The last dragon

THE meadow and the adjoining woodlot were just right for valiant knights and fair ladies that springy Saturday afternoon. The meadow, soft and green and open, was right for the pavilion where the jousting match could take place,—the big beech tree at the far, sun-rising end made such a delightful canopy over the king’s judgment throne—and then after the bout, and the victorious knight was sent forth to do battle with the dragon, there was no more mysterious lurking place for a coily, fire-breathing beast than the shadowy woodlot with its thick thimble berry thicket; its black cave under the drippy spring-shelf, and its close-grown oaks and maples.

Indeed, there was always something terrifying to the children about the woodlot, even when the sun pierced through its wall of branches and leaves. The thimble berry thicket had never been completely explored, and as for the oozy cave—well, Johnathan had ventured in as far as the first bend once, holding a bit of lighted candle, but the candle had been blown out, and he had rushed back to wide-eyed Peter and Janet Jane who had stayed outside, peering in at the cave’s black mouth.

Johnathan, when he could get his breath, vowed he saw something strange around the bend, just before the candle flickered out, but Johnathan had a vivid imagination (it was he who made-up all the plays and all the games that took place in the meadow and spilled over into the woodlot on Saturdays) and whether he really did see something strange around the bend or had just imagined it, Peter and Janet Jane could not be sure. Their mother said he had just imagined it, of course! “What nonsense, Johnathan! You’re too old to imagine such things! No wonder you were so poor in arithmetic this month!” Johnathan really didn’t see the connection.

But that wasn’t all about the woodlot! Peter, just six, said he had heard a lion roaring in the thimble berry thicket one stilly evening when he had gone back to find his lost cap in the meadow, but then Peter had a generous share of imagination too. “Lions are only in Africa or in a circus,” Janet Jane had said with feminine authority, but Peter replied in his well-known lisp and with his head cocked, that there was no good reason why a lion couldn’t be found in a thimble berry thicket just as well as a badger or a chipmunk, and no amount of argument could convince him otherwise. Suppose lions didn’t eat thimble berries? Couldn’t one have been in the thicket for some other reason, or couldn’t one have been there for no reason at all? Why should there always be a reason for things? Peter liked to go places for no reason. Maybe lions did too!

Janet Jane pretended to be skeptical about the possibility of unknown and terrifying things lurking in the woodlot, until one morning early, having gone alone to the meadow to find mushroom buttons, she had seen a pixie stick his head out and grin broadly at her, wriggling his pointed ears like a rabbit at the same time. As Janet Jane stared at him, another pixie, wearing a pink sunbonnet, although he looked very much like a boy-pixie, otherwise, bobbed up over the first pixie’s shoulder and wriggled his long nose at her, just like a rabbit too.

Then Janet Jane, who stood rooted to the spot with astonishment, declared that the two pixies began to sing, one in tenor and one in bass. Strangely enough, she remembered the words of the song. It went:

Now, this sounded suspicious to Johnathan because Janet Jane was just learning to cook, and she was always singing receipts, and some of her proposed dishes were queer indeed. Therefore, it was strange that the two pixies she saw that early morning should sing receipts too, but Janet Jane said, “Not at all!” They were doing it just to poke fun at her. Pixies always poked fun, anyhow. They were like brownies in that respect, and not at all like fairies who are too well brought up to poke fun.

They sang the song through twice with a different tune each time, and after that Janet Jane managed to say, “Shooo!” at the pixies, and they had vanished into the woodlot. Stooping to pick up her spilled mushroom basket, Janet Jane heard the rude fellows laughing at her—Oh, high, shrill laughter like a tree-squirrel’s bark.

So you see, since Janet Jane was sure she had seen the pixies, and since Peter was sure he had heard the lion, and Johnathan was sure of something mysterious in the cave, around the first bend, there was no doubt that the woodlot was terrifying, and that the victorious knight who ventured into it with drawn wooden sword was almost sure to meet with adventure.

It was just after breakfast that memorable Saturday morning when the children congregated in the soft, green and open meadow sprinkled with cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups. The little troop broke through the willow clump at the sunsetting end of the meadow, and advanced solemnly in the direction of the big beech tree where the king’s throne was already waiting. Johnathan and Billy Rose had fixed it after school on Friday.

Their appearance scattered two chubby meadow mice into a desperate rush for their holes, and a flock of Jenny wrens fled chittering, indignant at being disturbed, like little gray ladies at a tea party. There was quite an impressive procession advancing toward the king’s throne. It had formed at the back door of the Baxter house, under the alert eyes of Grandma, watching from her upstairs window, and led by Johnathan who of course was king, King Arthur, no less, it wound through the rose garden, up the lane past the fish pond, over the creek bridge, through the truck garden, skirted the barn and wriggling through the orchard it bobbed its ten small heads to escape hitting the low branches of the willow clump, filing through a tunnel of green leaves to the open spaces of the dewy meadow.

Yes, there were ten in that procession, including the Irish setter named Nap, and the airedale named Jerry. First, as we said before, there was Johnathan Baxter, King Arthur, dressed in the green and red portiere with tassels, that had graced so many courtly ceremonies. The paper crown was on the kingly head, and in the royal hand was the oak-wood scepter. Close on his majesty’s heels walked her majesty, Queen Guinevere, Janet Jane Baxter, resplendent in a long pink mother hubbard, one of Mrs. Baxter’s cast-off garments, made theatrical and queenly by the silver paper stars that were pinned around the hem. Following her was Susan Oliver, five years old, bearing up the queen’s train, a child with eyes like mulberries and a blue-black cloud of hair. She was pouting because she felt it was her turn to be the queen, and before the procession started it was very doubtful if she would play at all. The promise of queenship next Saturday finally quieted her, although she carried the train with a disdainful air that ruined the dignity of the queen, since it dragged the ground on one side and looped up too far on the other, showing the queen’s long, spindly legs.

After Susan Oliver came the two knights carrying their wooden swords, the chubby and blond-curled Peter Baxter as Sir Launcelot, and the taller and older Billy Rose as Sir Galahad. They walked heads high, little noses up, wearing tin-can armor with pride. Their broomstick horses were waiting for them, tied to saplings under the beech tree.

Directly behind the knights was the public, three small girls, Mary, Kath and Polly, who were allowed to furnish their own costumes. Mary wore fluffy skirts like a bare-back rider; Kath dragged a green train that rivalled the queen’s in length and caused a serious argument before the procession started, and Polly’s seven years were lost in a riding suit of her mother’s, with boots that might have belonged to the famous Puss.

The procession went twice around the meadow, stopping after the second circuit before the throne. King Arthur took his seat on a bench covered with a piece of red, white and blue bunting, and his queen sat down beside him. The pouting Susan Oliver stood behind the queen and stared down at the top of her sandy head. Sandy hair wasn’t nearly as nice for a queen as black hair—no, not nearly! Susan was supposed to fan the queen, but she had purposely forgotten the fan, which is as much as we’ll say right here regarding Susan’s disposition. The public of three scattered itself right and left of the throne and took postures of deep interest.

After a silence, the king rose and pushing back his crown that had worked down over his eyes, he spoke in tones that seemed to arise from his shoes, his chin pressed down against his throat to produce the effect. “On with ye fight, and the victor will enter yonder forest to slew ye dragon who has been spreading terror and destruction through out ye countryside.”

He sat down, and the queen smiled at him and said, “Ye spoke well, O King,” but the king did not answer her. A queen should never speak in public unless the king asked her a question, and then she should only reply in as few words as possible.

At the king’s command, the knights drew their swords and pointed them down to the ground and bowed very low to the king. Then they went to the saplings and untied their horses and mounted them. The fiery steeds leaped up and down and nearly threw the knights off, and the grass of the meadow was torn up by whirling feet.

“Quiet with ye horses and on with ye fight!” finally commanded the king and at once, just as if they understood, the horses calmed down, and the knights drew apart, lifting their swords to wait for the final signal from King Arthur.

King Arthur stood up; raised his hand; held it steady for a breathless moment; then let it drop quickly to his side. The public showed renewed interest. The blond and chubby knight, Sir Launcelot, made the first dash for his opponent. The wooden swords clashed and the furious battle was on.