LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER
AND HIS QUEER COUNTRY

What the Children Saw and Heard there

BY

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

AUTHOR OF “UNCLE REMUS,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1895

Copyright, 1894,
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS AND
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company

Books by Joel Chandler Harris.

NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.

MINGO, AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents.

BALAAM AND HIS MASTER, AND OTHER SKETCHES. 16mo, $1.25.

UNCLE REMUS AND HIS FRIENDS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.

LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER AND HIS QUEER COUNTRY. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.

MR. RABBIT FELL KERTHUMP. [Page 41.]

A LITTLE NOTE TO A LITTLE BOOK.

The stories that follow belong to three categories. Some of them were gathered from the negroes, but were not embodied in the tales of Uncle Remus, because I was not sure they were negro stories; some are Middle Georgia folklore stories, and no doubt belong to England; and some are merely inventions.

They were all written in the midst of daily work on a morning newspaper,—a fact that will account in some measure for their crude setting.

J. C. H.

West End, Atlanta, Ga.

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CONTENTS.

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER AND
HIS QUEER COUNTRY.

I.

THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE DOLLS.

Once upon a time there lived on a plantation, in the very middle of Middle Georgia, a little girl and a little boy and their negro nurse. The little girl’s name was Sweetest Susan. That was the name her mother gave her when she was a baby, and she was so good-tempered that everybody continued to call her Sweetest Susan when she grew older. She was seven years old. The little boy’s name was Buster John. That was the name his father had given him. Buster John was eight. The nurse’s name was Drusilla, and she was twelve. Drusilla was called a nurse, but that was just a habit people had. She was more of a child than either Sweetest Susan or Buster John, but she was very much larger. She was their playmate—their companion, and a capital one she made.

Sweetest Susan had black hair and dark eyes like her father, while Buster John had golden hair and brown eyes like his mother. As for Drusilla, she was as black as the old black cat, and always in a good humor, except when she pretended to be angry. Sweetest Susan had wonderful dark eyes that made her face very serious except when she laughed, but she was as full of fun as Buster John, who was always in some sort of mischief that did nobody any harm.

These children were not afraid of anything. They scorned to run from horses, or cows, or dogs. They were born on the big plantation, and they spent the greater part of the day out of doors, save when the weather was very cold or very wet. They had no desire to stay in the house, except when they were compelled to go to bed, and a great many times they fretted a little because they thought bedtime came too soon.

Sweetest Susan had a great many dolls, and she was very fond of them. She had a China Doll, a Jip-jap Doll, a Rag Doll, a Rubber Doll, a White Doll, a Brown Doll, and a Black Doll. Sometimes she and Drusilla would play with the Dolls out in the yard, and sometimes Buster John would join them when he had nothing better to do. But every evening Sweetest Susan and Drusilla would carry the Dolls into the bedroom and place them side by side against the wall. Sweetest Susan wanted them placed there, she said, so she could see her children the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning.

But one night Sweetest Susan went to bed crying, and this was so unusual that Drusilla forgot to put the Dolls in their places. Sweetest Susan’s feelings were hurt. She had not been very good, and her mother had called her Naughty Susan instead of Sweetest Susan. Buster John, in the next room, wanted to know what the matter was, but Sweetest Susan wouldn’t tell him, and neither would she tell Drusilla. After a while Sweetest Susan’s mother came in and kissed her. That helped her some, but she lay awake ever so long sobbing a little and thinking how she must do so as not to be called Naughty Susan.

Drusilla lay on a pallet near Sweetest Susan’s bed, but, for a wonder, Drusilla lay awake too. She said nothing, but she was not snoring, and Sweetest Susan could see the whites of her eyes shining. The fire that had been kindled on the hearth so as to give a light (for the weather was not cold) flickered and flared, and little blue flames crept about over the sputtering pine-knot, jumping off into the air and then jumping back. The blue flames flickered and danced and crept about so, and caused such a commotion among the shadows that were running about the room and trying to hide themselves behind the chairs and in the corners, that the big brass andirons seemed to be alive.

While Sweetest Susan was lying there watching the shadows and wondering when Drusilla would go to sleep, she heard a voice call out,—

“Oh, dear! I believe I’ve got smut all over my frock again!”

It was the queerest little voice that ever was heard. It had a tinkling sound, such as Susan had often made when she tied her mother’s gold thimble to a string and struck it with a knitting-needle. Just as she was wondering where it came from, a little old woman stepped from behind one of the andirons and shook the ashes from her dress.

“I think I’d better stay at home,” said the little old woman, “if I can’t come down the chimney without getting smut all over my frock. I wonder where Mr. Thimblefinger is?”

“Oh, I’m here,” exclaimed another tinkling voice from the fireplace, “but I’m not coming in. They are not asleep, and, even if they were, I see the big Black Cat in that chair there.”

“Much I care!” cried the little old woman snappishly. “I’ll call you when I want you.”

Then she went around the room where Sweetest Susan’s Dolls were scattered, and looked at each one as it lay asleep. Then she shook her head and sighed.

“They look as if they were tired, poor things!” she said. “And no wonder! I expect they have been pulled and hauled about and dragged around from pillar to post since I was here last.”

Then the little old woman touched the Dolls with her cane, one by one. Each Doll called out as it was touched,—

“Is that you, Granny?”

And to each one she replied:—

“Reser, roser, rise!
And rib and rub your eyes!”

Sweetest Susan was not at all alarmed. She felt as if she had been expecting something of the kind. The Dolls arose and ranged themselves in front of the fireplace—all except the Rag Doll.

“Where’s Rag-Tag?” inquired the little old woman anxiously.

“Here I am, Granny!” replied the Rag Doll. “I’m lame in one leg and I can’t walk with the other, and my arm’s out of joint.”

“Tut! tut!” said the little old woman. “How can you be lame in your legs when there’s no bone in them? How can your arm be out of joint when there’s no joint? Get up!”

Rag-Tag rolled out of the corner and tumbled across the floor, heels over head.

“Now, then,” said the little old woman, opening her satchel, “what can I do for you?”

“She’s pulled all my hair out!” whispered the China Doll.

“She’s mashed my nose flat!” cried the Jip-jap Doll.

“She’s put one of my eyes out!” whined the Brown Doll.

“She’s put chalk all over me!” blubbered the Black Doll.

RAG-TAG ROLLING OUT OF THE CORNER

“She hasn’t hurt me!” exclaimed the Rubber Doll.

“She’s made a hole in my back, and the sawdust is all running out!” whined Rag-Tag.

“I’ll attend to you first, before you bleed to death,” said the little old woman, frowning. Then she rapped on the floor with her cane and cried out:—

“Long-Legged Spinner,
Come earn your dinner!”

While Sweetest Susan was wondering what this meant, she saw a big Black Spider swing down from the ceiling and hang, dangling close to the little old woman’s face. Its little eyes sparkled like coals of fire, and its hairy mouth worked as if it were chewing something. Sweetest Susan shivered as she looked at it, but she didn’t scream.

“A thimbleful of fresh cobwebs, Long-Legged Spinner!” said the little old woman, in a businesslike way.

Then the big Black Spider moved his legs faster than a cat can wink her eyes, and in a few seconds the fresh cobwebs were spun.

“That is very nice,” said the little old woman. “Here’s a fat Bluebottle for you.”

The big Black Spider seized the Fly and ran nimbly to the ceiling again. The Fly buzzed and buzzed in a pitiful way, and Sweetest Susan thought to herself, “Oh, what should I do if that was poor me!”

Then the little old woman hunted in her satchel until she found a piece of mutton suet, and with this and the fresh cobwebs she quickly stopped the hole in Rag-Tag’s back. This done, she went around and doctored each one. She glued more hair on the China Doll. She fixed the nose of the Jip-jap Doll. She gave a new blue eye to the Brown Doll.

“There!” she exclaimed when she had finished, “I think you look a little more like yourself now. But you would look a great deal better if you had any clothes fit to wear. Now pay attention! What is the name of this horrible giantess that drags you about and beats you so?”

“It’s no giantess, Granny,” replied Rag-Tag. “It’s a little girl, and sometimes she’s very, very good.”

“Hush!” cried the little old woman. “Speak when you are spoken to.”

“She is a giantess, Granny,” said the Brown Doll. “She’s taller than that chair yonder.”

“Where is she now?” the little old woman asked fiercely.

“She’s asleep in the bed, Granny,” said the Brown Doll.

“Pinch her good, Granny!” cried the Wax Doll. “Put out her eyes!”

“Scratch her, Granny! Pull out her hair!” pleaded the Brown Doll.

“Bump her head against the wall, Granny! Mash her nose!” exclaimed the Jip-jap Doll.

The Rag-Tag Doll said not a word.

All this time the little old woman was searching in her satchel for something, and Sweetest Susan began to get frightened.

“I’ve come off without my specs,” said the little old woman, “and I can’t see a stiver with such a light as this.”

Just then the big Black Cat that had been sleeping quietly in a chair rose and stretched himself and gaped, showing his long white teeth. He jumped to the floor and walked back and forth purring and rubbing against the little old woman in a friendly way.

“Get out! You’ll push me over,” she cried. “Oh, will you go away? I’ll stick you with my needle! I certainly will! Keep your long tail out of my face! Oh, how can I see to do anything? Will you go away? I’ll hit you as sure as I am standing here!”

“Don’t,” said the big Black Cat, stopping and looking straight at the little old woman. “Don’t you know it brings bad luck to hit a black cat?”

“If I hit you, you’ll feel it,” cried the little old woman.

“Stop,” exclaimed the big Black Cat. “I know what you are here for. Do you see my eyes? They are as green as grass. Do you see my teeth? They are as strong as iron. Do you see my claws? They are as sharp as needles. If I look at you hard you’ll shiver; if I bite you you’ll squall; if I scratch you you’ll bleed.”

The Grandmother of the Dolls looked at the big Black Cat long and hard.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“I know you,” replied the Black Cat.

“What is your name?” she asked.

THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE DOLLS AND THE BIG BLACK CAT

“Billy-Billy Blackfoot.”

“It is time for you to go hunting,” she said. She wanted to get him out of the room.

“I have found what I was hunting for,” said Billy-Billy Blackfoot.

“There’s a rat gnawing in the pantry.”

“He’ll be fatter when I catch him.”

“There’s a piece of cheese in the dining-room.”

“It won’t spoil until I eat it.”

“There’s a pan of milk in the kitchen.”

“It won’t turn sour till I drink it.”

“There’s catnip in the garden.”

“It will grow till I want it.”

The Grandmother of the Dolls then made a cross-mark on the carpet and waved her cane in the air. This was done to put a spell on Billy-Billy Blackfoot, but before the spell could work Billy-Billy made a circle by chasing his tail around. Then he glared at the little old woman and slowly closed one eye. This was too much. The Grandmother of the Dolls seized her cane and made a furious attack on Billy-Billy Blackfoot, but he leaped nimbly out of the way and the cane fell with a whack on the bald head of the Brown Doll.

At this there was a tremendous uproar. The Brown Doll screamed: “Murder!” Billy-Billy Blackfoot’s tail swelled to twice its natural size; the hair-brush fell on the floor; the dustpan rattled; the shovel and tongs staggered out from the chimney-corner and rolled over on the hearth; the Dolls scrambled and scurried under the bed, and the little old woman whisked up the chimney like a spark from a burning log.

When Sweetest Susan raised up in bed to look around she saw Drusilla sitting on her pallet rubbing her eyes, but Billy-Billy Blackfoot was sitting by the fireplace washing his face as quietly as if nothing had happened. At first it seemed to Sweetest Susan that it had all been a dream, but presently she heard a small voice that came down the chimney:

“Mr. Thimblefinger! Mr. Thimblefinger! It is nine minutes after twelve.” There was a pause, and then the small voice sounded farther away, like an echo, “Nine minutes and two seconds after twelve!”

II.

MR. THIMBLEFINGER’S QUEER COUNTRY.

The next morning Sweetest Susan was awake early. She wanted very much to turn over and go to sleep again, for her eyes were heavy and her body was tired. But the moment she remembered the wonderful events of the night before, she sat up in bed and looked around. Drusilla was still asleep and snoring very loudly, but Sweetest Susan jumped out of bed and shook her by the shoulder.

“Drusilla! Drusilla! wake up!” cried Sweetest Susan. Drusilla stopped short in her snoring and turned over with a groan. She kept her eyes closed, and in a moment she would have been snoring again, but Sweetest Susan continued to shake her and called her until she squalled out:—

“Who dat? What you want? Oh, Lordy!”

“Wake up, Drusilla,” said Sweetest Susan, “I want to ask you something.”

“Ain’t I ’wake? How kin I be any ’waker when I’m ’wake? Oh, is dat you, honey? I wuz skeer’d ’t was dat lil’ bit er ol’ ’oman. Whar she gone? Las’ time I seed her she wuz des walkin’ ’roun’ here like she wuz gwine ter tromple on me. I laid low, I did.”

Sweetest Susan clasped her hands together and cried: “Oh, wasn’t it a dream, Drusilla? Did it all happen sure enough?”

Drusilla shook her head wildly. “How kin we bofe have de same kind er dream? I seed de ’oman gwine on, en you seed ’er gwine on. Uh-uh! Don’t talk ter me ’bout no dreams.”

The whole matter was settled when Buster John cried out from the next room: “What fuss was that you were making in there last night, squealing and squeaking?”

The matter was soon explained to Buster John, and after breakfast the children went out and sat on the big wood-pile and talked it all over. The boy asked a hundred questions, but still his curiosity was not satisfied.

All this time the birds were singing in the trees and the wood-sawyers sawing in the pine logs. Jo-reeter, jo-reeter, jo-ree! sang the birds. Craik, craik, craik, went the wood-sawyers.

SWEETEST SUSAN WAKING UP

“There are fifty dozen of them,” said Buster John.

“Fifty-five thousand you’d better say,” replied Sweetest Susan. “Just listen!”

“No needs ter listen,” cried Drusilla. “You’d hear ’em ef you plugged up yo’ years.”

Buster John put his knife-blade under a thick piece of pine bark and pried it up to find one of the busy sawyers. The bark was strong, but presently it seemed to come up of its own accord, and out jumped the queerest little man they had ever seen or even heard of except in make-believe story-books. Buster John dropped his knife, and down it went into the wood-pile. He could hear it go rattling from log to log nearly to the bottom. Sweetest Susan gave a little screech. Drusilla sat bolt upright and exclaimed:—

“You all better come en go see yo’ ma. I want ter see ’er myse’f.”

But there was nothing to be frightened at. The tiny man had brushed the dust and trash from his clothes, and then turned to the children with a good-humored smile. He was not above four inches high. He had on a dress-coat. Drusilla afterward described it as a claw-hammer coat, velveteen knickerbockers, and silver buckles on his shoes. His hat was shaped like a thimble, and he had a tiny feather stuck in the side of it.

“I’m much obliged to you for getting me out of that scrape,” he said with a bow to all the children. “It was a pretty tight place. I stayed out last night just one second and a half too late, and when I went to go home I found the door shut. So I just crawled under the bark there for a nap. The log must have turned in some way, for when I woke up and tried to crawl out I found I couldn’t manage it. I wouldn’t have minded that so much, but just then I saw one of those terrible flat-headed creatures making his way toward me. Why, his head was a sawmill! He was gnawing the wood out of his way and clearing a road to me. I tried to draw my sword, but I couldn’t get it from under me. Then I felt the bark rising. I pushed as hard as I could, and here I am.”

“Ax ’im his name,” said Drusilla in an awe-stricken tone.

“Ah, I forgot,” responded the little man. “I know you, but you don’t know me. My name is Mr. Thimblefinger, and I shall be happy to serve you. Whenever you want me just tap three times on the head of your bed.”

“Thank goodness! I don’t sleep in no bed,” exclaimed Drusilla.

“That makes no difference,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “If you sleep on a pallet just tap on the floor.”

“Please, Mister, don’t talk dat a-way,” pleaded Drusilla, “kase I’ll be constant a-projeckin’ wid dat tappin’, an’ de fus’ time you come I’ll holler fire.”

“Don’t notice her,” said Buster John, “she talks to hear herself talk.”

“I see,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly and nodding his head.

“You kin nod,” said Drusilla defiantly, “but my head got mo’ in it dan you kin comb out.”

“I believe you!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger, “I believe you!” He spoke so earnestly that Sweetest Susan and Buster John laughed, and Drusilla laughed with them.

“You dropped your knife,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I’m sorry of it. I can’t bring it up to you, but I’ll see if I can’t crawl under and get it out.”

With that he leaped nimbly from log to log and disappeared under the wood-pile. The children went down to see what he would do. They were so astonished at his droll appearance that they forgot their curiosity.

“Is that a fairy, brother?” asked Sweetest Susan in a low voice.

“No!” exclaimed Buster John with a lofty air, but not loudly. “Don’t you see he’s not a bit like the fairies we read about in books? Why, he was afraid of a wood-sawyer.”

“That’s so,” Sweetest Susan rejoined.

“He’s a witch, dat what he is,” said Drusilla.

“Shucks!” whispered Buster John. He heard the voice of Mr. Thimblefinger under the wood-pile.

“I’ve found it, I’ve found it!” he cried. And presently he made his appearance, dragging the knife after him. He tugged at it until he got it out, and then he sat down on a chip, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and fanned himself with a thin flake of pine bark no bigger than a bee’s wing.

“Pick me up and let’s go on top of the wood-pile,” said Mr. Thimblefinger after a while. “It’s suffocating down here. Ouch! don’t tickle me, if you do I shall have a fit.” Buster John had lifted him by placing a thumb and forefinger under his arms. “And don’t squeeze me, neither,” the little man went on. “I was cramped under that bark until I’m as sore as a boil all over. Goodness! I wish I was at home!”

“Where do you live?” asked Sweetest Susan when they were once more seated on the wood-pile.

“Not far from here, not very far,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, shaking his head sagely, “but it is a different country—oh, entirely different.”

Sweetest Susan edged away from the little man at this, and Drusilla stretched her eyes.

“What is it like?” asked Buster John boldly.

Mr. Thimblefinger reflected a while, and then shook his head. “I can show it to you,” he said, “but I can’t describe it.”

“Pick ’im up an’ show ’im to your ma!” exclaimed Drusilla suddenly.

“No, no, no!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, leaping to his feet. “That would spoil everything. No grown person living in this country has ever seen me. No, no! don’t try that. It would spoil your luck. I wouldn’t be here now if the Dolls’ Grandmother hadn’t begged me to come with her last night. But I’ll come to see you,”—he pointed at Drusilla. “I’ll come often.”

“I des said dat fer ter see what you’d say,” protested Drusilla. “You wan’ gwine ter take ’im, wuz you, honey?” This question was addressed to Buster John, who scorned to answer it.

“Grown people wouldn’t understand me,” Mr. Thimblefinger explained. “They know a great deal too much to suit me.”

“How do you get to your country?” inquired Buster John, who was keen for an adventure.

“The nearest way is by the spring,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “That is the only way you could go.”

“Can I go too?” asked Sweetest Susan. “And Drusilla?”

“Oh, of course,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, shrugging his shoulders. “One can go or all can go.”

“Do you go down the spring branch?” asked Buster John.

FOLLOWING LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER

“No, no,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Below the spring and below the branch.”

“Do you mean under the spring?” Sweetest Susan inquired, with some hesitation.

“That’s it,” cried Mr. Thimblefinger. “Right down through the spring and under it.”

“Why, we’d drown,” said Sweetest Susan. “The spring is deep.”

“Well, you’ll ha’ ter ’skuze me,” exclaimed Drusilla. “Dat water’s too wet fer me.”

Buster John waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

“We couldn’t go through the spring, you know,” he said presently.

“How do you know?” asked Mr. Thimblefinger slyly. “Did you ever try it?”

He asked each of the children this, and the reply was that none of them had ever tried it.

“I put my foot in it once,” said Buster John, “and the water was just like other spring water. I know we can’t go through it.”

“Come now!” Mr. Thimblefinger suggested, “don’t say you know. Sometimes people live to be very old and don’t know the very things they ought to know.”

“But I know that,” replied Buster John confidently.

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, pulling out a tiny watch, “did you ever feel of the water in the spring at precisely nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve o’clock?”

“N-o-o-o,” replied Buster John, taken by surprise, “I don’t think I ever did.”

“Of course not!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger gayly. “You had no reason. Well, at nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve o’clock the water in the spring is not wet. It is as dry as the air we breathe. It is now two minutes after twelve o’clock. We’ll go to the spring, wait until the time comes, and then you will see for yourselves.”

As they went toward the spring—Mr. Thimblefinger running on before with wonderful agility—Drusilla touched Sweetest Susan on the arm. “Honey,” said she, “don’t let dat creetur pull you in de spring. Goodness knows, ef he puts his han’ on me I’m gwine ter squall.”

“Will you hush?” exclaimed Buster John impatiently.

“Watch out, now,” said Drusilla defiantly. “Ef you gits drownded in dar I’ll sho’ tell yo’ ma.”

Fortunately, there was no one near the spring, so Mr. Thimblefinger advanced boldly, followed closely by the children, though Drusilla seemed to hang back somewhat doubtfully. When they arrived there Mr. Thimblefinger took out his tiny timepiece and held it in his hand. The children watched him with breathless interest, especially Buster John, who was thrilled with the idea of having an adventure entirely different from any that he had read of in the story-books.

As the little man stood there holding his watch and looking at it intently, the dinner-bell rang, first in the hallway and then in the back porch. The children remembered it afterward.

“You all better go git yo’ dinner ’fo’ it git col’, stidder projeckin’ ’roun’ here wid you dunner what,” remarked Drusilla.

“Now!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger, “put your hand in the spring.”

Buster John did as he was bid, and, to his amazement, he could feel no water. He could see it, but he couldn’t feel it. He turned pale with excitement and withdrew his hand. Then he put his other hand in, but the result was the same. He plunged his arm in up to the elbow, but his sleeve remained perfectly dry.

“Try it, sis,” he cried.

Sweetest Susan did so, and boldly declared there was no water in the spring. She wanted Drusilla to try to wet her hand, but Drusilla sullenly declined.

Mr. Thimblefinger settled the matter by walking into the spring.

“Now, then, if you are going, come along,” he cried. “You have just seventeen and a half seconds.” He waved his hand from the bottom of the spring and stood waiting. A spring lizard ran near him, and he drew his sword and chased it into a hole. A crawfish showed its head, and he drove it away. Then he waved his hand again. “Come on, the coast is clear.”

Buster John put his hand in the water again, and this seemed to satisfy him. He stepped boldly into the spring, and in a moment he stood by Mr. Thimblefinger, laughing, but still excited by the novelty of his experience. He called to his sister:—

“Come on, sis. It’s splendid down here.”

“Is it wet?” she asked plaintively. “Is it cold?”

“No!” replied Buster John impatiently. “Don’t be a baby.”

“Come on, Drusilla! You’ve got to come. Mamma said you must go wherever we went,” cried Sweetest Susan.

“No, ma’am!” exclaimed Drusilla, with emphasis. “She ain’t tol’ me ter foller you in de fier an’ needer in de water!”

But Sweetest Susan didn’t wait to hear. She jumped into the spring with a splash and then stood by her brother very red in the face.

“Five more seconds!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger in a businesslike way.

Drusilla looked in the spring and hesitated. She could see the water plain enough, but then she could also see Sweetest Susan and Buster John, and they seemed to be very comfortable.

“I’m comin’,” she yelled, “but ef you all make me git drownded in dry water I’ll ha’nt you ef it’s de las’ thing I do!”

Then she shut her eyes tight, put her fingers in her ears, and leaped into the spring. She floundered around with her eyes still shut, and gasped and caught her breath just like a drowning person, until she heard the others laughing at her, and then she opened her eyes with astonishment.

Suddenly there was a loud, splashing sound heard above and around them and under their feet.

“Watch out!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger. “Run this way! The water is getting wet again!”

The way seemed to widen before them as they ran, and in a moment they found themselves below the “gum,” or “curb,” of the spring and beyond it. But as they went forward the bottom of the spring seemed to grow and expand, and the sun shining through gave a soft light that was very pleasant to the eye. The grass was green and the leaves of the trees and the flowers were pale pink and yellow.

Mr. Thimblefinger seemed to be very happy. He ran along before the children as nimbly as a killdee, talking and laughing all the time. Presently Drusilla, who brought up the rear, suddenly stopped in her tracks and looked around. Then she uttered an exclamation of fright. Sweetest Susan and Buster John paused to see what was the matter.

“Wharbouts did we come in at?” she asked.

Then, for the first time, the children saw that the bottom of the spring had seemed to expand, until it spread over their heads and around on all sides as the sky does in our country.

“Don’t bother about that,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “No matter how big it looks, it’s nothing but the bottom of the spring after all.”

“But how are we to get out, please?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“The same way you came in,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.

“I tol’ you! I tol’ you!” exclaimed Drusilla, swinging her right arm up and down vigorously. “Ef you kin fly you kin git out, an’ you look much like flyin’. Dat what you git by not mindin’ me an’ yo’ ma!”

“Tut! tut!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. “I’ll ‘sicc’ the Katydids on you if you don’t stop scaring the little girl. Come! we are not far from my house. We’ll go there and see what the neighbors have sent in for dinner.”

Buster John followed him as readily as before, but Sweetest Susan and Drusilla were not so eager. They had no device, however, and Drusilla made the best of it.

“I ain’t skeered ez I wuz. He talk mo’ and mo’ like folks.”

So they went on toward Mr. Thimblefinger’s house.

III.

MR. THIMBLEFINGER’S FRIENDS.

“I hope you are not tired,” said Mr. Thimblefinger to Sweetest Susan when they had been on their way for some little time. “Because if you are you can rest yourself by taking longer steps.”

Buster John was ready to laugh at this, but he soon discovered that Mr. Thimblefinger was right. He found that he could hop and jump ever so far in this queer country, and the first use he made of the discovery was to jump over Drusilla’s head. This he did with hardly any effort. After that the journey of the children, which had grown somewhat tiresome (though they wouldn’t say so), became a frolic. They skimmed along over the gray fields with no trouble at all, but Drusilla found it hard to retain her balance when she jumped high. Mr. Thimblefinger, who had a reason for everything, was puzzled at this. He paused a while and stood thinking and rubbing his chin. Then he said that either Drusilla’s head was too light or her heels too heavy—he couldn’t for the life of him tell which.

There was one thing that bothered the children. If Mr. Thimblefinger’s house was just big enough to fit him (as Buster John expressed it), how could they go inside? Sweetest Susan was so troubled that she asked Drusilla about it. But Drusilla shook her head vigorously.

“Don’t come axin’ me,” she cried. “I done tol’ you all right pine-blank not ter come. Ef de house lil’ like dat creetur is, what you gwine do when night come? En den spozen ’pon top er dat dat a big rain come up? Oh, I tol’ you ’fo’ you started! Who in de name er sense ever heah talk er folks gwine down in a spring? You mought er know’d sump’in gwine ter happen. Oh, I tol’ you!”

There was no denying this, and Sweetest Susan and her brother were beginning to feel anxious, when an exclamation from Mr. Thimblefinger attracted their attention.

“We are nearly there,” he shouted. “Yonder is the house. My! won’t the family be surprised when they see you!”

Sure enough there was the house, and it was not a small one, either. Drusilla said it looked more like a barn than a house, but Buster John said it didn’t make any difference what it looked like so long as they could rest there and get something to eat, for they had had no dinner.

“I hope dey got sho’ ’nuff vittles—pot-licker an’ dumplin’s, an’ sump’in you kin fill up wid,” said Drusilla heartily.

Mr. Thimblefinger, who had been running a little way ahead, suddenly paused and waited for the children to come up.

“Come to think of it,” he remarked, “you may have heard of some of my family. I call them my family, but they are no kin to me. We just live together in the same house for company’s sake.”

“They are not fairies?” suggested Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger shook his head. “Oh, no! Just common every-day people like myself. We put on no airs. Did you ever hear of Mrs. Meadows? And Mr. Rabbit? And Mrs. Rabbit?”

“Dem what wuz in de tale?” asked Drusilla.

“Yes,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “the very same persons.”

“Sho’ ’nuff!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Why, we been hear talk er dem sence ’fo’ we wuz knee-high.”

Sweetest Susan and Buster John said they had often heard of Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Meadows. This seemed to please Mr. Thimblefinger very much. He smiled and nodded approval.

“Did they ever have you in a story?” asked Buster John.

“No, no!” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “I was so little they forgot me.” He laughed at his own joke, but it was very plain that he didn’t relish the idea of not having his name in a book.

Presently the children came to the house, but they hesitated at the gate and stood there in fear and trembling. What they saw was enough to frighten them. An old woman was sitting in a chair knitting. She was not different from many old women the children had seen, but near her sat a Rabbit as big as a man. He was a tremendous creature, grizzly and gray, and watery-eyed from age. He sat in a rocking-chair smoking a pipe.

MR. RABBIT AND MRS. MEADOWS

“Le’ ’s go back,” whispered Drusilla. “Dat ar creetur bigger dan a hoss. Ef he git a glimp’ us we er gone—gone!”

Sweetest Susan shivered and looked at Buster John, and Buster John looked at Mr. Thimblefinger. But Mr. Thimblefinger ran forward, crying out:—

“Howdy, folks, howdy! I’ve brought some friends home to dinner.” He beckoned to the children. “Come on and see Mrs. Meadows and Mr. Rabbit.”

Mrs. Meadows immediately dropped her knitting in her lap, and threw her hands up to her head, as if to arrange her hair.

“Come in,” said Mr. Thimblefinger to the children.

“Yes, come on,” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit in a voice that sounded as if he had a bad cold.

“I’m in no fix to be seen,” said Mrs. Meadows, “but I’m glad to see you, anyhow. Come right in. Take off your things and make yourself at home. How did you get here? I reckon that little trick there has been telling tales out of school.” She pointed at Mr. Thimblefinger and laughed.

“He brought us,” said Sweetest Susan. “I’m sorry we came.”

“Now, don’t say that,” remarked Mrs. Meadows kindly. “What are you afraid of?”

“Of him,” replied Sweetest Susan, nodding her head toward Mr. Rabbit.

“Is that all?” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “Why, he’s as harmless as a kitten.”

“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Rabbit complacently. “No harm in me—no harm in old people. Just give us a little room in the corner—a little place where we can sit and nod—and there’s no harm in us. I’m just as glad you’ve come as I can be. I see you’ve brought the Tar Baby. She’s grown some since I saw her last.” Mr. Rabbit looked at Drusilla with considerable curiosity. “I hope she’s not as sticky as she used to be.”

“Hey!” cried Buster John, laughing. “Mr. Rabbit thinks Drusilla is the Tar Baby!”

Drusilla tossed her head scornfully. “Huh! I ain’t no Tar Baby. I may be a nigger, an’ I speck I is, but I ain’t no Tar Baby. My mammy done tol’ me ’bout de Tar Baby in de tale, an’ she got it fum her gran’daddy. Ef I’m de Tar Baby, I’m older dan my mammy’s gran’daddy.”

Mr. Rabbit took off his spectacles and wiped them on his coat-tail. “My eyes are getting very bad,” he said, by way of apology. “But you certainly look very much like the Tar Baby. If you were both together in the dark, nobody could tell you apart. Well, well! I’m getting old.”

“You ain’t no older dan you look,” said Drusilla spitefully under her breath.

“Hush!” whispered Sweetest Susan. “He’ll eat us up.”

Mrs. Meadows laughed. “Don’t worry, child. Mr. Rabbit loves his pipe and a joke, but he’ll never hurt you. Never in the world.”

“But this isn’t in the world,” suggested Buster John.

“Well, it’s next door, as you may say,” Mrs. Meadows replied.

Just then Mr. Rabbit slowly raised himself from his chair and examined the seat closely. “I missed Mr. Thimblefinger,” he said, “and I was afraid I had sat on him.”

“Oh, no!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, coming out from under the steps; “I was just resting myself.”

“Mr. Thimblefinger will take care of himself, I’ll be bound,” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “He’s little; but is a mountain strong because it is big?”

“Why, that puts me in mind of the story—But never mind! I’m always thinking about old times.” Mr. Rabbit sighed as he said this.

“Oh, please tell us the story,” pleaded Sweetest Susan, anxious to make friends with Mr. Rabbit.

He shook his head. “Mrs. Meadows can tell it better than I can.”

“Dinner!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger. “What about dinner?”

“Dinner’ll be ready directly,” replied Mrs. Meadows.

“But the story?” Sweetest Susan said.

THE STRONGEST—WHO? OR WHICH?

“Well,” replied Mrs. Meadows, “it was like this: One time in the country where we came from—the country where you live now—there chanced to be a big frost, and the mill-pond froze over. Mr. Rabbit ran along that way and found that the pond had this bridge across it.”

“Was it this Mr. Rabbit here?” asked Buster John.

Mrs. Meadows folded her hands in her lap and looked at them. “Well,” she said, “I never talk about folks behind their backs. You must do your own guessing. Anyway, Mr. Rabbit found the ice bridge over the pond, and as he was in something of a hurry he skipped across it. I mean he skipped a part of the way. The Ice was so slippery that when he got about halfway, his feet slipped from under him and he fell kerthump! He got up and rubbed himself as well as he could, and then he thought that the Ice must be very strong to hit him so hard a lick. He said to the Ice, ‘You are very strong.’

“‘I am so,’ replied the Ice.

“‘Well, if you are so strong, how can the Sun melt you?’

“The Ice said nothing, and so Mr. Rabbit asked the Sun, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘So they tell me,’ replied the Sun.

“‘Then how can the Clouds hide you?’

“The Sun was somewhat ashamed and had nothing to say. So Mr. Rabbit looked at the Clouds.

“‘Are you very strong?’

“‘We have heard so,’ replied the Clouds.

“‘How can the Wind blow you?’

“The Clouds sailed away, and Mr. Rabbit asked the Wind, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘I believe you,’ said the Wind.

“‘Then how can the Mountain stand against you?’

“The Wind blew itself away, and then Mr. Rabbit asked the Mountain, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘So it seems,’ replied the Mountain.

“‘How can the Mouse make a nest in you?’

“The Mountain was mum. So Mr. Rabbit asked the Mouse, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘I believe so,’ replied the Mouse.

“‘How can the Cat catch you?’

“The Mouse hid in the grass. Mr. Rabbit asked the Cat, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the Cat.

“‘How can the Dog chase you?’

“The Cat began to wash her face. Then Mr. Rabbit said to the Dog, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘I certainly am,’ replied the Dog.

“‘Then why does the Stick scare you?’

“The Dog began to scratch the fleas off his neck, and Mr. Rabbit said to the Stick, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘Everybody says so.’

“‘Then how can the Fire burn you?’

“The Stick was dumb, and Mr. Rabbit asked the Fire, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘Anybody will tell you so,’ the Fire answered.

“‘How can the Water quench you?’

“The Fire hid behind the smoke. Then Mr. Rabbit asked the Water, ‘Are you very strong?’

“‘Strong is no name for it,’ said the Water.

“‘How can the Ice cover you?’

“The Water went running down the river, and after it had gone the Ice said to Mr. Rabbit, ‘You see you had to come back to me at last.’

“‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Rabbit, ‘and now I am going away. You are too much for me.’ Then Mr. Rabbit loped off, rubbing his bruises.”

“Was it really you, Mr. Rabbit?” asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Rabbit rubbed his mustache with the end of his pipe-stem. “Well, I’ll tell you the truth. I was mighty foolish in my young days. But now all I want to do is to eat breakfast, and then wait until dinner is ready, and then sit and wait until supper is put on the table.”

Mrs. Meadows winked at the children and then turned to Mr. Rabbit.

“Now,” said she, “I’ve told the story you ought to have told, for you know more about it than anybody else. It’s as little as you can do to sing the old song that you sung when you used to go frolicking.”

“Why, it’s about myself!” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit. “At my time of life it would never do.”

“Please make him sing it,” said Sweetest Susan, who was much given to getting her own way by the pretty little art of coaxing.

“Oh, he’ll sing it,” replied Mrs. Meadows confidently. “He can’t refuse.”

Mr. Rabbit shook his head, and then seemed to fall into a brown study, but suddenly, seeing that they were all waiting for the song, he cleared up his throat, and after several false starts sang this song:—

OH, THIS IS MR. RABBIT!

Oh, this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass,
So rise up, ladies, and let him pass;
He courted Miss Meadows, when her ma was away,
He crossed his legs, and said his say.
He crossed his legs, and he winked his eye,
And then he told Miss Meadows good-by.
So it’s good-by, ducky,
And it’s good-by, dear!
I’ll never come to see you
Until next year!
For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass,
So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

And he cried from the gate, so bold and free:
“I know you are glad to get rid of me.”
And then Miss Meadows shook her head—
“If you stay too long you’ll find me dead.
And it’s good-by, ducky,
And it’s good-by, dear!
You’ll find me dead
When you come next year!”
For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass,
So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

Mr. Owl called out from the top of the tree,
“Oh, who? Oh, who?” and “He-he-he!”
Mr. Fox slipped off in the woods and cried;
Mr. Coon’s broken heart caused a pain in his side.
For it’s good-by, ducky,
And it’s good-by, dear!
If you ever come to see me,
Come before next year!
For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass,
So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

Mr. Rabbit looked around, and saw all the trouble,
And he laughed and he laughed till he bent over double.
He shook his head, and said his say—
“I’ll come a-calling when to-morrow is to-day.
For when you have a ducky,
Don’t stay—don’t stay—
Go off and come again
When to-morrow is to-day.”
For this is Mr. Rabbit, that runs on the grass,
So rise up, ladies, and let him pass.

IV.

TWO QUEER STORIES.

There is no doubt the children were very much surprised to see Mr. Rabbit. They were astonished to find that he was so large and solemn-looking. When the negroes on the plantation told them about Mr. Rabbit—or Brother Rabbit, as he was sometimes called—they had imagined that he was no larger than the rabbits they saw in the sedge-field or in the barley-patch, but this Mr. Rabbit was larger than a dozen of them put together.

In one way or another Sweetest Susan and Buster John and Drusilla showed their amazement very plainly—especially Drusilla, who took no pains to conceal hers. Every time Mr. Rabbit moved she would nudge Sweetest Susan or Buster John and exclaim: “Look at dat!” or, “We better be gwine!” or, “Spozen Brer Fox er Brer Wolf come up an’ dey er dat big!”

Mrs. Meadows noticed this; indeed, she could not help noticing it. And so she said:—

“I reckon maybe you expected to find Mr. Rabbit no bigger than the rest of his family that live in your country.”

Before the children could make any answer, Mr. Rabbit began to chuckle, and he chuckled so heartily that Sweetest Susan was afraid he would choke.

“I don’t wonder you laugh,” said Mrs. Meadows, elevating her voice a little, as if Mr. Rabbit were a little deaf.

“It may not be polite to laugh in company,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “but I am obliged to do it.” His voice was wheezy, and he nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, I am obliged to do it. Why, I could put one of those poor creatures in my coat-pocket. They are not Rabbits. They are Runts. Yes, Runts. That’s what they are. And to think, too, that their great-grandparents might have come here when I did. But, no! They wouldn’t hear to it. No new country for them, they said. And so they stayed where they were, and the breed has dwindled down to—to nothing. I’ll be bound they have forgotten how to talk.” He turned to the children with a look of inquiry.

“Why, of course, rabbits can’t talk,” said Buster John.

Mr. Rabbit shook his head sadly and put his hand to his eyes. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed after a while. “Can’t talk! But I might have known it. The family’s gone to seed. I’m glad I’m not there to see it all. A neighbor here and there does no harm, but when people began to crowd in I concluded to move, and I’m glad I did. I’m old and getting feeble, but, thank gracious, I’m not a Runt.”

“I don’t see but you’re as nimble as ever you were,” remarked Mrs. Meadows soothingly.

“I know—I know!” Mr. Rabbit insisted; “I may be as nimble, but I’m not as keen for a frolic as I used to be. The chimney-corner suits me better than a barbecue.” Mr. Rabbit closed his big eyes and sighed. “Well, well—everybody to his time, everybody to his taste!”

Mrs. Meadows nodded her head approvingly. “Yes; between first one thing and then another, there’s lots of time and a heap of tastes.”

“They tell me,” remarked Mr. Rabbit suddenly, “that things have got to that pass in the country we came from that even Mr. Billy-Goat, who used to eat meat, has dwindled away in mind and body till he hangs around the stable doors and eats straw for a living. That’s what Mr. Thimblefinger says, and he ought to know. I suppose Billy is still bob-tailed? I remember the very day he had his tail broken off.”

“Tell us about it,” remarked Buster John.

WHY MR. BILLY-GOAT’S TAIL IS SHORT.

“Oh, it doesn’t amount to much,” said he. “It’s hardly worth talking about. I think it was one Saturday. In those days, you know, we used to have a half-holiday every Saturday. We worked hard all the week, and we tried to crowd as much fun into a half-holiday as possible. Well, one Saturday afternoon Mr. Billy-Goat and Mr. Dog were walking arm in arm along the road, talking and laughing in a sociable way, when all of a sudden a big rain came up. Mr. Billy-Goat said he was mighty sorry he left his parasol at home, because the rain was apt to make his horns rust. Mr. Dog shook himself and said he didn’t mind water, because when he got wet the fleas quit biting.

“But Mr. Billy-Goat hurried on and Mr. Dog kept up with him until they came to Mr. Wolf’s house, and they ran into the front porch for shelter. The door was shut tight, but Mr. Billy-Goat had on his high-heel shoes that day, and he made so much noise as he tramped about that Mr. Wolf opened his window and looked out. When he saw who it was, he cried out:—

“‘Hallo! this is not a nice day to pay visits, but since you are here, you may as well come in out of the wet.’

“But Mr. Dog shook his head and flirted up dirt by scratching on the ground with his feet. He had smelled blood. Mr. Billy-Goat saw how Mr. Dog acted, and he was afraid to go in. So he shook his horns.

“‘You’d just as well come in and sit by the fire,’ said Mr. Wolf, unlatching the door.

“But Mr. Dog and Mr. Billy-Goat thanked him kindly, and said they didn’t want to carry mud into the house. They said they would just stand in the porch till the shower passed over. Then Mr. Wolf took down his fiddle, tuned it up, and began to play. In his day and time few could beat him playing the fiddle. And this time he played his level best, for he knew that if he could start Mr. Billy-Goat to dancing he’d have him for dinner.”

“I don’t see how,” said Buster John.

“Well,” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit, “if Mr. Billy-Goat began to dance he would be likely to dance until he got tired, and then it would be an easy matter for Mr. Wolf to outrun him.”

“Of course,” said Sweetest Susan.

“Well,” Mr. Rabbit continued, “Mr. Wolf kept on playing the fiddle, but Mr. Billy-Goat didn’t dance. Not only that, he kept so near the edge of the porch that the rain drifted in on his horns and ran down his long beard. But he kept his eye on Mr. Wolf. After playing the fiddle till he was tired, Mr. Wolf asked:—

“‘How do you get your meat, my young friends?’

“Mr. Dog said he depended on his teeth, and Mr. Billy-Goat, thinking to be on the safe side, said he also depended upon his teeth.

“‘As for me,’ cried Mr. Wolf, ‘I depend on my feet!’ and with that he dropped his fiddle and jumped at Mr. Billy-Goat. But he knocked the broom down and the handle tripped him. It was all very sudden, but by the time Mr. Wolf had recovered himself Mr. Billy-Goat and Mr. Dog had gone a considerable distance.

MR. BILLY-GOAT AND MR. WOLF

“They ran and ran until they came to a big creek. Mr. Billy-Goat asked Mr. Dog how he was going to get across.

“‘Swim,’ said Mr. Dog.

“‘Then I’ll have to bid you good-by,’ replied Mr. Billy-Goat, ‘for I can’t swim a stroke.’

“By this time they had arrived at the bank of the creek, and they could hear Mr. Wolf coming through the woods. They had no time to lose. Mr. Dog looked around on the ground, gathered some jan-weed, yan-weed, and tan-weed, rubbed them together, and squeezed a drop of the juice on Mr. Billy-Goat’s horns. He had no sooner done this than Mr. Billy-Goat was changed into a white rock.

“Then Mr. Dog leaped into the creek and swam across. Mr. Wolf ran to the bank, but there he stopped. The water was so wide it made tears come in his eyes; so deep that it made his legs ache; and so cold that it made his body shiver.

“When Mr. Dog arrived safely on the other side he cried out, ‘Aha! you are afraid! You’ve drowned poor Mr. Billy-Goat, but you are afraid of me. I dare you to fling a rock at me!’

“This made Mr. Wolf so mad that he seized the white rock and threw it at Mr. Dog with all his might. It fell near Mr. Dog, and instantly became Mr. Billy-Goat again. But in falling a piece was broken off, and it happened to be Mr. Billy-Goat’s tail. Ever since then he has had a very short tail.”

“Were you there, Mr. Rabbit?” asked Sweetest Susan bluntly.

“I was fishing at the time,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “I heard the noise they made, and I turned around and saw it just as I’ve told you.”

Drusilla touched Buster John on the arm. “We ain’t dreamin’, is we, honey?”

Buster John looked at her scornfully. “What put that in your head?” he asked.

“Suppose the rock had hit Mr. Dog?” suggested Sweetest Susan.

THE PUMPKIN-EATER.

“Now, that’s so!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. “And it reminds me of a little accident that happened in my mother’s family. But it’s hardly worth telling.”

“Well, tell it, anyhow,” said Mrs. Meadows.

“Yes,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, “the proof of the pudding is in chewing the bag.”

“Well,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “as far back as I can remember, and before that, too, my mother was a widow, and she had a great many children to take care of. The reason she had so many children was because she was poor. I have noticed all my life that when people are very poor they happen to have more children than they know what to do with. This was the way with my mother. She had a houseful of children, and she found it a hard matter to get along.

“One day she went down to the creek to wash the clothes, such as she and the children had, and when she got there she found an old man sitting on the bank. He said, ‘Howdy,’ and she said, ‘Good-morning,’ and then he asked her if she would be so good as to wash his coat and his waistcoat. She said she would be glad to do so, and the old man said he would be very much obliged. So my mother washed the coat and waistcoat. Then he asked her if she would comb his hair for him, and she did so.

“The old man thanked her kindly, and took from his pocket a string of red beads and made her a present of them. Then he told her to go out behind the house when she got home, and there she’d find a pumpkin-tree growing. He said that she must bury the string of beads at the foot of the tree.

“‘That’s a pity,’ exclaimed my mother; ‘they are so beautiful.’

“But the old man declared that she must do as he said, and after that she was to go to the pumpkin-tree every day and ask for as many pumpkins as she wanted.

“My mother went home and found the pumpkin-tree where never a tree had been growing before, and at its roots she buried the string of beads. Next morning, bright and early, she went to the pumpkin-tree and called for one pumpkin. Down it dropped from the tree. For a long time my mother and her children were happy and growing fat. Every day a big pumpkin would be cooked, and as my mother had to leave us so as to attend to her work, enough pumpkin would be left in the pot to last us all day.

MY MOTHER WASHING THE OLD MAN’S COAT AND WAISTCOAT

“I remember that time very well,” Mr. Thimblefinger continued, with a sigh, “for I was getting fat and growing to be almost as large as the rest of the children. But one day, as my mother was going out to work she found a hamper basket on the gate-post, and in that basket was a baby. So she carried the baby in the house, gave it something to eat, and then put it on the floor to play with the rest. But as soon as she got out of the yard the baby crawled to the pot where the cooked pumpkin was, and ate and ate until there was no pumpkin left. Of course, the rest of the children had to go hungry. And when my mother came home she had to go hungry, too.

“She was very much surprised. She found all the pumpkin gone and the children crying for something to eat, and the stray baby was crying louder than any. She said we were the greediest children she had ever seen.

“The next day she cooked two pumpkins, but the same thing happened. The baby went to the pot and ate both. The children told her how it happened, but she wouldn’t believe them. She said she couldn’t be made to believe that one puny little baby could eat two whole pumpkins—and it is very queer, when you come to think about it.

“The next day she cooked three pumpkins, but the same thing happened. Then four, then five, then six. But it was always the same. No matter how many pumpkins were cooked, the stray baby would eat them all, and the rest of the children would have to go hungry. You see how small I am,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, suddenly pausing in the thread of his story. “Well, the reason of it is that I was starved out by that pumpkin-eating baby. My brothers and sisters and myself were just as large and as healthy as any other children until that baby was found on the gate-post, and from that day we began to dwindle and shrink away.

“Well, we starved and starved until at last my mother could very plainly see that something was the matter. So she set a trap for the baby and baited it with pumpkins. She hadn’t got out of hearing before the baby put his head in the pot and got caught in the trap. It stayed there all day, and when mother came home at night she found it there. She was very much surprised, but she saw she must get rid of the baby. She said that any creature that could manage to eat like that was able to take care of itself, and so she carried it off down the road and left it there.

“Now this Pumpkin-Eater was a witch baby, and as soon as it thought my mother was out of sight and hearing it changed itself into a tall, heavy man.”

“’T wuz feedin’ de big man all de time,” exclaimed Drusilla.

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “My mother was watching it, and she followed to see where it would go. It went down to the bank of the river. There it found the old man who had given my mother the string of beads, and asked him for something to eat.

“‘Comb my hair for me,’ said the old man.

“But it refused, and then the old man told it to go to the pumpkin-tree and ask for twenty pumpkins. The greedy thing was glad to do this. It went to the tree and called for twenty pumpkins, and down they fell on its head.”

“What then?” asked Buster John, as Mr. Thimblefinger paused. “Was it hurt?”

“Smashed!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger. “Knocked flatter than a pancake! Broke into jiblets!”

“It was a great waste of pumpkins,” remarked Mrs. Meadows.

V.

THE TALKING-SADDLE.

Just then Mrs. Meadows smoothed out her apron and rose from her chair.

“I smell dinner,” she said, “and it smells like it is on the table. Let’s go in and get rid of it.”

She led the way, and the children followed. The dinner was nothing extra,—just a plain, every-day, country dinner, with plenty of pot-liquor and dumplings; but the children were hungry, and they made short work of all that was placed before them. Drusilla waited on the table, as she did at home, but she didn’t go close to Mr. Rabbit. She held out the dishes at arm’s length when she offered him anything, and once she came very near dropping a plate when he suddenly flapped his big ear on his nose to drive off a fly.

Mrs. Meadows was very kind to the children, but when once the edge was taken off their appetite they began to get uneasy again. There were a thousand questions they might have asked, but they had been told never to ask questions in company. Mr. Thimblefinger, who had a keen eye for such things, noticed that they were beginning to get glum and dissatisfied, and so he said with a laugh:—

“I’ve often heard in my travels of children who talked too much, but these don’t talk at all.”

“Oh, they’ll soon get over that,” Mrs. Meadows remarked. “Everything is so strange here, they don’t know what to make of it. When I was a little bit of a thing my ma used to take me to quiltings, and I know it took me the longest kind of a time to get used to the strangers and all.”

“This isn’t a quilting,” said Sweetest Susan, with a sigh; “I wish it was.”

“I don’t!” exclaimed Buster John plumply.

“Once when I was listening through a keyhole,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, placing his tiny knife and fork crosswise on his plate, “I heard a story about a Talking-Saddle.”

“Tell it! tell it!” cried Buster John and Sweetest Susan.

“I suppose you have no pie to-day?” said Mr. Rabbit.

DRUSILLA WAITING ON MR. RABBIT

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Meadows, “we’ll have the pie and the story, too.”

Mr. Thimblefinger smacked his lips and winked his eye in such comical fashion that the children laughed heartily, but they didn’t forget the story.

“I don’t know that I can remember the best of it,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “The wind was blowing and the keyhole was trying to learn how to whistle, and I may have missed some of the story. But it was such a queer one, and I was listening so closely, that I came very near falling off the door-knob when some one started to come out. I think we’d better eat our pie first. I might get one of those huckleberries in my throat while talking, and there’s no doctor close at hand to keep me from choking to death.”

So they ate their huckleberry-pie, and then Mr. Thimblefinger told the story.

“Once upon a time a farmer had five sons. He was not rich and he was not poor. He had some land, and he had a little money. He divided his land equally among his four oldest sons, giving each just as much as he could till. To each, he also gave a piece of money. Then he called his youngest son, and said:—

“‘You have sharp eyes and a keen wit. You want no land. All you need is a saddle. That I will give you.’

“‘A saddle! What will I do with a saddle?’ asked the youngest son, whose name was Tip-Top.

“‘Make your fortune with it.’

“‘If I had a horse—’

“‘A head is better than a horse,’ the father replied.

“Not long after, the old man died. The land was divided up among the four older sons, and Tip-Top was left with the saddle. He slung it on his back and set out to make his fortune. It was not long before he came to a large town. He rested for a while and then he went into the town. He remembered that his father had said a head was better than a horse, so, instead of carrying the saddle on his back, he put it on his head. At first the people thought he was carrying the saddle because he had sold his horse for a good price, or because the animal had died. But he went through street after street still carrying the saddle on his head, never pausing to look around or to speak to anybody, and at last the people began to wonder. Some said he was a simpleton, some said he was a saddle-maker advertising his wares, and some said he was a tramp who ought to be arrested and put in the workhouse.

“This talk finally reached the ears of the Mayor of the town, and he sent for Tip-Top to appear before him.”

“What is a Mayor?” asked Sweetest Susan suddenly.

“He de head patter-roller,” said Drusilla, before anybody else could reply.

“That’s about right,” Mr. Thimblefinger declared. “Well, the Mayor sent for Tip-Top. But instead of going to the place where the Mayor held his court, Tip-Top inquired where his house was and went there. Now, when Tip-Top knocked at the Mayor’s door the servant, seeing the man with a saddle on his head, began to scold him.

“‘Do you think the Mayor keeps his harness in the parlor? Go in the side gate and carry the saddle in the cellar where it belongs. Hang it on the first peg you see.’

“Tip-Top tried to say something, but the servant shut the door with a bang. Then Tip-Top did as he was bid. He went through the side gate, and found the cellar without any trouble, but instead of hanging the saddle on a peg, he placed it on the floor and sat on it.

“After waiting patiently a while, wondering when the Mayor would call him, Tip-Top heard voices on the other side of the wall. He listened closely, and soon found that the housemaid who had driven him away from the Mayor’s door was talking to her brother, who had just returned from a long journey.

“‘The Mayor has gold,’ said the brother. ‘You must tell me where he keeps it. I have a companion in my travels, and to-night we shall come and take the treasure.’

“For a long time the housemaid refused to tell where the Mayor kept his gold, but the brother threatened and coaxed, and finally she told him where the treasure lay.

“‘It is in a closet by the chimney in the first room to the right at the head of the stairs. The gold is in an iron box and it is very heavy.’

“‘My companion has long hair and a strong arm,’ said the brother. ‘He is cross-eyed and knock-kneed. It wouldn’t do for you to meet him in the hallway. Go to bed early and lock your door, and if you hear any outcry during the night cover your head with a pillow and go to sleep again.’

“Then the housemaid and her brother went away.

“‘Well,’ said Tip-Top, ‘this is no place for me.’

“He waited a while, and then went out of the cellar into the yard with his saddle on his head. The cook, seeing him there, told him to carry the saddle to the stable where the horses were kept. Tip-Top went to the stable, placed his saddle in an empty stall, and sat on it.

“After a while he heard two persons come in from the street. They went into a stall near by and began to talk. One was the coachman and the other was his nephew, who had just returned from a long journey.

“‘The Mayor has fine horses,’ said the nephew. ‘I must have two of them to-night, otherwise I am ruined forever.’

“The coachman refused to listen at first, but after a while he consented. He told his nephew that the stable-boy slept in the manger.

“‘I have a companion in my travels,’ said his nephew, ‘and to-night we shall come and take the horses away. My companion has short hair and a heavy hand. Close your eyes and cover your head with straw if you hear any outcry.’

“After a while the coachman and his nephew went out into the street again, and then Tip-Top came forth from the stable with the saddle on his head. The Mayor had just come in, and was standing at his window. He saw the man in the yard with the saddle on his head, and sent a servant to call him.

“‘What is your name?’ asked the Mayor.

“‘Tip-Top, your honor.’

“‘I didn’t ask after your health; I asked for your name,’ said the Mayor.

“‘It is Tip-Top, your honor.’

“‘Your name or your health?’

“‘Both, your honor.’

“‘What are you doing here?’

“‘His honor, the Mayor, sent for me, your honor.’

“‘What were you doing just now?’

“‘Waiting to be sent for, your honor.’

“‘Where is your horse?’ asked the Mayor.

TIP-TOP AND THE MAYOR

“‘I have no horse, your honor.’

“‘Why do you carry your saddle?’

“‘Because no one will carry it for me, your honor.’

“‘Why do you not sell it and be rid of it, ninny?’

“‘Few are rich enough to buy it, your honor.’

“‘How much money is it worth?’

“‘Two thousand pieces of gold, your honor.’

“‘Are you crazy?’ cried the Mayor. ‘Why is it so valuable?’

“‘It is a Talking-Saddle, your honor.’

“‘What does it say?’

“‘Everything, your honor. It warns, it predicts, and it gives advice.’

“‘Let it talk for me,’ said the Mayor, full of curiosity.

“‘Your honor would fail to understand its language,’ replied Tip-Top.

“‘Let it talk and do you tell me what it says.’

“Tip-Top placed his saddle on the carpet and pressed his foot against it until the leather made a creaking noise.

“‘I am waiting,’ said the Mayor. ‘What does the saddle say?’

“‘It says, your honor, that you must call the housemaid.’

“The Mayor, to humor the joke, did so. The housemaid came, grumbling. She looked at the saddle, at Tip-Top, and then at the Mayor.

“‘Now what does the saddle say?’ asked the Mayor.

“‘It says, your honor, that this woman has a brother, who has just returned from a journey in strange lands. The saddle says, your honor, that this woman’s brother has a companion who has long hair and a strong arm.’

“‘Is that all?’ asked the Mayor.

“‘No, your honor, it is not half.’

“‘It is very strange,’ said the housemaid.

“‘The saddle says, your honor, that if you will sit in the closet by the chimney, in the first room to the right, where there is an iron box that is very heavy, you will receive a visit to-night from this woman’s brother and his companion.’

“The Mayor was very much astonished, but before he could open his lips the woman fell on her knees and confessed all. The Mayor called an officer and sent her away. Then he turned to Tip-Top, and asked:—

“‘Is that all?’

“‘By no means, your honor. The saddle says send for the coachman.’

“The Mayor did so, and the coachman came, bowing and smiling.

“‘How much is the saddle worth?’ the Mayor asked him.

“‘Master, it is worthless,’ replied the coachman, with a sneer.

“‘Let us see,’ said the Mayor. Then, turning to Tip-Top: ‘What does the saddle say?’

“‘It says, your honor, that this coachman here has a nephew, who has just returned from a long journey. It says that the nephew has a companion who has short hair and a heavy hand.’

“‘What more?’

“‘The saddle says, your honor, that if you will sleep in the manger where your two finest horses feed, you will receive a visit from the coachman’s nephew and his traveling companion.’

“The coachman implored his master’s mercy, and told all. Of course, the Mayor was very much astonished. He turned his unfaithful servants over to an officer, and that night had a watch set around his house and stable, and caught the thieves and their companions.”

“But the saddle didn’t talk,” said Sweetest Susan. “So the man didn’t tell what was true.” She made this remark with so much dignity that Mrs. Meadows laughed.

But Buster John was quite impatient.

“This isn’t a girl’s story,” he exclaimed.

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “It is for girls as well as boys. Sometimes people tell stories just to pass the time away, and if the stories have little fibs in ’em, that don’t do anybody any harm, they just keep them in there. If they didn’t, the story wouldn’t be true.”

“Is that the end of the story of the Talking-Saddle?” asked Buster John.

“No! Oh, no!” Mr. Thimblefinger answered. “I was just going to tell you the rest.”

But before he could go on with it, the noise of laughter was heard at the door, and then there came running in a queer-looking girl and a very queer-looking boy.

VI.

THE TALKING-SADDLE AND THE THIEF.

The queer-looking girl was running from the very queer-looking boy, and both were laughing loudly. When they saw the children sitting at the table they both stopped suddenly. The queer-looking girl turned and made a wry face at the very queer-looking boy. At this both burst out laughing, and suddenly stopped again.

“Be ashamed of yourselves!” exclaimed old Mr. Rabbit, rapping on the floor with his cane. “Be ashamed! Where are your manners? Go and speak to our friends and make your best bow, too,—don’t forget that!” Mr. Rabbit appeared to be very indignant.

Mrs. Meadows was in a better humor. “This,” she said, as the queer-looking girl came forward, “is Chickamy Crany Crow, and this,” as the very queer-looking boy came timidly up, “is Tickle-My-Toes.”

They bowed, and then went off a little way, looking very solemn and comical. They didn’t dare glance at each other for fear they would begin laughing again. The reason they looked so queer was because, although they acted like children, they were old in appearance,—as old as a person past middle age.

“They are country-raised, poor things! You’ll have to excuse them. They don’t know any better.” Mr. Thimblefinger sighed as he said this, and looked thoughtful.

“What about the Talking-Saddle?” Buster John inquired. “You said the story wasn’t finished.”

“To be sure! To be sure!” Mr. Thimblefinger cried. “My mind is like a wagon without a tongue. It goes every way but the right way. Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember now.”

“Well, the Mayor was very thankful to Tip-Top for saving his treasure and his horses, but he wasn’t satisfied about the saddle. He was worried. Now, you know when a child is worried it cries, but when a grown man is worried he sits down and looks away off, and puts his elbow in his hand and his finger to his nose—so.”

“Oh, I’ve seen papa do that,” laughed Sweetest Susan.

“Yes, that’s the way the Mayor did,” Mr. Thimblefinger continued. “There was a great thief in that country who had never been caught. He didn’t care for judges and juries and courthouses. He always sent the Mayor word when he was coming to the city and when he was going away.

“Now, the Mayor had received a letter from this man just the day before Tip-Top came. The thief said he was coming after a fine race-horse that was owned by the Mayor’s brother. So the Mayor sat and thought, and finally he asked Tip-Top if his Talking-Saddle could catch a famous thief.

“‘It has just caught four common rogues, your honor,’ replied Tip-Top, ‘and I think it can catch one uncommon thief.’

“Then the Mayor told Tip-Top that the most famous thief in all that country intended to steal his brother’s race-horse. Tip-Top said he must see the horse, and together they went to the stable where it was kept. The horse was already guarded. Two servants sat in the stall, two sat outside, and two remained near the door. The Mayor’s brother was also there.

“‘What is this?’ the brother asked.

“‘This fellow wants to sell his saddle,’ replied the Mayor.

“‘Then arrest him,’ cried the brother, ‘for he is the thief.’

“‘Nonsense,’ replied the Mayor. ‘He is a very honest man and I will vouch for him.’

“Then the Mayor called his brother aside and told him why the man with the saddle had come to see the horse.

“Tip-Top talked with the men who had been set to guard the horse, and he soon found that one of them was an accomplice of the thief. This man made a swift sign to Tip-Top, and placed his finger on his mouth. Tip-Top replied by closing his eyes with his fingers, as if to show that he saw nothing. When he had an opportunity he said to this man:—

“‘Tell your master I will be willing to sell the saddle to-night. I will sleep with it under my head on the next corner. It is worth one thousand pieces of gold.’

“Then he returned to the Mayor, and they went away. Tip-Top laughed as they walked along. ‘This thief,’ he remarked, ‘is a fool. It is so easy to steal a horse that he will not buy a saddle. He will try to steal mine. Then we shall catch him. He will get the horse—’

“‘What!’ cried the Mayor; ‘get the horse?’

“‘Certainly; nothing is easier,’ replied Tip-Top. ‘He will get the horse, and then he will want a saddle. He will be passing the wall here. He will see me sleeping with my head on my friend and then he will attempt to steal it, but the surcingle will be buckled around my body, and I will awake and cry blue murder. Then you and your brother can come forward from the vacant house yonder and seize him.’

“‘Where did you learn all this?’ asked the Mayor. He began to suspect that his brother was right when he said that Tip-Top was the thief.

“‘My saddle told me,’ Tip-Top answered.

“‘Well,’ said the Mayor, ‘your plan is as good as any, but how will the thief get the horse that is so well guarded?’

“‘Ah!’ Tip-Top exclaimed, ‘if I were to tell you, we should never catch the thief.’

“So it was all arranged. Tip-Top was to sleep on his Talking-Saddle, near the wall and the Mayor and his brother were to watch from the windows of the vacant house opposite.

“When night came, the watchers who had been set to guard the horse were very anxious. They were ready to arrest any one who might chance to enter. Whenever they heard footsteps approaching they seized their clubs and stood on the defensive. Sometimes a passer-by would pause, look in, and ask what the trouble was. Then the watchers would reply that they were waiting for the great thief who was coming to steal the fine horse. Thus the hours passed, but no thief came. Then the watchers began to get tired.

“‘We are crazy,’ said one. ‘How can a thief steal this horse, even if he were to come in here? We are four to one. Two of us should sleep a while, and thus we can take turns in watching.’ This was agreed to, and two of the guards stretched themselves on the straw and prepared to sleep. But just then they heard some one singing far down the street. It was a jolly song, and the sound of it came louder and louder. As the singer was going by, the light in the stable caught his eye, and he paused and looked in, but still kept up his singing.

“‘Friends,’ he said when his song was done, ‘what is the trouble?’

“‘We are watching a horse.’

“‘Is he sick? Perhaps I can aid you. I have doctored many a horse in my day.’

“‘He is not sick,’ replied the watchers. ‘He is well and taking his ease. We are watching to prevent a thief from stealing him.’

“Then they told him the threat the thief had made.

“‘Come, that is too good,’ cried the newcomer. ‘This thief will be worth looking at when four such stout lads as you get through with him. When does he show himself?’

“‘That is what we are to find out,’ replied the watchers.

“‘Very well,’ the newcomer said; ‘I’ll stay, by your permission, and see you double him up.’

“The watchers gave their consent gladly, for the newcomer had a lively manner and a rattling tongue. He sang songs and told stories for an hour or more, and then pulled a bottle from under his coat.

“‘A little wine,’ he said, ‘will clear the fog from our throats.’ He passed the bottle around, and all drank except the guard who was watching in the stall.

“Now the man who had come singing up the street was the thief himself, and the guard in the stall was his companion. The wine was drugged, and in a very few minutes three of the watchers were fast asleep. Then the thief and his companion took the horse from the stall.

“‘I shall have to remain here and pretend to be asleep,’ said the companion. ‘You will find a saddle around the corner.’ He then told the thief about the man with the saddle.

“‘You are a fool, my friend,’ said the thief. ‘It is a trick—a trap.’

“But when he had carried off the horse and hid it at the house of an acquaintance, the thought of the man with the saddle worried him so that he went back to satisfy himself. Tip-Top and his saddle were there, and Tip-Top had slept so soundly that his head had rolled from his pillow. The thief thought it would be a good stroke of business to take the saddle along, but when he tried to lift it, Tip-Top awoke and seized him, and cried ‘Murder!’ at the top of his voice.

“The Mayor and his brother rushed from their place of concealment, and soon the thief was bound.

“‘Where is the horse?’ cried the Mayor.

“‘What horse?’ exclaimed the thief. ‘Do you think I carry horses in my pocket?’

“‘What were you doing here, then?’

“‘This fellow’s head had slipped from its pillow, and when I tried to put it back he seized me and yelled that I was murdering him! I saw no horse under the saddle.’

“‘Wait here a little,’ said Tip-Top. ‘Hold this thief till I return.’

“He went to the stable, woke the thief’s accomplice, who by this time was really asleep, and told him his companion had been captured. ‘If I can find the horse and hide it our friend will be safe, for nothing can be proved on him.’

“The man was so frightened that he told Tip-Top where he had arranged to meet the thief the next day. Then Tip-Top returned to the Mayor and his brother, who still held the thief, and took them to the house where the horse had been stabled.

“When the horse had been found and restored to its owner the Mayor said to Tip-Top that he would not only reward him handsomely but grant any request he might make.

“‘Then, your honor,’ replied Tip-Top, ‘give this man his liberty.’

“‘Why?’ asked the Mayor, much astonished.

“‘Because, your honor, he is my brother.’

“The thief was as much astonished as the Mayor at this turn in his affairs, but he had no difficulty in recognizing Tip-Top as his younger brother.

“‘He certainly is a man of talent,’ said the Mayor, ‘and it is a pity that he should be executed.’

“Then the thief fell on his knees and begged the Mayor to pardon him, promising him to live and die an honest man. And he kept his promise. He engaged in business, and, aided by Tip-Top’s advice and influence, made a large fortune.”

“What became of the Talking-Saddle?” asked Buster John.

“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “Tip-Top hung the saddle in his front porch, as you have seen farmers do. He thought a great deal of it.”

THE MAYOR PARDONING THE THIEF

“I’ve read something about the great thief,” remarked Buster John. “But the story didn’t end that way. The thief escaped every time.”

“Oh, well, you know how some people are,” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “They want everything to happen just so; even a thief must be a big man if he’s in a story; but I don’t believe anybody ever stole anything yet without getting into trouble about it.”

“Who is that crying?” Mr. Rabbit suddenly exclaimed.

“I hear no crying,” said Mrs. Meadows.

“I certainly thought I heard crying,” persisted Mr. Rabbit.

“It is Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes singing. Listen!”

Sure enough the queer-looking boy and the queer-looking girl were singing a song. One sang one line and the other the next line, and this made the song somewhat comical. The words were something like these:—

CHICKAMY CRANY CROW.

Oh sing it slow,
This song of woe,
Of the girl who went to wash her toe!
Her name was Chick—
(Oh run here quick—
The word’s so thick)—
Chickamy—Chickamy Crany Crow!

Chickamy what? and Chickamy which?
She went to the well and fell in the ditch;
What o’clock, old Witch?

The clock struck one
And bowed to the sun;
But the sun was fast asleep you know;
And the moon was quick,
With her oldtime trick—
To hide from Chick—
Chickamy—Chickamy Crany Crow!

Chickamy what? and Chickamy which?
She went to the well and fell in the ditch;
What o’clock, old Witch?

Oh, sad to tell!
She went to the well—
The time was as close to eve as to dawn—
To Chickamy Chick,
So supple and slick,
The clock said “Tick!”
But when she came back her chicken was gone!

Oh, whatamy, whichamy, chickamy, oh!
Moonery, oonery, tickamy Toe!
Wellery, tellery, gittery go!
Witchery, itchery, knitchery know.

CHICKAMY CRANY CROW AND TICKLE-MY-TOES

“What kinder gwines on is dat?” exclaimed Drusilla, whose mind had never been quite easy since she walked through the dry water in the spring without getting drowned. “We all better be makin’ our way to’rds home. Time we git dar—ef we ever is ter git dar—it’ll be dark good. Den what yo’ ma gwine to say? She gwine ter talk wid de flat er her han’—dat what she gwine ter talk wid. Come on!”

“Can’t you be quiet?” cried Buster John. “It’s nothing but a song.”

“Oh, you kin stay, an’ I’ll stay wid you,” said Drusilla; “but when Mistiss git you in de wash-room, don’t you come sayin’ dat I wouldn’t fetch you home.”

“I want to see everything,” said Buster John.

“I done seed much ez I want ter see,” replied Drusilla, “an’ now I want ter live ter tell it.”

Before Buster John could say anything more, everything suddenly grew a little darker, and in the middle of the sky—or what ought to have been the sky, but which was the enlarged bottom of the spring—there was a huge shadow. The children looked at it in silence.

VII.

THE LADDER OF LIONS.

The shadow that seemed to fall over everything caused Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla to run to the door. It was not a very dark shadow, but it was dark enough to attract their attention and excite their alarm. They were not yet used to their surroundings, for, although a great many things they saw and heard were familiar to them, they could not forget that they had come through the water in the spring. They could not forget that Mr. Thimblefinger was the smallest grown person they had ever seen,—even if he were a grown person,—nor could they forget that they had never seen a rabbit so wonderfully large as Mr. Rabbit. Drusilla expressed the feelings of all when she remarked that she felt “skittish.” They were ready to take alarm at anything that might happen. Therefore they ran to the door to see what the shadow meant. Finally they looked up at the sky, or what seemed to be the sky, and there they saw, covering a large part of it, the vague outline of a huge jug. The shadow wobbled about and wavered, and ripples of light and shadow played about it and ran down to the horizon on all sides.

An astronomer, seeing these fantastic wobblings and waverings of light and shadow in our firmament, would straightway send a letter or a cable dispatch to the newspapers, declaring that an unheard-of convulsion was shaking the depths of celestial space. And, indeed, it was all very puzzling, even to the children, but Drusilla, who had less imagination than any of the rest, accounted for it all by one bold stroke of common sense.

“Shuh! ’T ain’t nothin’ ’t all!” she exclaimed. “Dey done got froo wid dinner at home, an’ ol’ Aunt ’Cindy done put de buttermilk-jug back in de spring.”

Sweetest Susan caught her breath with a gasp, and laughed hysterically. She had been very much alarmed.

“I expect that’s what it is,” said Buster John, but there was some doubt in his tone. He turned to Mr. Thimblefinger, who had followed them. “What time is it, please?”

Mr. Thimblefinger drew his watch from his pocket with as much dignity as he could assume, and held his head gravely on one side. “It is now—let me see—ahem!—it is now precisely thirteen minutes and eleven seconds after one o’clock.”

“Is that the jug in the spring?” asked Sweetest Susan, pointing to the huge black shadow that was now wobbling and wavering more slowly.

Mr. Thimblefinger shaded his eyes with his hand and examined the shadow critically. “Yes, that is the jug—the light hurts my eyes—yes, certainly, that is the jug.”

Presently a volume of white vapor shot out from the shadow. It was larger than the largest comet, and almost as brilliant.

“What is that?” asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger felt almost as thoughtful as a sure-enough man of science.

“That,” said he, “is an emanation—an exhalation, you might say—that we frequently witness in our atmosphere.”

“A which?” asked Buster John.

“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, clearing his throat, “it’s—er—an emanation.”

“Huh!” cried Drusilla, “’t ain’t no kind er nation. It’s des de milk leakin’ out’n dat jug. I done tol’ Aunt ’Cindy ’bout dat leakin’ jug.”

Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Meadows had come out of the house in time to hear this, and they laughed heartily. In fact, they all laughed except Mr. Thimblefinger and Drusilla.

“It happens every day,” said Mrs. Meadows. “We never notice it. I suppose if it happened up there where you children live, everybody would make a great to-do? I’m glad I don’t live there where there’s so much fussing and guessing going on. I know how it is. Something happens that doesn’t happen every day, and then somebody’ll guess one way and somebody another way, and the first thing you know there’s a great rumpus over nothing. I’m truly glad I came away from there in time to get out of the worst of it. You children had better take a notion and stay here with us.”

“Oh, no,” cried Sweetest Susan. “Mamma and papa would want to see us.”

“That’s so,” said Mrs. Meadows. “Well, I just came out here to tell you not to get too near the Green Moss Swamp beyond the hill yonder. There’s an old Spring Lizard over there that might want to shake hands with you with his tail. Besides it’s not healthy around there; it is too damp.”

“Oh, we are not going anywhere until we start home,” Sweetest Susan remarked.

“How large is the Spring Lizard?” inquired Buster John.

“He’s a heap too big for you to manage,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “I don’t know that he’d hurt you, but he’s slept in the mud over there until he’s so fat he can’t wallow scarcely. He might roll over on you and hurt you some.”

“Are there any lions over there?” inquired Sweetest Susan.

“No, honey, not a living one,” said Mrs. Meadows.

By this time Mr. Rabbit had come out on the piazza, bringing his walking-cane and his pipe. He presently seated himself on the steps, and leaned his head comfortably against one of the posts.

“Well, well, well,” he exclaimed. “It has been years and years since I’ve heard the name of Brother Lion. Is he still living and doing well?” Mr. Rabbit turned an inquiring eye on Sweetest Susan.

“She doesn’t know anything about lions,” said Buster John.

“Why, I do!” cried Sweetest Susan. “I saw one once in a cage.”

“In a cage? Brother Lion in a cage?” Mr. Rabbit raised his hands and rolled his eyes in astonishment. “What is the world coming to? Well, I’ve said many and many a time that Brother Lion was not right up here.” Mr. Rabbit tapped his forehead significantly. “In a cage! Now, that pesters me. Why, he used to go roaring and romping about the country, scaring them that didn’t know him mighty nigh to death. And so Brother Lion is in a cage? But I might have known it. I wonder how the rest of the family are getting on? Not that they are any kin to me, for they are not. I called him Brother Lion just to be neighborly. Oh, no! He and his family are no kin to me. They are too heavy in both head and feet for that.”

Mr. Rabbit closed his eyes as if reflecting, and patted the ground softly with his foot.

“Well, well! I remember just as well as if it were yesterday the day I told Brother Lion that if he wasn’t careful, Mr. Man would catch him and put him in a cage for his children to look at. But he just hooted at it—and now, sure enough, there he is! I mind the first time he began his pursuit of Mr. Man. That was the time he got his hand caught in the split of the log.”

“I done hear my daddy tell dat tale,” remarked Drusilla.

“Yes,” said Mr. Rabbit, “it soon became common talk in the neighborhood. Brother Lion had come a long way to hunt Mr. Man, and as soon as he got his hand out of the split in the log he started to go home again. I went part of the way with him, and then it was that I told him he’d find himself in a cage if he wasn’t careful. I made a burdock poultice for his hand the best I could—”

“And it’s mighty good for bruises, I tell you now!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows.

“And then Brother Lion went on home, feeling better, but still very mad. Crippled as he was, he was a quick traveler, and it was not long before he came to his journey’s end.

MR. RABBIT BANDAGING BROTHER LION’S PAW

“Well, when his mother saw him she was very sorry. But when he told her what the matter was she was vexed. ‘Aha!’ said she, ‘how often have I told you about meddling with somebody else’s business! How often have I told you about sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you! I’m not sorry for you one bit, because if you had obeyed me you wouldn’t be coming home now with your hand mashed all to flinders. But, no! daddy-like, you’ve got to go and get yourself into trouble with Mr. Man, and now you see what has come of it. I’m not feeling at all well myself, but now I’ve got to go to work and make a whole parcel of poultices and tie your hand up and nurse you—and I declare somebody ought to be nursing me this very minute.’

“That was what Brother Lion’s mother said,” continued Mr. Rabbit, “but Brother Lion didn’t say anything. He just lay on the sheepskin pallet she made him and studied how he would be revenged on Mr. Man. After a while his hand got well, but still he said very little about the matter. The more he thought about the way he had been treated, the madder he got. He gnashed his teeth together and waved his long tail about until it looked like a snake. Finally he sent word to all his kin—his uncles and his cousins—to meet him somewhere in the woods and hold a convention to consider how they should catch the great monster, Mr. Man, who had caused a log of wood to mash Brother Lion’s hand.

“Well, it wasn’t long before the uncles and cousins began to arrive. They came from far and near, and they seemed to be very ferocious. They shook their manes and showed their tushes. They went off in the woods and held their convention, and Brother Lion laid his complaint before them. He told them what kind of treatment he had received from Mr. Man, and asked them if they would help to get his revenge. He made quite a speech, and when he sat down, his uncles and cousins were very much excited. They roared and howled. They said they were ready to tear Mr. Man limb from limb. They declared they were ready to go where he was, and gnaw him and claw him on account of the scandalous way he had treated their blood-kin.

“But when Brother Lion’s mother heard what they proposed to do she shut her eyes and shook her head from side to side, and told the uncles and the cousins that they had better go back home, all of them. She said that before they got through with Mr. Man they’d wish they had never been born. But go they would and go they did.

“So they started out soon one morning, and traveled night and day for nearly a week. They were getting very tired and hungry, and some of the younger blood-cousins wanted to stop and rest, and some wanted to turn around and go back home. But one morning while they were going through the woods, feeling a little shaky in head and limb, they suddenly came in sight of Mr. Man. He was cutting down trees and splitting them into timber. He had his coat off, and seemed to be very busy.

“But he was not so busy that he didn’t hear Mr. Lion and his uncles and blood-cousins sneaking through the woods over the dry leaves, and he wasn’t so busy that he couldn’t see them moving about among the trees. He was very much astonished. He wondered where so many of the Lion family came from, and what they were doing there, but he didn’t stop to ask any questions. He dropped his axe and climbed a tree.

“Brother Lion and his uncles and his blood-cousins were very much pleased when they saw Mr. Man climb the tree. ‘We have him now,’ said Brother Lion, and the rest licked their jaws and smiled. Then they gathered around the tree and sat on their haunches and watched Mr. Man. This didn’t do any good, for Mr. Man sat on a limb and swung his legs, just as contentedly as if he was sitting in his rocking-chair at home.

“Then Brother Lion and his uncles and his blood-cousins showed their teeth and growled. But this didn’t do any good. Mr. Man swung his feet and whistled a dance-tune. Then Brother Lion and his blood-cousins opened their mouths wide and roared as loud as they could. But this didn’t do any good. Mr. Man leaned his head against the trunk of the tree and pretended to be nodding.

“This made Brother Lion and his blood-kin very mad. They ran around the tree and tore the bark with their claws, and waved their tails back and forth. But this didn’t do any good. Mr. Man just sat up there and swung his feet and laughed at them.

“Brother Lion and his blood-kin soon found that if they intended to capture Mr. Man they’d have to do something else besides caper around the foot of the tree. So they talked it over, and Brother Lion fixed up a plan. He said that he would stand at the foot of the tree and rear up against the trunk, and one of his blood-cousins could climb on his back and rear up, and then another cousin or uncle could climb up, and so on until there was a ladder of bloodthirsty Lions high enough to reach Mr. Man.

“Brother Lion, mind you, was to be at the bottom of the Lion ladder,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, with a chuckle, “and he had a very good reason for it. He had had dealings with Mr. Man, and he wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. But before they made the Lion ladder, Brother Lion looked up at Mr. Man and called out:—

“‘What are you doing up there?’

“‘You’ll find out a great deal too soon for your comfort,’ replied Mr. Man.

“Brother Lion said, ‘Come down from there.’

“Mr. Man answered, ‘I’ll come down much sooner than you want me to.’

“Then Brother Lion, his uncles, and his blood-cousins began to build their ladder. Brother Lion was the bottom round of this ladder, as you may say,” continued Mr. Rabbit. “He reared up and placed his hands against the tree, and one of his uncles jumped on his shoulders, and put his hands against the tree. Then a cousin, and then another uncle, and so on until the ladder reached a considerable distance up the tree. It was such a high ladder that it began to wobble, and the last uncle had hard work to make his way to the top. He climbed up very carefully and slowly, for he was not used to this sort of business. He was the oldest and the fiercest of the old company, but his knees shook under him as he climbed up and felt the ladder shaking and wobbling.

“Mr. Man saw that by the time this big Lion got to the top of the ladder his teeth and his claws would be too close for comfort, and so he called out in an angry tone:—

THE LADDER OF LIONS

“‘Just hold on! Just stand right still! Wait! I’m not after any of you except that fellow at the bottom there. I’m not trying to catch any of you but him. He has bothered me before. I let him go once, but I’ll not let him get away this time. Just stand right still and hold him there till I climb down the other side of the tree.’

“With that Mr. Man shook the limbs and leaves and dropped some pieces of bark. This was more than Brother Lion could stand. He was so frightened that he jumped from under the ladder, and his uncles and his blood-cousins came tumbling to the ground, howling, growling, and fighting.

“They were as sorry-looking a sight as ever you saw when they came to their senses. Those that didn’t have their bones broken by the fall were torn and mangled. They had acted so foolishly that out of the whole number, Mr. Man didn’t get but three lion-skins that could be called perfect.

“Brother Lion went home to his mother as fast as he could go and remained quiet a long time. And now you tell me he’s in a cage.”

Mr. Rabbit paused and shook his head until his ears flopped.

The children seemed to enjoy the story very much; so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Meadows wanted Mr. Rabbit to tell some of his own queer experiences, but Mr. Rabbit laughed and said that it didn’t seem exactly right to be telling his own stories. He said if he told the stories just as they happened, he’d have to talk about himself a good deal, and people would think he was boastful. He declared he didn’t feel like making his young friends think he was bragging.

“Oh, we shan’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan, “shall we, brother?”

“Why, of course not,” replied Buster John.

“La! we all done hear folks brag, till we got hardened ter braggin’!” exclaimed Drusilla.

So the children, aided by Mrs. Meadows, coaxed Mr. Rabbit until he finally consented to tell some of his queer adventures.

VIII.

BROTHER TERRAPIN’S FIDDLE-STRING.

Mr. Rabbit moved his body uneasily about, and scratched his head, and crossed and uncrossed his legs several times before he began.

“I declare it isn’t right!” he exclaimed after a while. “I don’t mind telling about other folks, but when it comes to talking about myself, it is a different thing.”

“Don’t you remember the time you tried to get Brother Terrapin to give you a fiddle-string?” asked Mrs. Meadows, laughing a little.

“Oh, that was just a joke,” replied Mr. Rabbit.

“Call it a joke, then,” said Mrs. Meadows. “You know what the little boy said when the man asked him his name. He said, says he, ‘You may call it anything, so you call me to dinner.’”

“He wasn’t very polite,” remarked Sweetest Susan.

“No, indeed,” Mrs. Meadows answered; “but you know that little boys can’t always remember to be polite.”

“I think we were at your house,” suggested Mr. Rabbit, rubbing his chin.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “In the little house by the creek. The yard sloped from the front door right to the bank.”

“To be sure,” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit, brightening up. “I remember the house just as well as if I had seen it yesterday. There was a little shelf on the left-hand side of the door as you came out, and there the water-bucket sat.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Meadows; “and there was just room enough up there by the bucket for Brother Terrapin.”

“That’s so,” Mr. Rabbit replied, laughing, “and when he used to go to your house to see the girls they’d set the bucket on the table in the house and lift Brother Terrapin to the shelf so he could see and be seen. I remember it used to make him very mad when I’d tell him he would be a mighty man if he wasn’t so flat-footed.”

“Oh, you used to talk worse than that,” cried Mrs. Meadows, laughing heartily at the remembrance of it. “You used to tell him he was the only man you ever saw that sat down when he stood up. I declare! Brother Terrapin’s eyes used to get right red.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rabbit, after a pause; “I remember I went to your house one day and I carried my fiddle. When I got there, who should I see but old Brother Terrapin sitting up on the shelf. I expected to find the girls by themselves, but there was Brother Terrapin. So I began to joke him.

“‘Howdy, Brother Terrapin?’ says I. ‘If you had a ladder handy you could come downstairs and shake hands, couldn’t you?’

“He began to get sullen and sulky at once. He wouldn’t hardly make any reply. But I didn’t care for that. Says I: ‘Cross your legs and look comfortable, Brother Terrapin; don’t be glum in company. I’ve got my fiddle with me, and I’m going to make your bones ache if you don’t dance.’

“Then I whirled in,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and played the liveliest tunes I could think of,—‘Billy in the Low Grounds,’ ‘’Possum up the Gum-Stump,’ ‘Chicken in the Bread-Tray,’ and all those hoppery-skippery, jiggery-dancery tunes that make your feet go whether or no. But there Brother Terrapin sat, looking as unconcerned as if the fiddle had been ten miles away. He didn’t even keep time to the music with his foot. More than that, he didn’t even wag his head from side to side.”

“I always knew Brother Terrapin had no ear for music,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “If that was a fault, he certainly had more than his share of it.”

“I ought not to talk about people behind their backs,” Mr. Rabbit continued, trying to shake a fly out of his ear, “but I must say that Brother Terrapin was very dull about some things. Well, I played and played, and the girls danced and seemed to enjoy it. I believe you danced a round or two yourself?” Mr. Rabbit turned to Mrs. Meadows inquiringly.

“I expect I shook my foot a little,” said Mrs. Meadows with a sigh. “I was none too good.”

“They danced and danced until they were tired of dancing,” Mr. Rabbit resumed; “but there sat Brother Terrapin as quiet as if he were asleep. Well, I was vexed—I don’t mind saying so now—I was certainly vexed. But I didn’t let on. And between tunes I did my best to worry Brother Terrapin.

MR. RABBIT FIDDLING FOR BROTHER TERRAPIN

“‘Ladies,’ says I, ‘don’t make so much fuss. Let Brother Terrapin get his nap out. You’ll turn a chair over directly, and Brother Terrapin will give a jump and fall off the shelf and break some of the furniture in his house.’ This made the girls laugh very much, for they remembered the old saying that Brother Terrapin carries his house on his back. ‘Don’t laugh so loud,’ says I, ‘Brother Terrapin has earned his rest. He’s been courting on the other side of the creek, and he has no carriage to ride in when he goes back and forth. Sh-h!’ says I, ‘don’t disturb him. When a person sits down when he stands up, and lies down when he walks, some allowance must be made.’

“Brother Terrapin’s eyes grew redder and redder, and the skin on the back of his head began to work backward and forward. What might have happened I don’t know, but just as the girls were in the middle of a dance one of my fiddle-strings broke, and it was the treble, too. I wouldn’t have minded it if it had been any of the other strings, but when the treble broke I had to stop playing.

“Well, the girls were very much disappointed and so was I, for I had come for a frolic. I searched in my pockets, but I had no other string. I tried to play with three strings, but the tune wouldn’t come. The girls were so sorry they didn’t know what to do.

“Just then an idea struck me. ‘Ladies,’ says I, ‘it’s a thousand pities I didn’t bring an extra treble, and I’m perfectly willing to go home and fetch one, but if Brother Terrapin was a little more accommodating the music could go right on. You could be dancing again in a little or no time.’

“‘Oh, is that so?’ says the girls. ‘Well, we know Brother Terrapin will oblige us.’

“‘I’m not so sure of that,’ says I.

“‘What do you want me to do?’ says he. His voice sounded as if he had the croup.

“‘Ladies,’ says I, ‘you may believe it or not, but if Brother Terrapin has a mind to he can lend me a treble string that will just fit my fiddle.’

“‘Brother Rabbit,’ says he, ‘you know I have no fiddle-string. What would I be doing with one?’

“‘Don’t mind him, ladies. He knows just as well as I do that he has a fiddle-string in his neck. I can take my pocket-knife and get it out in half a minute,’ says I.

“This made Brother Terrapin roll his eyes.

“‘Be ashamed of yourself, Brother Terrapin,’ says the girls. ‘And we were having so much fun, too.’

“‘If my neck was as long and as tough as Brother Terrapin’s, I’d take one of the leaders out and make a fiddle-string of it, just to oblige the ladies,’ says I.

“The girls turned up their noses and tossed their heads. ‘Don’t pester Brother Terrapin,’ says they. ‘We’ll not ask him any more.’

“‘Ladies,’ says I, ‘there is a way to get the fiddle-string without asking for it. Will you please hand me a case-knife out of the cupboard there?’

“I rose from my chair with a sort of a frown,” continued Mr. Rabbit, laughing heartily, “but before I could lift my hand Brother Terrapin rolled from the shelf and went tumbling down the slope to the creek, heels over head.”

“Did it hurt him much?” asked Sweetest Susan, with a touch of sympathy.

“It didn’t stop his tongue,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “He crawled out on the other side of the creek and said very bad words. He even went so far as to call me out of my name. But it is all over with now,” said Mr. Rabbit, with a sigh. “I bear no grudges. Let bygones be bygones.”

“I never heard before that Brother Terrapin had a fiddle-string in his neck,” said Buster John, after he had thought the matter over a little.

“In dem times,” said Drusilla, as if to satisfy her own mind, “you couldn’t tell what nobody had skacely.”

“Why, as to that,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “the fiddle-string in his neck was news to Brother Terrapin.”

There was a pause here and the children seemed to be somewhat listless.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” remarked Mrs. Meadows to Mr. Rabbit; “these children here are lonesome, and they’ll be getting homesick long before the time comes for them to go. Oh, don’t tell me!” she cried, when the children would have protested. “I know how I’d feel if I was away from home in a strange country and had nobody but queer people to talk to. We are too old. Even Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes are too old, and Mr. Thimblefinger is too little.”

BROTHER TERRAPIN TUMBLING INTO THE CREEK

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” asked Mr. Rabbit, running his thumb in the bowl of his pipe.

“I was just thinking,” responded Mrs. Meadows. “Hadn’t we better bring out the Looking-Glass family?”

“Well,” said Mr. Rabbit, “I leave that to you.” To hide the smile that gathered around his mouth Mr. Rabbit leaned his head over and scratched his left ear lazily with his left foot.

“That’s what I’ll do,” Mrs. Meadows declared decisively. “These children want company they can appreciate, poor things!”

She went into the house, and presently came out again, bringing a mirror about three feet wide and five feet high.

IX.

THE LOOKING-GLASS CHILDREN.

The frame of the mirror was of dark wood, curiously carved, and it was set on pivots between two small but stout upright posts, made of the same kind of wood. As Mrs. Meadows brought the looking-glass out, it swung back and forth between these posts, and its polished surface shone with great brilliancy. The children wondered how they were to amuse themselves with this queer toy. Mrs. Meadows placed the looking-glass a little way from them, but not facing them. The frame was in profile, so that they could see neither the face nor the back of the mirror.

“You come first,” she said to Buster John.

He went forward, and Mrs. Meadows placed him in front of the looking-glass. As he turned to face it, his reflection (as it seemed) stepped from the mirror and stared at him. Buster John looked at Mrs. Meadows for an explanation, but at that moment she beckoned to Sweetest Susan. When Buster John moved, his image moved. Mrs. Meadows pushed him gently aside to make room for Sweetest Susan, and it seemed that some invisible hand pushed his reflection gently aside.

SWEETEST SUSAN MEETING HER REFLECTION

Sweetest Susan stepped before the looking-glass, and her reflection walked out to meet her. Drusilla now came forward, and her image stepped forth, looking somewhat scared and showing the whites of its eyes. Mrs. Meadows went to the looking-glass, gave it a sudden turn on its pivots, and carried it into the house.

All this happened so rapidly that the children hardly had time to be surprised, but now that the looking-glass had been carried away and they were left with their reflections, their shadows, their images (or whatever it was), they didn’t know what to do, or say, or think. They could only look at each other in dumb astonishment. Drusilla was the first to break the silence. In her surprise she had moved quickly back a few steps, and her image, which had come out of the looking-glass, had as quickly moved forward and toward her a few steps.

“Don’t come follerin’ atter me!” she cried excitedly. “Kaze ef you do, you’ll sho’ git hurted. I ain’t done nothin’ ’t all ter you. I ain’t gwine ter pester you, an’ I ain’t gwine ter let you pester me. I tell you dat now, so you’ll know what ter ’pen’ on.”

“Don’t move! Please don’t move!” cried Sweetest Susan to Buster John. “If you do I can’t tell you apart. I won’t know which is which. That wouldn’t be treating me right nor Mamma, either.”

Naturally, the children were in a great predicament when Mrs. Meadows came back. She saw the trouble at once, and began to laugh. It was funny to see Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla standing there staring first at the Looking-Glass children and then at themselves, not daring to move for fear they would get mixed up with their doubles. The Looking-Glass children stared likewise, first at themselves and then at the others.

“What is the matter?” Mrs. Meadows asked. “Why don’t you go and play with one another and make friends? It isn’t many folks that have the chance you children have got.”

“I don’t feel like playing,” said Sweetest Susan. “I’m afraid we’ll get mixed up so that nobody will know one from the other.”

“Why, there’s all the difference in the world,” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows, trying hard not to laugh. “The Looking-Glass children are all left-handed. You have a flower on the left side of your hat, the other Susan has a flower on the right side of hers. Your brother there has buttons on the right side of his coat; the other John has buttons on the left side. There is a flaw in the looking-glass, and Drusilla, being a little taller than you two, was just tall enough for the end of her nose to be even with the flaw. That’s the reason the other Drusilla’s nose looks like it had been mashed with a hammer.”

“Yes ’m, it do!” exclaimed Drusilla. She involuntarily took a step forward to take a nearer view of the flawed nose, and of course the other Drusilla took a step forward as if to show the flawed nose. “Don’t you dast ter come ’bout me!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Goodness knows, I don’t look dat away. Go on, now! Go ’ten’ ter yo’ own business ef you got any.”

“I don’t want to play with you,” said the other Drusilla. “You’ve got smut on your face. I don’t like to play with dirty-faced girls.”

“My face cleaner’n yone dis blessed minnit,” retorted Drusilla.

“And your hair is not combed,” said the other Drusilla. “It is wrapped with strings, and you couldn’t comb it if you wanted to. I think it is a shame.”

“Look at yo’ own head!” retorted Drusilla angrily. “It’s mo’ woolly dan what mine is. ’T ain’t never been kyarded much less combed. An’ who got any mo’ strings roun’ der hair dan you got on yone?”

“How could I help it?” the other Drusilla asked. “You came and looked at me in the glass and I had to be just like you, smutty face and all. I don’t think it is right. I know I never looked like this before, and I hope I never shall again.”

“Tut, tut!” said Mrs. Meadows; “don’t get to mooning around here. You might look better, but you don’t look so bad. It will all come right on wash-day, as the woman said when she put her dress on wrong side outwards. Here comes Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes. They’ll be glad to see you, no matter how you look.”

And they were. They ran to the Looking-Glass children and greeted them warmly. Tickle-My-Toes stared at the other Drusilla in surprise, but he didn’t laugh at her. “You look as if you had fallen down the chimney,” he said, “but that doesn’t make any difference. So long as you are here, we are satisfied.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it,” said the other Drusilla.

“Now, then,” remarked Mrs. Meadows, “you couldn’t please us better than to sing us a song. You haven’t practiced together for a long time.”

The other children looked at one another in a shamefaced way, and then, without a word of objection or explanation, they began to sing as with one voice, the most plaintive song that ever was heard. It may be called:—

THE LOOKING-GLASS SONG.

It’s oh! and it’s ah! It’s alack! and alas!
Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you say and what could you do
If you lived all alone in the toe of a shoe?
You could hop, you could skip, you could jump, you could dance,
And you’d hear very little of “shouldn’ts” and “shan’ts.”
You could stump your big toe, and it would never get hurt;
You could kick up the sand, you could play in the dirt.

But it’s oh! and it’s ah! It’s alack! and alas!
Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you do, and what would you say
If you lived in the pantry all night and all day?
You could say it was jolly, and splendid, and nice;
You could eat all the jelly, and frighten the mice.
You could taste the preserves, you could nibble the cheese—
You could smell the red pepper, and sit down and sneeze.

But it’s oh! and it’s ah! It’s alack! and alas!
Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

Oh, what could you do if you lived under ground?
You could ride Mr. Mole and go galloping round;
You could hear the black cricket a-playing his fife,
For to quiet the baby and please his dear wife.
You could hear the green grasshopper frying his meat,
Near the nest of the June-Bug under the wheat.
You could get all the goobers and artichokes, too—
You could peep from the window the grub-worm went through.

But it’s oh! and it’s ah! It’s alack! and alas!
Just imagine you lived in a big looking-glass!

“Oh, I think that is splendid,” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Mr. Rabbit doesn’t like it much,” replied Mrs. Meadows, “but I tell him it is pretty good for children that were raised in a Looking-Glass.”

“It will do very well,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, “but you’ll hear nicer songs by the time you are as old as I am.”

“Dem ar white chillun done mighty well,” said Drusilla, “but I don’t like de way dat ar nigger gal hilt her head.”

“Do they have to stay in the looking-glass?” asked Buster John. “If they do I’m sorry for them.”

“I ain’t sorry fer dat black gal,” said Drusilla spitefully. “She too ugly ter suit me.”

“Whose fault is it but yours?” cried Chickamy Crany Crow.

“Yes, whose fault is it?” cried Tickle-My-Toes.

“Come, come!” cries Mrs. Meadows. “We want no trouble here.”

“We’ll not trouble her,” answered Tickle-My-Toes. “Old Rawhead-and-Bloody-Bones will do the troubling.”

“Now you all heah dat!” exclaimed Drusilla, in some alarm. “I ain’t pesterin’ nobody, an’ I ain’t doin’ nothin’ ’t all. Ef I can’t talk I des ez well quit livin’. I’m gwine home, I am, an’ ef I can’t fin’ de way, den I’ll know who’ll have ter answer fer it.”

“Well, if you go,” said Mrs. Meadows, “you’ll have company. The other black girl will have to go too.”

“How come dat?” exclaimed Drusilla.

“It would take me too long to tell you,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “Why does your shadow in a looking-glass make every motion that you make? Because it’s obliged to—that’s all. That’s just the reason the other black girl would follow you.”

“Don’t mind Drusilla,” said Buster John. “She just talks to hear herself talk. Her mouth flies open before she knows it.”

“Well, the poor things won’t trouble you long,” said Mrs. Meadows. “They’ll want to go back home presently.”

“Do they have to stay in the looking-glass?” inquired Buster John, repeating a question he had already asked.

“Well, they were born and raised there,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “It is their home, and, although they are glad to get out for a little while, they wouldn’t be very happy if they had to stay out.”

THEY ALL PLUNGED INTO THE LOOKING-GLASS

The children and the Looking-Glass children played together a little while, or made believe to play, but they didn’t seem to enjoy themselves. Mrs. Meadows noticed this and asked Mr. Rabbit the reason.

“Simple enough, simple enough,” Mr. Rabbit answered. “They are so much alike in their looks and ways and so different in their raising that they can’t get on together. How would I feel if my double were to walk out of the side of the house and sit here facing me and mimicking my every motion? I wouldn’t feel very comfortable, I can tell you.”

“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Meadows. Presently she called the children, brought out the looking-glass and told them it was time to bid the others good-by. At this the other children seemed to be very well pleased. The other Buster John and the other Sweetest Susan shook hands all round, and the other Drusilla made a curtsey to the company. Then, with a run and a jump, they plunged into the big looking-glass as you have seen youngsters plunge into a pond of water.

“Ho!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, “they jumped in with a splash, but they never made a ripple.”

“They haven’t room enough in there to turn around,” said Sweetest Susan.

“Why not?” inquired Mr. Thimblefinger. “To them the world is a looking-glass, and a mighty little one at that. If you were to peep in their glass now they’d peep back at you; but, as they look at it, you are in a looking-glass and they are out of it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they are a great deal sorrier for you than you are for them.”

“When are we to go home?” asked Sweetest Susan plaintively.

“Oho! you want to get back into your looking-glass!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger merrily. “Well, you won’t have long to wait. By rights, you ought to stay here twelve hours, but the old Spring Lizard and I have put our heads together, and we’ve fixed it so that you can get back before sundown.”

“Isn’t it night at home now?” inquired Buster John.

“Why, they are hardly through washing the dinner dishes,” replied Mrs. Meadows.

“It is just half past two,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, looking at his watch.

“Well, it look so dark all dis time dat I done got hungry fer supper,” remarked Drusilla.

X.

MR. RABBIT AS A RAIN-MAKER.

“I hope it won’t rain,” said Sweetest Susan, “for then the spring would fill up so we couldn’t get out, and we should get wet down here.”

“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “the water is never wet down here. It is a little damp, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s enough, I’m sure,” remarked Mr. Rabbit. “It’s enough to give me the wheezes when I first get up in the morning, and it’s not at all comfortable, I can tell you.”

“There is one funny thing about springs,” said Mrs. Meadows, “no matter how much it rains, they never get any fuller. They may run a little freer, but they never get any fuller. Speaking of rains,” she continued, turning to Mr. Rabbit and laughing, “don’t you remember the time you set yourself up as a rain-maker?”

Mr. Rabbit chuckled so that he bent nearly double.

“I don’t remember that,” sighed Mr. Thimblefinger. “You two have more jokes between you than you can shake a stick at. That comes of me being small and puny. Tell us about it, please.”

Mr. Rabbit fingered his pipe—a way he had when he put on his thinking-cap, as Mrs. Meadows expressed it—and presently said:—

“It’s not such a joke after all, but I’ll let you judge for yourself. Once upon a time, when all of us lived next door, on the other side of the spring, there was a tremendous drouth. I had been living a long time, but never before had seen such a long dry spell. Everybody was farming except myself, and even I had planted a small garden.

“Well, there was a big rain about planting-time, but after that came the drouth, and the hot weather with it. One month, six weeks, two months, ten weeks—and still no sign of rain. The cotton was all shriveled up, and the corn looked as if it would catch a-fire, it was so dry; even the cow-peas turned yellow. Everything was parched. The creeks ran dry, and the rivers got so low the mills had to stop. I remember that when Brother Bear tried to carry me across the ferry his flatboat ran aground in the middle of the river, and the water was so low we found we could wade out.

“The drouth got so bad that everybody was complaining—everybody except me. Brother Wolf and Brother Bear would come and sit on my front porch and do nothing but complain; but I said nothing. I simply smoked my pipe and shook my head, and said nothing. They noticed this, after so long a time, and one day, while they were sitting there complaining and declaring that they were ruined, I went in to get a drink of water. I came back gently and heard them asking each other how it was that I didn’t join in their complaints. When I came out, Brother Wolf says, says he: ‘Brother Rabbit, how are your craps?’ I remember he said ‘craps.’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘my craps are middling good. They might be better, and they might be worse, but I have no cause to grumble.’

“They looked at each other, and then Brother Bear asked if I had had any rain at my house. ‘None,’ says I, ‘to brag about—a drizzle here and a drizzle there, but nothing to boast of.’

“They looked at each other in great surprise, and then Brother Wolf spoke up. ‘Brother Rabbit,’ says he, ‘how can you get a drizzle and the rest of us not a drop?’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘some folks that know me call me the rain-maker. They may be right. They may be wrong. I’m not going to squabble about it. You can call me what you please. I shall not dispute with you.’

“Presently they went away, but it wasn’t long before they came back, bringing with them all the neighbors for miles around. They gathered in the porch and in the yard and outside the gate, and begged me, if I was a rain-maker, to make it rain there and then to save their crops. They begged me and begged me, but I sat cross-legged and smoked my pipe—this same pipe you see here. Brother Fox, who had done me many a mean trick (though he was always well paid for it), got on his knees and begged me to make it rain for them.

“Finally I told them that I’d make it rain for the whole settlement on two conditions. The first condition was that every one was to pay toll.”

MR. RABBIT SAYING NOTHING

“Toll is the pay the miller takes out at the mill,” remarked Buster John.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you take your turn of meal to the mill and the miller takes his payment out of the meal. Well, I told them they’d have to pay toll. They agreed to that, and then asked what else they’d have to do, but I said we’d attend to one thing at a time. First let the toll be paid.

“They went off, and in due time they came back. Some brought corn and some brought meal; some brought wheat and some brought flour; some brought milk and some brought butter; some brought honey in the clean, and some brought honey in the comb; some brought one thing and some brought another, but they all brought something.

“Then they gathered around and asked what else they had to do. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘you certainly act as if you wanted rain—all of you—there’s no disputing that. You have paid the toll according to agreement. You have surely earned the rain, and now there’s nothing for me to do but to find out how much rain you want.’

“With that they all began to talk at once, especially Brother Bear, who lived in the upland district, where the drouth had been the worst, but I put an end to that at once.

“‘Hold on there!’ says I, ‘just wait! Don’t get into any dispute around here. You are on my grounds and at my house. Let’s have no squabbling. I’m not feeling so mighty well, anyhow, and the least fuss will be enough to upset me. But the world is wide. Just go on yonder hill and fix up the whole matter to suit yourselves. Just come to some agreement as to how much rain you want, and as soon as you agree send me word, and then go home and hoist your parasols, for there’ll surely be a sprinkle.’

“Well,” Mr. Rabbit continued, “this was such a sensible plan that they couldn’t help but agree to it, and presently they all went to the hill and began to talk the matter over, while I went into the house.

“This was in the morning. Well, dinner-time came, but still no word had come from the convention on the hill. I went out into the porch, flung my red handkerchief over my face to keep the flies off, and took my afternoon nap, but still no word came from the hill. Then I fell to laughing, and laughed until I nearly choked myself.”

“But what were you laughing at?” Buster John inquired, with a serious air.

Mr. Rabbit paused, looked at the youngster solemnly, and said, “Well, I’ll tell you. I didn’t laugh because anybody had hurt my feelings. I just laughed at circumstances. I sat and waited until the afternoon was half gone, and then slipped up the hill to see what was to be seen and hear what was to be heard. Everything was very quiet up there. Those who had gone up there to decide what sort of rain they wanted were sitting; around under the pine-trees, looking very sour and saying nothing. The ground was torn up a little in spots, and I thought I could see scattered around little patches of hair and little pieces of hide. I judged from that that the arguments they had used were very serious. I watched them from behind the bushes a little while, and then Brother Bear walked out into the open and declared that any one who didn’t want the rain to be a trash-mover was anything but a nice fellow. At this Brother Coon, who lived in the low grounds, remarked that anybody who wanted anything more than a drizzle was not well raised at all.

“Then I soon found out what the trouble was. Brother Bear, living on the uplands, wanted a big rain; Brother Coon, who lived in the low grounds, wanted a little rain; Brother Fox wanted a tolerably heavy shower; and Brother Mink just wanted a cloudy night to coax the frogs out. Some wanted a freshet, some wanted a drizzle, and some wanted a fog.

“They wouldn’t agree because they couldn’t agree,” continued Brother Rabbit, “and finally they slunk off to their homes one at a time. So I didn’t have to make any rain at all.”

“But you couldn’t have made it rain,” said Sweetest Susan placidly.

“I didn’t say I could,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “I told them I would make the rain if they would agree among themselves.”

“But you took what they brought you?” suggested Sweetest Susan in a tone that was intended for a rebuke.

BROTHER BEAR ARGUING THE RAIN QUESTION

“Well,” Mr. Rabbit answered, “you know what the old saying is—‘Fools have to pay for their folly.’ They might as well have paid me as to pay somebody else. That’s the way I looked at it in those days. I don’t know how I’d look at it now, because I’m not so nimble footed as I used to be, nor so full of mischief.”

“If there had been many more such fools in your neighborhood,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “you could have set up a grocery-store.”

There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Meadows, looking around, exclaimed:—

“Just look yonder, will you?”

Chickamy Crany Crow had two sticks, and with these she was playing on an imaginary fiddle. Tickle-My-Toes had the broom, and this, he pretended, was a banjo.

The two queer-looking creatures wagged their heads from side to side and patted the ground with their feet, just as though they were making sure-enough music, and presently Tickle-My-Toes sang this song to a very lively tune:—

OH, LULLYMALOO!

I’ll up and I’ll grin if you tickle my chin,
And I’ll sneeze if you tickle my nose;
I’ll up and I’ll cry if you tickle my eye—
But I’ll squeal if you tickle my toes!

Oh, grin with your chinnery in,
And sneeze with your nosery oze,
And cry with your wipery eye,
But please don’t tickle my toes!

I’ll grin and I’ll sneeze, I’ll cry and I’ll squeal,
And scare you with ouches! and ohs!
You may tickle my head, you may tickle my heel,
But please don’t tickle my toes!

Oh, grin with your innery chin,
And sneeze with your ozery nose,
And cry with your wipery eye,
But please don’t tickle my toes!

I’ll grin, tee-hee! and I’ll cry, boo-hoo!
And I’ll sneeze, icky chow! icky-chose!
And I’ll squeal just as loud, Oh, Lullymaloo!
Whenever you tickle my toes!

Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla laughed so heartily at this that Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes didn’t wait to repeat the chorus of the song, but ran away, pretending to be very much frightened. This made the children laugh still more, and for the first time they felt thoroughly at home in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

XI.

HOW BROTHER BEAR’S HAIR WAS COMBED.

While Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were watching Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes run away, and laughing at them, suddenly the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country grew brighter. The dark shadow of the buttermilk-jug had disappeared, and there were wavering lines of white light flashing across, as though the sun were trying to shine through. Along with these flashing lines there were wavering lines of shadow that rippled and danced about curiously. There seemed to be some tremendous commotion going on. If some person with the learning and wisdom of an astronomer had seen this wonderful display, he would have been overcome with awe and fear. He would have concluded that the sky was about to go to pieces, and ten to one he would have left his unreflecting telescope swinging in the air, and crawled under the bed.

But there was no astronomer in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, and the children had seen too many strange sights to be very much alarmed. Besides, Drusilla solved the mystery before they had time to gather their fears together.

“Shuh!” she exclaimed; “’t ain’t nothin’ ’t all. When dey tuck de jug outin’ de spring de water ’bleedge to be shuck up.”

And it was true. The rippling and wavering in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country were caused by lifting the buttermilk-jug from the spring. As soon as the commotion ceased, it was seen that across the sky, from horizon to horizon, dark lines and shadows extended. They were irregular, and branched out here and there in every direction. Drusilla gazed at them for some moments without venturing to explain them. Suddenly a shadow that seemed to have life and motion made its appearance, and darted about among the dark lines. Drusilla laughed.

“La! Hit’s dat dead lim’ ober de spring, an’ dere’s a jay-bird hoppin’ about in it right now. Ain’t I done heah yo’ pa say dat lim’ ’ll hafter be cut off ’fo’ it fall an’ break somebody’s head?”

“Well, well! She ain’t so bad off up here as I thought she was,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly.

“Ain’t I done tell you dat dey’s mo’ in my head dan what you kin comb out?” exclaimed Drusilla indignantly.

“Speaking of combing and things of that sort,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to Mrs. Meadows, “did I ever tell you how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair?”

Mrs. Meadows reflected a moment, or pretended to reflect. “Now, I’m not right certain about that. Maybe you have and maybe you haven’t; I don’t remember. How did you teach Brother Bear to keep his hair roached and parted? Mostly when I used to know him, he went about looking mighty ragged and shabby.”

Mr. Rabbit chuckled for several moments and then said: “Well, in my courting-days, you know, I used to go around fixed up in style. Many and many a time I’ve heard the girls whisper to one another and say, ‘Oh, my! Ain’t Mr. Rabbit looking spruce to-day?’ There was one season in particular that I was careful to primp up and look sassy. I put bergamot oil on my hair, and kept it brushed so slick that a fly would slip up and cripple himself if he lit on it.

“It so happened that my road took me by Brother Bear’s house every day—right by the front gate. Sometimes Mrs. Bear would be hanging out clothes on the fence, sometimes she would be sweeping off the front porch, and sometimes she would be working in the garden; but no matter what she was doing I’d cough and catch her eye, and then I’d bow just as polite as you please.”

“What were you doing all that for?” asked Buster John.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mr. Rabbit replied. “I had a grudge against Brother Bear, and I wanted to work a little scheme. Along at first I just went on by the back of Brother Bear’s house, and around through the woods home, but in a few days I’d pass by the house and then get over the fence and creep back to hear what Mrs. Bear had to say. One morning I heard her talking. She was out in the yard fixing to do her week’s washing while Brother Bear was in the house dozing. I could hear what Mrs. Bear said, but I was too far off to hear what answer Brother Bear made.

MRS. BEAR HANGING OUT CLOTHES

“Mrs. Bear says, says she: ‘Honey, you ain’t asleep, are you? Brother Rabbit has just gone along by the gate dressed to kill.’ A grumbling sound came from the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, ‘I wonder where he goes every day, with his hair combed so slick?’ Grumble in the house. ‘You’d better wish you looked half as nice,’ says Mrs. Bear. Grumble in the house. ‘Well, I don’t care if he is a grand rascal, he looks nice and clean, and that’s more than anybody can say about you,’ says Mrs. Bear. Growl in the house. Mrs. Bear says, says she, ‘Oh, you can rip and rear, but Brother Rabbit goes about with his head combed, and he looks lots better that way than them that go about with rat nests in their hair—lots better.’”

Here Brother Rabbit chuckled again. “I thought to myself, thinks I, that I’d better be getting on toward home, and so I crept back up the fence and went on my way.

“The next day as I was going along the road, who should I meet but old Brother Bear himself. Well, here’s a row, thinks I, but it didn’t turn out so. Brother Bear was just as polite to me as I had been to his old woman.

“We passed the time of day and talked about the crops a little while, but I could see that Brother Bear had something serious on his mind. Finally, he shuffled around and sat down on a stump beside the roadside.

“‘Brother Rabbit,’ he says, says he, ‘how in the world do you manage to keep your hair so slick and smooth all the time? My old woman sees you passing by every day, and she’s been worrying the life out of me because I don’t keep my hair combed that way. So I said to myself I’d ask you the very next time I met you.’

“Brother Bear was looking pretty rough and tough, and so I says, says I, ‘You look as if she had been tousling you about it.’

“He hung his head at this, and shuffled around and changed his seat. Says he: ‘No, it’s not so bad as all that, but I want to ask you plump and plain, if it’s a fair question, how you comb your hair so it will stay nice?’

“I looked at him and shook my head. Says I, ‘Brother Bear, I don’t comb my hair.’

“He was so much surprised that he opened his mouth, and his tongue hung out on one side—a big, red tongue that had known the taste of innocent blood.”

“That’s the truth!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows.

Sweetest Susan shuddered.

“Says he, ‘Brother Rabbit, if you don’t comb your hair, how in the wide world do you keep it so smooth?’”

“Says I, ‘Easy enough. Every morning my old woman takes the axe and chops my head off—’”

“Oh!” cried Sweetest Susan.

“‘Takes the axe and chops off my head,’” Mr. Rabbit continued, as solemn as a judge, “‘and carries it out in the yard, where she can have light to see and room to work, and then she combs it and combs it until every kink comes straight and every hair is in its place. Then she brings my head back, puts it where it belongs, and there it is—all combed.’

“Brother Bear seemed to be very much astonished. Says he, ‘Doesn’t it hurt, Brother Rabbit?’

“Says I, ‘Hurt who? I’m no chicken.’

“Says he, ‘Doesn’t it bleed?’

“Says I, ‘No more than enough to make my appetite good.’”

Mr. Rabbit paused and looked up at the ripples of light and shade that were chasing each other across the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country. Then he looked at the children.

“The upshot of it was,” he continued, “that Brother Bear went home and told Mrs. Bear how I had my head combed every day. Woman-like, she wanted to try it at once; so Brother Bear laid his head on a log of wood, and Mrs. Bear got the axe and raised it high in the air. Brother Bear had just time to squall out, ‘Cut it off easy, old woman!’ when the axe fell on his neck, and there he was!”

“Oh, did it kill him?” cried Sweetest Susan.

“That’s what the neighbors said,” replied Mr. Rabbit placidly.

Sweetest Susan didn’t seem to be at all pleased. Seeing this, Mrs. Meadows exclaimed:—

“To think of the poor little pigs Brother Bear killed and ate!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and the lambs!”

“Worse than that!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger. “Think of the little children he devoured! Think of it!”

“I’m glad he had his head cut off,” said Buster John heartily.

“Me too, honey,” assented Drusilla.

XII.

A SINGING-MATCH.

After telling how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair, Mr. Rabbit closed his eyes and seemed to be about to fall into a doze, as old people have been known to do. During the pause that followed, Sweetest Susan saw what appeared to be a bird of peculiar shape sailing around in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

It was long of body and seemed to have no wings, and yet it sailed about overhead as majestically and easily as an eagle could have done.

“What sort of a bird is it?” inquired Sweetest Susan, pointing out the object to Mrs. Meadows.

“Now, really, I don’t know,” was the reply. “They are so high in the sky and I’ve seen them so often that I’ve never bothered my head about them.”

Mr. Thimblefinger climbed on the back of a chair, so as to get a better view of the curious bird, but he shook his head and climbed nimbly down again. The queer bird was too much for Mr. Thimblefinger. Mr. Rabbit opened his eyes lazily and looked at it.

“If I’m not much mistaken—” he started to say, but Drusilla broke in without any ceremony:—

“’T ain’t nothin’ ’t all, but one er dem ar meller bugs what swims roun’ in de spring.”

“Why, I expect it is a mellow bug,” said Mrs. Meadows, laughing. “I used to catch them when I was a girl and put them in my handkerchief. They smell just like a ripe apple.”

“I thought it was a buzzard,” said Buster John.

“No,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, “I used to be well acquainted with Brother Buzzard, and when he’s in the air he’s longer from side to side than he is from end to end. I don’t know when I’ve thought of Brother Buzzard before. I never liked him much, but I used to see him sailing around on sunshiny days, or sitting in the top of a dead pine drying his wings after a heavy rain. He cut a very funny figure sitting up there, with his wings spread out and drooping like a sick chicken.

LITTLE MR. THIMBLEFINGER

“I remember the time, too, when he had a singing-match with Brother Crow, and I nearly laughed myself to death over it.”

“Oh, tell us about it,” cried Buster John.

“There’s nothing in it when it is told,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “There are some things that are funny when you see them, but not funny at all when you come to tell about them.”

“We don’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.

“I don’t know exactly how it came about,” resumed Mr. Rabbit, after a pause, “but as near as I can remember, Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow met with each other early one morning in a big pine-tree. They howdied, but there was a sort of coolness between them on account of the fact that Brother Buzzard had been going about the neighborhood making his brags and his boasts that he could outfly Brother Crow. They hadn’t been up in the tree very long before they began to dispute. Brother Buzzard was not a very loud talker in those days, whatever he may be now, but Brother Crow could squall louder than a woman who has been married twenty-two years. And so there they had it, quarreling and disputing and disturbing the peace.”

“What were they quarreling about?” Buster John inquired.

“Well,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you know the road that leads to Brag is the shortest route to Bluster. Brother Buzzard and Brother Crow were quarreling because they had been bragging, and a little more and they’d have had a regular pitched battle then and there.

“‘Maybe you can outfly me, Brother Buzzard,’ says Mr. Crow, ‘but I’ll be bound you can’t outsing me.’

“‘I have never tried,’ says Brother Buzzard, says he.

“‘Well, suppose you try it now,’ says Brother Crow. ‘I’ll go you a fine suit of clothes, and a cocked hat to boot, that I can sit here and sing longer than you can,’ says he.

“‘Oh, ho!’ says Brother Buzzard, ‘you may sing louder, but you can’t sing longer than I can,’ says he.

“‘Is it a go?’ says Brother Crow.

“‘It’s a go,’ says Brother Buzzard, says he.

“‘It’s no fair bet,’ says Brother Crow, ‘because you are a bigger man than I am, and it stands to reason that you have got more wind in your craw than I have, but I shall give you one trial if I split my gizzard,’ says he.

“Yes,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, scratching his head thoughtfully, “those were the very words he used—‘if I split my gizzard,’ says he. Well, they shook hands to ratify the bet, and then Brother Crow, without making any flourishes, raised the tune,—

“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!
Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’

“Then Brother Buzzard flung his head back and chimed in,—

“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!
Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’

and such another racket as they made I never heard before, and have never heard since.”

“Why, what kind of a song was it?” inquired Sweetest Susan. “I’m sure I never heard such a song.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Rabbit, “you are young and I am old, but you know just as much about that song as I do, and maybe more than I do, for you haven’t been pestered with it as long as I have. It is a worse riddle to me than it was the day I heard it.”

“What did they do then?” asked Buster John.

“Well,” Mr. Rabbit replied, “they sat there and sang just as I told you. Brother Buzzard would stop to catch his breath and then break out,—

“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!
Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’

and then Brother Crow would squall out,—

“‘Oh, Susy, my Susy, gangloo!
Oh, Milly, my Molly, langloo!’

“They sang on until they began to get hungry, and as Brother Buzzard seemed to be the biggest and fattest of the two, everybody thought he would hold out the longest. But Brother Crow was plucky, and he sang right along in spite of the emptiness in his craw. He didn’t squall as loud as he did at first, but every time Brother Buzzard sang, Brother Crow would sing, too. By and by, they both began to get very weak.

“At last, as luck would have it, Brother Crow saw his wife flying over, and he sang out as loud as he could:—

THE SINGING-MATCH

“‘Oh, Susy!—Go tell my children—my Susy,—to bring my dinner—gangloo!—and tell them—oh, Milly, my Molly,—to bring it quickly—langloo!’

“It wasn’t very long after that before all Brother Crow’s family connections came flying to help him, and as soon as they found out how matters stood they brought him more victuals than he knew what to do with. Brother Buzzard held out as long as he could, but he was obliged to give up, and since that time there has been mighty little singing in the Buzzard family.

“But that isn’t all,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, as solemnly as if he were pointing a moral. “Since that time Brother Crow, who was dressed in white, has been wearing the black suit that he won from Brother Buzzard.”

“Speaking of singing birds,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, turning to Mrs. Meadows, “what is that song I used to hear you humming about a little bird?”

“Oh, it’s just a nonsense song,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “It has no beginning and no ending.”

But the children said they wanted to hear it, anyhow, and so Mrs. Meadows sang about—

THE LITTLE BIRD.

There was once a little Bird so full of Song
That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Jay,
“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing that way?”
“Mercy, no!” said the Jay; “for he sings too late;
I sing well enough for to please my Mate.”

There was once a little Bird so full of Song
That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

Then “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Crow,
“Don’t you wish you could sit and sing just so?”
“Do hush,” said the Crow, “or I’ll start for to weep,
Be—caw—caw—cause he’s a-losing of his sleep.”

There was once a little Bird so full of Song
That he sang in the Rose-Bush the whole Night long.

And “Oh,” said the Redbird to the Wren,
“Don’t you wish you could sing so now and then?”
“Not me,” said the Wren as she shook her Head;
“I think his Mamma ought to put him to Bed.”

But the Singing Bird was so full of Glee
That he sang all night in the Rose-Bush Tree.

XIII.

THE STRAWBERRY-GIRL.

“Isn’t it almost time for us to start home?” said Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Why, you’ve got all the afternoon before you,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Besides it will be downhill all the way. I was just going to tell you a story, but if you really want to go I’ll put off the telling of it until some of your grandchildren tumble in the spring when the wet water has run out and the dry water has taken its place.”

“Tell the story, please,” said Buster John.

“It’s about a girl,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. “She was called the Strawberry-Girl. My mother knew the girl well, and I’ve heard her tell the story many a time. But if you want to go home—”

“Oh, please tell the story,” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Well,” said Mr. Thimblefinger; “once there was an old woman who lived in the woods. She lived all alone, and people said she was a witch. She was so old that the skin on her forehead had deep wrinkles in it, and these wrinkles caused everybody to think that the old woman was frowning all the time. People called her Granny Grim-Eye.

“Whenever Granny Grim-Eye got hungry she went to a strawberry-patch in the field near where she lived, and gathered a basket of strawberries. One day when she went after strawberries she found a beautiful little girl asleep in the patch.

“‘Hity-tity!’ said Granny Grim-Eye, ‘what are you doing here? Where did you come from, and where are you going?’

“The little girl awoke and stared at Granny Grim-Eye. She was tied to a blackberry-bush by a silver chain so fine that the links of it could hardly be seen with the naked eye. ‘Who are you?’ asked Granny Grim-Eye.

“‘Nothing nor nobody,’ replied the little girl, and that was all the answer Granny Grim-Eye could get from the child.

GRANNY GRIM-EYE FINDS A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL ASLEEP

“‘Well,’ said Granny Grim-Eye, ‘this is my strawberry-patch, and everything I find in it belongs to me. I’ll take you home and see what I can make out of you.’

“So she took the girl home and cared for her, giving her the name of the Strawberry-Girl. In the course of time the Strawberry-Girl grew to be the most beautiful young woman in the country, but her mind was not bright. In fact, I have heard my mother say that the Strawberry-Girl was as stupid and as silly as she could be, but she was so beautiful that people were inclined to forgive her for being stupid.

“Granny Grim-Eye used to send her with strawberries to sell to the rich man who owned nearly all the land in that part of the country. Now, this rich man fell in love with the Strawberry-Girl, but when he found that she was both stupid and silly he gave up all thought of marrying her. He was very fond of her, nevertheless, and bought all the berries she had for sale. But when she began to talk he would turn away with a sigh, for everything she said was stupid.

“It so happened one day that Granny Grim-Eye was too sick to pick the strawberries herself, as she always had done, and she was afraid to trust the Strawberry-Girl to pick them. But the rich man sent word that he was to have a company of friends to dinner and he must have some strawberries. There was nothing for Granny Grim-Eye to do but to send the Strawberry-Girl to the patch. Granny Grim-Eye called her up and cautioned her not to pick anything but good, ripe strawberries, and then sent her off to the patch.

“But on the way the Strawberry-Girl saw some red berries growing on bushes, and these she picked and put in the basket until it was full. ‘These are just as red as ripe strawberries,’ she said, ‘and they will do just as well. Besides, they are a great deal easier to pick.’