HOW THEY BROKE AWAY TO GO TO THE ROOTABAGA COUNTRY

From Rootabaga Stories by Carl Sandburg

Gimme the Ax lived in a house where everything is the same as it always was.

“The chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out,” said Gimme the Ax. “The doorknobs open the doors. The windows are always either open or shut. We are always either upstairs or downstairs in this house. Everything is the same as it always was.”

So he decided to let his children name themselves.

“The first words they speak as soon as they learn to make words shall be their names,” he said. “They shall name themselves.”

When the first boy came to the house of Gimme the Ax, he was named Please Gimme. When the first girl came she was named Ax Me No Questions.

And both of the children had the shadows of valleys by night in their eyes and the lights of early morning, when the sun is coming up, on their foreheads.

And the hair on top of their heads was a dark wild grass. And they loved to turn the doorknobs, open the doors, and run out to have the wind comb their hair and touch their eyes and put its six soft fingers on their foreheads.

And then because no more boys came and no more girls came, Gimme the Ax said to himself, “My first boy is my last and my last girl is my first and they picked their names themselves.”

Please Gimme grew up and his ears got longer. Ax Me No Questions grew up and her ears got longer. And they kept on living in the house where everything is the same as it always was. They learned to say just as their father said, “The chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out, the doorknobs open the doors, the windows are always either open or shut, we are always either upstairs or downstairs—everything is the same as it always was.”

After a while they began asking each other in the cool of the evening after they had eggs for breakfast in the morning, “Who’s who? How much? And what’s the answer?”

“It is too much to be too long anywhere,” said the tough old man, Gimme the Ax.

And Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions, the tough son and the tough daughter of Gimme the Ax, answered their father, “It is too much to be too long anywhere.”

So they sold everything they had, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, everything except their ragbags and a few extras.

When their neighbors saw them selling everything they had, the different neighbors said, “They are going to Kansas, to Kokomo, to Canada, to Kankakee, to Kalamazoo, to Kamchatka, to the Chattahoochee.”

One little sniffer with his eyes half shut and a mitten on his nose, laughed in his hat five ways and said, “They are going to the moon and when they get there they will find everything is the same as it always was.”

All the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, Gimme the Ax put in a ragbag and slung on his back like a rag picker going home.

Then he took Please Gimme, his oldest and youngest and only son, and Ax Me No Questions, his oldest and youngest and only daughter, and went to the railroad station.

The ticket agent was sitting at the window selling railroad tickets the same as always. 

He opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money

“Do you wish a ticket to go away and come back or do you wish a ticket to go away and never come back?” the ticket agent asked wiping sleep out of his eyes.

“We wish a ticket to ride where the railroad tracks run off into the sky and never come back—send us far as the railroad rails go and then forty ways farther yet,” was the reply of Gimme the Ax.

“So far? So early? So soon?” asked the ticket agent wiping more sleep out his eyes. “Then I will give you a new ticket. It blew in. It is a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.”

Gimme the Ax thanked the ticket agent once, thanked the ticket agent twice, and then instead of thanking the ticket agent three times he opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, and paid the spot cash money to the ticket agent.

Before he put it in his pocket he looked once, twice, three times at the long yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

Then with Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions he got on the railroad train, showed the conductor his ticket and they started to ride to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky and then forty ways farther yet.

The train ran on and on. It came to the place where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. And it ran on and on chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick.

Sometimes the engineer hooted and tooted the whistle. Sometimes the fireman rang the bell. Sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog’s nose choked and spit pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost. But no matter what happened to the whistle and the bell and the steam hog, the train ran on and on to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. And then it ran on and on more and more.

Sometimes Gimme the Ax looked in his pocket, put his fingers in and took out the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

“Not even the Kings of Egypt with all their climbing camels, and all their speedy, spotted, lucky lizards, ever had a ride like this,” he said to his children.

Then something happened. They met another train running on the same track. One train was going one way. The other was going the other way. They met. They passed each other.

“What was it—what happened?” the children asked their father.

“One train went over, the other train went under,” he answered. “This is the Over and Under country. Nobody gets out of the way of anybody else. They either go over or under.”

Next they came to the country of the balloon pickers. Hanging down from the sky strung on strings so fine the eye could not see them at first, was the balloon crop of that summer. The sky was thick with balloons. Red, blue, yellow balloons, white, purple and orange balloons—peach, watermelon and potato balloons—rye loaf and wheat loaf balloons—link sausage and pork chop balloons—they floated and filled the sky.

The balloon pickers were walking on high stilts picking balloons. Each picker had his own stilts, long or short. For picking balloons near the ground he had short stilts. If he wanted to pick far and high he walked on a far and high pair of stilts.

Baby pickers on baby stilts were picking baby balloons. When they fell off the stilts the handful of balloons they were holding kept them in the air till they got their feet into the stilts again.

“Who is that away up there in the sky climbing like a bird in the morning?” Ax Me No Questions asked her father.

“He was singing too happy,” replied the father. “The songs came out of his neck and made him so light the balloons pulled him off his stilts.”

“Will he ever come down again back to his own people?”

“Yes, his heart will get heavy when his songs are all gone. Then he will drop down to his stilts again.”

The train was running on and on. The engineer hooted and tooted the whistle when he felt like it. The fireman rang the bell when he felt that way. And sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog had to go pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost.

“Next is the country where the circus clowns come from,” said Gimme the Ax to his son and daughter. “Keep your eyes open.”

They did keep their eyes open. They saw cities with ovens, long and short ovens, fat stubby ovens, lean lank ovens, all for baking either long or short clowns, or fat and stubby or lean and lank clowns.

After each clown was baked in the oven it was taken out into the sunshine and put up to stand like a big white doll with a red mouth leaning against the fence.

Two men came along to each baked clown standing still like a doll. One man threw a bucket of white fire over it. The second man pumped a wind pump with a living red wind through the red mouth.

The clown rubbed his eyes, opened his mouth, twisted his neck, wiggled his ears, wriggled his toes, jumped away from the fence and began turning handsprings, cartwheels, somersaults and flipflops in the sawdust ring near the fence.

“The next we come to is the Rootabaga Country where the big city is the Village of Liver-and-Onions,” said Gimme the Ax, looking again in his pocket to be sure he had the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

The train ran on and on till it stopped running straight and began running in zigzags like one letter Z put next to another Z and the next and the next.

The tracks and the rails and the ties and the spikes under the train all stopped being straight and changed to zigzags like one letter Z and another letter Z put next after the other.

“It seems like we go half way and then back up,” said Ax Me No Questions.

“Look out of the window and see if the pigs have bibs on,” said Gimme the Ax. “If the pigs are wearing bibs then this is the Rootabaga country.”

And they looked out of the zigzagging windows of the zigzagging cars and the first pigs they saw had bibs on. And the next pigs and the next pigs they saw all had bibs on.

The checker pigs had checker bibs on, the striped pigs had striped bibs on. And the polka dot pigs had polka dot bibs on.

“Who fixes it for the pigs to have bibs on?” Please Gimme asked his father.

“The fathers and mothers fix it,” answered Gimme the Ax. “The checker pigs have checker fathers and mothers. The striped pigs have striped fathers and mothers. And the polka dot pigs have polka dot fathers and mothers.”

And the train went zigzagging on and on running on the tracks and the rails and the spikes and the ties which were all zigzag like the letter Z and the letter Z.

And after a while the train zigzagged on into the Village of Liver-and-Onions, known as the biggest city in the big, big Rootabaga country.

And so if you are going to the Rootabaga country you will know when you get there because the railroad tracks change from straight to zigzag, the pigs have bibs on and it is the fathers and mothers who fix it.

And if you start to go to that country remember first you must sell everything you have, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, put the spot cash money in a ragbag and go to the railroad station and ask the ticket agent for a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.

And you mustn’t be surprised if the ticket agent wipes sleep from his eyes and asks, “So far? So early? So soon?” 

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From Rootabaga Stories by Carl Sandburg

ISBN: 9788835814825

URL/DownLoad Link: https://bit.ly/2SaM749

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KEYWORDS/TAGS: Rootabaga stories, Carl Sandburg, inspire, intellectual freedom,  curiosity, children's stories, children’s books, Rootabaga land, American Midwest, Rootabaga country, fantastic names, fantastic creatures, Broom Can Handle It, Hot Dog the Tiger, Wind Blue Boy, Axe me no questions, Please Gimme, Fantasy stories, create the impossible, Potato Face, Blind Man, old minstrel, Village, Liver-and-Onions, post office, silliest village, village of Rootabaga, accordion, corner, unseeing eyes, lesson, never restrict, child’s imagination, unfettered minds, rules and conventions, innovations, leaps, technology, Spink, Skabootch, Zigzag Railroad, Pigs, Bibs, Circus Clown, Cream Puffs, Rusty Rats, Diamond Rabbit. Gold, Spring, Poker Face, Baboon, Toboggan-to-the-Moon, Dream, Gold Buckskin, Whincher, Blixie Bimber, Power, Jason Squiff, Popcorn Hat, Popcorn Mittens, Popcorn Shoes, Rags Habakuk, Blue Rats, Spot Cash Money, Deep Doom, Dark Doorways, Wedding Procession, Rag Doll, Broom Handle, Hat Ashes, Shovel, Snoo Foo, Jugs, Molasses, Secret Ambitions, Bimbo, Snip, Wind,  Winding, Skyscrapers,  Skyscrapers Child, Dollar Watch, Jack Rabbits, Wooden Indian,  Shaghorn Buffalo, Dear Eyes , White Horse Girl, Blue Wind Boy, Six Girls, Balloons, Gray Man, Horseback, Hagglyhoagly, Guitar, Mittens, Slipper, Moon, Sand Flat Shadows, Corn Fairies, Blue Foxes, Flongboos, Medicine Hat,

THE QUEEN OF THE DOLLS – A Free Story

From the ebook THE VILLAGE OF HIDE AND SEEK

By B. T. WILSON

The hot sun was now standing directly over the tops of the trees, and, as the moving shade had left the Vagabond with a part of his circle of children out in its broiling rays, he was glad indeed to pause with his story while they all rose at his request and formed a new circle farther in under the sheltering branches. Four of the boys leaped from the ground and scampered away to bring the water as the Vagabond had requested.

When the new circle was formed, one of the little girls,—a sweet-faced darling of not more than five years, pushed herself away from the others, and with a feeling of pride, took a seat by the side of the Vagabond, where she sat looking into his face quite anxious for him to go on with his story.

The boys were not slow in returning from the well; and in order to assure themselves that the water would reach the parched lips of their companions fresh and cool, they had unbound the old oaken bucket from the well pole and were bearing it along, dripping full, between them. The water soon arrived, and by order of the Vagabond it was passed around, he not even forgetting to first wait upon the little lady who, so honored, sat proudly by his side. When they were all comfortably seated in the shade at last, it was thus he continued his interesting tale:

"After the two children had eaten all they possibly could, just as many of you drank all the water you possibly could, the dwarfs and brownies came hurrying up the stairs and were not long in removing the dishes and table. The brownies, in a most winning manner, insisted upon their eating more, for there was enough left to feed a dozen hungry children, but they were forced to reluctantly decline.

"The sun-tanned brownie, who removed the dishes from in front of Maud, looked too funny for anything with his long-peaked cap set aslant on his little round head and roguishly pushed over to one side. On his face appeared a broad grin as he took the dishes under his arm, and gazing intently toward little Maud, said in a shy, half-whisper though sufficiently loud for her to hear: "Pretty girl!"

"Then without waiting a reply, he made one wild, hilarious plunge, dishes and all, down the balustrade. Nor did he stop when he struck the ground, but hurried away toward the mountain, halting only for a second when half way up its steep side to wave her an affectionate adieu with his funny round cap. Thus waving he passed from sight under the sheltering trees that grew along the mountain way, while the children turned to view other parts of the beautiful valley.

"'What broad, golden stream is that, Aunt Twaddles?' inquired little Arthur, as he pointed toward the Work Shops of Santa Claus.

"'Aunt Twaddles' glanced up as he spoke and looking in the direction of the golden stream, she replied.

"'That, my darlings, is Taffy River.'

"'Taffy River!' exclaimed the children in one breath. Then Arthur, in an excited tone, continued: 'You don't mean to tell us, Aunt Twaddles, that taffy flows in a river like that!'

"The children stood anxiously awaiting her reply.

"'Yes, darlings! Oh, yes!' she replied. 'Taffy River gets its start up at Honey Springs in the lower end of Ice Cream Valley and flows, as you see, down between Ginger Bread Hills and Cake Mountain, then on past the Work Shops of Santa Claus and empties into Lake Fudge, over beyond the Pop-Corn Fields where you see the reindeer.'

"Arthur was so bewildered he did not know what to say; while little Maud stood with her mouth open in such a manner that she was quite amusing to look upon. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"'Mercy, Aunt Twaddles! Is that white field pop corn? Why I thought it was snow!'

"'No! no! my children!' smilingly exclaimed the good lady. 'That field is all pop corn. You see,' she continued, 'we never have either rain or snow here. Not a particle of water is ever permitted to fall in this enchanted valley, not even a drop of dew; for if it should, though it was only a tear, something dreadful would surely happen. This is not our will, but the will of Heaven; and if you watch, you will see for yourselves.'

"'Aunt Twaddles' touched another button in the arm of her golden chair and gazed calmly over the valley.

"While they were waiting for something unusual to happen, little Maud roused from a spell of deep thought and inquired:

"'Aunt Twaddles, does any of Taffy River ever empty into the Shenandoah?' And her eyes sparkled at the thought.

"'Ah, no, darling,' replied the generous old woman with a knowing smile. 'When the children of the earth are good, Santa Claus takes most of it on his journey at Christmas time; but when they are naughty it overflows Lake Fudge and is wasted among the surrounding hills.'

"'Aunt Twaddles' seemed somewhat impatient and again pressing the button with a firm hand, the children were greatly surprised to behold a heavy, dark cloud rising in the west. Leaping upward it came flying angrily over the summit of Ginger Bread Hills; then dashing furiously against the tall sides of Cake Mountain it rolled upward with the sound of deep, muttering thunder and spread over the entire sky.

"The wind came howling bitterly down the beautiful valley with a sudden dash and roar, and again turned the sign above the factory of Santa Claus out of reasonable position.

"Strong trees bent low before the breath of the on-coming storm, while the entire end of Beauty Valley grew suddenly dark. All the dolls of the village hastened into their play-houses as fast as their little legs could carry them. Santa Claus came out of his factory and, arching his eyebrows with the palms of his wide-open hands, cast a sweeping glance over the threatening sky and then disappeared within.

"The doors throughout this great factory were suddenly closed. Windows came down with a bang. Louder and louder the shrill wind howled with a wintry wail and in a few moments a blinding snowstorm of pop corn buried the distant field in a spotless coverlet of white.

"'Aunt Twaddles' touched another button in the arm of her chair. Suddenly the clouds melted away into a veil of thin mist and again the sun poured down its wealth of golden glory.

"Up went the windows in the factory of Santa Claus. The dolls rushed out of their play-houses and danced once more upon the green, while a mighty host of brownies rushed from the factories into the field and began to gather basket after basket of pop corn to be made into pop-corn balls on the banks of Taffy River.

"'Aunt Twaddles' sat back in her chair, smiling silently, for she had watched the expressions upon the faces of the children during the wonderful storm.

"The scene was indeed most marvelous and it was a long time before either of the children ventured to say a word, for the wonderful workings of nature, all under control of the little, shining buttons, mystified them beyond utterance.

"Suddenly they beheld a little brownie hurrying from the factory toward the throne. 'Aunt Twaddles' arose when she saw him coming.

"'Here comes a messenger,' she said, 'and something must be wrong.'

"In another second he bounded up the onyx steps and soon afterward stood tremblingly before them.

"'What is it, Spit?' inquired 'Aunt Twaddles' as she gazed down upon him.

"'Spit,' for that was the name of the brownie, looked up into her face as he stood awed by her presence.

"'Twaddles!' he exclaimed, 'during the storm the lightning struck a wooden doll in the village and hurt it mighty badly.'

"As this sad bit of news fell on the ears of 'Aunt Twaddles,' she dismissed the brownie with a wave of her hand and sank back in her chair, and the children could see that she was much distressed.

"'Come! come!' she said to herself at last, 'we must not grieve so much over accidents, for they are often the will of Heaven.'

"She arose and greeted the children with a glad smile.

"'Aunt Twaddles,' inquired Arthur, 'does Santa Claus always live here?'

"Instantly, 'Aunt Twaddles' stepped back from the children and paused. She stood near the steps of the golden throne, her hand resting upon the white polished onyx post that ornamented the end of the beautiful balustrade, and turning to them, she said:

"'Yes, children, Santa Claus always lives here and I am his sister.'

"As she spoke the last word, a magical change came over her entire features.

"Instead of the fat, flabby, emotionless countenance the children had long known and loved, each careworn line withered instantly away, and in place came the bloom and smile of eternal youth and beauty; while the ungainly and ponderous weight that had so encumbered her journeys, disappeared all in a moment, until she now looked more like a beautiful fairy than the dear, good 'Aunt Twaddles' of old.

"All the odd, ill-fitting garments, with the long, heavy skirt to which they had so firmly clung for their lives while climbing the face of the cliff, were changed before their very eyes into raiments of rich lace and gold; and she stood before them in her true character, no longer 'Aunt Twaddles,' the herb woman, but the fairy sister of Santa Claus, more lovely by far than any doll they had ever beheld.

"All the odd, ill-fitting garments were changed into raiments of gold."

"'You see me now, darlings, as no mortal eye has ever beheld me. Amid the common walks of life, when gathering wintergreen, spices, and herbs on the mountain, with which to flavor the candy for Santa Claus, I am awkward and ugly, fat, and ungainly, and I care not; for the rarest of womanly beauty on earth lies not in the looks, but the heart. But here, in this haven of blissful repose, you now behold me as I truly am;—not Aunt Twaddles, the herb woman, but Twaddles, the Queen of the Dolls, and the ruler who reigns over the Village of Hide and Seek.'

"Awed beyond measure and wrapt in admiring silence, the poor children stood trembling in the presence of the queen. Nor could they reconcile themselves to the sudden change, for 'Aunt Twaddles,' the herb woman, had always been so good and kind to them.

"Little Maud suddenly sank to her knees on the throne, and cried aloud in a pitiful voice:

"'Oh, dear queen, how beautiful you are! But please be your dear self again, for I love the Aunt Twaddles who has always been so good to me.'

"Before she could finish her heart-rending plea, the beautiful Doll Queen folded her to her bosom and covered the face of the child with sweet, motherly caresses.

"'Come! come!' she said softly, at last. 'We will make a tour of Beauty Valley, or, as the dolls of the village all love to call it, 'The Land of Santa Claus.' And she unclasped Maud from her arms.

"The Queen touched a bell on a silver stand and at the faint sound a beautiful white-winged dove, with a pale blue ribbon about its snowy neck, came flying from a near-by olive tree and lit upon the edge of the throne before them.

"The children, much interested in the unusual sight, drew back toward the opposite side of the throne as if fearing they might frighten the bird away; but the Queen, smiling so sweetly that they felt like falling to their knees and worshipping her, turned to them as she exclaimed:

"'Have no fear, my darlings, for you cannot frighten it away. This bird is my private messenger that always finds Kimbo when I want him.'

"The Queen waved her hands with a graceful, easy motion, and the dove rose in the air on its snowy wings. Three times it circled above the throne, and then took its course toward the buildings of Santa Claus and passed out of sight.

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ISBN: 9788834175361

URL/DownLoad Link: https://bit.ly/2VAo8Mn

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TAGS: Village of Hide and Seek, fairy tales, fairytales, folklore, myths, legends, children’s stories, children’s books, children’s fantasy, fables, bedtime stories, wonderland, parents with children, parents to be, grandparents, mothers with children, mothers to be, nursery school, king, kindergarten, kindergarden, Arthur, Aunt Twaddles, beautiful, Claus, dolls, Dreams, face, far, golden, great, Island, journey, magical, Maud, merry, happy, mountain, old, path, palace, prince, princess, pennyroyal, Queen, River, Santa Claus,, stream, sweet, tall, throne, Vagabond, valley, village, water, wild, well, wonderland

A BEGGAR’S PALACE - A Free Story

From the ebook Sylvie and Bruno
The sequel to Alice in Wonderland
By Lewis Carrol

That I had said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could I possibly say by way of apology?

“I hope I didn’t frighten you?” I stammered out at last. “I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming.”

“You said ‘Uggug indeed!’” the young lady replied, with quivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her efforts to look grave. “At least—you didn’t say it—you shouted it!”

“I’m very sorry,” was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. “She has Sylvie’s eyes!” I thought to myself, half-doubting whether, even now, I were fairly awake. “And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie’s, too. But Sylvie hasn’t got that calm resolute mouth—nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow, very long ago——” And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady’s next words.

“If you had had a ‘Shilling Dreadful’ in your hand,” she proceeded, “something about Ghosts—or Dynamite—or Midnight Murder—one could understand it: those things aren’t worth the shilling, unless they give one a Nightmare. But really—with only a medical treatise, you know——” and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt, at the book over which I had fallen asleep.

Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment; yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child—for child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over twenty—all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant, new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms—or, if you will, the barbarisms—of Society. “Even so,” I mused, “will Sylvie look and speak, in another ten years.”

“You don’t care for Ghosts, then,” I ventured to suggest, “unless they are really terrifying?”

“Quite so,” the lady assented. “The regular Railway-Ghosts—I mean the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature—are very poor affairs. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, ‘Their tameness is shocking to me’! And they never do any Midnight Murders. They couldn’t ‘welter in gore,’ to save their lives!”

“‘Weltering in gore’ is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?”

“I think not,” the lady readily replied—quite as if she had thought it out, long ago. “It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce. That, being white, would be more suitable for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!”

“You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?” I hinted.

“How could you guess?” she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with a not unpleasant thrill (like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the ‘uncanny’ coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies.

It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article ‘Bread Sauce.’

I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. “It’s far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you! Now there was a Ghost last month—I don’t mean a real Ghost in—in Supernature—but in a Magazine. It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost. It wouldn’t have frightened a mouse! It wasn’t a Ghost that one would even offer a chair to!”

“Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their advantages after all!” I said to myself. “Instead of a bashful youth and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years! Then you think,” I continued aloud, “that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down? But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance—there are plenty of ghosts there—does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction ‘hands chair to Ghost’?”

The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, he does!” she cried. “He makes Hamlet say ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’”

“And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?”

“An American rocking-chair, I think——”

“Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!” the guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves, with all our portable property around us, on the platform.

The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction, was distinctly inadequate—a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded shoulders and drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness.

“Come, you be off!” the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old man. “You be off, and make way for your betters! This way, my Lady!” he added in a perfectly different tone. “If your Ladyship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes.” The cringing servility of his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of luggage, which announced their owner to be “Lady Muriel Orme, passenger to Elveston, viâ Fayfield Junction.”

As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:—

“From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.”

But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the ‘banished man,’ who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. “This is not an American rocking-chair, by any means! Yet may I say,” slightly changing her place, so as to make room for me beside her, “may I say, in Hamlet’s words, ‘Rest, rest——’” she broke off with a silvery laugh.

‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’

“‘—perturbed Spirit!’” I finished the sentence for her. “Yes, that describes a railway-traveler exactly! And here is an instance of it,” I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform, and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors—one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first-class.

She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other passenger. “Poor old man!” she said. “How weak and ill he looks! It was a shame to let him be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——” At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation.

“Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream: ‘perturbed Spirit’ is such a happy phrase.”

“‘Perturbed’ referring, no doubt,” she rejoined, “to the sensational booklets peculiar to the Rail. If Steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!”

“No doubt of it,” I echoed. “The true origin of all our medical books—and all our cookery-books——”

“No, no!” she broke in merrily. “I didn’t mean our Literature! We are quite abnormal. But the booklets—the little thrilling romances, where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty—surely they are due to Steam?”

“And when we travel by Electricity—if I may venture to develop your theory—we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and the Wedding will come on the same page.”

“A development worthy of Darwin!” the lady exclaimed enthusiastically. “Only you reverse his theory. Instead of developing a mouse into an elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!” But here we plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream.

“I thought I saw——” I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself, and ran into “you thought you saw—he thought he saw——” and then it suddenly went off into a song:—

“He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
‘The bitterness of Life!’”

And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words! A Gardener he seemed to be—yet surely a mad one, by the way he brandished his rake—madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic jig—maddest of all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza!

It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an Elephant: but the rest of him was skin and bone: and the wisps of loose straw, that bristled all about him, suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.

Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy) and timidly introduced herself with the words “Please, I’m Sylvie!”

“And who’s that other thing?” said the Gardener.

“What thing?” said Sylvie, looking round. “Oh, that’s Bruno. He’s my brother.”

“Was he your brother yesterday?” the Gardener anxiously enquired.

“Course I were!” cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and didn’t at all like being talked about without having his share in the conversation.

“Ah, well!” the Gardener said with a kind of groan. “Things change so, here. Whenever I look again, it’s sure to be something different! Yet I does my duty! I gets up wriggle-early at five——”

“If I was oo,” said Bruno, “I wouldn’t wriggle so early. It’s as bad as being a worm!” he added, in an undertone to Sylvie.

“But you shouldn’t be lazy in the morning, Bruno,” said Sylvie. “Remember, it’s the early bird that picks up the worm!”

“It may, if it likes!” Bruno said with a slight yawn. “I don’t like eating worms, one bit. I always stop in bed till the early bird has picked them up!”

“I wonder you’ve the face to tell me such fibs!” cried the Gardener.

To which Bruno wisely replied “Oo don’t want a face to tell fibs wiz—only a mouf.”

Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. “And did you plant all these flowers?” she said. “What a lovely garden you’ve made! Do you know, I’d like to live here always!”

“In the winter-nights——” the Gardener was beginning.

THE GARDENER

 

“But I’d nearly forgotten what we came about!” Sylvie interrupted. “Would you please let us through into the road? There’s a poor old beggar just gone out—and he’s very hungry—and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know!”

“It’s as much as my place is worth!” the Gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall.

“How much are it wurf?” Bruno innocently enquired.

But the Gardener only grinned. “That’s a secret!” he said. “Mind you come back quick!” he called after the children, as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door again.

We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might have done, there were so many other things to attend to.

The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatever to Bruno’s eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word “Cake!”—not with the gloomy decision with which Her Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish timidity, looking up into the old man’s face with eyes that loved ‘all things both great and small.’

The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor—only growled “More, more!” and glared at the half-frightened children.

“There is no more!” Sylvie said with tears in her eyes. “I’d eaten mine. It was a shame to let you be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——”

I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these very words of Sylvie’s—yes, and in Sylvie’s own voice, and with Sylvie’s gentle pleading eyes!

“Follow me!” were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what would happen next.

When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed.

The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down after their guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room, in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day.

It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid the leaves.

In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass; and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels.

A BEGGAR’S PALACE

With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers.

“We are safe here, my darlings!” said the old man, laying a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder, and bending down to kiss her. Sylvie drew back hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry of “Why, it’s Father!”, she had run into his arms.

“Father! Father!” Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say “Where, then, are the rags gone to?”; for the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery, and wore a circlet of gold around his head.

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A Free Story from the ebook Sylvie and Bruno
The sequel to Alice in Wonderland
By Lewis Carrol – with just as much silliness and fantasy as Alice in Wonderland

ISBN: 9788834181546

URL/Download Link: https://bit.ly/2XCSsZo

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