"At the conclusion of this song Prince Whimwham, a tidy little gentleman fairy in pink silk small-clothes, approaching Queen Taffie and bowing graciously, would say:
Pray, lady, may I have the pleasureOf leading you this stately measure?
To which her majesty would reply with equal graciousness in the affirmative. Then Prince Whimwham and Queen Taffie would take their places on one of my master's eyelids, and the other gentleman fairies and lady fairies would follow their example, till at last my master's face would seem to be alive with these delightful little beings. The mosquitos would blow a shrill blast on their trumpets, the orchestra would strike up, and then the festivities would begin in earnest. How the bumblebees would drone, how the wasps would buzz, and how the mosquitos would blare! It was a delightful harmony of weird sounds. The strange little dancers floated hither and thither over my master's baby face, as light as thistledowns, and as graceful as the slender plumes they wore in their hats and bonnets. Presently they would weary of dancing, and then the minstrels would be commanded to entertain them. Invariably the flea, who was a rattle-headed fellow, would discourse some such incoherent song as this:
COQUETRY
Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee—The spider courted the frisky flea;Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-doo—The flea ran off with the bugaboo!"Oh, tiddle-de-dee!"Said the frisky flea—For what cared sheFor the misereeThe spider knew,When, tiddle-de-doo,The flea ran off with the bugaboo!
Rumpty-tumpty, pimplety-pan—The flubdub courted a catamaranBut timplety-topplety, timpity-tare—The flubdub wedded the big blue bear!The fun beganWith a pimplety-panWhen the catamaran,Tore up a manAnd streaked the airWith his gore and hairBecause the flubdub wedded the bear!
"I remember with what dignity the fairy queen used to reprove the flea for his inane levity:
Nay, futile flea; these verses you are makingDisturb the child—for, see, he is awaking!Come, little cricket, sing your quaintest numbers,And they, perchance, shall lull him back to slumbers.
"Upon this invitation the cricket, who is justly one of the most famous songsters in the world, would get his pretty voice in tune and sing as follows:
THE CRICKET'S SONG
When all around from out the groundThe little flowers are peeping,And from the hills the merry rillsWith vernal songs are leaping,I sing my song the whole day longIn woodland, hedge, and thicket—And sing it, too, the whole night through,For I 'm a merry cricket.
The children hear my chirrup clearAs, in the woodland straying,They gather flow'rs through summer hours—And then I hear them saying:"Sing, sing away the livelong day,Glad songster of the thicket—With your shrill mirth you gladden earth,You merry little cricket!"
When summer goes, and Christmas snowsAre from the north returning,I quit my lair and hasten whereThe old yule-log is burning.And where at night the ruddy lightOf that old log is flingingA genial joy o'er girl and boy,There I resume my singing.
And, when they hear my chirrup clear,The children stop their playing—With eager feet they haste to greetMy welcome music, saying:"The little thing has come to singOf woodland, hedge, and thicket—Of summer day and lambs at play—Oh, how we love the cricket!"
"This merry little song always seemed to please everybody except the gnat. The fairies appeared to regard the gnat as a pestiferous insect, but a contemptuous pity led them to call upon him for a recitation, which invariably was in the following strain:
THE FATE OF THE FLIMFLAM
A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo,Where the pollywog pinkled so pale,And the pipkin piped a petulant "pooh"To the garrulous gawp of the gale."Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipeThat booms on the hobbling bay!"Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipeThat lurked where the lamprey lay.
The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam,Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee—When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam,From the sozzling and succulent sea."Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep!"She swore as she swayed in a swoon,And a doleful dank dumped over the deep,To the lay of the limpid loon!
"This was simply horrid, as you all will allow. The queen and her fairy followers were much relieved when the honest katydid narrated a pleasant moral in the form of a ballad to this effect:
CONTENTMENT
Once on a time an old red henWent strutting 'round with pompous clucks,For she had little babies ten,A part of which were tiny ducks."'T is very rare that hens," said she,"Have baby ducks as well as chicks—But I possess, as you can see,Of chickens four and ducklings six!"
A season later, this old henAppeared, still cackling of her luck,For, though she boasted babies ten,Not one among them was a duck!"'T is well," she murmured, brooding o'erThe little chicks of fleecy down—"My babies now will stay ashore,And, consequently, cannot drown!"
The following spring the old red henClucked just as proudly as of yore—But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,Instead of chickens, as before!"'T is better," said the old red hen,As she surveyed her waddling brood;"A little water now and thenWill surely do my darlings good!"
But oh! alas, how very sad!When gentle spring rolled round againThe eggs eventuated bad,And childless was the old red hen!Yet patiently she bore her woe,And still she wore a cheerful air,And said: "'T is best these things are so,For babies are a dreadful care!"
I half suspect that many men,And many, many women, too,Could learn a lesson from the henWith foliage of vermilion hue;She ne'er presumed to take offenceAt any fate that might befall,But meekly bowed to Providence—She was contented—that was all!
"Then the fairies would resume their dancing. Each little gentleman fairy would bow to his lady fairy and sing in the most musical of voices:
Sweet little fairy,Tender and airy,Come, let us dance on the good baby-eyes;Merrily skipping,Cheerily tripping,Murmur we ever our soft lullabies.
"And then, as the rest danced, the fairy queen sang the following slumber-song, accompanied by the orchestra:
A FAIRY LULLABY
There are two stars in yonder steepsThat watch the baby while he sleeps.But while the baby is awakeAnd singing gayly all day long,The little stars their slumbers takeLulled by the music of his song.So sleep, dear tired baby, sleepWhile little stars their vigils keep.
Beside his loving mother-sheepA little lambkin is asleep;What does he know of midnight gloom—-He sleeps, and in his quiet dreamsHe thinks he plucks the clover bloomAnd drinks at cooling, purling streams.And those same stars the baby knowsSing softly to the lamb's repose.
Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child—The stars are dim—the night is wild;But o'er the cot and o'er the leaA sleepless eye forever beams—A shepherd watches over theeIn all thy little baby dreams;The shepherd loves his tiny sheep—Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep!
"That is very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed the brass candlestick.
"So it is," replied the little shoe, "but you should hear it sung by the fairy queen!"
"Did the operetta end with that lullaby?" inquired the cigar-case.
"Oh, no," said the little shoe. "No sooner had the queen finished her lullaby than an old gran'ma fairy, wearing a quaint mob-cap and large spectacles, limped forward with her crutch and droned out a curious ballad, which seemed to be for the special benefit of the boy and girl fairies, very many of whom were of the company. This ballad was as follows:
BALLAD OF THE JELLY-CAKE
A little boy whose name was TimOnce ate some jelly-cake for tea—Which cake did not agree with him,As by the sequel you shall see."My darling child," his mother said,"Pray do not eat that jelly-cake,For, after you have gone to bed,I fear 't will make your stomach ache!"But foolish little Tim demurredUnto his mother's warning word.
That night, while all the household slept,Tim felt an awful pain, and thenFrom out the dark a nightmare leaptAnd stood upon his abdomen!"I cannot breathe!" the infant cried—"Oh, Mrs. Nightmare, pity take!""There is no mercy," she replied,"For boys who feast on jelly-cake!"And so, despite the moans of Tim,The cruel nightmare went for him.
At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toesOr roughly smite his baby cheek—And now she 'd rudely tweak his noseAnd other petty vengeance wreak;And then, with hobnails in her shoesAnd her two horrid eyes aflame,The mare proceeded to amuseHerself by prancing o'er his frame—-First to his throbbing brow, and thenBack to his little feet again.
At last, fantastic, wild, and weird,And clad in garments ghastly grim,A scowling hoodoo band appearedAnd joined in worrying little Tim.Each member of this hoodoo hordeSurrounded Tim with fierce adoAnd with long, cruel gimlets boredHis aching system through and through,And while they labored all night longThe nightmare neighed a dismal song.
Next morning, looking pale and wild,Poor little Tim emerged from bed—"Good gracious! what can ail the child!"His agitated mother said."We live to learn," responded he,"And I have lived to learn to takePlain bread and butter for my tea,And never, never, jelly-cake!For when my hulk with pastry teems,I mustexpectunpleasant dreams!"
"Now you can imagine this ballad impressed the child fairies very deeply," continued the little shoe. "Whenever the gran'ma fairy sang it, the little fairies expressed great surprise that boys and girls ever should think of eating things which occasioned so much trouble. So the night was spent in singing and dancing, and our master would sleep as sweetly as you please. At last the lark—what a beautiful bird she is—would flutter against the window panes, and give the fairies warning in these words:
MORNING SONG
The eastern sky is streaked with red,The weary night is done,And from his distant ocean bedRolls up the morning sun.The dew, like tiny silver beadsBespread o'er velvet green,Is scattered on the wakeful meadsBy angel hands unseen."Good-morrow, robin in the trees!"The star-eyed daisy cries;"Good-morrow," sings the morning breezeUnto the ruddy skies;"Good-morrow, every living thing!"Kind Nature seems to say,And all her works devoutly singA hymn to birth of day,So, haste, without delay,Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing,And to your homes away!
"But the fairies could never leave little master so unceremoniously. Before betaking themselves to their pretty homes under the rocks near the brook, they would address a parting song to his eyes, and this song they called a matin invocation:
TO A SLEEPING BABY'S EYES
And thou, twin orbs of love and joy!Unveil thy glories with the morn—Dear eyes, another day is born—Awake, O little sleeping boy!Bright are the summer morning skies,But in this quiet little roomThere broods a chill, oppressive gloom—All for the brightness of thine eyes.Without those radiant orbs of thineHow dark this little world would be—This sweet home-world that worships thee—So let their wondrous glories shineOn those who love their warmth and joy—Awake, O sleeping little boy.
"So that ended the fairy operetta, did it?" inquired the match-box.
"Yes," said the little shoe, with a sigh of regret. "The fairies were such bewitching creatures, and they sang so sweetly, I could have wished they would never stop their antics and singing. But, alas! I fear I shall never see them again."
"What makes you think so?" asked the brass candlestick.
"I 'm sure I can't tell," replied the little shoe; "only everything is so strange-like and so changed from what it used to be that I hardly know whether indeed I am still the same little shoe I used to be."
"Why, what can you mean?" queried the old clock, with a puzzled look on her face.
"I will try to tell you," said the little shoe. "You see, my mate and our master and I were great friends; as I have said, we roamed and frolicked around together all day, and at night my little mate and I watched at master's bedside while he slept. One day we three took a long ramble, away up the street and beyond where the houses were built, until we came into a beautiful green field, where the grass was very tall and green, and where there were pretty flowers of every kind. Our little master talked to the flowers and they answered him, and we all had a merry time in the meadow that afternoon, I can tell you. 'Don't go away, little child,' cried the daisies, 'but stay and be our playfellow always.' A butterfly came and perched on our master's hand, and looked up and smiled, and said: 'I 'm not afraid ofyou; you would n't hurt me, would you?' A little mouse told us there was a thrush's nest in the bush yonder, and we hurried to see it. The lady thrush was singing her four babies to sleep. They were strange-looking babies, with their gaping mouths, bulbing eyes, and scant feathers! 'Do not wake them up,' protested the lady thrush. 'Go a little further on and you will come to the brook. I will join you presently.' So we went to the brook."
"Oh, but I would have been afraid," suggested the pen-wiper.
"Afraid of the brook!" cried the little shoe. "Oh, no; what could be prettier than the brook! We heard it singing in the distance. We called to it and it bade us welcome. How it smiled in the sunshine! How restless and furtive and nimble it was, yet full of merry prattling and noisy song. Our master was overjoyed. He had never seen the brook before; nor had we, for that matter. 'Let me cool your little feet,' said the brook, and, without replying, our master waded knee-deep into the brook. In an instant we were wet through—my mate and I; but how deliciously cool it was here in the brook, and how smooth and bright the pebbles were! One of the pebbles told me it had come many, many miles that day from its home in the hills where the brook was born."
"Pooh, I don't believe it," sneered the vase.
"Presently our master toddled back from out the brook," continued the little shoe, heedless of the vase's interruption, "and sat among the cowslips and buttercups on the bank. The brook sang on as merrily as before. 'Would you like to go sailing?' asked our master of my mate. 'Indeed I would,' replied my mate, and so our master pulled my mate from his little foot and set it afloat upon the dancing waves of the brook. My mate was not the least alarmed. It spun around gayly several times at first and then glided rapidly away. The butterfly hastened and alighted upon the merry little craft. 'Where are you going?' I cried. 'I am going down to the sea,' replied my little mate, with laughter. 'And I am going to marry the rose in the far-away south,' cried the butterfly. 'But will you not come back?' I cried. They answered me, but they were so far away I could not hear them. It was very distressing, and I grieved exceedingly. Then, all at once, I discovered my little master was asleep, fast asleep among the cowslips and buttercups. I did not try to wake him—only I felt very miserable, for I was so cold and wet. Presently the lady thrush came, as she had said she would. The child is asleep—he will be ill—I must hasten to tell his mother,' she cried, and away she flew."
"And was he sick?" asked the vase.
"I do not know," said the little shoe. "I can remember it was late that evening when the sweet lady and others came and took us up and carried us back home, to this very room. Then I was pulled off very unceremoniously and thrown under my little master's bed, and I never saw my little master after that.
"How very strange!" exclaimed the match-safe.
"Very, very strange," repeated the shoe. "For many days and nights I lay under the crib all alone. I could hear my little master sighing and talking as if in a dream. Sometimes he spoke of me, and of the brook, and of my little mate dancing to the sea, and one night he breathed very loud and quick and he cried out and seemed to struggle, and then, all at once, he stopped, and I could hear the sweet lady weeping. But I remember all this very faintly. I was hoping the fairies would come back, but they never came.
"I remember," resumed the little shoe, after a solemn pause, "I remember how, after a long, long time, the sweet lady came and drew me from under the crib and held me in her lap and kissed me and wept over me. Then she put me in a dark, lonesome drawer, where there were dresses and stockings and the little hat my master used to wear. There I lived, oh! such a weary time, and we talked—the dresses, the stockings, the hat, and I did—about our little master, and we wondered that he never came. And every little while the sweet lady would take us from the drawer and caress us, and we saw that she was pale and that her eyes were red with weeping."
"But has your little master never come back!" asked the old clock.
"Not yet," said the little shoe, "and that is why I am so very lonesome. Sometimes I think he has gone down to the sea in search of my little mate and that the two will come back together. But I do not understand it. The sweet lady took me from the drawer to-day and kissed me and set me here on the mantelpiece."
"You don't mean to say she kissed you?" cried the haughty vase, "you horrid little stumped-out shoe!"
"Indeed she did," insisted the lonesome little shoe, "and I know she loves me. But why she loves me and kisses me and weeps over me I do not know. It is all very strange. I do not understand it at all."