THERE was once upon a time ...
"A king!" my little readers will instantly exclaim.
No, children, you are wrong. There was once upon a time a piece of
wood.
This wood was not valuable; it was only a common log like those that
are burnt in winter in the stoves and fireplaces to make a cheerful
blaze and warm the rooms.
I cannot say how it came about, but the fact is, that one fine day
this piece of wood was lying in the shop of an old carpenter of the
name of Master Antonio. He was, however, called by everybody Master
Cherry, on account of the end of his nose, which was always as red and
polished as a ripe cherry.
No sooner had Master Cherry set his eyes on the piece of wood than
his face beamed with delight; and, rubbing his hands together with
satisfaction, he said softly to himself:
"This wood has come at the right moment; it will just do to make the
leg of a little table."
Having said this he immediately took a sharp axe with which to remove
the bark and the rough surface. Just, however, as he was going to give
the first stroke he remained with his arm suspended in the air, for
he heard a very small voice saying imploringly: "Do not strike me so
hard!"
Picture to yourselves the astonishment of good old Master Cherry!
He turned his terrified eyes all around the room to try and discover
where the little voice could possibly have come from, but he saw
nobody! He looked under the bench--nobody; he looked into a cupboard
that was always shut--nobody; he looked into a basket of shavings and
sawdust--nobody; he even opened the door of the shop and gave a glance
into the street--and still nobody. Who, then, could it be?
"I see how it is;" he said, laughing and scratching his wig;
"evidently that little voice was all my imagination. Let us set to
work again."
And taking up the axe he struck a tremendous blow on the piece of
wood.
"Oh! oh! you have hurt me!" cried the same little voice dolefully.
This time Master Cherry was petrified. His eyes started out of his
head with fright, his mouth remained open, and his tongue hung out
almost to the end of his chin like a mask on a fountain. As soon as he
had recovered the use of his speech, he began to say, stuttering and
trembling with fear:
"But where on earth can that little voice have come from that said
'Oh! oh!?'... Here there is certainly not a living soul. Is it
possible that this piece of wood can have learnt to cry and to lament
like a child? I cannot believe it. This piece of wood here it is; a
log for fuel like all others, and thrown on the fire it would about
suffice to boil a saucepan of beans.... How then? Can anyone be hidden
inside it? If anyone is hidden inside, so much the worse for him. I
will settle him at once."
So saying he seized the poor piece of wood and commenced beating it
without mercy against the walls of the room.
Then he stopped to listen if he could hear any little voice
lamenting. He waited two minutes--nothing; five minutes-nothing; ten
minutes--still nothing!
"I see how it is," he then said, forcing himself to laugh and pushing
up his wig; "evidently, the little voice that said 'Oh! oh!' was all
my imagination! Let us to work again."
But all the same he was in a great fright; he tried to sing to give
himself a little courage.
Putting the axe aside he took his plane to plane and polish the bit
of wood; but whilst he was running it up and down he heard the same
little voice say, laughing:
"Have done! you are tickling me all over!"
This time poor Master Cherry fell down as if he had been struck by
lightning. When he at last opened his eyes he found himself seated on
the floor.
His face was quite changed; even the end of his nose, instead of being
crimson, as it was nearly always, had become blue from fright.