The two children were so absorbed in listening to this rhyming rigmarole that they did not observe the Winny Weg depart, though, when they came to think of it, the last verse was sung in the clouds, and presumably by the Funny Little Man himself, and they quite longed for him to pay them a call. But he didn't, so the goblins started off once more on their wild career, this time on horseback, making such a hammering and a clattering as almost to deafen them.
Quickly in the rear of the white horses and the spirits, who all wore little round caps with tassels at the top, came a procession of dolls—wax dolls, wooden dolls, and saw-dust dolls, very finely dressed, with here and there a doll who had lost a leg, or an arm, or a head, while some were quite cripples, and had to be carried by a train of tiny girls in very short frocks and very long sashes. At the head of these appeared the Winny Weg again, and just as they were vanishing in the shadows, a regular shower of broken dolls came down in dreadful disorder, causing the children to break from their ranks to gather up their property, as the dolls, it was evident, were their own old companions which they had discarded when new ones were given to them. One particularly disreputable doll, with a broken nose and a very battered body, was claimed by the prettiest child of all, and as she picked it up, she stepped into the centre of a ring formed by her school-fellows, and recited to them this pathetic poem:—
The Unfortunate Doll.
O poor Dolly! O pitty sing!An' did um have a fall?Some more tourt plaster I must blingOr else oo'll squeam and squall!I never knew a doll like oo—Oo must have been made yong;I don't fink oo were born twite new—Oo never have been stwong!I held oo to the fire one dayTo make oose body warm;And melted oose poor nose away—And then oo lost oose form.Yen some yude boy, to my surplise,Said oo had dot a stwint;And yen he painted both oose eyesAnd wapped oo up in lint.Your yosey cheeks were nets to fade,Oose blush bedan to do;And now I'm welly much aflaidOose lost oose big yight toe.Oose left leg is no longer left,Oose yight arm's left oo too;And of your charm oo is beyeft,And no doll tums to woo!And oose a hollow little fing,Oose saw-dust has yun out;Your stweak is gone, oo cannot sing,Oose lips tan't form a pout.Oose hair is dyed, an' all is done,Oose ears are in oose neck;An' so my Dolly, darling one,Ooisa fearful weck.It is too bad—I loved oo so—That oo should die so soon,An' to the told, told drave must doThis velly afternoon!
O poor Dolly! O pitty sing!An' did um have a fall?Some more tourt plaster I must blingOr else oo'll squeam and squall!I never knew a doll like oo—Oo must have been made yong;I don't fink oo were born twite new—Oo never have been stwong!
I held oo to the fire one dayTo make oose body warm;And melted oose poor nose away—And then oo lost oose form.Yen some yude boy, to my surplise,Said oo had dot a stwint;And yen he painted both oose eyesAnd wapped oo up in lint.
Your yosey cheeks were nets to fade,Oose blush bedan to do;And now I'm welly much aflaidOose lost oose big yight toe.Oose left leg is no longer left,Oose yight arm's left oo too;And of your charm oo is beyeft,And no doll tums to woo!
And oose a hollow little fing,Oose saw-dust has yun out;Your stweak is gone, oo cannot sing,Oose lips tan't form a pout.Oose hair is dyed, an' all is done,Oose ears are in oose neck;An' so my Dolly, darling one,Ooisa fearful weck.It is too bad—I loved oo so—That oo should die so soon,An' to the told, told drave must doThis velly afternoon!
After this affecting recital they all took out their "hankelwiches," as the owner of the Unfortunate Doll said, and placing themselves in line, they followed, as mourners, the remains of the deceased doll to the end of a back garden, which some of the goblins had brought in with them. Then everything faded away again, and more shadows danced on the land and the sea, until nothing was to be seen but the galloping sprites and the Winny Weg, who was dancing in a corner all by herself.
A pink light now burst through the haze, the goblins rode off, and a perfect fairy-land nursery was unfolded before Maude and Willie, who were reclining peacefully on a golden couch with silver cushions. They had no desire to talk, but were content to drink in all that they saw rapturously and silently. The nursery was crowded, wee baby-kins were crawling about everywhere, with a dozen coy cupid-like dots with bows and arrows. And right away at the back a beautiful garden was disclosed, in which happy young couples were seen perambulating arm-in-arm, talking soft nothings to each other. Meanwhile the crawling babies in the Universal Nursery began to stand up; and then commenced such a game of leap-frog by these tiny mites, that made even the Cheshire Cat smile. It was so funny to hear these dots call out to each other to tuck in their "tuppennies," and to see them flying, without stopping to take breath, over each other's backs. Even the little pink and blue cupids laughed until the babies crept back to their cribs once more, and were rocked off to sleep as the Winny Weg waved her wand, and an unseen choir of little girls and boys was heard singing this Lullaby:—
O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyEre the twilight dies?See! the dustman callethAs the shadows creep;Eve's dark mantle falleth,And we long to sleep.To sleep! To sleep!O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyEre the twilight dies?O we are so sleepy:Nodding is each head,Playing at bo-peepy,Now the day is sped.Birdies in their nestiesRest in slumber deep;Nodland's full of guestiesWhen we go to sleep.To sleep! To sleep!O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyWhen the twilight dies?
O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyEre the twilight dies?See! the dustman callethAs the shadows creep;Eve's dark mantle falleth,And we long to sleep.
To sleep! To sleep!O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyEre the twilight dies?
O we are so sleepy:Nodding is each head,Playing at bo-peepy,Now the day is sped.Birdies in their nestiesRest in slumber deep;Nodland's full of guestiesWhen we go to sleep.
To sleep! To sleep!O we are so sleepy!Blinky, winky eyes:Why are you so peepyWhen the twilight dies?
The slight mist that had descended went up just like a gauze curtain, bringing into view again the lovely garden reposing in the rear in a beautiful green bath of light.
Then the merry Winny Weg caught hold of the cupids and incited them to dance a slow gavotte, and as they danced they warbled lusciously:—
O chaste and sweet are the flowers that blowIn Cupid's Garden fair;Shy Pansies for thoughts in clusters grow,And Lilies pure and rare.Violets white, and Violets blue,And budding Roses red,With Orange-bloom of tend'rest hueTheir fragrance gently spread.
O chaste and sweet are the flowers that blowIn Cupid's Garden fair;Shy Pansies for thoughts in clusters grow,And Lilies pure and rare.Violets white, and Violets blue,And budding Roses red,With Orange-bloom of tend'rest hueTheir fragrance gently spread.
Other voices, which seemed to belong to the lads and lasses in the garden, joined in the chorus:—
Love is born of the Lily and Rose,Love in a garden springs;With maidens pure and bright it grows,And in all hearts it sings.Love lies Bleeding with Maiden's Blush,Sighing Forget-me-not;While the Gentle Heart with crimson flushPeeps from its cooling grot.And Love lies dreaming in idlenessTo gain its own Heart's-Ease;The Zephyrs breathe with shy caress,Each youthful breast to please.Love is born of the Lily and Rose,Love in a garden springs;With maidens pure and bright it grows,And for all hearts it sings.
Love is born of the Lily and Rose,Love in a garden springs;With maidens pure and bright it grows,And in all hearts it sings.
Love lies Bleeding with Maiden's Blush,Sighing Forget-me-not;While the Gentle Heart with crimson flushPeeps from its cooling grot.And Love lies dreaming in idlenessTo gain its own Heart's-Ease;The Zephyrs breathe with shy caress,Each youthful breast to please.
Love is born of the Lily and Rose,Love in a garden springs;With maidens pure and bright it grows,And for all hearts it sings.
How delicious and soothing Shadow Land was! Shadow Land! The Land of Yesterday, To-Day and To-morrow. The Land of Hope, and Joy and Peace. The two children wandered off, as it were, into a dream for a time, and when they gazed again, the garden was more delightful than ever—a joyous blend of Spring and Summer seemed to invade the grounds, while many of the flowers and trees showed slight signs of Autumn tinting. In one corner of the garden a magnificent marble and bronze fountain unexpectedly sprang up through the ground and played unceasingly to the ethereal skies. Merry children danced and played around its base, and lovers young and old promenaded affectionately up and down the innumerable groves, stopping now and then to offer each other a draught of the sparkling water that fell so deliciously into the amber cups.
There were no shadows now. All was bright and glorious; sunlight and pleasure reigned supreme. From the clouds unseen singers sang softly to the people as they passed and repassed, and this was the story of their song:—
In a garden stood a fountain,Sparkling in the noon-day sun,Rising like a crystal mountain—Never ceasing—never done!Happy children came there playing,Laughing in their frolic glee;'Mong the flow'rs and brambles straying,Tasting life's sweet ecstasy.O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your might,Until all life is done.In the summer came the lovers,Plighting troth beneath its shade;Warm heart's secret each discovers—Happy youth and happy maid!Plays the fount so soft and featlyIn the breeze of waning day,As the lovers whisper sweetly,"I will love you, love alway."O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your mightUntil all life is done.In the winter, cold and dreary,Cease the waters in their play;But the lovers, grey and weary,Seek the tryst of yesterday!Time and tide flow on for ever,Heedless of man's joy or pain;But beyond the tideless riverTrusting hearts will meet again.O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your might,Until all life is done.
In a garden stood a fountain,Sparkling in the noon-day sun,Rising like a crystal mountain—Never ceasing—never done!Happy children came there playing,Laughing in their frolic glee;'Mong the flow'rs and brambles straying,Tasting life's sweet ecstasy.
O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your might,Until all life is done.
In the summer came the lovers,Plighting troth beneath its shade;Warm heart's secret each discovers—Happy youth and happy maid!Plays the fount so soft and featlyIn the breeze of waning day,As the lovers whisper sweetly,"I will love you, love alway."
O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your mightUntil all life is done.
In the winter, cold and dreary,Cease the waters in their play;But the lovers, grey and weary,Seek the tryst of yesterday!Time and tide flow on for ever,Heedless of man's joy or pain;But beyond the tideless riverTrusting hearts will meet again.
O fountain pure and bright,Dance in the joyous sun;And sparkle in your might,Until all life is done.
The voices faded and died away; the scene changed and a purple curtain descended, hiding everything and everybody except the Winny Weg. An extraordinary commotion outside warned the half-dozing children that a fresh flight of goblins might be expected. And sure enough in stalked an army of giants from one side, who were met by an army of dwarfs from the other, the latter on stilts. But the curious thing about them was that the giants had only got one eye, which was stuck on the ends of their noses, while the dwarfs had their eyes where their ears ought to be, and their ears in the place usually reserved for the eyes. Besides which they each had a large horn fixed in the middle of their foreheads.
Both armies expressed surprise at seeing each other, the leaders of which said quite calmly, as though they were asking one another to have a penny bun cut up in four between them—both said quite calmly—
"I suppose we must fight now we have met?"
Upon hearing this the Winny Weg mounted her broom-stick and flew up out of harm's way.
And then commenced the most terrible battle ever seen on land or sea. They fought with penknives and darning-needles, the battle lasted half an hour, and only one stilt was injured. So they began again, using coal scuttles and tongs, and the din was so fearful, and the giants and the dwarfs got so mixed up that a railway train filled with Shadows of the Past rushed on and sent both armies flying. Then the shadows deepened and deepened, and the lightning flashed, the thunders crashed, the sea roared, and a great red cavern opened and swallowed up everything, including Maude and Willie, who certainly were not quite awake to what was going forward, and all they could recollect of the occurrence was that they saw the winkles and the shrimps on the sea-shore playing at bowls with the cockles.
In the noon of night, o'er the stormy hillsThe fairy minstrels play;And the strains replete with fantastic dreams,On the wild gusts flit away.Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful songOn the blast to his slumber comes,That his nose as the church's spire is long,And like its organ hums!R. D. Williams.
In the noon of night, o'er the stormy hillsThe fairy minstrels play;And the strains replete with fantastic dreams,On the wild gusts flit away.Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful songOn the blast to his slumber comes,That his nose as the church's spire is long,And like its organ hums!
R. D. Williams.
Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,Are played by one, the merry little Sprite?I wing through air from the camp to the court,From King to clown, and of all make sport,Singing I am the SpriteOf the merry midnightWho laughs at weak mortals and loves the moonlight.Thomas Moore.
Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,Are played by one, the merry little Sprite?I wing through air from the camp to the court,From King to clown, and of all make sport,Singing I am the SpriteOf the merry midnightWho laughs at weak mortals and loves the moonlight.
Thomas Moore.
If Maude and Willie had been in a state of somnolency during their sojourn in Shadow Land, they felt themselves very much awake on reaching the land of Topsy Turvey. They knew they were in Topsy Turvey Land because they were greeted with a jingling chorus to that effect immediately they opened their eyes:—
O this is Topsy Turvey Land,Where ev'ry one is gay and bland,And day is always night.We welcome to all strangers give,For by their custom we must live,Because we're so polite.O this is Topsy Turvey Land,And all our goods are in demand,By mortal, fay and sprite.Our novelties are warranted,And through the land their fame is spread,Because we're so polite.
O this is Topsy Turvey Land,Where ev'ry one is gay and bland,And day is always night.We welcome to all strangers give,For by their custom we must live,Because we're so polite.
O this is Topsy Turvey Land,And all our goods are in demand,By mortal, fay and sprite.Our novelties are warranted,And through the land their fame is spread,Because we're so polite.
Surely they had been whisked back to Charing Cross again without knowing it? The long wide thoroughfare in which the children now found themselves was just like one of the main shopping streets in London. Some parts reminded them of Regent Street, some of the Strand, and some of Oxford Street. Yes, and there was the Lowther Arcade, only somehow a little different. It was odd. Toy shops, novelty stores, picture shops, and shops of all sorts and sizes greeted them on either hand. Moreover, there were the shopkeepers and their assistants, and crowds of people hurrying by, jostling the loungers and the gazers; and the one policeman, who was talking to a fat person in a print gown who was standing at the area steps of the only private house they could see. They were wondering what they should do when the policeman cried out:—
"Come along there! Now then, move on!" How rude of him. However, they "moved on," and were nearly knocked down by the Zankiwank, who darted into the post-office to receive a telegram and to send one in reply.
They followed him, of course; they knew the telegram was from the Bletherwitch, and the Zankiwank read it out to them:—
"Fashions in bonnets changed. Have ordered six mops. Don't forget the cauliflower. Postpone the wedding at once. No cards."
"Now what does that mean," murmured the expectant bridegroom. "My Bletherwitch cannot be well. I'll send her some cough lozenges." So he wrote a reply and despatched it:—
"Take some cough drops every five minutes. Have ordered cucumber for supper. Pay the cabman and come by electricity."
"That certainly should induce her to come, don't you think so? She is so very sensitive. Well, I must not be impatient, she is exceedingly charming when you catch her in the right mood."
Maude scarcely believed that the Bletherwitch could possess so many charms, or she would not keep her future husband waiting so long for her. But she knew it was useless offering any advice on so delicate a subject, so she and Willie begged the Zankiwank to be their guide and to show them the Lions of Topsy Turvey, which he readily agreed to do.
And now, as they left the post-office, they turned their attention to the shops and were surprised to read the names over the windows of several individuals they had already met in the train. For instance, the Wimble lived next door to the Wamble, and each one had printed in the window a very curious legend.
This is what the Wamble had:—
Good Resolutions Bought, Soldand Exchanged.
A FEW BAD, AND SOME SLIGHTLY DAMAGED,TO BE DISPOSED OF—A BARGAIN.
No connection with the business next door.
While the Wimble stated the nature of his wares as follows:—
Bad Resolutions Bought, Soldand Exchanged.
A FEW GOOD, AND SOME SLIGHTLY INDIFFERENT,TO BE DISPOSED OF—A BARGAIN.
No connection with the business next door.
"No connection with the business next door," repeated Willie.
"Why, you told us that they were brothers—twins," indignantly cried Maude.
"So they are! So they are! Don't you see they are twins from a family point of view only. In business, of course, they are desperately opposed to each other. That is why they are so prosperous," explained the Zankiwank.
"Are they prosperous? I never heard of such a thing as buying and selling Resolutions. How can one buy a Good Resolution?" enquired Maude.
"Or exchange Bad Resolutions," said Willie. "It is quite wicked."
"Not at all. Not at all. So many people make Good Resolutions and never carry them out, therefore if there were no place where you could dispose of them they would be wasted."
"But Bad Resolutions? Nobody makes Bad Resolutions—at least they ought not to, and I don't believe it is true!"
"Pardon me," interrupted the Zankiwank. "If you make a Good Resolution and don't carry it out—doesn't it become a Bad Resolution? Answer me that."
This, however, was an aspect of the question that had never occurred to them, and they were unable to reply.
"It seems to me to be nonsense—and worse than nonsense—for one brother to deal in Bad Resolutions and the other in Good Resolutions. Why do not they become a Firm and mix the two together?" responded Maude.
"You horrify me! Mix the Good and the Bad together? That would never do. The Best Resolutions in the world would be contaminated if they were all warehoused under one roof. Besides, the Wimble is himself full of Good Resolutions, so that he can mingle with the Bad without suffering any evil, while the Wamble is differently constituted!"
The children did not understand the Zankiwank's argument a bit—it all seemed so ridiculous. A sudden thought occurred to Willie.
"Who, then, collects the Resolutions?"
"Oh, a person of no Resolution whatever. He commenced life with only one Resolution, and he lost it, or it got mislaid, or he never made use of it, or something equally unfortunate, and so he was christened Want of Resolution, and he does the collecting work very well, considering all things."
No doubt the Zankiwank knew what he was talking about, but as the children did not—what did it signify? Therefore they asked no more questions, but went along the street marvelling at all they saw. The next shop at which they stopped was kept by
Jorumgander the Younger,Dealer in Magic and Mystery.
"Jorumgander the Younger is not of much use now," said the Zankiwank sorrowfully. "He chiefly aims at making a mystery of everything, but so many people not engaged in trade make a mystery of nothing every day, that he is sadly handicapped. And most sensible people hate a mystery of any kind, unless it belongs to themselves, so that he finds customers very shy. Once upon a time he would get hold of a simple story and turn it into such a gigantic mystery that all the world would be mystified. But those happy days are gone, and he thinks of turning his business into a company to sell Original Ideas, when he knows where to find them."
"I don't see what good can come of making a mystery of anything—especially if anything is true," sagaciously remarked Maude.
"Butanythingis not true. Nor isanythinguntrue. There is the difficulty. If anything were true, nothing would be untrue, and then where should we be?"
"Nowhere," said Willie without thinking.
"Exactly. That is just where we are now, and a very nice place it is. There is one thing, however, that Jorumgander the Younger—there he is with the pink eye-brows and green nose. Don't say anything about his personal appearance. What I was going to say he will say instead. It is a habit we have occasionally. He is my grandfather, you know."
"Your grandfather! What! that young man? Why, he is not more than twenty-two and three quarters, I'm sure," replied Maude.
"You are right. Heistwenty-two and three quarters. You don't quite understand our relationships. The boy, as you have no doubt heard, is father to the man. Very well. I am the man. When he was a boy on my aunt's side he was father to me. That's plain enough. He has grown older since then, though he is little more than a boy in discretion still, therefore he is my grandfather."
"How very absurdly you do talk, Mr Zankiwank," laughed Willie; "but here is your grandfather," and at that moment Jorumgander the Younger left his shop and approached them with a case of pens which he offered for sale.
"Try my Magic Pens. They are the best in the market, because there are no others. There is no demand for them, and few folk will have them for a gift. Therefore I can highly recommend them."
"How can you recommend your pens, when you declare that nobody will buy them?" demanded Willie.
"Because they are a novelty. They are Magic Pens, you know, and of course as nobody possesses any, they must be rare. That is logic, I think."
"Buy one," said the Zankiwank, "he has not had any supper yet."
"In what way are they Magic Pens?" enquired Maude.
"Ah! I thought I should find a customer between Michaelmas and May Day," cried Jorumgander the Younger, quite cheerfully. "The beauty of these pens is that they never tell a story."
"But suppose you want to write a story?"
"That is a different thing. If you have the ability to write a story you won't want a Magic Pen. These pens are only for every-day use. For example: if you want to write to your charwoman to tell her you have got the toothache, and you haven't got the toothache, the Magic Pen refuses to lend itself to telling a—a——"
"Crammer," suggested Willie.
"Crammer. Thank you. I don't know what it means, but crammer is the correct word. The Magic Pen will simplify the truth whether you wish to tell it or not."
"I do not understand," whispered Maude.
"Let me try to explain," said Jorumgander the Younger politely. "The Magic Pen will only write exactly what you think—what is in your mind, what you ought to say, whether you wish to or not."
"A very useful article, I am sure," said the Zankiwank. "I gave six dozen away last Christmas, but nobody used them after a few days, and I can't think why."
"Ah!" sighed Jorumgander the Younger, "and I have had all my stock returned on my hands. The first day I opened my shop I sold more than I can remember. And the next morning all the purchasers came and wanted their money back. They said if they wanted to tell the truth, they knew how to do it, and did not want to be taught by an evil-disposed nib. But I am afraid they were not speaking the truth then, at any rate. Here, let me make you a present of one a-piece, and you can write and tell me all about yourselves when you go home. Meanwhile, as the streets are crowded, and our policeman is not looking, let us sing a quiet song to celebrate the event."
We sing of the Magic PenThat never tells a story,That in the hands of menWould lead them on to glory.For what you ought to do,And you should all be saying,In fact of all things trueThis pen will be bewraying.So let us sing a roundelay—Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think should please all.
We sing of the Magic PenThat never tells a story,That in the hands of menWould lead them on to glory.For what you ought to do,And you should all be saying,In fact of all things trueThis pen will be bewraying.
So let us sing a roundelay—Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think should please all.
What the chorus had to do with the song nobody knew, but they all sang it—everybody in the street, and all the customers in the shops as well, and even the policeman sang the last line.
You take it in your handAnd set yourself a-writing;No matter what you've planned,The truth 'twill be inditing.And thus you cannot fail,To speak your mind correctly,And honestly you'll sail,But never indirectly.So let us sing a roundelay—Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think will please all!
You take it in your handAnd set yourself a-writing;No matter what you've planned,The truth 'twill be inditing.And thus you cannot fail,To speak your mind correctly,And honestly you'll sail,But never indirectly.
So let us sing a roundelay—Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think will please all!
Again everybody danced and sang till the policeman told them to "move on," when Jorumgander the Younger put up his shutters and went away.
"A most original man," exclaimed the Zankiwank; "he ought to have been a postman!"
"A postman!—why?"
"Because he was always such a capital boy with his letters. He knew his alphabet long before he could spell, and now he knows every letter you can think of."
"I don't see anything very original in that," said Willie. "There are only twenty-six letters in the English language that he can know!"
"Only twenty-six letters! Dear me, why millions of people are writing fresh letters every day, and he knows them all directly he sees them! I hope you will go to school some day and learn differently from that! Only twenty-six letters," repeated the Zankiwank in wonderment, "only twenty-six letters." Then he cried suddenly, "How convenient it would be if everybody was his own Dictionary!"
"That is impossible. One cannot be a book."
"Oh yes, nothing simpler. Let everybody choose his own words and give his own meaning to them!"
"What use would that be?" asked Willie.
"None whatever, because if you always had your own meaning you would not want anybody else to be meaning anything! What a lot of trouble that would save! I'll ask the Jackarandajam to make one for me—why, here he is!"
The children recognised the Jackarandajam immediately and shook hands with him.
"I am so glad to see you all. I have just been suffering from a most severe attack of Inspiration."
"How very inexplicable—I beg your pardon," moaned the Zankiwank. "It is a little difficult, but it is, I believe, a strictly proper word—though I do not pretend to know its meaning."
The Jackarandajam accepted the apology by gracefully bowing, though neither felt quite at ease.
"What is the use of saying things you don't mean?" asked Maude.
"None at all, that is the best of it, because we are always doing something without any reason."
To attempt to argue with the Zankiwank Maude knew was futile, so she merely enquired how the Jackarandajam felt after his attack of Inspiration, and what he took for it.
"Nothing," was the simple rejoinder. "It comes and it goes, and there you are—at least most of the time."
"What is Inspiration?" said Willie.
The Zankiwank and the Jackarandajam both shook their heads in a solemn manner, and looked as wise as the Sphinx. Then the former answered slowly and deliberately—
"Inspiration is the sort of thing that comes when you do not fish for it."
"But," said Willie, who did not quite see the force of the explanation, "you can't fish for a great many things and of course nothing comes. How do you manage then?"
This was a decided poser, beating them at their own game, so the Zankiwank sent another telegram, presumably to the Bletherwitch, and the Jackarandajam made a fresh cigarette, which he carefully refrained from smoking. Then he turned to the two children and said mournfully—
"Have you seen my new invention? Ah! it was the result of my recent attack of Inspiration. Come with me and I will show you." Thereupon he led the way to a large square, with a nice garden in the centre, where all the houses had bills outside to inform the passers by that these
Desirable Revolving Residenceswere to beLET or SOLD.
"All my property. I had the houses built myself from my own plans. Come inside the first."
So they followed the Jackarandajam and entered the first house.
"The great advantage of these houses," he declared, "is that you can turn them round to meet the sun at will. They are constructed on a new principle, being fixed on a pivot. You see I turn this handle by the hall door, and Hey Presto! we are looking into the back garden, while the kitchen is round at the front!"
And such was the fact! The house would move any way one wished simply by turning the electric handle.
"It is so convenient, you see, if you don't want to be at home to any visitor. When you see anyone coming up the garden path, you move the crank and away you go, and your visitor, to his well-bred consternation, finds himself gazing in at the kitchen window. And then he naturally departs with many misgivings as to the state of his health. Especially if the cook is taken by surprise. You should never take a cook by surprise. It always spoils her photograph."
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" cried Maude, "why will you say such contradictory things! I don't see the sense of having such a house at all. It would upset things so."
"Besides," chimed in Willie, "you would never have any aspect or prospect."
"Are they both good to eat?" said the Jackarandajam, eagerly.
"Of course not. I meant that your house would first be facing the East, and then South, and then West, and then North, and what would be the use of that?"
"No use whatever. That's why we do it. Oh, but do not laugh. We are not quite devoid of reason, because we are all mad!"
"Are you really mad?"
"Yes," was the gay response, "we don't mind it a bit. We are all as crooked as a teetotaler's corkscrew! I am glad you do not like the Revolving Houses, because I am going to sell them to the Clerk of the Weather and his eight new assistants!"
"I did not know the Clerk of the Weather required any assistance," exclaimed Willie, though personally he did not know the Clerk of the Weather.
"Oh yes, he must have assistants. He does things so badly, and with eight more he will, if he is careful, do them worse."
Here was another one of those contradictions that the children could not understand. I hope you can't, because I don't myself, generally. The Jackarandajam went on reflectively:—
"It is bound to happen. The Clerk of the Weather has only one assistant now, and it takes the two of them to do a Prog—Prog—don't interrupt me—a Prog—Prognostication!—phew, what a beautiful word!—Prognostication ten minutes now. Therefore it stands to reason, as the Sun Dial remarked, that nine could do it in much less time!"
"You will excuse me," halloed the Zankiwank down the next door dining-room chimney, "I beg to differ from you. That is to say on the contrary. For instance:—If it takes two people ten minutes to do a prog—you must fill in the rest yourself—prog—of course, as there are so many more to do the same thing, it must take them forty-five minutes."
"What a brain," exclaimed the Jackarandajam, ecstatically; "he ought to have been born a Calculating Machine. He beats Euclid and that fellow named Smith on all points. I never thought of it in the light of multiplying the addition."
"More nonsense," observed Willie to Maude. "What does it all mean?" They looked out of window and saw the Zankiwank arguing with the Clerk of the Weather and the Weather Cock on top of the vane of a large building outside. Every minute they expected to see them tumble down, but they did not, so to cheer them up the Jackarandajam stood on his head and sang them this comic song:—
The Clerk of the Weather went out to walkAll down Victoria Street;Of late his ways had caused much talk,And chatter indiscreet.So he donned a suit of mingled sleet,With a dash of falling snow,A rainy tie, and a streaky skyeWhich barked where'er he'd go.
The Clerk of the Weather went out to walkAll down Victoria Street;Of late his ways had caused much talk,And chatter indiscreet.So he donned a suit of mingled sleet,With a dash of falling snow,A rainy tie, and a streaky skyeWhich barked where'er he'd go.
Then, to the surprise of Willie and Maude, the Jackarandajam began to dance wildly, while the Weather Cock sang as follows:—
O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If it does not sleet or hail or snow,And if it does not big guns blow,And the sun looks out to shine.
O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If it does not sleet or hail or snow,And if it does not big guns blow,And the sun looks out to shine.
The Jackarandajam stood on his head again and sang the second verse:—
Wrapt up in his thoughts he went along,His manner sad and crossed;With a windy strain he hummed a song,Of thunderbolts and frost.He strode with a Barometrical stride,With forecasts on his brow;Till he tripped up Short upon a slide,Which made him vow a vow.
Wrapt up in his thoughts he went along,His manner sad and crossed;With a windy strain he hummed a song,Of thunderbolts and frost.He strode with a Barometrical stride,With forecasts on his brow;Till he tripped up Short upon a slide,Which made him vow a vow.
The Weather Cock at once sang the chorus and the Jackarandajam danced as before.
O Cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If there is no fog, or drenching rain,And thunder does not boom again,And the sun looks out to shine.
O Cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If there is no fog, or drenching rain,And thunder does not boom again,And the sun looks out to shine.
Now came the third and last verse:—
His prophesies got all mixed and mulled,The Moon began to blink;And all his faculties were dulledWhen he saw the Dog Star wink!And up on the steeple tall and blackThe Weather Cock he crew!He crew and he crowed till he fell in the road,O cock-a-doodle-doo!
His prophesies got all mixed and mulled,The Moon began to blink;And all his faculties were dulledWhen he saw the Dog Star wink!And up on the steeple tall and blackThe Weather Cock he crew!He crew and he crowed till he fell in the road,O cock-a-doodle-doo!
And sure enough the Weather Cock did tumble into the road, and the Clerk of the Weather and the Zankiwank tumbled helter skelter after him. Immediately they got up again and rushed through the window, and catching hold of the children, they whirled them round and round, singing the final chorus all together:—
O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If lightning does not flash on high,Nor gloomy be the azure sky,And the sun peeps out to shine.
O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine—If lightning does not flash on high,Nor gloomy be the azure sky,And the sun peeps out to shine.
After which they all disappeared except the Zankiwank, and once again they found themselves in the street.
"They were both wrong," muttered the Zankiwank to himself, "and yet one was right."
"How could they both be wrong then? One was right? Very well. Then only one was wrong," corrected Maude.
"No, they were both wrong—because I was the right one after all. Besides, you can't always prove a negative, can you?"
"How tiresome of you! You only mentioned two and now say three. I do not believe you know what you do mean."
"Not often, sometimes, by accident, you know—only do not tell anybody else."
"You are certainly very extraordinary persons—that is all I can say," said Willie. "You do not do anything quite rationally or naturally."
"Naturally. Why should we? We are the great Middle Classes—neither alive nor dead. Betwixt and between. Half and half, you know, for now we are in the Spirit World only known to poets and children. But do come along, or the bicycles will start without us, and we have an appointment to keep."
Now, how could one even try to tell such an eccentric creature as the Zankiwank that he was all wrong and talking fables and fibs and tarra-diddles? Neither of them attempted to correct these erroneous ideas, but wondering where they were going next, Maude and Willie mounted the bicycles that came as if by magic, and rode off at a terrific rate, though they had never ridden a machine before.
They were almost out of breath when the Zankiwank called out "stop," and away went the bicycles, and they found themselves standing in front of an immense edifice with a sign-board swinging from the gambrel roof, on which was painted in large golden letters—
Time was meant for Slaves.
There was no opportunity to ascertain what the sign meant, for all at once there darted out of the shop Mr Swinglebinks with whom they had travelled from Charing Cross.
"Don't waste your time like that! Make haste, let me have five minutes. I am in a hurry."
"Have you got five minutes to spare?" asked the Zankiwank of Maude.
"Oh yes," she replied. "Why?"
"Let me have them at once then. A gentleman left twenty-five minutes behind him yesterday and I want to make up half-an-hour for a regular customer!" screamed Mr Swinglebinks to the bewildered children.
"But—but—O what do you mean? I have got five minutes to spare and I'll devote them to you if you like, but Ican'tgive them to you as though they were a piece of toffee," answered Maude with much perplexity, while Willie stood awe-struck, not comprehending Mr Swinglebinks in the least.
"Time is a tough customer, you know. He is here, he is there, he is gone! He is, he was, he will be. Yet you cannot trap Time, for he is like a sunbeam," muttered the Zankiwank as though he never was short of Time.
"There, that five minutes is gone—wasted, passed into the vast vacuum of eternity! With my friend Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon I can tell you all about time! 'Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal!' Oh, I know Father Time and all his tricks. I have counted the Sands of Time. I supply him with his Hour Glass. Don't you apprehend me?"
They certainly did not. Mr Swinglebinks was more mystifying than all the other persons they had encountered put together. So they made no reply.
"I am collecting Time. Time, so my copy books told me, was meant for Slaves. I always felt sorry for the Slaves. They have no Time, you know, because it is meant for them. Lots of things are meant for you, only you won't get them. Britons never will be Slaves, so they'll never want for Time. However, as Time was meant for Slaves, I mean to let them have as much as I can. So every spare minute or two I can get, I of course send them over to them."
"It is ridiculous. You cannot measure time and cut off a bit like that," ventured Willie.
"Oh yes, you can. A client of mine was laid up the other day—in fact he was in bed for a fortnight, so, as he had no use for the time he had on hand before him, he just went to sleep and sent ten days round to me!"
"Oh, Mr Zankiwank, what is this gentleman saying?" said Maude.
"It's all perfectly true," answered the Zankiwank. "You often hear of somebody who has half an hour to spare, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Very good. Sometimes you will hear, too, of somebody who has lost ten minutes."
"I see," said Willie.
"And somebody else will tell you they do not know what to do with their Time?"
"Go on," cried both children, more puzzled than ever.
"Well, instead of letting all the Time be wasted, Mr Swinglebinks has opened his exchange to receive all the spare time he can, and this he distributes amongst those who want an hour or a day or a week. But they have to pay for it——"
"Pay for it?"
"Time is money," called out Mr Swinglebinks.
"There you are. If Time is money you can exchange Time for money and money for Time. Is not that feasible?"
Did anybody ever hear of such queer notions? Maude and Willie were quite tired through trying to think the matter out.
Time was meant for slaves.—Time is money.—Time and Tide wait for no man.—Take Time when Time is.—Take Time by the forelock.—Procrastination is the thief of Time.—Killing Time is no murder.—Saving Time is no crime. As quick as thought Mr Swinglebinks exhibited these statements on his swinging sign, one after the other, and then he came to them once again.
"Are you convinced now? Let me have a quarter of an hour to send to the poor slaves. Time was meant for them, you know, and you are using their property without acknowledgment!"
The Zankiwank looked on as wise as an owl, but said nothing.
"Dear me, how you are wasting your time sitting there doing nothing!" said Mr Swinglebinks distractedly. "Time is money—Time is money. Give me some of the Time you are losing."
"Let us go, Willie," said Maude. "Do not waste any more Time. We have no Time to lose, let alone time to spare! Shall we kill Time?"
She had barely finished speaking when Mr Swinglebinks and his Time Exchange disappeared, and they were alone with the Zankiwank. But not for long, for almost immediately a troop of school children came bounding home from school, but children with the oddest heads and faces ever seen. They were all carrying miniature bellows in their hands, which they were working up and down with great energy.