"I think I know those," he told the Star Lady, "they seem like friends."
"Do they? No wonder!"
Then she looked at him, her head on one side, and a smile in her eyes.
"I won't tell you what they are. I'm going to let you tell me."
"Oh, I know, I know," he cried, "they're Mother's kind deeds--all she's done for me and Jehosophat and Hepzebiah--and, oh, how many there are!" he added.
"Yes indeed, my dear. You never guessed there were so many, did you?"
Marmaduke grew very solemn as he replied,--
"But I won't forget now ever."
From where they stood, the great blue fields rose into a hill. And on the top of the hill was a beautiful star, the largest of all.
"And what is that?" the little boy asked his new friend.
"The star that shone over the cradle in Bethlehem."
He begged her to let him go nearer, but she shook her head.
"Not tonight. Someday you'll see it very clearly."
He was disappointed at that.
"When can I?" he asked.
"I do not know--but someday you and all in the world will see it, when the Earth people are kind to each other--not once in a while, but every day--all the while--"
"Anyway," said Marmaduke, "I don't think that star is any prettier than Mother's. It's bigger but not prettier."
"No, dear," she said, "not any more beautiful--it's all the same light. But the Sun is putting on his gold shoes. Look--over there," she added, "you can see the reflection."
And sure enough, as Marmaduke looked over to the East, the edge of the sky was turning to gold.
"You'll have to say goodbye now," the Star Lady told him, not sadly but gently, "to all the stars and to me. But before you go, listen, and you'll hear them all singing together. They always do, in the morning before the Sun comes. There, can you hear it?"
He listened, oh, so hard, but all he could hear was music like sleigh bells that were very far away.
"I hear something," he told her, "but it isn't clear. It sounds so far, far off."
"Someday you'll hear that clearly, too," she said, then turned. "Goodbye, my dear, I'll look out for your stars again, all the little ones you make each day. Don't forget."
And as he felt himself sinking, he saw the Star Lady waving at him from above, and he was sure she was singing again:
"Light, light
By day or night;
Stars in the skies,
Stars in the eyes."
Again he opened his. There was the Blue Fairy Light winking at him--and his mother's hand was on his forehead. How good it felt! And how cool her voice sounded!
"Was it a nice dream, dear?" she asked him. He didn't answer that question. Instead he said shyly,
"Mother--"
"Yes, dear?"
"Your eyes are like--"
"Like what, my dear little boy?"
"Like stars," he finished drowsily, then fell asleep, her hand still
on his forehead.
VIII
THE ANIMALS' BIRTHDAY PARTY
Birthdays are always important events, but some are more important than others. The most important of all, of course, is one you can't remember at all--the zero birthday, when you were born.
After that, the fifth, I suppose, is the red letter day. A boy certainly begins to appreciate life when he gets to be five years old. Next, probably, would come the seventh, for a boy--or a girl--is pretty big by then, and able to do so many things. In old Bible days seven was supposed to be a sacred number, and even today many people think it lucky. Why, at the baseball games the men in the stands rise up in the seventh inning and stretch, they say, to bring victory to the home team.
The seventeenth birthday is the next great event. By that time a boy is quite grown up and ready for college; and on the twenty-first he can vote. But after that people don't think so much of birthdays until their seventieth or so, when they become very proud of them once more. Perhaps they grow like little children again. Wouldn't it be funny to have, say, eighty candles on one cake? But what cook or baker makes cakes big enough for that?
Marmaduke wasn't looking so far ahead. All he was thinking about was his own birthday, which came that fine day, his seventh; and he was wondering if Mother would put the seven candles on his cake, and if it would turn out chocolate, which he very much hoped.
About three o'clock of this same day, Mother looked out of the window and said "Good gracious!," which were the very worst words she ever said; and Father looked up from the cider-press which he was mending, and said "By George!", which were the very worst he ever said; and the Toyman looked up from the sick chicken to which he was giving some medicine, and said "Geewhillikens!" And whether or not that was the worst he ever said I do not know. I hope so.
What could they be exclaiming about? Marmaduke! He was all alone as far as human beings went, for Jehosophat was putting axle-grease on his little red cart, and Hepzebiah was playing with Hetty, her rag doll, and the rest were busy at their tasks, as we have just seen.
But he had some fine company, oh, yes, he had. He was giving a birthday party for the animals.
And this is the way he persuaded all his noisy quarrelsome friends of the barnyard to come to his party:
First he went to the barn and filled one pocket--you see, he was a big boy now and had pockets--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven--one over his heart, two close by his belt, one on the inside of his jacket, one on each side of his hips, and two in the back of his corduroy trousers. Well, he filled pocket number one with golden kernels of corn from the sack; pocket number two with meal from another sack; and he filled pocket number three with lettuce leaves from the garden; and number four with birdseed from a little box. That makes four pockets.
To fill the others, he had to make three more journeys--three very strange journeys, so strange you could never guess where he was going. First he went to the wagon-shed, and there, because it was near the three kennels, was kept the box of dog-biscuit. Six of these biscuits went in the fifth pocket. Let's see--yes, that leaves two more to be filled.
For the sixth, he went into his own little room and got a bottle with a stopper in it, one which he had begged from the doctor that time he was sick. Then he went to the springhouse by the well, and filled the little bottle with milk from the big can.
But the seventh pocket had the strangest load of all. He took his shovel and actually dug some worms from the garden, long, wriggly worms--"night-walkers," the boys call them--and placed them in a can, and presto! that too went into his pocket, the seventh. And now all the pockets were filled.
And, mind you, he did all this by himself. And when he came back from all these errands he bulged out in such funny places, the places where he had stuffed his pockets, so that he looked as if he had tremendous warts or knobs all over his body.
"Did you ever!" said Mother, and all three--she, the Toyman, and Father--kept watching, trying hard not to laugh. It paid them to watch him, too, for they were going to see something worth-while, better than a "movie," better even than a circus.
Well, after all the errands were over, Marmaduke collected some shingles, and all the cups and tins in which the Three Happy Children made mud-pies. And he spread them out on the table in the summer-house very carefully.
Can you guess what he did that for? I don't believe you can. I know I couldn't.
Then he took his little scoopnet, and went to the pond and put the net in. Out it came, and in the meshes flopped and tumbled and somersaulted three tiny fish.
These he placed in one of the pans on the table in the summer-house, and then hurried to the rabbit-hutch and opened the sliding door and called,--
"Come, Bunny, Bunny,
An' don't be funny!"
But first we must explain that Marmaduke had a queer trick of making rhymes. I guess he caught it from the Toyman, who used to make lots for the children, just to see them laugh. So Marmaduke got the habit. And making rhymes is just as catching as measles and whooping cough, only it doesn't hurt so much.
Of course, some of Marmaduke's rhymes weren't very good, but he tried his best, which is all you can ask of anybody. Anyway, we will have to tell you them just as he made them, so you can see what sort of a party he had.
So he said,--
"Come, Bunny, Bunny,
An' don't be funny!"
It didn't mean anything much, but he just said it.
And out, hippity hop, hippity hop, came the White Rabbits, making noses at him in the odd way of their kind.
Holding out the lettuce leaves in front of their wriggling noses, he coaxed them over to the summer-house, and when they got there, he placed a leaf in one of the dishes, saving the rest for the feast.
And the Bunnies made funnier noses than ever and nibbled, nibbled away at their plates.
Then he called out loud,--
"Here chick, chick, chick,
Come quick, quick, quick!"
And all the White Wyandottes came running. Mother Wyandotte and all the little ones, and all their relatives, hurrying like fat old women trying to catch the trolley car. Even lordly Father Wyandotte himself stalked along a little faster than usual, and I guess the Big Gold Rooster on the top of the barn tried to fly down too, but he was pinned up there tight on the roof, and so couldn't accept the invitation, much to his grave dissatisfaction.
Marmaduke put only one or two kernels of corn from his first pocket, in the plates for the White Wyandottes, to hold them there until the rest of the guests could come. He wanted to get them all together and make a speech to them, the way Deacon Slithers did when they gave a purse of gold to the minister. He was going to present himself with something at that speech. He had it all planned out, you see.
So next he called the Pretty Pink Pigeons from their house on the top of the barn.
"Coo, coo,
There's some for you."
And the Pretty Pink Pigeons accepted his invitation very quickly, and he tempted them, too, all the way to the summer-house, with a little of the bird-seed from the fourth pocket.
And then he called,--
"Goose, Goose, Goose--"
At first he couldn't think of anything nice for them, but just kept calling, "Goose, Goose, Goose," over and over until he thought up a bright idea--a fine rhyme,--
"You've no excuse."
And then to the Turkey,--
"Turkey, come to my party,
If you don't, you're a smarty."
Sort of silly, wasn't it?--but, no, I guess that was pretty good.
Then he yelled,--
"Here Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat,
You'll have a bite of that."
And--
"Wienie and Brownie and Rover,
Come 'n over, come 'n over, come 'n over!"
And at last,--
"Here, little fish,
Is a nice little dish."
All things considered, he did pretty well, didn't he?
Now he emptied all the different kinds of food, from his seven different pockets, on the little shingles and the little dishes on the table in the summer-house.
There was corn for the White Wyandottes and Mr. Stuckup the Turkey, and some, too, for the Foolish White Geese; and meal for the Pretty Pink Pigeons; and lettuce leaves for the hippity-hop white Bunnies; and milk from the little bottle for the Pussy; and puppy biscuit for the three Dogs; and worms for the Little Fish, all placed very politely in their little dishes.
It was a grand party. No wonder Mother said, "Good gracious!" and "Did you ever!"; and no wonder Father whistled, and said, "By George!", and the Toyman slapped his overalls, and said "Gee-willikens!"--and perhaps a lot of other things besides.
But there was one serious trouble about this party. Marmaduke couldn't keep sufficient order to make that important speech, which was to have been the event of the celebration.
He stood up on the bench in the summer-house, put his hands in his new pockets, made a fine bow, and began:
"Ladees and gen'lemen an' all others, Mr. Rooster and Mrs. Rooster an' General Turkey"--but he could get no further.
The White Wyandottes were jumping all over the table, and the Pretty Pink Pigeons, who were very tame, were trying to get in his pockets for more of the feast; and Rover and Brownie and Wienerwurst were jumping up and trying to lick his face; and his grand speech turned out something like this:
"Down, Rover! Get away, you crazy Geese! Stop that, Bunny! Stop it, I say--scat!!--scat!!!--"
Well, by this time Wienerwurst was biting the tails of the Pretty Pink Pigeons again; and Brownie was chasing the rabbits; and the Geese were flapping their wings and crying, "hiss, hiss!"; and the Pigeons were flying back to their home on the roof; and Rover had his mouth full of White Geese feathers; and Tabby was swallowing the little fish--and--and--Marmaduke was almost crying.
"I'll take it all back," he yelled, "you're no ladies and gen'lemen you're--you're just mean an' I won't ever ask you to my party again."
Of course, by this time, Mother and the Toyman and Father weren't just standing still and looking and saying things--they were running--and--saying things!--running straight for that party which had turned out such a grand fight.
They tried to save what they could from the wreck. They spanked little Wienerwurst until he let go of the tails of the Pretty Pink Pigeons, and they got the Bunnies safe back in their hutch, and the White Wyandottes in their yard, and Mr. Turkey in his.
But they couldn't save the poor little fish. It was very sad, but it was too late. Tabby wasn't like Jonah's whale. What she had once swallowed she wasn't apt to give up.
"'I'll take it all back,' Marmaduke yelled, 'you're no
ladies an' gen'lemen--an' I won't ever ask you to my party again'"
Click to view larger image
Marmaduke felt very much hurt and very indignant about the way he had been treated. As Father said, "it was a grave slight to his hospitality."
However, he forgot all about it when he saw the new skates which Mother and Father had waiting for him, and the grand Noah's Ark which the Toyman had made with his very own hands. There isn't much use telling the colors in which it was painted, because you know the Toyman was sure to put a lot of colors, and pretty ones, too, on all the things he made for the Three Happy Children.
There is one good thing about all the animals in that Noah's Ark. They are very cunning and look like the real thing, but, as the Toyman said, "You can invite them to your house any time and they won't fight, or bite, or scratch, or quarrel. They are very polite and well-behaved."
Marmaduke had many a celebration for them, and made many a glorious speech to them as well, and they listened to every word.
So the birthday party really lasted long after the seven candles had
gone out, and the cake had gone, too, every crumb.
IX
DR. PHILEMON PIPP, THE PATIENT MEDICINE MAN
Uncle Roger lived in town, quite a distance from the home of the Three Happy Children. When they walked, Marmaduke's short legs took one whole hour to reach it; Jehosophat's, forty-five minutes; though the Toyman's long shanks could cover the ground in fifteen. But then he could go ever so fast. However, they usually rode, and horses can always go faster than men. Even Old Methusaleh could trot there in twelve, and he was spavined and a little wind-broke, while Teddy and Hal, who were young and frisky, could get there as quick as a wink.
On this particular day Uncle Roger and Aunt Mehitable had a family party. It was a fine one, you may be sure, but we are not going to tell you about it, when something even more interesting happened that night.
At half-past eight the last horn sounded and the party was over. Mother and Hepzebiah climbed in the surrey, and, with them, two great-aunts, Sophronisba and Abigail. Aunt Phrony weighed more than three hundred pounds, but Aunt Abby only a hundred; and they were planning to visit the White House With the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road--"for a week," they said, but the boys heard Father whisper to Mother, as he piled their baggage under the tailboard,--"From the size of those bags it looks like a year and a day." The boys wondered what that extra day could ever be for--probably to move all that baggage.
Now Teddy the Buckskin Horse was hitched to the surrey; and in the shafts of the buggy stood Hal the Red Roan. And that night the boys particularly wanted to ride behind Teddy. They liked to watch the black stripe that ran down his yellow back skim ahead of them over the road, just like a snake. And they liked the surrey, too. It had a fringe all around the top, and high mudguards, and a whip with a tassel and ribbon on it. But now that the great-aunts were in, Aunt Abby's side rose way up in the air, she was so light, but Aunt Phrony's sank down until the steel springs of the carriage groaned and scrunched on the axles. The surrey looked like a boat when all the passengers rush to one side to see who has fallen over.
There was no room for the boys, so they had to climb in the buggy. But, after all, the Toyman was to drive, and that quite made up for it. He might even let them drive, or tell them stories--about Ole Man Pumpkin, or the stars, or the cowboys out West, or any one of a number of wonderful things. So they were quite content as the Toyman said "Gee-dap," and they drove off through the night.
They had gone but a short distance when they saw a light. It was different from all the lights in the houses and the street lamps on the corners, which shone steadily and all the while. This one flickered and flared like a fire in the wind; and it smoked rather badly, too.
Jehosophat and Marmaduke tried to guess what it was, but neither was right. When they reached the corner of the street and got out of the buggy, they saw a lot of boys, big boys and little boys, and men, too, crowding around a wagon. The horses which had brought it there were tied to a hitching post a little way off, and a man stood in the back by the tailboard. The light which they had seen from afar shone over his head, a strange sort of torch, and was fed with oil by a little metal pan with a tube running to it. And it flickered oddly up and down, and from side to side, throwing funny shadows on the man, who looked queer enough himself.
He had long black hair like Buffalo Bill, and a long black coat--very long, with a fur collar on it.
Marmaduke whispered to the Toyman,--
"Can't you cure the man's coat? It's got the mange."
And the Toyman replied,--
"No, money is all that can cure that, and pretty soon he's going to get plenty from these people's pockets."
Marmaduke's eyes bulged.
"Is he a robber?" he asked in an awed whisper.
The Toyman laughed.
"Well, some folks might call him that without being sued for libel, but I 'spose he's within the law."
Marmaduke wondered how he could be in the law and in the wagon at the same time, and the Toyman had to explain that he meant that the strange man ought to go to jail, but probably wouldn't. Just why, he told them to "wait and see."
But, oh, we forgot--what was most important,--on the man's head was a tall silk hat. It looked as if it needed the mange cure quite as much as did the fur collar of his coat. And it was tipped on the side of his head, like a crazy old mill Marmaduke had seen once, that was about to fall in the river.
Behind the man was spread a banner with the man's name on it, Dr. Philemon Pipp, and a big chart like those the teachers used in school.
"Whew!" whistled Jehosophat, "look at that ole bag of bones!"
For on that chart was a big picture of a skeleton, and, by the side of the skeleton, other pictures, of a man with his skin taken off, which showed his bones, and his muscles, and all his insides--very prettily painted in blue and yellow and red.
That wasn't all there was on that wonderful wagon. Behind the chart, they saw lots of bottles filled with nice black juice. It looked like licorice water, and it made anyone's mouth water just to look at it!
But the man, Dr. Philemon Pipp, was talking.
And as he talked, he made queer gestures with his arms, as if he wanted to scoop up all the people--or something the people had--into his wagon. Perhaps it was their money he wanted to scoop up, though he said nothing--as to that, just,--
"Now, gents, step up a little closer, pleeze."
Then he tilted his hat on the other side of his head, and put one hand across his chest, the middle finger between the buttons of his vest, and all in a very grand way.
"Tonight," he went on, "for youah entertainment, I will oferrr this distinguished audience a marrvelous programme--an extrahorrrdinary exheebeeshun of tricks and sleight of hand meeraculs such as nevah befoh were puhfomed by human hands.
"Now watch, ladees, and keep yuh eyes peeled, gents--and mebbe youall kin learn the secret."
Then he had to stop for a minute, for the small boys were climbing on the hubs of the wheels.
"Heah, young man," he shouted, "have youall fohgot yuh mannahs? Do not futhuh disturb muh discourse."
Of course, Jehosophat and Marmaduke couldn't understand all these magnificent words, but they sounded quite splendid. No wonder the hat was so big, when it had to cover a head with such long words inside.
Now Dr. Philemon Pipp had turned to the crowd.
"Have any of you gents got a quatah?--Thank you, sah," he said to a man who handed him the money.
Then he took the silver quarter and asked a little boy to step up on the wagon. Jehosophat wished he had been asked, so that he could have learned the wonderful trick.
And now Dr. Pipp showed the coin to the little boy.
"You see it, young man?" he asked.
"Yes sir, yes sir," said the little boy, all excitement.
Ah, but the man was wiggling his hands through the air, saying,--
"Now you see it and now you don't."
And presto! he took that very same quarter which had been in his hand, out of--where do you think?--why, right out of the boy's mouth. That wasn't all, either, for next minute he took it out of his cap, then out of his ears. There had been one quarter before--now in his hand there were--five--shiny--quarters! It was a wonderful trick!
But now the strange man, Dr. Philemon Pipp, was speaking again.
"Now that you all understand the trick," he declared, "I will pefohm another foh youah entahtainment."
The funny thing about it was that no one understood it at all--except the Toyman.
"Do you really?" the boys asked him, and he replied,--
"Pshaw! that's easy, but watch, sonny, and see what he'll try next."
Meanwhile the man had taken off his tall silk hat.
"You see this hat, ladees an' gents? Just a simple piece of headwear that has seen many suns and rains. No false bottom or top."
And he tapped the hat to show them it was just an ordinary hat. Still, Marmaduke thought it was very much out of the ordinary. Never had he seen such a grand one--not even on Deacon Smithers.
"Now peel yuh eyes--careful--watch--everybody ready? Presto, chango--and here we are."
And believe it or not as you may, out of that hat he drew a white rabbit--a real live white rabbit. He held it up by its ears for all to see.
And again he said,--
"Now that youall undahstand this simple little trick, I will--"
And again no one understood how to do it but the Toyman.
However, they just had to listen, for it was a wonderful speech.
"Ladees an' gents and fellow citizens of--" the strange man paused, coughed, then leaned down to his helper. "What's the name of this burg, Jake?" he whispered to him. "Ah, yes, fellow citizens of the glorious ceety of Five Corners--"
And Jehosophat whispered to the Toyman,--
"How does he know it's so glorious when he can't even remember the name?"
The Toyman chuckled and replied,--
"Oh, he's a remarkable man, the Doctor, a very remarkable man. But listen, boy, listen, you'll never hear the like again."
So of course they listened--with all their ears, and their eyes and their mouths, too.
"I will introjooce to you," went on the grand speech, "the famous Indian"--yes, that's just what he said,--"the famous Indian, Chief-Afraid-of-a-Rat. Come on, Chief, don't scare the ladies, and don't scalp the little boys as long as they're good."
"Out of that hat he drew a rabbit, a live white rabbit,
and held it up by its ears for all to see."
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Then up on that wagon stepped a big Indian with moccasins on his feet, and a dress of deerskin with beads embroidered on it, and a headdress of many feathers and many colors too. He opened his mouth wide, and said something that sounded like a speech and yet like a song:--
"Ging-goo, ging goo, ging goo!
Tunk a tin, tunk a tin, tunk a tin!
Geegry goo, geegry goo,
All-a-man lissen!"
That's what the Red Indian with all the feathers said, and it sounded very impressive.
As it was so hard for anyone who didn't know the real Indian language to understand, the man with the long hair and tall silk hat, this wise Dr. Philemon Pipp, explained it.
"The noble red man, the last of his tribe, Chief-Afraid-of-a-Rat," said he, "is a great medicine man. He says that from his native soil he has distilled a wonderrful medicine that works like magic."
Then, wetting his lips, he leaned over and picked up one of the big bottles that was full of black juice like the water the children used to make from licorice sticks.
"If yuh have a pain or an ache, a misery in yuh back, if yuh suffah from stomach-ache or tooth-ache, or an ache in the head; if yuh feet burn and blister; if yuh tongue evah feels thick; if yuh feel a leetle inclined to dizzyness--in fact, if yuh have any ache or trouble in the world, this medicine will cure yuh, will bring instant relief."
Then he took another bottle and said some more:
"One bottle of this medicine is worth five dollahs. Who would not give a paltry five dollahs for to be cured of his miseries? But--ladees and gents, because I was once born in your beautiful ceety I will sell--"
"Why, he even forgot its name," whispered Jehosophat.
"Shush," whispered the Toyman right back at him, "don't give him away."
But, instead, of Jehosophat giving him away, it seemed Dr. Pipp was going to give something away himself, for he was saying in his speech,--
"Because I was once born in your beautiful ceety, I will give away--for this night only--a whole bottle of this magic medicine for the trifling sum of fifty cents!"
That was very generous, thought the boys, and they said so to the Toyman, but again he told them to "wait an' see."
And then Dr. Philemon Pipp turned to the crowd of men and boys and hollered real loud like the minister at camp-meeting,--
"Who'll be the first to be cuhed? Who'll be the first to be happy again?"
And one by one the silly people went down in their pockets, and brought up their fifty-cent pieces, and handed them up to the man on the wagon.
You see, every one must have had at least one of the kinds of pains and aches Dr. Pipp talked about, for he mentioned every one in the world.
Marmaduke thought that black medicine would be fine for the Toyman.
"Toyman," he said, "buy a bottle, an' it will cure you of that bad rheumatism."
"No," replied the Toyman, "that won't cure even chilblains. That old codger's not telling the truth. And the people are fools to believe him."
But all this time Dr. Pipp was handing out the bottles with one hand, and collecting the fifty-cent pieces with the other, and the Red Indian was singing his funny song,--
"Ging goo, ging goo,
Hunk-a-tin, hunk-a-tin, hunk-a-tin,
Geegry goo, geegry goo,
All-a-man lissen!"
And the light nickered on the funny pictures of the skeleton and the man with his skin off, and then on Dr. Philemon Pipp with his long black hair and tall silk hat, and on the feathers of the Red Indian, as he danced up and down singing that funny song.
At last something stranger still happened.
The Toyman had just muttered to himself,--
"They're fools, they are, but I guess I ought to stop him."
And just as he said this, Dr. Philemon saw him in the crowd. The Doctor must have felt hurt because the Toyman hadn't bought any of his bottles, for he pointed a finger with a great long nail right at the Toyman and said:
"Yuh sah, aren't yuh willin' to be cuhed?"
Now the Toyman was forever saying funny and surprising things, but he never said anything funnier and more surprising in his life than what he told that patent-medicine man.
"No, thank you, Mr. Steve Jorkins"--that's just what he called him, not Dr. Pipp at all--"that medicine of yours isn't magic. It wouldn't even cure a chicken of the pip."
Then all the men crowded around the Toyman, calling him by his old name.
"Do you know him, Frank? Is he fooling us?"
"You bet he is," replied the Toyman, "and he's got all your hard-earned money in his jeans."
Then he called to the boys to "come quick," for he thought there would be trouble, and there was.
For all those men and boys in the crowd climbed up on the wagon--and they grabbed Dr. Philemon Pipp by his fine fur collar--and they made him give back their money, every last cent of it. Then, while some of them held him, the others smashed all his bottles until the black juice ran over the tailboard like a dark waterfall, and they hurled his high silk hat on the top of the lamp-post, yelling,--
"You git out of here, quick! Come, skedaddle!"
And since, in his fright, he didn't "skedaddle" fast enough to suit them, they threw beets and all sorts of vegetables at him, vegetables that had been ripe a very long time. So at last the tall Doctor with his fine fur collar--but without his silk hat--hitched up his horses with trembling fingers, and he and his helper Jake and the Red Indian drove out of town "lickety-split." You could hear the wagon-wheels rattling away long after he turned the corner.
Then the Toyman "tlucked" to Hal and they drove off, too.
"How did you know him?" Jehosophat asked, after they had trotted a little way.
"Oh, I used to know him out West. He didn't remember me, but I did him. I bought one of his bottles once."
"Is he a robber?"
"Well, he calls himself a patent-medicine man, but I'd call him a 'fakir.'"
"What's a 'fakir,' Toyman?" put in Marmaduke, very sleepily.
"Oh, a man who pretends to be something he isn't, and who sells folks something that's no good, and takes all their money for nothing. But"--and he laughed--"some folks like to be fooled."
"It's too bad!" sighed Marmaduke.
"What's too bad, sonny?"
"Why, to smash all those big bottles and waste all that lovely licorice water."
But he soon forgot all about the bottles and the licorice water, and the bad Doctor Pipp with the tall hat and the fur collar, and the Red Indian, too, for, as they rode along by the River, the Moon was up, and seemed to be riding along with them--never getting ahead or behind, just keeping even with Hal the Red Roan. And Marmaduke loved to go riding or walking with a great yellow moon. Besides, the Toyman told them a story, as he had promised--and a nice one it was--so the little boy fell asleep.
But I wouldn't say that they never dreamed about that fur collar, and the tall hat, and the Indian, and all those bottles.
It's just possible that they did.
X
WHEN JEHOSOPHAT FORGOT HIS PIECE
There was much excitement in the Red Schoolhouse. Examinations were over; books laid aside. And the walls re-echoed to thrilling sounds,--to happy voices and shuffling feet, to poetry, marches, and songs. They were practising for Commencement, for Closing Day. And at home the parents were busy, too, making white dresses and sashes for the girls, buying new suits for the boys in town, or making some over from father's old trousers.
Marmaduke was to take part in the marches and songs, but Jehosophat had to speak a whole piece, all alone too. It was a great honor, no doubt about that, which Jehosophat didn't appreciate. He thought it a bother.
Now their teacher was a patriot and fond of History. All through the term she had told them tales of brave lads who were good and great. Probably she wanted them to become good and great, too, and of course it was the thing to be. That Jehosophat knew, but it was pretty hard when one kept forgetting.
So he wasn't at all sure of himself, but of one thing he was sure,--the stories were lost on Fatty. Try as he would he never could think of him as being "good and great," or exactly "a hero."
But that was the least of Jehosophat's worries. He had been given a piece to learn--to recite before a big crowd!
It was poetry--all about a boy who had stuck by his ship and gone down with it, too. The piece was called by the boy's name--a queer sort of word--Casabianca. If the piece was as hard as its name, Jehosophat thought he never would learn it.
"Well, Jehosophat," said his father that night, "how's the orator?"
But Mother said,--
"Don't tease him, Will, I'm sure he'll do us proud."
Jehosophat squirmed in his seat. He didn't want to "do anyone proud." That was not his ambition. And he squirmed still more when she asked him,--
"Have you learned it all, Jehosophat?"
He mumbled something that sounded like,--
"Donev'nknownameyet."
So next day when he came back from school he had to stay in the parlour to study it.
After a while--not so long a while, either--he called to Mother,--
"Mother, I think I could learn it a lot better out doors than in this dark room."
"All right, dear," she said, "if you're sure you won't let anything distract you."
"No, Mother, I promise." And he went out by the big elm and stood under the Oriole's nest. "The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled."
That is the way it began and he started:
"The boy stood on the burning deck"--then he had to stop, for Mr. Stuck-up, the Turkey, was taking his afternoon parade right near him. Mr. Stuckup didn't seem to like that piece at all. Neither did Jehosophat, for that matter.
"'The boy'"--he began again.
"Gobble, gobble," shrieked the Turkey.
"'Stood on the burning--'"
"Gobble, gobble," again rudely interrupted Mr. Stuckup.
So Jehosophat went around to the side of the house by the Lilac Bush. He stood up straight and tried it all over again.
"'The boy stood on the burning deck'--get down, get down!" he yelled. Now that was strange. It sounded as if he were telling the boy to get down off that deck. But it was only Wienerwurst he was talking to. For, when he made that fine gesture which Teacher had shown them, Wienerwurst, who had crept up behind him, thought his master was playing some game, and jumped up at his outstretched fingers.
So once more Jehosophat picked up his reader, and walked over to the Crying Tree, whose green willow branches trailed in the Pond.
He practised his fine bow for a while, then began. This time he actually got through the first verse all right, and was quite pleased with himself. But no sooner had he stopped than he heard behind him--
A loud
"HISS! HISS!"
Now it isn't pleasant to try to make a good speech, and have some one hiss you when they ought to be clapping their hands. But that is just what The Foolish White Geese were doing to Jehosophat.
Once more he picked up his reader, and marched way up the Brook. He had just begun the lines all over again when Miss Cross Patch the Guinea Hen ran out from behind the barn and screeched horribly--just as he was making that fine gesture, too.
"GAWKE'E!--GAWKE'E!--GAWKE'E!"
Now to be called gawky when he thought the gesture was particularly graceful, was indeed discouraging. And, to add to his discomfort, when he tried it again--for the hundredth time, it seemed--the cows in the pasture stretched their red muzzles over the bars and called:
"BOOOOOOO!"
--just as if they wanted him to stop. And the horses whinnied:
"FUNN-NN-NN-NNY!"
It was no use, so Jehosophat rushed into the house again, stuffed some cotton in his ears, and went up in the attic, where he was sure he wouldn't be disturbed.
Here he succeeded pretty well, and had learned two verses, and the name--which was quite important--when the supper bell rang. So he felt he had earned that nice glass of creamy milk, and the big slice of gingerbread, especially the thick chocolate icing on top. It was an extra thick piece, too, which Mother gave him, probably as a prize for all his hard work.
Next morning, on the way to school, he was reciting Casabianca for practice. He tried it on the Purple Crackles that flew in the fields by the blackberry bushes; the little Gold Finches that swayed on the grasses; and the topknotted Kingbirds on the telegraph wires overhead.
And he thought he was getting on pretty well with "The boy stood on the burning deck," when a voice took the second line right out of his mouth:
"Eating peanuts by the peck!!!!!"
Angrily he turned, and there were Fatty Hamm and Reddy Toms, Dicky Means too, and Lizzie Fizzletree, all making faces at him and mocking him with funny gestures. Surely no teacher ever taught gestures like those.
They began it all over again, reciting together. And this is the piece they made of it--you never would have recognized poor Casabianca at all:
"The boy stood on the burning deck
Eating peanuts by the peck.
His father called, he would not go
Because he loved his peanuts so!!!"
"Stop," yelled Jehosophat, "that isn't it at all."
"'Tis, too," shouted Fatty and the others together, and they repeated in one breath, as fast as they could:
"'Sfathercalled andewouldn'tgo
Causeeloved 'ispeanutsso."
Yes, every time Jehosophat tried to tell them what it really was, they kept shouting in singsong voices, faster and faster:
"Fathercalled 'ewoodengo
Causeeloved 'ispeanutsso."
And every once in a while that little imp Lizzie Fizzletree would make outrageous bows, almost down to the ground, in imitation of Jehosophat.
Next day was the day, the great day. And all the boys came dressed in new suits, or suits made over from Father's old trousers, with stiff collars, and ties of red, or blue, or brown; and the girls had pretty white dresses with sashes sticking out like butterflies' wings.
Jehosophat thought they did resemble butterflies until he looked down at their feet; and then very crossly he decided that those feet spoiled "the effect." You see, he was getting to use and to think in big words now.
But while he was looking at the regiment of feet, along came Mr. Humbleby, the Presidentboardofeducation, and all the County Trustees, and the proud parents from near and from far. You could see a long line of buggies and surries and carryalls lined against the fence.
Then the signal was given, and the Teacher took her pointer and rose, and the scholars smoothed their sashes, or their hair, and rose, too; and one and all sang,--
"My country, 'tis of thee."
Then there were more songs by Theentireschool and pieces by the scholars. Lizzie Fizzletree tried one all about flowers. "The Fringed Gentian," it was called, and it was very pretty. But when Lizzie got through with it, Jehosophat didn't think it was so beautiful. She recited it something like this:
"Dear flo'wr so cal'm and pu're and bri'ght That op'nest in' the qu'i-et nig'ht."
And as she recited it she made gestures in all directions, first to one side, then to the other, just such floppy gestures as Ole Man Scarecrow would have made. That is, sometimes they looked like that, and sometimes her arms looked like the arms of a windmill. And her frizzy pigtails swished around with her arms--just like the sails of a windmill that had suddenly gone mad. The people started to titter, and Jehosophat started to giggle with them, when suddenly he thought of his own plight, and little shivers ran up and down his back, and his face felt very flushed and warm.
Then there were more songs by "Theentireschool"--and more pieces. My, would they never end! And then there were speeches by the Presidentboardeducation and the Trustees, who seemed to appreciate the privilege more than most of the pupils, Jehosophat thought, for they never stopped when they had the chance.
He looked out of the window. Over by the orchard, he could hear a flicker go "Rat-a-tat-tat," boring away at the old apple tree. The sun was shining nice and warm, and he wondered if he couldn't climb up on his seat, and drop out of the open window, and run away ever so far. He was supposed to "do his parents proud"; and if there was anything he hated, it was "doing somebody proud." Oh, golly!
"The boy stood on the burning deck."
Once or twice he repeated it to himself. Yes, he knew it all right. But just then Fatty Hamm, who sat behind him, leaned over and whispered,--
"Don't forget the peanuts, Joshy!"
Jehosophat frowned and tried not to pay any attention, but the Presidentboardeducation had taken out his spectacles and was reading from a paper.
"Recitation by----." He couldn't seem to understand the name and put on his glasses a little nearer the end of his nose,
"Recitation by Je-hos-o-phat Green!"
How loud it sounded!
The Presidentboardeducation was looking all over the room.
"Come, come," he said, "where is Jehosophat?"
Now that boy couldn't rise, for the tail of his jacket had slid down in the crack of the seat, and Fatty Hamm was holding it tight so he couldn't even move.
Again the spectacles of the Presidentboardeducation looked over the children in grave surprise. They lighted on Jehosophat.
"Come, come, my little man, there's nothing to be afraid of."
And the Presidentboardeducation smiled on him, with that sort of smile "grownups" always put on when they're going to "do something for your good," like pulling a tooth, for instance, or offering you castor oil.
There was a drone, too, of voices like the bees outside, and all eyes were looking at him. He didn't dare look at his mother, who was hoping so hard that he would "do her proud," or at his father, either. But he did glance once at the Toyman, who was sitting, looking very uncomfortable, in a boiled shirt and a stiff collar that almost choked his adam's apple. His hair was slicked down extra tight, too, and he kept gazing down into his new store hat. He felt very sorry for himself, and even sorrier for Jehosophat.
But the Presidentboardeducation was saying,--
"Come, come," again, and then,--
"Tut, tut!"
And all-of-a-sudden Fatty let go of his coat, and Jehosophat found himself on his feet and on his way to the platform.
He wanted to take a little of the glass of water that stood by the Presidentboardeducation--just one little sip--for his throat felt so dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. But he couldn't.
He made the fine bow all right, and Mother looked at Father as much as to say,--
"But then Jehosophat just had to look at Fatty, and
Fatty had just put a peanut up to his mouth--as a sort of a signal, I
guess--"
Click to view larger image
"There, I knew our boy could do it."
And wonderfully he got through the first line,--"The boy stood on the burning deck."
But then he just had to look at Fatty, and Fatty had just put a peanut up to his mouth--as a sort of signal, I guess.
"The boy stood on the burning deck," repeated Jehosophat, forgetting the next line, and so having to stick to the first. He couldn't think of anything but Fatty's grinning mouth and that peanut.
"The boy stood on the burning deck," he called, louder than before.
"The boy stood on the burning deck," still louder.
"Yes, yes, my little man," said the Presidentboardeducation, still with that smile that Jehosophat hated so, and before he knew it he was shouting right back at the spectacles:--
"Eating peanuts by the peck.
His father called 'e wouldngo
Causehelovedispeanutsso!"
Yes sir, he shouted the last line oh, so loud, like a little bull, right in the Presidentboardeducation's face. And the Presidentboardeducation was so startled that he almost knocked the pitcher of water off the table. And the teacher's glasses fell off her nose, and she seemed to be unable to find them in her embarrassment--and then--the whole audience roared till the walls of the little Red Schoolhouse echoed to their laughter, and Jehosophat saw Fatty slapping his fat legs in delight.
Meanwhile, Jehosophat wasn't losing any time. He just hurried to the window, climbed up on the seat, then on the sill, and dropped on the soft grass below, and ran up the road towards home, just as fast as he could travel.
He hadn't gone far when he heard someone calling,--
"Hey, Sonny!"
He turned with relief.
There was the Toyman, his long legs fast catching up with the runaway. And the same old smile was on the Toyman's face.
And when the long legs had caught up with the short ones, the Toyman put his arm around the boy's shoulders, and they walked along like--well, like two old chums.
What was finest, too, was that he never mentioned the cause of Jehosophat's trouble and embarrassment, which is what no really true friend ever should do.
At last Jehosophat asked,--
"Where we goin'?"
"Let's go fishin'--I hate speeches," the Toyman replied.
"I made a silly, a fool of myself, didn't I?" said Jehosophat.
"Not by a long sight," the Toyman replied. "You see, sonny," he went on to explain, very soberly, "that's an old piece of yours and out of date. Now they're making new arrangements and editions of books and po'try all the time. They just change with the times. And yours is a heap better than the old piece, anyway you look at it."
Jehosophat wasn't quite so sure. But, anyway, they had a great time
"fishin'."
XI
OLE MAN PUMPKIN
It was October, and the cornfield was deserted and bare. Jehosophat and Marmaduke could remember it as a more beautiful picture. For there, in the Summer, an army had camped, the great army of the corn, with tassels and tall yellow spears, and bright green banners waving and tossing in the wind. But when Fall had come, Father and the Toyman had come, too, with their sickles like swords, to attack and cut down that brave army. And now the corn soldiers were all laid away, stiff and cold, in the barn, or else in the silo--to be pickled in juice!
Marmaduke and Jehosophat looked over the field. It was covered with little hills, and there the feet of the corn soldiers still stood, all that was left of them, for they had been "swished by those swords," just at the ankles.
Between the hills shone the last of the pumpkins, big, round and yellow--red-yellow like an orange. Most of them had gone in the wagon, long ago, but the largest of all had been left. My, but he was a big fellow! "The biggest in the world!" they declared.
He had been saved for the great day--or night, we should say--Hallowe'en.
But let's hurry the clock--over three days--to the morning before the celebration.
The three children were watching Mother in the kitchen. She was busy with the big pumpkin, but the Toyman had to help her with it--it was so huge. He lifted it on the table--then--what do you think?
He took a sharp knife and scalped that Pumpkin--just like an Indian--cut a great hole in his head. Then Mother scooped out his insides and chopped them up fine. Ole Man Pumpkin was very brave, just stood it and said never a word.
"Why, he doesn't holler a bit!" exclaimed Marmaduke. "I would, if anybody scalped me and took my insides out!"
Next, Mother brought out the big pot, filling it part with water, and part with Ole Man Pumpkin's yellow insides. And the fire roared angrily and boiled them, boiled them all up. It took quite a long time, but the children didn't grow tired--it was such a mysterious, such an interesting process.
At last Mother decided it had been cooked long enough, and she poured the water into the sink, the nice yellow stuff into a bowl. Then she mashed the lumps till it looked like golden mush.
Now the flour was sifted on the pastry board, and the dough rolled until it was as smooth and flat as a sheet or counterpane. Then quickly and neatly the dough counterpanes were placed in the pans, hanging over the edges like covers overlapping a bed. Taking a knife, Mother cut off these edges even with the pan, then, for decoration, made little marks in the dough all around, like the flutings of the Fairy Lamp.
Of course, the insides of Ole Man Pumpkin wouldn't taste quite right as they were, so Mother broke some eggs over them, adding some milk and a pinch of spice for seasoning, and the delicious mess was stirred till all was thoroughly mixed.
Soon it was ready, a fine filling for pies and pans or little boys or kings, for that matter, and she scraped it into the pans until the white crust was covered up, all but the fluted edges. Then into the oven went the pies, on the top shelf, and the door was closed to keep the heat in.
Meanwhile the children had been so busy watching Mother and those pies; and their mouths had watered so as they watched, that they hadn't noticed the Toyman at all--until they heard him say,--
"Good mornin', Jack!"
Jack Who? Not Jack Holmes or Jack Frost--no, it was someone much handsomer, although he had a hole in the top of his head, a fat face, big round eyes, a large flat nose, and a wide, wide mouth with lots of square teeth in it.
"Mr. Jehosophat Green," said the Toyman very politely, "let me make you acquainted with Jack, or, as he is sometimes called, 'Ole Man Pumpkin.'"
Jehosophat bowed low.
"Pleased to meet you," he said, just like grownup folks.
Then Marmaduke piped up,--
"Make me acquainted, too."
"To be sure," said the Toyman, "Mr. Marmaduke Green meet Mr. Jack Lantern."
"Very glad to know you," said Marmaduke, bowing even lower than had Jehosophat, while Hepzebiah, dancing in her eagerness, shouted,--
"Make me 'quainted, make me 'quainted!"
The Toyman took her by the arm, and he in turn made a grand bow.
"Now, Jack, old fellow, this is an honor. Here's a lady expressin' a desire to make your acquaintance. Miss Hepzebiah Green, let me present Mr. Jack O. Lantern, otherwise known as 'Ole Man Pumpkin.'"
Then he turned to Jack.
"You don't mind my calling you so familiarly, do you?"
Apparently Jack didn't mind, for he just squatted there, lazy-like, and grinned with all his big square teeth.
Hepzebiah giggled back at him. She was having a glorious time. So were they all.
So, through that long--no, very short--afternoon, the kitchen was filled with pleasant smells and the air of fun and a pleasant surprise to come. They almost thought they could smell the surprise as well as the pies.
It came at last, that is the surprise did, for, just after supper, the Toyman disappeared, probably to do some of his chores.
A little while later there came a tap at the window.
Marmaduke turned.
Jehosophat turned.
Hepzebiah turned.
"Ooh, ooh!" said she;
"Golly!" said Marmaduke; and
"Gee whiz!", Jehosophat.
Great yellow eyes looked in through the window, and a nose, and a great grinning mouth with big teeth in it.
The visitor nodded, needing no introduction, for they had made his acquaintance already.
He came into the house, helped a little by the Toyman, and still nodding his great yellow head.
They gave him a seat of honor, not by the table, but on it, right in the centre. Marmaduke climbed up and looked down into the big hole in the top of his head. In it was a thick candle, dancing inside his old yellow skull, and he seemed a good comrade, that Ole Man Pumpkin.
But what was the Toyman doing now?
He had a tub in his arms. He set it down, filled it with water, then popped three red apples in it.
And the children got down on their knees around the tub and tried to take the apples in their teeth. But round and round they bobbed, so fast that it was difficult to catch them.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Jehosophat;
"Kerchoo!" sneezed Marmaduke;
"Guhuh!" coughed Hepzebiah, all their eyes and their mouths, noses and tummies, too, full of water. And always those little red apples bobbed out of reach. Once Jehosophat thought he had caught one, but his teeth slipped on its smooth round cheek and all he got was a piece of skin. It was fun just the same.
A lot of other games they played, with flour, and candles, and rings, and things, then the Toyman gathered them up on his knees and the arm of his chair, and told them a story. A good one? Of course! He never told a poor one.
By this time the children were sneezing and Mother said they'd have to go to bed or they'd catch their "deathocold."
When they were at last undressed Jehosophat lay his head on the pillow. But it wouldn't stay down. He could see Ole Man Pumpkin sitting there on the dining-room table--so still! The Toyman had forgotten to put out the candle in his head. It was a thick candle, and it burned a long, long time. Ole Man Pumpkin seemed to be very cheerful with it inside his hollow skull. It made him feel "all lit up," he heard the Toyman say.
The big, round eyes never blinked. They just watched the little boy all the time, and the big mouth was "just laughin' an' laughin' an' laughin' at him."
Then all of a sudden Ole Man Pumpkin started to move. He didn't have any legs, but he slid from the table to the floor, and somehow climbed up on the window sill, and rolled out of the window. Jehosophat had to get out of bed to see what his new friend was going to do. He followed him across the dining room, over the window sill, and by the barn. And all the little boy had on were his pajamas, but he didn't feel cold, for Ole Man Pumpkin looked so bright and jolly and warm that Jehosophat felt bright and jolly and warm, too.
Ole Man Pumpkin kept bumping his way along to the cornfield where Mr. Scarecrow stood on guard, though his work for the year was done.
Now Mr. Scarecrow seemed to have a lot of friends around him, and he was making a speech. There was Ole Man Pumpkin, of course; and Jehosophat, who had just arrived; and Mr. Stuckup the Turkey, as usual looking very grand and proud; and the Hippity-hop Bunnies, wiggling their noses in their funny way; and Johnny Cottontail, their little wild cousin, making his nose go, too. And there was Reddy Fox, with one forepaw raised and his eyes as bright as beads; and a whole squad of corn-soldiers with yellow tassels and green banners and tall spears. My! but they looked bright and gay once more! And there were lots of funny little folk besides,--three bright rosy-cheeked Apples, talking and laughing and chattering away just like real people, and two Pie-pans, only they didn't look flat and dull as when they were in the kitchen, but had shiny intelligent faces, and they were chattering away, too.
Mr. Scarecrow was making a speech to them in such a ridiculous fashion. His arms stood out stiff and straight from the shoulder, but he made queer floppy gestures with his wrists.
"I'm a Red," he was saying, "and I call upon you to rise upon the cap'talists, who feed on your flesh and bones."
Jehosophat shuddered, for he thought he knew what was in Mr. Scarecrow's mind. That very day in school they had had "Currantyvents," and Miss Prue Parsons had told them a lot about Reds, and Annarkisseds, and Revolushions they wanted to start all over the world. Horrible, shivery things they were that she had told them!
"Revolt--rebel. Rebel--revolt!" Old Mr. Scarecrow shouted, flapping his wrists and swinging in the wind.
"Hear, hear!" cried the Little Red Apples;
"Hear, hear!" cried the Shiny Pie Pans; and
"Horrible, horrible!", Mr. Stuckup the Turkey.
Ole Man Pumpkin didn't say anything, but just grinned and grinned with his big eyes and old yellow teeth.
"There is a cap'talist now, standing before you!" shouted Mr. Scarecrow, and his wrists flapped right at Jehosophat, "away with him!"
"Away with him!" shouted one and all--the Little Red Apples, the Shiny Pie Pans, Mr. Stuckup the Turkey, and the Tall Corn Soldiers; and all the time Ole Man Pumpkin kept grinning and grinning, as if he were enjoying himself most cruelly.
Then Mr. Scarecrow said in a solemn voice:
"Soldiers, do your duty with the prisoner!"
And all at once two Tall Corn Soldiers stood on each side of him, grabbed him by one arm, and growled:
"About face--forward march!"
And the first thing he knew, he was being hustled very swiftly over towards the Pond.
The Little Red Apples and the Shiny Pie Pans rolled on ahead, chattering gaily to each other; Mr. Stuckup marched on very pompously; Ole Man Pumpkin bumped along just in front; the two Corn Soldiers marched by his side; and a lot of others pricked him from behind with their sharp, cruel spears.
What were they going to do with him? That was the question.
He was soon to know, for they had reached the edge of the Pond.
"Duck him!" shouted the Little Red Apples in glee.
And the Tall Corn Soldiers seized Jehosophat by the hair on the top of his head, and shoved him under the water, way under, oh, way, way under.
"Give me a bite!" said the first Little Red Apple, snapping at their prisoner's face when he came to the surface again.
"Me, too!" shouted the second.
"A big one for me!" yelled the third, and they all rolled in the water and bobbed around, bumping up against his face and trying their best to take a nip out of his cheeks.
He never had known before that apples had teeth, but, sure enough, he felt them now--there was actually a little piece gone from each side of his face.
"Great fun, Hallowe'en!" they called to one another as they bobbed about, still snapping at his cheeks.
"Enough!" It was the two Corn Soldiers who spoke, and Jehosophat was dragged from the Pond. He was dripping wet and he felt pretty cold in his pajamas.
"Now it's my turn," said Ole Man Pumpkin. "Take him to the workshop, there's a lot of sharp tools there."
Tools! Whatever could they be going to do with him now! But he had no time to think, for there they were, all bumping, or rolling, or stalking along, to the workshop, and taking him with them. They had no keys, but they managed to enter just the same.
"On the table--come, up with him!"
And immediately the two Corn Soldiers siezed him by the arms and hoisted him on the table, where he sat in his little pajamas, like a tailor, with his knees crossed under him. But what was the idea? What was that Ole Man Pumpkin telling the Corn Soldiers?
"Just cut a little hole in the top of his head--just enough to scoop out his insides. Quick work, or he'll spoil."
"Save the drumstick for me," gobbled Mr. Stuck-up, "they didn't bother me much on Hallowe'en, but I'm going to get even for Thanksgiving."
And all the time the Little Red Apples rolled around the floor in high glee; and the Shiny Pie Pans danced against each other, making a noise like the cymbals of the Salvation Army parade; and Ole Man Pumpkin kept sharpening and sharpening his knife.
Then--then--but it was a new voice that was speaking to him.
"Get up!" it said.
It wasn't Ole Man Pumpkin that was telling him to get up on that table, so he could scalp him. It was Mother telling him to sit up in bed!
"I knew they had too much pie," she was saying, and, "come, dear, open your mouth; take this and you'll feel better in the morning."
She was on one side of the bed, and Father was on the other, ready to take a hand, as he always did under the circumstances.
They weren't pleasant, either, the circumstances, for they were,--first Father's grip on his arm, then a tablespoon--not a teaspoon, or a dessert spoon, but a tablespoon, such as a giant might use--full of a thick yellow liquid from that bottle they hated so, and pointed right at his tongue.
"'Cut a hole in the top of his head--just enough to
scoop out his insides,' said Ole Man Pumpkin."
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However, he took it pretty bravely, swallowed it, gulped, then choked back the tears. But the orange-juice, which followed the yellow stuff, almost made up for it. He always did like orange as a color better than yellow, any day.
And there was Ole Man Pumpkin again, on the dining room table, grinning, not wickedly but cheerfully. He winked at Jehosophat, just like the Ole Man in the Moon, whom he strangely resembled--as much as to say:
"We'll have a good time yet in spite of that bottle."
After all, he wasn't an enemy of the children, who would cut holes in
their heads and scoop out their insides--he was their friend,
was Ole Man Pumpkin, and Jehosophat felt much relieved at that.