“I am a little bit sorry for the Officer,” said the little girl. “He must have been a good deal hurt. And he must have felt very silly, too,” she added.
“Almost worse than being hurt, isn’t it?” said the little Marionette. “Yes, I was a little sorry for him myself; but I think he deserved all he got.”
“Yes; because hewasa horrid bully, wasn’t he?” said the little girl. “And his men, too, were as bad as he. I always used to like toy-soldiers. I never shall again.”
“I should not like you to judge of all soldiers by the wooden ones I have told you of,”said the Marionette. “Wehavehad in the shop sets of wooden and tin soldiers of the highest character; gallant fellows, beloved and esteemed by all. I will tell you of them to-morrow if you like.”
The little girl considered a moment.
“I think,” she said at length, “I would rather hear something quite different for a change. If you do not mind,” she added politely.
“Not in the least,” replied the little lady. “I shall think of a story that shall have nothing to do with soldiers, good, bad, or indifferent.”
So on the morrow when they met again the Marionette said:
“I have thought of quite a different sort of story to the one I told you yesterday.”
“Thank you,” said her little friend. “Please begin.”
“Yes,” she said as the little Marionette remained silent. “Yes—yes—dobegin!”
“Patience, patience! I am just considering for a moment if I have the story correct in every respect. It is now some time since it happened, and one’s memory is apt to play one tricks when one is telling stories of other people. But I think I remember it correctly. So I will begin without further delay the history of:
“‘The Little Dancer.’”
There never was a prettier dancer than the Little Dancer of the frizzy dark hair, and the blue tulle dress with silver spangles.
Forward, backward, forward, backward went her little feet with rapid, dainty movement, whilst the small musical-box—on the top of which she gracefully danced—tinkled, tinkled, tinkled out its gay little tune, and all the Toys watched her with the greatest delight.
Truly she bewitched all who saw her, and gained much admiration. But she wasvery modest, and not at all conceited, so that she was not only admired but also loved; which, as you will agree, is far better.
She took life very easily and happily, till it happened one day that she saw the Bicycle-man, and unfortunately fell in love with him as he went by. He was a very handsome fellow,and made a good appearance upon his bicycle.
Directly the Little Dancer saw him she loved him, and she lost no time in telling him so. She spoke without any hesitation.
“Dear heart, I love you,” she said as she danced.
Now the Bicycle-man was very vain, and was therefore not a little gratified at the impression he had made. But he pretended to be much displeased.
“You should not have said that until I had first said something of the sort,” replied the Bicycle-man. “It was not your place to speak first. You are very forward.”
And he rode on.
The Little Dancer was much distressed.
“He is angry,” she said to her friend the Little China Doll next to her, with the two long flaxen pigtails hanging down her back.
“He is angry.” And she danced more slowly and less gaily.
“What of that?” said her friend, tossing her head. “It is of no consequence.”
“No; it is of no consequence,” repeated the Little Dancer. But she felt unhappy.
The next day the Bicycle-man passed that way again, and she danced her very best, hoping to win his heart.
“That is really not bad,” he said; “not at all bad. You dance quite nicely, as dancing goes.”
“Oh sweetheart, I love you!” she said, encouraged by his praise.
“I really cannot stand such remarks,” said the Bicycle-man. “They make me both angry and confused.”
And he went on, leaving her in tears.
“Why do you trouble about him?” said the Little China Doll. “He is not worth it. A penny Toy, indeed! You turn his head. Take no more notice of him.”
“I won’t,” replied the Little Dancer tearfully.
So the next time he stopped to watch her dancing she did not speak to him.
“You are getting rude now,” he said. “I am not sure whether that is not worse than being forward.”
“What shall I say?” asked the Little Dancer. “My words do not please you.”
“I should not be displeased if you were to say ‘good-day’,” he replied. “It would only be polite, and I never find fault with politeness.”
“Good-day,” she said, as she practised her steps.
“Is that all?” he inquired.
“That is all,” she answered.
“I have a bit of news for you,” he said. “I am thinking of marrying the doll to whom the Red House belongs. It is a comfortable house, well built, and well appointed. You shall come and have tea with us.”
The Little Dancer burst into tears, and her feet moved more slowly.
“Why are you crying?” asked the Bicycle-man, with pretended surprise.
“Dear heart, Oh dear heart, I love you!” she wept.
“Well, well, so do many others,” he answered. “It isn’t my fault”
And mounting his bicycle he rode away.
“Don’t you see you are making him terribly conceited?” said the Little China Doll. “It is absurd of you. Try to be more sensible.”
“I love him so, I love him so!” sobbed the Little Dancer. “My heart is broken.”
On the morrow the Bicycle-man appeared as usual.
“It is all settled,” he said. “I hope to marry the doll to whom the Red House belongs, before the week is out. I fear my marriage will be a disappointment to many a lady.”
The Little Dancer made no reply: she was too heart-broken to utter a sound.
“Are you not going to wish me happiness?” he asked.
But the Little Dancer still spoke not. She danced faster and faster as the tears fell from her eyes.
The Bicycle-man did not notice how quickly her tears were falling.
“Your silence is a sad want of manners,” he said. “Uncivility is far from attractive.”
Still the little Dancer made no answer; she could not speak, she was crying so bitterly.
“Well, good-day,” he said. “It is very evident that you did not pay the extra twopence for manners.”
Then he left.
“Stop dancing,” said the Little China Doll to the Little Dancer. “You are not in a fit state to dance. You will kill yourself.”
“Imustdance till I forget, or till I die,” she answered—sobbing.
And then she danced faster,faster,FASTER, till she went at quite a furious rate. Her littlefeet went to and fro so quickly you could hardly see them.
The China Doll implored the poor Little Dancer to stop, but she did not heed her. She continued dancing, dancing, dancing all through the day, all through the evening, and far into the night. Till, at last, something within her went—Snap!
And she fell flat on the ground, and the gay little tune stopped suddenly. The clockwork within her had broken. She had danced herself to death!
The next morning the Bicycle-man came again.
“The wedding is put off—” he began. Then he saw the lifeless form of the Little Dancer, and he turned pale.
“You have killed her by your vanity,” said the China Doll severely. “If you had stayed away she would have forgotten you. But youwouldcome because it pleased your conceit to hear her say she loved you, and to hear her lament because you did not love her. She has danced herself to death in her despair. Alas! Alas! My poor friend!”
“I really believe I loved her after all,” said the Bicycle-man in a sad voice. “What can I say or do to make some slight amends? Tell me.”
“There is nothing to be said or done,” said the China Doll. “The poor Little Dancer is dead. It is too late! Go and marry the Doll of the Red House.”
“I don’t want tonow,” he answered. “Henceforward my life shall be passed mourning for the Little Dancer who broke her heart because of me. And from this time I shall ride my bicycle sitting with my back to the handle, and with my hands behind me. It will be a most absurd position, but it will serve as a punishment to remind me of the sad end to which my vanity brought my poor little sweetheart.”
And he strictly kept his resolve. At first the other Toys laughed: then they wondered; then they inquired into the meaning of so strange a performance. And when they heardthe story, such of them as had heads shook them, and all said gravely:
“’Tis well and nobly meant. But it won’t mend the poor Little Dancer’s heart. Alas! Alack-a-day!”
When the tale was ended the little girl took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“Come, this won’t do,” said the little Marionette. “I should not have told you the story if I had thought you were going to take it so much to heart.”
“I am very sorry for the poor Little Dancer,” she replied sadly; “I wish that the Bicycle-man had not been so unkind.”
“Well, well, it is all over now. Wipe your eyes; you can’t do any good by crying, and I don’t like seeing tears,” said her friend.
“Never mind; I rather like feeling sad,” Molly answered politely, though tearfully.
“Still, a little sadness goes a long way,” remarked the Marionette. “There is no doubt of that. I think I had better tell you something to amuse you now.” She thought a moment and then she laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” asked the little girl with curiosity.
“At the remembrance of the Hansom-driver,” she answered. “I never can think of him without laughing. Shall I tell you his story? I shall have time to do so this evening, for it is short, like the one I have just finished.” And she began the story of:
“THE HANSOM-DRIVER.”
The Hansom-driver was indeed very plain, but he fancied himself very beautiful. ’Tis thus that we are liable to make errors of judgment; especially respecting ourselves.
His cheeks were crimson and his nose was the same hue, yet he was quite convinced that all the young lady dolls envied him his complexion. His eyes were dull as lead, but in his boundless conceit he always compared them to sparkling diamonds.
In a word, his appearance was terriblyagainst him, yet his constant complaint was that he attracted so much attention, and won so much admiration wherever he went, that he could almost find it in his heart to wish he had been born ugly.
His own looks were his constant topic of conversation, till at length the other Toys quaked when he opened his mouth, knowing very well how they were going to suffer.
Amongst those who suffered the most from his talk were the Butcher, the Baker, and the Clown. They lived at the opposite side of the counter, where he drove every morning to give his orders for bread and meat. He never thought of driving away at once when he had done this, but always stopped to make remarks upon his own appearance; till at length, in common with the rest of the world, they became wearied to death of the subject. The Butcher and Baker tried to put a stop to it by making uncivil remarks, and the clown bymaking rude jests. But the conceit of the Hansom-driver still remained.
One day when he was talking to his three acquaintances, the Butcher happened to remark on the beauty of the sunset-glow the previous evening.
“Some people,” said the Hansom-driver at once, “admire the beautiful glow of the sunset sky, some the beautiful glow of the healthycountenance. By the by, a chap I met yesterday told me my face was simply glowing with health.”
“Especially your nose, my pretty fellow,” remarked the Clown.
“From my brow to my chin, I am, I believe, suffused with the glow of a pretty color,” replied the Hansom-driver. “Naturally it does not skip my nose. And very glad I am it does not; I should not like any feature to feel neglected or left out in the cold.”
“He becomes quite unbearable,” whispered one lady doll to another.
“Quite,” she replied in the same tone.
The Hansom-driver smiled as he saw them whisper. He did not doubt but that they were making some flattering remarks about himself.
“Speak out, ladies,” he said.
But they turned away in silent anger.
Most people would have been annoyed at this behavior. Not so the Hansom-driver.In his great vanity he completely misread their silence.
“A compliment about me,” he laughed. “Doubtless too great a one to be said aloud.”
“You needn’t fancythat,” said the Butcher rudely. “You hear a good many compliments,I don’t deny, but they all come from the same source—your own block of a head. When you are absent you get few enough, that I know for a positive fact.”
“Not that there is anything surprising in it,” the Baker said to the Hansom-driver in quite as rude a manner as the Butcher. “I am not yet aware that you are a subject for compliments.”
“‘My face is my fortune, sir, he said’,” misquoted the Hansom-driver with great conceit; “and a very handsome fortune, too,” he added.
“Your face!” exclaimed the Butcher. “Why, a sheep’s face is more to be admired than yours.”
“I beg to differ,” the Hansom-driver said, shaking his head. “I’ve never yet seen a really good-looking face amongst a flock of sheep.”
“So you actually think yours is good-looking?” sneered the Baker. “Why, I couldmake a better-looking one out of a piece of dough.”
“I defy you to,” the Hansom-driver replied. “A face like mine is not easily copied. Nor am I the only person of that opinion. All the ladies think that I am beautiful. And of course I go by what they think.”
“And who,” he asked, with a bow towards a little group of lady dolls, “who can be better judges of the matter?”
“Do you think they consider you good-looking?” inquired the Clown. “Get along, you dreamer!”
“I do not think it, I know it,” he replied.
“We don’t,” said the Butcher and the Baker. “Put it to the proof. We challenge you. Let the ladies vote upon the matter and they will prove you mistaken.”
“Very well,” answered the Hansom-driver. “The result will be favorable to me. Of that I have no doubt.”
“All right! To business,” said the Butcher. “What about the ladies’ decision as to this fellow’s claim of beauty?”
“Ay; when shall it be given?” inquired the Hansom-driver, anxious to lose no time.
“In a fortnight at the earliest,” said the Clown. “The making up of ladies’ minds, as of Christmas puddings, requires plenty of thought and preparation.”
“Good!” said the Hansom-driver. Then he got up upon the seat of his hansom, whipped up his horse, and drove off.
Now, during the fortnight he was, if possible, more conceited than ever. He never ceased making vain speeches respecting his looks, and could indeed be induced to speak of nothing else.
“I have not the slightest fear as to the ladies’ decision,” he boastfully remarked.
“When I look in the glass I see how impossible it is that they should have anything but one opinion. By the by, a most curious little incident occurred last night. I was sauntering about my end of the counter, when the white Polar Bear walked right up against me. ‘Hulloa!’ I said, ‘look out where you are going.’ ‘I beg your pardon, I’m sure,’ said he; ‘It was a little mistake. I was trying to find my way home, and catching sight of your right eye, mistook it for the Polar Star and guided myself by its light.’ ‘Very flattering,’I said, ‘but I’d prefer you not to tread on my toes.’ Strange, wasn’t it?”
“Most strange!” the Butcher jeered. “The Polar Bear has never been able to see clearly since the shopwoman’s baby poked out both his eyes. Your story is a little far-fetched, my good chap.”
“Oh, what a surprise!” laughed the Clown, as the Hansom-driver, unable to avoid looking a little silly, turned his head aside and pretended to sneeze.
“I’ve a piece of news for you,” said the Baker; “another surprise. The ladies have made up their minds already. Instead of a fortnight they have only taken a week to decide. They have but one opinion, and the Clown has been instructed to deliver it to you to-morrow morning when you come to give your orders. I may warn you that you will find a great crowd of Toys waiting to hear it.”
“Let come who will,” vaunted the Hansom-driver. “Ifear no crowd. The moreToys to witness my moment of triumph, the better.”
And it was in this frame of mind that, on the following morning, he drove to the Butcher’s shop, outside of which a large crowd was gathered.
“Well,” he said with a smile to the Clown who headed the crowd; “well, and what is the ladies’ opinion about my beauty?”
“The ladies have decided,” said the Clown, nodding his head and speaking very rapidly, “the ladies have all decided—mind you,alldecided—that youarea hansom man. And so say I.”
The Hansom-driver climbed down from his seat.
“Shake hands,” he said. “One doesn’t find a fellow of sense like you every day.”
The Clown shook hands, then turned a somersault and grinned from ear to ear.
“Handsome,” he said slowly, “butwithoutthedand thee. Mark that, my child. Nobeauty, but a hansom man. Ho-la! What’s the time of day? Time to go away?”
For the Hansom-driver had mounted to his seat, and, whipping up his horse, was driving off as fast as he could.
“That was very funny,” said the little girl; “it made me laugh very much.”
“It made all the Toys laugh,” said the Marionette—“except the Hansom-driver himself. And, perhaps, he might be excused for not doing so.”
“Hewasa vain thing,” said the little girl.
“He was,” the Marionette agreed. “However, we must not be too severe on him. He had his good points after all. He was not bad-tempered, for example, like poor Claribelle, who at one time was quite unbearable, and made herself disliked by everyone. Though in the end, poor creature, she became, it is true, an altered character.”
“‘Poor Claribelle!’ Who was she?”
“A young lady doll whose bad temper, unfortunately for her, brought her great sorrow.
“I should like to hear about her,” said the little girl.
The little Marionette mused a moment. “I should not do wrong to tell you,” she remarked. “The story of this poor, proud creature may perhaps serve as a lesson and warning to some other haughty and fanciful young lady. Yes, you shall hear to-morrow evening of Claribelle.” And so the next evening, in a grave voice that befitted the tale, she told the story of
“Proud Claribelle.”
Claribelle was a very haughty doll. She was very beautiful, with great brown eyes and a mass of dark hair that fell to her waist. She had fine clothes, too; a pink silk dress, a large straw hat trimmed with lace and pink roses, pink silk stockings and bronze shoes, and round her neck a string of pearls, which were the envy of every lady doll in the toy-shop.
She held her head very high indeed, and would not speak to this doll because it was “frumpish,” or that doll because it was not in the same set as herself. The China Doll she really could not be on intimate terms with, because she had a crack across her cheek. Fancy being seen walking with a cracky person!Also, she must really decline being introduced to the Farthing Doll. A very good, worthy person, no doubt, but really she and a doll worth a farthing could not possibly have many tastes in common.
As to the Rag Doll, she was a pushing person. At a tea-party at which they had both been present, she had asked Claribelle if she didn’t think that skirts were fuller. To think of discussing clothes with a creature of rags! The idea was really too comical!
It was thus, and in this proud spirit, that Claribelle talked about the other and more modest Toys. There were, indeed, very few that she would take the slightest notice of. As a matter of fact, when she walked down the counter she held her nose so much in the air that it was very rarely she saw anyone. She did not care in the least whether she trod on other people’s toes or not.
From this you will easily understand that she was a Toy who gained more admirationthan love. There was, however, one who was truly devoted to Claribelle. This was the Driver of the Wagon, who was always of the opinion that beneath her haughty manner lay a kind heart. They were engaged to be married, and with true affection he often spoke to her about her haughty manner to the other Toys.
On such occasions Claribelle tossed her head and flew into a passion, often sulking for hours afterwards. Yet, although she so sorely tried the Driver’s patience, he continued to love her. And when all other means had failed he would often sing her back to good temper, for he had a beautiful tenor voice.
He was a little proud of his voice, and used to practise every night, partly because he loved music, also because he delighted to show his devotion to Claribelle by singing her little love-songs in a well-trained manner.
He was of a kindly, genial nature, so that you would have thought it was hardly possible to quarrel with him. But Claribelle’s pride not seldom caused a dispute between them, and she would often start a heated argument without any reason.
It was thus one day that a quarrel arose which ended in the most serious manner.
They were out driving in the Wagon, when the Driver, remembering he owed a callon the Farthing Doll, proposed that he and Claribelle should go thither.
“What!” she exclaimed haughtily. “Pay a call on that Farthing creature!Certainlynot!”
“I, at least, must go, sooner or later,” the Driver replied.
“Why?” she asked much displeased.
“Because did I not call,” answered he kindly but firmly, “I should be lacking in courtesy to a lady who has never shown me anything but the utmost civility. However, since you do not wish it, I will not go to-day.”
“I do not wish you to go at all,” she said. “But I see it is quite sufficient for me to say that I do not desire you to do a thing, for you to do it.”
And after this she sulked and said she did not love him.
Upon this the Driver bethought him a new song he had just learnt, and he determined to sing it in the hope of winning her back to good temper. So he began:
“‘Oh, down in Alabama, before I was set free,I loved a dark-eyed, yaller girl,And thought—’”
But he got no further, for here Claribelle interrupted him.
“Does that apply tome?” she said with flashing eyes.
“Well, youhavedark eyes, you know,” he said pleasantly, hoping to make her smile. “Beautiful dark eyes, too.”
“Stop the wagon!” she said furiously. “I will not be so insulted. Dark eyes, yes; but yaller! yaller! yaller!”
“Allow me to explain. I only—” began the Driver.
“Yaller, indeed! Stop the Wagon!”
“I should like to say—”
“A dark-eyed,yallergirl! Stop the Wagon,—and consider our engagement at an end.”
“Willyou let me—”
But Claribelle shook her head furiously, and in her rage tried to jump out of the Wagon. So the Driver, fearing she would break her neck, did as she requested and pulled up his horse, when she immediately alighted. Then she swept away, flouncing her pink silk dress, and with her head in the air.
The Driver called later and tried to pacify her, but she would not listen. She only turnedher back upon him—which was a very rude thing to do—and persisted in saying that their engagement was at an end.
So the Wagoner whipped up his horse and went away sad and sorry. He looked, indeed, so sad that the haughty Claribelle nearly repented of her pride and was just about to call him back.
“But he’ll return to-morrow,” she said to herself, “and he must be taught not to make false remarks about my complexion. Fancy calling me ‘yaller!’”
The next day he came as she expected.
“Do I still look yaller?” Claribelle asked scornfully.
“Let bygones be bygones,” said he. “Besides, I never called you yaller.”
“Our engagement is ended,” she said.
“Claribelle,” he said kindly but firmly, “listen to what I say. If you do not tame your proud temper, you will one day bring sorrow upon yourself.” Then he left, wounded and displeased.
The next day he came again.
“I may be going away,” he said, “to the other side of the shop, to the opposite counter.”
“Do I still look yaller?” Claribelle asked, tossing her head.
“Aren’t you sorry I am going?” he replied.
“I haven’t time to think of trifles,” she said haughtily.
“Cruel Claribelle,” he said. “I shall not send you a letter, not even a post-card.”
“Letters are dull,” she said coldly, “and post-cards are vulgar.”
“You will repent of this some day,” he replied. And he turned and went away in anger.
On the morrow he came once more.
“I have come to say good-bye,” he said.
“Oh!” she replied; but not a word more.
“Aren’t you sorry?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she replied, “because the Farthing Doll put her foot on my dress this morning in passing me, and tore it. She is a clumsy thing.”
“You are trying my patience too far,” he said. “Proud Claribelle, beware! Beware, proud Claribelle!”
“You confirm me in my resolution,” saidshe. “I will never marry a Toy who gives way to his temper over nothing. Once for all, our engagement is at an end.”
“I cannot believe that,” he said. “Do you really mean it?”
“Certainly,” she answered.
“So be it,” he replied.
Then he got up from his chair with dignity, made a low bow, mounted his Wagon, and drove away.
“I almost wish I had not said that,” thought the haughty Beauty uneasily. “I never meant him to go away so soon. If he had stayed I should, perhaps, have altered my mind. I will tell him so when he comes to-morrow.”
But next day he did not come. Then a few tears fell from Claribelle’s haughty eyes. Nor did he come on the next, and then she shed more. Nor on the following day; nor the day after that, nor the day afterthat,—nor ever again! And each day poor Claribelle wept more and more, till it was sad to see her.
At last she heard the Wagoner had left the toy-shop altogether, and she knew sheshould never see him again. And she cried, and cried, and cried, till she cried away every bit of pride in her nature! Indeed, from being the proudest Toy in the shop she became the meekest and gentlest—kind and thoughtful to all.
So the other Toys would often remark one to the other with surprise and pleasure:
“Lo! how poor Claribelle hath been chastened by sorrow!”
“Poor,poorClaribelle! Iamsorry for her!” said the little girl.
“She had, indeed, a severe lesson,” answered the little Marionette.
“And did the Wagoner ever come back?”
“Never, never. He loved, but drove away.”
“How sad!” sighed the little girl.
“Sad, indeed,” said the Marionette. “Well, as I always say, let all young ladies take warning by the story of Proud Claribelle, and then it will not have been told in vain.”
There was a pause.
Then the little girl said:
“Next time you tell me a story I should like it to be happy all through. Happy, you know, from beginning to end.”
The little Marionette thought a few moments, then shook her head.
“I can’t remember such a story,” she said. “I think there must be very few.”
“I am sorry for that,” answered the little girl, disappointed. “I wanted very much to hear one.”
“We must take things as they are,” said the little lady cheerfully. “If I don’t know many stories that are happy all the way through, I know plenty that are so at the beginning, or the middle, or the end; or even more than that.”
“Which do you like best?” said the little girl.
“Oh, stories with a happy ending! You can forget that the beginning or middle has been sad, and you can go away smiling.”
“Then tell me to-morrow a story that ends happily.”
“If you will,” said the little Marionette.
On the morrow, when the two met as usual, the Marionette said to the little girl:
“Good evening. I have thought of a story that will please you.”
“Then I suppose it ends most happily, doesn’t it?” asked Molly.
“Quite right,” she replied. “I am going to tell you one that ends as happily as you could wish it to. You will, I am sure, be quite satisfied with the conclusion of:
“‘The Grocer and the Farthing Doll’”
Never was there a love affair more perplexing than the love affair of the Grocer and the Farthing Doll. It puzzled the whole toy-shop; it even puzzled the two lovers themselves.
The affair was rather difficult to understand, but I will try to explain it to you as simply as I can.
Everyone knew that the Grocer and the Farthing Doll loved each other; the Grocer knew he loved the Farthing Doll, but he did not know that she loved him; the FarthingDoll knew that she loved the Grocer, but she didn’t know if he loved her.
So everything was at a stand-still, and none of the other dolls knew how to bring the matter to a happy end. No one quite liked to interfere. And for these reasons: The Grocer was very proud and would take no advice, whilst the Farthing Doll was so sensitive that a single wrong word might cause her a serious illness. Again, the Grocer wouldn’t ask the Farthing Doll to marry him because, being a proud Toy, he feared the humiliation of her saying “No.” She, on her part, would not say much to help him, lest it should look as if she were forward.
It was thus that matters stood, when, walking along the counter one day, the Farthing Doll met the Grocer sauntering by with a sad face.
“Well!” she exclaimed, with a start of surprise. “Fancy seeing you here!”
“My shop is close by,” he answered. “Don’t you remember?”
“To be sure,” she said. “How odd of me to forget.”
“I’m very pleased to see you,” said the Grocer.
“I am glad of that, for I have every wish to please you,” said the Farthing Doll.
“Is that satisfactory?” he asked.
“It ought to be,” she replied.
“I don’t know,” the Grocer said. “You may wish to please, without loving. For instance, you may try to please a turkey by giving him the best of grain. But that is not because you love him. It is merely because you wish to fatten him well for your Christmas dinner.”
“Good-morning!” said the Farthing Doll coldly.
“Stay!” the Grocer cried. “I have an idea. We appear to have some difficulty in finding out the Truth. Let us go and hunt for it.”
“Where is it to be found?” she asked.
“At the bottom of a Well, so I’ve heard.”
“Then I suppose the first thing is to find the Well.”
“Exactly so,” he said. “Come, let us start.” So they walked away hand in hand. Theyhunted all up and down the counter, and asked directions of many dolls. But never a Well could they find.
“See!” exclaimed the Farthing Doll at last; “here’s a square thing that looks something like a Well. Go, open it and look down.”
“What may be inside, though?” he said cautiously.
“Truth, Truth, you silly thing!” she said impatiently. “Go!”
So he went and opened the lid.
But it was not a Well at all. It was merely the abode of Jack-in-the-box, and when the Grocer looked in Jack jumped out. He jumped up so suddenly that he knocked the Grocer flat on his back.
The poor fellow got up and rubbed his head.
“One gets very hard blows sometimes in the search for Truth,” he said ruefully.
“You shouldn’t be in such a hurry,” remarked Jack-in-the-box. “Take things more calmly, and ask the Policeman. Kindly shutup the lid of my box. I can’t very well manage it myself, I’m so springy. Close it firmly, please, or I shall be jumping out again, and I don’t want to do that. I wish to stay indoors to-day as much as possible, for I have a heavy cold in my head and am sneezing every two minutes.”
“Thatdidn’t do much good,” said the Grocer when he had done as he was asked, and closed the lid of Jack’s box.
“Let us find the Policeman,” she said, holding out her hand.
“An excellent idea,” he replied as he took it. “There he is, just outside that dolls’ house.
“Constable,” he said, “can you direct us to the Well with Truth at the bottom?”
“First to the right, second to the left, and keep on till you come to it,” the policeman answered, without removing his eyes from the kitchen window.
“Not that I ever heard tell of any suchWell,” he added, putting his head inside and speaking to the Little China Doll within.
“Then you’re a deceiver,” she said severely, as she handed him a joint of beef tightly gummed on to a wooden platter.
“You’re sure to arrive at anything if you keep on till you get it,” he answered carelessly. “So it doesn’t really matter if you take the first to the right and the second to the left, or the second to the right and the first to the left. You are bound to get there in time.... This beef is gummed so tightly to the dish that it is a job to get it off....”
In the meantime the Grocer and the Farthing Doll were wandering about trying to find the Well. They sought for a long time, but they could not see a sign of it.
“We’ll never find it,” she said in despair. “And I am growing so tired I am beginning to lose all my good looks. All the crimson is wearing off my cheeks.”