American Fairy Tales

THE BOX OF ROBBERS

No one intended to leave Martha alone that afternoon, but it happened that
everyone was called away, for one reason or another. Mrs. McFarland was
attending the weekly card party held by the Women’s Anti-Gambling League.
Sister Nell’s young man had called quite unexpectedly to take her for a
long drive. Papa was at the office, as usual. It was Mary Ann’s day out.
As for Emeline, she certainly should have stayed in the house and looked after
the little girl; but Emeline had a restless nature.

“Would you mind, miss, if I just crossed the alley to speak a word to
Mrs. Carleton’s girl?” she asked Martha.

“’Course not,” replied the child. “You’d better
lock the back door, though, and take the key, for I shall be upstairs.”

“Oh, I’ll do that, of course, miss,” said the delighted maid,
and ran away to spend the afternoon with her friend, leaving Martha quite alone
in the big house, and locked in, into the bargain.

The little girl read a few pages in her new book, sewed a few stitches in her
embroidery and started to “play visiting” with her four favorite
dolls. Then she remembered that in the attic was a doll’s playhouse that
hadn’t been used for months, so she decided she would dust it and put it
in order.

Filled with this idea, the girl climbed the winding stairs to the big room
under the roof. It was well lighted by three dormer windows and was warm and
pleasant. Around the walls were rows of boxes and trunks, piles of old
carpeting, pieces of damaged furniture, bundles of discarded clothing and other
odds and ends of more or less value. Every well-regulated house has an attic of
this sort, so I need not describe it.

The doll’s house had been moved, but after a search Martha found it away
over in a corner near the big chimney.

She drew it out and noticed that behind it was a black wooden chest which Uncle
Walter had sent over from Italy years and years ago—before Martha was
born, in fact. Mamma had told her about it one day; how there was no key to it,
because Uncle Walter wished it to remain unopened until he returned home; and
how this wandering uncle, who was a mighty hunter, had gone into Africa to hunt
elephants and had never been heard from afterwards.

The little girl looked at the chest curiously, now that it had by accident
attracted her attention.

It was quite big—bigger even than mamma’s traveling trunk—and
was studded all over with tarnished brassheaded nails. It was heavy, too, for
when Martha tried to lift one end of it she found she could not stir it a bit.
But there was a place in the side of the cover for a key. She stooped to
examine the lock, and saw that it would take a rather big key to open it.

Then, as you may suspect, the little girl longed to open Uncle Walter’s
big box and see what was in it. For we are all curious, and little girls are
just as curious as the rest of us.

“I don’t b’lieve Uncle Walter’ll ever come back,”
she thought. “Papa said once that some elephant must have killed him. If
I only had a key—” She stopped and clapped her little hands
together gayly as she remembered a big basket of keys on the shelf in the linen
closet. They were of all sorts and sizes; perhaps one of them would unlock the
mysterious chest!

She flew down the stairs, found the basket and returned with it to the attic.
Then she sat down before the brass-studded box and began trying one key after
another in the curious old lock. Some were too large, but most were too small.
One would go into the lock but would not turn; another stuck so fast that she
feared for a time that she would never get it out again. But at last, when the
basket was almost empty, an oddly-shaped, ancient brass key slipped easily into
the lock. With a cry of joy Martha turned the key with both hands; then she
heard a sharp “click,” and the next moment the heavy lid flew up of
its own accord!

The little girl leaned over the edge of the chest an instant, and the sight
that met her eyes caused her to start back in amazement.

Slowly and carefully a man unpacked himself from the chest, stepped out upon
the floor, stretched his limbs and then took off his hat and bowed politely to
the astonished child.

He was tall and thin and his face seemed badly tanned or sunburnt.

Then another man emerged from the chest, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a
sleepy schoolboy. He was of middle size and his skin seemed as badly tanned as
that of the first.

While Martha stared open-mouthed at the remarkable sight a third man crawled
from the chest. He had the same complexion as his fellows, but was short and
fat.

All three were dressed in a curious manner. They wore short jackets of red
velvet braided with gold, and knee breeches of sky-blue satin with silver
buttons. Over their stockings were laced wide ribbons of red and yellow and
blue, while their hats had broad brims with high, peaked crowns, from which
fluttered yards of bright-colored ribbons.

They had big gold rings in their ears and rows of knives and pistols in their
belts. Their eyes were black and glittering and they wore long, fierce
mustaches, curling at the ends like a pig’s tail.

“My! but you were heavy,” exclaimed the fat one, when he had pulled
down his velvet jacket and brushed the dust from his sky-blue breeches.
“And you squeezed me all out of shape.”

“It was unavoidable, Luigi,” responded the thin man, lightly;
“the lid of the chest pressed me down upon you. Yet I tender you my
regrets.”

“As for me,” said the middle-sized man, carelessly rolling a
cigarette and lighting it, “you must acknowledge I have been your nearest
friend for years; so do not be disagreeable.”

“You mustn’t smoke in the attic,” said Martha, recovering
herself at sight of the cigarette. “You might set the house on
fire.”

The middle-sized man, who had not noticed her before, at this speech turned to
the girl and bowed.

“Since a lady requests it,” said he, “I shall abandon my
cigarette,” and he threw it on the floor and extinguished it with his
foot.

“Who are you?” asked Martha, who until now had been too astonished
to be frightened.

“Permit us to introduce ourselves,” said the thin man, flourishing
his hat gracefully. “This is Lugui,” the fat man nodded; “and
this is Beni,” the middle-sized man bowed; “and I am Victor. We are
three bandits—Italian bandits.”

“Bandits!” cried Martha, with a look of horror.

“Exactly. Perhaps in all the world there are not three other bandits so
terrible and fierce as ourselves,” said Victor, proudly.

“’Tis so,” said the fat man, nodding gravely.

“But it’s wicked!” exclaimed Martha.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Victor. “We are extremely and
tremendously wicked. Perhaps in all the world you could not find three men more
wicked than those who now stand before you.”

“’Tis so,” said the fat man, approvingly.

“But you shouldn’t be so wicked,” said the girl;
“it’s—it’s—naughty!”

Victor cast down his eyes and blushed.

“Naughty!” gasped Beni, with a horrified look.

“’Tis a hard word,” said Luigi, sadly, and buried his face in
his hands.

“I little thought,” murmured Victor, in a voice broken by emotion,
“ever to be so reviled—and by a lady! Yet, perhaps you spoke
thoughtlessly. You must consider, miss, that our wickedness has an excuse. For
how are we to be bandits, let me ask, unless we are wicked?”

Martha was puzzled and shook her head, thoughtfully. Then she remembered
something.

“You can’t remain bandits any longer,” said she,
“because you are now in America.”

“America!” cried the three, together.

“Certainly. You are on Prairie avenue, in Chicago. Uncle Walter sent you
here from Italy in this chest.”

The bandits seemed greatly bewildered by this announcement. Lugui sat down on
an old chair with a broken rocker and wiped his forehead with a yellow silk
handkerchief. Beni and Victor fell back upon the chest and looked at her with
pale faces and staring eyes.

When he had somewhat recovered himself Victor spoke.

“Your Uncle Walter has greatly wronged us,” he said, reproachfully.
“He has taken us from our beloved Italy, where bandits are highly
respected, and brought us to a strange country where we shall not know whom to
rob or how much to ask for a ransom.”

“’Tis so!” said the fat man, slapping his leg sharply.

“And we had won such fine reputations in Italy!” said Beni,
regretfully.

“Perhaps Uncle Walter wanted to reform you,” suggested Martha.

“Are there, then, no bandits in Chicago?” asked Victor.

“Well,” replied the girl, blushing in her turn, “we do not
call them bandits.”

“Then what shall we do for a living?” inquired Beni, despairingly.

“A great deal can be done in a big American city,” said the child.
“My father is a lawyer” (the bandits shuddered), “and my
mother’s cousin is a police inspector.”

“Ah,” said Victor, “that is a good employment. The police
need to be inspected, especially in Italy.”

“Everywhere!” added Beni.

“Then you could do other things,” continued Martha, encouragingly.
“You could be motor men on trolley cars, or clerks in a department store.
Some people even become aldermen to earn a living.”

The bandits shook their heads sadly.

“We are not fitted for such work,” said Victor. “Our business
is to rob.”

Martha tried to think.

“It is rather hard to get positions in the gas office,” she said,
“but you might become politicians.”

“No!” cried Beni, with sudden fierceness; “we must not
abandon our high calling. Bandits we have always been, and bandits we must
remain!”

“’Tis so!” agreed the fat man.

“Even in Chicago there must be people to rob,” remarked Victor,
with cheerfulness.

Martha was distressed.

“I think they have all been robbed,” she objected.

“Then we can rob the robbers, for we have experience and talent beyond
the ordinary,” said Beni.

“Oh, dear; oh, dear!” moaned the girl; “why did Uncle Walter
ever send you here in this chest?”

The bandits became interested.

“That is what we should like to know,” declared Victor, eagerly.

“But no one will ever know, for Uncle Walter was lost while hunting
elephants in Africa,” she continued, with conviction.

“Then we must accept our fate and rob to the best of our ability,”
said Victor. “So long as we are faithful to our beloved profession we
need not be ashamed.”

“’Tis so!” cried the fat man.

“Brothers! we will begin now. Let us rob the house we are in.”

“Good!” shouted the others and sprang to their feet.

Beni turned threateningly upon the child.

“Remain here!” he commanded. “If you stir one step your blood
will be on your own head!” Then he added, in a gentler voice:
“Don’t be afraid; that’s the way all bandits talk to their
captives. But of course we wouldn’t hurt a young lady under any
circumstances.”

“Of course not,” said Victor.

The fat man drew a big knife from his belt and flourished it about his head.

“S’blood!” he ejaculated, fiercely.

“S’bananas!” cried Beni, in a terrible voice.

“Confusion to our foes!” hissed Victor.

And then the three bent themselves nearly double and crept stealthily down the
stairway with cocked pistols in their hands and glittering knives between their
teeth, leaving Martha trembling with fear and too horrified to even cry for
help.

How long she remained alone in the attic she never knew, but finally she heard
the catlike tread of the returning bandits and saw them coming up the stairs in
single file.

All bore heavy loads of plunder in their arms, and Lugui was balancing a mince
pie on the top of a pile of her mother’s best evening dresses. Victor
came next with an armful of bric-a-brac, a brass candelabra and the parlor
clock. Beni had the family Bible, the basket of silverware from the sideboard,
a copper kettle and papa’s fur overcoat.

“Oh, joy!” said Victor, putting down his load; “it is
pleasant to rob once more.”

“Oh, ecstacy!” said Beni; but he let the kettle drop on his toe and
immediately began dancing around in anguish, while he muttered queer words in
the Italian language.

“We have much wealth,” continued Victor, holding the mince pie
while Lugui added his spoils to the heap; “and all from one house! This
America must be a rich place.”

With a dagger he then cut himself a piece of the pie and handed the remainder
to his comrades. Whereupon all three sat upon the floor and consumed the pie
while Martha looked on sadly.

“We should have a cave,” remarked Beni; “for we must store
our plunder in a safe place. Can you tell us of a secret cave?” he asked
Martha.

“There’s a Mammoth cave,” she answered, “but it’s
in Kentucky. You would be obliged to ride on the cars a long time to get
there.”

The three bandits looked thoughtful and munched their pie silently, but the
next moment they were startled by the ringing of the electric doorbell, which
was heard plainly even in the remote attic.

“What’s that?” demanded Victor, in a hoarse voice, as the
three scrambled to their feet with drawn daggers.

Martha ran to the window and saw it was only the postman, who had dropped a
letter in the box and gone away again. But the incident gave her an idea of how
to get rid of her troublesome bandits, so she began wringing her hands as if in
great distress and cried out:

“It’s the police!”

The robbers looked at one another with genuine alarm, and Lugui asked,
tremblingly:

“Are there many of them?”

“A hundred and twelve!” exclaimed Martha, after pretending to count
them.

“Then we are lost!” declared Beni; “for we could never fight
so many and live.”

“Are they armed?” inquired Victor, who was shivering as if cold.

“Oh, yes,” said she. “They have guns and swords and pistols
and axes and—and—”

“And what?” demanded Lugui.

“And cannons!”

The three wicked ones groaned aloud and Beni said, in a hollow voice:

“I hope they will kill us quickly and not put us to the torture. I have
been told these Americans are painted Indians, who are bloodthirsty and
terrible.”

“’Tis so!” gasped the fat man, with a shudder.

Suddenly Martha turned from the window.

“You are my friends, are you not?” she asked.

“We are devoted!” answered Victor.

“We adore you!” cried Beni.

“We would die for you!” added Lugui, thinking he was about to die
anyway.

“Then I will save you,” said the girl.

“How?” asked the three, with one voice.

“Get back into the chest,” she said. “I will then close the
lid, so they will be unable to find you.”

They looked around the room in a dazed and irresolute way, but she exclaimed:

“You must be quick! They will soon be here to arrest you.”

Then Lugui sprang into the chest and lay flat upon the bottom. Beni tumbled in
next and packed himself in the back side. Victor followed after pausing to kiss
her hand to the girl in a graceful manner.

Then Martha ran up to press down the lid, but could not make it catch.

“You must squeeze down,” she said to them.

Lugui groaned.

“I am doing my best, miss,” said Victor, who was nearest the top;
“but although we fitted in very nicely before, the chest now seems rather
small for us.”

“’Tis so!” came the muffled voice of the fat man from the
bottom.

“I know what takes up the room,” said Beni.

“What?” inquired Victor, anxiously.

“The pie,” returned Beni.

“’Tis so!” came from the bottom, in faint accents.

Then Martha sat upon the lid and pressed it down with all her weight. To her
great delight the lock caught, and, springing down, she exerted all her
strength and turned the key.

This story should teach us not to interfere in matters that do not concern us.
For had Martha refrained from opening Uncle Walter’s mysterious chest she
would not have been obliged to carry downstairs all the plunder the robbers had
brought into the attic.

THE GLASS DOG

An accomplished wizard once lived on the top floor of a tenement house and
passed his time in thoughtful study and studious thought. What he didn’t
know about wizardry was hardly worth knowing, for he possessed all the books
and recipes of all the wizards who had lived before him; and, moreover, he had
invented several wizardments himself.

This admirable person would have been completely happy but for the numerous
interruptions to his studies caused by folk who came to consult him about their
troubles (in which he was not interested), and by the loud knocks of the
iceman, the milkman, the baker’s boy, the laundryman and the peanut
woman. He never dealt with any of these people; but they rapped at his door
every day to see him about this or that or to try to sell him their wares. Just
when he was most deeply interested in his books or engaged in watching the
bubbling of a cauldron there would come a knock at his door. And after sending
the intruder away he always found he had lost his train of thought or ruined
his compound.

At length these interruptions aroused his anger, and he decided he must have a
dog to keep people away from his door. He didn’t know where to find a
dog, but in the next room lived a poor glass-blower with whom he had a slight
acquaintance; so he went into the man’s apartment and asked:

“Where can I find a dog?”

“What sort of a dog?” inquired the glass-blower.

“A good dog. One that will bark at people and drive them away. One that
will be no trouble to keep and won’t expect to be fed. One that has no
fleas and is neat in his habits. One that will obey me when I speak to him. In
short, a good dog,” said the wizard.

“Such a dog is hard to find,” returned the glass-blower, who was
busy making a blue glass flower pot with a pink glass rosebush in it, having
green glass leaves and yellow glass roses.

The wizard watched him thoughtfully.

“Why cannot you blow me a dog out of glass?” he asked, presently.

“I can,” declared the glass-blower; “but it would not bark at
people, you know.”

“Oh, I’ll fix that easily enough,” replied the other.
“If I could not make a glass dog bark I would be a mighty poor
wizard.”

“Very well; if you can use a glass dog I’ll be pleased to blow one
for you. Only, you must pay for my work.”

“Certainly,” agreed the wizard. “But I have none of that
horrid stuff you call money. You must take some of my wares in exchange.”

The glass-blower considered the matter for a moment.

“Could you give me something to cure my rheumatism?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; easily.”

“Then it’s a bargain. I’ll start the dog at once. What color
of glass shall I use?”

“Pink is a pretty color,” said the wizard, “and it’s
unusual for a dog, isn’t it?”

“Very,” answered the glass-blower; “but it shall be
pink.”

So the wizard went back to his studies and the glass-blower began to make the
dog.

Next morning he entered the wizard’s room with the glass dog under his
arm and set it carefully upon the table. It was a beautiful pink in color, with
a fine coat of spun glass, and about its neck was twisted a blue glass ribbon.
Its eyes were specks of black glass and sparkled intelligently, as do many of
the glass eyes worn by men.

The wizard expressed himself pleased with the glass-blower’s skill and at
once handed him a small vial.

“This will cure your rheumatism,” he said.

“But the vial is empty!” protested the glass-blower.

“Oh, no; there is one drop of liquid in it,” was the wizard’s
reply.

“Will one drop cure my rheumatism?” inquired the glass-blower, in
wonder.

“Most certainly. That is a marvelous remedy. The one drop contained in
the vial will cure instantly any kind of disease ever known to humanity.
Therefore it is especially good for rheumatism. But guard it well, for it is
the only drop of its kind in the world, and I’ve forgotten the
recipe.”

“Thank you,” said the glass-blower, and went back to his room.

Then the wizard cast a wizzy spell and mumbled several very learned words in
the wizardese language over the glass dog. Whereupon the little animal first
wagged its tail from side to side, then winked his left eye knowingly, and at
last began barking in a most frightful manner—that is, when you stop to
consider the noise came from a pink glass dog. There is something almost
astonishing in the magic arts of wizards; unless, of course, you know how to do
the things yourself, when you are not expected to be surprised at them.

The wizard was as delighted as a school teacher at the success of his spell,
although he was not astonished. Immediately he placed the dog outside his door,
where it would bark at anyone who dared knock and so disturb the studies of its
master.

The glass-blower, on returning to his room, decided not to use the one drop of
wizard cure-all just then.

“My rheumatism is better to-day,” he reflected, “and I will
be wise to save the medicine for a time when I am very ill, when it will be of
more service to me.”

So he placed the vial in his cupboard and went to work blowing more roses out
of glass. Presently he happened to think the medicine might not keep, so he
started to ask the wizard about it. But when he reached the door the glass dog
barked so fiercely that he dared not knock, and returned in great haste to his
own room. Indeed, the poor man was quite upset at so unfriendly a reception
from the dog he had himself so carefully and skillfully made.

The next morning, as he read his newspaper, he noticed an article stating that
the beautiful Miss Mydas, the richest young lady in town, was very ill, and the
doctors had given up hope of her recovery.

The glass-blower, although miserably poor, hard-working and homely of feature,
was a man of ideas. He suddenly recollected his precious medicine, and
determined to use it to better advantage than relieving his own ills. He
dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed his hair and combed his whiskers,
washed his hands and tied his necktie, blackened his shoes and sponged his
vest, and then put the vial of magic cure-all in his pocket. Next he locked his
door, went downstairs and walked through the streets to the grand mansion where
the wealthy Miss Mydas resided.

The butler opened the door and said:

“No soap, no chromos, no vegetables, no hair oil, no books, no baking
powder. My young lady is dying and we’re well supplied for the
funeral.”

The glass-blower was grieved at being taken for a peddler.

“My friend,” he began, proudly; but the butler interrupted him,
saying:

“No tombstones, either; there’s a family graveyard and the
monument’s built.”

“The graveyard won’t be needed if you will permit me to
speak,” said the glass-blower.

“No doctors, sir; they’ve given up my young lady, and she’s
given up the doctors,” continued the butler, calmly.

“I’m no doctor,” returned the glass-blower.

“Nor are the others. But what is your errand?”

“I called to cure your young lady by means of a magical compound.”

“Step in, please, and take a seat in the hall. I’ll speak to the
housekeeper,” said the butler, more politely.

So he spoke to the housekeeper and the housekeeper mentioned the matter to the
steward and the steward consulted the chef and the chef kissed the lady’s
maid and sent her to see the stranger. Thus are the very wealthy hedged around
with ceremony, even when dying.

When the lady’s maid heard from the glass-blower that he had a medicine
which would cure her mistress, she said:

“I’m glad you came.”

“But,” said he, “if I restore your mistress to health she
must marry me.”

“I’ll make inquiries and see if she’s willing,”
answered the maid, and went at once to consult Miss Mydas.

The young lady did not hesitate an instant.

“I’d marry any old thing rather than die!” she cried.
“Bring him here at once!”

So the glass-blower came, poured the magic drop into a little water, gave it to
the patient, and the next minute Miss Mydas was as well as she had ever been in
her life.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed; “I’ve an engagement at the
Fritters’ reception to-night. Bring my pearl-colored silk, Marie, and I
will begin my toilet at once. And don’t forget to cancel the order for
the funeral flowers and your mourning gown.”

“But, Miss Mydas,” remonstrated the glass-blower, who stood by,
“you promised to marry me if I cured you.”

“I know,” said the young lady, “but we must have time to make
proper announcement in the society papers and have the wedding cards engraved.
Call to-morrow and we’ll talk it over.”

The glass-blower had not impressed her favorably as a husband, and she was glad
to find an excuse for getting rid of him for a time. And she did not want to
miss the Fritters’ reception.

Yet the man went home filled with joy; for he thought his stratagem had
succeeded and he was about to marry a rich wife who would keep him in luxury
forever afterward.

The first thing he did on reaching his room was to smash his glass-blowing
tools and throw them out of the window.

He then sat down to figure out ways of spending his wife’s money.

The following day he called upon Miss Mydas, who was reading a novel and eating
chocolate creams as happily as if she had never been ill in her life.

“Where did you get the magic compound that cured me?” she asked.

“From a learned wizard,” said he; and then, thinking it would
interest her, he told how he had made the glass dog for the wizard, and how it
barked and kept everybody from bothering him.

“How delightful!” she said. “I’ve always wanted a glass
dog that could bark.”

“But there is only one in the world,” he answered, “and it
belongs to the wizard.”

“You must buy it for me,” said the lady.

“The wizard cares nothing for money,” replied the glass-blower.

“Then you must steal it for me,” she retorted. “I can never
live happily another day unless I have a glass dog that can bark.”

The glass-blower was much distressed at this, but said he would see what he
could do. For a man should always try to please his wife, and Miss Mydas has
promised to marry him within a week.

On his way home he purchased a heavy sack, and when he passed the
wizard’s door and the pink glass dog ran out to bark at him he threw the
sack over the dog, tied the opening with a piece of twine, and carried him away
to his own room.

The next day he sent the sack by a messenger boy to Miss Mydas, with his
compliments, and later in the afternoon he called upon her in person, feeling
quite sure he would be received with gratitude for stealing the dog she so
greatly desired.

But when he came to the door and the butler opened it, what was his amazement
to see the glass dog rush out and begin barking at him furiously.

“Call off your dog,” he shouted, in terror.

“I can’t, sir,” answered the butler. “My young lady has
ordered the glass dog to bark whenever you call here. You’d better look
out, sir,” he added, “for if it bites you, you may have
glassophobia!”

This so frightened the poor glass-blower that he went away hurriedly. But he
stopped at a drug store and put his last dime in the telephone box so he could
talk to Miss Mydas without being bitten by the dog.

“Give me Pelf 6742!” he called.

“Hello! What is it?” said a voice.

“I want to speak with Miss Mydas,” said the glass-blower.

Presently a sweet voice said: “This is Miss Mydas. What is it?”

“Why have you treated me so cruelly and set the glass dog on me?”
asked the poor fellow.

“Well, to tell the truth,” said the lady, “I don’t like
your looks. Your cheeks are pale and baggy, your hair is coarse and long, your
eyes are small and red, your hands are big and rough, and you are
bow-legged.”

“But I can’t help my looks!” pleaded the glass-blower;
“and you really promised to marry me.”

“If you were better looking I’d keep my promise,” she
returned. “But under the circumstances you are no fit mate for me, and
unless you keep away from my mansion I shall set my glass dog on you!”
Then she dropped the ’phone and would have nothing more to say.

The miserable glass-blower went home with a heart bursting with disappointment
and began tying a rope to the bedpost by which to hang himself.

Some one knocked at the door, and, upon opening it, he saw the wizard.

“I’ve lost my dog,” he announced.

“Have you, indeed?” replied the glass-blower tying a knot in the
rope.

“Yes; some one has stolen him.”

“That’s too bad,” declared the glass-blower, indifferently.

“You must make me another,” said the wizard.

“But I cannot; I’ve thrown away my tools.”

“Then what shall I do?” asked the wizard.

“I do not know, unless you offer a reward for the dog.”

“But I have no money,” said the wizard.

“Offer some of your compounds, then,” suggested the glass-blower,
who was making a noose in the rope for his head to go through.

“The only thing I can spare,” replied the wizard, thoughtfully,
“is a Beauty Powder.”

“What!” cried the glass-blower, throwing down the rope, “have
you really such a thing?”

“Yes, indeed. Whoever takes the powder will become the most beautiful
person in the world.”

“If you will offer that as a reward,” said the glass-blower,
eagerly, “I’ll try to find the dog for you, for above everything
else I long to be beautiful.”

“But I warn you the beauty will only be skin deep,” said the
wizard.

“That’s all right,” replied the happy glass-blower;
“when I lose my skin I shan’t care to remain beautiful.”

“Then tell me where to find my dog and you shall have the powder,”
promised the wizard.

So the glass-blower went out and pretended to search, and by-and-by he returned
and said:

“I’ve discovered the dog. You will find him in the mansion of Miss
Mydas.”

The wizard went at once to see if this were true, and, sure enough, the glass
dog ran out and began barking at him. Then the wizard spread out his hands and
chanted a magic spell which sent the dog fast asleep, when he picked him up and
carried him to his own room on the top floor of the tenement house.

Afterward he carried the Beauty Powder to the glass-blower as a reward, and the
fellow immediately swallowed it and became the most beautiful man in the world.

The next time he called upon Miss Mydas there was no dog to bark at him, and
when the young lady saw him she fell in love with his beauty at once.

“If only you were a count or a prince,” she sighed,
“I’d willingly marry you.”

“But I am a prince,” he answered; “the Prince of
Dogblowers.”

“Ah!” said she; “then if you are willing to accept an
allowance of four dollars a week I’ll order the wedding cards
engraved.”

The man hesitated, but when he thought of the rope hanging from his bedpost he
consented to the terms.

So they were married, and the bride was very jealous of her husband’s
beauty and led him a dog’s life. So he managed to get into debt and made
her miserable in turn.

As for the glass dog, the wizard set him barking again by means of his
wizardness and put him outside his door. I suppose he is there yet, and am
rather sorry, for I should like to consult the wizard about the moral to this
story.

THE QUEEN OF QUOK

A king once died, as kings are apt to do, being as liable to shortness of
breath as other mortals.

It was high time this king abandoned his earth life, for he had lived in a
sadly extravagant manner, and his subjects could spare him without the
slightest inconvenience.

His father had left him a full treasury, both money and jewels being in
abundance. But the foolish king just deceased had squandered every penny in
riotous living. He had then taxed his subjects until most of them became
paupers, and this money vanished in more riotous living. Next he sold all the
grand old furniture in the palace; all the silver and gold plate and
bric-a-brac; all the rich carpets and furnishings and even his own kingly
wardrobe, reserving only a soiled and moth-eaten ermine robe to fold over his
threadbare raiment. And he spent the money in further riotous living.

Don’t ask me to explain what riotous living is. I only know, from
hearsay, that it is an excellent way to get rid of money. And so this
spendthrift king found it.

He now picked all the magnificent jewels from this kingly crown and from the
round ball on the top of his scepter, and sold them and spent the money.
Riotous living, of course. But at last he was at the end of his resources. He
couldn’t sell the crown itself, because no one but the king had the right
to wear it. Neither could he sell the royal palace, because only the king had
the right to live there.

So, finally, he found himself reduced to a bare palace, containing only a big
mahogany bedstead that he slept in, a small stool on which he sat to pull off
his shoes and the moth-eaten ermine robe.

In this straight he was reduced to the necessity of borrowing an occasional
dime from his chief counselor, with which to buy a ham sandwich. And the chief
counselor hadn’t many dimes. One who counseled his king so foolishly was
likely to ruin his own prospects as well.

So the king, having nothing more to live for, died suddenly and left a
ten-year-old son to inherit the dismantled kingdom, the moth-eaten robe and the
jewel-stripped crown.

No one envied the child, who had scarcely been thought of until he became king
himself. Then he was recognized as a personage of some importance, and the
politicians and hangers-on, headed by the chief counselor of the kingdom, held
a meeting to determine what could be done for him.

These folk had helped the old king to live riotously while his money lasted,
and now they were poor and too proud to work. So they tried to think of a plan
that would bring more money into the little king’s treasury, where it
would be handy for them to help themselves.

After the meeting was over the chief counselor came to the young king, who was
playing peg-top in the courtyard, and said:

“Your majesty, we have thought of a way to restore your kingdom to its
former power and magnificence.”

“All right,” replied his majesty, carelessly. “How will you
do it?”

“By marrying you to a lady of great wealth,” replied the counselor.

“Marrying me!” cried the king. “Why, I am only ten years
old!”

“I know; it is to be regretted. But your majesty will grow older, and the
affairs of the kingdom demand that you marry a wife.”

“Can’t I marry a mother, instead?” asked the poor little
king, who had lost his mother when a baby.

“Certainly not,” declared the counselor. “To marry a mother
would be illegal; to marry a wife is right and proper.”

“Can’t you marry her yourself?” inquired his majesty, aiming
his peg-top at the chief counselor’s toe, and laughing to see how he
jumped to escape it.

“Let me explain,” said the other. “You haven’t a penny
in the world, but you have a kingdom. There are many rich women who would be
glad to give their wealth in exchange for a queen’s coronet—even if
the king is but a child. So we have decided to advertise that the one who bids
the highest shall become the queen of Quok.”

“If I must marry at all,” said the king, after a moment’s
thought, “I prefer to marry Nyana, the armorer’s daughter.”

“She is too poor,” replied the counselor.

“Her teeth are pearls, her eyes are amethysts, and her hair is
gold,” declared the little king.

“True, your majesty. But consider that your wife’s wealth must be
used. How would Nyana look after you have pulled her teeth of pearls, plucked
out her amethyst eyes and shaved her golden head?”

The boy shuddered.

“Have your own way,” he said, despairingly. “Only let the
lady be as dainty as possible and a good playfellow.”

“We shall do our best,” returned the chief counselor, and went away
to advertise throughout the neighboring kingdoms for a wife for the boy king of
Quok.

There were so many applicants for the privilege of marrying the little king
that it was decided to put him up at auction, in order that the largest
possible sum of money should be brought into the kingdom. So, on the day
appointed, the ladies gathered at the palace from all the surrounding
kingdoms—from Bilkon, Mulgravia, Junkum and even as far away as the
republic of Macvelt.

The chief counselor came to the palace early in the morning and had the
king’s face washed and his hair combed; and then he padded the inside of
the crown with old newspapers to make it small enough to fit his
majesty’s head. It was a sorry looking crown, having many big and little
holes in it where the jewels had once been; and it had been neglected and
knocked around until it was quite battered and tarnished. Yet, as the counselor
said, it was the king’s crown, and it was quite proper he should wear it
on the solemn occasion of his auction.

Like all boys, be they kings or paupers, his majesty had torn and soiled his
one suit of clothes, so that they were hardly presentable; and there was no
money to buy new ones. Therefore the counselor wound the old ermine robe around
the king and sat him upon the stool in the middle of the otherwise empty
audience chamber.

And around him stood all the courtiers and politicians and hangers-on of the
kingdom, consisting of such people as were too proud or lazy to work for a
living. There was a great number of them, you may be sure, and they made an
imposing appearance.

Then the doors of the audience chamber were thrown open, and the wealthy ladies
who aspired to being queen of Quok came trooping in. The king looked them over
with much anxiety, and decided they were each and all old enough to be his
grandmother, and ugly enough to scare away the crows from the royal cornfields.
After which he lost interest in them.

But the rich ladies never looked at the poor little king squatting upon his
stool. They gathered at once about the chief counselor, who acted as
auctioneer.

“How much am I offered for the coronet of the queen of Quok?” asked
the counselor, in a loud voice.

“Where is the coronet?” inquired a fussy old lady who had just
buried her ninth husband and was worth several millions.

“There isn’t any coronet at present,” explained the chief
counselor, “but whoever bids highest will have the right to wear one, and
she can then buy it.”

“Oh,” said the fussy old lady, “I see.” Then she added:
“I’ll bid fourteen dollars.”

“Fourteen thousand dollars!” cried a sour-looking woman who was
thin and tall and had wrinkles all over her skin—“like a frosted
apple,” the king thought.

The bidding now became fast and furious, and the poverty-stricken courtiers
brightened up as the sum began to mount into the millions.

“He’ll bring us a very pretty fortune, after all,” whispered
one to his comrade, “and then we shall have the pleasure of helping him
spend it.”

The king began to be anxious. All the women who looked at all kind-hearted or
pleasant had stopped bidding for lack of money, and the slender old dame with
the wrinkles seemed determined to get the coronet at any price, and with it the
boy husband. This ancient creature finally became so excited that her wig got
crosswise of her head and her false teeth kept slipping out, which horrified
the little king greatly; but she would not give up.

At last the chief counselor ended the auction by crying out:

“Sold to Mary Ann Brodjinsky de la Porkus for three million, nine hundred
thousand, six hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents!” And the
sour-looking old woman paid the money in cash and on the spot, which proves
this is a fairy story.

The king was so disturbed at the thought that he must marry this hideous
creature that he began to wail and weep; whereupon the woman boxed his ears
soundly. But the counselor reproved her for punishing her future husband in
public, saying:

“You are not married yet. Wait until to-morrow, after the wedding takes
place. Then you can abuse him as much as you wish. But at present we prefer to
have people think this is a love match.”

The poor king slept but little that night, so filled was he with terror of his
future wife. Nor could he get the idea out of his head that he preferred to
marry the armorer’s daughter, who was about his own age. He tossed and
tumbled around upon his hard bed until the moonlight came in at the window and
lay like a great white sheet upon the bare floor. Finally, in turning over for
the hundredth time, his hand struck against a secret spring in the headboard of
the big mahogany bedstead, and at once, with a sharp click, a panel flew open.

The noise caused the king to look up, and, seeing the open panel, he stood upon
tiptoe, and, reaching within, drew out a folded paper. It had several leaves
fastened together like a book, and upon the first page was written:

“When the king is in trouble
This leaf he must double
And set it on fire
To obtain his desire.”

This was not very good poetry, but when the king had spelled it out in the
moonlight he was filled with joy.

“There’s no doubt about my being in trouble,” he exclaimed;
“so I’ll burn it at once, and see what happens.”

He tore off the leaf and put the rest of the book in its secret hiding place.
Then, folding the paper double, he placed it on the top of his stool, lighted a
match and set fire to it.

It made a horrid smudge for so small a paper, and the king sat on the edge of
the bed and watched it eagerly.

When the smoke cleared away he was surprised to see, sitting upon the stool, a
round little man, who, with folded arms and crossed legs, sat calmly facing the
king and smoking a black briarwood pipe.

“Well, here I am,” said he.

“So I see,” replied the little king. “But how did you get
here?”

“Didn’t you burn the paper?” demanded the round man, by way
of answer.

“Yes, I did,” acknowledged the king.

“Then you are in trouble, and I’ve come to help you out of it.
I’m the Slave of the Royal Bedstead.”

“Oh!” said the king. “I didn’t know there was
one.”

“Neither did your father, or he would not have been so foolish as to sell
everything he had for money. By the way, it’s lucky for you he did not
sell this bedstead. Now, then, what do you want?”

“I’m not sure what I want,” replied the king; “but I
know what I don’t want, and that is the old woman who is going to marry
me.”

“That’s easy enough,” said the Slave of the Royal Bedstead.
“All you need do is to return her the money she paid the chief counselor
and declare the match off. Don’t be afraid. You are the king, and your
word is law.”

“To be sure,” said the majesty. “But I am in great need of
money. How am I going to live if the chief counselor returns to Mary Ann
Brodjinski her millions?”

“Phoo! that’s easy enough,” again answered the man, and,
putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out and tossed to the king an
old-fashioned leather purse. “Keep that with you,” said he,
“and you will always be rich, for you can take out of the purse as many
twenty-five-cent silver pieces as you wish, one at a time. No matter how often
you take one out, another will instantly appear in its place within the
purse.”

“Thank you,” said the king, gratefully. “You have rendered me
a rare favor; for now I shall have money for all my needs and will not be
obliged to marry anyone. Thank you a thousand times!”

“Don’t mention it,” answered the other, puffing his pipe
slowly and watching the smoke curl into the moonlight. “Such things are
easy to me. Is that all you want?”

“All I can think of just now,” returned the king.

“Then, please close that secret panel in the bedstead,” said the
man; “the other leaves of the book may be of use to you some time.”

The boy stood upon the bed as before and, reaching up, closed the opening so
that no one else could discover it. Then he turned to face his visitor, but the
Slave of the Royal Bedstead had disappeared.

“I expected that,” said his majesty; “yet I am sorry he did
not wait to say good-by.”

With a lightened heart and a sense of great relief the boy king placed the
leathern purse underneath his pillow, and climbing into bed again slept soundly
until morning.

When the sun rose his majesty rose also, refreshed and comforted, and the first
thing he did was to send for the chief counselor.

That mighty personage arrived looking glum and unhappy, but the boy was too
full of his own good fortune to notice it. Said he:

“I have decided not to marry anyone, for I have just come into a fortune
of my own. Therefore I command you return to that old woman the money she has
paid you for the right to wear the coronet of the queen of Quok. And make
public declaration that the wedding will not take place.”

Hearing this the counselor began to tremble, for he saw the young king had
decided to reign in earnest; and he looked so guilty that his majesty inquired:

“Well! what is the matter now?”

“Sire,” replied the wretch, in a shaking voice, “I cannot
return the woman her money, for I have lost it!”

“Lost it!” cried the king, in mingled astonishment and anger.

“Even so, your majesty. On my way home from the auction last night I
stopped at the drug store to get some potash lozenges for my throat, which was
dry and hoarse with so much loud talking; and your majesty will admit it was
through my efforts the woman was induced to pay so great a price. Well, going
into the drug store I carelessly left the package of money lying on the seat of
my carriage, and when I came out again it was gone. Nor was the thief anywhere
to be seen.”

“Did you call the police?” asked the king.

“Yes, I called; but they were all on the next block, and although they
have promised to search for the robber I have little hope they will ever find
him.”

The king sighed.

“What shall we do now?” he asked.

“I fear you must marry Mary Ann Brodjinski,” answered the chief
counselor; “unless, indeed, you order the executioner to cut her head
off.”

“That would be wrong,” declared the king. “The woman must not
be harmed. And it is just that we return her money, for I will not marry her
under any circumstances.”

“Is that private fortune you mentioned large enough to repay her?”
asked the counselor.

“Why, yes,” said the king, thoughtfully, “but it will take
some time to do it, and that shall be your task. Call the woman here.”

The counselor went in search of Mary Ann, who, when she heard she was not to
become a queen, but would receive her money back, flew into a violent passion
and boxed the chief counselor’s ears so viciously that they stung for
nearly an hour. But she followed him into the king’s audience chamber,
where she demanded her money in a loud voice, claiming as well the interest due
upon it over night.

“The counselor has lost your money,” said the boy king, “but
he shall pay you every penny out of my own private purse. I fear, however, you
will be obliged to take it in small change.”

“That will not matter,” she said, scowling upon the counselor as if
she longed to reach his ears again; “I don’t care how small the
change is so long as I get every penny that belongs to me, and the interest.
Where is it?”

“Here,” answered the king, handing the counselor the leathern
purse. “It is all in silver quarters, and they must be taken from the
purse one at a time; but there will be plenty to pay your demands, and to
spare.”

So, there being no chairs, the counselor sat down upon the floor in one corner
and began counting out silver twenty-five-cent pieces from the purse, one by
one. And the old woman sat upon the floor opposite him and took each piece of
money from his hand.

It was a large sum: three million, nine hundred thousand, six hundred and
twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents. And it takes four times as many
twenty-five-cent pieces as it would dollars to make up the amount.

The king left them sitting there and went to school, and often thereafter he
came to the counselor and interrupted him long enough to get from the purse
what money he needed to reign in a proper and dignified manner. This somewhat
delayed the counting, but as it was a long job, anyway, that did not matter
much.

The king grew to manhood and married the pretty daughter of the armorer, and
they now have two lovely children of their own. Once in awhile they go into the
big audience chamber of the palace and let the little ones watch the aged,
hoary-headed counselor count out silver twenty-five-cent pieces to a withered
old woman, who watched his every movement to see that he does not cheat her.

It is a big sum, three million, nine hundred thousand, six hundred and
twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents in twenty-five-cent pieces.

But this is how the counselor was punished for being so careless with the
woman’s money. And this is how Mary Ann Brodjinski de la Porkus was also
punished for wishing to marry a ten-year-old king in order that she might wear
the coronet of the queen of Quok.

THE GIRL WHO OWNED A BEAR

Mamma had gone down-town to shop. She had asked Nora to look after Jane Gladys,
and Nora promised she would. But it was her afternoon for polishing the silver,
so she stayed in the pantry and left Jane Gladys to amuse herself alone in the
big sitting-room upstairs.

The little girl did not mind being alone, for she was working on her first
piece of embroidery—a sofa pillow for papa’s birthday present. So
she crept into the big bay window and curled herself up on the broad sill while
she bent her brown head over her work.

Soon the door opened and closed again, quietly. Jane Gladys thought it was
Nora, so she didn’t look up until she had taken a couple more stitches on
a forget-me-not. Then she raised her eyes and was astonished to find a strange
man in the middle of the room, who regarded her earnestly.

He was short and fat, and seemed to be breathing heavily from his climb up the
stairs. He held a work silk hat in one hand and underneath his other elbow was
tucked a good-sized book. He was dressed in a black suit that looked old and
rather shabby, and his head was bald upon the top.

“Excuse me,” he said, while the child gazed at him in solemn
surprise. “Are you Jane Gladys Brown?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“Very good; very good, indeed!” he remarked, with a queer sort of
smile. “I’ve had quite a hunt to find you, but I’ve succeeded
at last.”

“How did you get in?” inquired Jane Gladys, with a growing distrust
of her visitor.

“That is a secret,” he said, mysteriously.

This was enough to put the girl on her guard. She looked at the man and the man
looked at her, and both looks were grave and somewhat anxious.

“What do you want?” she asked, straightening herself up with a
dignified air.

“Ah!—now we are coming to business,” said the man, briskly.
“I’m going to be quite frank with you. To begin with, your father
has abused me in a most ungentlemanly manner.”

Jane Gladys got off the window sill and pointed her small finger at the door.

“Leave this room ‘meejitly!” she cried, her voice trembling
with indignation. “My papa is the best man in the world. He never
’bused anybody!”

“Allow me to explain, please,” said the visitor, without paying any
attention to her request to go away. “Your father may be very kind to
you, for you are his little girl, you know. But when he’s down-town in
his office he’s inclined to be rather severe, especially on book agents.
Now, I called on him the other day and asked him to buy the ‘Complete
Works of Peter Smith,’ and what do you suppose he did?”

She said nothing.

“Why,” continued the man, with growing excitement, “he
ordered me from his office, and had me put out of the building by the janitor!
What do you think of such treatment as that from the ‘best papa in the
world,’ eh?”

“I think he was quite right,” said Jane Gladys.

“Oh, you do? Well,” said the man, “I resolved to be revenged
for the insult. So, as your father is big and strong and a dangerous man, I
have decided to be revenged upon his little girl.”

Jane Gladys shivered.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to present you with this book,” he answered,
taking it from under his arm. Then he sat down on the edge of a chair, placed
his hat on the rug and drew a fountain pen from his vest pocket.

“I’ll write your name in it,” said he. “How do you
spell Gladys?”

“G-l-a-d-y-s,” she replied.

“Thank you. Now this,” he continued, rising and handing her the
book with a bow, “is my revenge for your father’s treatment of me.
Perhaps he’ll be sorry he didn’t buy the ‘Complete Works of
Peter Smith.’ Good-by, my dear.”

He walked to the door, gave her another bow, and left the room, and Jane Gladys
could see that he was laughing to himself as if very much amused.

When the door had closed behind the queer little man the child sat down in the
window again and glanced at the book. It had a red and yellow cover and the
word “Thingamajigs” was across the front in big letters.

Then she opened it, curiously, and saw her name written in black letters upon
the first white leaf.

“He was a funny little man,” she said to herself, thoughtfully.

She turned the next leaf, and saw a big picture of a clown, dressed in green
and red and yellow, and having a very white face with three-cornered spots of
red on each cheek and over the eyes. While she looked at this the book trembled
in her hands, the leaf crackled and creaked and suddenly the clown jumped out
of it and stood upon the floor beside her, becoming instantly as big as any
ordinary clown.

After stretching his arms and legs and yawning in a rather impolite manner, he
gave a silly chuckle and said:

“This is better! You don’t know how cramped one gets, standing so
long upon a page of flat paper.”

Perhaps you can imagine how startled Jane Gladys was, and how she stared at the
clown who had just leaped out of the book.

“You didn’t expect anything of this sort, did you?” he asked,
leering at her in clown fashion. Then he turned around to take a look at the
room and Jane Gladys laughed in spite of her astonishment.

“What amuses you?” demanded the clown.

“Why, the back of you is all white!” cried the girl.
“You’re only a clown in front of you.”

“Quite likely,” he returned, in an annoyed tone. “The artist
made a front view of me. He wasn’t expected to make the back of me, for
that was against the page of the book.”

“But it makes you look so funny!” said Jane Gladys, laughing until
her eyes were moist with tears.

The clown looked sulky and sat down upon a chair so she couldn’t see his
back.

“I’m not the only thing in the book,” he remarked, crossly.

This reminded her to turn another page, and she had scarcely noted that it
contained the picture of a monkey when the animal sprang from the book with a
great crumpling of paper and landed upon the window seat beside her.

“He-he-he-he-he!” chattered the creature, springing to the
girl’s shoulder and then to the center table. “This is great fun!
Now I can be a real monkey instead of a picture of one.”

“Real monkeys can’t talk,” said Jane Gladys, reprovingly.

“How do you know? Have you ever been one yourself?” inquired the
animal; and then he laughed loudly, and the clown laughed, too, as if he
enjoyed the remark.

The girl was quite bewildered by this time. She thoughtlessly turned another
leaf, and before she had time to look twice a gray donkey leaped from the book
and stumbled from the window seat to the floor with a great clatter.

“You’re clumsy enough, I’m sure!” said the child,
indignantly, for the beast had nearly upset her.

“Clumsy! And why not?” demanded the donkey, with angry voice.
“If the fool artist had drawn you out of perspective, as he did me, I
guess you’d be clumsy yourself.”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Jane Gladys.

“My front and rear legs on the left side are nearly six inches too short,
that’s what’s the matter! If that artist didn’t know how to
draw properly why did he try to make a donkey at all?”

“I don’t know,” replied the child, seeing an answer was
expected.

“I can hardly stand up,” grumbled the donkey; “and the least
little thing will topple me over.”

“Don’t mind that,” said the monkey, making a spring at the
chandelier and swinging from it by his tail until Jane Gladys feared he would
knock all the globes off; “the same artist has made my ears as big as
that clown’s and everyone knows a monkey hasn’t any ears to speak
of—much less to draw.”

“He should be prosecuted,” remarked the clown, gloomily. “I
haven’t any back.”

Jane Gladys looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression upon her
sweet face, and turned another page of the book.

Swift as a flash there sprang over her shoulder a tawney, spotted leopard,
which landed upon the back of a big leather armchair and turned upon the others
with a fierce movement.

The monkey climbed to the top of the chandelier and chattered with fright. The
donkey tried to run and straightway tipped over on his left side. The clown
grew paler than ever, but he sat still in his chair and gave a low whistle of
surprise.

The leopard crouched upon the back of the chair, lashed his tail from side to
side and glared at all of them, by turns, including Jane Gladys.

“Which of us are you going to attack first?” asked the donkey,
trying hard to get upon his feet again.

“I can’t attack any of you,” snarled the leopard. “The
artist made my mouth shut, so I haven’t any teeth; and he forgot to make
my claws. But I’m a frightful looking creature, nevertheless; am I
not?”

“Oh, yes;” said the clown, indifferently. “I suppose
you’re frightful looking enough. But if you have no teeth nor claws we
don’t mind your looks at all.”

This so annoyed the leopard that he growled horribly, and the monkey laughed at
him.

Just then the book slipped from the girl’s lap, and as she made a
movement to catch it one of the pages near the back opened wide. She caught a
glimpse of a fierce grizzly bear looking at her from the page, and quickly
threw the book from her. It fell with a crash in the middle of the room, but
beside it stood the great grizzly, who had wrenched himself from the page
before the book closed.

“Now,” cried the leopard from his perch, “you’d better
look out for yourselves! You can’t laugh at him as you did at me. The
bear has both claws and teeth.”

“Indeed I have,” said the bear, in a low, deep, growling voice.
“And I know how to use them, too. If you read in that book you’ll
find I’m described as a horrible, cruel and remorseless grizzly, whose
only business in life is to eat up little girls—shoes, dresses, ribbons
and all! And then, the author says, I smack my lips and glory in my
wickedness.”

“That’s awful!” said the donkey, sitting upon his haunches
and shaking his head sadly. “What do you suppose possessed the author to
make you so hungry for girls? Do you eat animals, also?”

“The author does not mention my eating anything but little girls,”
replied the bear.

“Very good,” remarked the clown, drawing a long breath of relief.
“you may begin eating Jane Gladys as soon as you wish. She laughed
because I had no back.”

“And she laughed because my legs are out of perspective,” brayed
the donkey.

“But you also deserve to be eaten,” screamed the leopard from the
back of the leather chair; “for you laughed and poked fun at me because I
had no claws nor teeth! Don’t you suppose Mr. Grizzly, you could manage
to eat a clown, a donkey and a monkey after you finish the girl?”

“Perhaps so, and a leopard into the bargain,” growled the bear.
“It will depend on how hungry I am. But I must begin on the little girl
first, because the author says I prefer girls to anything.”

Jane Gladys was much frightened on hearing this conversation, and she began to
realize what the man meant when he said he gave her the book to be revenged.
Surely papa would be sorry he hadn’t bought the “Complete Works of
Peter Smith” when he came home and found his little girl eaten up by a
grizzly bear—shoes, dress, ribbons and all!

The bear stood up and balanced himself on his rear legs.

“This is the way I look in the book,” he said. “Now watch me
eat the little girl.”

He advanced slowly toward Jane Gladys, and the monkey, the leopard, the donkey
and the clown all stood around in a circle and watched the bear with much
interest.

But before the grizzly reached her the child had a sudden thought, and cried
out:

“Stop! You mustn’t eat me. It would be wrong.”

“Why?” asked the bear, in surprise.

“Because I own you. You’re my private property,” she
answered.

“I don’t see how you make that out,” said the bear, in a
disappointed tone.

“Why, the book was given to me; my name’s on the front leaf. And
you belong, by rights, in the book. So you mustn’t dare to eat your
owner!”

The Grizzly hesitated.

“Can any of you read?” he asked.

“I can,” said the clown.

“Then see if she speaks the truth. Is her name really in the book?”

The clown picked it up and looked at the name.

“It is,” said he. “‘Jane Gladys Brown;’ and
written quite plainly in big letters.”

The bear sighed.

“Then, of course, I can’t eat her,” he decided. “That
author is as disappointing as most authors are.”

“But he’s not as bad as the artist,” exclaimed the donkey,
who was still trying to stand up straight.

“The fault lies with yourselves,” said Jane Gladys, severely.
“Why didn’t you stay in the book, where you were put?”

The animals looked at each other in a foolish way, and the clown blushed under
his white paint.

“Really—” began the bear, and then he stopped short.

The door bell rang loudly.

“It’s mamma!” cried Jane Gladys, springing to her feet.
“She’s come home at last. Now, you stupid creatures—”

But she was interrupted by them all making a rush for the book. There was a
swish and a whirr and a rustling of leaves, and an instant later the book lay
upon the floor looking just like any other book, while Jane Gladys’
strange companions had all disappeared.

This story should teach us to think quickly and clearly upon all occasions; for
had Jane Gladys not remembered that she owned the bear he probably would have
eaten her before the bell rang.

THE ENCHANTED TYPES

One time a knook became tired of his beautiful life and longed for something
new to do. The knooks have more wonderful powers than any other immortal
folk—except, perhaps, the fairies and ryls. So one would suppose that a
knook who might gain anything he desired by a simple wish could not be
otherwise than happy and contented. But such was not the case with Popopo, the
knook we are speaking of. He had lived thousands of years, and had enjoyed all
the wonders he could think of. Yet life had become as tedious to him now as it
might be to one who was unable to gratify a single wish.

Finally, by chance, Popopo thought of the earth people who dwell in cities, and
so he resolved to visit them and see how they lived. This would surely be fine
amusement, and serve to pass away many wearisome hours.

Therefore one morning, after a breakfast so dainty that you could scarcely
imagine it, Popopo set out for the earth and at once was in the midst of a big
city.

His own dwelling was so quiet and peaceful that the roaring noise of the town
startled him. His nerves were so shocked that before he had looked around three
minutes he decided to give up the adventure, and instantly returned home.

This satisfied for a time his desire to visit the earth cities, but soon the
monotony of his existence again made him restless and gave him another thought.
At night the people slept and the cities would be quiet. He would visit them at
night.

So at the proper time Popopo transported himself in a jiffy to a great city,
where he began wandering about the streets. Everyone was in bed. No wagons
rattled along the pavements; no throngs of busy men shouted and halloaed. Even
the policemen slumbered slyly and there happened to be no prowling thieves
abroad.

His nerves being soothed by the stillness, Popopo began to enjoy himself. He
entered many of the houses and examined their rooms with much curiosity. Locks
and bolts made no difference to a knook, and he saw as well in darkness as in
daylight.

After a time he strolled into the business portion of the city. Stores are
unknown among the immortals, who have no need of money or of barter and
exchange; so Popopo was greatly interested by the novel sight of so many
collections of goods and merchandise.

During his wanderings he entered a millinery shop, and was surprised to see
within a large glass case a great number of women’s hats, each bearing in
one position or another a stuffed bird. Indeed, some of the most elaborate hats
had two or three birds upon them.

Now knooks are the especial guardians of birds, and love them dearly. To see so
many of his little friends shut up in a glass case annoyed and grieved Popopo,
who had no idea they had purposely been placed upon the hats by the milliner.
So he slid back one of the doors of the case, gave the little chirruping
whistle of the knooks that all birds know well, and called:

“Come, friends; the door is open—fly out!”

Popopo did not know the birds were stuffed; but, stuffed or not, every bird is
bound to obey a knook’s whistle and a knook’s call. So they left
the hats, flew out of the case and began fluttering about the room.

“Poor dears!” said the kind-hearted knook, “you long to be in
the fields and forests again.”

Then he opened the outer door for them and cried: “Off with you! Fly
away, my beauties, and be happy again.”

The astonished birds at once obeyed, and when they had soared away into the
night air the knook closed the door and continued his wandering through the
streets.

By dawn he saw many interesting sights, but day broke before he had finished
the city, and he resolved to come the next evening a few hours earlier.

As soon as it was dark the following day he came again to the city and on
passing the millinery shop noticed a light within. Entering he found two women,
one of whom leaned her head upon the table and sobbed bitterly, while the other
strove to comfort her.

Of course Popopo was invisible to mortal eyes, so he stood by and listened to
their conversation.

“Cheer up, sister,” said one. “Even though your pretty birds
have all been stolen the hats themselves remain.”

“Alas!” cried the other, who was the milliner, “no one will
buy my hats partly trimmed, for the fashion is to wear birds upon them. And if
I cannot sell my goods I shall be utterly ruined.”

Then she renewed her sobbing and the knook stole away, feeling a little ashamed
to realized that in his love for the birds he had unconsciously wronged one of
the earth people and made her unhappy.

This thought brought him back to the millinery shop later in the night, when
the two women had gone home. He wanted, in some way, to replace the birds upon
the hats, that the poor woman might be happy again. So he searched until he
came upon a nearby cellar full of little gray mice, who lived quite undisturbed
and gained a livelihood by gnawing through the walls into neighboring houses
and stealing food from the pantries.

“Here are just the creatures,” thought Popopo, “to place upon
the woman’s hats. Their fur is almost as soft as the plumage of the
birds, and it strikes me the mice are remarkably pretty and graceful animals.
Moreover, they now pass their lives in stealing, and were they obliged to
remain always upon women’s hats their morals would be much
improved.”

So he exercised a charm that drew all the mice from the cellar and placed them
upon the hats in the glass case, where they occupied the places the birds had
vacated and looked very becoming—at least, in the eyes of the unworldly
knook. To prevent their running about and leaving the hats Popopo rendered them
motionless, and then he was so pleased with his work that he decided to remain
in the shop and witness the delight of the milliner when she saw how daintily
her hats were now trimmed.

She came in the early morning, accompanied by her sister, and her face wore a
sad and resigned expression. After sweeping and dusting the shop and drawing
the blinds she opened the glass case and took out a hat.

But when she saw a tiny gray mouse nestling among the ribbons and laces she
gave a loud shriek, and, dropping the hat, sprang with one bound to the top of
the table. The sister, knowing the shriek to be one of fear, leaped upon a
chair and exclaimed:

“What is it? Oh! what is it?”

“A mouse!” gasped the milliner, trembling with terror.

Popopo, seeing this commotion, now realized that mice are especially
disagreeable to human beings, and that he had made a grave mistake in placing
them upon the hats; so he gave a low whistle of command that was heard only by
the mice.

Instantly they all jumped from the hats, dashed out the open door of the glass
case and scampered away to their cellar. But this action so frightened the
milliner and her sister that after giving several loud screams they fell upon
their backs on the floor and fainted away.

Popopo was a kind-hearted knook, but on witnessing all this misery, caused by
his own ignorance of the ways of humans, he straightway wished himself at home,
and so left the poor women to recover as best they could.

Yet he could not escape a sad feeling of responsibility, and after thinking
upon the matter he decided that since he had caused the milliner’s
unhappiness by freeing the birds, he could set the matter right by restoring
them to the glass case. He loved the birds, and disliked to condemn them to
slavery again; but that seemed the only way to end the trouble.

So he set off to find the birds. They had flown a long distance, but it was
nothing to Popopo to reach them in a second, and he discovered them sitting
upon the branches of a big chestnut tree and singing gayly.

When they saw the knook the birds cried:

“Thank you, Popopo. Thank you for setting us free.”

“Do not thank me,” returned the knook, “for I have come to
send you back to the millinery shop.”

“Why?” demanded a blue jay, angrily, while the others stopped their
songs.

“Because I find the woman considers you her property, and your loss has
caused her much unhappiness,” answered Popopo.

“But remember how unhappy we were in her glass case,” said a robin
redbreast, gravely. “And as for being her property, you are a knook, and
the natural guardian of all birds; so you know that Nature created us free. To
be sure, wicked men shot and stuffed us, and sold us to the milliner; but the
idea of our being her property is nonsense!”

Popopo was puzzled.

“If I leave you free,” he said, “wicked men will shoot you
again, and you will be no better off than before.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed the blue jay, “we cannot be shot now, for
we are stuffed. Indeed, two men fired several shots at us this morning, but the
bullets only ruffled our feathers and buried themselves in our stuffing. We do
not fear men now.”

“Listen!” said Popopo, sternly, for he felt the birds were getting
the best of the argument; “the poor milliner’s business will be
ruined if I do not return you to her shop. It seems you are necessary to trim
the hats properly. It is the fashion for women to wear birds upon their
headgear. So the poor milliner’s wares, although beautified by lace and
ribbons, are worthless unless you are perched upon them.”

“Fashions,” said a black bird, solemnly, “are made by men.
What law is there, among birds or knooks, that requires us to be the slaves of
fashion?”

“What have we to do with fashions, anyway?” screamed a linnet.
“If it were the fashion to wear knooks perched upon women’s hats
would you be contented to stay there? Answer me, Popopo!”

But Popopo was in despair. He could not wrong the birds by sending them back to
the milliner, nor did he wish the milliner to suffer by their loss. So he went
home to think what could be done.

After much meditation he decided to consult the king of the knooks, and going
at once to his majesty he told him the whole story.

The king frowned.

“This should teach you the folly of interfering with earth people,”
he said. “But since you have caused all this trouble, it is your duty to
remedy it. Our birds cannot be enslaved, that is certain; therefore you must
have the fashions changed, so it will no longer be stylish for women to wear
birds upon their hats.”

“How shall I do that?” asked Popopo.

“Easily enough. Fashions often change among the earth people, who tire
quickly of any one thing. When they read in their newspapers and magazines that
the style is so-and-so, they never question the matter, but at once obey the
mandate of fashion. So you must visit the newspapers and magazines and enchant
the types.”

“Enchant the types!” echoed Popopo, in wonder.

“Just so. Make them read that it is no longer the fashion to wear birds
upon hats. That will afford relief to your poor milliner and at the same time
set free thousands of our darling birds who have been so cruelly used.”

Popopo thanked the wise king and followed his advice.

The office of every newspaper and magazine in the city was visited by the
knook, and then he went to other cities, until there was not a publication in
the land that had not a “new fashion note” in its pages. Sometimes
Popopo enchanted the types, so that whoever read the print would see only what
the knook wished them to. Sometimes he called upon the busy editors and
befuddled their brains until they wrote exactly what he wanted them to. Mortals
seldom know how greatly they are influenced by fairies, knooks and ryls, who
often put thoughts into their heads that only the wise little immortals could
have conceived.

The following morning when the poor milliner looked over her newspaper she was
overjoyed to read that “no woman could now wear a bird upon her hat and
be in style, for the newest fashion required only ribbons and laces.”

Popopo after this found much enjoyment in visiting every millinery shop he
could find and giving new life to the stuffed birds which were carelessly
tossed aside as useless. And they flew to the fields and forests with songs of
thanks to the good knook who had rescued them.

Sometimes a hunter fires his gun at a bird and then wonders why he did not hit
it. But, having read this story, you will understand that the bird must have
been a stuffed one from some millinery shop, which cannot, of course, be killed
by a gun.

THE LAUGHING HIPPOPOTAMUS

On one of the upper branches of the Congo river lived an ancient and
aristocratic family of hippopotamuses, which boasted a pedigree dating back
beyond the days of Noah—beyond the existence of mankind—far into
the dim ages when the world was new.

They had always lived upon the banks of this same river, so that every curve
and sweep of its waters, every pit and shallow of its bed, every rock and stump
and wallow upon its bank was as familiar to them as their own mothers. And they
are living there yet, I suppose.

Not long ago the queen of this tribe of hippopotamuses had a child which she
named Keo, because it was so fat and round. Still, that you may not be misled,
I will say that in the hippopotamus language “Keo,” properly
translated, means “fat and lazy” instead of fat and round. However,
no one called the queen’s attention to this error, because her tusks were
monstrous long and sharp, and she thought Keo the sweetest baby in the world.

He was, indeed, all right for a hippopotamus. He rolled and played in the soft
mud of the river bank, and waddled inland to nibble the leaves of the wild
cabbage that grew there, and was happy and contented from morning till night.
And he was the jolliest hippopotamus that ancient family had ever known. His
little red eyes were forever twinkling with fun, and he laughed his merry laugh
on all occasions, whether there was anything to laugh at or not.

Therefore the black people who dwelt in that region called him
“Ippi”—the jolly one, although they dared not come anigh him
on account of his fierce mother, and his equally fierce uncles and aunts and
cousins, who lived in a vast colony upon the river bank.

And while these black people, who lived in little villages scattered among the
trees, dared not openly attack the royal family of hippopotamuses, they were
amazingly fond of eating hippopotamus meat whenever they could get it. This was
no secret to the hippopotamuses. And, again, when the blacks managed to catch
these animals alive, they had a trick of riding them through the jungles as if
they were horses, thus reducing them to a condition of slavery.

Therefore, having these things in mind, whenever the tribe of hippopotamuses
smelled the oily odor of black people they were accustomed to charge upon them
furiously, and if by chance they overtook one of the enemy they would rip him
with their sharp tusks or stamp him into the earth with their huge feet.

It was continual warfare between the hippopotamuses and the black people.

Gouie lived in one of the little villages of the blacks. He was the son of the
chief’s brother and grandson of the village sorcerer, the latter being an
aged man known as the “the boneless wonder,” because he could twist
himself into as many coils as a serpent and had no bones to hinder his bending
his flesh into any position. This made him walk in a wabbly fashion, but the
black people had great respect for him.

Gouie’s hut was made of branches of trees stuck together with mud, and
his clothing consisted of a grass mat tied around his middle. But his
relationship to the chief and the sorcerer gave him a certain dignity, and he
was much addicted to solitary thought. Perhaps it was natural that these
thoughts frequently turned upon his enemies, the hippopotamuses, and that he
should consider many ways of capturing them.

Finally he completed his plans, and set about digging a great pit in the
ground, midway between two sharp curves of the river. When the pit was finished
he covered it over with small branches of trees, and strewed earth upon them,
smoothing the surface so artfully that no one would suspect there was a big
hole underneath. Then Gouie laughed softly to himself and went home to supper.

That evening the queen said to Keo, who was growing to be a fine child for his
age:

“I wish you’d run across the bend and ask your Uncle Nikki to come
here. I have found a strange plant, and want him to tell me if it is good to
eat.”

The jolly one laughed heartily as he started upon his errand, for he felt as
important as a boy does when he is sent for the first time to the corner
grocery to buy a yeast cake.

“Guk-uk-uk-uk! guk-uk-uk-uk!” was the way he laughed; and if you
think a hippopotamus does not laugh this way you have but to listen to one and
you will find I am right.

He crawled out of the mud where he was wallowing and tramped away through the
bushes, and the last his mother heard as she lay half in and half out of the
water was his musical “guk-uk-uk-uk!” dying away in the distance.

Keo was in such a happy mood that he scarcely noticed where he stepped, so he
was much surprised when, in the middle of a laugh, the ground gave way beneath
him, and he fell to the bottom of Gouie’s deep pit. He was not badly
hurt, but had bumped his nose severely as he went down; so he stopped laughing
and began to think how he should get out again. Then he found the walls were
higher than his head, and that he was a prisoner.

So he laughed a little at his own misfortune, and the laughter soothed him to
sleep, so that he snored all through the night until daylight came.

When Gouie peered over the edge of the pit next morning he exclaimed:

“Why, ’tis Ippi—the Jolly One!”

Keo recognized the scent of a black man and tried to raise his head high enough
to bite him. Seeing which Gouie spoke in the hippopotamus language, which he
had learned from his grandfather, the sorcerer.

“Have peace, little one; you are my captive.”

“Yes; I will have a piece of your leg, if I can reach it,” retorted
Keo; and then he laughed at his own joke: “Guk-uk-uk-uk!”

But Gouie, being a thoughtful black man, went away without further talk, and
did not return until the following morning. When he again leaned over the pit
Keo was so weak from hunger that he could hardly laugh at all.

“Do you give up?” asked Gouie, “or do you still wish to
fight?”

“What will happen if I give up?” inquired Keo.

The black man scratched his woolly head in perplexity.

“It is hard to say, Ippi. You are too young to work, and if I kill you
for food I shall lose your tusks, which are not yet grown. Why, O Jolly One,
did you fall into my hole? I wanted to catch your mother or one of your
uncles.”

“Guk-uk-uk-uk!” laughed Keo. “You must let me go, after all,
black man; for I am of no use to you!”

“That I will not do,” declared Gouie; “unless,” he
added, as an afterthought, “you will make a bargain with me.”

“Let me hear about the bargain, black one, for I am hungry,” said
Keo.

“I will let your go if you swear by the tusks of your grandfather that
you will return to me in a year and a day and become my prisoner again.”

The youthful hippopotamus paused to think, for he knew it was a solemn thing to
swear by the tusks of his grandfather; but he was exceedingly hungry, and a
year and a day seemed a long time off; so he said, with another careless laugh:

“Very well; if you will now let me go I swear by the tusks of my
grandfather to return to you in a year and a day and become your
prisoner.”

Gouie was much pleased, for he knew that in a year and a day Keo would be
almost full grown. So he began digging away one end of the pit and filling it
up with the earth until he had made an incline which would allow the
hippopotamus to climb out.

Keo was so pleased when he found himself upon the surface of the earth again
that he indulged in a merry fit of laughter, after which he said:

“Good-by, Gouie; in a year and a day you will see me again.”

Then he waddled away toward the river to see his mother and get his breakfast,
and Gouie returned to his village.

During the months that followed, as the black man lay in his hut or hunted in
the forest, he heard at times the faraway “Guk-uk-uk-uk!” of the
laughing hippopotamus. But he only smiled to himself and thought: “A year
and a day will soon pass away!”

Now when Keo returned to his mother safe and well every member of his tribe was
filled with joy, for the Jolly One was a general favorite. But when he told
them that in a year and a day he must again become the slave of the black man,
they began to wail and weep, and so many were their tears that the river rose
several inches.

Of course Keo only laughed at their sorrow; but a great meeting of the tribe
was called and the matter discussed seriously.

“Having sworn by the tusks of his grandfather,” said Uncle Nikki,
“he must keep his promise. But it is our duty to try in some way to
rescue him from death or a life of slavery.”

To this all agreed, but no one could think of any method of saving Keo from his
fate. So months passed away, during which all the royal hippopotamuses were sad
and gloomy except the Jolly One himself.

Finally but a week of freedom remained to Keo, and his mother, the queen,
became so nervous and worried that another meeting of the tribe was called. By
this time the laughing hippopotamus had grown to enormous size, and measured
nearly fifteen feet long and six feet high, while his sharp tusks were whiter
and harder than those of an elephant.

“Unless something is done to save my child,” said the mother,
“I shall die of grief.”

Then some of her relations began to make foolish suggestions; but presently
Uncle Nep, a wise and very big hippopotamus, said:

“We must go to Glinkomok and implore his aid.”

Then all were silent, for it was a bold thing to face the mighty Glinkomok. But
the mother’s love was equal to any heroism.

“I will myself go to him, if Uncle Nep will accompany me,” she
said, quickly.

Uncle Nep thoughtfully patted the soft mud with his fore foot and wagged his
short tail leisurely from side to side.

“We have always been obedient to Glinkomok, and shown him great
respect,” said he. “Therefore I fear no danger in facing him. I
will go with you.”

All the others snorted approval, being very glad they were not called upon to
go themselves.

So the queen and Uncle Nep, with Keo swimming between them, set out upon their
journey. They swam up the river all that day and all the next, until they came
at sundown to a high, rocky wall, beneath which was the cave where the mighty
Glinkomok dwelt.

This fearful creature was part beast, part man, part fowl and part fish. It had
lived since the world began. Through years of wisdom it had become part
sorcerer, part wizard, part magician and part fairy. Mankind knew it not, but
the ancient beasts knew and feared it.

The three hippopotamuses paused before the cave, with their front feet upon the
bank and their bodies in the water, and called in chorus a greeting to
Glinkomok. Instantly thereafter the mouth of the cave darkened and the creature
glided silently toward them.

The hippopotamuses were afraid to look upon it, and bowed their heads between
their legs.

“We come, O Glinkomok, to implore your mercy and friendly
assistance!” began Uncle Nep; and then he told the story of Keo’s
capture, and how he had promised to return to the black man.

“He must keep his promise,” said the creature, in a voice that
sounded like a sigh.

The mother hippopotamus groaned aloud.

“But I will prepare him to overcome the black man, and to regain his
liberty,” continued Glinkomok.

Keo laughed.

“Lift your right paw,” commanded Glinkomok. Keo obeyed, and the
creature touched it with its long, hairy tongue. Then it held four skinny hands
over Keo’s bowed head and mumbled some words in a language unknown to man
or beast or fowl or fish. After this it spoke again in hippopotamese:

“Your skin has now become so tough that no man can hurt you. Your
strength is greater than that of ten elephants. Your foot is so swift that you
can distance the wind. Your wit is sharper than the bulthorn. Let the man fear,
but drive fear from your own breast forever; for of all your race you are the
mightiest!”

Then the terrible Glinkomok leaned over, and Keo felt its fiery breath scorch
him as it whispered some further instructions in his ear. The next moment it
glided back into its cave, followed by the loud thanks of the three
hippopotamuses, who slid into the water and immediately began their journey
home.

The mother’s heart was full of joy; Uncle Nep shivered once or twice as
he remembered a glimpse he had caught of Glinkomok; but Keo was as jolly as
possible, and, not content to swim with his dignified elders, he dived under
their bodies, raced all around them and laughed merrily every inch of the way
home.

Then all the tribe held high jinks and praised the mighty Glinkomok for
befriending their queen’s son. And when the day came for the Jolly One to
give himself up to the black man they all kissed him good-by without a single
fear for his safety.

Keo went away in good spirits, and they could hear his laughing
“guk-uk-uk-uk!” long after he was lost in sight in the jungle.

Gouie had counted the days and knew when to expect Keo; but he was astonished
at the monstrous size to which his captive had grown, and congratulated himself
on the wise bargain he had made. And Keo was so fat that Gouie determined to
eat him—that is, all of him he possibly could, and the remainder of the
carcass he would trade off to his fellow villagers.

So he took a knife and tried to stick it into the hippopotamus, but the skin
was so tough the knife was blunted against it. Then he tried other means; but
Keo remained unhurt.

And now indeed the Jolly One laughed his most gleeful laugh, till all the
forest echoed the “guk-uk-uk-uk-uk!” And Gouie decided not to kill
him, since that was impossible, but to use him for a beast of burden. He
mounted upon Keo’s back and commanded him to march. So Keo trotted
briskly through the village, his little eyes twinkling with merriment.

The other blacks were delighted with Gouie’s captive, and begged
permission to ride upon the Jolly One’s back. So Gouie bargained with
them for bracelets and shell necklaces and little gold ornaments, until he had
acquired quite a heap of trinkets. Then a dozen black men climbed upon
Keo’s back to enjoy a ride, and the one nearest his nose cried out:

“Run, Mud-dog—run!”

And Keo ran. Swift as the wind he strode, away from the village, through the
forest and straight up the river bank. The black men howled with fear; the
Jolly One roared with laughter; and on, on, on they rushed!

Then before them, on the opposite side of the river, appeared the black mouth
of Glinkomok’s cave. Keo dashed into the water, dived to the bottom and
left the black people struggling to swim out. But Glinkomok had heard the
laughter of Keo and knew what to do. When the Jolly One rose to the surface and
blew the water from his throat there was no black man to be seen.

Keo returned alone to the village, and Gouie asked, with surprise:

“Where are my brothers:”

“I do not know,” answered Keo. “I took them far away, and
they remained where I left them.”

Gouie would have asked more questions then, but another crowd of black men
impatiently waited to ride on the back of the laughing hippopotamus. So they
paid the price and climbed to their seats, after which the foremost said:

“Run, mud-wallower—run!”

And Keo ran as before and carried them to the mouth of Glinkomok’s cave,
and returned alone.

But now Gouie became anxious to know the fate of his fellows, for he was the
only black man left in his village. So he mounted the hippopotamus and cried:

“Run, river-hog—run!”

Keo laughed his jolly “guk-uk-uk-uk!” and ran with the speed of the
wind. But this time he made straight for the river bank where his own tribe
lived, and when he reached it he waded into the river, dived to the bottom and
left Gouie floating in the middle of the stream.

The black man began swimming toward the right bank, but there he saw Uncle Nep
and half the royal tribe waiting to stamp him into the soft mud. So he turned
toward the left bank, and there stood the queen mother and Uncle Nikki,
red-eyed and angry, waiting to tear him with their tusks.

Then Gouie uttered loud screams of terror, and, spying the Jolly One, who swam
near him, he cried:

“Save me, Keo! Save me, and I will release you from slavery!”

“That is not enough,” laughed Keo.

“I will serve you all my life!” screamed Gouie; “I will do
everything you bid me!”

“Will you return to me in a year and a day and become my captive, if I
allow you to escape?” asked Keo.

“I will! I will! I will!” cried Gouie.

“Swear it by the bones of your grandfather!” commanded Keo,
remembering that black men have no tusks to swear by.

And Gouie swore it by the bones of his grandfather.

Then Keo swam to the black one, who clambered upon his back again. In this
fashion they came to the bank, where Keo told his mother and all the tribe of
the bargain he had made with Gouie, who was to return in a year and a day and
become his slave.

Therefore the black man was permitted to depart in peace, and once more the
Jolly One lived with his own people and was happy.

When a year and a day had passed Keo began watching for the return of Gouie;
but he did not come, then or ever afterwards.

For the black man had made a bundle of his bracelets and shell necklaces and
little gold ornaments and had traveled many miles into another country, where
the ancient and royal tribe of hippopotamuses was unknown. And he set up for a
great chief, because of his riches, and people bowed down before him.

By day he was proud and swaggering. But at night he tumbled and tossed upon his
bed and could not sleep. His conscience troubled him.

For he had sworn by the bones of his grandfather; and his grandfather had no
bones.

THE MAGIC BON BONS

There lived in Boston a wise and ancient chemist by the name of Dr. Daws, who
dabbled somewhat in magic. There also lived in Boston a young lady by the name
of Claribel Sudds, who was possessed of much money, little wit and an intense
desire to go upon the stage.

So Claribel went to Dr. Daws and said:

“I can neither sing nor dance; I cannot recite verse nor play upon the
piano; I am no acrobat nor leaper nor high kicker; yet I wish to go upon the
stage. What shall I do?”

“Are you willing to pay for such accomplishments?” asked the wise
chemist.

“Certainly,” answered Claribel, jingling her purse.

“Then come to me to-morrow at two o’clock,” said he.

All that night he practiced what is known as chemical sorcery; so that when
Claribel Sudds came next day at two o’clock he showed her a small box
filled with compounds that closely resembled French bonbons.

“This is a progressive age,” said the old man, “and I flatter
myself your Uncle Daws keeps right along with the procession. Now, one of your
old-fashioned sorcerers would have made you some nasty, bitter pills to
swallow; but I have consulted your taste and convenience. Here are some magic
bonbons. If you eat this one with the lavender color you can dance thereafter
as lightly and gracefully as if you had been trained a lifetime. After you
consume the pink confection you will sing like a nightingale. Eating the white
one will enable you to become the finest elocutionist in the land. The
chocolate piece will charm you into playing the piano better than Rubenstein,
while after eating the lemon-yellow bonbon you can easily kick six feet above
your head.”

“How delightful!” exclaimed Claribel, who was truly enraptured.
“You are certainly a most clever sorcerer as well as a considerate
compounder,” and she held out her hand for the box.

“Ahem!” said the wise one; “a check, please.”

“Oh, yes; to be sure! How stupid of me to forget it,” she returned.

He considerately retained the box in his own hand while she signed a check for
a large amount of money, after which he allowed her to hold the box herself.

“Are you sure you have made them strong enough?” she inquired,
anxiously; “it usually takes a great deal to affect me.”

“My only fear,” replied Dr. Daws, “is that I have made them
too strong. For this is the first time I have ever been called upon to prepare
these wonderful confections.”

“Don’t worry,” said Claribel; “the stronger they act
the better I shall act myself.”

She went away, after saying this, but stopping in at a dry goods store to shop,
she forgot the precious box in her new interest and left it lying on the ribbon
counter.

Then little Bessie Bostwick came to the counter to buy a hair ribbon and laid
her parcels beside the box. When she went away she gathered up the box with her
other bundles and trotted off home with it.

Bessie never knew, until after she had hung her coat in the hall closet and
counted up her parcels, that she had one too many. Then she opened it and
exclaimed:

“Why, it’s a box of candy! Someone must have mislaid it. But it is
too small a matter to worry about; there are only a few pieces.” So she
dumped the contents of the box into a bonbon dish that stood upon the hall
table and picking out the chocolate piece—she was fond of
chocolates—ate it daintily while she examined her purchases.

These were not many, for Bessie was only twelve years old and was not yet
trusted by her parents to expend much money at the stores. But while she tried
on the hair ribbon she suddenly felt a great desire to play upon the piano, and
the desire at last became so overpowering that she went into the parlor and
opened the instrument.

The little girl had, with infinite pains, contrived to learn two
“pieces” which she usually executed with a jerky movement of her
right hand and a left hand that forgot to keep up and so made dreadful
discords. But under the influence of the chocolate bonbon she sat down and ran
her fingers lightly over the keys producing such exquisite harmony that she was
filled with amazement at her own performance.

That was the prelude, however. The next moment she dashed into
Beethoven’s seventh sonata and played it magnificently.

Her mother, hearing the unusual burst of melody, came downstairs to see what
musical guest had arrived; but when she discovered it was her own little
daughter who was playing so divinely she had an attack of palpitation of the
heart (to which she was subject) and sat down upon a sofa until it should pass
away.

Meanwhile Bessie played one piece after another with untiring energy. She loved
music, and now found that all she need do was to sit at the piano and listen
and watch her hands twinkle over the keyboard.

Twilight deepened in the room and Bessie’s father came home and hung up
his hat and overcoat and placed his umbrella in the rack. Then he peeped into
the parlor to see who was playing.

“Great Caesar!” he exclaimed. But the mother came to him softly
with her finger on her lips and whispered: “Don’t interrupt her,
John. Our child seems to be in a trance. Did you ever hear such superb
music?”

“Why, she’s an infant prodigy!” gasped the astounded father.
“Beats Blind Tom all hollow! It’s—it’s
wonderful!”

As they stood listening the senator arrived, having been invited to dine with
them that evening. And before he had taken off his coat the Yale
professor—a man of deep learning and scholarly attainments—joined
the party.

Bessie played on; and the four elders stood in a huddled but silent and amazed
group, listening to the music and waiting for the sound of the dinner gong.

Mr. Bostwick, who was hungry, picked up the bonbon dish that lay on the table
beside him and ate the pink confection. The professor was watching him, so Mr.
Bostwick courteously held the dish toward him. The professor ate the
lemon-yellow piece and the senator reached out his hand and took the lavender
piece. He did not eat it, however, for, chancing to remember that it might
spoil his dinner, he put it in his vest pocket. Mrs. Bostwick, still intently
listening to her precocious daughter, without thinking what she did, took the
remaining piece, which was the white one, and slowly devoured it.

The dish was now empty, and Claribel Sudds’ precious bonbons had passed
from her possession forever!

Suddenly Mr. Bostwick, who was a big man, began to sing in a shrill, tremolo
soprano voice. It was not the same song Bessie was playing, and the discord was
shocking that the professor smiled, the senator put his hands to his ears and
Mrs. Bostwick cried in a horrified voice:

“William!”

Her husband continued to sing as if endeavoring to emulate the famous Christine
Nillson, and paid no attention whatever to his wife or his guests.

Fortunately the dinner gong now sounded, and Mrs. Bostwick dragged Bessie from
the piano and ushered her guests into the dining-room. Mr. Bostwick followed,
singing “The Last Rose of Summer” as if it had been an encore
demanded by a thousand delighted hearers.

The poor woman was in despair at witnessing her husband’s undignified
actions and wondered what she might do to control him. The professor seemed
more grave than usual; the senator’s face wore an offended expression,
and Bessie kept moving her fingers as if she still wanted to play the piano.

Mrs. Bostwick managed to get them all seated, although her husband had broken
into another aria; and then the maid brought in the soup.

When she carried a plate to the professor, he cried, in an excited voice:

“Hold it higher! Higher—I say!” And springing up he gave it a
sudden kick that sent it nearly to the ceiling, from whence the dish descended
to scatter soup over Bessie and the maid and to smash in pieces upon the crown
of the professor’s bald head.

At this atrocious act the senator rose from his seat with an exclamation of
horror and glanced at his hostess.

For some time Mrs. Bostwick had been staring straight ahead, with a dazed
expression; but now, catching the senator’s eye, she bowed gracefully and
began reciting “The Charge of the Light Brigade” in forceful tones.

The senator shuddered. Such disgraceful rioting he had never seen nor heard
before in a decent private family. He felt that his reputation was at stake,
and, being the only sane person, apparently, in the room, there was no one to
whom he might appeal.

The maid had run away to cry hysterically in the kitchen; Mr. Bostwick was
singing “O Promise Me;” the professor was trying to kick the globes
off the chandelier; Mrs. Bostwick had switched her recitation to “The Boy
Stood on the Burning Deck,” and Bessie had stolen into the parlor and was
pounding out the overture from the “Flying Dutchman.”

The senator was not at all sure he would not go crazy himself, presently; so he
slipped away from the turmoil, and, catching up his had and coat in the hall,
hurried from the house.

That night he sat up late writing a political speech he was to deliver the next
afternoon at Faneuil hall, but his experiences at the Bostwicks’ had so
unnerved him that he could scarcely collect his thoughts, and often he would
pause and shake his head pityingly as he remembered the strange things he had
seen in that usually respectable home.

The next day he met Mr. Bostwick in the street, but passed him by with a stony
glare of oblivion. He felt he really could not afford to know this gentleman in
the future. Mr. Bostwick was naturally indignant at the direct snub; yet in his
mind lingered a faint memory of some quite unusual occurrences at his dinner
party the evening before, and he hardly knew whether he dared resent the
senator’s treatment or not.

The political meeting was the feature of the day, for the senator’s
eloquence was well known in Boston. So the big hall was crowded with people,
and in one of the front rows sat the Bostwick family, with the learned Yale
professor beside them. They all looked tired and pale, as if they had passed a
rather dissipated evening, and the senator was rendered so nervous by seeing
them that he refused to look in their direction a second time.

While the mayor was introducing him the great man sat fidgeting in his chair;
and, happening to put his thumb and finger into his vest pocket, he found the
lavender-colored bonbon he had placed there the evening before.

“This may clear my throat,” thought the senator, and slipped the
bonbon into his mouth.

A few minutes afterwards he arose before the vast audience, which greeted him
with enthusiastic plaudits.

“My friends,” began the senator, in a grave voice, “this is a
most impressive and important occasion.”

Then he paused, balanced himself upon his left foot, and kicked his right leg
into the air in the way favored by ballet-dancers!

There was a hum of amazement and horror from the spectators, but the senator
appeared not to notice it. He whirled around upon the tips of his toes, kicked
right and left in a graceful manner, and startled a bald-headed man in the
front row by casting a languishing glance in his direction.

Suddenly Claribel Sudds, who happened to be present, uttered a scream and
sprang to her feet. Pointing an accusing finger at the dancing senator, she
cried in a loud voice:

“That’s the man who stole my bonbons! Seize him! Arrest him!
Don’t let him escape!”

But the ushers rushed her out of the hall, thinking she had gone suddenly
insane; and the senator’s friends seized him firmly and carried him out
the stage entrance to the street, where they put him into an open carriage and
instructed the driver to take him home.

The effect of the magic bonbon was still powerful enough to control the poor
senator, who stood upon the rear seat of the carriage and danced energetically
all the way home, to the delight of the crowd of small boys who followed the
carriage and the grief of the sober-minded citizens, who shook their heads
sadly and whispered that “another good man had gone wrong.”

It took the senator several months to recover from the shame and humiliation of
this escapade; and, curiously enough, he never had the slightest idea what had
induced him to act in so extraordinary a manner. Perhaps it was fortunate the
last bonbon had now been eaten, for they might easily have caused considerably
more trouble than they did.

Of course Claribel went again to the wise chemist and signed a check for
another box of magic bonbons; but she must have taken better care of these, for
she is now a famous vaudeville actress.

This story should teach us the folly of condemning others for actions that we
do not understand, for we never know what may happen to ourselves. It may also
serve as a hint to be careful about leaving parcels in public places, and,
incidentally, to let other people’s packages severely alone.

THE CAPTURE OF FATHER TIME

Jim was the son of a cowboy, and lived on the broad plains of Arizona. His
father had trained him to lasso a bronco or a young bull with perfect accuracy,
and had Jim possessed the strength to back up his skill he would have been as
good a cowboy as any in all Arizona.

When he was twelve years old he made his first visit to the east, where Uncle
Charles, his father’s brother, lived. Of course Jim took his lasso with
him, for he was proud of his skill in casting it, and wanted to show his
cousins what a cowboy could do.

At first the city boys and girls were much interested in watching Jim lasso
posts and fence pickets, but they soon tired of it, and even Jim decided it was
not the right sort of sport for cities.

But one day the butcher asked Jim to ride one of his horses into the country,
to a pasture that had been engaged, and Jim eagerly consented. He had been
longing for a horseback ride, and to make it seem like old times he took his
lasso with him.

He rode through the streets demurely enough, but on reaching the open country
roads his spirits broke forth into wild jubilation, and, urging the
butcher’s horse to full gallop, he dashed away in true cowboy fashion.

Then he wanted still more liberty, and letting down the bars that led into a
big field he began riding over the meadow and throwing his lasso at imaginary
cattle, while he yelled and whooped to his heart’s content.

Suddenly, on making a long cast with his lasso, the loop caught upon something
and rested about three feet from the ground, while the rope drew taut and
nearly pulled Jim from his horse.

This was unexpected. More than that, it was wonderful; for the field seemed
bare of even a stump. Jim’s eyes grew big with amazement, but he knew he
had caught something when a voice cried out:

“Here, let go! Let go, I say! Can’t you see what you’ve
done?”

No, Jim couldn’t see, nor did he intend to let go until he found out what
was holding the loop of the lasso. So he resorted to an old trick his father
had taught him and, putting the butcher’s horse to a run, began riding in
a circle around the spot where his lasso had caught.

As he thus drew nearer and nearer his quarry he saw the rope coil up, yet it
looked to be coiling over nothing but air. One end of the lasso was made fast
to a ring in the saddle, and when the rope was almost wound up and the horse
began to pull away and snort with fear, Jim dismounted. Holding the reins of
the bridle in one hand, he followed the rope, and an instant later saw an old
man caught fast in the coils of the lasso.

His head was bald and uncovered, but long white whiskers grew down to his
waist. About his body was thrown a loose robe of fine white linen. In one hand
he bore a great scythe, and beneath the other arm he carried an hourglass.

While Jim gazed wonderingly upon him, this venerable old man spoke in an angry
voice:

“Now, then—get that rope off as fast as you can! You’ve
brought everything on earth to a standstill by your foolishness!
Well—what are you staring at? Don’t you know who I am?”

“No,” said Jim, stupidly.

“Well, I’m Time—Father Time! Now, make haste and set me
free—if you want the world to run properly.”

“How did I happen to catch you?” asked Jim, without making a move
to release his captive.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been caught before,” growled
Father Time. “But I suppose it was because you were foolishly throwing
your lasso at nothing.”

“I didn’t see you,” said Jim.

“Of course you didn’t. I’m invisible to the eyes of human
beings unless they get within three feet of me, and I take care to keep more
than that distance away from them. That’s why I was crossing this field,
where I supposed no one would be. And I should have been perfectly safe had it
not been for your beastly lasso. Now, then,” he added, crossly,
“are you going to get that rope off?”

“Why should I?” asked Jim.

“Because everything in the world stopped moving the moment you caught me.
I don’t suppose you want to make an end of all business and pleasure, and
war and love, and misery and ambition and everything else, do you? Not a watch
has ticked since you tied me up here like a mummy!”

Jim laughed. It really was funny to see the old man wound round and round with
coils of rope from his knees up to his chin.

“It’ll do you good to rest,” said the boy. “From all
I’ve heard you lead a rather busy life.”

“Indeed I do,” replied Father Time, with a sigh. “I’m
due in Kamchatka this very minute. And to think one small boy is upsetting all
my regular habits!”

“Too bad!” said Jim, with a grin. “But since the world has
stopped anyhow, it won’t matter if it takes a little longer recess. As
soon as I let you go Time will fly again. Where are your wings?”

“I haven’t any,” answered the old man. “That is a story
cooked up by some one who never saw me. As a matter of fact, I move rather
slowly.”

“I see, you take your time,” remarked the boy. “What do you
use that scythe for?”

“To mow down the people,” said the ancient one. “Every time I
swing my scythe some one dies.”

“Then I ought to win a life-saving medal by keeping you tied up,”
said Jim. “Some folks will live this much longer.”

“But they won’t know it,” said Father Time, with a sad smile;
“so it will do them no good. You may as well untie me at once.”

“No,” said Jim, with a determined air. “I may never capture
you again; so I’ll hold you for awhile and see how the world wags without
you.”

Then he swung the old man, bound as he was, upon the back of the
butcher’s horse, and, getting into the saddle himself, started back
toward town, one hand holding his prisoner and the other guiding the reins.

When he reached the road his eye fell on a strange tableau. A horse and buggy
stood in the middle of the road, the horse in the act of trotting, with his
head held high and two legs in the air, but perfectly motionless. In the buggy
a man and a woman were seated; but had they been turned into stone they could
not have been more still and stiff.

“There’s no Time for them!” sighed the old man.
“Won’t you let me go now?”

“Not yet,” replied the boy.

He rode on until he reached the city, where all the people stood in exactly the
same positions they were in when Jim lassoed Father Time. Stopping in front of
a big dry goods store, the boy hitched his horse and went in. The clerks were
measuring out goods and showing patterns to the rows of customers in front of
them, but everyone seemed suddenly to have become a statue.

There was something very unpleasant in this scene, and a cold shiver began to
run up and down Jim’s back; so he hurried out again.

On the edge of the sidewalk sat a poor, crippled beggar, holding out his hat,
and beside him stood a prosperous-looking gentleman who was about to drop a
penny into the beggar’s hat. Jim knew this gentleman to be very rich but
rather stingy, so he ventured to run his hand into the man’s pocket and
take out his purse, in which was a $20 gold piece. This glittering coin he put
in the gentleman’s fingers instead of the penny and then restored the
purse to the rich man’s pocket.

“That donation will surprise him when he comes to life,” thought
the boy.

He mounted the horse again and rode up the street. As he passed the shop of his
friend, the butcher, he noticed several pieces of meat hanging outside.

“I’m afraid that meat’ll spoil,” he remarked.

“It takes Time to spoil meat,” answered the old man.

This struck Jim as being queer, but true.

“It seems Time meddles with everything,” said he.

“Yes; you’ve made a prisoner of the most important personage in the
world,” groaned the old man; “and you haven’t enough sense to
let him go again.”

Jim did not reply, and soon they came to his uncle’s house, where he
again dismounted. The street was filled with teams and people, but all were
motionless. His two little cousins were just coming out the gate on their way
to school, with their books and slates underneath their arms; so Jim had to
jump over the fence to avoid knocking them down.

In the front room sat his aunt, reading her Bible. She was just turning a page
when Time stopped. In the dining-room was his uncle, finishing his luncheon.
His mouth was open and his fork poised just before it, while his eyes were
fixed upon the newspaper folded beside him. Jim helped himself to his
uncle’s pie, and while he ate it he walked out to his prisoner.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said he.

“What’s that?” asked Father Time.

“Why is it that I’m able to move around while everyone else
is—is—froze up?”

“That is because I’m your prisoner,” answered the other.
“You can do anything you wish with Time now. But unless you are careful
you’ll do something you will be sorry for.”

Jim threw the crust of his pie at a bird that was suspended in the air, where
it had been flying when Time stopped.

“Anyway,” he laughed, “I’m living longer than anyone
else. No one will ever be able to catch up with me again.”

“Each life has its allotted span,” said the old man. “When
you have lived your proper time my scythe will mow you down.”

“I forgot your scythe,” said Jim, thoughtfully.

Then a spirit of mischief came into the boy’s head, for he happened to
think that the present opportunity to have fun would never occur again. He tied
Father Time to his uncle’s hitching post, that he might not escape, and
then crossed the road to the corner grocery.

The grocer had scolded Jim that very morning for stepping into a basket of
turnips by accident. So the boy went to the back end of the grocery and turned
on the faucet of the molasses barrel.

“That’ll make a nice mess when Time starts the molasses running all
over the floor,” said Jim, with a laugh.

A little further down the street was a barber shop, and sitting in the
barber’s chair Jim saw the man that all the boys declared was the
“meanest man in town.” He certainly did not like the boys and the
boys knew it. The barber was in the act of shampooing this person when Time was
captured. Jim ran to the drug store, and, getting a bottle of mucilage, he
returned and poured it over the ruffled hair of the unpopular citizen.

“That’ll probably surprise him when he wakes up,” thought
Jim.

Near by was the schoolhouse. Jim entered it and found that only a few of the
pupils were assembled. But the teacher sat at his desk, stern and frowning as
usual.

Taking a piece of chalk, Jim marked upon the blackboard in big letters the
following words:

“Every scholar is requested to yell the minute he enters the room. He
will also please throw his books at the teacher’s head. Signed, Prof.
Sharpe.”

“That ought to raise a nice rumpus,” murmured the mischiefmaker, as
he walked away.

On the corner stood Policeman Mulligan, talking with old Miss Scrapple, the
worst gossip in town, who always delighted in saying something disagreeable
about her neighbors. Jim thought this opportunity was too good to lose. So he
took off the policeman’s cap and brass-buttoned coat and put them on Miss
Scrapple, while the lady’s feathered and ribboned hat he placed jauntily
upon the policeman’s head.

The effect was so comical that the boy laughed aloud, and as a good many people
were standing near the corner Jim decided that Miss Scrapple and Officer
Mulligan would create a sensation when Time started upon his travels.

Then the young cowboy remembered his prisoner, and, walking back to the
hitching post, he came within three feet of it and saw Father Time still
standing patiently within the toils of the lasso. He looked angry and annoyed,
however, and growled out:

“Well, when do you intend to release me?”

“I’ve been thinking about that ugly scythe of yours,” said
Jim.

“What about it?” asked Father Time.

“Perhaps if I let you go you’ll swing it at me the first thing, to
be revenged,” replied the boy.

Father Time gave him a severe look, but said:

“I’ve known boys for thousands of years, and of course I know
they’re mischievous and reckless. But I like boys, because they grow up
to be men and people my world. Now, if a man had caught me by accident, as you
did, I could have scared him into letting me go instantly; but boys are harder
to scare. I don’t know as I blame you. I was a boy myself, long ago, when
the world was new. But surely you’ve had enough fun with me by this time,
and now I hope you’ll show the respect that is due to old age. Let me go,
and in return I will promise to forget all about my capture. The incident
won’t do much harm, anyway, for no one will ever know that Time has
halted the last three hours or so.”

“All right,” said Jim, cheerfully, “since you’ve
promised not to mow me down, I’ll let you go.” But he had a notion
some people in the town would suspect Time had stopped when they returned to
life.

He carefully unwound the rope from the old man, who, when he was free, at once
shouldered his scythe, rearranged his white robe and nodded farewell.

The next moment he had disappeared, and with a rustle and rumble and roar of
activity the world came to life again and jogged along as it always had before.

Jim wound up his lasso, mounted the butcher’s horse and rode slowly down
the street.

Loud screams came from the corner, where a great crowd of people quickly
assembled. From his seat on the horse Jim saw Miss Scrapple, attired in the
policeman’s uniform, angrily shaking her fists in Mulligan’s face,
while the officer was furiously stamping upon the lady’s hat, which he
had torn from his own head amidst the jeers of the crowd.

As he rode past the schoolhouse he heard a tremendous chorus of yells, and knew
Prof. Sharpe was having a hard time to quell the riot caused by the sign on the
blackboard.

Through the window of the barber shop he saw the “mean man”
frantically belaboring the barber with a hair brush, while his hair stood up
stiff as bayonets in all directions. And the grocer ran out of his door and
yelled “Fire!” while his shoes left a track of molasses wherever he
stepped.

Jim’s heart was filled with joy. He was fairly reveling in the excitement
he had caused when some one caught his leg and pulled him from the horse.

“What’re ye doin’ hear, ye rascal?” cried the butcher,
angrily; “didn’t ye promise to put that beast inter
Plympton’s pasture? An’ now I find ye ridin’ the poor nag
around like a gentleman o’ leisure!”

“That’s a fact,” said Jim, with surprise; “I clean
forgot about the horse!”

This story should teach us the supreme importance of Time and the folly of
trying to stop it. For should you succeed, as Jim did, in bringing Time to a
standstill, the world would soon become a dreary place and life decidedly
unpleasant.

THE WONDERFUL PUMP

Not many years ago there lived on a stony, barren New England farm a man and
his wife. They were sober, honest people, working hard from early morning until
dark to enable them to secure a scanty living from their poor land.

Their house, a small, one-storied building, stood upon the side of a steep
hill, and the stones lay so thickly about it that scarce anything green could
grow from the ground. At the foot of the hill, a quarter of a mile from the
house by the winding path, was a small brook, and the woman was obliged to go
there for water and to carry it up the hill to the house. This was a tedious
task, and with the other hard work that fell to her share had made her gaunt
and bent and lean.

Yet she never complained, but meekly and faithfully performed her duties, doing
the housework, carrying the water and helping her husband hoe the scanty crop
that grew upon the best part of their land.

One day, as she walked down the path to the brook, her big shoes scattering the
pebbles right and left, she noticed a large beetle lying upon its back and
struggling hard with its little legs to turn over, that its feet might again
touch the ground. But this it could not accomplish; so the woman, who had a
kind heart, reached down and gently turned the beetle with her finger. At once
it scampered from the path and she went on to the brook.

The next day, as she came for water, she was surprised to see the beetle again
lying upon its back and struggling helplessly to turn. Once more the woman
stopped and set him upon his feet; and then, as she stooped over the tiny
creature, she heard a small voice say:

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much for saving me!”

Half frightened at hearing a beetle speak in her own language, the woman
started back and exclaimed:

“La sakes! Surely you can’t talk like humans!” Then,
recovering from her alarm, she again bent over the beetle, who answered her:

“Why shouldn’t I talk, if I have anything to say?

“’Cause you’re a bug,” replied the woman.

“That is true; and you saved my life—saved me from my enemies, the
sparrows. And this is the second time you have come to my assistance, so I owe
you a debt of gratitude. Bugs value their lives as much as human beings, and I
am a more important creature than you, in your ignorance, may suppose. But,
tell me, why do you come each day to the brook?”

“For water,” she answered, staring stupidly down at the talking
beetle.

“Isn’t it hard work?” the creature inquired.

“Yes; but there’s no water on the hill,” said she.

“Then dig a well and put a pump in it,” replied the beetle.

She shook her head.

“My man tried it once; but there was no water,” she said, sadly.

“Try it again,” commanded the beetle; “and in return for your
kindness to me I will make this promise: if you do not get water from the well
you will get that which is more precious to you. I must go now. Do not forget.
Dig a well.”

And then, without pausing to say good-by, it ran swiftly away and was lost
among the stones.

The woman returned to the house much perplexed by what the beetle had said, and
when her husband came in from his work she told him the whole story.

The poor man thought deeply for a time, and then declared:

“Wife, there may be truth in what the bug told you. There must be magic
in the world yet, if a beetle can speak; and if there is such a thing as magic
we may get water from the well. The pump I bought to use in the well which
proved to be dry is now lying in the barn, and the only expense in following
the talking bug’s advice will be the labor of digging the hole. Labor I
am used to; so I will dig the well.”

Next day he set about it, and dug so far down in the ground that he could
hardly reach the top to climb out again; but not a drop of water was found.

“Perhaps you did not dig deep enough,” his wife said, when he told
her of his failure.

So the following day he made a long ladder, which he put into the hole; and
then he dug, and dug, and dug, until the top of the ladder barely reached the
top of the hole. But still there was no water.

When the woman next went to the brook with her pail she saw the beetle sitting
upon a stone beside her path. So she stopped and said:

“My husband has dug the well; but there is no water.”

“Did he put the pump in the well?” asked the beetle.

“No,” she answered.

“Then do as I commanded; put in the pump, and if you do not get water I
promise you something still more precious.”

Saying which, the beetle swiftly slid from the stone and disappeared. The woman
went back to the house and told her husband what the bug had said.

“Well,” replied the simple fellow, “there can be no harm in
trying.”

So he got the pump from the barn and placed it in the well, and then he took
hold of the handle and began to pump, while his wife stood by to watch what
would happen.

No water came, but after a few moments a gold piece dropped from the spout of
the pump, and then another, and another, until several handfuls of gold lay in
a little heap upon the ground.

The man stopped pumping then and ran to help his wife gather the gold pieces
into her apron; but their hands trembled so greatly through excitement and joy
that they could scarcely pick up the sparkling coins.

At last she gathered them close to her bosom and together they ran to the
house, where they emptied the precious gold upon the table and counted the
pieces.

All were stamped with the design of the United States mint and were worth five
dollars each. Some were worn and somewhat discolored from use, while others
seemed bright and new, as if they had not been much handled. When the value of
the pieces was added together they were found to be worth three hundred
dollars.

Suddenly the woman spoke.

“Husband, the beetle said truly when he declared we should get something
more precious than water from the well. But run at once and take away the
handle from the pump, lest anyone should pass this way and discover our
secret.”

So the man ran to the pump and removed the handle, which he carried to the
house and hid underneath the bed.

They hardly slept a wink that night, lying awake to think of their good fortune
and what they should do with their store of yellow gold. In all their former
lives they had never possessed more than a few dollars at a time, and now the
cracked teapot was nearly full of gold coins.

The following day was Sunday, and they arose early and ran to see if their
treasure was safe. There it lay, heaped snugly within the teapot, and they were
so willing to feast their eyes upon it that it was long before the man could
leave it to build the fire or the woman to cook the breakfast.

While they ate their simple meal the woman said:

“We will go to church to-day and return thanks for the riches that have
come to us so suddenly. And I will give the pastor one of the gold
pieces.”

“It is well enough to go to church,” replied her husband,
“and also to return thanks. But in the night I decided how we will spend
all our money; so there will be none left for the pastor.”

“We can pump more,” said the woman.

“Perhaps; and perhaps not,” he answered, cautiously. “What we
have we can depend upon, but whether or not there be more in the well I cannot
say.”

“Then go and find out,” she returned, “for I am anxious to
give something to the pastor, who is a poor man and deserving.”

So the man got the pump handle from beneath the bed, and, going to the pump,
fitted it in place. Then he set a large wooden bucket under the spout and began
to pump. To their joy the gold pieces soon began flowing into the pail, and,
seeing it about to run over the brim, the woman brought another pail. But now
the stream suddenly stopped, and the man said, cheerfully:

“That is enough for to-day, good wife! We have added greatly to our
treasure, and the parson shall have his gold piece. Indeed, I think I shall
also put a coin into the contribution box.”

Then, because the teapot would hold no more gold, the farmer emptied the pail
into the wood-box, covering the money with dried leaves and twigs, that no one
might suspect what lay underneath.

Afterward they dressed themselves in their best clothing and started for the
church, each taking a bright gold piece from the teapot as a gift to the
pastor.

Over the hill and down into the valley beyond they walked, feeling so gay and
light-hearted that they did not mind the distance at all. At last they came to
the little country church and entered just as the services began.

Being proud of their wealth and of the gifts they had brought for the pastor,
they could scarcely wait for the moment when the deacon passed the contribution
box. But at last the time came, and the farmer held his hand high over the box
and dropped the gold piece so that all the congregation could see what he had
given. The woman did likewise, feeling important and happy at being able to
give the good parson so much.

The parson, watching from the pulpit, saw the gold drop into the box, and could
hardly believe that his eyes did not deceive him. However, when the box was
laid upon his desk there were the two gold pieces, and he was so surprised that
he nearly forgot his sermon.

When the people were leaving the church at the close of the services the good
man stopped the farmer and his wife and asked:

“Where did you get so much gold?”

The woman gladly told him how she had rescued the beetle, and how, in return,
they had been rewarded with the wonderful pump. The pastor listened to it all
gravely, and when the story was finished he said:

“According to tradition strange things happened in this world ages ago,
and now I find that strange things may also happen to-day. For by your tale you
have found a beetle that can speak and also has power to bestow upon you great
wealth.” Then he looked carefully at the gold pieces and continued:
“Either this money is fairy gold or it is genuine metal, stamped at the
mint of the United States government. If it is fairy gold it will disappear
within 24 hours, and will therefore do no one any good. If it is real money,
then your beetle must have robbed some one of the gold and placed it in your
well. For all money belongs to some one, and if you have not earned it
honestly, but have come by it in the mysterious way you mention, it was surely
taken from the persons who owned it, without their consent. Where else could
real money come from?”

The farmer and his wife were confused by this statement and looked guiltily at
each other, for they were honest people and wished to wrong no one.

“Then you think the beetle stole the money?” asked the woman.

“By his magic powers he probably took it from its rightful owners. Even
bugs which can speak have no consciences and cannot tell the difference between
right and wrong. With a desire to reward you for your kindness the beetle took
from its lawful possessors the money you pumped from the well.”

“Perhaps it really is fairy gold,” suggested the man. “If so,
we must go to the town and spend the money before it disappears.”

“That would be wrong,” answered the pastor; “for then the
merchants would have neither money nor goods. To give them fairy gold would be
to rob them.”

“What, then, shall we do?” asked the poor woman, wringing her hands
with grief and disappointment.

“Go home and wait until to-morrow. If the gold is then in your possession
it is real money and not fairy gold. But if it is real money you must try to
restore it to its rightful owners. Take, also, these pieces which you have
given me, for I cannot accept gold that is not honestly come by.”

Sadly the poor people returned to their home, being greatly disturbed by what
they had heard. Another sleepless night was passed, and on Monday morning they
arose at daylight and ran to see if the gold was still visible.

“It is real money, after all!” cried the man; “for not a
single piece has disappeared.”

When the woman went to the brook that day she looked for the beetle, and, sure
enough, there he sat upon the flat stone.

“Are you happy now?” asked the beetle, as the woman paused before
him.

“We are very unhappy,” she answered; “for, although you have
given us much gold, our good parson says it surely belongs to some one else,
and was stolen by you to reward us.”

“Your parson may be a good man,” returned the beetle, with some
indignation, “but he certainly is not overwise. Nevertheless, if you do
not want the gold I can take it from you as easily as I gave it.”

“But we do want it!” cried the woman, fearfully. “That
is,” she added, “if it is honestly come by.”

“It is not stolen,” replied the beetle, sulkily, “and now
belongs to no one but yourselves. When you saved my life I thought how I might
reward you; and, knowing you to be poor, I decided gold would make you happier
than anything else.

“You must know,” he continued, “that although I appear so
small and insignificant, I am really king of all the insects, and my people
obey my slightest wish. Living, as they do, close to the ground, the insects
often come across gold and other pieces of money which have been lost by men
and have fallen into cracks or crevasses or become covered with earth or hidden
by grass or weeds. Whenever my people find money in this way they report the
fact to me; but I have always let it lie, because it could be of no possible
use to an insect.

“However, when I decided to give you gold I knew just where to obtain it
without robbing any of your fellow creatures. Thousands of insects were at once
sent by me in every direction to bring the pieces of lost gold to this hill. It
cost my people several days of hard labor, as you may suppose; but by the time
your husband had finished the well the gold began to arrive from all parts of
the country, and during the night my subjects dumped it all into the well. So
you may use it with a clear conscience, knowing that you wrong no one.”

This explanation delighted the woman, and when she returned to the house and
reported to her husband what the beetle had said he also was overjoyed.

So they at once took a number of the gold pieces and went to the town to
purchase provisions and clothing and many things of which they had long stood
in need; but so proud were they of their newly acquired wealth that they took
no pains to conceal it. They wanted everyone to know they had money, and so it
was no wonder that when some of the wicked men in the village saw the gold they
longed to possess it themselves.

“If they spend this money so freely,” whispered one to another,
“there must be a great store of gold at their home.”

“That is true,” was the answer. “Let us hasten there before
they return and ransack the house.”

So they left the village and hurried away to the farm on the hill, where they
broke down the door and turned everything topsy turvy until they had discovered
the gold in the wood-box and the teapot. It did not take them long to make this
into bundles, which they slung upon their backs and carried off, and it was
probably because they were in a great hurry that they did not stop to put the
house in order again.

Presently the good woman and her husband came up the hill from the village with
their arms full of bundles and followed by a crowd of small boys who had been
hired to help carry the purchases. Then followed others, youngsters and country
louts, attracted by the wealth and prodigality of the pair, who, from simple
curiosity, trailed along behind like the tail of a comet and helped swell the
concourse into a triumphal procession. Last of all came Guggins, the
shopkeeper, carrying with much tenderness a new silk dress which was to be paid
for when they reached the house, all the money they had taken to the village
having been lavishly expended.

The farmer, who had formerly been a modest man, was now so swelled with pride
that he tipped the rim of his hat over his left ear and smoked a big cigar that
was fast making him ill. His wife strutted along beside him like a peacock,
enjoying to the full the homage and respect her wealth had won from those who
formerly deigned not to notice her, and glancing from time to time at the
admiring procession in the rear.

But, alas for their new-born pride! when they reached the farmhouse they found
the door broken in, the furniture strewn in all directions and their treasure
stolen to the very last gold piece.

The crowd grinned and made slighting remarks of a personal nature, and Guggins,
the shopkeeper, demanded in a loud voice the money for the silk dress he had
brought.

Then the woman whispered to her husband to run and pump some more gold while
she kept the crowd quiet, and he obeyed quickly. But after a few moments he
returned with a white face to tell her the pump was dry, and not a gold piece
could now be coaxed from the spout.

The procession marched back to the village laughing and jeering at the farmer
and his wife, who had pretended to be so rich; and some of the boys were
naughty enough to throw stones at the house from the top of the hill. Mr.
Guggins carried away his dress after severely scolding the woman for deceiving
him, and when the couple at last found themselves alone their pride had turned
to humiliation and their joy to bitter grief.

Just before sundown the woman dried her eyes and, having resumed her ordinary
attire, went to the brook for water. When she came to the flat stone she saw
the King Beetle sitting upon it.

“The well is dry!” she cried out, angrily.

“Yes,” answered the beetle, calmly, “you have pumped from it
all the gold my people could find.”

“But we are now ruined,” said the woman, sitting down in the path
beginning to weep; “for robbers have stolen from us every penny we
possessed.”

“I’m sorry,” returned the beetle; “but it is your own
fault. Had you not made so great a show of your wealth no one would have
suspected you possessed a treasure, or thought to rob you. As it is, you have
merely lost the gold which others have lost before you. It will probably be
lost many times more before the world comes to an end.”

“But what are we to do now?” she asked.

“What did you do before I gave you the money?”

“We worked from morning ’til night,” said she.

“Then work still remains for you,” remarked the beetle, composedly;
“no one will ever try to rob you of that, you may be sure!” And he
slid from the stone and disappeared for the last time.

This story should teach us to accept good fortune with humble hearts and to use
it with moderation. For, had the farmer and his wife resisted the temptation to
display their wealth ostentatiously, they might have retained it to this very
day.

THE DUMMY THAT LIVED

In all Fairyland there is no more mischievous a person than Tanko-Mankie the
Yellow Ryl. He flew through the city one afternoon—quite invisible to
mortal eyes, but seeing everything himself—and noticed a figure of a wax
lady standing behind the big plate glass window of Mr. Floman’s
department store.

The wax lady was beautifully dressed, and extended in her stiff left hand was a
card bearing the words:

“RARE BARGIN!
This Stylish Costume
(Imported from Paris)
Former Price, $20,
REDUCED TO ONLY $19.98.”

This impressive announcement had drawn before the window a crowd of women
shoppers, who stood looking at the wax lady with critical eyes.

Tanko-Mankie laughed to himself the low, gurgling little laugh that always
means mischief. Then he flew close to the wax figure and breathed twice upon
its forehead.

From that instant the dummy began to live, but so dazed and astonished was she
at the unexpected sensation that she continued to stand stupidly staring at the
women outside and holding out the placard as before.

The ryl laughed again and flew away. Anyone but Tanko-Mankie would have
remained to help the wax lady out of the troubles that were sure to overtake
her; but this naughty elf thought it rare fun to turn the inexperienced lady
loose in a cold and heartless world and leave her to shift for herself.

Fortunately it was almost six o’clock when the dummy first realized that
she was alive, and before she had collected her new thoughts and decided what
to do a man came around and drew down all the window shades, shutting off the
view from the curious shoppers.

Then the clerks and cashiers and floorwalkers and cash girls went home and the
store was closed for the night, although the sweepers and scrubbers remained to
clean the floors for the following day.

The window inhabited by the wax lady was boxed in, like a little room, one
small door being left at the side for the window-trimmer to creep in and out
of. So the scrubbers never noticed that the dummy, when left to herself,
dropped the placard to the floor and sat down upon a pile of silks to wonder
who she was, where she was, and how she happened to be alive.

For you must consider, dear reader, that in spite of her size and her rich
costume, in spite of her pink cheeks and fluffy yellow hair, this lady was very
young—no older, in reality, than a baby born but half an hour. All she
knew of the world was contained in the glimpse she had secured of the busy
street facing her window; all she knew of people lay in the actions of the
group of women which had stood before her on the other side of the window pane
and criticised the fit of her dress or remarked upon its stylish appearance.

So she had little enough to think about, and her thoughts moved somewhat
slowly; yet one thing she really decided upon, and that was not to remain in
the window and be insolently stared at by a lot of women who were not nearly so
handsome or well dressed as herself.

By the time she reached this important conclusion, it was after midnight; but
dim lights were burning in the big, deserted store, so she crept through the
door of her window and walked down the long aisles, pausing now and then to
look with much curiosity at the wealth of finery confronting her on every side.

When she came to the glass cases filled with trimmed hats she remembered having
seen upon the heads of the women in the street similar creations. So she
selected one that suited her fancy and placed it carefully upon her yellow
locks. I won’t attempt to explain what instinct it was that made her
glance into a near-by mirror to see if the hat was straight, but this she
certainly did. It didn’t correspond with her dress very well, but the
poor thing was too young to have much taste in matching colors.

When she reached the glove counter she remembered that gloves were also worn by
the women she had seen. She took a pair from the case and tried to fit them
upon her stiff, wax-coated fingers; but the gloves were too small and ripped in
the seams. Then she tried another pair, and several others, as well; but hours
passed before she finally succeeded in getting her hands covered with a pair of
pea-green kids.

Next she selected a parasol from a large and varied assortment in the rear of
the store. Not that she had any idea what it was used for; but other ladies
carried such things, so she also would have one.

When she again examined herself critically in the mirror she decided her outfit
was now complete, and to her inexperienced eyes there was no perceptible
difference between her and the women who had stood outside the window.
Whereupon she tried to leave the store, but found every door fast locked.

The wax lady was in no hurry. She inherited patience from her previous
existence. Just to be alive and to wear beautiful clothes was sufficient
enjoyment for her at present. So she sat down upon a stool and waited quietly
until daylight.

When the janitor unlocked the door in the morning the wax lady swept past him
and walked with stiff but stately strides down the street. The poor fellow was
so completely whuckered at seeing the well-known wax lady leave her window and
march away from the store that he fell over in a heap and only saved himself
from fainting by striking his funny bone against the doorstep. When he
recovered his wits she had turned the corner and disappeared.

The wax lady’s immature mind had reasoned that, since she had come to
life, her evident duty was to mix with the world and do whatever other folks
did. She could not realize how different she was from people of flesh and
blood; nor did she know she was the first dummy that had ever lived, or that
she owed her unique experience to Tanko-Mankie’s love of mischief. So
ignorance gave her a confidence in herself that she was not justly entitled to.

It was yet early in the day, and the few people she met were hurrying along the
streets. Many of them turned into restaurants and eating houses, and following
their example the wax lady also entered one and sat upon a stool before a lunch
counter.

“Coffee ’n’ rolls!” said a shop girl on the next stool.

“Coffee ’n’ rolls!” repeated the dummy, and soon the
waiter placed them before her. Of course she had no appetite, as her
constitution, being mostly wood, did not require food; but she watched the shop
girl, and saw her put the coffee to her mouth and drink it. Therefore the wax
lady did the same, and the next instant was surprised to feel the hot liquid
trickling out between her wooden ribs. The coffee also blistered her wax lips,
and so disagreeable was the experience that she arose and left the restaurant,
paying no attention to the demands of the waiter for “20 cents,
mum.” Not that she intended to defraud him, but the poor creature had no
idea what he meant by “20 cents, mum.”

As she came out she met the window trimmer at Floman’s store. The man was
rather near-sighted, but seeing something familiar in the lady’s features
he politely raised his hat. The wax lady also raised her hat, thinking it the
proper thing to do, and the man hurried away with a horrified face.

Then a woman touched her arm and said:

“Beg pardon, ma’am; but there’s a price-mark hanging on your
dress behind.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the wax lady, stiffly; “it was
originally $20, but it’s been reduced to $19.98.”

The woman looked surprised at such indifference and walked on. Some carriages
were standing at the edge of the sidewalk, and seeing the dummy hesitate a
driver approached her and touched his cap.

“Cab, ma’am?” he asked.

“No,” said she, misunderstanding him; “I’m wax.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and looked after her wonderingly.

“Here’s yer mornin’ paper!” yelled a newsboy.

“Mine, did you say?” she asked.

“Sure! Chronicle, ’Quirer, R’public ’n’
’Spatch! Wot’ll ye ’ave?”

“What are they for?” inquired the wax lady, simply.

“W’y, ter read, o’ course. All the news, you know.”

She shook her head and glanced at a paper.

“It looks all speckled and mixed up,” she said. “I’m
afraid I can’t read.”

“Ever ben to school?” asked the boy, becoming interested.

“No; what’s school?” she inquired.

The boy gave her an indignant look.

“Say!” he cried, “ye’r just a dummy, that’s wot
ye are!” and ran away to seek a more promising customer.

“I wonder that he means,” thought the poor lady. “Am I really
different in some way from all the others? I look like them, certainly; and I
try to act like them; yet that boy called me a dummy and seemed to think I
acted queerly.”

This idea worried her a little, but she walked on to the corner, where she
noticed a street car stop to let some people on. The wax lady, still determined
to do as others did, also boarded the car and sat down quietly in a corner.

After riding a few blocks the conductor approached her and said:

“Fare, please!”

“What’s that?” she inquired, innocently.

“Your fare!” said the man, impatiently.

She stared at him stupidly, trying to think what he meant.

“Come, come!” growled the conductor, “either pay up or get
off!”

Still she did not understand, and he grabbed her rudely by the arm and lifted
her to her feet. But when his hand came in contact with the hard wood of which
her arm was made the fellow was filled with surprise. He stooped down and
peered into her face, and, seeing it was wax instead of flesh, he gave a yell
of fear and jumped from the car, running as if he had seen a ghost.

At this the other passengers also yelled and sprang from the car, fearing a
collision; and the motorman, knowing something was wrong, followed suit. The
wax lady, seeing the others run, jumped from the car last of all, and stepped
in front of another car coming at full speed from the opposite direction.

She heard cries of fear and of warning on all sides, but before she understood
her danger she was knocked down and dragged for half a block.

When the car was brought to a stop a policeman reached down and pulled her from
under the wheels. Her dress was badly torn and soiled. Her left ear was
entirely gone, and the left side of her head was caved in; but she quickly
scrambled to her feet and asked for her hat. This a gentleman had already
picked up, and when the policeman handed it to her and noticed the great hole
in her head and the hollow place it disclosed, the poor fellow trembled so
frightfully that his knees actually knocked together.

“Why—why, ma’am, you’re killed!” he gasped.

“What does it mean to be killed?” asked the wax lady.

The policeman shuddered and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“You’re it!” he answered, with a groan.

The crowd that had collected were looking upon the lady wonderingly, and a
middle-aged gentleman now exclaimed:

“Why, she’s wax!”

“Wax!” echoed the policeman.

“Certainly. She’s one of those dummies they put in the
windows,” declared the middle-aged man.

The people who had collected shouted: “You’re right!”
“That’s what she is!” “She’s a dummy!”

“Are you?” inquired the policeman, sternly.

The wax lady did not reply. She began to fear she was getting into trouble, and
the staring crowd seemed to embarrass her.

Suddenly a bootblack attempted to solve the problem by saying: “You guys
is all wrong! Can a dummy talk? Can a dummy walk? Can a dummy live?”

“Hush!” murmured the policeman. “Look here!” and he
pointed to the hole in the lady’s head. The newsboy looked, turned pale
and whistled to keep himself from shivering.

A second policeman now arrived, and after a brief conference it was decided to
take the strange creature to headquarters. So they called a hurry-up wagon, and
the damaged wax lady was helped inside and driven to the police station. There
the policeman locked her in a cell and hastened to tell Inspector Mugg their
wonderful story.

Inspector Mugg had just eaten a poor breakfast, and was not in a pleasant mood;
so he roared and stormed at the unlucky policemen, saying they were themselves
dummies to bring such a fairy tale to a man of sense. He also hinted that they
had been guilty of intemperance.

The policemen tried to explain, but Inspector Mugg would not listen; and while
they were still disputing in rushed Mr. Floman, the owner of the department
store.

“I want a dozen detectives, at once, inspector!” he cried.

“What for?” demanded Mugg.

“One of the wax ladies has escaped from my store and eloped with a $19.98
costume, a $4.23 hat, a $2.19 parasol and a 76-cent pair of gloves, and I want
her arrested!”

While he paused for breath the inspector glared at him in amazement.

“Is everybody going crazy at the same time?” he inquired,
sarcastically. “How could a wax dummy run away?”

“I don’t know; but she did. When my janitor opened the door this
morning he saw her run out.”

“Why didn’t he stop her?” asked Mugg.

“He was too frightened. But she’s stolen my property, your honor,
and I want her arrested!” declared the storekeeper.

The inspector thought for a moment.

“You wouldn’t be able to prosecute her,” he said, “for
there’s no law against dummies stealing.”

Mr. Floman sighed bitterly.

“Am I to lose that $19.98 costume and the $4.25 hat and—”

“By no means,” interrupted Inspector Mugg. “The police of
this city are ever prompt to act in defense of our worthy citizens. We have
already arrested the wax lady, and she is locked up in cell No. 16. You may go
there and recover your property, if you wish, but before you prosecute her for
stealing you’d better hunt up a law that applies to dummies.”

“All I want,” said Mr. Floman, “is that $19.98 costume
and—”

“Come along!” interrupted the policeman. “I’ll take you
to the cell.”

But when they entered No. 16 they found only a lifeless dummy lying prone upon
the floor. Its wax was cracked and blistered, its head was badly damaged, and
the bargain costume was dusty, soiled and much bedraggled. For the
mischief-loving Tanko-Mankie had flown by and breathed once more upon the poor
wax lady, and in that instant her brief life ended.

“It’s just as I thought,” said Inspector Mugg, leaning back
in his chair contentedly. “I knew all the time the thing was a fake. It
seems sometimes as though the whole world would go crazy if there wasn’t
some level-headed man around to bring ’em to their senses. Dummies are
wood an’ wax, an’ that’s all there is of ’em.”

“That may be the rule,” whispered the policeman to himself,
“but this one were a dummy as lived!”

THE KING OF THE POLAR BEARS

The King of the Polar Bears lived among the icebergs in the far north country.
He was old and monstrous big; he was wise and friendly to all who knew him. His
body was thickly covered with long, white hair that glistened like silver under
the rays of the midnight sun. His claws were strong and sharp, that he might
walk safely over the smooth ice or grasp and tear the fishes and seals upon
which he fed.

The seals were afraid when he drew near, and tried to avoid him; but the gulls,
both white and gray, loved him because he left the remnants of his feasts for
them to devour.

Often his subjects, the polar bears, came to him for advice when ill or in
trouble; but they wisely kept away from his hunting grounds, lest they might
interfere with his sport and arouse his anger.

The wolves, who sometimes came as far north as the icebergs, whispered among
themselves that the King of the Polar Bears was either a magician or under the
protection of a powerful fairy. For no earthly thing seemed able to harm him;
he never failed to secure plenty of food, and he grew bigger and stronger day
by day and year by year.

Yet the time came when this monarch of the north met man, and his wisdom failed
him.

He came out of his cave among the icebergs one day and saw a boat moving
through the strip of water which had been uncovered by the shifting of the
summer ice. In the boat were men.

The great bear had never seen such creatures before, and therefore advanced
toward the boat, sniffing the strange scent with aroused curiosity and
wondering whether he might take them for friends or foes, food or carrion.

When the king came near the water’s edge a man stood up in the boat and
with a queer instrument made a loud “bang!” The polar bear felt a
shock; his brain became numb; his thoughts deserted him; his great limbs shook
and gave way beneath him and his body fell heavily upon the hard ice.

That was all he remembered for a time.

When he awoke he was smarting with pain on every inch of his huge bulk, for the
men had cut away his hide with its glorious white hair and carried it with them
to a distant ship.

Above him circled thousands of his friends the gulls, wondering if their
benefactor were really dead and it was proper to eat him. But when they saw him
raise his head and groan and tremble they knew he still lived, and one of them
said to his comrades:

“The wolves were right. The king is a great magician, for even men cannot
kill him. But he suffers for lack of covering. Let us repay his kindness to us
by each giving him as many feathers as we can spare.”

This idea pleased the gulls. One after another they plucked with their beaks
the softest feathers from under their wings, and, flying down, dropped then
gently upon the body of the King of the Polar Bears.

Then they called to him in a chorus:

“Courage, friend! Our feathers are as soft and beautiful as your own
shaggy hair. They will guard you from the cold winds and warm you while you
sleep. Have courage, then, and live!”

And the King of the Polar Bears had courage to bear his pain and lived and was
strong again.

The feathers grew as they had grown upon the bodies of the birds and covered
him as his own hair had done. Mostly they were pure white in color, but some
from the gray gulls gave his majesty a slight mottled appearance.

The rest of that summer and all through the six months of night the king left
his icy cavern only to fish or catch seals for food. He felt no shame at his
feathery covering, but it was still strange to him, and he avoided meeting any
of his brother bears.

During this period of retirement he thought much of the men who had harmed him,
and remembered the way they had made the great “bang!” And he
decided it was best to keep away from such fierce creatures. Thus he added to
his store of wisdom.

When the moon fell away from the sky and the sun came to make the icebergs
glitter with the gorgeous tintings of the rainbow, two of the polar bears
arrived at the king’s cavern to ask his advice about the hunting season.
But when they saw his great body covered with feathers instead of hair they
began to laugh, and one said:

“Our mighty king has become a bird! Who ever before heard of a feathered
polar bear?”

Then the king gave way to wrath. He advanced upon them with deep growls and
stately tread and with one blow of his monstrous paw stretched the mocker
lifeless at his feet.

The other ran away to his fellows and carried the news of the king’s
strange appearance. The result was a meeting of all the polar bears upon a
broad field of ice, where they talked gravely of the remarkable change that had
come upon their monarch.

“He is, in reality, no longer a bear,” said one; “nor can he
justly be called a bird. But he is half bird and half bear, and so unfitted to
remain our king.”

“Then who shall take his place?” asked another.

“He who can fight the bird-bear and overcome him,” answered an aged
member of the group. “Only the strongest is fit to rule our race.”

There was silence for a time, but at length a great bear moved to the front and
said:

“I will fight him; I—Woof—the strongest of our race! And I
will be King of the Polar Bears.”

The others nodded assent, and dispatched a messenger to the king to say he must
fight the great Woof and master him or resign his sovereignty.

“For a bear with feathers,” added the messenger, “is no bear
at all, and the king we obey must resemble the rest of us.”

“I wear feathers because it pleases me,” growled the king.
“Am I not a great magician? But I will fight, nevertheless, and if Woof
masters me he shall be king in my stead.”

Then he visited his friends, the gulls, who were even then feasting upon the
dead bear, and told them of the coming battle.

“I shall conquer,” he said, proudly. “Yet my people are in
the right, for only a hairy one like themselves can hope to command their
obedience.”

The queen gull said:

“I met an eagle yesterday, which had made its escape from a big city of
men. And the eagle told me he had seen a monstrous polar bear skin thrown over
the back of a carriage that rolled along the street. That skin must have been
yours, oh king, and if you wish I will sent an hundred of my gulls to the city
to bring it back to you.”

“Let them go!” said the king, gruffly. And the hundred gulls were
soon flying rapidly southward.

For three days they flew straight as an arrow, until they came to scattered
houses, to villages, and to cities. Then their search began.

The gulls were brave, and cunning, and wise. Upon the fourth day they reached
the great metropolis, and hovered over the streets until a carriage rolled
along with a great white bear robe thrown over the back seat. Then the birds
swooped down—the whole hundred of them—and seizing the skin in
their beaks flew quickly away.

They were late. The king’s great battle was upon the seventh day, and
they must fly swiftly to reach the Polar regions by that time.

Meanwhile the bird-bear was preparing for his fight. He sharpened his claws in
the small crevasses of the ice. He caught a seal and tested his big yellow
teeth by crunching its bones between them. And the queen gull set her band to
pluming the king bear’s feathers until they lay smoothly upon his body.

But every day they cast anxious glances into the southern sky, watching for the
hundred gulls to bring back the king’s own skin.

The seventh day came, and all the Polar bears in that region gathered around
the king’s cavern. Among them was Woof, strong and confident of his
success.

“The bird-bear’s feathers will fly fast enough when I get my claws
upon him!” he boasted; and the others laughed and encouraged him.

The king was disappointed at not having recovered his skin, but he resolved to
fight bravely without it. He advanced from the opening of his cavern with a
proud and kingly bearing, and when he faced his enemy he gave so terrible a
growl that Woof’s heart stopped beating for a moment, and he began to
realize that a fight with the wise and mighty king of his race was no laughing
matter.

After exchanging one or two heavy blows with his foe Woof’s courage
returned, and he determined to dishearten his adversary by bluster.

“Come nearer, bird-bear!” he cried. “Come nearer, that I may
pluck your plumage!”

The defiance filled the king with rage. He ruffled his feathers as a bird does,
till he appeared to be twice his actual size, and then he strode forward and
struck Woof so powerful a blow that his skull crackled like an egg-shell and he
fell prone upon the ground.

While the assembled bears stood looking with fear and wonder at their fallen
champion the sky became darkened.

An hundred gulls flew down from above and dripped upon the king’s body a
skin covered with pure white hair that glittered in the sun like silver.

And behold! the bears saw before them the well-known form of their wise and
respected master, and with one accord they bowed their shaggy heads in homage
to the mighty King of the Polar Bears.

This story teaches us that true dignity and courage depend not upon outward
appearance, but come rather from within; also that brag and bluster are poor
weapons to carry into battle.

THE MANDARIN AND THE BUTTERFLY

A mandarin once lived in Kiang-ho who was so exceedingly cross and disagreeable
that everyone hated him. He snarled and stormed at every person he met and was
never known to laugh or be merry under any circumstances. Especially he hated
boys and girls; for the boys jeered at him, which aroused his wrath, and the
girls made fun of him, which hurt his pride.

When he had become so unpopular that no one would speak to him, the emperor
heard about it and commanded him to emigrate to America. This suited the
mandarin very well; but before he left China he stole the Great Book of Magic
that belonged to the wise magician Haot-sai. Then, gathering up his little
store of money, he took ship for America.

He settled in a city of the middle west and of course started a laundry, since
that seems to be the natural vocation of every Chinaman, be he coolie or
mandarin.

He made no acquaintances with the other Chinamen of the town, who, when they
met him and saw the red button in his hat, knew him for a real mandarin and
bowed low before him. He put up a red and white sign and people brought their
laundry to him and got paper checks, with Chinese characters upon them, in
exchange, this being the only sort of character the mandarin had left.

One day as the ugly one was ironing in his shop in the basement of 263 1/2 Main
street, he looked up and saw a crowd of childish faces pressed against the
window. Most Chinamen make friends with children; this one hated them and tried
to drive them away. But as soon as he returned to his work they were back at
the window again, mischievously smiling down upon him.

The naughty mandarin uttered horrid words in the Manchu language and made
fierce gestures; but this did no good at all. The children stayed as long as
they pleased, and they came again the very next day as soon as school was over,
and likewise the next day, and the next. For they saw their presence at the
window bothered the Chinaman and were delighted accordingly.

The following day being Sunday the children did not appear, but as the
mandarin, being a heathen, worked in his little shop a big butterfly flew in at
the open door and fluttered about the room.

The mandarin closed the door and chased the butterfly until he caught it, when
he pinned it against the wall by sticking two pins through its beautiful wings.
This did not hurt the butterfly, there being no feeling in its wings; but it
made him a safe prisoner.

This butterfly was of large size and its wings were exquisitely marked by
gorgeous colors laid out in regular designs like the stained glass windows of a
cathedral.

The mandarin now opened his wooden chest and drew forth the Great Book of Magic
he had stolen from Haot-sai. Turning the pages slowly he came to a passage
describing “How to understand the language of butterflies.” This he
read carefully and then mixed a magic formula in a tin cup and drank it down
with a wry face. Immediately thereafter he spoke to the butterfly in its own
language, saying:

“Why did you enter this room?”

“I smelled bees-wax,” answered the butterfly; “therefore I
thought I might find honey here.”

“But you are my prisoner,” said the mandarin. “If I please I
can kill you, or leave you on the wall to starve to death.”

“I expect that,” replied the butterfly, with a sigh. “But my
race is shortlived, anyway; it doesn’t matter whether death comes sooner
or later.”

“Yet you like to live, do you not?” asked the mandarin.

“Yet; life is pleasant and the world is beautiful. I do not seek
death.”

“Then,” said the mandarin, “I will give you life—a long
and pleasant life—if you will promise to obey me for a time and carry out
my instructions.”

“How can a butterfly serve a man?” asked the creature, in surprise.

“Usually they cannot,” was the reply. “But I have a book of
magic which teaches me strange things. Do you promise?”

“Oh, yes; I promise,” answered the butterfly; “for even as
your slave I will get some enjoyment out of life, while should you kill
me—that is the end of everything!”

“Truly,” said the mandarin, “butterflies have no souls, and
therefore cannot live again.”

“But I have enjoyed three lives already,” returned the butterfly,
with some pride. “I have been a caterpillar and a chrysalis before I
became a butterfly. You were never anything but a Chinaman, although I admit
your life is longer than mine.”

“I will extend your life for many days, if you will obey me,”
declared the Chinaman. “I can easily do so by means of my magic.”

“Of course I will obey you,” said the butterfly, carelessly.

“Then, listen! You know children, do you not?—boys and
girls?”

“Yes, I know them. They chase me, and try to catch me, as you have
done,” replied the butterfly.

“And they mock me, and jeer at me through the window,” continued
the mandarin, bitterly. “Therefore, they are your enemies and mine! But
with your aid and the help of the magic book we shall have a fine revenge for
their insults.”

“I don’t care much for revenge,” said the butterfly.
“They are but children, and ’tis natural they should wish to catch
such a beautiful creature as I am.”

“Nevertheless, I care! and you must obey me,” retorted the
mandarin, harshly. “I, at least, will have my revenge.”

Then he stuck a drop of molasses upon the wall beside the butterfly’s
head and said:

“Eat that, while I read my book and prepare my magic formula.”

So the butterfly feasted upon the molasses and the mandarin studied his book,
after which he began to mix a magic compound in the tin cup.

When the mixture was ready he released the butterfly from the wall and said to
it:

“I command you to dip your two front feet into this magic compound and
then fly away until you meet a child. Fly close, whether it be a boy or a girl,
and touch the child upon its forehead with your feet. Whosoever is thus
touched, the book declares, will at once become a pig, and will remain such
forever after. Then return to me and dip your legs afresh in the contents of
this cup. So shall all my enemies, the children, become miserable swine, while
no one will think of accusing me of the sorcery.”

“Very well; since such is your command, I obey,” said the
butterfly. Then it dipped its front legs, which were the shortest of the six,
into the contents of the tin cup, and flew out of the door and away over the
houses to the edge of the town. There it alighted in a flower garden and soon
forgot all about its mission to turn children into swine.

In going from flower to flower it soon brushed the magic compound from its
legs, so that when the sun began to set and the butterfly finally remembered
its master, the mandarin, it could not have injured a child had it tried.

But it did not intend to try.

“That horrid old Chinaman,” it thought, “hates children and
wishes to destroy them. But I rather like children myself and shall not harm
them. Of course I must return to my master, for he is a magician, and would
seek me out and kill me; but I can deceive him about this matter easily
enough.”

When the butterfly flew in at the door of the mandarin’s laundry he
asked, eagerly:

“Well, did you meet a child?”

“I did,” replied the butterfly, calmly. “It was a pretty,
golden-haired girl—but now ’tis a grunting pig!”

“Good! Good! Good!” cried the mandarin, dancing joyfully about the
room. “You shall have molasses for your supper, and to-morrow you must
change two children into pigs.”

The butterfly did not reply, but ate the molasses in silence. Having no soul it
had no conscience, and having no conscience it was able to lie to the mandarin
with great readiness and a certain amount of enjoyment.

Next morning, by the mandarin’s command, the butterfly dipped its legs in
the mixture and flew away in search of children.

When it came to the edge of the town it noticed a pig in a sty, and alighting
upon the rail of the sty it looked down at the creature and thought.

“If I could change a child into a pig by touching it with the magic
compound, what could I change a pig into, I wonder?”

Being curious to determine this fine point in sorcery the butterfly fluttered
down and touched its front feet to the pig’s nose. Instantly the animal
disappeared, and in its place was a shock-headed, dirty looking boy, which
sprang from the sty and ran down the road uttering load whoops.

“That’s funny,” said the butterfly to itself. “The
mandarin would be very angry with me if he knew of this, for I have liberated
one more of the creatures that bother him.”

It fluttered along after the boy, who had paused to throw stones at a cat. But
pussy escaped by running up a tree, where thick branches protected her from the
stones. Then the boy discovered a newly-planted garden, and trampled upon the
beds until the seeds were scattered far and wide, and the garden was ruined.
Next he caught up a switch and struck with it a young calf that stood quietly
grazing in a field. The poor creature ran away with piteous bleats, and the boy
laughed and followed after it, striking the frightened animal again and again.

“Really,” thought the butterfly, “I do not wonder the
mandarin hates children, if they are all so cruel and wicked as this
one.”

The calf having escaped him the boy came back to the road, where he met two
little girls on their way to school. One of them had a red apple in her hand,
and the boy snatched it away and began eating it. The little girl commenced to
cry, but her companion, more brave and sturdy, cried out:

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you nasty boy!”

At this the boy reached out and slapped her pretty face, whereupon she also
began to sob.

Although possessed of neither soul nor conscience, the butterfly had a very
tender heart, and now decided it could endure this boy no longer.

“If I permitted him to exist,” it reflected, “I should never
forgive myself, for the monster would do nothing but evil from morning
’til night.”

So it flew directly into his face and touched his forehead with its sticky
front feet.

The next instant the boy had disappeared, but a grunting pig ran swiftly up the
road in the direction of its sty.

The butterfly gave a sigh of relief.

“This time I have indeed used the mandarin’s magic upon a
child,” it whispered, as it floated lazily upon the light breeze;
“but since the child was originally a pig I do not think I have any cause
to reproach myself. The little girls were sweet and gentle, and I would not
injure them to save my life, but were all boys like this transformed pig, I
should not hesitate to carry out the mandarin’s orders.”

Then it flew into a rose bush, where it remained comfortably until evening. At
sundown it returned to its master.

“Have you changed two of them into pigs?” he asked, at once.

“I have,” replied the butterfly. “One was a pretty,
black-eyed baby, and the other a freckle-faced, red-haired, barefooted
newboy.”

“Good! Good! Good!” screamed the mandarin, in an ecstasy of
delight. “Those are the ones who torment me the most! Change every newboy
you meet into a pig!”

“Very well,” answered the butterfly, quietly, and ate its supper of
molasses.

Several days were passed by the butterfly in the same manner. It fluttered
aimlessly about the flower gardens while the sun shone, and returned at night
to the mandarin with false tales of turning children into swine. Sometimes it
would be one child which was transformed, sometimes two, and occasionally
three; but the mandarin always greeted the butterfly’s report with
intense delight and gave him molasses for supper.

One evening, however, the butterfly thought it might be well to vary the
report, so that the mandarin might not grow suspicious; and when its master
asked what child had been had been changed into a pig that day the lying
creature answered:

“It was a Chinese boy, and when I touched him he became a black
pig.”

This angered the mandarin, who was in an especially cross mood. He spitefully
snapped the butterfly with his finger, and nearly broke its beautiful wing; for
he forgot that Chinese boys had once mocked him and only remembered his hatred
for American boys.

The butterfly became very indignant at this abuse from the mandarin. It refused
to eat its molasses and sulked all the evening, for it had grown to hate the
mandarin almost as much as the mandarin hated children.

When morning came it was still trembling with indignation; but the mandarin
cried out:

“Make haste, miserable slave; for to-day you must change four children
into pigs, to make up for yesterday.”

The butterfly did not reply. His little black eyes were sparkling wickedly, and
no sooner had he dipped his feet into the magic compound than he flew full in
the mandarin’s face, and touched him upon his ugly, flat forehead.

Soon after a gentleman came into the room for his laundry. The mandarin was not
there, but running around the place was a repulsive, scrawny pig, which
squealed most miserably.

The butterfly flew away to a brook and washed from its feet all traces of the
magic compound. When night came it slept in a rose bush.