THE
GARNET STORY BOOK

Tales of Cheer Both Old and New

COMPILED AND EDITED BY
ADA M. SKINNER
AND
ELEANOR L. SKINNER

Editors of “The Emerald Story Book” “The Topaz Story Book”
“The Turquoise Story Book” and “The Pearl Story Book”

NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1920

Copyright, 1920, by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

About the middle of the last century there was printed in England a children’s story with the attractive title, “The Good Natured Bear.” This story, written by Robert H. Horne, was reviewed by William Makepeace Thackeray, who at that time signed his criticisms M. A. Titmarsh. Mr. Thackeray wrote an article entitled “On Some Illustrated Children’s Books” for Fraser’s Magazine in which he made the following comment: “Let a word be said in conclusion about the admirable story of ‘The Good Natured Bear,’ one of the wittiest, pleasantest, and kindest of books that I have read for many a long day.”

A few years ago the editors of this collection of stories found out-of-print copies of “The Good Natured Bear,” “The Man of Snow,” and “Finikin and His Golden Pippins”—all old-fashioned tales for children. Believing that young readers of to-day will enjoy the good cheer and merry humour of these stories, the editors have included them in this volume with other happy tales which are perhaps much better known.

The excellent humourous stories in the folklore of all nations point out to us that good cheer and merriment were favourite themes of the olden-time story-teller. Some of his rarest treasures were nonsense rhymes, fables, and allegories which enlisted the sympathy of his audience by inducing them to laugh with him. With a merry twinkle in his eye we can hear him addressing the tiniest listeners:

“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,

The cow jumped over the moon;

The little dog laughed to see such sport

And the dish ran away with the spoon.”

Wide-eyed children pressing close to the enchanter were not the only persons in that appreciative audience who smiled at the first picture suggested by the rhyme, laughed with the little dog, and enjoyed with wholesome abandon the merriment called forth by the incongruous surprise of the last line. The story-teller knew the refreshing value of hearty laughter at pure nonsense.

The stories in this collection were written by authors who had the precious gift of knowing how to entertain young readers with narratives of good cheer and happy frolic. Such stories are valuable because they keep alive and develop a wholesome sense of humour. It is perfectly natural for a normal child to laugh heartily at the grotesque antics of a circus clown. But this elemental response to merry fun should be trained and quickened into a rich and varied sense of humour which can laugh with Gareth when Lancelot unhorses him; revel with Puck in Fairyland; and enjoy a merry Christmas with the Cratchits.

THE GARNET STORY BOOK

Oh, for a nook and a story book,

With tales both new and old;

For a jolly good book whereon to look

Is better to me than gold!

Old English Song.

THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR

Richard H. Horne

The First Evening

One Christmas evening a number of merry children were invited to a party at Dr. Littlepump’s country residence. The neat white house with blue shutters stood on the best street of the village. Nancy and her younger brother, little Valentine, were the children of Dr. Littlepump, and they had invited several other children to come and spend Christmas evening with them. Very happy they all were. They danced to the music of a flute and fiddle; they ran about and sang and squeaked and hopped upon one leg and crept upon all fours and jumped over small cushions and stools. Then they sat down in a circle round the stove and laughed at the fire.

Besides Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump and the children there were several others in the room who joined in the merriment. First there was Margaret who was seated in the middle of the group of children. She was the pretty governess of Nancy and little Valentine and one of the nicest girls in the village. Then there were Lydia, the housemaid, Dorothea, the cook, Wallis, the gardener, and Uncle Abraham, the younger brother of Dr. Littlepump.

Uncle Abraham was always doing kind things in his quiet way, and everybody was very fond of him. He sat in one corner of the room, with his elbow resting upon a little round table, smoking a large Dutch pipe, and very busy with his own thoughts. Now and then his eyes gave a twinkle, as if he was pleased with something in his mind.

The children now all asked Margaret to sing a pretty song, which she did at once with her sweet voice; but the words were very odd. This was the song:

“There came a rough-faced Stranger

From the leafless winter woods,

And he told of many a danger

From the snow-storms and black floods.

“On his back he bore the glory

Of his brothers, who were left

In a secret rocky cleft—

Now guess his name, and story!”

“But who was the rough-faced Stranger?” asked Nancy.

“And what was the glory he carried pick-a-back?” cried little Valentine.

“Who were his brothers?”

“Where was the rocky cleft?” cried three or four of the children.

“Oh,” said Margaret, “you must guess!”

So all the children began guessing at this song-riddle; but they could make nothing of it.

“Do tell us the answer to the riddle Margaret,” they coaxed.

At last Margaret said, “Well, I promise to tell you all about the rough-faced Stranger in half an hour, if nothing happens to make you forget to ask me!”

“Oh! we shall not forget to ask,” said Nancy.

There was now a silence for a few minutes as if the children were all thinking. Uncle Abraham, who sometimes went to bed very early, slowly rose from his chair, lighted his candle, carefully snuffed it (and, as he did so, his eyes gave a twinkle), and walking round the outside of all the circle, wished them good-night, and away he went to bed.

About eight o’clock in the evening, when the snow lay deep upon the ground, a very stout gentleman in a very rough coat and fur boots got down from the outside of a carriage which had stopped in front of Dr. Littlepump’s door. In a trice all the children crowded around the windows to look at the carriage and the gentleman who had got down.

Besides his very rough coat and fur boots, the stout gentleman wore a short cloak, a hunting cap, and a pair of large fur gloves. The cap was pulled down almost over his eyes, so that his face could not be seen, and round his throat he had an immense orange-coloured comforter.

The carriage now drove on, and left the stout gentleman standing in the middle of the street. He first shook the snow from his cloak. After this he began to stamp with his feet to warm them. This movement looked like a clumsy dance in a little circle and all the children laughed. The next thing he did was to give himself a good rubbing on the breast and he hit it so awkwardly that it looked like a great clumsy paw on some creature giving itself a scratch. At this the children laughed louder than before. They were almost afraid he would hear it through the windows. The stout gentleman next drew forth an immense pocket handkerchief and with this he began to dust his face, to knock off the frost, and also to warm his nose, which seemed to be very large and long and to require great attention. When the children saw the gentleman do this they could keep quiet no longer; all burst out into a loud shout of laughter.

The stout gentleman instantly stopped, and began to look around him in all directions, to see where the laughing came from. The children suddenly became quiet. The stout gentleman turned round and round, looking up and down at the windows of every house near him. At last his eyes rested on the three parlour windows of Dr. Littlepump’s house, which were crowded with faces. No sooner had he done this than he walked towards the house with a long stride and an angry air.

In an instant all the children ran away from the windows crying out, “Here he comes! Here he comes!”

Presently a scraping was heard upon the steps of the door, then a loud knock! The children all ran to their seats and sat quite silent, looking at one another. There was a loud ringing of the bell.

“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “that the stout gentleman is so much offended.”

“I don’t know very well what to say to him,” said Dr. Littlepump.

Again came the ringing of the bell!

Not one of them liked to go to open the door.

Margaret rose to go and little Val cried out, “Oh, don’t you go, Margaret, dearest; let Wallis go.” But when Margaret promised to run away as soon as she had opened the door, she was allowed to go. Both Nancy and Valentine called after her, “Be sure to run back to us as fast as ever you can.”

The children sat listening with all their ears. Presently they did hear something. It was the snap of the lock, the creaking of the door, and a scrambling noise. Margaret came running back into the room quite out of breath, crying out, “Oh, such a nose! Such a dirty face! Don’t ask me anything!”

There was no time for any questions. A slow, heavy footstep was heard in the hall, then in the passage, then the parlour door opened wide and in walked the stout gentleman with the rough coat! He had, indeed, an immense nose,—both long and broad and as dark as the shadow of a hill. He stepped only a pace or two into the room and then stood still, looking at Dr. Littlepump, who was the only other person who ventured to stand up.

“I believe I have the honour,” said the stout gentleman, making a low bow, “I believe I have the honour of addressing Dr. Littlepump.”

The doctor bowed but said nothing.

The stout gentleman continued, “If I had not known it was impossible that anyone so learned as Dr. Littlepump could allow anybody to be insulted from the windows of his house, I should have felt very angry on the present occasion. It may have made merriment for our young friends here; but it is a serious thing to me.”

“Sir,” said Dr. Littlepump, “it grieves me that your feelings should have been hurt by the laughter of these children. But, sir, I can assure you no harm was meant by it. This is holiday time, and, though you appear to be a foreign gentleman, yet you are no doubt also a gentleman who has seen much of the world, and of society.”

“No, sir; no, Mr. Doctor!” exclaimed the stout gentleman, “I have not seen much of society. It is true, too true, that I am a foreigner, in some respects, but from society the misfortune of my birth has excluded me.”

“Oh, pray, sir, do not concern yourself any further on this matter,” said Mrs. Littlepump, in a courteous voice.

“Madam,” said the stout gentleman, “you are too kind. It is such very amiable persons as yourself, that reconcile me to my species—I mean, to the human species. What have I said? Not of my species would I willingly speak. But in truth, madam, it is my own knowledge of what I am, under my coat, that makes me always fear my secret has been discovered. I thought the children with their little, quick eyes, always looking about, had seen who it was that lived under this rough coat I wear.”

So saying the stout gentleman put one of his fur gloves to his left eye and wiped away a large tear.

“Then, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “do take off your coat, and permit us to have the pleasure of seeing you take a seat among us round the stove.”

“Oh, ye green woods, dark nights, and rocky caves hidden with hanging weeds, why do I so well remember ye!” exclaimed the stout gentleman, clasping his fur gloves together. “I will relieve my mind and tell you all. My rough coat, the companion of my childhood, and which has grown with my growth, I cannot lay aside. It grows to my skin, madam. My fur gloves are nature’s gift. They were bought at no shop, Mrs. Littlepump. My fur boots are as much a part of me as my beard. Lady, I am, indeed, a foreigner, as to society; I was born in no city, town, or village, but in a cave full of dry leaves and soft twigs. The truth is, I am not a man—but a Bear!”

As he finished speaking he took off his comforter, coat, and cap—and sure enough a Bear he was, and one of the largest that was ever seen!

In a very soft voice, so as scarcely to be heard by anyone except the children who had crowded around her, Margaret began to sing:

“There came a rough-faced Stranger

From the leafless winter woods.”

The children heard Margaret sing, and ventured to look up at the Bear. He continued to stand near the door, and as he hadn’t the least sign of anything savage in his appearance, their fear began to change to curiosity. Two of the youngest had hidden themselves in the folds of Mrs. Littlepump’s dress, and little Val had crept under the table. But when these found that nothing was going to happen, and that the other children did not cry out or seem terrified, they peeped out at the Bear,—then they peeped again. At about the seventh peep they all three left their hiding places and crowded in among the rest—all looking at the Bear!

“I trust,” said Dr. Littlepump, “that this discovery—this casting off all disguise—produces no change in the nature and habits you have learned in civilized society. I feel sure that I am addressing a gentleman, that is to say, a most gentlemanly specimen of bear.”

“Banish all unkind suspicion from your breast, Mr. Doctor,” said the Bear. “No one ever need fear from me a single rude hug,—such as my ancestors were too apt to give.”

“Oh, we feel quite satisfied,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “that your conduct will be of the very best kind. Pray take a seat near the fire. The children will all make room for you.”

The children all made room enough in a trice, and more than enough, as they crowded back as far as they could and left a large open circle opposite the stove.

The Bear laid one paw upon his grateful breast and advanced towards the fireplace.

“Permit me to begin with warming my nose,” he said.

As the door of the stove was now closed, the Bear bent his head down, and moved his nose backwards and forwards in a sort of a semi-circle, seeming to enjoy it very much.

“As my nose is very long,” said he, “the tip of it is the first part that gets cold because it is so far away from my face. I fear it may not seem a well-shaped one, but it is a capital smeller. I used to be able, when at a distance of several miles, to smell—ahem!”

Here the Bear checked himself suddenly. He was going to say something about his life at home in the woods that would not be thought very nice in Dr. Littlepump’s parlour. But he just caught himself up in time. In doing this, however, his confusion at the moment had made him neglect to observe that a part of the stove was again red hot. He came a little too close and all at once burnt the tip of his nose!

The children would certainly have laughed, but as the Bear started back he looked quickly round the room. So everybody was afraid to laugh.

“And you have, no doubt, a very fine ear for music,” said Mrs. Littlepump, wishing to relieve the Bear from his embarrassment.

“I have, indeed, madam, a fine pair of ears, though I know too well that they are rather large as to size,” said the Bear.

“By no means too large, sir,” answered Mrs. Littlepump.

“If the whole world were hunted through and through,” said the Bear, “I’m sure we should never find any other lady so amiable in speaking graciously to one of the humblest of her servants as Lady Littlepump.”

“We shall be proud, sir, to place you in the list of our most particular friends. You are so modest, so polite, so handsome a Bear.”

As Mrs. Littlepump finished this last speech, the Bear looked at her for a moment—then made three great steps backwards, and made a deep bow. His bow was so very low, and he remained so very long with his nose pointing to the floor that all the children were ready to die with laughter. Little Val fell upon the floor trying to keep his laugh in, and there he lay kicking, and Margaret, who had covered her face with her handkerchief, was heard to give a sort of a little scream; and Nancy had run to the sofa, and covered her head with one of the pillows.

At length the Bear raised his head. He looked very pleasant even through all that rough hair. Turning to Dr. Littlepump, he said, “Mr. Dr. Littlepump, the extreme kindness of this reception of one who is a stranger wins me completely. If you permit me, I will tell you the whole story of my life.”

At this speech everybody said, “Do let us hear the Bear’s story!”

It was agreed upon, with many thanks from Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump. They placed a large chair for the Bear in the middle of the room. The Doctor took down Uncle Abraham’s Dutch pipe, filled it with the very best Turkey tobacco and handed it to the Bear. After carefully lighting it and taking a few whiffs, and stopping a little while to think, the Bear told the following story:

“I was born in one of the largest caves in a forest. My father and mother were regarded not only by all other bears, but by every other animal, as persons of some consequence. My father was a person of proud and resentful disposition, though of the greatest courage and honour. But my mother was one in whom all the qualities of the fairer sex were united. I shall never forget the patience, the gentleness, the skill, and the firmness with which she first taught me to walk alone—I mean to walk on all fours, of course; the upright manner of my present walking was learned afterwards. As this infant effort, however, is one of my very earliest recollections, I will give you a little account of it.”

“Oh, do, Mr. Bear,” cried Margaret. And no sooner had she uttered the words, than all the children cried out at the same time, “Oh, please do, sir.”

The Bear took several long whiffs at his pipe and thus continued:

“My mother took me to a retired part of the forest, and told me that I must now stand alone. She slowly lowered me towards the earth. The height as I looked down seemed terrible, and I felt my legs kick in the air with fear of I know not what. Suddenly I felt four hard things, and no motion. It was the fixed earth beneath my legs. ‘Now you are standing alone!’ said my mother. But what she said I heard as in a dream. My back was in the air, my nose was poking out straight, snuffing the fresh breezes, my ears were pricking and shooting with all sorts of new sounds, to wonder at, to want to have, to love, or to tumble down at,—and my eyes were staring before me full of light and dancing things. Soon the firm voice of my mother came to my assistance, and I heard her tell me to look upon the earth beneath me, and see where I was.

First I looked up among the boughs, then sideways at my shoulder, then I squinted at the tip of my nose, then I bent my nose in despair, and saw my fore paws standing. The first thing I saw distinctly was a little blue flower with a bright jewel in the middle,—a dewdrop. The next thing I saw upon the ground was a soft-looking little creature, that crawled alone with a round ball upon the middle of its back. It was of a beautiful white colour with brown and red curling stripes. The creature moved very, very slowly, and appeared always to follow two long horns on its head, that went feeling about on all sides. Presently, it approached my right fore paw, and I wondered how I should feel, or smell, or hear it, as it went over my toes. But the instant one of the horns touched the hair of my paw, both horns shrank into nothing, and presently came out again, and the creature slowly moved away in another direction. I wondered at this strange action—for I never thought of hurting the creature, not knowing how to hurt anything. While I was wondering what made the horn think I should hurt it, my attention was suddenly drawn to a tuft of moss on my right near a hollow tree trunk. Out of this green tuft looked a pair of very bright, small, round eyes which were staring up at me. I stood looking at the eyes, and, presently, I saw that the head was yellow, and all the face and throat yellow, and that it had a large mouth.

‘What you saw a little while ago,’ said my mother, ‘we call a snail. And what we see now we call a frog.’

The names, however, did not help me at all to understand. Why the first should have turned from my paw so suddenly, and why this creature should continue to stare up at me in such a manner puzzled me very much. I now observed that its body and breast were double somehow, and that its paws had no hair upon them. I thought this was no doubt caused by its slow crawling which had probably rubbed it all off. Suddenly, a beam of bright light broke through the trees and this creature gave a great hop right under my nose and I, thinking the world was at an end, instantly fell flat down on one side and lay there waiting!”

At this all the children laughed; they were so delighted. The Bear laughed, too, and soon went on with his story.

“I tell you these things,” he said, “in as clear a manner as I can, that you may rightly understand them. My dear mother caught me up in her arms, saying, ‘Oh, thou small bear! thou hast fallen flat down, on first seeing a frog hop.’

The next day my mother gave me my first lesson in walking. She took me to a nice, smooth, sandy place in the forest, not far from home, and setting me down carefully, said, ‘Walk.’ But I remained just where I was.

If a child with only two legs feels puzzled which leg it should move first, judge of the many puzzles of a young bear under such circumstances. Said I to myself, ‘Shall I move my right front paw first or my left; or my right hind leg or my left? Shall I first move the two front legs both at the same time, then the two hind legs; or my two hind legs first, and then my two front legs? Shall I move the right front leg, and the right hind leg at the same time; or the left front leg and the right hind leg? Shall I try to move all four at once, and how, and which way? Or shall I move three legs at once, in order to push myself on, while one leg remains for me to balance my body upon; and if so, which three legs should move and which one should be the leg to balance upon?’ Amidst all these confusing thoughts and feelings, I was afraid to move in any way. I believe I should have been standing there to this day, had not my mother, with a slow bowing and bending motion of the head and backbone, gracefully passed and repassed me several times, saying, ‘Do so, child!—leave off thinking, and walk!’

My mother was right. As soon as I left off thinking about it, I found myself walking. Oh, what a wonderful and clever young gentleman I found myself! I went plowing along with such a serious face upon the ground! I soon ran my head against one or two trees, and a bit of rock, each of which I saw very well before I did so; but I thought they would get out of my way or slip aside, or that my head would go softly through them. My mother, therefore, took me up and carried me till we arrived within a short distance of our cave. In front of it there was a large space of high, green grass, through which a regular path had been worn by the feet of my father and mother. At the beginning of this path, my mother placed me on the ground, and told me I must walk to the cave along the pathway all by myself. This was a great task for me. I thought I should never be able to keep in such a straight line. I felt dizzy as I looked first on one side, and then on the other, expecting every instant to tumble over into the high, green grass, on the right or left. However, I managed to get to the cave without any accident.”

As the Bear finished the last sentence he suddenly rose, and drew out from beneath a thick tuft of hair on his right side, a very large watch, with a broad gold face and a tortoise-shell back.

“I must go,” said he, hurrying on his short cloak, his cap, and comforter, “for it is nearly ten o’clock, and before I go to bed I have some work to do. But I will come again to-morrow night and finish my story. Mrs. Littlepump, I am your respectful and grateful, humble servant! Mr. Dr. Littlepump, I am also yours. Good-night to you, Miss Nancy, and to you, little Val, and to you, pretty Miss Margaret, and to all my young friends, and all the rest. May you all sleep well, and with happy dreams!”

“Good-night,” cried all the children in a loud chorus. “Oh, be sure to come to-morrow evening!”

“Good-night, Mr. Bear!” cried everybody, while the stout gentleman bustled, and hustled, and rustled, and scuffled out of the room, and along the passage, and out of the street-door, and into the street, where he was soon lost sight of in the snow which was now falling very fast.

Second Evening

The next evening, about dusk, all the children who had been visiting Nancy and Valentine came again in a troop, scrambling and crowding at the door to get in first. They were so anxious to hear the remainder of the Bear’s story. As they all came into the room, they cried out, “Is he come?—When will he come?”

Dr. Littlepump walked up and down the room with an air of serious anxiety; anyone could see he had something on his mind. Mrs. Littlepump also said more than once that she hoped no accident would happen on the road to prevent the coming of Mr. Bear. Margaret now became very anxious and fidgetty, and looked at Uncle Abraham, as though she was a little vexed at his indifference about the event in which everybody else took so much interest. Dorothea, Lydia, and Wallis, all said they, for their parts, had been unable to sleep all last night for thinking of the stout gentleman’s story. But nothing of all this seemed to move Uncle Abraham, who sat smoking his Dutch pipe and twinkling his eyes. Presently, however, the clock struck five, and he rose from his chair, saying he must go and make a little visit a few doors off before he went to bed. They all begged him very hard to stay and see Mr. Bear, but he shook his head, and said, “Pooh” and walked away. Margaret looked pleased when he was gone, but the children said it was very naughty of him not to stay.

Margaret said, “Let us play a little game until Mr. Bear arrives.”

“Yes,” said all the children.

They began to play the game, but they did not attend to it. Their minds were too much filled with the expectation of Mr. Bear.

“Oh, I do hope the gentleman Bear will be sure to come,” cried little Val.

As he said this they very plainly heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs coming up the street. They all ran to the window. What was their surprise and delight to see that it was the Bear on horseback! As the horse stopped before Dr. Littlepump’s door, the stout gentleman in the rough coat bent forward, then let himself slowly down, hanging carefully till his fur boots touched the ground. At this all the children burst out laughing; but instantly recollecting themselves, they ran away from the windows, and scrambled into seats round the stove, coughing a little, to pretend it had been only that. And now a knock was heard at the door and a loud ring! Margaret ran and opened the door and in came the Bear.

Everybody was so glad to see him. Wallis and Margaret helped him to take off his cloak and comforter. Mrs. Littlepump begged him to take a seat near the stove. Dorothea presented him with a large cup of nice coffee, hot, and strong, and very sweet, and Dr. Littlepump handed him Uncle Abraham’s pipe.

Everybody being now comfortably settled, the Bear rose from his chair, and, bowing all round, looked at Dr. Littlepump and said, “Mr. Dr. Littlepump, let me know what is the wish of our young friends here?”

“Oh, Mr. Good-Natured Bear!” cried Nancy, “do please continue your delightful story!”

The Bear laid one paw upon his heart,—bowed—sat down—and after looking thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe for a few minutes, as if to collect his ideas, thus continued:

“At the foot of our cave, there was, as I have told you, a plot of high, green grass with a path through it up to the entrance. At the back of the rock in which the cave was, there grew several fine old oak trees, and some young elms, all promising to become very tall and beautiful. My father was very fond of walking alone among those fine trees.

One afternoon he was taking a nap on our bed of leaves in the cave, when he was aroused by a noise at the back of the rock, among the trees. The sound was that of a number of hard blows one after another. My father went to see what it was, and there he saw a woodman with an axe cutting down the young elms. In perfect rage, my father ran towards the man, who instantly scampered away as fast as he could, crying out: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

The next morning as soon as it was light the same noise was heard again among the trees. Up jumped my father, but my mother, fearing some danger, went with him. It was a good thing she did so, as the forester had brought his two sons with loaded guns to watch for my father while the woodman was at work. My mother saw the two youths each hiding behind a large tree and she begged my father, both for her sake and mine, to come away. At last he did so, though not without much gruffness and grumbling.

By the evening the woodman had cut down about a third part of the young elms. Then he went away, intending to come and carry them off in the morning. My mother tried to persuade my father not to interfere because it was too near our home. But my father said they were his trees and he could not bear to lose them. So at night he collected all the trees that were cut down, and carried them, one or two at a time, to a river, at a short distance, where the current was strong, and threw them in with a great splash. Long before morning the current had carried them all far away.

The next day the woodman came with his two sons, a team of horses, and ropes to drag the trees away. But there was not one to be seen! After wondering and sitting under an oak for an hour, the woodman again went to work with his axe and cut down more young elm trees. He sent one son back with the horses, as they were needed for the plow.

In the evening the woodman went away as before, leaving the trees, and thinking no one would steal them a second time. But at night my father went as before and threw them all into the river. In the morning the woodman came again with the team. ‘What!’ cried he, ‘All gone again!—it must be the work of some fairy! Thieves could never carry away clean out of sight all those heavy young trees,—unless, indeed, it were the Forty Thieves, for it would need as many.’

Again the woodman cut down the trees and now there was not an elm left standing. He went away in the evening, as before, leaving the trees upon the ground. My father was sallying out to carry them off in the same way as before when my mother said, ‘Do not go, Benjamin (we always spoke in Bear language, you know, and not as I talk to you), do not go to-night, Benjamin, I beg you!’

‘Why, that unfeeling rascal has cut down all my young elms and the next thing you know he will cut down my oaks. I will not endure it,’ said my father angrily.

‘But this is by no means certain,’ reasoned my mother. ‘He seems to want only the elms. And at the worst we could find another cave with oaks near it.’

‘But not with oaks and a nice river, too!’ said my father.

‘Then the child (meaning me) and I must go with you and help to do it as quickly as possible. After it is done we will go and sleep for a few nights in the forest over the northern hills, for my mind is very uneasy about matters,’ said my mother.

My father laughed and said ‘GOOFF-ZUGDT,’ which, in Bear language, means ‘Nonsense!’

So we all went out of the cave and worked away at a great rate. My father and mother carried the largest of the young trees, and I such of the smallest as my tender years would allow. By midnight we had just finished and my father was carrying the last tree, when suddenly a shout was heard and we saw a flash of torches! The trees had been seen floating downstream, by some men who were coming to watch for the thieves, or to see if it was the work of fairies.

‘Cross the stream, higher up, and run for the northern hills,’ shouted my mother. At the same time she seized me by one ear in her mouth and lugged me along till we came to the river bank. Instantly she soused me into the water. When I came to the surface, I instantly felt my ear again in my mother’s warm mouth, and we soon landed on the other side. My father was not with us. We took it for granted that he had run in some other direction, and would rejoin us shortly. The shouts, however, followed us and so did the men with torches. My mother never once looked behind, but ran, lugging me along by one ear, through fields and woods, up hill and down dale. At last she laid me on some warm leaves under thick bushes. But my father did not join us. We never saw him again. He was captured and taken to the village.

My poor father was now lost to us; therefore, my mother set herself busily to work at my education. She divided every day into various portions; and although a large share was given to amusement in which I played with several young bears of my own age, and had sometimes a gambol with other young animals, still there was nothing that gave me more pleasure than the lessons I received from her. For this purpose she would generally take me into some quiet part of the wood. There, under a wide-spreading tree, she taught my young ideas ‘how to shoot!’ One lesson in particular, I remember, as she took great pains to impress it on my memory. I have followed the idea in all my conduct through life and I can truly say with the best results to myself. I will recite for you the verse which tells the lesson she taught

Oh! thou small Bear,

Learn to bear, and forbear,

And of good luck, or good friends, never despair.

A few days after I had received this lesson, I found myself placed in a situation which needed the good advice of the little verse. An extremely well-behaved young pig, and a very merry little fox, with whom I was playing, asked me what I had been doing the other day near a certain hollow tree. I told them I often collected acorns there in the morning and went in the evening to eat them. They said no more, and we went on playing round about the trees—and sometimes climbing up them—that is—the merry little fox and I did this. The young wild pig could not. But after that day, whenever I collected acorns in the morning and put them into the hollow tree, and then went at night to eat them, they were all gone!

One evening, however, as I was returning home after my disappointment and wondering who it could be, I heard a laughing in the thickets, and entering suddenly there I saw the little fox and my friend the wild pig who were just going to run away when they saw me. They both looked very foolish as our eyes met. So the thought struck me that they were the thieves, and I at once accused them. The wild pig became angry and denied that he had stolen a single acorn. He said he would not be called a thief by anybody. The little fox said he had never eaten a single acorn in all his life, nor had his father before him. Also, he said he would not be called a glutton by anybody.

On hearing this I understood how it all was. ‘Jemmy,’ said I, fixing my eyes upon the little fox, ‘Jemmy! you know very well that you stole my acorns. We have often played together and this is the first bad trick you have served me. You know I am quite able to punish you severely, and take your tail away from you. But I forgive you this time.’

Then I turned to the young wild pig and said, ‘Hugo, you have eaten my acorns. You know that I am stronger than you, that I could throw my arms around your neck and give you such a one! (meaning a hard hug)—but I forbear for the sake of our old friendship. I feel sure this will never happen again, and, no doubt, we shall all be better friends than ever.’

At this, the little fox shed a great many tears, and continued to rub his eyes with his little yellow brush for five minutes afterwards. The wild young pig stood silently for some time, as if he were trying to understand all about it. When he did speak it was only ‘ouff’—but I thought he felt what I had said.

At night, when we were going to bed, I told the whole story to my mother. She said I had acted rightly, according to what she had taught me in the verse. ‘For what,’ said she, ‘would have been the use of beating and squeezing the young thieves? It would not have brought back the acorns, and would have made them both enemies in the future, ready to steal anything. But as it is you have got two friends, and lost nothing.’

After thinking a moment, I said, ‘Yes, Mother, but I’ve lost my acorns!’

‘They are not more lost than if you had eaten them,’ said my mother. ‘When a thing is eaten, it is lost. All you have to complain of is that the wild young pig ate them for you. But as you have forgiven him of course you ought to think no more of the matter. Act thus through life toward your fellow creatures. Do so for the sake of the verse I taught you, and trust to nature for good results. Now, child, go to sleep.’

In this manner I passed my early youth and was just coming to my full size and strength when the dreadful thing happened which I spoke of when I first had the honour of talking to the present company. It was the terrible thing which made me an orphan in the world.

We were greeted one evening by a very ragged but wise old ape who had managed to escape from the menagerie in the big city. He was disguised as a Chinese tea-merchant, and he begged a night’s lodging, as he thought himself out of all danger. He told us news about my poor father. He was put in a menagerie in the village and there he grieved himself to death.

My mother never recovered after this sad news. She made no complaint, nor did she appear to give way to grief, but she gradually sank, and sank. Her feet failed her and her teeth fell out. One night, in a more than usually affectionate manner she had her last talk with me. She told me to act always with honesty, truth, and good feeling towards everyone; to bear all injuries and misfortunes as firmly as I could. She begged me in all dealings to keep from feelings of revenge and hatred. She then gave me an embrace, and told me to sleep well, and remember her words. In the morning I found her lying dead upon the moist green grass, with her head gently resting upon one paw.”

As the Bear uttered these last words, he seemed overcome with many feelings and thoughts of other years. Then, suddenly rising from his chair, he hastily put on his hat and cloak, and hurried out of the room. His friends heard the sound of the street-door closing, and two of the children ran on tiptoe to the window; but he was out of sight.

Third Evening

The next evening the children all met again, in the hope that the Good-Natured Bear would come to finish his story.

“I am so much afraid he will never come again,” said Nancy. “What shall we do?”

“What shall we do?” echoed all the children.

“For my part, I think that he will come,” said Mrs. Littlepump.

“I am sure I hope so,” said Margaret. “Dear, how my heart beats!”

“Your heart beats for Mr. Bear?” said Dr. Littlepump, looking hard at Margaret, who instantly blushed up to her eyes, and her ears were as red as ripe cherries.

“Oh, I do so wish——” said little Valentine, and then he stopped.

“What do you wish, Valentine?” asked Mr. Doctor, looking at his watch.

“I wish we had Jemmy here!”

“Jemmy! what Jemmy?” inquired Mr. Doctor with a serious face.

“Why, Jemmy, the merry little fox with the yellow brush tail!” said Val.

At this moment the clock struck six, and without any knocking, or ringing, or any other announcement, the parlour door opened and in walked Mr. Bear!

He bowed with his usual politeness; but he had a more than usual air of gravity and some appearance of anxiety. Margaret placed his chair for him and this seemed to please him.

“I thank you, Miss Margaret,” said he, and he soon became cheerful.

Looking around with a smile, and particularly at Margaret, he asked if he might go on with his story.

“Oh, do, Sir!—please do!” cried a dozen voices at once. So he continued as follows:

“I must now tell you about my own captivity, and I fear there were several times when I did not follow my mother’s advice but really lost my temper for some minutes. I had scarcely reached my full growth when a party of hunters came to the forest where I lived and surprising me while I was asleep, caught me fast in a very strong rope net. I made a great struggle. Three of the hunters stepped a few paces back and leveled their guns with the intention of shooting me. At this moment an immense wild pig rushed out of a thicket and crying ‘ouff!’ charged right upon the three hunters—knocked them all three flat upon their backs like ninepins—and then dashed into the thicket on the opposite side! Up jumped the three hunters, very angry, and instantly fired their guns into the thicket after the wild pig. But he was out of their reach. Another of the hunters was now about to thrust his spear at me when suddenly he gave a loud cry, and flung his spear at a tree, close to the foot of which we saw a large yellow and red brush tail whisk round.

‘Oh,’ cried the hunter. ‘Some rascal of a fox has bitten me in the foot!’

I need not tell you who these two forest friends were who had thus saved my life. You have already guessed.”

“Jemmy and Hugo,” whispered the children.

“Jemmy and Hugo, grown up!” nodded Mr. Bear.

“The hunters now began to talk together about whether I might not be of more value to them alive in a menagerie than if they killed me. They spoke of my rich, bright, brown-coloured fur, my large size, my youth. At length they decided to send me to a menagerie. Some of them said that a live bear was a great trouble on a long journey.

I now saw that it was of no use to make any further struggle among so many armed men, so I became very quiet. The cords that bound me had become partially loose at the arms. The son of the hunter, who had been about to kill me with his spear, happened to come close to me. I slowly freed one paw and instead of seizing the boy roughly, I slowly raised myself to an upright position behind his back and then patted him gently upon the top of his head. This surprised, amused, and won the hearts of all the hunters. They said it was quite impossible to kill such a good-natured bear, and from that day they called me The Good-Natured Bear.

I remember very well an event of my journey with my captors, which led to my learning to dance. We were all seated in a pleasant wood at sunset. One of the men drew forth a clarionet, another a horn and began to play. For the first time in my life I heard what you call music. I was filled with joy, and, being quite unable to control myself, I rose on my hind legs of my own accord, and stepped in time to the music. At this the hunters loosened the ropes which held me and gave me more freedom. In this upright position I stepped to the middle of an open green space and continued to keep time to the merry tune which was played. The hunters shouted and laughed and laughed and shouted. The music became faster and louder. Round and round I waltzed, and the trees all began to dance round me, too. Then the green ground span round about, carrying all the hunters and the music in a swift, dizzy circle round me. I feared I was going mad and I determined to save myself. Therefore, I collected all my willpower and stopped turning. The instant I stood still, the ground slipped from beneath my feet, and away I rolled to the bottom of a hill, where I fell asleep.

From this time, I continually practised walking upright. At first it was very difficult to walk for any distance on my hind feet. I could not help bending my nose and looking all down my right side, then all down my left side, and so from side to side, for I seemed such a height above the ground. Also, in order to keep my balance, I was obliged to give my weight first on one leg, then on the other, without lifting them from the ground.

My captors took me to a menagerie, where I was more than comfortable. My food was very good and my water was always clear and fresh. I also had far more liberty than any other animal. I believe this kindness was shown me because I showed no anger or hatred towards anyone, also, I was very careful not to frighten or hurt any of the children, who came near me.

In time I became the principal object of attraction in this menagerie. Crowds came daily and stood in front of my cell and looked, and pointed, and often spoke to me till at last I came to see that I was regarded as a surprising example of wisdom, although I did not understand one word they spoke to me, except when they also made signs. Sometimes, however, I was able to connect sounds with signs, so that I actually learned the meaning of many words. Then first came to me the great desire to learn human speech. I thought since I had learned the meaning of many words why could I not learn many more? And when I had learned certain sounds thoroughly why could I not imitate those words, so as to speak as well as understand?

I determined to do this if possible and I studied very hard. I listened very carefully all day to those whom I heard speaking and at night I practised my voice. At first I could make no sound at all like words, but only strange noises, so that it woke some of the animals, who made a great grumbling, and three of the monkeys mocked me for a week after, chattering, pointing, and making mouths at me. However, I went on trying, and at the end of four years, I understood nearly all that was said to me, even without signs, and could pronounce a number of words very well, though, of course, with rather a foreign accent. I proved this to myself upon two or three occasions, when it was dark and no one knew where the voice came from. By the answers I received I always found that what I had said was understood. Nevertheless, I kept all this a secret.

By this time I was made a show of by myself, and separated from all the other animals in one large corner, which was parted off by a green curtain in front. An additional price was charged to see me. I did not know what in the world they might do with me, if they found they possessed a Bear who could talk! I often longed to be free. I was very tired indeed of this kind of crowding and staring life, and I longed for the beautiful quiet of my native woods. But there seemed no hope of escape.

In the ninth year of my captivity and, I may add, of my private studies, I was sent round the country in a caravan with three keepers who made a great deal of money by me, at the various fairs and markets. I was called on the placards outside, ‘The Intellectual Bear!’

There was also another captive in the caravan,—a large serpent. I tried to be friendly with him but he never noticed me. He was usually asleep, rolled up on a heap of blankets, in a box. When he was awake his eyes were generally shut, and he seemed in a sort of a stupid trance so that we formed no acquaintance. I longed more than ever for my liberty.

One night—it was a hot night in June—after a long journey, while our keepers were away at supper the serpent broke open his box. Presently his head went slowly gliding up to one of the windows, and moved all over the inside shutter. It had not been properly locked, and it opened a little way. Upon this, the serpent raised himself upwards by his mouth, opening the shutter gradually as he rose, till he had coiled about half his body up against the window-frame, and then, with a slow pressure—he burst it open. The next moment he dropped silently through the opening—and was gone!

In an instant the thought of liberty flashed through my mind! I grasped the wooden bars of my cell, with both arms, and crushed three of them together. I jumped down upon the floor of the caravan, and scrambled up to the window. It was too small to let my body through, but I tore away the framework and out I got, and leaped down upon fresh, cool grass in the fresh, cool, night air! Oh, what delight after that steaming hot caravan! I ran off as fast as I could. A few stars were shining. Luckily there was no moon. Our caravan had fortunately been fixed outside the town, so that I had no gates to pass through. I scampered along, dodging between the trees of the avenue just as if I had been pursued, though not a soul was to be seen at that hour; then I cut across some fields and reached a vineyard. Scrambling on through garden and orchard and wood, I came to the highroad which led to a large city. Again I plunged into some vineyards till suddenly I came to a great river which I swam quickly across and landed a little above a village. Again I lost myself in the vineyards, but I did the best I could to avoid villages and pathways leading to towns, for I feared I might meet a party of travelers who would make it known where they had seen me. I knew there would be a wide search for me. So I made my way upward towards some distant mountains. At last I came to a forest where the trees were very large. Up one of them I slowly climbed, being careful not to scrape or leave any marks upon the bark of the tree. Choosing a snug place where several large boughs crossed each other, I bent some of the smaller ones round about, so that I was carefully hidden from all eyes below.

The next morning, as I was sure would be the case, I heard all sorts of noises of hunters and dogs all over the country. Several parties passed directly beneath the tree where I was seated. I heard one of the dogs give such a sniff. Oh! how closely I hugged the trunk of that tree, with my nose pointing up the stem, and not once venturing to look down! I hoped with all my heart not to be seen. This search continued for several days round about me. I never descended and I had nothing to eat. Once it rained in the night, and I drank the water off the leaves, taking whole bunches at a time into my mouth. This quite refreshed me. Nobody ever found me out, except that one morning an old crow with a bright, black eye, came and peeped at me, but as soon as he saw who it was he flew away, crying out, ‘Lawk! Lawk!’

At length the search after me was continued in other parts of the country, and one night I came down to stretch my legs, and sniff about a bit, and see what the world was made of—ahem! I had not walked far before I came to a spot where the hunters had paused to rest and refresh themselves. Here I found two things which had been dropped by some accident—namely, a purse with some money in it and a very large pork pie! The purse I placed in a thicket under a stone, but I had immediate need of the pie. I ate half of it that night; I was so very hungry. The remainder I carried with me up the tree, and made it last five days.

Though I never stopped watching or forgot my caution, the fear I at first had of being discovered and recaptured was very much lessened, so that my mind was free to follow its own course of self-improvement. I continued to practice speaking with the greatest care, repeating all the sentences I knew, and every word I could recollect. I did this so often in order to master the pronunciation that sometimes when I ceased I had a pain in my lower jaw, which lasted for half an hour. However, I continually persevered. I had now practised speaking a human language for nearly twelve years. I spoke very badly I knew; still, I had sometimes found what I said in the dark when I was in the menagerie, had been understood and I was full of hope. How and in what manner to make my first appearance among mankind, was quite a puzzle to me. One preparation as to my personal appearance I knew I must make. I grieved at it. I objected to the narrowness of mind which I knew made it necessary,—yet I knew also that it must be done.

In the early morning of the world, everything was new and wonderful beyond all doubt; but not more new and wonderful than useful and necessary to carry out the future business of creation. Who can deny the high origin of tails? The first animal who was active and well-formed must have had a tail. Of its great importance it would take too much time at present to speak. But even in these modern times how much use and ornament it possesses must be seen by everybody when they think of the lion, the dog, the eagle, the swallow, the monkey, the squirrel, and the fish. Running, leaping, flying, swimming are all helped very much indeed by the tail. Of its use as a fan in sultry weather, as a whisker-away of gnats and flies, I will make no mention. Then, what a tail the beaver has and who is more skilful than he? I will stop. You see I have no tail. Since I had made up my mind to live with mankind it was necessary to accept most of their customs. In short, I found I must give up my tail. This I did at the sacrifice of some private feelings, I assure you.

You must be curious, I think, to hear how I made my first appearance among the circles of mankind, and I will hasten to tell you. Most fortunately, I had a little money, the value of which I knew pretty well. I made my way cautiously across the country into a town one dark evening of a market-day, and with my money I managed to purchase a large pair of shoes, a pair of cow-skin gloves, a piece of gingerbread, and a sheet of white paper. With these materials I made my way to a large city where a great fair was being held.

I chose a dark corner on the outskirts of the fair and spread my sheet of white paper upon the ground. On this white paper I placed a score of gingerbread pills, and, with beating heart and shaking limbs, I addressed the human race on the subject of pills, for I had heard people were very much interested in this subject. I was so alarmed at speaking to a group of such wise beings that even at the time I did not well know what I was saying. However, the moment I began to speak, a number of persons came round me and laughed loudly. I thought I was found out, and stopped.

‘Go on, Doctor! Go on!’ cried they. So I went on. A crowd soon collected, all of whom laughed very much, saying, ‘What a voice! Look at his nose! Did you ever hear such language! What a figure!’

They bought all my gingerbread pills in a very short time, and I was only able to make my escape by telling them I must go to my lodgings for some more.

Oh, how shall I describe the joy and exultation I felt at the great success of my experiment upon the wise and generous human race! I was obliged to double the price of my gingerbread pills in order to prevent them from going so fast. Everything I said produced immense laughter, even when I myself knew I had said no witty or sensible thing at all, while any ordinary reply was received with shouts of applause. They believed that my strange voice, dialect, face, figure, and behaviour were all a part of my make-up, and that I was acting a part! In fact, they thought I could speak and appear very differently, if I liked. I did not feel altogether pleased at this discovery; but I was obliged to take what came and make the most of it. I, therefore, spoke as well as I could, and when I made some shocking blunder, I allowed the people to suppose that I knew better.

I now took my position in society. I had lodgings in a house, and I slept in a bed! I shall never forget the first night I slept in a bed. How I stood looking at the snow-white luxury! and walked round it softly, holding my breath. I touched it very gently, but at last I did muster courage and actually got between the sheets!

I visited other large fairs with increased success, so that in the course of a year or two I had gained a great sum of money.

I soon became famous at all the great fairs where, by some, I was called the Whimsical Doctor, on account of my odd dress, face, and voice, all of which people regarded as my make-up. Several wealthy people whom I met at these fairs offered to go into partnership with me. At last I consented. I took as my partner a clever man named Tobias, who was a jeweller. He sold all his jewels, or rather, he turned all his jewels into gingerbread, and we made wagon-loads of gingerbread pills. In making the large quantities of these, however, Tobias talked to me in a way which caused me to feel, for the first time, that this method of dealing with the human race was not honourable. I began to see that human beings were not so wise as I had imagined, and that nobody ought to cheat them. The more my partner talked over our success the more I felt we were rogues. So one morning I told him that I wished to dissolve our partnership. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘then, as you leave me, of course you will leave with me all the stock in trade, and all the money, too.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘not all the money. Take all the pills, and welcome; but give me back half the money.’ He refused. We spoke sharply to each other and suddenly he said to me, angrily, ‘You shall have nothing. If you say anything more I will tell what I have found out about you. I know what you are. You are not a man—but a bear!’

I was thunderstruck! I fell back into my infant years as if I had fallen over a cliff. I felt I was a bear! But the next moment I seized Tobias in my arms, and lifted him up in the air, saying in a loud voice: ‘Wicked fellow! what shall I do to you?’ At this moment, however, I recollected my mother’s words. I set him down upon the ground, where he stood quite breathless with fright. Then I said to him, ‘Ungrateful man—dishonest partner,—take my money and go thy ways in peace.’

Not knowing what to do, and certainly not knowing what to think, I wandered about the country. Sometimes I sat under hedges and puzzled my brains to understand what sort of thing human reason was. I never could make it out. However, I knew that I was an imposter,—though an innocent imposter, since I could not help wearing a fur coat and a long nose.

One day when I was seated under a tree, eating a turnip, who should pass by but Tobias, all in rags, and looking very ill. Suddenly, he saw me, uttered a cry, and fell down in a fit. I went to him and placed the cool wet leaves of my turnip across his temples. This seemed to revive him and do him good. When he saw that I had no intention to hurt him he asked me to carry him to the nearest peasant’s cottage. I did so and was going away when he called me back and said, ‘I behaved very badly to you, but I was punished. When you left me nobody would buy the pills. The people called loudly for the Wonderful Doctor with the fur coat and the large nose who talked so oddly. As you were not to be found, they said I was a rascal, and an impostor, and they drove me out of the town. I was quite ruined. They seized all our pills and flung them about and the boys pelted each other with pill-boxes in the streets for at least three hours. The very same wonderful pills the world had just before been running after.’

In a few months after this Tobias had a fortune left him by a relation. He sent for me, begged my pardon for his previous behaviour, set me up in business as a merchant, and took great pains to instruct me. In the winter I dealt in pickles and preserves; and in the summer I carried on a wholesale trade in silks and velvets. He wanted me to sell furs also, but I declined that. These occupations I have followed ever since, with great industry and good success. Meantime, however, at all leisure hours I have tried to improve my mind by various studies, and, among others, I even managed to make some progress in mathematics.”

As Mr. Bear said this, all the children thought directly of Uncle Abraham, the mathematician, and were so sorry he was not present to hear about these studies.

“I should now,” continued the stout gentleman, “consider myself very happy, but for one circumstance. I confess I do not like to mention it.

How can this small heart contain

So large a world of joy and pain;

And how can this small tongue declare

All that is felt so deeply there!

Alas, poor Bear!—Alas, poor Bear!

You will all readily understand that to have raised myself by my own efforts so much above the rest of my species, I must have had a nature open to many thoughts and feelings; and that the peculiar tenderness instilled by my mother had grown with my growth, and made me open to all the softer emotions.”

Mr. Bear here paused and gave a deep sigh. Several of the younger children sighed too. Gretchen fixed her eyes upon the floor.

“I was not aware for some time,” said the sorrowful gentleman in the rough coat, “of what kind of feelings had begun to possess me. I felt I was alone in the world. I had long felt that,—but I had so much to do, so much to learn and struggle with, and work at, and so much travelling about and business to attend to, that I did not feel this being alone as any great grief. Besides, as I had been successful in the various difficult things I had attempted, and had for a long time been very fortunate in all my affairs of business, I was in the habit of regarding myself as a happy person. And I was happy, until I began to think that others were more so, and then I saw it was because others, who were happy, could share it with those they loved and also give happiness to the dear object. But I was alone in the world. I had nobody to love. Nobody would ever love me,—except another bear. And you know that the love of another bear was out of the question to one in my advanced state of refinement. What was I to do? I could have loved a dear object—a great many, I am sure—I was going to say—I beg pardon—I do not quite well know what I say at this exciting moment. But—let me try to tell you, that I felt it impossible to live all my life without some tender acquaintance with the little god of love, and as I was by this time long past the season of youth, I was resolved to let my heart be lost with the first object that should present herself to my fancy.

But, strange to relate, no sooner had I made up my mind to fall in love with the first amiable and lovely person I saw than I ceased to meet with any such as I often used to see before. So I began to think the wish had left me, and I determined to study something very difficult in order to occupy my mind, and perhaps cure myself of these lovely fancies. I, therefore, decided to take a course of studies under Mr. Professor Abraham Littlepump, and with that view I first came to this village. I arrived in the evening as you know, but did not intend to have made my visit till next morning, had I not been attracted by the loud merriment of our young friends here. It has always happened that Mr. Professor Abraham Littlepump has been absent when I paid you a visit; but this does not concern me in regard to the mathematics. I have seen one here in this room—who has put all the mathematics clean out of my head. And now comes the end of my story.”

As Mr. Bear uttered those words everybody began to look all round the room and then at each other and then all round the room again.

“Who can Mr. Good-Natured Bear mean?” said Nancy in a whisper to one of the older boys.

“Margaret dear,” said little Valentine, “your ears are as red as my scarlet-runner.”

“Silence!” said Dr. Littlepump.

“Pity an unfortunate creature,” said the stout gentleman. “I have at length seen the object of my devout wishes. Yes, in this very room in this house—have I seen just exactly what I have been speaking of. You understand me?” There was no answer.

“Oh, that I could have had the honour and happiness of being your brother Abraham! I would have devoted my mind to far more beautiful thoughts. Seated in his arm-chair and thinking about mathematical problems he never dreamed of the charming object that was continually before him, sometimes singing to the children, sometimes teaching them to read, and to dance, sometimes working with her delightful needle. Oh, let me change places with him—the cold, insensible, stick of a slate pencil! Now I know what I am saying—or rather I do not very well know what I am saying.”

Poor Mr. Bear here began to cry, and several of the children cried too. But he went on with his strange speech all the same.

“Let Mr. Professor Uncle Abraham stay where he is, with his problems and dumps, and let me be allowed to remain in his place and sit in his chair, so that I may enjoy the happy society of the sweet-voiced Margaret, nursery-governess in the amiable family of Mr. Dr. Littlepump.”

As he concluded the last sentence the unhappy gentleman sank back in his chair, and Gretchen covered her face entirely with both hands.

“I only dare to speak of my affection for this sweet creature. I know I am old for her, too ugly, besides being a Bear. I know I have no hope, but what can I do? How can I help this beating heart? What is to become of me?”

By this time all the children had tears in their eyes. Nancy and little Valentine, however, got close to Gretchen, holding her fast on each side, for fear that perhaps poor Mr. Bear might want to carry her away. Everybody was silent.

At last Nancy ventured to say in a trembling voice, “Perhaps, dear Mr. Bear, you might find somebody else?”

“Oh, that I had eloquence!” exclaimed the Bear. “Oh, that the best words would come of themselves in the best places, while other best words were getting themselves ready to be poured out! Then I should be able to touch the human heart. But, as it is, all my hopes are vanity,—are in fact nothing at all. I must leave this busy scene and go to some quiet place where I am not known. I will again visit the haunts of my childhood and stay there. Oh! my native woods! Ye silent nights, ye small bright stars playing bo-peep through the boughs into hollow caves! I will go back among you, and in the cool, green grass will I lay my head. Farewell! Farewell!”

“But can nothing be done for you, sir?” said Mrs. Littlepump in a soft voice.

“My dear Margaret,” said Doctor Littlepump, “you hear what Mrs. Littlepump asks. It is for you to make some kind of an answer. I wish my brother Abraham were here!”

“I can never love the gentleman in the rough coat,” said Margaret, still holding one hand before her face. “I do not mind his being much older than myself, nor do I think him so very, very ugly—only, he is a Bear!”

“I am a devoted Bear!” declared the stout gentleman with enthusiasm, “and I will be anything else I can, that the dear object may command.”

“I have had a dream!” said Margaret timidly looking up and waiting. “I have had a dream!”

“So have I,” said Dr. Littlepump sternly. “Come, come, I begin to feel uncomfortable.”

“Do not feel so!” exclaimed Mr. Bear, clasping his paws together.

“Make haste!” continued the Doctor, fixing his eyes upon Margaret. “Make haste! Let us hear your dream.”

“I dreamed,” said Margaret, trembling, “that Mr. Bear must go into that closet, and be locked in. Then, all the children were to form a magic circle in the middle of the room, and move slowly round, hand in hand, nine times, saying:

‘Oh, Mr. Bear!

Cupid hears your fond prayer!

Remember your mother’s words,—never despair!’

After this, a glass of lemonade and a slice of cake were to be placed ready for each to take the moment the door was opened, and they saw that the charm was complete. I dreamed this would cause Mr. Bear to be made happy somehow. And then——”

“And then?” said Dr. Littlepump, “what then? I repeat I am beginning to feel very uncomfortable. I smell a plot!”

“Oh, we shall soon see what the dream will do,” said Mrs. Littlepump. “Mr. Bear, will you run all risks of what may happen, and go into the closet?”

“I will do anything, dear Mrs. Littlepump!” exclaimed Mr. Bear. Saying this, he ran towards the closet headforemost. The door was open. The children all peeped in and looked round cautiously to see if anybody was there, but it was quite empty. A large mirror hung on the wall, at the further end. Mr. Bear stepped in, and waited for what might happen to him.

“All in the dark!” said little Valentine, “and the door locked!”

The children now formed a circle in the middle of the room, and while Margaret was pouring out glasses of lemonade, and Lydia and Dorothea were cutting slices of cake, and Wallis was cleaning his spectacles, and Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump were standing silently holding each other by both hands—the children turned in a circle nine times, repeating the words of the charm:

“Oh, Mr. Bear!

Cupid hears your fond prayer!

Remember your mother’s words—never despair.”

When they had finished Mrs. Littlepump unlocked the closet door. Everybody was so silent.

“Margaret,” whispered Mrs. Littlepump, “go and tap at the door.”

Margaret did so, and then the door slowly began to open. It stopped opening, and a voice inside said, “You must take my hand, or I cannot come out.”

And then a well-formed hand was put forth. With a face all scarlet with blushes Margaret gently took it. And then—who should come out of the closet but dear Uncle Abraham!

“Here is dear Uncle Abraham!” shouted all the children, “but where is the Bear?”

The children all ran right into the closet, scrambling, squeaking, and searching all about, but finding nothing! Soon they came crowding, and began to run round Uncle Abraham.

“Where is the fascinating rough gentleman?” cried everybody in the room.

“Here I am!” exclaimed a soft hoarse voice, as if from a great distance.

They all looked round and round. Nobody like Mr. Bear was to be seen.

“I am become a happy Shadow!” continued the voice, “and I have left my dear friend and mathematical tutor in my place!”

The voice seemed still as distant as before; and yet, somehow, it appeared to come from the closet. Into the closet, therefore, all the children again rushed pell mell. They were no sooner in than they suddenly gave a great shout;—and then became quite silent as with some new wonder.

The rest of the party hastened to the closet. The children were all looking in the mirror which hung at the other end, and in it were distinctly seen the reflection in miniature of Mr. Bear, very nicely shaved round the chin, and dressed as a nobleman in a court dress. He was dancing a polka on the lawn of a castle made of clouds, with another Shadow dressed exactly like Margaret, only still prettier, while the figure of Cupid sat on the tip-top of one of the turrets, holding his quiver like a violin, and playing delightfully upon it with his bow.

Presently the whole vanished. There was nothing to be seen in the mirror except the wondering faces of those who went close up to it.

Out came all the children, one by one, with looks of equal pleasure and bewilderment.

“I was not altogether prepared for this,” said Dr. Littlepump.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “the Land of Shadows is full of delights of all kinds; and as to your brother’s affair of the heart, it is not the first time that a grave man fell in love with a merry girl. It was, at least, as natural in him as in Mr. Bear—not to speak unkindly or disrespectfully of our dear departed friend.”

“But it certainly is the first time,” said Dr. Littlepump, “that a Bear, however good-natured, was so lucky as to become a Happy Shadow, such as you describe, and to be able to bequeath a young bride to his tutor. In fact, my brain is confused upon several points. And the more I reflect, the more my head goes round. Brother! I always used to consider you a strong-minded man—but now——”

“You will dance at my wedding!” said Abraham Littlepump.

“I will,” said Dr. Littlepump. “God bless you, brother Abraham. Good-natured Bear, indeed! Poor gentleman! I do not mean to say anything at all unkind—but I do say, bless my soul!”

“My good brother,” said Abraham Littlepump, “as for Mr. Bear, we shall ever retain the tenderest recollections of him. He was thrown upon an unfeeling world, and was unhappy. But he is very happy now, somewhere else. For has he not vanished into the Land of Shadows, there to dance forever on a green lawn, with the image of his adorations!”

“I rejoice extremely to hear it!” cried Dr. Littlepump, catching up his flute; “and I feel persuaded that I am at this moment inspired to play the very same polka which Cupid has just played to Mr. Bear and his bride!”

At this the children all set up a long hearty shout of applause; and when they were quite done Dr. Littlepump applauded himself—at which they all began again. Then the children, still laughing, formed a circle, hand in hand, round Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump, and Abraham Littlepump and Margaret, and danced round and round them. And they sang the following rhyme, in which the Bear was lovingly included, just as if he had been present, because his memory was so dear to them all. The Doctor accompanied them on his flute.

“Oh, Doctor! Oh, Bear!

Oh, new-married pair!

Of good luck and good friends

Oh, never despair!”

Abraham Littlepump now became so overjoyed, that he was unable to contain himself. He hugged them all round, and finally catching the Doctor in his arms, made him get up behind him pick-a-back. Then Mrs. Littlepump and Margaret joined hands with the circle of children, and they all danced round the two brothers, singing the rhyme again, while the Doctor flourished his flute in the air, like the conductor of some great band of music.

CHRISTMAS WISHES

Louise Chollet

King Nutcracker prepared for the Christmas feast with uncommon splendour, for on that day Santa Claus had promised his three sons—what do you suppose? A pony or a boat apiece? Of what use to bring such things to Prince Nutcracker and Prince Buttons, who were men, while for the little Prince Pepin, he had everything that he wanted since he first learned to cry for it! No, Santa Claus had promised them each a wish! What would the princes wish? Nobody knew. For though the Court Journal declared that of course their wishes would insure the happiness of their subjects, the Court Journal knew no more of the matter than you or I; and as all this happened before we were born, that is just nothing. Nevertheless, for weeks beforehand, the entire court was in a state of preparation. The Duke of the Powder Closet powdered the comb wigs at such a rate that they were obliged to station a line of pages from the Powder closet to the pantry, who passed up refreshments continually to keep his strength up. The Queen wore her hair in curl-papers for a week, and spent the most of her time in the kitchen where the pies and plum-pudding were in making; and his Majesty grumbled that he could not stir without stumbling over a trumpeter, practising his bit of the Christmas chorus in a corner. For himself, the king ordered a new blue-velvet coat, and sent his crown and sceptre to be mended and rubbed up at a goldsmith’s. All the pink pages had new green slippers. Ten of these pages were to help Santa Claus out of his sleigh and ten were to hold the reindeer; and all the time they were to sing a song of welcome, and to step all together. So they practised five hours a day with the Lord High Fiddlesticks; and the Lord High Fiddle-stick bawled himself hoarse, while the pages lost flesh and temper in trying to learn.

What a pity, after all this pains, that Santa Claus left his reindeer behind him, and, slipping in just when nobody was looking for him, stood among them, not with his Christmas face, but looking sad and surly! “If you were my boys,” said he gruffly, “catch me giving you a wish. I would shut you up in an iceberg first! However, a promise is a promise. Let us hear what you have to say.”

All the courtiers stood on tiptoe, and you might have heard a pin drop, they were so anxious to know what the princes wished.

Pepin, though the youngest, being a saucy, spoiled boy, spoke first. “A prince should always have his own way,” said Pepin. “Now there are a great many things that vex me. Sometimes, when I am flying my kite, there is no wind. Now I think that a prince should always be able to fly his kite: if not, I might as well be any other boy. In the same way, it rains when I am going to drive, and the sun sets before I am ready; and my ball will tumble down when I want it to stay up, and sometimes it is too warm, and sometimes it is too cold; in short, there is no end to my annoyances, and I want to regulate these things myself.”

Santa Claus looked hard at Pepin to see if he was quite in earnest. Pepin looked back at Santa Claus with a serious face. “Have your wish while you remain a prince,” said Santa Claus.

The courtiers stared, but no one had time to make any remarks; for Prince Nutcracker, in a violent hurry lest Buttons should get ahead of him, wished for the luck-penny. Now you know whoever has a luck-penny will make money, more money, much money, and will never lose any.

“But there is one objection,” remarked Santa Claus. “By continual use, the luck-penny by and by will look larger to you than anything else.”

“That is nothing,” said Nutcracker, slipping the luck-penny into his pocket.

Prince Buttons, blushing to the tips of his ears, wished “to marry the shoemaker’s sweet daughter, and that the spirit of Christmas might live in their house the year round.”

“Give us your hand!” cried Santa Claus, pulling out the holly-sprig from his cap, and giving it to Buttons, but the King jumped up, fuming and spluttering: “You idiot! You ninny! The daughter of the shoemaker and the Christmas spirit, indeed. Christmas fiddlestick and fol-de-rol! Out of my sight!”

His Royal Highness was in such a rage that he actually lifted his royal foot to kick the prince. The Queen fainted; the courtiers cried, “Oh!” Prince Buttons ran away in the midst of the hubbub; Santa Claus disappeared; and, to make matters better, the court suddenly found itself in darkness. It was high noon, but the sun had popped out of the sky like a snuffed-out candle. Nobody could find candles or matches, and if the confusion was great in the palace, it was worse in the city. People were left standing in darkness at the shops and ferries and depots. People who were eating dinners, and people who were getting them, and people who had just come out to see Christmas, were all served alike. Everybody was in a fright; some screamed one thing and some another; and all the time there was nothing the matter, only Prince Pepin, who was in a hurry to see the arch of Chinese lanterns, had ordered the sun to set.

“See here, Pepin,” cried the King in a passion, “order the sun up again, and if I catch you doing such a thing——”

Pepin, who was afraid of his father, did not wait for the rest of the sentence; so, just as everybody had lighted candles, or turned on the gas, there was the sun again.

“Seems to me,” said Pepin, sulkily, “I am not having my own way after all,” and he went in a wretched humour to play battle-door and shuttlecock. He made bad strokes, and the shuttlecock tumbled on the ground. “Hateful thing, forever coming down!” cried Pepin.

“It only obeys the law of gravitation, my dear,” said the Queen.

“I wish there was no law of gravitation,” snapped Pepin.

Whisk! Pepin was flying through the air as if he had been shot from a gun. Kicking frantically, he saw the King, the Queen, everything, coming after him! Something hit him hard on the nose. He was in a perfect storm of great round apples, flying in all directions! Bang! bump! on his head, in his mouth, on his shoulders! How he wished they had stayed in the market! Pepin dodged and squalled; the air was full of stones and timbers; a horse was kicking just over his head; somebody had him by the hair, and somebody else by the legs, for, of course, everybody clutched in all directions to save himself.

“Oh!” screamed Pepin amidst the general uproar of barking, neighing, braying, clucking and shouting, “I wish the law of gravitation was back again.”

At once Pepin, the King, the Queen, and the people, were on their feet. Everything was in its accustomed place,—everybody a little rumpled, but nobody hurt. The King was disposed to be angry, but the Queen declared that Pepin was only a little thoughtless, the courtiers murmured, “Quite natural,” and the Court Journal pronounced the affair the best joke of the season; but the people looked very glum over it.

That made no difference to Pepin, who continued his jokes very much at his ease. Often, when he was lazy, the sun did not rise until noon; and people might twist and turn in bed, or go about their business by candle-light, as they chose; when, on the contrary, he found his play amusing, he sometimes kept the sun in the sky till nine o’clock at night, while all the children in the city were crying for sleepiness. Three nations declared war on King Nutcracker, because Pepin sometimes ordered a dead calm for weeks, and sometimes had the winds blowing from all quarters at once, and navigation was quite impossible. The doctors were almost worn out, and the people died on all sides from constant violent changes of weather, for, if my young master got heated in his play, he made nothing of ordering the thermometer down to sixty degrees. The farmers were all in despair, for Pepin hardly allowed a drop of rain to fall; and having a fancy for skating in summer, he ruined what harvest there was by a week of ice and snow in July.