IV
THE BLUE CROAKER, THE BRIGHT AGATE, AND THE LITTLE GRAY MIG
It is odd about Grownups--how mistaken they can be, how sadly mistaken. Now for instance, they will insist there are only four seasons when, as every one who has lived in Boyland knows, there are scores more than that.
There's
Sled-time;
Ball-time;
Marble-time;
Top-time;
Kite-time;
Garden-time;
Hay-time;
Harvest-time;
Grape-time;
Nut-time;
Pumpkin-Pie-time;
and
a time
for
Hunting strawberries, elderberries, or red rasps; for orioles to move, for shad to run, and to go bobbin' for eels; and a whole lot of other famous seasons as well, all happy ones, and too many to count, at least on one set of fingers and toes.
Any American boy will tell you this and--what is more to the point--prove it, too. And so can the Toyman, for, though he is six feet tall, and wears suspenders and long pants, and shaves and all that, he can get down on his knees in the good old brown earth and cry, "Knuckles down!," with the youngest.
Well, then, it was--not Spring, as the grownups would say--but Marble-time--midway between Kite-time and the Time for Red Strawberries, which comes in June.
One day, at the very beginning of this sunny season, the Toyman came back from town. And as usual the children gathered around him. There was no delay, no dilly-dallying, as there was when kindlings were called for. It was funny to see how quickly they could gather when they heard the wheels come up the drive. Somehow their particular creak was different from that of any other wheels--and the children could tell it long before ever the wagon came in sight.
When they were younger, the children used to ask a question just as the reins fell over the dashboard and the Toyman jumped to the ground.
"What have you got for me, Toyman?" it always was.
But not now, for Mother had explained it was very bad manners. And Jehosophat and Marmaduke were trying hard to be "Little Gentlemen," and to show Hepzebiah a "Good Example."
Of course, just as Mother had expected, when she suggested all this, Marmaduke asked,--
"But how can a girl be a Little Gentleman?"
Mother made it clear.
"Well hardly," she said, "we wouldn't want her to be just that, but by being a Little Gentleman you can teach her to be a Little Lady."
It was hard sometimes, and once in a while the boys didn't think the Little Gentleman game quite so attractive. However, they remembered it pretty well, considering. And today they didn't ask any rude questions, but just waited, though they danced on their toes.
This time he led them all into the kitchen without saying a word.
And then!!!--one after another he took from his pockets little round things--marbles, of course, of all sorts and sizes and colors.
"My!" exclaimed Marmaduke, "there's most a hundred."
And there was, sixty, to be exact. Twenty-seven little ones, colored like clay; six big ones of brown, with spots on them like the dapplings on horses; and six of blue dappled the same way; nine big glass ones with pink and blue streaks like the colorings in Mother's marble cake; nine made of china; and three--one for each--of the beautiful agates--one of dark red and cream, one dark blue and cream, and one that was mostly pink.
"Now," said Mother, when he had tumbled all the beautiful marbles out on the table, "you've got me in trouble, Frank."
But she didn't mean that. No, indeed. It was all said in fun. They said so many things in fun in the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road. So she got out her needle and thread, some pieces of flannel, and began.
She made three little bags, each with draw strings. On one she sewed a red J; on the second a blue M; on the third a pink H. You can probably guess for whom each was meant.
By this time it was too dark to see. Mother lit the lamp and started supper. And of course they ate it--they seldom skipped that of their own free will--but after it was over, the Toyman kneeled down on the floor, and Father got down on the floor, too, and they played marbles on the rag rug.
That was pretty nice and interesting, but they looked forward to the real game in the morning, for the real game must be played, not on a rug, but on the good brown earth.
Again the Toyman took a little, oh, just a little time from his work--that is, he meant to, but it turned out a longer "spell" than he had intended.
First they sorted the marbles. And when the sorting was over, each had nine of the little gray ones, which the Toyman told them were called "Migs"; two of the dappled brown ones which he said were "Croakers"; and two of the blue; three "Chineys"; three "Glasseys" with the pink and blue streaks; and one each of the most beautiful of all,--the agates. The blue and cream-colored agate Marmaduke took to match the blue M on his bag; Jehosophat the reddest one to match his letter J; and Hepzebiah the agate that looked most like a strawberry--almost pink it was, like her letter H.
These last beautiful ones, their old friend informed them, were agates, but had other names.
"They called them 'Pures' when I was a boy," he remarked, "but in some places they called 'em 'Reals,' just as in some cities they say pink is for boys and blue for girls, and in some the other way round."
And don't let any one tell you this question of "Reals" and "Pures" isn't important, for it is, surely as much so as "hazards" and "simple honors" which the grownups are forever discussing. In fact this matter of "Reals" and "Pures" was one that had to be settled at once. And Jehosophat settled it.
"I guess," he said, after grave deliberation, "if you called them 'Pures' when you were a boy, we'll call 'em that too."
Now this suggested a question to Marmaduke.
"Say, Toyman, when did you stop being a boy?"
And the Toyman just laughed his hearty laugh and slapped his knees with his rough brown hand. His answer was strange yet very true. "Tomorrow," he replied.
It was true, you see, for, as they say in school, "Tomorrow never comes," and that is just when the Toyman will stop being a boy.
Meanwhile he was making a ring in the ground, two feet across. In the middle he scooped out a little hole with his heel.
Each put some marbles in the centre, the same number from each bag, and they began. Of course, as you know, they had to stand on the outside of the ring and shoot at the marbles in the hole, that is, they did in that year, in that particular part of the country, though wise men who have travelled much say the rules differ in other states and are changing from day to day.
When anyone put his foot over the line the Toyman would stop him sternly.
"No matter what's the game," he told them, "always play fair."
He showed them the best way to shoot, not by placing the marble in the hollow of the first finger and shooting it out with the thumb, but on the tip of the first finger and letting it fly with the thumb.
Now this is of the greatest importance, so always remember it.
However, Hepzebiah couldn't follow that style, so they let her roll her marbles. But the boys were patient and tried again and again until they had learned the right way. They did finely, too--though naturally not as well as the Toyman. They had lent him some of their marbles, and my! wasn't he a fine shot! He would send those marbles flying from their hole like little smithereens in all directions. However, he said the boys were learning fast and would soon catch up with him.
And in a few minutes, strange to say, the Toyman wasn't doing so well--though, maybe--between you and me--he was just giving the boys a chance.
Anyway, before long, the Toyman's pile was growing less and less, while Marmaduke had nine gray marbles--we should say "migs"--one "chiney," two brown "croakers," one blue "croaker," and one "glassey," and his shooter, the "pure," of course. And Jehosophat had ten "migs," two "chimneys," one "glassey," two brown "croakers," and one blue one, and his shooter. But poor little Hepzebiah had only three, counting all kinds. She began to cry, and rubbed her eyes with her two fists. But when, after a little, she stopped and looked down, why she had more marbles than any of the players.
I'll tell you a secret, if you won't tell it to a soul--for that wouldn't be fair to Marmaduke and Jehosophat, who were trying their best not to let their right hands know what their left ones were doing.
Well then, if you won't tell,--when Hepzebiah put her two fists to her eyes, quick as a wink the Toyman placed three of his marbles in her pile, and when Marmaduke saw him do that, why he put in four, and Jehosophat, not to be outdone, slipped in five.
"Better than slipping duck's eggs under the old hen, isn't it?" whispered Jehosophat to his brother, who agreed with a nod.
And that is the way the little girl came to win the game.
And so all through marble time they played many games, some of them very close, too, and a few even ties.
However, on one occasion the game didn't turn out so well. That was the time when Fatty Hamm strolled into the yard.
"Hello!" he said, and something chinked in his pockets. It sounded like marbles.
"Hello!" called the boys, not very cordially, for they were always a little suspicious when Fatty happened around.
"Playin' marbles?" he asked.
"Yes," said the two brothers.
"I can beat you," he declared.
"You can't, either," Marmaduke started to yell, but Jehosophat, who was having one of his good days, said,--
"Let's treat him politely. He's mean, but he's company."
"Play 'for fair'?" Fatty next asked.
"Course," replied Jehosophat, "what did you think?"
This friendly state of affairs didn't last very long.
"You're cheating," called Jehosophat a little later.
"I'm not, neither," Fatty shouted very angrily and ungrammatically.
"You are, too," insisted Jehosophat. "The Toyman says you mustn't get over the marbles that way or put your foot in the ring. You've got to 'knuckles down.' Beside you call' slippseys' every time you make a bad shot."
"Stop!" he tried to shout, but his mouth was almost too full of water to say anything, "get--blllllloooo--Hep-ze-bbbllllooo"--and then he had to stop.
"'Better than slipping ducks' eggs under the ole hen,
isn't it?' whispered Jehosophat to his brother."
Click to view larger image
When that strange game was over Fatty had forty-two marbles and they had only nine apiece. Altogether it was very unsatisfactory.
Then something very surprising happened.
Fatty counted the forty-two very carefully, then put them in his bag.
"Here," said Jehosophat, "what are you doing?"
"I won 'em, they're mine," and still Fatty kept putting them in his bag. Marmaduke could hear them dropping in. "Chink, chink," they went, but their "chink, chink" didn't sound so pretty or so much like music as when they were dropping in his own bag.
"That's not the way the Toyman plays," Jehosophat insisted, "when we're through we divide 'em up again so's to be even."
"Your ole Toyman doesn't know everything," Fatty said with a sneer.
And, angry at this, both the brothers shouted,--
"He does, too--he knows most everything there is to know."
But Fatty decided things once and for all.
"Anyway," he declared, "this game's not 'in fun.' You said you'd play 'for fair' and that means 'for keeps.'"
Jehosophat was silent. He hadn't understood what 'for fair' had meant at all. Still, he had agreed to play that way, and so, though he wanted to punch Fatty's head for him, he supposed he'd have to take his losses like a gentleman.
But now Fatty was taking something out of his pocket, something made of wood and shaped like a bridge or a saw with teeth in it. He placed it on the ground.
"Your turn, Joshy," he said.
"What'll I do?" asked Jehosophat.
"Just roll your marbles under this bridge, and if they go through the little holes, you can keep 'em. If they don't, they're mine."
The two boys didn't see through the trick, and very foolishly they thought they might win some of their beautiful marbles back.
So they rolled marble after marble against that little wooden bridge. But it was much harder to aim straight than they had expected. More marbles would hit against the wood and bounce back than ever went through the little holes. And when this strange new game was ended Fatty had fifty-two marbles and they each had four!
Then Fatty walked off.
"Nice game," he said, "I'll come tomorrow."
But the boys didn't second that or give him any warm invitation like saying, "yes, and stay a week." They spoke never a word--just looked and listened--looked at the few marbles left in their own hands, and listened to the "chink, chink, chink" of Fatty's pockets as he walked down the drive.
They were very solemn around the table that night, and though Mother knew there must be something the matter, she didn't ask any questions yet. However, Marmaduke kept reaching down into his pockets so often, to feel the lonely little marbles he had left,--the one agate, and the croaker, and the little gray mig, and the clink of them sounded so weak and thin and lonesome that Father said,--
"Well, how did the game go today?"
"F-f-f-fine," said Marmaduke, but his lip quivered.
Then they knew there surely must be something the matter, and Marmaduke couldn't help saying,--
"That ole Fatty Hamm said he was playing 'for keeps,' and he took away almost all our marbles."
"Humph!" exclaimed Father, and Mother looked at him with an odd look.
"I'm sorry it happened," she said, "but I'm glad, too."
Jehosophat exclaimed:
"Glad we lost our marbles?"
"Not exactly, dear, but I knew it would happen. You see, as the Toyman said, it's always kinder and more fun, too, to play games 'in fun.' If you play anything 'for keeps,' the one who loses is always hurt and feels badly. Supposing you had played with Johnny Cricket, now, and had won all his marbles--how would you feel?"
She didn't need to say any more. They understood.
But after supper the Toyman called the boys into the woodshed. They sneaked out quietly and he whispered to them,--
"Just wait till tomorrow."
"What's going to happen tomorrow?"
And the Toyman gave that old answer of his which was so like him,--
"Wait an' see."
Well, the Toyman had to go to town "tomorrow," which was much sooner than he had expected earlier in the week. And when he came back his pockets chinked right merrily. They were as full of marbles as on his first trip back from town.
They were very beautiful, too, but somehow Marmaduke loved the first
blue croaker and the bright agate and the little gray mig best of all.
V
THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED ON THE CANAL
In front of the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road was the Canal; and beyond the Canal the River. They always flowed along side by side, and Marmaduke thought they were like two brothers. The Canal was the older brother, it was always so sure and steady and ready for work. It flowed steadily and evenly and carried the big canal-boats down to the Sea. The River also flowed towards the Sea, but it wasn't at all steady, and never quiet. It was indeed like the younger brother, ever ready for play, although, as a matter of fact, it had been there long before the Canal had been even thought of by the men who built it. But thousands of years couldn't make that River grow old. It was full of frolicsome ripples that gleamed in the sun, and of rapids and waterfalls. Here it would flow swiftly, and there almost stop as if it wanted to fall asleep. And every once in a while it would dart swiftly like small boys or dogs chasing butterflies. Sometimes it would leap over the stones or, at the dam, tumble headlong in sheets of silver.
Little fish and big loved to play in its waters. Of course they swam in the Canal too, but life was lazier there and the fish, like Marmaduke, seemed to prefer the River. There were pickerel and trout and catfish and eels, and in the Spring the great shad would come in from the Sea and journey up to the still cool pools to hatch out their millions of children.
They looked very inviting this morning, the River and the Canal, and Marmaduke decided he would take a stroll. He whistled to Wienerwurst, who was always the best company in the world, and the little dog came leaping and barking and wagging his tail, glad to be alive and about in such lovely weather, and on they went by the side of the Canal.
They went along very slowly, for it is a mistake to walk too fast on a Spring morning--one misses so many things.
Now and then a big fish would leap out of the River, it felt so gay, and in the little harbours under the banks of the Canal the scuttle-bugs went skimming, skimming, like swift little tugboats at play. In the fields on the other side of the road a meadowlark sang; swallows twittered overhead; and in the grass at his feet the dandelions glowed like the round gold shields of a million soldiers. Yes, altogether it was a wonderful day.
Marmaduke picked a great bouquet of the dandelions--for Mother--then he looked up the towpath. He could see the Red Schoolhouse, and, not so far away, the Lock of the Canal. He was very glad it was Saturday. It was far too nice to stay indoors.
Just then he had a great piece of good luck, for a big boat came by, a canal-boat, shaped like a long wooden shoe. It had no sails and no smokestacks, either, so it had no engine to make it go. It was drawn by two mules who walked on shore quite a distance ahead of it. A long thick rope stretched from the collars of the mules to the bow of the boat. A little boy walked behind the mules, yelling to them and now and then poking them with a long pole to make them go faster. My! how they pulled and tugged on that rope! They had to, for it was a pretty big load, that boat. And it had a big hole in it laden with black shiny coal--tons and tons of it!
Just behind the coal was a clothes-line with scores of little skirts and pairs of pants on it, and behind that, a little house with many children running in and out of the door. A round fat rosy woman with great big arms was calling to the children to "take care," and a man stood at the stern with his hand on the tiller. He had a red shirt on and in his mouth a pipe which Marmaduke could smell a long way off.
The little boy waited until the stern came by so he could see the name of the boat. There it was now, painted in big letters, right under the tiller. He spelled it out, first "Mary," then "Ellen"--"Mary Ellen--" a pretty name, he thought.
The Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe, and the Round Fat Rosy Woman With the Big Arms, and all the children waved their hands to Marmaduke and he waved back, then hurried ahead, Wienerwurst trotting alongside, to catch up with the boy who was driving the mules.
"'Llo!" said he to the boy, but the boy paid no attention at all, just "licked up" his mules. But Marmaduke didn't mind this rudeness. He thought that probably the boy was too busy to be sociable, and he trotted along with the mules and watched their long funny ears go wiggle-waggle when a fly buzzed near them. But they never paused or stopped, no matter what annoyed them, but just tugged and strained in their collars, pulling the long rope that pulled the boat that carried the coal that would make somebody's fire to cook somebody's supper some day down by the Sea.
For a long time Marmaduke trotted alongside the boy and the mules, not realizing at all how far he had come. Once or twice he looked back at the "Mary Ellen" and the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe, and the little house on the deck. He wished he could go on board and steer the "Mary Ellen," and play in that little house, it looked so cute. The Round Fat Rosy Woman was coming out of it now with a pan of water which she threw in the Canal; and the little children were running all over the deck, almost tumbling in the water.
After quite a journey they drew near the Lock, a great place in the Canal like a harbour, with two pairs of gates, as high as a house, at each end, to keep the water in the Lock.
Outside one pair of gates the water was low; outside the others, which were near him, the water was high; and Marmaduke knew well what those great gates would do. The pair at the end where the water was high would open and the canalboat would float in the Lock and rest there for a while like a ship in harbour. Then those gates would shut tight, and the man who tended the Lock would open the gates at the end where the water was low. And the water would rush out and go down, down in the Lock, carrying the boat with it until it was on a level with the low part of the Canal. And the boat at last would float out of the harbour of the Lock and away on its journey to the Sea.
But all this hadn't happened yet. There was much work to be done before all was ready.
Now the boat had stopped in front of the high pair of gates. The Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe shouted to the boy who drove the mules, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. The great towrope was untied and the mules rested while the man who tended the Lock swung the high gates open with some machinery that creaked in a funny way, and the "Mary Ellen" glided in the harbour of the Lock.
Then the man who tended the Lock went to the gates at the lower end. There were more shouts and those gates opened too. The water rushed out of the Lock into the lower part of the Canal, and down, down, went the boat. And down, down, went the deck and the little house on it, and down, down, went the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe, and the Round Fat Rosy Woman With the Great Arms, and all the children. Marmaduke started to count them. He couldn't have done that before, they ran around too fast. But now they stood still, watching the water fall and their boat as it sank. Yes, there were thirteen--he counted twice to make sure.
Now the boat had sunk so low that Marmaduke was afraid it would disappear forever, with all the children on it. But there was no danger, for when the water in the Lock was even with the water on the lower side of the Canal it stopped falling, and the "Mary Ellen" stopped, too. At least, there was no danger for the children, but there was for Master Marmaduke, he had leaned over so far, watching that boat go down, down, down.
All-of-a-sudden there was a splash. It was certainly to be expected that one of the thirteen children had fallen in, but no!-- It--was--Marmaduke!
Down, down, down, he sank in the gurgly brown water. Then he came up, spluttering and choking.
"Help, help!" he cried.
Then under he went again.
But the Round Fat Rosy Woman had seen him.
"Quick, Hiram!" she shouted to her husband in a voice that sounded like a man's, "there's a boy fallen overboard!"
"Where?" asked the man at the tiller, still keeping the pipe in his mouth.
She pointed into the brown water.
"Right there--there's where he went down."
Perhaps the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe was so used to having his children fall into the coal, or the Canal, or something, that he didn't think it was a serious matter, for he came to the side of the "Mary Ellen" very slowly, just as Marmaduke was coming up for the third time.
And that is a very important time, for, they say, if you go down after that you won't come up 'til you're dead. Whether it was true or not, Marmaduke didn't know, for he had never been drowned before, and no one who had, had ever come back to tell him about it. Anyway, he wasn't thinking much, only throwing his arms around in the water, trying vainly to keep afloat.
The Round Fat Rosy Woman grew quite excited, as well she might, and she shouted again to the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe:
"Don't stand there like a wooden Injun in front of a cigar-store. Hustle or the boy'll drown!"
Then he seemed to wake up, for he ran to the gunwale of the boat, and he jumped over with his shoes and all his clothes on. And, strange to say, he still kept that pipe in his mouth. However, that didn't matter so very much, for he grabbed Marmaduke by the collar with one hand and swam towards the "Mary Ellen" with the other. The woman threw a rope over the side; he grasped it with his free hand, and the woman drew them up--she certainly was strong--and in the shake of a little jiffy they were standing on board, safe but dripping a thousand little rivers from their clothes on the deck. The man didn't seem to mind that a bit, but was quite disturbed to find that his pipe had gone out.
"Come, Mother," said he to the Round Fat Rosy Woman, "get us some dry duds and a match."
And quick as a wink she hustled them into the little house which they called a cabin, and gave Marmaduke a pair of blue overalls and a little blue jumper which belonged to one of the thirteen children. Of course, she found the right size, with so many to choose from. His own clothes, she hung on the line, with all the little pairs of pants and the skirts, to dry in the breeze.
Then she put the kettle on the cook stove and in another jiffy she was pouring out the tea.
"M--m--m--m," said Marmaduke. He meant to say,--"Make mine 'cambric,' please," for he knew his mother wouldn't have wanted him to take regular tea, but his Forty White Horses galloped so he couldn't make himself heard.
"There, little boy," said the Round Fat Rosy Woman, "don't talk. Just wrap yourself in this blanket and drink this down, and you'll feel better."
It did taste good even if it was strong, and it warmed him all the way down under the blue jumper, and the Forty White Horses stopped their galloping, and while the men were hitching the mules up again, and the "Mary Ellen" was drifting through the lower pair of gates out of the Lock, he fell fast asleep.
He must have slept for a whole lot of jiffies. When he woke up at last, he looked around, wondering where he could be, the place looked so strange and so different from his room at home. Then he remembered,--he was far from home, in the little cabin of the "Mary Ellen." It was a cosy place, with all the little beds for the children around the cabin. And these beds were not like the ones he usually slept in. They were little shelves on the wall, two rows of them, one row above the other. It was funny, he thought, to sleep on a shelf, but that was what the thirteen children had to do. He was lying on a shelf himself just then, wrapped in a blanket.
The Round Fat Rosy Woman was bending over the stove. It was a jolly little stove, round and fat and rosy like herself, and it poked its pipe through the house just above his head. In the pot upon it, the potatoes were boiling, boiling away, and the little chips of bacon were curling up in the pan.
Outside, he could see all the little skirts and the little pairs of pants, dancing gaily in the wind. He could hear the children who owned those skirts and pairs of pants running all over the boat. The patter of their feet sounded like raindrops on the deck above him.
They seemed to be forever getting into trouble, those thirteen children, and the Round Fat Rosy Woman was forever running to the door of the little house and shouting to one or the other.
"Take care, Maintop!" she would call to one boy as she pulled him back from falling into the Canal.
"Ho there, Bowsprit!" she would yell to another, as she fished him out of the coal.
They were certainly a great care, those children, and all at once Marmaduke decided he knew who their mother must be. The boat was shaped just like a huge shoe and she surely had so many children she didn't know what to do. Yes, she must be the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, only the shoe must have grown into a canalboat.
He wondered about the funny names she called them.
"Are those their real names?" he asked, as he lay on his little shelf.
"Yes," she said, "my husband out there with the pipe was a sailor once, on the deep blue sea. But he had to give it up after he was married, 'cause he couldn't take his family on a ship. We had a lot of trouble finding names for the children started to call 'em Mary and Daniel and such, but the names ran out. So, seeing my husband was so fond of the sea, we decided to call 'em after the parts of a ship, not a canalboat, but the sailing ships that go out to sea--that is, all but Squall.
"Now that's Jib there, driving the mules, and that's Bowsprit--the one all black from the coal. Cutwater's the girl leaning over the stern; Maintop, the one with the three pigtails; and Mizzen, the towhead playing with your dog."
"And what are the names of the rest?" Marmaduke asked, thinking all this very interesting.
"Oh!" she replied. "I'll have to stop and think, there's so many of them. Now there's Bul'ark and Gunnel--they're pretty stout; the twins, Anchor and Chain; Squall, the crybaby; Block, the fattest of all; Topmast, the tallest and thinnest; and Stern, the littlest. He came last, so we named him that, seeing it's the last part of a ship.
"Now, let me think--have I got 'em all?" and she counted on her fingers,--"Jib, Bowsprit, Cutwater, Maintop, Mizzen, Bul'ark, Gunnel, Anchor, Chain, Block, Squall, Topmast, and Stern. Yes, that surely makes thirteen, doesn't it? I'm always proud when I can remember 'em."
"The boat was shaped like a wooden shoe, and she surely
had so many children she didn't know what to do."
Click to view larger image
By this time the potatoes and the bacon and coffee seemed about ready, so she went out on deck, and Marmaduke slid off his little shelf bed and followed her to see where she was going. On deck was a great bar of iron with another beside it. She took up one bar of iron and with it struck the other--twelve times. The blows sounded way out over the Canal and over the fields and far away, like a mighty fire-alarm, and all the children, that is all but Jib, who was driving the mules and would get his dinner later, came running into the cabin.
A great clatter of tin plates and knives and forks there was, and very nice did those potatoes and that bacon taste.
And it didn't take long for them to finish that meal, either. Then they went out on deck.
The mules were pulling and pulling, and the boat was sailing on and on towards the Sea. They passed by so many places--lots of houses and lots of farms, the Red Schoolhouse and Reddy Toms' house, and Sammy Soapstone's, and the funny place where Fatty lived, and the pigs, fat like himself, ran all over the yard.
Fatty and Sammy were playing on the shore at that very moment. He waved to them and they waved back, but they didn't know they were waving to their old playmate Marmaduke, he was so mixed up with all the children of the woman who lived on the canalboat that looked just like a shoe. How Sammy and Sophy and Fatty would have envied him if they had only known it was he sailing away to the Sea!
But he never arrived there, after all--at least he didn't on that voyage. For, you see, after he had had a wonderful time, running all over the deck with the thirteen children, and looking down into the big hole where they kept the shiny coal, and exploring the little house on the deck, the Round Fat Rosy Woman and her Husband With the Red Shirt and the Pipe had a talk together.
"We must send him back home," said she, "or his folks'll be scared out of their wits."
The man took a few puffs on his pipe, which always seemed to help him in thinking, then replied,
"We might let him off at the Landing it's up the towpath a piece. We kin find someone to give him a lift."
"That's the best plan," she agreed, "there's the Ruralfree'livery now."
And she pointed to the shore where the horse and wagon of the postman were coming up the road.
"What ho, Hi! Heave to!" she called, raising her hands to her mouth and shouting through them just like a man, "here's a passenger for you, first class."
"Mr. Ruralfree'liv'ry" shook his whip at them, then hollered "Whoa!" and stopped the old horse; and Jib hollered "Whoa!" and stopped his mules, right at the Landing.
Then Marmaduke said "Goodbye." It took him some time, for there was the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe; and the Round Fat Rosy Woman; and Jib, Bowsprit, Cutwater, Mizzen, Maintop, Bul'ark, Gunnel, Anchor, Chain, Block, Squall, Topmast, and Stern; the "Mary Ellen"; and the mules, to say "Goodbye" to. Just before he went ashore the Round Fat Rosy Woman gave him his clothes back, for they were all dry by that time, and she stuffed something in his pocket besides. And what do you think it was? A toy anchor and chain that would just fit the "White Swan," the ship the Toyman had made him.
So he rode home with Mr. Ruralfree'liv'ry and all his sacks of mail. But he kept turning his head for a long while to watch the Man With the Red Shirt and the Pipe, and the Round Fat Rosy Woman, and the Thirteen Children, and all the little pairs of pants that seemed to be waving farewell to him. But soon the "Mary Ellen" drifted out of sight. She was a good boat, the "Mary Ellen."
He almost felt like crying, for he would have liked to have gone on
that voyage to see the rest of the world. But, after all, he had seen
a great deal of it, and he had that anchor and chain.
VI
TWO O' CAT
It was hard to be called a "kid"--harder still to be left out of the game. And, besides, it wasn't fair. Marmaduke knew he could catch that ball as well, and hit it as often as any of them.
This is the way it began:--
That morning Jehosophat had gone with the Toyman to Sawyer's Mill over on Wally's Creek. Marmaduke felt lonely, for there was nobody but Hepzebiah to play with, and she wouldn't leave her dolls, and he had long ago gotten past playing with them. As he was wandering forlornly around the barnyard, wondering what he could do, he heard a shout over by the Miller farm.
"You're out!"
It was a very fascinating cry, an inviting one as well. Looking over the field he saw boys--at least six of them--playing baseball. So he hurried over to get in the game, too.
But his old enemy "Fatty" told him that they didn't "want any kids hangin' around."
And Dicky Means agreed with that.
"Naw, we don't want any kids!"
"I can catch an' I can pitch--curves, too," Marmaduke protested, but they wouldn't believe him.
"You can't, either," Fatty yelled back, "you'd muff it every time. Wouldn't he, Means?"
He was talking to Dicky Means, but he called him by his last name just because he had heard grown-up men do that sometimes and he thought it was very smart.
Again Dicky Means agreed with Fatty.
"Sure he'd muff it every time."
Reddy Toms and Harold Skinner didn't take Marmaduke's part, nor did Sammy Soapstone, though he had borrowed Marmaduke's mouth-organ and lost it, and had Marmaduke's appendix all pickled in alcohol in a big bottle and wouldn't give it back, either. But they were all bigger than Marmaduke, so what could he do but sit on the fence and watch them, while his fingers fairly itched to catch one of those "flies." And the crack of the bat against the ball did sound so fine across the field.
At last he couldn't stand it, so he got down from the fence, and shouted at them,
"I wouldn't play in your ole game--not for a million dollars!"
And off he walked towards his own barn, swinging his arms all the way, as if he were holding a bat and showing them just how well he could play. My! what long "flies" he would knock, if he only had the chance--over the dead chestnut tree, over the Gold Rooster on the top of the barn, and even above the Long White Finger of the Church Pointing at the Sky. Maybe, sometime, if he hit it hard enough and just right, the ball would sail on and on, and up and up, to the Moon: and the Ole Man there would catch it and throw it down to him again.
But he would have to practice a lot first, so, when he reached the house, he went in and found a ball of his own. He turned it over and over in his fingers, admiring it. It was a fine one, with leather as white as buckskin but very hard, and thick seams sewed in the cover with heavy thread, winding in and out in horseshoe curves.
It had a dandy name, too,--"Rocket," that was it. And he threw it up high up, up, up, until it reached the eaves of the barn and startled the swallows, who flew out and swept the sky with their pretty wings, chattering angrily at him.
He watched to see where the ball would fall, and ran under it, holding his hands like a little cup. It fell into them, but it fell out even quicker than it had fallen in. Jiminy! but that ball was hard! Marmaduke thought the man who made it should have left the "et" from its name and called it plain "Rock" instead. It was just like a rock covered with hard leather.
He tried it again, but he didn't throw it up quite so high.
"Crack!" it went against the side of the barn, and little clouds of hay-dust from the loft danced in the air, and the swallows chattered still more angrily:
"He persists--sists--sists--sists--sists," they called to one another.
This time the ball fell on his cheekbone and raised a lump as round and as hard as a marble.
He didn't cry. Oh, no! for he was trying hard these days to be a regular boy and never to cry even one little whimper. So he just went in the house and Mother put a kiss and some arnica on it--it is always more effective if mixed that way--and out he came and tried it all over again. For regular boys never give up. Of course, at first he threw the ball a little lower than before, but that was only wise. And this time it did fall into his hands and he held it tight. Over and over he practised until his hands were pretty red from catching the hard "Rocket" ball, but he felt very happy inside--which is what counts, for one doesn't mind being sore outside if one is all right within.
However, all the time he could hear the sound of that bat over on the Miller lot. Then--all of a sudden--he heard an altogether different sort of noise--more like a crash and a smash than a crack.
"Glass!" that was it!
"Hooray!" he shouted in delight, "now that Fatty's going to get it."
But he was wrong. Fatty was too plump to hit a ball so hard. It was Dicky Means that had done it. And, like Fatty, he was always up to tricks, only usually Fatty planned them and Dicky did them.
Yes, it was Dicky Means who had hit that ball right through Mis' Miller's window, the big parlor window, too, and she expected the Methodist ladies of the Laborforlovesociety that very afternoon. There was Mis' Miller now, running out of the house and shrieking,--
"You younglimbosatan, you'll pay for that!"
"Pleeze, Mis' Miller, I haven't any money," Dicky was saying, very politely, with his eye on the broom she held in her hand, "I'll pay you tomorrow."
"No, you'll settle it now," she told him--very cross she was, too, "or I'll tell your mother, and your father'll paddle you in the woodshed." Then she added,--"an' you won't get your ball."
Dicky seemed to be more worried about the ball than about the woodshed, for he whined.
"Aw, pleeze, Mis' Miller, have a heart!"
You see, "Have a heart!" was an expression he had heard down in the city, and for the last week the boys had been using it every chance they got.
Still it didn't work on Mis' Miller, for she only shook her head angrily and took her broom and shouted,--
"Scat, get out!"--just as if they were so many cats--"an' don't come back for the ball till you come with the money in your hand."
And as everybody in the neighborhood used to say, "Gracious, but Mis' Miller has a turrible temper!" or "Whew, but can't she get mad?" and because she was flourishing that broom right in their faces, why, they did scat like so many cats, just as she had told them.
Across the field they all came running, straight towards Marmaduke, who pretended not to see them at all, but just kept passing his Rocket ball from one hand to the other, trying to juggle it like the trick men in the circus.
When they saw that ball, all the boys suddenly grew very polite to Marmaduke.
"Lend us your ball, Marmy!" they said.
"Wouldn't you like to have it!" he replied, still juggling the ball, but he watched them out of the corner of his eye. They had been pretty mean to him, but he supposed he ought to be decent even if they weren't, and besides it would be fine to play a real game with "sides" instead of one just by himself.
"All right," he said, after making them wait long enough to want that ball very much, "if you'll play 'sides' 'stead of' two o' cat,' and let me be captain."
"Aw!" said Dicky, "you're not big enough."
"All right," replied Marmaduke, still juggling that fine Rocket ball, "you'll have to play with some ole rock then."
"Aw, come 'n, have a heart!"
Marmaduke thought it over for a little while. To "have a heart" was like "heaping coals of fire" on people's heads, in minister's language, he supposed. And he wasn't so fond of that. But anyway he gave in.
"All right," he agreed, "come 'n, where'll we play?"
"Here," said Fatty, "this big rock'll be home-plate, and that one over there by the chestnut tree 'first.' An' we'll choose up sides--first choosin'!"
Then Dicky, who insisted on being the other captain, picked up the bat and threw it with the handle uppermost to Fatty, who caught it around the middle. Then Dicky clasped his fingers around the bat just above Fatty's hand; then Fatty put his left hand above Dicky's right; and Dicky his left hand next; and so on until their fingers almost reached the handle of the bat. There was just a little space left. If Fatty could squeeze his plump fingers in between Dicky's and the top he would win, and he could have first choice of the best players for his side. But his fingers were much too fat.
"Your pinky's over," said Dicky, and Reddy Toms picked up a flat stone and scraped it over the top of the bat, and Fatty howled and let go.
So it was Dicky's turn to choose, and Marmaduke waited breathlessly. He hoped that he would be chosen first, second anyway. He ought to be, for wasn't it his ball they were going to play with!
But--
"I'll take Reddy," said Dicky;
"Sammy," said Fatty;
"Skinny," chose Dicky next;
"Froggy Waters," chose Fatty--and poor little Marmaduke was left to the last, as if he were the worst player in the whole world.
"Well," said Dicky, "I spouse I've got to take him. But he'll lose the game for us."
He turned to Marmaduke.
"I'll tell you what, Marmy," he said, "you can be the spectators--a whole pile of them--in the grand stand. Wouldn't you like to be a grand stand? That's great. Isn't it, fellows?"
"Sure," they all said, grinning, but Marmaduke didn't want to be any spectator, not even a grand stand. He wanted to be doing things, not watching. Lose that game, would he? No, he'd show them, he'd win it instead. He'd hit that ball clean over the fence--so far they'd never find it. But whew! That wouldn't do. He'd better not hit it quite so far or he'd lose his dandy Rocket ball.
But they had to give in and let him play before he would give them that ball. Then the two captains told their men to take their positions.
"I'll pitch," declared Dicky, "'n Reddy'll catch. Skinny you play 'first,' and Marmaduke out in the field. You kin go to sleep, too, for all I care--for you can't catch anything even if you had a peach basket to hold it in."
"Play ball!" shouted Fatty, and they all took their places, Dicky's team in the field, and Fatty's at the bat.
Marmaduke had to stand way out, and he didn't have much to do for a while, for the other team either struck out, or hit the ball towards Dicky, the pitcher, or Skinny at 'first.' Once a ball did come his way "Hold it!" shouted Dicky, but Marmaduke was so excited that he threw himself right at it, and the ball rolled between his legs.
"Aw! didn't I tell you?" said Dicky in disgust, and all on the other team shouted:
"Butterfingers!"
And, as every boy in the world knows, it is a great disgrace to be called "Butterfingers."
When the first inning was over the score stood six to five, and Fatty's team was ahead.
In the next inning the ball never once came towards Marmaduke, way out there in the field. All he could do was to watch the other boys catch the "pop-flies," stop the grounders, or run back and forth between first base and home. It was hard, too, when Marmaduke wanted so much to be in the thick of it.
Before long the score stood seventeen to fifteen, still in favor of Fatty's team. At last they were put out, and it was Marmaduke's turn to bat. If he could only knock a home run it would bring Skinny in and tie the score.
"Strike one!" called Sammy, who was catching.
Marmaduke swung at the next one too wildly.
"Strike two!"
And then, sad to tell,--
"Strike three!"
He was out--no doubt about it!
"Aw!" exclaimed Dicky, "what'd I tell you--you ought to be fired."
Marmaduke felt very much ashamed as he took his place out in the field again, with the score thirty-six to thirty against them.
Just then the Toyman and Jehosophat came up the road on their way back from Sawyer's Mill, and the Toyman stopped his horses to watch the game for a minute. Marmaduke gritted his teeth and clenched his hands. He would have to do well now when they were looking on.
Before he knew it, two of the other team were out. Then, all of a sudden, he heard a loud crack. Looking up, he saw the ball sailing through the air. It wasn't sailing towards Dicky or Skinny. It was coming straight in his direction!
He formed his hands in the shape of a cup and waited. He was going to hold that ball--if it ever got there. And, sure enough, it fell in his outstretched hands. My! how that Rocket ball stung and burned! But he hung on for dear life.
"Butterfingers!" he heard Fatty call to "rattle" him. And that settled the matter, for, if he hadn't heard that word, he might have dropped the ball after all, but he was so determined to make Fatty take it all back that he made his fingers tight as a vise around the ball--and it stayed--it stayed there!
"He formed his hands in the shape of a cup and
waited."
Click to view larger image
When he came in to take his turn at bat, Dicky patted him on the shoulder.
"Good boy, Mary!" he said, and Outfielder Green felt as pleased and proud as before he had been ashamed. But he felt even happier a little later.
It was the last half of the last inning. Reddy and Skinny each made one run and Dicky made two, and now the score stood thirty-six to thirty-five. Fatty's team was only one run ahead, and Dicky was on first with Marmaduke at the bat.
Now was Marmaduke's chance to win the game--the chance of a lifetime!
Fatty twirled the ball in his hand. Though he was fat, he could pitch like a regular pitcher. At least his motions were just as funny. He would curl up his fingers in a strange way to make what he called a curve. Then he would hold the ball up to his chin and look wisely over at first base, watching Dicky. Then he would curl his arms around his head several times, and at last he would let the ball fly.
Marmaduke tried hard to hit it, but he just tipped it.
"Foul!" called the catcher.
And Marmaduke missed the next one and the next. He had only one chance left now. And Fatty twisted himself up almost in knots, to make an extra fine curve, I suppose, for Marmaduke's benefit. Six times he did this before he let the ball go.
It came towards the home-plate and Marmaduke, as fast as an arrow. He gritted his teeth, and gripped his hands tight around the bat, and hit at that Rocket ball harder than he ever had in his life; and all the time his ears were listening for the "crack!"
Of course, it all happened very quickly, more quickly than we can ever tell about it in words, but--to make a long story short--he heard that crack!
He had hit it! And away the Rocket ball flew towards the dead chestnut tree, up, up, by the old crow's nest, and plop! right in the nest it dropped.
And Dicky came racing home, and Marmaduke not far behind him, his face red with excitement and his eyes shining.
And how the team cheered him now, and patted him on the back, and said "Good boy, Mary!" again, and how happy he felt!
There was a nice ending to it too, although the dandy Rocket ball was lost in the old crow's nest. For, when he told them about it all at the supper-table that night, Father turned to the Toyman, and, reaching into his pockets, where some money jingled, said:--
"So the home-team won, did they? though they lost the ball? Well, Frank, there are some more 'dandy Rockets' where that came from, aren't there?"
The Toyman was quite sure there were, and Father added,--
"And that baseball glove, that big catcher's mitt that Marmaduke always wanted--do you 'spouse that's still in the store?"
Again the Toyman seemed rather hopeful, and the promise was fulfilled
on the following Saturday. And many a time the hard Rocket ball and
lots of other balls, too, thumped in that big leather mitt.
VII
THE FAIRY LAMP
Once in about every so often, it seems, little boys just have to get sick. Sometimes it is their own fault; sometimes the fault of the weather; and sometimes there doesn't seem to be any reason at all--except maybe germs. And who ever saw a real live germ walking around, except, perhaps, doctors looking through microscopes? And, besides, germs are too tiny to make a real big boy with pockets in his trousers, and a reader, and a geography, go to bed.
But that is just what had happened to Marmaduke.
He hadn't felt so sick in the daytime--just sort of dreamy, and not like playing at all. He only wanted to lie where he could watch the fingers of the sun-beams stray over the rag rug and pick out the pretty colors in it, and where he could see Mother and call to her when he wanted her. That was always important--to have her near.
At supper all Mother would give him was a cup of warm milk. She said he couldn't have anything solid, not even bread. But after all, perhaps it was better, for his appetite wasn't so very big. He had only asked because he thought he ought to have things Jehosophat had, and didn't want to be deprived of any of his privileges.
Those two round things--like cherries--stuck in his throat so. What was it the doctor called them? Tonsils, that was it. And they felt as big as footballs now, and, oh, so sore!
The doctor decided he had "tonsil-eatus"--a funny name. He called out to Mother to inquire if they would really "eat us"--and how they could "eat us" when they were in your throat already. He felt rather proud of that joke and better for having made it--for a little while, anyway.
There was one "'speshully fine" thing about being sick. Mother would always send Jehosophat and Hepzebiah into the spare room to sleep, and she would come herself and lie down in Jehosophat's bed, right next to the little sick boy, right where he could reach out his hand and place it in hers. That was "most worth" all the aches and the pains.
It was all right to have Father near, but somehow Marmaduke felt better if it was Mother that lay by his side. Her hands and her voice were sort of cool and they drove the bad things that came in his dreams far away.
There was one other fine thing about being sick the Fairy Lamp!
At least that was what the children had named it. It was really a little blue bowl, not light blue like his oatmeal bowl, but almost as blue as periwinkles, or the sky some nights. It had little creases on the outside, "flutings," Mother said, like the pleats in her dress. Inside the bowl was a thick white candle, and it had a curly black wick like a kewpie's topknot.
Now Mother wanted to make sponge for the bread, but Marmaduke pleaded,--
"I want you to stay with me, I feel so sick."
"Wouldn't my little boy let me go--just for five minutes?"
He thought that over for a little while. Then, "Yes," he said slowly, "if you light the Fairy Lamp."
So she struck the match and touched it to the wick. The wick always seemed lazy about being lit. It acted as if the match were waking it up.
But all of a sudden it would burst into flame, and the dark blue of the bowl would turn into light blue--oh, such a pretty color, not like the bluing Hannah put in the water to make the clothes white, nor would it match Sophy Soapstone's electric blue dress. It was more like a blue mist, just such a shade as the fairies would wear.
Marmaduke watched it a long time. Sometimes the little flame sputtered, sometimes it waved in the air, or dipped and bowed in his direction, and once it actually winked at him.
From where he lay he could see a bright star shining through the window. He tried to look with one eye at the light and with the other eye at the star, both at the same time. The star seemed sort of blue, too.
"I wonder if the little light is the baby of the star," he said to himself.
And when he looked at the star again, he saw a ray travel down from it into the window, right towards his eyes.
He blinked, and the light grew brighter. It made a pathway reaching from the sky to his bed. Something seemed to be traveling down the bright pathway, singing a song as it came.
First he thought it must be an angel, then a fairy with wings like a moth.
He shut his eyes a minute, to see what would happen, and he heard the voice singing a funny sort of song--no, not funny, but pretty.
And this was the song:
"Light, light
By day or night;
Stars in the skies,
Stars in the eyes."
He opened his. And there before him, in front of the window, stood a little lady. He thought she was dressed in white, then he decided it was yellow, then gold and white.
She walked, yet she seemed to be pasted on a big, shiny star. The top point rose just above her head, making the peak of a crown. The two middle points stuck out beyond her shoulders like bright moth wings, and the two bottom points extended below her waist, and away from her, like the ends of a sash.
At first Marmaduke thought she must be a painted doll, such as you see in the magazines about Christmas time, made for little children to cut out. But her golden hair was not still like that, but was always in motion like crinkly water that flows over the stones in the brook when the sun shines on it. And there on the rag rug, his own rag rug, were her little feet--very white, with little toes, and she could sing, too. My, how she could sing! No, she was not any painted doll.
She was going on with that song now:
"Far and near,
Bright and clear,
On sky and sea,
And the Christmas tree."
"'Llo!" said Marmaduke--then he stopped, ashamed. That was the way he talked to the fellows at school. He mustn't speak to such a beautiful lady that way. So--"How do you do?" he corrected himself.
But she only smiled and said--what do you think?
"'Llo! little boy"--just like himself. That seemed to set her singing again:--
"Low and high,
In the lake or the sky;
High and low,
In the crystal snow."
Then she stopped.
"Is there any more to it?" asked Marmaduke. "Oh, yes, one could go on forever"
"On the church spire,
Or in the fire;
On the wavelet's tip,
Or the mast of a ship;
In the shining gem
Over Bethlehem;
In the little cradle,
With the ox in the stable,
A baby fair
It was brightest there!"
"Now is that all of it?" Marmaduke asked her.
"Oh, there's lots more, but I'll sing just the last part for tonight"--and she told him the end:
"And in Mother's eyes,
Just as bright as the skies."
Marmaduke thought she was right in the last part of the song, anyway. Of course, he didn't understand exactly what it was all about, but it was a very pretty song, and he would think it over in the morning. But then his curiosity got the better of him.
"What did you come down here for?"
"Oh, I saw the light in your window," she explained, "and I thought maybe it was a little lost star. You see, we have to look out for them. When we do find a star that has lost its way we take it back--"
"Do you stick it up there with a pin?"
This question seemed to strike her as very amusing, and she laughed. And when she laughed it sounded like church bells far, far off, or the voice of the Brook.
"Oh, no," she said as soon as she could speak. "Do I look as if I could be stuck up there by a pin?"
"No-o-o, but what do you do? Just float around--or swim?"
"Well, that's the way you Earth people would put it--but we have another word for it."
"What is the word?"
She shook her head.
"That I can't tell you, for you'd never understand it, but it's a very pretty word."
Marmaduke sighed.
"I'd like to know it," he said, "but I suppose I can't."
And the Star Lady answered,--
"Not now, perhaps some day."
"Do you do anything else besides hunting for little lost stars?"
"Oh, yes," she said, coming a trifle nearer his bed, "sometimes we find little stars on earth that have never been in the sky, and they shine so very brightly that we take them up there, too."
"What kind of stars?"
"Would you like to see them?"
"You bet I would," Marmaduke started to say, then stopped. That sounded rather rude. Still she didn't reprove him; she didn't seem to mind it a bit. There was something very homelike about her, for all she was so radiant and bright.
"I understand perfectly," she assured him, "but we must be off before daylight." Then she turned to the bureau.
"Take the Little Blue Lamp with you, then you'll seem like a star, too."
Now long ago Marmaduke had made another trip to the skies, to see The Old Man in the Moon, but that journey was never like this. This was so much more beautiful.
He didn't feel as if he were walking or riding, just rising in the air with one hand clasped in the fingers of the Star Lady, the other around the little lamp.
Marmaduke wondered if all the people would look up and see his little light.
"Perhaps they can see just the light and not me," he said to himself, "and that would be just right."
They rose up over the trees, then over the brook, and he saw himself shining in the brook. It looked as if his twin were lying there in the water, and he laughed out loud--that is he thought he did. But he found he wasn't making any sound. Instead of words, sparkles seemed to come from his mouth, like the twinkles of a star.
He asked the Star Lady about that. It was very funny, but now that they were getting up in the clouds he couldn't hear his own voice and she couldn't hear it, either, but they understood each other just the same.
"When a star twinkles, it is laughing," she explained, and it all seemed very clear to him.
Now they passed through great clouds. When they rose above them he looked down. They seemed like white islands in a clear blue sea. And the sky was the sea. It wasn't like water, but just as cool, and the earth, and the towns, and the trees lay like places buried at the bottom of the ocean.
He tried to step on a cloud, and he couldn't feel anything at all under him, yet it didn't give way--he could sit down on it. He did lie down for a little while, it felt so soft and nice, but the Star Lady made him get up.
"We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's stirring in his sleep, and when he gets up and washes his face--"
"Does he wash his face?" interrupted Marmaduke, "just like real people?"
"Yes, he rubs cloud lather all over it, and then he dips his face in the bowl of the ocean."
"How does he dry it?"
"Oh, the morning wind does that," she replied, smiling at such a parade of questions, "but let's go before he starts to wash up, for I must show you all the star fields. It's only a few steps up."
"But I don't see any steps," exclaimed the little boy.
She smiled.
"Don't you?" she said, "you've been climbing them all the time."
"But it's such a long way to come, and my legs don't feel a bit tired," he persisted, a little doubtfully.
"'We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's
stirring in his sleep.'"
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"Oh, no one ever gets tired in the skies," she explained, "we never get tired and we never grow old."
"Do you live forever 'n ever?"
"Yes, forever," she answered gently, "but there are the fields."
Before them and all around them they stretched--as far as his eyes could see, and as far as they could have seen if he had had the biggest telescope in the world.
They were not green like those of Earth, but blue--blue as if each blade of grass were a blade of violet. And each field was thickly planted with bright little gleams like fireflies, winking, winking through the night.
And here and there was a great big star, like the Star Lady herself, walking about--no, it wasn't that--they were floating about the meadows. How Marmaduke wished he knew the word she had said they used in the skies for "walking."
"Are they stars or angels?" he asked her.
"Yes and no," she replied. Her answer was very strange, but she wouldn't explain it.
Suddenly Marmaduke thought of a question he had often asked people down on Earth. He could put it to the Star Lady and see if she would give the same answer as Mother. It was an old, old question that little children have asked ever since the world began.
"Who made the stars?" it was.
"God," she answered gently, "at least He made the big ones--but not the little ones."
"And who made them?"
"Oh, the people on earth. Perhaps you made a few yourself," she added.
"Me? How ever could I make stars?" And he stared at her in wonder.
"Oh, yes you can. Do you see those little ones there? They are the kind deeds people do on Earth. We go looking for them, and we can find them easily, for they shine out even in the darkest woods and the darkest streets. Then we put them up here. Look hard and perhaps you can find some you recognize."
Marmaduke did look hard. There was one near him. It was very little, but, somehow, as he looked he seemed to know it.
He went very near it. It twinkled like a real star, yet it was round as a bubble. And in it, just as in a soap bubble, he saw a picture.
The Star Lady was looking at him with an amused smile.
"What do you see?" she asked.
Yes, sure enough, there was a picture in it, a little faint, but he could make it out a horse and a bright red cart and on the seat a boy with crutches.
"Why it's Little Geeup and Johnny Cricket!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it's the picture of the time you took him for a ride," she answered. "I saw you do it, and I went down to Earth, and took that kind, bright little star deed, and planted it here in this very same field."
"Oh, oh!" It was all he could say, it was so wonderful.
Then he saw another field not far away that was full of particularly bright stars.