THEY ALL PLUNGED INTO THE LOOKING-GLASS
The children and the Looking-Glass children played together a little while, or made believe toplay, but they didn’t seem to enjoy themselves. Mrs. Meadows noticed this and asked Mr. Rabbit the reason.
“Simple enough, simple enough,” Mr. Rabbit answered. “They are so much alike in their looks and ways and so different in their raising that they can’t get on together. How would I feel if my double were to walk out of the side of the house and sit here facing me and mimicking my every motion? I wouldn’t feel very comfortable, I can tell you.”
“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Meadows. Presently she called the children, brought out the looking-glass and told them it was time to bid the others good-by. At this the other children seemed to be very well pleased. The other Buster John and the other Sweetest Susan shook hands all round, and the other Drusilla made a curtsey to the company. Then, with a run and a jump, they plunged into the big looking-glass as you have seen youngsters plunge into a pond of water.
“Ho!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, “they jumped in with a splash, but they never made a ripple.”
“They haven’t room enough in there to turn around,” said Sweetest Susan.
“Why not?” inquired Mr. Thimblefinger. “To them the world is a looking-glass, and a mighty little one at that. If you were to peep in their glass now they’d peep back at you; but, as they look at it, you are in a looking-glass and they are out of it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they are a great deal sorrier for you than you are for them.”
“When are we to go home?” asked Sweetest Susan plaintively.
“Oho! you want to get back into your looking-glass!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger merrily. “Well, you won’t have long to wait. By rights, you ought to stay here twelve hours, but the old Spring Lizard and I have put our heads together, and we’ve fixed it so that you can get back before sundown.”
“Isn’t it night at home now?” inquired Buster John.
“Why, they are hardly through washing the dinner dishes,” replied Mrs. Meadows.
“It is just half past two,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, looking at his watch.
“Well, it look so dark all dis time dat I done got hungry fer supper,” remarked Drusilla.
“I hope it won’t rain,” said Sweetest Susan, “for then the spring would fill up so we couldn’t get out, and we should get wet down here.”
“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “the water is never wet down here. It is a little damp, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s enough, I’m sure,” remarked Mr. Rabbit. “It’s enough to give me the wheezes when I first get up in the morning, and it’s not at all comfortable, I can tell you.”
“There is one funny thing about springs,” said Mrs. Meadows, “no matter how much it rains, they never get any fuller. They may run a little freer, but they never get any fuller. Speaking of rains,” she continued, turning to Mr. Rabbit and laughing, “don’t you remember the time you set yourself up as a rain-maker?”
Mr. Rabbit chuckled so that he bent nearly double.
“I don’t remember that,” sighed Mr. Thimblefinger. “You two have more jokes between you than you can shake a stick at. That comes of me being small and puny. Tell us about it, please.”
Mr. Rabbit fingered his pipe—a way he had when he put on his thinking-cap, as Mrs. Meadows expressed it—and presently said:—
“It’s not such a joke after all, but I’ll let you judge for yourself. Once upon a time, when all of us lived next door, on the other side of the spring, there was a tremendous drouth. I had been living a long time, but never before had seen such a long dry spell. Everybody was farming except myself, and even I had planted a small garden.
“Well, there was a big rain about planting-time, but after that came the drouth, and the hot weather with it. One month, six weeks, two months, ten weeks—and still no sign of rain. The cotton was all shriveled up, and the corn looked as if it would catch a-fire, it was so dry; even the cow-peas turned yellow. Everything was parched. The creeks ran dry, and the rivers got so low the mills had to stop. I rememberthat when Brother Bear tried to carry me across the ferry his flatboat ran aground in the middle of the river, and the water was so low we found we could wade out.
“The drouth got so bad that everybody was complaining—everybody except me. Brother Wolf and Brother Bear would come and sit on my front porch and do nothing but complain; but I said nothing. I simply smoked my pipe and shook my head, and said nothing. They noticed this, after so long a time, and one day, while they were sitting there complaining and declaring that they were ruined, I went in to get a drink of water. I came back gently and heard them asking each other how it was that I didn’t join in their complaints. When I came out, Brother Wolf says, says he: ‘Brother Rabbit, how are your craps?’ I remember he said ‘craps.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘my craps are middling good. They might be better, and they might be worse, but I have no cause to grumble.’
“They looked at each other, and then Brother Bear asked if I had had any rain at my house. ‘None,’ says I, ‘to brag about—a drizzle here and a drizzle there, but nothing to boast of.’
“They looked at each other in great surprise, and then Brother Wolf spoke up. ‘Brother Rabbit,’ says he, ‘how can you get a drizzle and the rest of us not a drop?’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘some folks that know me call me the rain-maker. They may be right. They may be wrong. I’m not going to squabble about it. You can call me what you please. I shall not dispute with you.’
“Presently they went away, but it wasn’t long before they came back, bringing with them all the neighbors for miles around. They gathered in the porch and in the yard and outside the gate, and begged me, if I was a rain-maker, to make it rain there and then to save their crops. They begged me and begged me, but I sat cross-legged and smoked my pipe—this same pipe you see here. Brother Fox, who had done me many a mean trick (though he was always well paid for it), got on his knees and begged me to make it rain for them.
“Finally I told them that I’d make it rain for the whole settlement on two conditions. The first condition was that every one was to pay toll.”
MR. RABBIT SAYING NOTHING
“Toll is the pay the miller takes out at the mill,” remarked Buster John.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you take your turn of meal to the mill and the miller takes his payment out of the meal. Well, I told them they’d have to pay toll. They agreed to that, and then asked what else they’d have to do, but I said we’d attend to one thing at a time. First let the toll be paid.
“They went off, and in due time they came back. Some brought corn and some brought meal; some brought wheat and some brought flour; some brought milk and some brought butter; some brought honey in the clean, and some brought honey in the comb; some brought one thing and some brought another, but they all brought something.
“Then they gathered around and asked what else they had to do. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘you certainly act as if you wanted rain—all of you—there’s no disputing that. You have paid the toll according to agreement. You have surely earned the rain, and now there’s nothing for me to do but to find out how much rain you want.’
“With that they all began to talk at once, especially Brother Bear, who lived in the upland district, where the drouth had been the worst, but I put an end to that at once.
“‘Hold on there!’ says I, ‘just wait! Don’t get into any dispute around here. You are on my grounds and at my house. Let’s have no squabbling. I’m not feeling so mighty well, anyhow, and the least fuss will be enough to upset me. But the world is wide. Just go on yonder hill and fix up the whole matter to suit yourselves. Just come to some agreement as to how much rain you want, and as soon as you agree send me word, and then go home and hoist your parasols, for there’ll surely be a sprinkle.’
“Well,” Mr. Rabbit continued, “this was such a sensible plan that they couldn’t help but agree to it, and presently they all went to the hill and began to talk the matter over, while I went into the house.
“This was in the morning. Well, dinner-time came, but still no word had come from the convention on the hill. I went out into the porch, flung my red handkerchief over my face to keep the flies off, and took my afternoon nap, but stillno word came from the hill. Then I fell to laughing, and laughed until I nearly choked myself.”
“But what were you laughing at?” Buster John inquired, with a serious air.
Mr. Rabbit paused, looked at the youngster solemnly, and said, “Well, I’ll tell you. I didn’t laugh because anybody had hurt my feelings. I just laughed at circumstances. I sat and waited until the afternoon was half gone, and then slipped up the hill to see what was to be seen and hear what was to be heard. Everything was very quiet up there. Those who had gone up there to decide what sort of rain they wanted were sitting; around under the pine-trees, looking very sour and saying nothing. The ground was torn up a little in spots, and I thought I could see scattered around little patches of hair and little pieces of hide. I judged from that that the arguments they had used were very serious. I watched them from behind the bushes a little while, and then Brother Bear walked out into the open and declared that any one who didn’t want the rain to be a trash-mover was anything but a nice fellow. At this Brother Coon, who lived in the lowgrounds, remarked that anybody who wanted anything more than a drizzle was not well raised at all.
“Then I soon found out what the trouble was. Brother Bear, living on the uplands, wanted a big rain; Brother Coon, who lived in the low grounds, wanted a little rain; Brother Fox wanted a tolerably heavy shower; and Brother Mink just wanted a cloudy night to coax the frogs out. Some wanted a freshet, some wanted a drizzle, and some wanted a fog.
“They wouldn’t agree because they couldn’t agree,” continued Brother Rabbit, “and finally they slunk off to their homes one at a time. So I didn’t have to make any rain at all.”
“But you couldn’t have made it rain,” said Sweetest Susan placidly.
“I didn’t say I could,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “I told them I would make the rain if they would agree among themselves.”
“But you took what they brought you?” suggested Sweetest Susan in a tone that was intended for a rebuke.
BROTHER BEAR ARGUING THE RAIN QUESTION
“Well,” Mr. Rabbit answered, “you know what the old saying is—‘Fools have to pay fortheir folly.’ They might as well have paid me as to pay somebody else. That’s the way I looked at it in those days. I don’t know how I’d look at it now, because I’m not so nimble footed as I used to be, nor so full of mischief.”
“If there had been many more such fools in your neighborhood,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “you could have set up a grocery-store.”
There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Meadows, looking around, exclaimed:—
“Just look yonder, will you?”
Chickamy Crany Crow had two sticks, and with these she was playing on an imaginary fiddle. Tickle-My-Toes had the broom, and this, he pretended, was a banjo.
The two queer-looking creatures wagged their heads from side to side and patted the ground with their feet, just as though they were making sure-enough music, and presently Tickle-My-Toes sang this song to a very lively tune:—
I’ll up and I’ll grin if you tickle my chin,And I’ll sneeze if you tickle my nose;I’ll up and I’ll cry if you tickle my eye—But I’ll squeal if you tickle my toes!Oh, grin with your chinnery in,And sneeze with your nosery oze,And cry with your wipery eye,But please don’t tickle my toes!I’ll grin and I’ll sneeze, I’ll cry and I’ll squeal,And scare you withouches!andohs!You may tickle my head, you may tickle my heel,But please don’t tickle my toes!Oh, grin with your innery chin,And sneeze with your ozery nose,And cry with your wipery eye,But please don’t tickle my toes!I’ll grin,tee-hee!and I’ll cry,boo-hoo!And I’ll sneeze,icky chow! icky-chose!And I’ll squeal just as loud,Oh, Lullymaloo!Whenever you tickle my toes!
I’ll up and I’ll grin if you tickle my chin,And I’ll sneeze if you tickle my nose;I’ll up and I’ll cry if you tickle my eye—But I’ll squeal if you tickle my toes!
Oh, grin with your chinnery in,And sneeze with your nosery oze,And cry with your wipery eye,But please don’t tickle my toes!
I’ll grin and I’ll sneeze, I’ll cry and I’ll squeal,And scare you withouches!andohs!You may tickle my head, you may tickle my heel,But please don’t tickle my toes!
Oh, grin with your innery chin,And sneeze with your ozery nose,And cry with your wipery eye,But please don’t tickle my toes!
I’ll grin,tee-hee!and I’ll cry,boo-hoo!And I’ll sneeze,icky chow! icky-chose!And I’ll squeal just as loud,Oh, Lullymaloo!Whenever you tickle my toes!
Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla laughed so heartily at this that Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes didn’t wait to repeat the chorus of the song, but ran away, pretending to be very much frightened. This made the children laugh still more, and for the first time they felt thoroughly at home in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.
While Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were watching Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes run away, and laughing at them, suddenly the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country grew brighter. The dark shadow of the buttermilk-jug had disappeared, and there were wavering lines of white light flashing across, as though the sun were trying to shine through. Along with these flashing lines there were wavering lines of shadow that rippled and danced about curiously. There seemed to be some tremendous commotion going on. If some person with the learning and wisdom of an astronomer had seen this wonderful display, he would have been overcome with awe and fear. He would have concluded that the sky was about to go to pieces, and ten to one he would have left his unreflecting telescope swinging in the air, and crawled under the bed.
But there was no astronomer in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, and the children had seen too many strange sights to be very much alarmed. Besides, Drusilla solved the mystery before they had time to gather their fears together.
“Shuh!” she exclaimed; “’t ain’t nothin’ ’t all. When dey tuck de jug outin’ de spring de water ’bleedge to be shuck up.”
And it was true. The rippling and wavering in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country were caused by lifting the buttermilk-jug from the spring. As soon as the commotion ceased, it was seen that across the sky, from horizon to horizon, dark lines and shadows extended. They were irregular, and branched out here and there in every direction. Drusilla gazed at them for some moments without venturing to explain them. Suddenly a shadow that seemed to have life and motion made its appearance, and darted about among the dark lines. Drusilla laughed.
“La! Hit’s dat dead lim’ ober de spring, an’ dere’s a jay-bird hoppin’ about in it right now. Ain’t I done heah yo’ pa say dat lim’ ’ll hafter be cut off ’fo’ it fall an’ break somebody’s head?”
“Well, well! She ain’t so bad off up here asI thought she was,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly.
“Ain’t I done tell you dat dey’s mo’ in my head dan what you kin comb out?” exclaimed Drusilla indignantly.
“Speaking of combing and things of that sort,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to Mrs. Meadows, “did I ever tell you how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair?”
Mrs. Meadows reflected a moment, or pretended to reflect. “Now, I’m not right certain about that. Maybe you have and maybe you haven’t; I don’t remember. How did you teach Brother Bear to keep his hair roached and parted? Mostly when I used to know him, he went about looking mighty ragged and shabby.”
Mr. Rabbit chuckled for several moments and then said: “Well, in my courting-days, you know, I used to go around fixed up in style. Many and many a time I’ve heard the girls whisper to one another and say, ‘Oh, my! Ain’t Mr. Rabbit looking spruce to-day?’ There was one season in particular that I was careful to primp up and look sassy. I put bergamot oil on my hair, and kept it brushed so slick that afly would slip up and cripple himself if he lit on it.
“It so happened that my road took me by Brother Bear’s house every day—right by the front gate. Sometimes Mrs. Bear would be hanging out clothes on the fence, sometimes she would be sweeping off the front porch, and sometimes she would be working in the garden; but no matter what she was doing I’d cough and catch her eye, and then I’d bow just as polite as you please.”
“What were you doing all that for?” asked Buster John.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mr. Rabbit replied. “I had a grudge against Brother Bear, and I wanted to work a little scheme. Along at first I just went on by the back of Brother Bear’s house, and around through the woods home, but in a few days I’d pass by the house and then get over the fence and creep back to hear what Mrs. Bear had to say. One morning I heard her talking. She was out in the yard fixing to do her week’s washing while Brother Bear was in the house dozing. I could hear what Mrs. Bear said, but I was too far off to hear what answer Brother Bear made.
MRS. BEAR HANGING OUT CLOTHES
“Mrs. Bear says, says she: ‘Honey, you ain’t asleep, are you? Brother Rabbit has just gone along by the gate dressed to kill.’ A grumbling sound came from the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, ‘I wonder where he goes every day, with his hair combed so slick?’ Grumble in the house. ‘You’d better wish you looked half as nice,’ says Mrs. Bear. Grumble in the house. ‘Well, I don’t care if he is a grand rascal, he looks nice and clean, and that’s more than anybody can say about you,’ says Mrs. Bear. Growl in the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, ‘Oh, you can rip and rear, but Brother Rabbit goes about with his head combed, and he looks lots better that way than them that go about with rat nests in their hair—lots better.’”
Here Brother Rabbit chuckled again. “I thought to myself, thinks I, that I’d better be getting on toward home, and so I crept back up the fence and went on my way.
“The next day as I was going along the road, who should I meet but old Brother Bear himself. Well, here’s a row, thinks I, but it didn’t turn out so. Brother Bear was just as polite to me as I had been to his old woman.
“We passed the time of day and talked about the crops a little while, but I could see that Brother Bear had something serious on his mind. Finally, he shuffled around and sat down on a stump beside the roadside.
“‘Brother Rabbit,’ he says, says he, ‘how in the world do you manage to keep your hair so slick and smooth all the time? My old woman sees you passing by every day, and she’s been worrying the life out of me because I don’t keep my hair combed that way. So I said to myself I’d ask you the very next time I met you.’
“Brother Bear was looking pretty rough and tough, and so I says, says I, ‘You look as if she had been tousling you about it.’
“He hung his head at this, and shuffled around and changed his seat. Says he: ‘No, it’s not so bad as all that, but I want to ask you plump and plain, if it’s a fair question, how you comb your hair so it will stay nice?’
“I looked at him and shook my head. Says I, ‘Brother Bear, I don’t comb my hair.’
“He was so much surprised that he opened his mouth, and his tongue hung out on one side—a big, red tongue that had known the taste of innocent blood.”
“That’s the truth!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows.
Sweetest Susan shuddered.
“Says he, ‘Brother Rabbit, if you don’t comb your hair, how in the wide world do you keep it so smooth?’”
“Says I, ‘Easy enough. Every morning my old woman takes the axe and chops my head off—’”
“Oh!” cried Sweetest Susan.
“‘Takes the axe and chops off my head,’” Mr. Rabbit continued, as solemn as a judge, “‘and carries it out in the yard, where she can have light to see and room to work, and then she combs it and combs it until every kink comes straight and every hair is in its place. Then she brings my head back, puts it where it belongs, and there it is—all combed.’
“Brother Bear seemed to be very much astonished. Says he, ‘Doesn’t it hurt, Brother Rabbit?’
“Says I, ‘Hurt who? I’m no chicken.’
“Says he, ‘Doesn’t it bleed?’
“Says I, ‘No more than enough to make my appetite good.’”
Mr. Rabbit paused and looked up at the ripples of light and shade that were chasing eachother across the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country. Then he looked at the children.
“The upshot of it was,” he continued, “that Brother Bear went home and told Mrs. Bear how I had my head combed every day. Woman-like, she wanted to try it at once; so Brother Bear laid his head on a log of wood, and Mrs. Bear got the axe and raised it high in the air. Brother Bear had just time to squall out, ‘Cut it off easy, old woman!’ when the axe fell on his neck, and there he was!”
“Oh, did it kill him?” cried Sweetest Susan.
“That’s what the neighbors said,” replied Mr. Rabbit placidly.
Sweetest Susan didn’t seem to be at all pleased. Seeing this, Mrs. Meadows exclaimed:—
“To think of the poor little pigs Brother Bear killed and ate!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and the lambs!”
“Worse than that!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger. “Think of the little children he devoured! Think of it!”
“I’m glad he had his head cut off,” said Buster John heartily.
“Me too, honey,” assented Drusilla.
After telling how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair, Mr. Rabbit closed his eyes and seemed to be about to fall into a doze, as old people have been known to do. During the pause that followed, Sweetest Susan saw what appeared to be a bird of peculiar shape sailing around in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.
It was long of body and seemed to have no wings, and yet it sailed about overhead as majestically and easily as an eagle could have done.
“What sort of a bird is it?” inquired Sweetest Susan, pointing out the object to Mrs. Meadows.
“Now, really, I don’t know,” was the reply. “They are so high in the sky and I’ve seen them so often that I’ve never bothered my head about them.”
Mr. Thimblefinger climbed on the back of a chair, so as to get a better view of the curious bird, but he shook his head and climbed nimblydown again. The queer bird was too much for Mr. Thimblefinger. Mr. Rabbit opened his eyes lazily and looked at it.
“If I’m not much mistaken—” he started to say, but Drusilla broke in without any ceremony:—
“’T ain’t nothin’ ’t all, but one er dem ar meller bugs what swims roun’ in de spring.”
“Why, I expect itisa mellow bug,” said Mrs. Meadows, laughing. “I used to catch them when I was a girl and put them in my handkerchief. They smell just like a ripe apple.”
“I thought it was a buzzard,” said Buster John.
“No,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, “I used to be well acquainted with Brother Buzzard, and when he’s in the air he’s longer from side to side than he is from end to end. I don’t know when I’ve thought of Brother Buzzard before. I never liked him much, but I used to see him sailing around on sunshiny days, or sitting in the top of a dead pine drying his wings after a heavy rain. He cut a very funny figure sitting up there, with his wings spread out and drooping like a sick chicken.
LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER
“I remember the time, too, when he had a singing-match with Brother Crow, and I nearly laughed myself to death over it.”
“Oh, tell us about it,” cried Buster John.
“There’s nothing in it when it is told,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “There are some things that are funny when you see them, but not funny at all when you come to tell about them.”
“We don’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.
“I don’t know exactly how it came about,” resumed Mr. Rabbit, after a pause, “but as near as I can remember, Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow met with each other early one morning in a big pine-tree. They howdied, but there was a sort of coolness between them on account of the fact that Brother Buzzard had been going about the neighborhood making his brags and his boasts that he could outfly Brother Crow. They hadn’t been up in the tree very long before they began to dispute. Brother Buzzard was not a very loud talker in those days, whatever he may be now, but Brother Crow could squall louder than a woman who has been married twenty-two years. And so there they had it, quarreling and disputing and disturbing the peace.”
“What were they quarreling about?” Buster John inquired.
“Well,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you know the road that leads to Brag is the shortest route to Bluster. Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow were quarreling because they had been bragging, and a little more and they’d have had a regular pitched battle then and there.
“‘Maybe you can outfly me, Brother Buzzard,’ says Mr. Crow, ‘but I’ll be bound you can’t outsing me.’
“‘I have never tried,’ says Brother Buzzard, says he.
“‘Well, suppose you try it now,’ says Brother Crow. ‘I’ll go you a fine suit of clothes, and a cocked hat to boot, that I can sit here and sing longer than you can,’ says he.
“‘Oh, ho!’ says Brother Buzzard, ‘you may sing louder, but you can’t sing longer than I can,’ says he.
“‘Is it a go?’ says Brother Crow.
“‘It’s a go,’ says Brother Buzzard, says he.
“‘It’s no fair bet,’ says Brother Crow, ‘because you are a bigger man than I am, and it stands to reason that you have got more wind inyour craw than I have, but I shall give you one trial if I split my gizzard,’ says he.
“Yes,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, scratching his head thoughtfully, “those were the very words he used—‘if I split my gizzard,’ says he. Well, they shook hands to ratify the bet, and then Brother Crow, without making any flourishes, raised the tune,—
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“Then Brother Buzzard flung his head back and chimed in,—
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
and such another racket as they made I never heard before, and have never heard since.”
“Why, what kind of a song was it?” inquired Sweetest Susan. “I’m sure I never heard such a song.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you are young and I am old, but you know just as much about that song as I do, and maybe more than I do, for you haven’t been pestered with it as long as I have. It is a worse riddle to me than it was the day I heard it.”
“What did they do then?” asked Buster John.
“Well,” Mr. Rabbit replied, “they sat there and sang just as I told you. Brother Buzzard would stop to catch his breath and then break out,—
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
and then Brother Crow would squall out,—
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’
“They sang on until they began to get hungry, and as Brother Buzzard seemed to be the biggest and fattest of the two, everybody thought he would hold out the longest. But Brother Crow was plucky, and he sang right along in spite of the emptiness in his craw. He didn’t squall as loud as he did at first, but every time Brother Buzzard sang, Brother Crow would sing, too. By and by, they both began to get very weak.
“At last, as luck would have it, Brother Crow saw his wife flying over, and he sang out as loud as he could:—
THE SINGING-MATCH
“‘Oh, Susy!—Go tell my children—mySusy,—to bring my dinner—gangloo!—and tell them—oh, Milly, my Molly,—to bring it quickly—langloo!’
“It wasn’t very long after that before all Brother Crow’s family connections came flying to help him, and as soon as they found out how matters stood they brought him more victuals than he knew what to do with. Brother Buzzard held out as long as he could, but he was obliged to give up, and since that time there has been mighty little singing in the Buzzard family.
“But that isn’t all,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, as solemnly as if he were pointing a moral. “Since that time Brother Crow, who was dressed in white, has been wearing the black suit that he won from Brother Buzzard.”
“Speaking of singing birds,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, turning to Mrs. Meadows, “what is that song I used to hear you humming about a little bird?”
“Oh, it’s just a nonsense song,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “It has no beginning and no ending.”
But the children said they wanted to hear it, anyhow, and so Mrs. Meadows sang about—
There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Jay,“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing that way?”“Mercy, no!” said the Jay; “for he sings too late;I sing well enough for to please my Mate.”There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.Then “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Crow,“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing just so?”“Do hush,” said the Crow, “or I’ll start for to weep,Be—caw—caw—cause he’s a-losing of his sleep.”There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Wren,“Don’t you wish you could sing so now and then?”“Not me,” said the Wren as she shook her Head;“I think his Mamma ought to put him to Bed.”But the Singing Bird was so full of GleeThat he sang all night in the Rose-Bush Tree.
There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.
And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Jay,“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing that way?”“Mercy, no!” said the Jay; “for he sings too late;I sing well enough for to please my Mate.”
There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.
Then “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Crow,“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing just so?”“Do hush,” said the Crow, “or I’ll start for to weep,Be—caw—caw—cause he’s a-losing of his sleep.”
There was once a little Bird so full of SongThat he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.
And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Wren,“Don’t you wish you could sing so now and then?”“Not me,” said the Wren as she shook her Head;“I think his Mamma ought to put him to Bed.”
But the Singing Bird was so full of GleeThat he sang all night in the Rose-Bush Tree.
“Isn’t it almost time for us to start home?” said Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger.
“Why, you’ve got all the afternoon before you,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Besides it will be downhill all the way. I was just going to tell you a story, but if you really want to go I’ll put off the telling of it until some of your grandchildren tumble in the spring when the wet water has run out and the dry water has taken its place.”
“Tell the story, please,” said Buster John.
“It’s about a girl,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. “She was called the Strawberry-Girl. My mother knew the girl well, and I’ve heard her tell the story many a time. But if you want to go home—”
“Oh, please tell the story,” cried Sweetest Susan.
“Well,” said Mr. Thimblefinger; “once there was an old woman who lived in the woods. She lived all alone, and people said she was a witch. She was so old that the skin on her forehead had deep wrinkles in it, and these wrinkles caused everybody to think that the old woman was frowning all the time. People called her Granny Grim-Eye.
“Whenever Granny Grim-Eye got hungry she went to a strawberry-patch in the field near where she lived, and gathered a basket of strawberries. One day when she went after strawberries she found a beautiful little girl asleep in the patch.
“‘Hity-tity!’ said Granny Grim-Eye, ‘what are you doing here? Where did you come from, and where are you going?’
“The little girl awoke and stared at Granny Grim-Eye. She was tied to a blackberry-bush by a silver chain so fine that the links of it could hardly be seen with the naked eye. ‘Who are you?’ asked Granny Grim-Eye.
“‘Nothing nor nobody,’ replied the little girl, and that was all the answer Granny Grim-Eye could get from the child.
GRANNY GRIM-EYE FINDS A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL ASLEEP
“‘Well,’ said Granny Grim-Eye, ‘this is my strawberry-patch, and everything I find in it belongs to me. I’ll take you home and see what I can make out of you.’
“So she took the girl home and cared for her, giving her the name of the Strawberry-Girl. In the course of time the Strawberry-Girl grew to be the most beautiful young woman in the country, but her mind was not bright. In fact, I have heard my mother say that the Strawberry-Girl was as stupid and as silly as she could be, but she was so beautiful that people were inclined to forgive her for being stupid.
“Granny Grim-Eye used to send her with strawberries to sell to the rich man who owned nearly all the land in that part of the country. Now, this rich man fell in love with the Strawberry-Girl, but when he found that she was both stupid and silly he gave up all thought of marrying her. He was very fond of her, nevertheless, and bought all the berries she had for sale. But when she began to talk he would turn away with a sigh, for everything she said was stupid.
“It so happened one day that Granny Grim-Eye was too sick to pick the strawberriesherself, as she always had done, and she was afraid to trust the Strawberry-Girl to pick them. But the rich man sent word that he was to have a company of friends to dinner and he must have some strawberries. There was nothing for Granny Grim-Eye to do but to send the Strawberry-Girl to the patch. Granny Grim-Eye called her up and cautioned her not to pick anything but good, ripe strawberries, and then sent her off to the patch.
“But on the way the Strawberry-Girl saw some red berries growing on bushes, and these she picked and put in the basket until it was full. ‘These are just as red as ripe strawberries,’ she said, ‘and they will do just as well. Besides, they are a great deal easier to pick.’
“The way to the rich man’s house led through a very thick wood, and while the Strawberry-Girl was going through this wood a little old man stepped from a hollow tree and stood in the path before her.
“‘Aha!’ says he, ‘I find you alone at last. Where are you going, and what have you got?’
THE LITTLE OLD MAN DISCOVERS THE STRAWBERRY-GIRL
“‘I am carrying some strawberries to yourmaster,’ says the Strawberry-Girl, who imagined that the rich man was everybody’s master.
“‘My master!’ cries the little old man; ‘my master! But if he were my master, and I wanted to get rid of him, I’d not get in your path, for every berry in your basket is rank poison.’
“‘Well, anyhow, they are red,’ says the stupid Strawberry-Girl.
“‘So they are,’ says the little old man. ‘But if you want to kill your master carry them to him.’
“‘Oh, I don’t want to kill him,’ says the Strawberry-Girl. ‘He pays too well.’
“‘Once you belonged to me,’ says the little old man. ‘I tied you to a blackberry-bush with a fine silver chain, and left you there until I could attend to some business in the city. When I came back you were gone. I hunted for you high and low only to hear that you had been found by Granny Grim-Eye. What is the result? You have grown up beautiful and stupid. After all these years you don’t know a strawberry from a dragon’s-apple. If you had remained with me you would have grown to be the most beautiful as well as the wittiest woman in the world. You would have known everything that is hidden innature—everything that has been stored between the lids of all the books. It is a great pity!’
“‘Yes,’ says the stupid Strawberry-Girl, ‘I expect it is; but what must I do with these berries? I haven’t time to pick more.’
“‘Well,’ says the little old man, ‘I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll fill your basket with the finest berries that were ever seen, and I’ll make you the wittiest woman in the world if at the end of one year you will marry me.’
“The stupid Strawberry-Girl gave her promise, and then the little old man touched her on the forehead with his left thumb, pointed at a bright star with his right forefinger, and then went back to his hollow tree, warning the girl not to forget her promise.
“When she looked in the basket the red dragon’s-apples had disappeared, and in their place she saw the finest strawberries that had ever been grown. These she carried to the rich man, who was as much surprised at the size and lusciousness of the berries as his guests were at the extraordinary beauty of the young girl. They praised her beauty to their host, who shook his head and said that beauty ceased to be beautifulwhen it was tied to stupidity. The guests, however, would not believe that so beautiful a creature could be stupid, and to satisfy them the rich man sent for the girl and engaged her in conversation. Her replies were so wise, so apt, and so witty, as to astound all the company, while the rich man was dumfounded with astonishment.
“After that, when the Strawberry-Girl came with berries for sale, the rich man always sent for her, and her wit and intelligence were so pleasing to him that he finally asked her to be his wife. But she remembered the bargain she had made with the little old man who had met her in the wood, and she told the rich man that she would have to take time to consider his proposal.
“She was very much worried. She fretted until she began to lose some of her beauty, and when Granny Grim-Eye saw this she began to ask questions, and it was not long before she found out all about the bargain the Strawberry-Girl had made with the little Old Man of the Wood.
“‘Oho!’ she cried. ‘He is up to his old tricks, is he? Well, we shall see!’
“So she went to her chest and got the silverchain with which the Strawberry-Girl had been fastened to the blackberry-bush, and wrapped and twined it in the shape of a star. This star she fixed on the Strawberry-Girl’s forehead by means of a velvet band, and told her to wear it constantly.
“It happened that on the very day the year expired the Strawberry-Girl was walking through the wood. The little old man jumped from his hollow tree and ran forward to claim his bride. But when he saw the star shining on her forehead he gave a loud cry, threw his hands before his eyes, and turned and fled through the wood faster than any deer could have done. Nobody ever saw him again, and the Strawberry-Girl married the rich man and lived happily for many long years.”
“I think that is a nice story,” said Sweetest Susan.
“I’m glad you do,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. “My mother knew all the facts in the case, and I’ve heard her tell it many a time. I may have left out some of the happenings, but these and many others you can supply for yourself.”
While Mr. Thimblefinger was telling the story of the Strawberry-Girl, Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes had drawn near to listen. Chickamy Crany Crow stood near Mrs. Meadows, and seemed to be very much interested. When Mr. Thimblefinger had concluded, she would have gone away, but Mrs. Meadows detained her.
“No,” said Mrs. Meadows, as Chickamy Crany Crow tried to pull her hand away; “you must stay right here and tell the children the story of the Witch of the Well.”
“They know it already,” said Chickamy Crany Crow, trying to hide behind Mrs. Meadows’s chair.
“No, we don’t,” exclaimed Buster John. “We know the old rhyme about