He ran through various passages until he came to the spot where he had
left his bee-hive. Picking it up, he hurried back, carrying the hive
in his two hands before him. When he reached the cave of the dragon,
he looked in and saw the monster still crouched over the weeping
child. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Bee-man rushed into the cave
and threw his hive straight into the face of the dragon. The bees,
enraged by the shock, rushed out in an angry crowd and immediately
fell upon the head, mouth, eyes, and nose of the dragon. The great
monster, astounded by this sudden attack, and driven almost wild by the
numberless stings of the bees, sprang back to the farthest corner of
his cave, still followed by the bees, at whom he flapped wildly with
his great wings and struck with his paws. While the dragon was thus
engaged with the bees, the Bee-man rushed forward, and, seizing the
child, he hurried away. He did not stop to pick up his doublet, but
kept on until he reached the entrance of the cave. There he saw the
Very Imp hopping along on one leg, and rubbing his back and shoulders
with his hands, and stopped to inquire what was the matter, and what
had become of the Languid Youth.
“He is no kind of a fellow,” said the Very Imp. “He disappointed me
dreadfully. I took him up to the Ghastly Griffin, and told him the
thing was enchanted, and that he might sit on its back and think about
what it could do if it was awake; and when he came near it the wretched
creature opened its eyes, and raised its head, and then you ought to
have seen how mad that simpleton was. He made a dash at me and seized
me by the ears; he kicked and beat me till I can scarcely move.”
“His energies must have been toned up a good deal,” said the Bee-man.
“Toned up! I should say so!” cried the other. “I raised a howl, and a
Scissor-jawed Clipper came out of his hole, and got after him; but that
lazy fool ran so fast that he could not be caught.”
The Bee-man now ran on and soon overtook the Languid Youth.
“You need not be in a hurry now,” said the latter, “for the rules
of this institution don’t allow the creatures inside to come out of
this opening, or to hang around it. If they did, they would frighten
away visitors. They go in and out of holes in the upper part of the
mountain.”
The two proceeded on their way.
“What are you going to do with that baby?” said the Languid Youth.
“I shall carry it along with me,” said the Bee-man, “as I go on with my
search, and perhaps I may find its mother. If I do not, I shall give
it to somebody in that little village yonder. Anything would be better
than leaving it to be devoured by that horrid dragon.”
“Let me carry it. I feel quite strong enough now to carry a baby.”
“Thank you,” said the Bee-man; “but I can take it myself. I like to
carry something, and I have now neither my hive nor my doublet.”
“It is very well that you had to leave them behind,” said the Youth,
“for the bees would have stung the baby.”
“My bees never sting babies,” said the other.
“They probably never had a chance,” remarked his companion.
They soon entered the village, and after walking a short distance the
Youth exclaimed. “Do you see that woman over there sitting at the door
of her house? She has beautiful hair, and she is tearing it all to
pieces. She should not be allowed to do that.”
“No,” said the Bee-man. “Her friends should tie her hands.”
“Perhaps she is the mother of this child,” said the Youth, “and if you
give it to her she will no longer think of tearing her hair.”
“But,” said the Bee-man, “you don’t really think this is her child?”
“Suppose you go over and see,” said the other.
The Bee-man hesitated a moment, and then he walked toward the woman.
Hearing him coming, she raised her head, and when she saw the child she
rushed toward it, snatched it into her arms, and screaming with joy she
covered it with kisses. Then with happy tears she begged to know the
story of the rescue of her child, whom she never expected to see again;
and she loaded the Bee-man with thanks and blessings. The friends and
neighbors gathered around, and there was great rejoicing. The mother
urged the Bee-man and the Youth to stay with her, and rest and refresh
themselves, which they were glad to do, as they were tired and hungry.
They remained at the cottage all night, and in the afternoon of the
next day the Bee-man said to the Youth: “It may seem an odd thing to
you, but never in all my life have I felt myself drawn toward any
living being as I am drawn toward this baby. Therefore I believe that I
have been transformed from a baby.”
“Good!” cried the Youth. “It is my opinion that you have hit the truth.
And now would you like to be changed back to your original form?”
“Indeed I would!” said the Bee-man. “I have the strongest yearning to
be what I originally was.”
The Youth, who had now lost every trace of languid feeling, took a
great interest in the matter, and early the next morning started off to
tell the Junior Sorcerer that the Bee-man had discovered what he had
been transformed from, and desired to be changed back to it.
The Junior Sorcerer and his learned Masters were filled with delight
when they heard this report, and they at once set out for the mother’s
cottage. And there by magic arts the Bee-man was changed back into a
baby. The mother was so grateful for what the Bee-man had done for her
that she agreed to take charge of this baby, and to bring it up as her
own.
“It will be a grand thing for him,” said the Junior Sorcerer, “and I am
glad that I studied his case. He will now have a fresh start in life,
and will have a chance to become something better than a miserable old
man living in a wretched hut with no friends or companions but buzzing
bees.”
The Junior Sorcerer and his Masters then returned to their homes, happy
in the success of their great performance; and the Youth went back to
his home anxious to begin a life of activity and energy.
Years and years afterward, when the Junior Sorcerer had become a
Senior and was very old indeed, he passed through the country of
Orn, and noticed a small hut about which swarms of bees were flying.
He approached it, and looking in at the door he saw an old man in a
leathern doublet, sitting at a table, eating honey. By his magic art he
knew this was the baby which had been transformed from the Bee-man.
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Sorcerer, “he has grown into the same
thing again!”
THE CLOCKS OF RONDAINE
Centuries ago, there stood on the banks of a river a little town called
Rondaine. The river was a long and winding stream which ran through
different countries, and was sometimes narrow and swift, and sometimes
broad and placid; sometimes hurrying through mountain passes, and again
meandering quietly through fertile plains; in some places of a blue
color and almost transparent, and in others of a dark and sombre hue;
and so it changed until it threw itself into a warm, far-spreading sea.
But it was quite otherwise with the little town. As far back as anybody
could remember, it had always been the same that it was at the time
of our story; and the people who lived there could see no reason to
suppose that it would ever be different from what it was then. It was
a pleasant little town, its citizens were very happy; and why there
should be any change in it, the most astute old man in all Rondaine
could not have told you.
[Illustration: ARLA AND THE SACRISTAN.]
If Rondaine had been famed for anything at all, it would have been for
the number of its clocks. It had many churches, some little ones in
dark side streets, and some larger ones in wider avenues, besides here
and there a very good-sized church fronting on a park or open square;
and in the steeple of each of these churches there was a clock.
There were town buildings, very old ones, which stood upon the great
central square. Each of these had a tower, and in each tower was a
clock.
Then there were clocks at street corners, and two clocks in the
market-place, and clocks over shop-doors, a clock at each end of the
bridge, and several large clocks a little way out of town. Many of
these clocks were fashioned in some quaint and curious way. In one of
the largest a stone man came out and struck the hours with a stone
hammer, while a stone woman struck the half-hours with a stone broom;
and in another an iron donkey kicked the hours on a bell behind him.
It would be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the clocks
of Rondaine struck; but in one respect they were alike: they all did
strike. The good people of the town would not have tolerated a clock
which did not strike.
It was very interesting to lie awake in the night and hear the clocks
of Rondaine strike. First would come a faint striking from one of
the churches in the by-streets, a modest sound, as if the clock was
not sure whether it was too early or not; then from another quarter
would be heard a more confident clock striking the hour clearly and
distinctly.
When they were quite ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells
of the large church on the square would chime the hour; after which,
at a respectful interval of time, the other church clocks of the town
would strike. After the lapse of three or four minutes, the sound of
all these bells seemed to wake up the stone man in the tower of the
town-building, and he struck the hour with his hammer. When this had
been done, the other town-clocks felt at liberty to strike, and they
did so. And when every sound had died away, so that he would be certain
to be heard if there was anyone awake to hear, it would be very likely
that the iron donkey would kick out the hour on his bell. But there
were times when he kicked before any of the clocks began to strike.
One by one the clocks on the street corners struck, the uptown ones
first, and afterward those near the river. These were followed by the
two clocks on the bridge, the one at the country end waiting until it
was quite sure that the one at the town end had finished. Somewhat
later would be heard the clock of Vougereau, an old country-house
in the suburbs. This clock, a very large one, was on the top of a
great square stone tower, and from its age it had acquired a habit of
deliberation; and when it began to strike people were very apt to think
that it was one o’clock, until after an interval another stroke would
tell them that it was later or earlier than that, and if they really
wanted to know what hour the old clock was striking they must give
themselves time enough to listen until they were entirely certain that
it had finished.
The very last clock to strike in Rondaine was one belonging to a
little old lady with white hair, who lived in a little white house in
one of the prettiest and cleanest streets in the town. Her clock was
in a little white tower at the corner of her house, and was the only
strictly private clock which was in the habit of making itself publicly
heard. Long after every other clock had struck, and when there was
every reason to believe that for some time nothing but half-hours would
be heard in Rondaine, the old lady’s clock would strike quickly and
with a tone that said, “I know I am right, and I wish other people to
know it.”
In a small house which stood at a corner of two streets in the town
there lived a young girl named Arla. For a year or more this young girl
had been in the habit of waking up very early in the morning, sometimes
long before daylight, and it had become a habit with her to lie and
listen to the clocks. Her room was at the top of the house, and one of
its windows opened to the west and another to the south, so that sounds
entered from different quarters. Arla liked to leave these windows open
so that the sounds of the clocks might come in.
Arla knew every clock by its tone, and she always made it a point
to lie awake until she was positively sure that the last stroke of
the clock at Vougereau had sounded; but it often happened that sleep
overcame her before she heard the clock of the little old lady with
white hair. It was so very long to wait for that!
It was not because she wanted to know the hour that Arla used to lie
and listen to the clocks. She could tell this from her own little
clock in her room. This little clock, which had been given to her when
she was a small girl, not only struck the hours and half-hours and
quarter-hours, but there was attached to it a very pretty contrivance
which also told the time. On the front of the clock, just below the
dial, was a sprig of a rosebush beautifully made of metal, and on this,
just after the hour had sounded, there was a large green bud; at a
quarter past the hour this bud opened a little, so that the red petals
could be seen; fifteen minutes later it was a half-blown rose, and at
a quarter of an hour more it was nearly full blown; just before the
hour the rose opened to its fullest extent, and so remained until the
clock had finished striking, when it immediately shut up into a great
green bud. This clock was a great delight to Arla; for not only was it
a very pleasant thing to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was
a continual satisfaction to her to think that her little clock always
told her exactly what time it was, no matter what the other clocks of
Rondaine might say.
Arla’s father and mother were thrifty, industrious people, who were
very fond of their daughter, and wished her to grow up a thoughtful,
useful woman. In the very early morning, listening to the clocks of
Rondaine or waiting for them, Arla did a great deal of thinking; and it
so happened, on the morning of the day before Christmas, when the stars
were bright and the air frosty, and every outside sound very clear and
distinct, that Arla began to think of something which had never entered
her mind before.
“How in the world,” she said to herself, “do the people of Rondaine
know when it is really Christmas? Christmas begins as soon as it is
twelve o’clock on Christmas Eve; but as some of the people depend for
the time upon one clock and some upon others, a great many of them
cannot truly know when Christmas Day has really begun. Even some of
the church clocks make people think that Christmas has come, when in
reality it is yet the day before. And not one of them strikes at the
right time. As for that iron donkey, I believe he kicks whenever he
feels like it. And yet there are people who go by him! I know this, for
they have told me so. But the little old lady with white hair is worse
off than anybody else. Christmas must always come ever so long before
she knows it.”
With these thoughts on her mind, Arla could not go to sleep again. She
heard all the clocks strike, and lay awake until her own little clock
told her that she ought to get up. During this time she had made up her
mind what she should do. There was yet one day before Christmas; and
if the people of the town could be made to see in what a deplorable
condition they were on account of the difference in their clocks,
they might have time to set the matter right so that all the clocks
should strike the correct hour, and everybody should know exactly when
Christmas Day began. She was sure that the citizens had never given
this matter proper thought; and it was quite natural that such should
be the case, for it was not everyone who was in the habit of lying
awake in the very early morning; and in the daytime, with all the
out-door noises, one could not hear all the clocks strike in Rondaine.
Arla, therefore, thought that a great deal depended upon her, who knew
exactly how this matter stood.
When she went down to breakfast she asked permission of her mother
to take a day’s holiday. As she was a good girl, and never neglected
either her lessons or her tasks, her mother was quite willing to give
her the day before Christmas in which she could do as she pleased.
The day was cool, but the sun shone brightly and the air was pleasant.
In the country around about Rondaine Christmas-time was not a very cold
season. Arla put on a warm jacket and a pretty blue hood, and started
out gayly to attend to the business in hand.
Everybody in Rondaine knew her father and mother, and a great many of
them knew her, so there was no reason why she should be afraid to go
where she chose. In one hand she carried a small covered basket in
which she had placed her rose-clock. The works of this little clock
were regulated by a balance-wheel, like those of a watch, and therefore
it could be carried about without stopping it.
The first place she visited was the church at which she and her parents
always attended service. It was a small building in a little square
at the bottom of a hill, and, to reach it, one had to go down a long
flight of stone steps. When she entered the dimly lighted church, Arla
soon saw the sacristan, a pleasant-faced little old man whom she knew
very well.
“Good-morning, sir,” said she. “Do you take care of the church clock?”
The sacristan was sweeping the stone pavements of the church, just
inside the door. He stopped and leaned upon his broom. “Yes, my little
friend,” he said, “I take care of everything here except the souls of
the people.”
“Well, then,” said Arla, “I think you ought to know that your clock is
eleven minutes too fast. I came here to tell you that, so that you
might change it, and make it strike properly.”