Everychild thought perhaps he had been asleep a long time when he was awakened by the sound of a clock in a distant tower striking the hour of 1. He became quite wide awake.
He looked to his right and to his left. Hansel and Grettel were on one side of him, sleeping deeply. Hansel was even snoring. The giant, on his other side, lay motionless.
He looked to see if the Masked Lady had remained near him, but she was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Literal also had disappeared.
Then he sat up suddenly, his heart thumping loudly. There was the sound of hurrying feet on the road nearby. And there was something about the sound … you could tell that it was some one who was lost, or in trouble. Presently there was a sound of weeping too.
Everychild sat with his hands clasped about his knees, staring at the road: and before long, there she was—a girl running as if she were in great peril. And as she drew nearer Everychild felt quite sure he knew who the girl was. He could not be sure how he knew. But a name came into his mind, and he said to himself, "It is Cinderella."
She raced past him as if she were a leaf caught in the wind. Again he heard her weeping. And then, without at all knowing what he intended to do, he sprang to his feet and dashed down the road after her. It would be fine to speak to her, he thought. And besides, it seemed almost certain that she needed help.
But it was amazing how fast she could run. He thought: "That's the kind of a girl you would like to play with—a girl who can run like that."
Still, he hoped she would become tired before long, so that he might overtake her. After all, it was rather uncomfortable, pursuing her in the dark. His own feet made a fearful noise—a ghostly patter which awoke the night echoes.
Moreover, certain wild creatures of the forest were disturbed. An owl dashed from its branches overhead and went sailing down the avenues of the forest. A rabbit, sitting on a little hummock, dropped its forefeet to the ground and went prancing away, to wheel presently and look at the road suspiciously.
"I'll never overtake her," thought Everychild. He could just see her now: a mere blur in the shadows far ahead of him. He could no longer hear the sound of her feet. Then quite suddenly she disappeared.
Had she fallen? Had she hidden behind a tree? Was she afraid of him?
He ran more softly. If she were hiding he must not frighten her. If he could only speak to her once she would know very well that she need not fear him.
But when he came to the spot where she had disappeared he perceived immediately that she had not hidden. At this point a path turned away from the road, and it seemed clear that she had taken the path.
The path led into a deeper forest. It became very silent and black. He could barely see the path beneath his feet. And it seemed to him that he was now all surrounded by living, hidden creatures, who knew that he was passing. But he could not feel that Cinderella was anywhere near him.
The path turned into a lane, and the lane entered a region where there were vague fields on either side, fields in which things had been planted. And then he stopped suddenly, not knowing whether he should continue on his way, or return to his companions by the side of the road. He had discerned a house before him, standing on the top of a hill. And although it was very late, a single light burned in one of its windows.
For just a moment he reflected; and then he continued on his way, in the direction of that lighted window.
For just a few moments let us enter that house of the lighted window, that we may witness certain strange happenings.
We come into an immense, old-fashioned kitchen or scullery.
A candle burned on a mantel, sending its tranquil light out into the room and creating ghostly shadows. Under the mantel, in the deepest shadows of all, andirons and a crane seemed to be slinking back as if they were hiding.
In the center of the room there was a rough wooden table. Over against the wall, near the door which opened to the highway, stood a grandfather's clock, ticking severely, as if it were dissatisfied with the way things were going in the house. There were a number of other doors visible, all closed as if they were saying, "This is an orderly house, and everybody has gone to bed, of course!"
But everybody hadn't gone to bed! Over beyond the wooden table, against the wall, there was a bed, and there was nobody in it. Moreover, there was a figure seated at the wooden table: the figure of a woman, who silently polished the spoons which were scattered before her. She had already scoured certain pots and pans which were piled in a heap near her hand.
Suddenly the strange happenings began.
A mouse appeared among the pots and pans on the table. It sat an instant, with alert eyes and fidgety nose and whiskers, and then it scrambled down the leg of the table and crossed the floor in the direction of the grandfather's clock. An instant later there it was again, climbing up the white face of the clock!
The clock ticked more severely than ever. The mouse disappeared amid the works of the clock: and presto! The clock loudly struck one.
The mouse darted into sight again, slipping down across the face of the clock. Then it disappeared.
The vibrations of the clock, filling the room as with a great clamor, slowly died away.
Then there was another sound: a nervous rattling of the latch on the door opening to the highway. The door opened rather abruptly, and Cinderella, panting and pale, stood on the threshold.
For an instant she seemed afraid to enter; yet plainly she was also afraid to remain standing there on the threshold. She glanced swiftly about the room and then she entered and closed the door sharply behind her. She stood for a moment, panting and leaning against the door.
There was something very strange about her; for although she was weary and frightened, and clad in the shabbiest old dress imaginable, her face nevertheless shone with rapture.
Need I tell you what had occurred to her? She had forgotten what the good fairy had told her about coming home before one o'clock; and as a result her coach-and-four and her coachman had been changed back to what they had originally been: a pumpkin, a rat, and four mice. What a disaster!
Yet after she had stood against the door long enough to catch her breath she advanced into the room, thrusting her arms upward and forward as if she were embracing a lovely vision. Her eyes burned with a glorious light.
She had not seen the figure at the table, bending over the spoons. It was plain that in imagination she was seeing something far different. And then she uttered these words (to nobody at all!):
"Oh, the wonder of it, the wonder of it!"
Then something else happened. One of the inner doors opened and a young lady stood craning her neck so that she could look into the room. She stood so an instant, and then she was joined by another young lady, and both came into the room.
They were both simply glorious in party-frocks, though on the skirt of one the ruffles had been bunched clumsily, and the bodice of the other was slightly twisted.
They were Cinderella's sisters.
The first sister had opened the door just in time to hear what Cinderella said; and now she rather cleverly imitated Cinderella's words and manner—
"'Oh, the wonder of it!' The wonder of what?"
For a moment longer Cinderella gazed into space, her eyes holding a glorious vision. Then, lowering her gaze and observing her sisters, she said, a little less fervently, "Oh … everything!"
The second sister now spoke. There was a pitying note in her voice as she said to the first sister, "As if she had the slightest idea of anything as wonderful as the things we've seen!"
To which the first sister replied with a sigh—"Poor Cinderella!"
But Cinderella only turned away from them that she might hide the secret in her eyes. She sat down before the fireplace, and the two sisters seated themselves on either side of her. None of them had taken the slightest notice of the figure at the wooden table in the middle of the room.
Cinderella seemed to be dreaming again, while the two sisters were plainly overflowing with excitement. They glanced at each other across Cinderella as if to say, "Shall we tell her?" And each nodded eagerly to the other.
Then said the second sister: "It is we who have seen the truly wonderful things, Cinderella."
"Yes," said Cinderella dreamily, "I know."
Said the first sister: "But you don't know—not the half. You know we've been to the ball, but you don't know what happened there."
Cinderella leaned forward, resting her cheeks in her hands. Her sisters could not see her eyes. "Tell me what happened," she said.
"The most wonderful princess came to the ball," said the first sister. "Quite a stranger—not a soul knew her. She was a sensation."
The second sister could scarcely wait to add, "The loveliest creature ever seen!"
Cinderella looked at her sisters now, one after the other. Her eyes seemed to caress them. "Ah, tell me about her," she said.
Said the first sister: "She first came last night—and then again to-night. She came late, from nobody knew where in an equipage the like of which was never seen before. She came late and left early."
Cinderella forgot herself a little. "Yes, I know," she said, "but where——"
"How shouldyouknow?" demanded the second sister sharply.
Cinderella hastened to say, "I mean—tell me more about her."
It was the first sister's turn to speak. "We could never describe her," she said. "Her eyes—they were like certain bright flowers shining in the dusk …"
"Oh, were they!" cried Cinderella softly.
And now the second sister said, "And her form—it was like a young poplar tree in the wind …"
"Oh, how good of you to tell me!" cried Cinderella.
The first sister could scarcely wait to say, "And her dress—it was like dew on the grass!"
Cinderella brought her hands together with rapture. "Was it truly?" she asked.
"Quite like it," said the first sister. "And her hair and cheeks—they were—they were like yours, poor Cinderella, only of course much more beautiful!"
Cinderella's hands were still clasped. "Oh, much more beautiful, I know!" she murmured softly.
Then a silence fell upon all the sisters. Cinderella clasped her hands about her knees and gazed dreamily into the fireplace. Her sisters stole pitying glances at her. They noted her wretched dress, and gentle regret shone in their eyes.
At length the first sister said generously, "You know, Cinderella, we should be very glad to have you go places with us and have a good time, too, if mother——"
But the second sister interrupted dutifully, "If it were the custom for the younger sister to be treated like the older sisters."
Cinderella nodded, "I know it is a custom—that's all," she said. "Maybe my turn will come when you've both got good husbands and fine establishments of your own."
The two sisters arose. The first began to yawn loudly; but remembering her manners she patted her lips with her finger tips, changing the yawn into a smile. She advanced toward the door by which she had entered. The second sister made as if to follow her, but turned for a final word.
"It's lovely of you not to be jealous of us, Cinderella," she said. "I hope your turn will come, too. Good-night."
Cinderella had already relapsed into her dreamy mood. "Good-night," she called. And she continued to sit and gaze into the fireplace.
But suddenly she started up excitedly and turned about. She fixed her gaze upon the door opening to the highway. Her left hand moved unconsciously to her heart.
Some one was timidly knocking on the door!
She stood for a moment as if to make sure that she had not dreamed that some one had knocked. It was very late, and the house was in a lonely spot. Then she advanced, marveling yet unafraid, and removed the bar from before the door.
The door opened quietly and Everychild stood on the threshold.
Everychild's eyes beamed with delight. "Then youdidcome to this house," he said. "I thought you did; but you ran so fast—I couldn't be sure where you went." It is true that he was breathing quickly, but he was perfectly happy.
Cinderella stood regarding him, two finger tips pressed against her cheek. "Have I—have I ever met you before?" she asked wonderingly.
He did not really reply to this. "I was beside the road with my companions," he said. "We were lying down. I saw you hurry by. I could tell something was the matter. I followed you. I hope you don't mind!"
She regarded him dubiously. "You look like a very nice boy," she said. "But it's fearfully late for you to be out or for me to ask you to come in. Still——"
"Please let me come in," pleaded Everychild. "There's something I want very much to ask you."
After a pause she said, "Well, yes, you may come in." She stood aside, watching him with a whimsical smile as he advanced into the room.
He stopped in surprise when he saw the figure at the table, bending over the spoons. It was the Masked Lady. She had put aside her shepherdess's crook and had become a house-servant. But he was so full of the thought of Cinderella that he paid little heed to the Masked Lady.
He sat down in one of the chairs the sisters had occupied; and when Cinderella followed and sat down by him he gazed at her intently.
"Tell me—what was it you wished to know?" asked Cinderella.
He had trouble finding the right words; but at length he began, "Your mother—does she whip you? You know, you were running so, and you seemed so frightened …"
Cinderella looked beyond him. She seemed to speak to herself rather than to Everychild. "She doesn't whip me," she said. "If it were only being whipped I shouldn't mind so much. A whipping … it's soon over and little harm done. No, she doesn't whip me."
"Or perhaps she tries to lose you," said Everychild. "You were really in a dreadful state, you know, as you came running along the road."
But Cinderella continued to speak musingly, as if to herself. "She doesn't whip me. But to know that you're never to be praised or loved; to have your mother look at you coldly, and say nothing—or just to have her pay no attention at all, but to act as if a wrong had been done her somehow … a whipping would be easy, compared with that."
Everychild took her up with swift comprehension. "I know what you mean," he declared. "Not to have them listen when you speak, as if you were in the way …"
Cinderella gazed at him darkly. "Child, what do you know of such things?" she demanded.
Everychild answered simply, "Our mothers were like that too. I know what it means."
Cinderella said, "Your mothers?"
"First it was just me," explained Everychild. "And then it was Hansel and Grettel."
"Ah, those poor children!" exclaimed Cinderella. "I've heard how their parents took them out into the woods to lose them. I'm surprised they ever went back."
"They're not going back again. They're going with me. With me and the giant and——"
"But where?" interrupted Cinderella.
"And you shall go with us," concluded Everychild. "That's what I wanted to tell you. We're going to find the truth."
But this only brought a sad smile to Cinderella's lips. "Ah," she said, "I wonder if it would be really wise to do that. Sometimes I think our hearts never break until we know the whole truth."
Everychild could not understand this; and he was relieved when the Masked Lady spoke. She was still polishing spoons slowly. Now she said, without looking up, "Our hearts break when we know only half the truth. They are healed when all the truth is known."
"Come, it will be great to have you go too," declared Everychild urgently.
Cinderella slowly relaxed in her chair. She rested her chin in her palm and gazed at the floor. Her eyes presently took in the fact that she had lost a slipper.
"I don't see how I could manage it," she said. "I seem to have lost a slipper. One of the pretty glass ones. But there, you don't know about that." She aroused herself and began looking about for her old slippers. She looked here and there. She found them at last under the bed. She took them into her hands and turned them over and over, regarding them sadly. Then without seeming cause she started guiltily and fixed her gaze on the door through which her sisters had made their entrance and exit.
"Some one is coming!" she whispered excitedly,
Everychild sprang to his feet.
"It's my mother, I think," added Cinderella. "I'm afraid there'll be trouble. Please run away. No, I don't think I could go with you, after all."
Everychild stood undecided an instant; and then he could see the inner door opening. He would have run away, then, but it was too late; and Cinderella seized him by the arm. It was plain that she was trying to think of a place where he might hide.
He knew what to do in a second. He dropped to the floor and rolled under Cinderella's bed! From his hiding-place under the bed he saw the door open wide and a very pompous-appearing matron enter the room.
This was Cinderella's mother, who began immediately, in a rage:
"So, my fine girl, you are here ahead of me!"
Cinderella bowed her head. "I am here, mother," she said in a low voice.
"Without your fine clothes, I see!"
"My fine clothes, mother?" said Cinderella, with downcast eyes.
"None of that, my lass! A mother's eyes are not deceived. I knew it was you! All those jewels and silks, finer than your poor dear sisters can afford to wear, did not deceive me. And the prince dancing with you shamelessly while your poor sisters sat by as if they had wooden legs … did you suppose for an instant you could deceive me?"
Of course Cinderella knew she had been found out. She replied in a tone of sad resignation: "I could scarcely have expected to deceive you, mother. I've had so little experience in doing so. You know I've always been obedient—always before. Deceit isn't easy. I had only changed my dress, after all, while you had put on a gracious manner—and yet I knew you instantly."
"Precisely …What? Oh, you shall pay for that!"
The angry creature looked about for some means of inflicting a cruel punishment, and her eyes came upon a closet door. "Come, to bed with you!" she exclaimed. "In the closet! It will do very well for such as you. I'll have you under lock and key to-night, and to-morrow I'll look into your case, you impudent, disobedient wretch!"
Seeing what her mother's intention was, Cinderella cried in a mournful tone, "Oh, mother!"
But her mother stamped her foot violently. "In with you!" she cried. Whereupon she removed a key from its peg on the wall and unlocked the closet door. With one movement she forced Cinderella into the closet. Then she locked the door and replaced the key on its peg.
"Unless the child is a witch in disguise—which I shouldn't put apast her, for how else should she get the silks and jewels she wore to-night?—she'll not be able to show her face again until I come to let her out. Iwore a gracious manner, did I?—and she knew me instantly in spite of it! There's a dutiful child for you. A dutiful child? A shameless hussy!"
And the furious creature blew out the candle on the mantel and left the room. You could hear her slam the door.
A faint cry of distress came from the locked closet: "Mother—mother!"
In the darkness Everychild's voice could be heard speaking cautiously, "Wait, Cinderella—wait until I can make a light."
The voice from the closet was heard again: "Mother—mother!"
And then Everychild's voice: "I must make a light, so that I can find the key!"
For the last time Cinderella's voice could be heard faintly—"Mother!"
And then there was the calm voice of the Masked Lady: "Now you can see!"
The room was lighted again! The Masked Lady had arisen from her place. She was holding the lighted candle above her head.
Not a second was wasted by Everychild. He hurriedly crossed the room and took the key from its peg. He unlocked the closet door.
Cinderella thrust the door open and burst into the room.
"I couldn't leave you there, you know," said Everychild.
Cinderella regarded him intently. "You could not leave me there—no," she said; "and you shall not leave me in this house, where I meet only indignities and abuse. Come, I am going with you."
Not another word was needed. Hand in hand they approached the outer door. For a moment Everychild disengaged his hand to remove the bar from before the door. He opened the door, and then hand in hand they passed the threshold.
As if she were moving quite absent-mindedly the Masked Lady went and closed the door behind them. She put the bar back in its place. She pondered a moment and then she re-locked the closet door, replacing the key on its wooden peg.
There was a sound of footsteps approaching; and instantly the light went out, though the Masked Lady had not blown upon it.
Pitch darkness for a moment, then the flash of a light. The mother of Cinderella was standing near the mantel, lighting the candle, which was back in its place again. The Masked Lady was seated by the wooden table, polishing spoons.
"I thought I heard a voice!" mused the mother of Cinderella.
She inspected the outer door. The bar was in its place. She looked at the closet door. It was locked. The key was on its peg.
The sun came up and filled the woodland with patches of gold. Birds began to sing. The forest was awake.
The children began to awaken, one after another: Hansel, first. He got up and rubbed his eyes morosely and said, "I'm hungry as a wolf!"
His movements aroused Grettel. She said, "No wonder, Hansel. We really must have something to eat."
Then Everychild stirred; and then Cinderella, who was lying by his side. Next, the giant, Will o'Dreams, sprang to his feet and viewed the sun-patches far and near, and lifted his arms in delight. For the moment he quite forgot the threat which Mr. Literal had made against him. He was perfectly happy.
They all went a little distance and found a brook, where they washed their faces and quenched their thirst. Then Everychild remarked, "We ought to have breakfast."
Hansel looked at him almost contemptuously. "Ought we, indeed!" he exclaimed. "And I suppose you know where we're going to get it?"
"We must think," said Everychild.
And at that very moment there was the sound of some one coming along the road, singing. They all looked to see who it was.
"Aladdin!" exclaimed Everychild excitedly.
It was indeed Aladdin. His pigtail hung down adorably and his rosy mouth expressed nothing but happiness. He was singing—
"Tla-la-la … tla-la-la …"
He perceived the children standing in a row, gazing at him. He stopped short. His song ended. He stood there smiling.
"Good morning!" said Everychild. He added in a voice which faltered just enough to make his question seem in good taste, "Have you got your lamp?"
Aladdin moved a little, so that they might all see his lamp. He held it aloft and looked at it, and then at Everychild.
"And so you haven't been able to think of the best thing of all?" asked Everychild.
"Alas, no," replied Aladdin, his eyes suddenly becoming somber.
Everychild thought again, as he had done before, how strange it was that Aladdin should wish to be rid of his lamp. But he thought it best to speak cheerfully. "We were just wishing for breakfast," he said. "But of course it didn't do any good, because we hadn't any lamp."
Aladdin's eyes began to twinkle again. "What did you wish for breakfast?" he asked.
Hansel made haste to say, "Sausages—and plenty of them!"
Grettel reflected and said: "Eggs. Some nice poached eggs."
They all looked at Cinderella, who hesitated and then said reluctantly—"If I could just have a little marmalade and seed-cake——"
The giant said nothing at all; and at last Everychild spoke: "I'm not particular," he said. "Just anything that happens to be convenient."
This response pleased Aladdin best of all. He said, "Well, I'll wish for you." He pushed his soft loose sleeves back and held his lamp up. He rubbed it in a certain fashion, and sure enough a great genie appeared.
"If you'd just kindly prepare something nice for breakfast," said Aladdin to the genie courteously. And the genie made a salaam which delighted Grettel particularly, and then he began to pluck things out of the air—just as the magician in the theater does: a small stove from which a blue flame arose; a sauce-pan; a nice table covered with a white cloth; plates and knives and forks—everything. He placed a white cap on his head and held the sauce-pan over the blue flame. He kept smiling mischievously all the while; and at last he carried the sauce-pan to the table and poured something into every dish. Then he made another salaam, and that was all there was to him.
The children all eagerly took their places. They looked excitedly to see what the genie had prepared for them.
It was bread and milk in every case.
They all shouted gleefully because of the trick the genie had played on them. Then they looked about for Aladdin, who for the moment was nowhere to be seen.
Far down the road they heard him singing as he went on his way. His voice was faint and musical—
"Tla-la-la … tla-la-la …"
After they had finished their breakfast they all decided it would be a wise plan to have a serious talk among themselves, so that they might agree upon their plans for the future.
"We ought to know just what we want to do," said Everychild.
"And how we're going to do it," said Cinderella.
Said Hansel: "I'm for keeping right ahead on this road, so we'll overtake that boy with the lamp."
Grettel could not think of a suggestion, and she contented herself with saying in a critical tone, "Oh, Hansel!"
"It might be that we ought to find some other road," said Everychild. "You know this is called the Road of Troubled Children."
"I am told," said the giant, speaking for the first time, "that if you watch for the guide-posts it presently turns into the Road of Happy Children."
A harsh voice behind them exclaimed. "It is false!" And turning his head, the giant beheld Mr. Literal glowering down upon him from behind. However, he paid not the slightest attention.
"Anyway," said Everychild, "it doesn't matter so much what road we take if we only find the truth at the end. We mustn't forget that's what we're looking for."
"You'll find that in a book," declared the harsh voice of Mr. Literal.
"I think we'll find it, no matter what road we take," said the giant.
"You'll find it in your hearts," another voice was heard to say. And now it was to be noted that the Masked Lady had also appeared.
"And when we find it," said Cinderella, "—then what shall we do?"
"When we find it we shall know what to do," said the giant.
"When you find it you'll be prepared to die," declared Mr. Literal.
"When they find it they shall be prepared to live," the voice of the Masked Lady was heard to say.
A laugh like the crackling of dry fagots was heard; and Mr. Literal exclaimed musingly: "The little simpletons! They seek to find the truth at their age! Little do they know that I have spent my whole life anxiously seeking it!"
The Masked Lady said softly: "It is found by those who have ceased to seek it anxiously."
Then the members of the band sat in silence for a time, each trying to decide what the truth would mean. Hansel was thinking that it would mean the secret of getting something to eat at every hour of the day and night. Cinderella decided it would mean a way of finding the prince who had danced with her at the ball. And Everychild got no further than the decision that it would mean something that would make every day perfectly delightful.
In the meantime the forest had become glorious with the heat and light of the ascending sun. The waking noises of the birds had given place to the business of being boldly active. And the children, with a common impulse, would have resumed their journey. But just at that moment a traveler was seen to be approaching.
It was Everychild who went forward to salute the traveler, who proved to be a boy with hanging head and lagging feet. His hands were thrust into his pockets and there were tear-stains on his cheeks.
"Good morning," said Everychild.
"Don't bother me," said the boy. "I'm running away."
"I didn't see you run," said Everychild.
The boy stopped and looked at Everychild reproachfully. "It's called running away," he said; "though everybody knows you don't run, and for that matter, there's noawayabout it. Mostly you turn around and go back. But I call it running away just the same. It takes a load off my mind."
"I know how it is," declared Everychild. "My friends and I have taken to the road, too; and if you like, you may join us."
The boy thought this over a moment; and at length he said, "I'll do it. I'll not get any further away, being with others, and it'll not be any harder to go back, when I weaken. I'm ready to join you now, only it might look better if I just drop in on my mother for a minute to tell her good-by."
If seemed to Everychild that perhaps this would be a wise thing to do. "And shall we wait for you?" he asked.
"You might just go along with me, if the others will wait, to make sure there isn't any foul play."
To this plan Everychild readily agreed; and after he had explained the situation to his companions, he set off with the new boy along a path which branched off from the road.
"My name is Tom," explained the boy. "Tom Hubbard." And after that they continued their way in silence.
They arrived, after no great journey, at a very prim little house, set down in a very prim little garden. Curtains hung in the windows just so, and the door-knob shone like gold. The only friendly thing about the place was a little black dog with a rough coat and great wistful eyes, which came running down the walk to leap up before the boy Tom, trying to lick his hands.
They entered the house, and the instant Everychild crossed the threshold he realized that he had never seen a house quite like this one. It made you think of a very careful drawing. Everything was at right angles with everything else. A small table stood precisely in the middle of the floor, and two really silly little chairs were placed before it. A spick-and-span cupboard, with a perforated tin front, stood over against the wall.
The little black dog ran over to the cupboard immediately and stood on his hind legs, gazing at the perforated doors.
"We'd better sit on the floor." said Tom, after he had glanced uneasily about the room.
This seemed a bit strange to Everychild, but he said politely, "I'm very fond of sitting on the floor myself."
And so they sat down on the floor and clasped their hands about their knees.
"And so this is where you live!" said Everychild, looking about him with frank interest.
"It is where Ididlive. I'll live here no more, now that I've found somebody to run away with. When she comes in—my mother, I mean—I'll just say good-by and light out."
"What's been the matter?" asked Everychild.
"It's no fit place for a boy to live," said Tom. "In the first place, nobody's ever home. Mother's always gadding about somewhere. She gives lectures onThe Home, and she's never here except between lectures. And even then her mind is somewhere else. You don't dare to speak to her. She stares at nothing—so. And all she says is, 'For goodness' sake, don't shout so;' or 'Mustyou make that noise when you're eating?' or 'Can't you walk without shaking the floor like that?' and finally, 'I think you'll drive me insane at last—such a careless creature you are!'"
"It must be very bad," said Everychild.
"I've been so I was afraid to move, knowing she would complain. I've sat for hours studying her, trying to understand her. I used to think the fault was all mine."
"It does make you feel that way, doesn't it?" said Everychild. "And sometimes I've thought fathers were as bad as mothers about making you feel so."
Tom lapsed into a dreamy mood. "Fathers … I don't remember much about my father," he said. "But he used to be uncomfortable about the house the same as me. The things she says to me—they come easy to her now, because she learned to say them long ago, to my father. He couldn't have a friend in to see him. It was always: 'Why don't they go home for their meals?' or 'Why don't they track dirt into their own houses?' or 'Why don't they fill their own curtains with tobacco smoke?' You know how they talk. And he quit bringing his friends home. He stayed away more and more himself. I've not seen him now for years."
"I'm not sure I ever heard of your father," said Everychild.
"You wouldn't have heard of him. Mother always made so much noise that you only heard of her. You wouldn't have overlookedher, with her finding fault all the time, and pretending not to be appreciated at home. She was always pitied by the neighbors, who knew only her side of the story. Oh, everybody's heard of Old Mother Hubbard. But who ever heard of Old Father Hubbard? She drove him away with her precise little ways, and now he's forgotten."
Everychild could scarcely conceal his surprise. He hadn't supposed it wasthatHubbard. "And so this is where Old Mother Hubbard lives," he said, looking about him with new interest.
"It's where you'll find her at odd times," said Tom, "when she hasn't got a committee meeting to attend, or a board meeting, or a convention, or something. I shouldn't say shelivesanywhere."
"Still, everything is nice enough in its way," remarked Everychild, "and I always thought she was very poor."
"Not at all," said Tom. "It was her 'poor dog.' That's what you have in mind, I suppose. And there never was a poor dog except one with a mean master or mistress."
At that moment, the little black dog, weary of looking at the cupboard, approached Tom and flopped down beside him.
"And that's her dog," said Everychild musingly.
"He's mine, really," explained Tom, "though I always try to think of him as hers. You take a fellow like me and he'd rather not own a dog. He has to go out into the world sooner or later; and if he has a dog he keeps thinking about him when he's away, and about there not being any one to put water in his bowl, and open the gate for him or go with him for a run. A dog likes to be with you, you know; and when you're gone you keep seeing him all the while: waiting at the gate for you, or outside your door. And you know all the time that some day when you're gone he'll grow old at last, and lie alone dreaming of you, and looking—while there's none but strangers by to spurn him. No, sometimes I think it's better not to have a dog for a friend."
Everychild was thinking about this when Tom suddenly reached for his hat, which he had placed by his side. "Perhaps we'd better be getting along," he said, "without waiting to tell her good-by. After all, there's no telling when she'll be here."
Everychild did not like to go without having seen Old Mother Hubbard; but there seemed no way to suggest this, and he was just rising to his feet when there was a bustling sound outside the door.
"She's coming now," said Tom in a whisper. "She'll be here right away." He was dreadfully uneasy. He added in a tone of apology, "Just make the best of it, won't you, if she's ugly? It will blow over in a minute or two."
And then the front door was opened briskly and Old Mother Hubbard entered the room.
She came into the room in the manner of one who was about to say, "Fellow-citizens!" But she said nothing just at first. She took a few steps further, walking as if she expected to have a badge pinned on her, or to receive a prize. She had a double chin; and when she began to speak, which she did a moment later, it developed that she had a deep baritone voice.
Her first words were: "Away with you!"
They were for the little black dog, who had rushed toward her with swaying tail.
Then she saw her son and Everychild.She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere as she said to her son, "And who is this, pray?"