WILLY could speak and think of nothing but Pea Blossom. He was always drawing pictures of little fairy Pea Blossom dancing on tip-toe; Pea Blossom fanning Titania, flying about in the moonlight; Pea Blossom at home, in a palace of jewels; Pea Blossom! Pea Blossom! always Pea Blossom!
"Willy is quite unsettled since he went to the theatre," said his teacher. "He does not care for his lessons any more."
"Now, my boy," said his father one morning at breakfast, as Willy showed him a picture of Pea Blossom in her palace, "Suppose you were to draw her as a little hard-working girl, living in a shabby home in London?"
"I could not. It would not be true," said Willy.
"It is exactly what it would be. That is what the Pea Blossom you saw is—a poor, plucky little girl. Would you like to see her close and speak to her?"
"Oh, no! she is too beautiful," said Willy, terrified at the idea. He thought of her golden hair, of her blue and silver dress, of her bright eyes. He remembered how she had looked up once, and he had felt foolish.
"Ah well, if you're afraid of a little girl," said his father, shrugging his shoulders. As Willy did not answer, he continued: "I know the manager of that theatre. Ha! ha! he is a most important personage. At a nod of his head all those little fairies begin to tremble, at a frown they cower before him. I will ask him to admit you into Pea Blossom's presence. I want you to talk to her and see her as she is, then perhaps you will be cured, and once more attend to your lessons."
Willy's mind did not dwell upon the effect on his lessons of an interview with Pea Blossom. That he was going to see her and speak with her filled him with dread and expectation. He was inclined to be a dandy, and he consulted his cousins as to what he should wear and what he should do to make himself more attractive on this occasion.
Mabel advised him to put pomatum on his hair; George thought a red tie would be effective.
He determined to sprinkle lavender water on his handkerchief. He also thought over what he would say. He would ask if Bully Bottom was a real ass; where that wonderful flower was from which they all came out.
On the evening that he was to go to the theatre he was in such a hurry to get ready that he could scarcely get along.
"More haste, worse speed!" said his old nurse, shaking her head, as he first dropped the comb and brush, tore a button from his glove, and broke his shoe-lace.
When he was sitting in his place in the theatre, the dream—that was the beautiful play, with Pea Blossom as the central figure—soon laid its enchantment upon him.
The third act was over, but the play was not finished, when his father got up, and taking him by the hand, said, "Now for Pea Blossom."
As Willy went down some stairs his heart beat fast. Where was he going? Into what world of light was he about to enter?
Before he knew where he was, he was in the midst of a whirl. There was shuffling of feet and people coming and going about him. His father shook hands with a tall gentleman; they both laughed, as the stranger looked at him pleasantly.
At a little distance the fairies in their sparkling dresses clustered together. Their bright, wild eyes were like those of a covey of birds looking at him. He recognized Pea Blossom at a glance.
Before he knew anything more, the stranger to whom his father was talking beckoned to her and she came running up, and no one was near them.
Willy was overcome with shyness, but Pea Blossom was quite at her ease.
"You like my dancing?" she said, with a little nod.
"Yes," said Willy, hanging his head.
He was disappointed with her dress now that he saw it close. The glitter of moonlight was spangles, that looked like the silver paper on crackers.
"Would you like to dance like me?" she asked.
"I never could," he answered.
"You could if you practised," she said cheeringly. "You don't know how I practise. I make a chalk mark on the wall, ever so high—higher than your head—and I don't stop till I hit it with my toe, while I spin on with the other—that's what I do."
Pea Blossom's voice was pleasant, but there was something in its accent that jarred upon Willy. It was not delicate, as the voice of a creature so fair and lovely should be. She had also an inclination to drop her "h's."
"What pretty hair you have," he said, to change the subject of conversation.
"This! You mean my wig," answered Pea Blossom, whisking it off and revealing a cropped head.
"Oh!" said Willy, greatly shocked.
"Why, of course," cried Pea Blossom, bursting into a loud laugh. "Do you mean you thought it was my real hair? You must be a silly."
Willy remained too dumbfounded to reply.
"Everything is false about my face," continued Pea Blossom unconcernedly; "my complexion is not real; not a bit of it—it's paint and powder. When that's washed off I'm just like you, as sallow as sallow!"
"Oh!" replied Willy again. "But your eyes?" he added hesitatingly.
Pea Blossom's eyes closed up with laughter, and brimmed over with merry light.
"Why, of course my eyes are my own; but there's nothing real except my eyes and my nose, that is real, too."
"Where is your home?" asked Willy timidly.
"I live close by, at the top of a house—ever such a high house—in Thistle Street, No. 14, that's my home. We've got two rooms. Uncle Sam sleeps in one room—I call him Uncle Sam, but he's not my uncle; he's a fiddler; he fiddles here. He took baby and me when mother died. Have you got a mother?"
"No," answered Willy, "she is dead."
"Who's that?" asked Pea Blossom, too curious to pause to show sympathy, nodding in the direction of Willy's father.
"My father!" said Willy.
Pea Blossom resumed her cross-questioning.
"What does he do?"
"He is a doctor."
"Where do you live?"
Willy gave his address somewhat stiffly.
Pea Blossom nodded again. "Big houses round a square. I know the sweep who cleans the chimneys there."
"Oh!" gasped Willy.
Pea Blossom's curiosity being apparently satisfied, she took Willy's hand. Her hand was no fairy's hand; it had a horny palm, and fingers that carried the marks of work.
"I like you. If you come to see me I'll show you baby. She's my little sister. She's a beauty! She has such round eyes, and two little curls on her forehead. I never let anyone feed her but myself. When I'm at the theatre I let Fatty—that's our landlady—mind her a bit. I put away a shilling every week for Fatty, for everything must be paid for. I never let Uncle Sam touch her—" Pea Blossom went on, breathlessly confidential, taking no heed of Willy's uninterested expression—"never! He don't understand babies. He'd take her up by the leg, as if she were a fiddle, and she would scream. She sometimes takes a fit of passion, and beats me with her little fat hands. Oh, she can scream! bless her little heart."
"I hate babies!" said Willy.
"You would love her!" answered Pea Blossom, with unabashed confidence. "I have put theatre spangles on her dress. Oh! I should like to show her on the stage; all the audience would fall in love with her. You come and see her. Don't forget, No. 14—that's my house. You ask for Janie Sprig."
"Janie Sprig! Who's that?" asked Willy.
"Who? Why that's me!"
"You! I thought you were Pea Blossom!"
Jane Sprig threw her head back and laughed out loud.
"Pea Blossom!" she repeated. "Pea—ea—Blos—som! That's what I play; that's not me. Pea—Blos—som!" she repeated, going off into another peal of laughter. "Well, you 'are' a silly."
Willy felt utterly extinguished.
"Because I'm Pea Blossom I earn money," resumed Janie, in a business-like tone. "Nine shillings a week! Some earn more, ever so much more, and some earn only six shillings."
Willy nodded his head. "At what time do you go to bed?"
"You're tucked up in bed at eight o'clock, I suppose? I go to bed at midnight!" she answered, in a tone of immense superiority.
After an effective pause, she resumed: "Did you ever have ten sovereigns in gold?"
"No," replied Willy.
"I had once, nearly—not quite, you know, but nearly."
"What do you mean?" asked Willy, curtly.
"I found a purse," said Jane in a whisper, drawing nearer. "I found it in the theatre; I hid it; I never told; Uncle Sam is so awful honest; I knew he'd make me give it up; I wanted the money for baby. I hid it, and when no one was by I used to take it out and show the gold to baby, and put the money in her little fat hands and tell her it was for her. And one day Uncle Sam comes in, and he gets angry, and he asks how I got the money, and says I must give it up, a'l of it."
"He was right. You ought to give it up," cried Willy.
"I found it. It was my luck," replied Janie, with a dramatic gesture of her little hand.
"Luck is nothing!" said Willy.
"Luck is everything!" cried Janie. "But Uncle Sam takes me to the theatre—there is a lost property office—and he makes me give it up there; and tell the day I found it, and all; and every day I go and see if some one has asked for it, for if a year goes and it's not claimed it would belong to the one who found it. And a month goes, and six weeks, and I begin to think nobody will come for it. One day they call me, and there's a dreadful old woman like a parrot, with a bonnet on, and she says the purse is hers, and describes everything that's in it—even a little bit of snuffy paper with a bill on it for tea and whiskey; and then, my dear," Janie went on, in the excitement of the story forgetting to whom she was speaking, "when the purse is given to her she begins to handle the money; and she slowly takes out one of the gold pieces, and I think she is going to give it to me, but she puts it back slowly again, and tells me what a good little girl I am; she gives me sixpence. I had a mind to throw the money at her—the old cat! Then I thought I had better keep it and buy whelks for supper. That's what I loves, whelks for supper! don't you?"
"I don't know what they are, but I'm sure they are horrid."
"They're better than cockles, any day. I pick them out with a pin."
"Oh!" cried Willy, greatly disgusted.
"Good-bye," said Janie, nodding, "There's the prompter's boy calling, and I won't see you after, when the play's over. Fatty is coming to fetch me, for Uncle Sam is ill and can't come to-day. I call her Fatty because she's so plump. Her husband is fat also. He says, when we go off together, it's like a Cochin China hen with a little duck."
"I don't want to see the end of the play," said Willy.
"Why?" asked his father. "Don't you care for Pea Blossom any more?"
"She's horrid!" said Willy. "She eats whelks, picking them out with a pin."
"She is a good, plucky little girl, but she is not a fairy! Don't think of her any more, but stick to your lessons," said his father.
IT was a terribly snowy Sunday night. It was a night when you sank down to your ankles in snow, and as for umbrellas, they were like moving snow huts.
Willy and his father were sitting before the fire in the doctor's study. It was not often that the doctor had an evening to himself, but this evening he had arranged to stay indoors, and he and his little boy were having a cosy time together.
If you had asked Willy what his idea of happiness was, he would have answered, an evening at home, all alone with his father.
To-night he was as happy as he could be. The doctor was smoking a pipe, and telling him droll stories, and he was roasting chestnuts on the hob. The chestnuts burst with a loud crack; the flames leapt up as if they too were laughing at the doctor's stories. Willy was, perhaps unconsciously, enjoying himself all the more because of the snow and the fog outside. The gloom and discomfort brought out clearly the sense of what a delightfully cosy time he was having.
All at once there came a ring at the front door—a sharp, insistent, impatient ring. Before the tinkling of the bell was over there came another pull, which brought out a peal which said as plainly as words could say, "Open at once; I cannot wait!"
"Oh!" groaned the doctor. "Is it a patient? It sounds like a call."
"But you won't go, father," cried Willy, springing to his feet. "You 'promised' to stay at home to-night. You 'promised.'"
"I won't go if I can help it, my boy, that's certain," said the doctor.
There was a parley at the front door; a high-pitched voice, speaking very fast; the butler's answering in low, protesting tones. There followed something like a scuffle; rapid steps sounded in the hall; the door of the dining-room was opened, then, the flying steps, resumed their march, and came to the study door. A girl's figure stood on the threshold. Her shabby clothes were covered with snow; under the brim of her battered hat her eyes shone wildly. In the disgrace of her draggle-tail garments, and in her apparent sorrow, Willy yet at a glance recognized Pea Blossom.
Above her hat appeared the apologetic face of the butler.
Janie Sprig's glance sought the doctor; recognizing him, she advanced quickly, and took him by the hand. "Come," she said quickly, "put on your hat, and come at once."
"What for, my child?" he answered, eyeing the wild little figure.
"Baby's ill; they say she's dying; come at once—this minute."
The child's burning eyes, her labouring bosom, her trembling little hands, spoke of her despair and of her need; her appearance appealed to the doctor's pity; her trust in him commanded his service.
"But, my child, you have a doctor already; I cannot come," he answered gently.
"You 'must' come. She's a dying, they say; she's a dying," Janie repeated wildly, "and you can prevent it; you are clever; you have got a big house; I know you are clever. You must come; put on your hat; come, oh come at once with me."
"Father can't come," cried Willy.
"He shall come!" cried Jinny, tugging at the doctor's hand. "He shall come. If he don't come—" a sob rent the little breast—"I'll ask God to punish him. Oh come! come!" she cried, her wild anger dropping, and a sudden weakness overcoming her, she fell prone forward on the table and sobbed.
The doctor still hesitated, and Willy watched in silence this outburst of frantic grief.
"Listen," said the doctor, lifting the child gently. "You have another doctor. Your little sister is his patient. He is clever also. He would be angry if I came."
"I told him I was going to fetch you; I told him not to come again. Uncle Sam told him also not to come again. He is a fool," replied Janie, with a flicker of the old energy. "I know he is a fool. He does not know how to cure, or baby would not die. Oh, come! come!" she went on, again clutching at the doctor's hand. "I won't know what to do if you don't come! I won't know what to do."
She left off pulling the still impassive hand. Again the weakness overcame her, and for a moment she stood still, seeming to contemplate her life emptied of this absorbing love. "What shall I do if baby dies? I shall wake in the morning and not hear her cry. I know I'll go on preparing her food when she's dead."
"My poor child! I will go with you and see what I can do for the baby," said the doctor, rising.
"Yes, go, father!" said Willy, with a choke in his voice.
As the doctor was getting ready, Pea Blossom walked up and down the room, breathing heavily. She did not seem to know that Willy was there looking at her.
As he watched the little restless figure, a world of pity filled his boyish heart.
He saw, from the hall door, the eager child pulling his father along, then the two vanished together into the snowy night.
He sat down in the doctor's arm-chair, it was not time to go to bed yet. After a while his eyelids grew heavy. On the wall opposite he seemed to see a procession of little figures, passing and re-passing. Now they danced down with golden, floating hair, a star sparkling on their foreheads; now they wandered past, bowed and broken with sobs. Sometimes they mingled together—they were like each other, and yet so strangely unlike. In and out, in and out came the dancing and the weeping figures—now joining hands, now melting into each other.
Suddenly Willy started up; his father was bending over him.
"How is the baby?" he cried.
"Better. It was a bad attack of croup."
"I knew you would cure her, father," said Willy, confidently.
"She is not safe yet; she is not out of danger. If the baby is spared, next to God, she will owe her life to the care of her little sister-mother."
WILLY always walked home from school alone. The school was round the corner of the square, and he would have felt it below his dignity to be fetched.
He had been inattentive at lessons all day; he could not get the thought of that grieving child out of his head.
His father had not returned, as he often did, at lunchtime. Was the baby better? Was it worse? Had the angel of Death taken it away from its sister-mother?
He answered his teacher in such an anyhow manner that the kind lady shook her head and said the fog had got into his brain, and that his geography and history and Latin grammar had lost their way there, and were knocking against each other.
When afternoon class was over, instead of returning home straight he looked about him.
It was a most uncomfortable afternoon. It was misty above and muddy below, the snow had begun to melt and the sky was murky.
Willy looked up to the yellow sky once, and down on the ground, and then he set off running. He made a dash to the right, and then he ran on until he came to a turning on the left. He kept on running until he came to a shabby street which lay at the back of the handsome thoroughfares. The street had a depressed yet genteel air; it seemed an apologetic street, as if it were a humble relation of the very rich neighbouring streets.
This was the street where Janie lived. He knew the number of the house—No. 14. It was more slippery here. There was very little light, except where there was a great stream of brilliant gas, which issued from a public-house. Groups were standing about—rough groups of men and women; laughter and loud talk streamed through the door.
Willy hurried on faster, but the ground was so slippery that suddenly he fell. There was a roar of hoarse laughter. Willy picked himself up; he did not look to the right or left; he went on once more.
Where was No. 14? It was like trying to find a house in a nightmare; every number seemed to be there except No. 14. The tall houses with their dingy windows seemed to be mocking him.
It was growing colder and darker and more slippery. The street seemed never to come to an end. He thought he would turn back, and yet something in his heart seemed to urge him to go on to little Janie.
All at once it stood before him, with a gas-light shining inside and throwing the number out distinctly—No. 14.
He stood on tip-toe and knocked, and the door was opened by a very fat woman. Willy thought she was the fattest woman he had ever seen. She had three double chins.
"Dear, dear! I thought you were the doctor," she said, in a melancholy gurgle.
"I am the doctor's son," replied Willy, with an air that implied it was the next best thing.
Then a fat man, who was, if possible, fatter than the fat woman, came out and looked at Willy.
"I want to know how the baby is," said Willy feeling shy.
"Bless him!" said the fat woman, sighing.
"Bless him!" said the fat man.
Willy looked from one to the other. They did not say how the baby was, but repeated "Bless him!" and sighed.
"I'll take the little gentleman up," said the fat woman dolefully.
"No; I'll take him," said the fat man. "She is too fat to go up easily," he added, with a twinkle in his small eyes.
He led the way; he seemed to grunt at every step.
Up, up they went. The higher they went the shabbier grew the stairs, the dingier the walls; and what with the yellow sky outside, and the dismal look of the house, and the melancholy panting of his guide, Willy's heart grew heavier and heavier.
At last the fat man stopped before a door and knocked. Willy's heart felt like lead. What grief was he about to behold?
His first impression was of a brightly-burning fire, of a familiar little figure stirring something in a saucepan. It looked round as he entered, dropped the spoon, and ran to meet him, forefinger pressed on lips. It was Janie. She was pale and heavy-eyed, but the despair was gone from her face.
"Baby is better; come and see," she whispered, taking Willy's hand and leading him to the cot's side. The baby looked pale, but was sleeping peacefully.
"Don't she look fine?" whispered Janie softly, drawing the blanket closer about the baby.
A thin old man, with long, straight, white hair, was sitting in the shadow on the other side of the bed. "Yes, yes, she is going to be well again. The little mother has nursed her back to life. She will soon be as merry again as a fiddle playing at a pantomime," he said in a gay whisper.
"That's Uncle Sam, I let him sing baby to sleep," said Janie, flitting back to her saucepan.
The old man nodded to Willy, "Sit down, sir, sit down; you're kindly welcome."
"He is the little boy of the doctor who is making baby well," whispered Janie, who had flitted back to the bedside, and was giving a pat to baby's pillow.
"Father's so clever! He makes everybody well whom he attends," said Willy, proudly.
"Begging your pardon, sir, the little mother there had something to do with it, too. Why, she makes a poultice as soon as look at it, and gruel that's as pleasant as a tune to take. She nurses us all," said the old man.
"No; it's the doctor made her well," said Janie.
"Little mother helped, bless her!" said the fat man, in a voice soft, suetty, and slow.
If a plum pudding could speak, it would have just such a voice.
"Why, when I go to the theatre," he continued, "and see her a-dancing and pirouetting on tip-toe, I split my sides laughing, thinking that's the little mother. At night there's a fairy for ye, and in the day ye see her a-boiling, and cooking, and nursing, and ye say there's a grannie for ye, and she's Janie all the time—little Janie Sprigs."
"Hush!" said Janie, for the baby had begun to move.
"That's true, every word of it," said the old man, rubbing his hands, and, forgetting to whisper, speaking in a shrill voice. "It is Janie and the doctor together!" He gave a thump to the pillow. "They're like the bow and the fiddle making music together—they're making baby well." He gave another thump, and the baby, waking, began to cry.
"Go away, Uncle Sam," cried Janie, coming up with outstretched arms. "Ye've no thought but of your fiddle. You forget baby is not a senseless thing."
She took up the wailing child in her arms, and began walking up and down, soothing and hushing its cries.
With its wraps and its shawls, and its large head bobbing against Janie's shoulder, the baby looked as large as did its tender nurse.
Willy watched the motherly little figure, and noted how worn and white was Janie's face, and something like a feeling of reverence stole into his heart for that poorly-clad girl.
"That's the way she has been all night, a-walking up and down, never resting; never a wink of sleep did she take, and to think she's a-going to dance at the theatre to-night," said Uncle Sam.
"Dance!" cried Willy, aghast.
"I am a-going to-night," cried Janie, stopping straight in front of Willy, rocking softly backwards and forwards to keep the baby still. "Everything must be paid for, and I'm a-going to dance, to pay for things. If baby had died I'd never have danced no more—never." She gave a little hug closer to the child in her arms. "But now, as she's going to live, I'll dance—dance till—" her voice choked.
"Till baby is danced into health, and baby is danced into education and grows tall and hearty. God bless the little mother!" said the doctor, who suddenly came into the room.
"Yea, God bless her!" said the thin old man and the fat landlord.
"I could not help coming," said Willy, as he caught his father's astonished glance. "I wanted to know how the baby was."
"You may hold her!" said Janie; and before he knew where he was the big-headed baby was in his arms.
"Oh!" said Willy, in a great fright lest he should drop it.
Janie snatched it back in a moment. "Why you are as awkward as Uncle Sam," she cried with a laugh.
And now the fat landlady came panting into the room, saying it was time to get ready for the play.
Then all was fuss and bustle. Baby was put into Fatty's arms, and Janie gave all sorts of directions as she put on her cloak and hat in a hurry.
"You'll come and see me dance?" she said to Willy.
"I would rather come here," he replied.
"He would rather see the little mother than the fairy Pea Blossom," said the doctor.
"That is true," exclaimed Willy.
"Good-bye," said Janie, taking Willy's hand—suddenly she stooped and kissed it—"I like you because you care for the baby," she said, and was off.
A GARDEN LEGEND.
BY GEO. MANVILLE FENN,
AUTHOR OF "DICK O' THE FENS," "IN THE KING'S NAME,"
"NAT THE NATURALIST," &c., &c.
————————
"HALLO!"
"Spuzz!"
"Eh?"
"Spitz, spuzz."
It was a marigold with an orange frill about her neck that said "Hallo!" and it was a queer looking, zigzag, blunt headed creature, with his perambulators doubled under him making him look like an insect engine, that emitted the harsh sounds as soon as he had alighted on one of the leaves of the marigold.
Then there was a pause till the soft breeze stole through the garden, when the Canterbury bell gave forth a gentle tinkle that nobody could hear, the sunflower bowed his head and scratched one petal against a garden nail in the old brick wall, and a bird away in the meadow cried, "Cuckoo."
"Spuzz, spuzz, spitz, spuzz!" came from the little creature on the marigold's leaf, as if it had touched a spring and set its works in motion.
"Well," cried the marigold, "of all the crinketty cranketty creatures that ever came for a walk on me, you are about the queerest. What are you! A green wasp walking on stilts?"
"Spuzz, spitz, spuzz!"
"I say, what are you a doing of?" cried the marigold, who was a very vulgar flower.
"Spuzz, spuzz!"
"Well, don't spuzz again," cried the marigold. "Why I do declare you've got saws on your legs. What yer doing of? Trying to saw off your wings?"
"Spuzz, spuzz!"
"Here, what's your name?"
"Spitz, spuzz!"
"Then I hope you're proud of it. Is it a Christian name or a surname?"
There was a curiously rapid mechanical motion of the angular legs, and a repetition of the sound like a tooth-pick being rubbed along the edge a small comb.
"I don't know what you say," shouted the marigold.
"Spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"
"He's a foreigner," said the marigold to herself. "Shouldn't wonder if he's one of the queer things that come over in boxes with the bulbs." Then aloud, "Are you from foreign abroad?"
"Tchah, tchizz! Nonsense: I am as English as you are!"
"Then why didn't you say so sooner?"
"You didn't say I was a foreigner sooner."
"Then why do you keep on saying, 'spuzz, spuzz,' every time one speaks?"
"I don't know," said the little stranger, "spuzz, spuzz!"
"That's it! why do you keep on saying that?"
"I don't. Spuzz, spuzz!"
"O my! You wicked thing," cried the marigold, "why you said it then."
"No I didn't."
"Yes you did; I heard you."
"Stuff! people don't talk with their legs, do they?"
"Well, no," said the marigold. "I don't think they do. But," she added, triumphantly, "they talk with their hands. I've seen the gardener's deaf and dumb boy."
"But this isn't talking; I always go like that."
"Why?"
"Because it is my nature to. See here."
As he spoke he set his legs in motion, and made the peculiarly sharp sound again.
"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the marigold. "It tickles."
"Eh?"
"It makes me feel all creepy. What's the good of doing it?"
"I don't know," said the little fellow, "but I always do."
"Humph!" said the marigold, waving a leaf thoughtfully, "you are a rum-looking fellow. Why you've got your legs all dibbly-double under your body. Don't it hurt?"
"Not a bit. They're spring-heeled-jack legs. I can jump like a kangaroo with them. Didn't you see me jump on to your leaf?"
"No: you flew on."
"That I didn't."
"Of course you didn't," said the marigold thoughtfully. "You haven't any wings."
"That I have; beauties!"
"Where are they, then?" said the marigold. "At home?"
"No; folded up neatly in their cases. Spuzz, spuzz!"
"I say, don't do that!" cried the marigold angrily. "It isn't nice."
"Isn't it? Spuzz, spuzz!"
"Don't—do—that; it's rude. You don't see me playing scratchy tunes with my legs."
"You couldn't. You haven't got any legs."
"Well, perhaps not legs," said the marigold, giving her head a gentle toss. "But I've got a leg, and foot-stalks. How else could I stand?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the queer little fellow. "On your head, perhaps. Wizz, wizzle, wizz, spitz, spuzz."
"Why can't you leave off when you are asked?" said the marigold, looking quite annoyed. "How can you be so rude? I wasn't planted here for you to come and stand upon and saw."
"How do you know? Why shouldn't I stand on you? I always do on the tall grass in the meadows. Spuzz!"
"Then go and stand on the tall grass now. You jar me all through. Don't come sharpening your wooden saws on me."
"Get out, you nasty proud yellow-faced thing! It's no such very great pleasure to stop on your rough leaf."
"Rough, indeed," said the marigold.
"Yes, rough; and what common scent you use. Pah! It's disgusting!"
"Well, I'm sure!" cried the marigold, colouring up, and growing so excited that she opened a fresh bud. "And of all the nasty—Well now! look at that! Why he went off like a cold firework!"
For all at once the little fellow gave a double kick, and darted through the air to alight on the big, soft leaf of a moth mullein.
"Not at home," said the tall plant, as the curious little fellow began to walk up his high spire like a Steeple Jack, right to the very top, where he gave another kick, darted through the air, and alighted on the snapdragon's finest sprig.
"Here! hi!" cried the flower. "Keep off the grass! mean, don't turn me into a door-mat. I mean, are your feet clean?"
"Of course they are, old dragon's mouth."
"Don't call names," said the flower fiercely. "What do you want?"
"Only a friendly visit. I've just come out of the fields."
"But who are you? Not one of our insect friends?"
"I'm the grasshopper."
"Then why don't you go and hop on your grass?" said the flower shortly.
"Well, the fact is," said the grasshopper, "honey is dreadfully scarce out there this season, so I've come on my travels. I've come hopping."
"Well, you're not coming hopping here. I don't grow hops."
"You? No!" said the artful little insect. "You are too beautiful. My! what lovely colours!"
The snapdragon coughed slightly, feeling flattered.
"And what a sweet expression there is about your mouth."
"Oh, really! I don't know," said the snapdragon.
"Oh, but I do."
"Well, I must own that I have been admired," said the foolish flower.
"Admired! I should think so, indeed. What a pity it is though that you have no honey."
"No honey! Why I've plenty."
"Where? Down in your roots?"
"Nonsense! In my blossoms, shut up close."
"Dear me!" said the grasshopper. "Well, with honey and such lovely colours you only want a little scent to make you perfect."
"I'm quite as perfect as I wish to be," said the snapdragon.
"And as I wish you to be," replied the grasshopper. "But, I say, isn't it nearly lunch time?"
"What do you mean?"
"Thought perhaps you might feel disposed to offer me a little honey. Just a wee taste, you know."
"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. I don't even give any to the bees."
"Really!"
"No; not a bit."
"What do you do with it then?"
"Keep it till it's stolen."
"Better give it away then. Who steals it?"
"Oh, some wretched little insects eat a hole through my flowers close up to the stalk, and get it all."
"Well, you might give me a taste," said the grasshopper. "There, open your mouth, and shut your eyes. I won't take much."
"But if I did, you'd creep in, and wouldn't go again when I told you."
"Oh! don't say that! On the honour of a grasshopper. Now just you try me. Oh! you beauty."
"Well," said the flower, smiling with every mouth, "I think I will try you, for I don't like to be greedy. But mind, you are not to have much; and when I cry, 'Stop!' out you must come."
"Spitz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"
"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the snapdragon in alarm. "Why if you did that when you were in one of my blossoms you'd tickle my throat, and make me cough."
"That was because I was so pleased. It was only my hop legs."
"Then you had better leave your legs outside."
"Well, I couldn't very well do that," said the grasshopper; "but don't you be alarmed. You may trust me."
As he spoke he could not contain his joy in the anticipation of a feast that was not even offered to the bees; and he went off with such a fierce fizz that it sounded as if he had let off a baby cracker all at once.
"There!" cried the snapdragon, "you see you really are not to be trusted."
"That was like a clearing up shower," said the grasshopper. "Come along; open your mouth, and give us a taste."
"I really hardly like to venture," replied the snapdragon.
"You don't trust me, and yet I'm ready to trust you. Suppose I said I was afraid you might bite me in two."
"But I've got no teeth," cried the flower.
"Well, there then," cried the grasshopper, "fair play's a jewel, I'll trust you if you'll trust me."
"But couldn't you really leave your legs outside?"
"Impossible! the birds might steal them while I was gone, and where should I be then?"
"In my blossom."
"Yes, but where would my legs be?"
"Well, I will trust you," said the flower, opening one of its blossoms slowly. "And you will come out when I call?"
The grasshopper wanted no second permission, but often declaring upon his honour that he would come out when called, he crept into the open flower, and without heeding a remonstrance to be careful—consequent upon his scratching the roof of the snapdragon's mouth with his awkward top joints—he dashed right to the end, and began feasting merrily upon the flower's honey pots, eating ten times as much as was good for him or just to the generous flower.
"Gently, please!" said the snapdragon.
"'Lishus," said the grasshopper thickly.
"I think that will do now," said the snapdragon.
"'Tis good!" replied the grasshopper, smacking his lips, "rather thick sticky sort of honey, though."
"Yes, you have had enough."
"Can't hear what you say. The door's shut."
The snapdragon opened the door immediately—a regular yawning mouth, all rose, amber, orange and gold, but the grasshopper gobbled away.
"Door's open now," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"
"Shan't!" said the voracious little monster.
"Don't answer in that rude manner, but come out," cried the snapdragon.
"Had too much trouble to get in," said the grasshopper.
"Now don't be unfair. I trusted you," said the snapdragon, "so come out."
"Not I! I am going to stop."
"If you do not come out directly," cried the flower angrily, "I'll shut the door, and you'll be obliged to stay."
"Don't care!"
"'Don't care' came to a bad end."
"But he had no honey pots to feast upon. One can't starve here."
"Now then, I warn you," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"
"Shan't!"
"I warn you again."
"Don't care!"
"I'll shut you up in prison for stealing."
"Shut away!"
"'Snap!'"
That was the noise made by the flower dragon's mouth, and then there was silence, while the grasshopper kept on eating away till he could eat no more.
"Phew!" he said; "it's rather hot in here. What nasty sticky honey it is."
There was a pause.
"Oh, dear me!" he said. "I didn't think this place was so tight. One can't turn round. Must have another taste, though."
He attacked the honey once more, but left off directly.
"Bah! not good honey—much too sweet. Here, open your mouth; I've had enough of this stuff."
"Of course," said the snapdragon. "You've broken faith, so you may stop in now till I choose to let you out."
"Here, open this door," cried the grasshopper. "Be quick, or I'll kick it down. This honey's stifling, and I've got it all over my front."
"You'll stop there till I please to let you out," said the flower, angrily.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried the grasshopper. "Well, we will soon see who is master. Do you know I can kick?"
"No; but I know you can hop sometimes. You can't hop now."
"Do you want me to choke you?"
"You may do just what you like," said the snapdragon, sternly. "I've got you, and I don't mean to let you go."
"How tight and hot this nasty place is!" grumbled the grasshopper, "and how fearfully sticky. Only wait till I get out. Here, open this door!"
The grasshopper waited a few minutes to see if the flower would set him at liberty, but he waited in vain, and, growing fierce now, he drew up his legs.
"Now then," he said, "we shall see!"
There was a moment's pause, and then he began to saw away, rasping the edges of his wing cases and making such a jarring, hideous noise as was never heard before in blossom or bell.
"Spuz-z-z-z-z. Fidz-z-z-z-z-z. Budz-z-z-z-z-z. Dzar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z-z," and the sound was a hundred times the more strange from being shut up in the quaint-looking flower.
"Oh, my pods and seeds!" exclaimed the snapdragon, "this is horrible. It tickles my throat so! I can't bear it. I—Oh, dear me! It is impossible to bear this. I shall—shall—"
The snapdragon did not say what it would do, but began to cough so violently that its mouth opened wide, and the grasshopper laughed, and began to back out with a shuffling motion.
He laughed too soon, for, annoyed by its enemy's mirth, the flower snapped its mouth to again, and there was the grasshopper, caught tightly round the middle, and with its long, dibble-double legs kicking about outside, with nothing to rest on, like a frog swimming in water, but without being able to move away, for the honey thief was regularly caught in a trap.
It was a tight trap, too, and one in which he was helpless, for though he kicked and threw out his legs, and tried to rasp the little combs upon the edges of his wing cases, so as to make his jarring sounds, he could not reach them, and as he kicked the flower looked on and laughed; while, to make matters worse for him, a merry blue larkspur which grew close by began to tickle him with his spurs, making the little fellow kick more than ever.
"Serve him right for being rude," said the marigold.
"Put him on a kicking-strap with one of my leaves," said the ribbon grass.
"No, no; let the greedy little creature be," cried the snapdragon. "I'll punish him, and—oh! he's gone!"
No wonder: for the snapdragon had opened the wrong mouth when he spoke, and suffered like the crow with the cheese in the fable. For the grasshopper dropped down on the ground quite out of breath with his struggles. He soon recovered though, and vented his spleen upon the snapdragon by backing up close to the stems, and kicking and rasping till the poor flower was all of a quiver, and gaped, and looked foolish with its many mouths.
After a long rest the grasshopper made a fresh start. He began though by leaping upon the helpless snapdragon, and then jumped to and fro, whizzing at the flower derisively. From there he hopped on to the marigold's leaf, serving her the same, before making one grand effort which sent him flying through the air into the mignonette, which he insulted by telling the tiny flower it smelt nasty.
A sharp spring carried the mechanical-looking little creature into the grass, where he crawled up a stout bent, gathered up his strength, and leaped to the foot of the lily.
"Get away!" cried the elegant lady of the silver chalice and golden dust, but the grasshopper had no reverence, and crawled right to the tip-top bud for a few moments, before spinning himself right away on to the sunflower's high stem.
"Oh! you're here now!" said the giant, shaking his great head.
But the grasshopper was out of temper, and contented himself with turning the tall flower into a scaffold from which he could leap on to the velvet-green moss on the top of the red brick wall.
"Here we are!" he cried joyously, as he rubbed his legs and emitted his harsh, horny sound, and from the point of vantage he looked right and left, hesitating whether to leap to the right, among the flowers, or to the left, among the vegetables.
He had no time, though, to choose, for a fat young blackbird in mottled-brown came hopping along the top of the wall, caught sight of the insect, and made an inexperienced dab at him with his soft beak. He was quick, but the grasshopper was quicker, and flew hurriedly away into the tall, green feathers of the carrot, where there was room to hide from all the sharp-eyed birds in the garden.
"No business here," said the biggest carrot in the bed. "Do you hear? No business in my bed."
"Spuzz!" went the grasshopper derisively, as he slowly climbed the tallest leaf. "I shall stop as long as I—"
"Peck!" went the robin, caught the little fellow by the waist, and flew away, flitter, flutter, till the grasshopper drew his legs well up under him, and then gave so loud and jarring a spuzz that the robin said "murder!" opening his beak in his fright, and down went the little grasshopper right into the heart of the fattest cabbage in the garden.
"Oh! spuzz, spuzz. I shall be killed if I don't go back to the fields. I'll creep down here to be safe."
"No lodgings to let," said the fat cabbage, "I'm eaten up as it is. There are the earwigs and little earwigses in number two; there's a snail in number four with a small family; fourteen caterpillars in number six; and every other leaf occupied by slugs, except number a hundred-and-two, which has been turned into a storehouse for new laid eggs. And now you've come."
"Spuzz, spuzz. Ditz. And I mean to stop," cried the grasshopper. "Who are you?"
"I'm a regular riddle," said the cabbage, "so full of holes you must give me up. Everybody takes advantage of me without so much as saying by your leaf. But, I say, who are you?"
"The grasshopper."
"Mind that bird," whispered the cabbage, as a sparrow alighted on an apple tree, and looked down with his head on one side.
"Fizz!" went the grasshopper into the mint, and made the sparrow stare. Spuzz again, and he was down among the thyme. Away into the curly-headed parsley, and off to the wise old sage, but after taking a sniff at sweet marjoram and another at balm, he declared the herbs were a dowdy lot, and not half so nice as new mown hay.
Off on his travels again he hopped and spun about from vegetable to tree and bush, and then on to the wall once more, where he stopped for a rest and looked down at the flowers.
"Now then," he cried, "here goes for the biggest spin of all, and then I'll have another feast on the snapdragon's honey."
His wings must have been used that time, for the spin seemed many yards long, but instead of his coming down in the flower bed, he made too big a leap, and dropped upon the other side right on the lawn, when—
"Peck!"
A sharp-billed starling had him by the middle.
"Fidz-fidz-fidz, wizz-wizz-wizzle," went the grasshopper's combs, but he began too late. The starling had dropped him, but it was down inside, and thus they say he lives still in the starling's throat. For though there are many who think that the speckled, sharp-billed bird has made himself hoarse by getting up too early in search of grubs, the genuine truth in Birdland is that his cold was caught by swallowing the grasshopper, and, for proof of this, you have but to listen to the starling's note as he sits high up in some elm tree, with the spiky feathers of his head and throat erect.
Sweet, melodious, and true come his notes—sweeter than those of a thrush, pure as the soft flute of the blackbird for two or three bars of his song, and then you hear the grasshopper in his throat, wizzling and wheezing, all sputter and fidz, like the rasping of the tiny combs of the insect's legs on the horny cases at his sides.
But someone says, "This can't be true?"
Well, in the chronicles of Birdland nothing is written down. Everything is handed from parent to child by word of beak, and I must confess that the only thing in support of the truth of this legend is the starling's husky, wheezing song.