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diff --git a/78322-0.txt b/78322-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41b5ae5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78322-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5533 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78322 *** + + + + + ROUND THE YEAR IN + PUDDING LANE + + + + + By Sarah Addington + + THE BOY WHO LIVED IN PUDDING LANE + THE GREAT ADVENTURE OF MRS. SANTA CLAUS + ROUND THE YEAR IN PUDDING LANE + + + + + [Illustration: _The Town Crier was seen coming down Pudding Lane, + ringing his bell._ FRONTISPIECE. _See page 3._] + + + + + ROUND THE YEAR + IN PUDDING LANE + + BY + SARAH ADDINGTON + + WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY + GERTRUDE A. KAY + + [Illustration] + + BOSTON + LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY + 1924 + + + + + _Copyright, 1923, 1924_, + BY SARAH ADDINGTON + + _All rights reserved_ + + Published September, 1924 + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + + I When the Snow Man Sat by the Fire 1 + + II The Valentine Mistress Mary Found 18 + + III How Humpty Dumpty Went to the King’s + Party 34 + + IV Simple Simon Has His Day 52 + + V Mrs. Claus Has a Great Honor 67 + + VI The Poodle That Didn’t Know English 81 + + VII Bo-Peep Finds Out How a Dutch Uncle + Talks 93 + + VIII The Sand Man’s Scare 110 + + IX Why Taffy the Welshman Stole Meat 124 + + X The Crooked Man Gets a Brand-new Reputation 139 + + XI Mother Goose Settles a Difficulty 155 + + XII Santa Claus Hangs Up His Stocking 187 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + The Town Crier was seen coming down Pudding + Lane, ringing his bell _Frontispiece_ + + PAGE + + Everybody was happy, including Mrs. Claus who + dozed by the fire 20 + + No Lady Wind was that. No dog either. But a + bear that stood before her 43 + + They were dancing around a Maypole, a beautiful, + flower-covered Maypole 76 + + On the same stagecoach from Dover came a present + from the King of France to Mrs. Claus 81 + + “Look here,” he said to the black sheep. “You’re + responsible for all this.” 105 + + What could Mrs. Blue do? She could do nothing + but climb the fence, skirts and all 111 + + The next morning at nine o’clock the whole town + started out for Honeysuckle Hill 129 + + “But it’s too far to walk before dark,” said Santa + Claus. “We live ’way off in Pudding Lane” 148 + + + + +I + +WHEN THE SNOW MAN SAT BY THE FIRE + + +It had been a poor year for snow men that winter in Pudding Lane. +November had brought not one single flake of snow (though I don’t see +what good one flake would have done, anyway). December had been almost +as bad. Even at Christmas there had been only the thinnest smattering +of snow, which, like bread that has only a little sugar on it, is worse +than none at all. + +But here it was January, a gray, moisty, misty day that certainly +looked and felt like nothing else in the world but snow. So that it was +no wonder the children of Pudding Lane kept rolling their eyes at the +world outside as they were having their lessons that morning. + +“One, two, buckle my shoe,” recited Santa to Mrs. Claus. The snow would +surely come any minute now. “Three, four, shut the door.” Would it +be big dry flakes or little watery ones? Little watery ones were no +earthly good, of course. “Five, six, pick up sticks--” + +“A, B, C, tumble-down D,” chanted Judy to the Old Woman Who Lived in a +Shoe. Was that a flake of snow she saw through a buttonhole of the Shoe +there? No, only a bit of paper drifting by. “E, F, and a pick-him-up +G,” she continued. + +Even Simple Simon was having a lesson. + +“Thirty days hath September,” he began, but poor Simon never got any +farther than that in the rhyme, for he never could remember that April +came next. April ought not to follow right after September, even in a +poem, he thought. + +So they went on, every one of them, for Old King Cole had given +emphatic orders that lessons were to be held at any cost, every single +morning, in every single home in Pudding Lane. And then, right in the +middle of everything, it began to come, the snow that all the children +had been waiting for all the winter long. + +Jill saw it first, for Jill was the kind of girl that could see several +things at once, so that, although it looked very much as if Jill had +her eyes nailed down tight to her spelling book, she really was looking +through the window out of the tail of her eye. Some people are like +that, especially girls. + +But Jill saw the snow only half a second before the other children saw +it. For the next thing the mothers of Pudding Lane knew, their pupils +were all running to the windows and jumping up and down and shrieking +with delight. It began to look as if school were over for the day, +willy-nilly, as Mrs. Claus said. She, for one, couldn’t manage five +boys during the first snowstorm of the year. + +Well, sure enough, school was over for the day, for the next minute +the Town Crier was seen coming down Pudding Lane, ringing his bell and +shouting, “The King says let the children out; the King says let the +children out, the first snow of the year!” Seriously, now, was there +ever such a good king as that merry Old Soul? Or such a wise one? Not +many kings would understand that a snowstorm is more important than +lessons. + +You should have seen the Snow Man those children made! Such a fine +figure of manhood as he was, with sturdy, stout legs and a pipe in +his mouth (the candlestick maker wondered where in the world his pipe +had disappeared to!) and a snub nose such as snow men always, always +have. Why is it, do you suppose, that snow men never have handsome +Roman noses like Mother Goose’s, or tip-tilted ones like Jill’s, or +long lean noses like the candlestick maker’s? Merely a family trait, I +suppose. In fact, if I ever met a snow man with a long nose, I’d rather +suspect him of not belonging to the real snow family, wouldn’t you? + +But this one was a true descendant of the inner circle of snow men. +Little Boy Blue stuck on his ears. Jack and Jill made his arms--long +arms they were, that fell from his shoulders in a most realistic +manner. Simple Simon put Mr. Claus’s green carpet slippers at the +bottom of the Snow Man’s legs. (And you should have seen Mr. Claus +running around the house in his bare feet that night, poor man.) Simple +Simon got the right shoe on the left leg, and the left shoe on the +right leg, but that only made the Snow Man look funnier than ever, +and Simon was indeed proud that he had done his job so cleverly. Yes, +every child in Pudding Lane had a hand in that Snow Man, except Polly +Flinders. + +And Polly, of course, would not come out. Not that she was not invited. +Santa Claus, who was the most polite boy in Pudding Lane, made a +special trip to the Flinderses’ to get her, for it was thought that +Polly, being a newcomer to the village, might feel a little shy. +But although Polly liked Santa Claus very much and was really most +anxious to play with the other children, and most anxious, too, to get +acquainted with the Snow Man, still, on account of her toes, Polly had +to refuse Santa’s invitation. So Santa ran back to his little friends +and Polly, after waving them good-by, returned to her cinders. + +She did not stay by the fire long, however, for the shouts and laughter +of the children rang out like chimes through Pudding Lane that day, and +she could not keep herself from going to the window to watch them. For +the truth about Polly Flinders was that, though she did choose to stay +close by her fire rather than to play outdoors with the children, she +really was a very lonely little girl. She got tired of herself and she +got tired of her dolls and books. She even got tired of her cinders. So +Polly really was not very happy by her fireside, after all. It was too +bad about her toes, really. + +When the children saw Polly at the window on this day, they waved and +laughed and beckoned her to come out. Polly waved back and smiled, too, +but still she could not bear the thought of the cold, so she shook +her head sadly and presently they forgot all about her as they went +on playing. And finally the lonely little Polly went back to the fire +again. + +It was dark and cold when the children of Pudding Lane at last left +their Snow Man and went home. They had fought snow battles and built +snow houses and dug snow tunnels. They had plowed up the fields of snow +until it looked like some winter planting time. But the day closed at +last and they had to go home to supper and to bed. + +Only Polly Flinders, as night came on, remembered the poor Snow Man who +was left there in the ruins alone on the cold winter night. She could +hardly eat her supper for thinking about him, and she shivered closer +to the fire, as she considered how cold it must be out there for the +Snow Man, who himself was not a very warm fellow to begin with. + +So Polly thought about him all evening, and still she could not forget +him when it came time for bed and her mother came in to take her +upstairs. Polly begged to stay up longer. + +“But it’s very late,” objected her mother. + +In the end, however, she went off to bed without Polly, shaking her +head and saying to Mr. Flinders that she never did see such a girl for +the cinders. + +As Polly sat by the fire, she kept thinking of the Snow Man and kept on +feeling so sorry for him that she even cried a little to herself, as +the clock ticked and the cinders clinked in the grate. She went to the +window to look out at him. There he stood in the cold light of a frosty +moon, alone, neglected, freezing. Oh, dear, how unhappy he looked. +He wasn’t funny any more, but pitiable and pathetic, like any other +outcast. + +Polly stood by the window a long time, watching him tearfully. Then +through her tears, she saw, or thought she saw, the Snow Man move. He +seemed to raise his arms to her in a gesture of pleading. The Snow Man +was motioning to her to come to him! The Snow Man wanted her help! + +Quick as a flash Polly turned from the window and rushed to the door. +Quick as a wink she had flung the door open and was running down the +path to Pudding Lane and across the lane to the Snow Man. She quite +forgot her toes, did Polly. She forgot the cold and the snow. She +forgot everything except that the poor Snow Man needed somebody to help +him and that she was the somebody. When she got to the Snow Man, she +spoke to him breathlessly. + +“I’ve come to take you in to the fire,” she told him. “I know how +wretched it is to be cold and lonely. I suffer from the cold myself, +Mr. Snow Man, and I’m rather lonely too.” + +The Snow Man did not reply, but stood there immovable, his long arms +hanging listlessly, his pipe askew, his hat set rakishly on one ear. +Polly surveyed him and spoke again. + +“Can you walk?” she asked him. He was still silent. + +Polly touched him softly. He was hard and as solid as rock. She never +would be able to budge him. She put her arms around him. Ooooh, how +cold he was! She really must hurry and get him in to the fire, or he +would be frozen past all help. + +What should she do? He was freezing, freezing! She must not leave him +there another minute. But he was too big to carry and too stiff to +walk. Polly looked around desperately. There was only that icy moon +above and the fields of snow about her and the still cold of night. No +help was in sight. Not a candle shone out from a single window. Not a +soul was awake in that respectable little village. Alas, Polly began to +think that her visit to the Snow Man was all in vain, that she could +not rescue him, after all. + +And then, just as she was despairing of her mission, she spied Jack +Horner’s little red sled near one of the snow forts. It was the very +thing! She would take the Snow Man home on that sled. She would take +him to her own fire and there warm him until he was quite comfortable. + +Hastily she began to drag the sled over to the Snow Man. Quickly she +commenced the delicate operation of putting the Snow Man on the sled. +And it was a delicate operation, indeed. For the Snow Man’s joints, if +he ever had any, were as stiff as sticks, and the Snow Man’s muscles, +if he had muscles, were as useless as a doll’s. He was very heavy and +hard to move, as Polly put her arms around him and tried it. Moreover, +the Snow Man, although so frozen and hard, had a tendency to break at +places. Polly was very, very careful as she tugged and pulled at him, +but there! his left arm snapped off clear up to the shoulder, and--oh, +dear, there went his right thumb, plunged into the snow at his feet. + +“Excuse me, excuse me,” whispered Polly to the Snow Man in distress. “I +didn’t mean to, really.” + +But it did not seem to hurt the Snow Man very much to lose an arm and +a thumb, for he did not bat an eyelash, though maybe that was because +he didn’t have an eyelash to bat. + +At last Polly had him on the sled, lying on his back, feet foremost, +pipe in the air. Only the green carpet slippers were left behind in +the snow, for somehow they wouldn’t stick. At last, after much hard +pulling, Polly had the sled with the Snow Man right in front of her +very door. And at last, after more tugging and working, she had him +standing upright in front of her own warm cinders, which she now poked +up into a fine bright blaze again. Then she smiled radiantly at the +Snow Man. + +“Now you’ll be all right,” she assured him. “You’ll get all warm and +happy again, Mr. Snow Man.” + +But, my goodness, was the Snow Man crying? It certainly looked like it. +Those were surely drops of water on his face. It looked, too, as if he +needed a handkerchief. Polly hastily got out hers and applied it to the +Snow Man’s nose. + +“You ought to learn to use your handkerchief yourself,” she told him +rather severely. “I learned to use mine when I was a very little girl. +But don’t cry. Oh, don’t cry so _hard_!” + +By this time the tears were streaming down the Snow Man’s face like +rain. In fact, he hardly had a face any more; the snub nose had +vanished almost completely; his eyes had cried themselves out; his ears +were just little nubs now and were fast becoming even smaller nubs. +More than that, the Snow Man’s arms and shoulders seemed to be raining +tears too, and from his feet and body ran rivers of water. + +Oh, dear, how frightened Polly was! + +“Please don’t cry all over like that!” she begged him. “Oh, please +don’t!” + +But the water continued to flow from every pore of the Snow Man’s body. + +“Perhaps,” thought Polly, “it’s just perspiration. But if it is, it’s a +pretty bad case of it.” + +Whatever the malady, it was fast reducing the unfortunate Snow Man into +a mere pillar of slush and streaming water. His pipe fell away from his +face and dropped to the floor with a dismal sound. His poor old hat +fell off too. His legs were rapidly giving way. And as Polly watched +the Snow Man approaching his sad end, she cried heart-brokenly. Such a +beautiful Snow Man as he had been! How she had worked to help him out +of his difficulty! And now he was going, going, going. He would soon +be gone. He _was_ gone. She looked at the floor where a pond of water +lay, an old black pipe floating desolately around in it. It was the +saddest sight that Polly had ever seen. + +She cried until her mother, hearing her from upstairs, came down to her. + +“Why,” began Mrs. Flinders, “what in the world--” + +Polly sobbed. + +“What was it?” her mother asked again. + +Polly choked as she tried to answer. + +“The Snow Man--” she began, then sobbed aloud again. + +Then Mrs. Flinders, seeing the water, understood. + +“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said sympathetically. Then, “But didn’t you +know he would melt?” she asked. + +It seemed unbelievable that a child of hers would make such a foolish +mistake. + +“I forgot,” confessed Polly. “It was silly of me, but I honestly +forgot. I was so anxious--” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Flinders, “it’s too bad. But come, let us mop up the +Snow Man before he spreads all over the house.” + +So Mrs. Flinders in her nightcap and Polly, sniffling loudly, mopped up +the Snow Man, who an hour before had been a beautiful creature and was +now mere dirty water. Polly was indeed very sad about the whole affair, +and more than that she was ashamed, for she realized now how silly she +had been and she dreaded what the children of Pudding Lane would say +the next day. + +But to Polly’s everlasting surprise, the children of Pudding Lane, +instead of being angry with her, instead of laughing at her, were most +sympathetic, when she told them what she had done. + +“I think it was very nice of you to want to be kind to the poor Snow +Man,” said Jill. + +“And of course you forgot he was made of snow,” put in Miss Muffett. +“For he was such a friendly fellow.” + +At this Polly began to sniffle. + +“There, there!” Jumbo patted her shoulder. (You remember Jumbo, don’t +you, the oldest son of the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe?) “We’ll build +another Snow Man,” he said. “And we’ll wrap this Snow Man up in a +blanket to-night so he won’t get cold.” + +So the children began to build another Snow Man, and even Polly, whose +toes were warmly done up in leggings and overshoes, stayed out to help +them. For Polly felt responsible for the damage she had done, and she +felt grateful, too, to the children for their kindly attitude toward +her silly mistake. And so, although it was bitter cold, and she did +mind it terribly, she worked on and on until finally the Snow Man was +finished. But oh, how miserable she was, and how glad she was when +the Snow Man stood there complete, and she was free to return to her +cinders. Yet, as she started to say good-by, her heart sank a little. +She would be lonely again when she went back into the house by herself. +If her toes only did not trouble her so much! + +The children were astonished when she told them she was going indoors. + +“Why, Polly, we thought you liked us now,” cried Judy. + +“We thought you were having a good time with us,” said Tom, Tom, the +piper’s son. + +Poor Polly shook her head. “I do like you,” she protested. It was +dreadful to have such toes as she had, but she couldn’t help it. + +“But you don’t like to play out here with us,” said Little Boy Blue. + +“No,” confessed Polly in a small ashamed voice. “You can’t enjoy things +when your toes ache, can you?” + +“I suppose not,” Boy Blue answered politely, though his toes never had +ached. + +But Jumbo went up to Polly and took her arm. + +“Then I think it was very brave of you to go out to get the Snow Man +last night,” he said. “And it was brave of you to stay out here to-day +and help us make a new one, when your toes ached all the time.” + +He expected the rest of the children to say, “Yes, indeed, it was,” but +somehow they did not say it, nor did they say anything, not being used +to pretty speeches. But they thought it, anyway, and they looked it, +every one of them smiling at Polly in the friendliest fashion possible, +so that Polly was a little bit comforted. + +Her real comfort, however, came later from Jumbo, as he sat before her +cherished cinders with her. He looked at her pretty little toes, which +were shiny patent leather with silver buckles, and smiled. + +“Judy has big square brown shoes,” he said. “And Jill has copper toes +on her boots.” + +Polly looked at him gratefully. + +“And I rather like the cinders myself,” he went on. “Do you see that +little dwarf in there with the hood over his head?” + +Polly looked deep into the fire. + +“Oh, yes,” she said. “Isn’t he funny? And do you see that princess with +the long flames of hair?” + +“Red hair,” Jumbo grinned. He looked at Polly’s fair curls. “I like +yellow better myself.” + +Polly sighed. Perhaps she wasn’t quite hopeless, after all, in spite +of her terrible affliction. Then a coal fell in the grate with a soft +cluck of a noise. + +“Oh!” she exclaimed excitedly. “The dwarf got thumped. Who did it, did +you see?” + +“I didn’t see a thing,” replied Jumbo, “so it must have been a fairy. +And there, the Princess is disappearing.” + +“Going home to the Prince, I guess,” murmured Polly contentedly. + +“Yes.” Jumbo nodded. “Wow! But that fairy came just in time. In another +minute the dwarf would have had her.” + +And that was the way that Polly Flinders had her one and only +experience with a Snow Man, a rather unhappy experience it was too. +That was the way the children of Pudding Lane found out what a +courageous girl Polly was. And that was the way Jumbo became Polly’s +daily playmate, so that she was never lonely by her cinders any more, +but was both happy and warm thereafter. For Jumbo liked the fire, too, +especially when he and Polly sat before it spinning fairy tales, as +they did on that first day. + + + + +II + +THE VALENTINE MISTRESS MARY FOUND + + +It was past eight o’clock on that St. Valentine’s Eve, and yet from +every window in Pudding Lane shone forth the yellow light of a candle, +a phenomenon which made all the clocks in the town wonder whether +they hadn’t skipped an hour somewhere or other. For every timepiece +in the village, from Mrs. Flinders’ fine old grandfather’s clock to +Mrs. Dumpty’s pert little cuckoo, had good reason to know that one +of old King Cole’s strictest rules was, “Early to Bed and Early to +Rise”; and yet here it was eight o’clock and nobody abed yet. Queer, +thought the cuckoo, as he stepped smartly out of his box and cuckoo’ed +eight times with a significant look at Humpty Dumpty. Odd, thought the +grandfather’s clock, as he rumbled his eight strokes in Polly Flinders’ +ear. + +Silly clocks, they had forgotten what night it was, or they never would +have been so mystified. For we know what was going on that night in +Pudding Lane, don’t we? We do it ourselves on St. Valentine’s Eve. So +we can just see Boy Blue addressing an envelope to Judy, The Shoe, +Pudding Lane, and another to Bessie, The Candlestick-Maker’s, Pudding +Lane. And we can see Jill writing a verse to Jack: + + “Jack, Jack, the funny fellow, + Got bruised black and got bruised yellow, + When he came tumbling down the hill, + With his loving friend, whose name is Jill.” + +Yes, they were all making Valentines that night. The children of the +Old Woman had the Shoe cluttered up with paper and ribbon and paints. +Simple Simon was busy copying a verse for Mistress Mary. It was hardly +a delicate sentiment, reading as it did: + + “Hum, hum, Harry, + If I weren’t engaged, I should never marry.” + +But it was the only poem Simple Simon knew. Besides, it is doubtful +whether Mistress Mary would be able to read it, anyway, for Simple +Simon’s handwriting, as you know, was highly individual. + +At the Clauses’, Santa and the two batches of twins were busy making +Valentines. Santa was good at cutting and pasting, and Matthew, Mark, +Luke and John were good at getting in his way and cluttering things +up, so everybody was happy, including Mrs. Claus, who dozed by the +fire, Mr. Claus, who was reading the _Banbury Cross Weekly_ over his +spectacles, and Misery, the cat, who sat solemnly watching them all. + +Indeed, everybody in Pudding Lane was busy making Valentines, +except--guess who--Cross-Patch. You know Cross-Patch, that unpleasant +old woman who lived down at the end of Pudding Lane. Of course, +Cross-Patch was not making Valentines. She didn’t believe in such +foolishness! + +[Illustration: _Everybody was happy, including Mrs. Claus who dozed by +the fire. Page 20._] + +Yet somebody was making a Valentine for her, and that person +was--you’ll never believe it, but it’s true--the candlestick-maker. Now +although you have known the candlestick-maker quite intimately, would +you ever have guessed that he Nursed a Secret Passion for Cross-Patch? +Of course you wouldn’t. But that’s the sort of thing that comes out +on St. Valentine’s Day. He may seem like a queer kind of lover, the +toothless, bent-over old man, yet he was an earnest one, nevertheless, +and he cackled gleefully as he pasted a yellow paper rose on a pink +paper heart and wrote: + + “Needles and pins, needles and pins, + When a man marries his trouble begins.” + +When he tried to say this verse, the candlestick-maker always said, +“Peedles and nins, peedles and nins”, but it seemed to go all right +with a pencil. However, it did not sound very loving, he thought, after +he had written it, so he added a little verse like this: + + “P.S. But when a man’s married + His wife is his own, + And when a man’s single + He’s living alone.” + +It may not seem very clear to us, but the candlestick-maker was charmed +with it, and said to himself he could be a poet as well as anybody else +if he’d just take the time to it. And then, with one last delighted +cackle, he called Jack, his nephew, and bade him be nimble and be quick +about delivering that Valentine to Cross-Patch. Jack hastily jumped +over the candlestick as directed and ran down Pudding Lane with the +pink paper heart in his hand. + +Jack had gone but a few steps when he heard a little squeaking noise +which sounded like--well, it sounded to Jack like a mouse with a cold +in its nose. He stopped to listen. Yes, there it was, a choked little +squeak of a noise. Then, to Jack’s surprise, up started somebody from +behind the winter hedge near by. It was Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, +and it was she who was making the noise. Mistress Mary was crying. + +Of course, she pretended she wasn’t. When she saw Jack, she giggled in +a silly little desperate way to cover up her sobs, the way girls often +do when they’re caught in tears. + +“Hello,” said Jack. He was glad she had stopped crying. + +“Hello,” said Mistress Mary gayly, quite as if she had never shed a +tear in her life. “Where are you going?” + +“Taking a Valentine,” began Jack, when Mistress Mary unexpectedly began +to cry again in that little squealing way. Jack, much disturbed, asked +Mistress Mary what was the matter. Whereupon, the poor girl, still +weeping, explained the cause of her woe. She was crying, she said, +because she had no Valentine for Santa Claus, of whom she was so very +fond. + +“But why haven’t you a Valentine?” asked Jack. + +“Just because I was so contrary, I guess,” admitted Mistress Mary. “My +mother told me to get one ready, but I didn’t want to then--and now +it’s too late. Oh, dear, it’s often very uncomfortable to be contrary, +Jack.” + +“It must be,” thought Jack to himself. But to Mistress Mary he said, +“Well, what are you going to do about it?” + +“I don’t know,” answered Mistress Mary mournfully. “I’m afraid there’s +nothing to do now. And, oh, Santa Claus will think I don’t love him. +And I love him better than anybody else in Pudding Lane.” + +“Why don’t you send Santa Claus a flower from your garden, Mistress +Mary?” Jack suggested. “Flowers make fine Valentines, you know.” + +Mistress Mary shook her head sorrowfully. + +“Alas,” she said, “my crocuses are contrary, too, Jack. They ought to +be out now, but somehow they just won’t bloom.” + +“I see,” said Jack gravely. Truly this was pretty bad, he thought to +himself, that a girl should set such an unhappy example to the very +flowers in her garden. + +Then he thought of Mother Goose, who always knew how to get people out +of trouble. + +“Let’s ask Mother Goose what to do,” he said to Mistress Mary. + +“But Mother Goose is not here.” + +“Yes, she is,” Jack told her. “She’s spending the week-end with old +King Cole. Let’s run right up to the palace and ask her.” + +“Oh!” cried Mistress Mary, “that’s the very thing.” For once in her +life the contrary girl agreed with somebody, so the two children ran +off hand in hand toward the palace of Old King Cole. + +Mistress Mary was not the only person in Pudding Lane that night who +was in trouble. Meanwhile, something had happened at the Clauses’. +It happened so quickly too. The children had all gone to bed and +Santa Claus and his mother were sitting up addressing the last of the +Valentines and Misery was watching them. Then the next minute, while +they were still busily scratching away with their pens, Misery _wasn’t_ +watching them. + +“Where’s that cat?” asked Mrs. Claus, as she looked up. She always +called Misery “that cat” and she always pretended that she did not like +him a bit, yet it was Mrs. Claus who had given Misery so much cream +when he was a kitten that it made him fearfully sick, and it was Mrs. +Claus who now had to be watched lest she give him more meat and gravy +than was good for his digestion. + +So now she said, “Where’s that cat?” in a tone of great asperity, and +she frowned blackly at the place by the stove where Misery had been but +a moment before. + +“Perhaps he’s gone to bed,” said Santa Claus, as he carefully drew a +great flourish under Humpty-Dumpty’s name. + +Mrs. Claus got up and went over to the box where Misery slept. + +“Not here,” she reported, after rummaging around in it. “Where is that +cat?” + +She looked under the stove and in her workbasket and behind the baby’s +cradle. No Misery! She went into Mr. Claus’s bedroom and looked in the +drawer where he kept his best blue shirt. No Misery! She finally went +out into the woodshed and prowled around there in the dark, calling +for Misery. No green eyes appeared. No purring black shape came to rub +against her feet. By this time Mrs. Claus was really alarmed. She flew +back to the kitchen and Santa. + +“He’s gone!” she told her little boy. + +“Misery?” Santa asked, staring. + +“Misery himself,” answered Mrs. Claus. + +Santa jumped to his feet and ran around the room, calling the cat. +He ran all over the whole house, looking for Misery. No cat was to +be found, but the twins and Mr. Claus and even the baby woke up at +his racket, and they set up a horrible din at the news of Misery’s +departure. The four boys howled with grief; the baby screamed to keep +them company; Mr. Claus kept shouting, “Great snakes, great snakes, +great snakes,” and, oh, dear, such a time as there was in the Claus +household at that late hour on St. Valentine’s Eve. + +Of course, the Clauses kept right on looking for the cat. Mr. Claus, +good soul, even went outdoors in his bare feet (he never had got his +green slippers back since the time of the first Snow Man that year). He +went out into the yard, calling the cat so loudly that if the creature +had been within ear-shot, he would have been frightened away by the +noise. He went into the shop with a candle and poked around in the +shelves and drawers there. (They _had_ found Misery sleeping sweetly +there in a nest of buns one time.) But although they all hunted high +and low for that cat, it soon became apparent that Misery was not to be +found. + +It was a sad and sober company that gathered around the kitchen stove +when the search had been abandoned. + +“He’s gone,” spoke Mr. Claus in a hollow tone. Mr. Claus looked rather +peculiar in his nightcap and overcoat and bare feet, but nobody noticed +that. + +The twins howled again. Santa Claus blinked. Mrs. Claus was seen to rub +her eyes impatiently. + +“I knew that cat would get us into some kind of a bother,” she said. + +“And the mice,” said Mr. Claus. “I’m afraid that when the cat’s away, +the mice will play.” + +“Of course they will,” spoke up Mrs. Claus sharply. “Anybody knows +that.” Then Mrs. Claus looked at the clock and jumped energetically out +of her chair. + +“Mercy on us, Mr. Claus,” she exclaimed. “Here it is after nine! What +can we be thinking of to let the children stay up like this?” + +With which she gathered her six children up and packed them all off to +bed. + +But if you think Santa Claus could go to sleep that night, well, you +just never were the owner of a runaway cat. For Santa could think +of nothing but Misery as he lay in bed. He could see nothing but +Misery’s beautiful green eyes and swaying tail. He could hear nothing +but Misery’s purr, “the bee buzzing inside him,” as he called it. The +Valentines were forgotten, all the fun of the next day was forgotten, +as Santa mourned his lost Misery that night. + +But presently he heard a slight noise outside the house. It sounded as +if it were right there by his window. He thought he heard a whisper, +then a tiptoe, then a little hushed-up laugh. For a moment, he was +afraid. It might be Taffy, for Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, +and came around at night quite often to steal a round of beef. Then he +jeered at himself for being a scaredy-cat and climbed bravely out of +bed. He looked out of the window and saw there--what do you think? Four +hands, two green eyes, and a curly head. It was Jack and Mistress Mary +with Misery in their hands! + +“Hey!” screamed Santa Claus excitedly. + +Mistress Mary laughed and Jack called out softly “Hello!” + +“Hey!” screamed Santa Claus again. He reached out his hands and took +Misery in them. Oh, how nice and warm Misery felt to him. And was the +bee buzzing inside him? Santa Claus put his ear down to the silky black +body. Yes, there it was. Misery was happy too, glad to get home again. + +Then the rest of the Clauses came rushing in. A boy can’t shout “Hey!” +in the middle of the night, as Santa Claus had done, without waking +folks up, you know. When they saw the cat, they cried out too. And when +they looked out of the window and saw Mistress Mary and Jack standing +there laughing, they cried out again. At least, Mrs. Claus did. + +“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Where did you children come from?” + +“From old King Cole’s palace,” they told her. + +“And what are you doing here?” she asked them. + +“We brought Misery back,” they explained. + +“Name of goodness,” was all Mrs. Claus could say. + +Then Jack and Mistress Mary went around to the front door, came into +the parlor, and the Clauses all gathered around them to hear the story +of the discovery. + +“Well, there isn’t much of a story,” said Mistress Mary. “Jack and I +just went up to the palace to see Mother Goose a minute. We wanted to +ask her--something.” She looked warningly at Jack. “And when we got +there, we found them having a party in the throne room. The King and +Mother Goose were dancing a polka, the fiddlers three were playing +their fiddles, and the Queen of Hearts, well, the Queen was asleep, but +her ladies in waiting weren’t, for they were playing games with the +King’s Men--oh, it was quite a party!” + +“It must have been,” said Mrs. Claus. She wondered how often the King +indulged in such goings-on while his people were asleep in their beds. + +“But the cat,” prompted Santa. “Where did you find the cat?” + +“Why, right there,” said Mistress Mary. “Right there.” + +“In the King’s palace?” asked Mrs. Claus incredulously. “Our Misery up +at King Cole’s?” + +“Yes,” responded Mistress Mary. + +“Why, a cat may look at a King, Mrs. Claus,” the baker reminded her. + +But Mrs. Claus was flabbergasted. + +“Little did I ever think that our cat would go amongst royalty,” she +said. + +“Well, he did, anyway,” said Mistress Mary. “And he was having a lovely +time too. I never heard of a cat doing that before, running away to the +king’s, but that’s where your cat was, just the same, for we found him +right there, didn’t we, Jack?” + +“We did that,” said Jack. + +“Well,” said Mrs. Claus, “I suppose it was too dull for him here, Santa +Claus, with just you and me here in the kitchen. Misery loves company, +you know.” + +Then she got up and went to the door. + +“I don’t wish to seem unmannerly,” said Mrs. Claus, “but I know you two +children ought to be home and asleep. Does your mother know where you +are, Mistress Mary?” + +“We stopped and told her on the way,” replied Mistress Mary, “but we +ought to go now, I know.” Then Mistress Mary went over to Santa. “I +meant to give you a Valentine, Santa Claus,” she said. “I did mean to, +but here it is St. Valentine’s Eve and I haven’t any for you, after +all. I was contrary about it--” + +“Why, Mistress Mary,” exclaimed Santa Claus, “you brought Misery back +to me. And Misery’s the very best Valentine I could possibly have.” + +Mistress Mary, happy as could be at this, beamed at Santa Claus. Mother +Goose had told her that same thing--that if she took Misery back to his +master, it would be the best Valentine he could have. And now Santa +Claus had said so himself, and everything was all right. She went home +overjoyed, and as Jack walked beside her, he thought what a nice girl +Mistress Mary was when she forgot to be contrary. + +It was not until Jack got clear inside the candlestick-shop that +he remembered the Valentine his uncle had given him to take to +Cross-Patch. Then what a sinking feeling he had in his heart. What +would the old candlestick-maker say? How could he have forgotten to +deliver the Valentine when it was the very thing he had been sent out +for? Poor Jack, usually so nimble, so quick, so obedient, could have +thrashed himself for his forgetfulness. He turned around to the door. +Perhaps he could go back now and slip the Valentine under Cross-Patch’s +door. But the candlestick-maker, who had looked as if he were dozing +there on the bench, opened his eyes and spoke to Jack. + +“Did ye leave her the Valentine?” he asked. + +Jack grew red and began to stammer. + +“I’m going--I’m going back--now--” he said. + +“Then ye didn’t leave it?” asked the old man. + +Oh, dear, how Jack hated to admit his disobedience. The old +candlestick-maker was really such a good uncle to him, and now he had +just gone off and forgotten to do his errand. But he had to answer, for +the old man had his little eyes pinned on him. + +“No, sir,” he said hesitatingly. “No, sir, I forgot it, somehow. But +I’ll go back now.” + +The old man closed his eyes again for another doze. + +“Never ye mind,” he said. “It’s just as well. Don’t believe me and that +old woman would get along very well, anyway.” + + + + +III + +HOW HUMPTY DUMPTY WENT TO THE KING’S PARTY + + +It was the fourteenth of March and there was a great stir and bustle +in Pudding Lane. The ladies, in curl papers, were washing and ironing +and mending like women possessed; the men hustled about their work +at topmost speed; even the children had no time for play, but were +busy running errands, taking baths, helping their mothers, fast and +furiously. + +And what was the reason for all this industry? Why, the day of the +month was the reason. But perhaps you don’t know what the fourteenth +of March stands for; I have met children who didn’t. The fourteenth +of March is Old King Cole’s birthday, and on this particular day the +merry old soul was going to have a party in the palace, to which he had +invited every single person in Pudding Lane. + +“I declare,” said Mrs. Claus suddenly, as she rushed about her tiny +house with even more energy than ever, “I declare, I forgot all about +Humpty Dumpty!” + +She looked up at the baker, who was baking--well, it’s a secret what +Mr. Claus was baking, and a surprise, so I think I’d better not tell +even you what it was. “Well,” went on Mrs. Claus, “I _am_ be-twittered, +or I never should have forgotten Humpty Dumpty, Mr. Claus.” + +“Of course you wouldn’t,” agreed Mr. Claus, adding an extra flourish to +the--well, to _it_. + +Mrs. Claus ran to the door. + +“Santa,” she called, “run right down to the Dumpties’ and see who’s +going to sit up with Humpty to-night. I clean forgot about him. Tell +Mrs. Dumpty I’ll sit myself, if nobody else has offered.” + +Mr. Claus looked up in alarm. + +“You’d never miss the birthday party to sit up with Humpty Dumpty, +would you?” he asked. + +“I would if there was nobody else to sit up with him,” replied his wife +stoutly, though in her heart she did hope she would not have to miss +the King’s birthday party, for she had made herself a fine new yellow +waist, had Mrs. Claus, and she was expecting to make quite a sensation +in it. + +“Dear me,” said Mr. Claus, “I don’t want to go to the party alone with +five children, Mrs. Claus.” + +“Well, you may have to,” was his wife’s comforting reply. “Poor Humpty +Dumpty! He’s a public charge, Mr. Claus, what with having no father, +and I’m not the one to neglect him, I’m really not.” + +Mrs. Claus, for all her tart speech, _was_ a good soul, wasn’t she? +It’s not hard to see where Santa Claus got his kind heart. + +But when Santa came back from the Dumpties’, it was to report that +Jack and Jill, who lived in the Dumpty block, had offered to stay +with the invalid while Mrs. Dumpty disported herself with royalty for +one evening. Jack, who still had his crown bandaged up, and Jill, who +wore a patch on her cheek even now, had painful memories of their own +tumble, you see, and so naturally felt most sympathetic toward poor +Humpty in his misfortune. + +“Why, bless their little hearts,” said Mrs. Claus, “aren’t they good +children? I never would have thought it of that tomboy Jill, to be +frank with you.” + +After which display of candor, Mrs. Claus went on with her ironing +and mending, to the end that the Clauses should make a respectable +appearance before Old King Cole and the Queen of Hearts. + +But even if Mrs. Dumpty were going to the party, her heart felt heavy +about it, poor soul. For there sat her Humpty, confined to his chair, +the most dejected of boys. And who wouldn’t have been dejected under +those circumstances? This was the first time that Old King Cole had +ever celebrated his birthday with the humble people of Pudding Lane. +Once the King of France had come for that great occasion, and Mother +Goose was often invited to share his birthday cake, but until to-day +the people of Pudding Lane had never been invited for the festivity. + +And such an occasion as this was going to be too! There was to be a +supper two hours long; there was to be music from London; there was to +be a Punch-and-Judy show; but wonder of all wonders, there was to be +a trained bear! All this, not to mention the surprise that Mr. Claus +was baking. Oh, dear, Humpty Dumpty did wish he could walk up the hill +to the palace. If he just could! Or if somebody could carry him. But, +alas, it was impossible. Humpty was too heavy, the hill was too steep. +So that all the poor boy could do was to sit in his chair and think, +think, think and wish, wish, wish. + +Mrs. Dumpty came in when she was dressed and looked at him anxiously. + +“You know Jack and Jill are only going to stay until you fall asleep,” +she told him. “It wouldn’t be right to ask them to miss all of the +party.” + +“Oh, no,” replied Humpty, but he could not, for the life of him, look +as cheerful as he wanted to. + +“Poor boy,” said Mrs. Dumpty. Then she added with sudden conviction, +“I’m not going at all. I’m not going. I shall stay right here with you.” + +But Humpty protested so vigorously that Mrs. Dumpty finally yielded to +his entreaties. It _would_ be disrespectful to the King to stay home, +she admitted, though she certainly didn’t feel very partyfied, she +added. Then she asked Humpty if he liked her beads, and Humpty told her +he liked them very much, though what that boy knew about beads was very +little, I suspect. + +“I always did like a red bead,” said Mrs. Dumpty. “Good-by, darling +Humpty. I’ll bring you a piece of birthday cake, whether or no.” + +I don’t believe Pudding Lane ever saw anything half so grand as that +party at Old King Cole’s palace. There were flowers and music, fruits +and confections, jewelry and satins, all mixed up, until it made your +head swim. + +The King and Queen stood up to receive their guests in the most cordial +manner possible. It was true that the Queen of Hearts could think +of nothing else to say but “And how are you this evening?” and then +didn’t listen as the good, honest people of Pudding Lane started to +tell her in great detail just exactly how they were that evening. It +is equally true that Old King Cole laughed immoderately, no matter +what anybody said, and that he even laughed at Mrs. Dumpty when she +tearfully offered Humpty’s regrets,--behavior that made that devoted +mother highly indignant. But that was just Old King Cole’s way of +being pleasant; and it was certainly much better than folding your +arms and frowning prodigiously, as the butcher did; or pulling a +long, melancholy face, like the baker; or bowing and jerking forward +incessantly, as the candlestick-maker seemed to think it necessary to +do. There are all kinds of ways of being polite, but it does seem as +if the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker might have +selected more winning methods. + +“Dear me, Mr. Claus,” said Mrs. Grundy, coming up to him as he stood +between his neighbors, the picture of dismal woe, “is it such a sad +occasion as that?” + +Mr. Claus jumped and looked at her even more solemnly than ever, and +the butcher glared ferociously at her, and the candlestick-maker, +bowing low, bumped the good lady’s fan out of her hand. + +“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Mrs. Grundy. “Somebody rescue me from these +creatures.” + +Whereupon up came Jack Spratt to offer her his arm. + +“There’s lean meat on the banquet table,” he whispered. “Come, let’s +have some of it.” + +So Mrs. Grundy disappeared on the arm of the accomplished Jack Spratt +as Mr. Claus watched them enviously. + +“I wonder how he does it,” thought the baker to himself. Poor Mr. +Claus, he was but a humble fellow, more at home with his pies and cakes +than in such brilliant company as this. + +Mrs. Claus, however, was no dullard in society, for she could speak her +mind to anybody, and was even now telling the Queen of Hearts how she +had made that yellow waist she wore out of just one yard and an eighth +of cloth, not counting the cuffs. Santa, too, was having a fine time +with all the other children, Bo-Peep, Jack Horner, Little Miss Muffett, +Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and all the rest. + +Yes, they were all having a delightful time at Old King Cole’s party. +Even Simple Simon felt at home in the palace, as he went happily about, +eating and drinking, smiling and nodding. He even danced a bit, did +Simple Simon, and did not seem to mind at all that while he was doing +the polka, everybody else, including his partner, was dancing a waltz. +But his partner minded, I can tell you, and if any little girl wants to +have her toes stepped on and her shoes completely spoiled, just let her +try to dance with Simple Simon as Polly Flinders did on that night of +the fourteenth of March. + +At last, when everybody had danced a little, and eaten and drunk +quite a lot, and talked some, and stared at all the trappings of +the palace a great deal, at last it came time for the trained bear. +At the announcement the little boys yelled with delight, the little +girls shivered, the mothers and fathers sat up importantly and looked +exceedingly brave. + +For this was no common bear, but a noted beast from London who had +made that great city laugh and gasp many a night with his antics and +tricks. And here he came! Oh, how funny he was, that bear. The way he +walked was funny, as he ambled slowly in, straight past the King and +Queen without so much as a glance at their royal personages. The way +he looked was funny, as his little eyes glimmered from their depth of +brown fur, and he yawned softly in the most bored fashion possible. The +way he acted was funny, too, and the children screamed as he put up one +paw and slowly rubbed his nose, for all the world like a meditative old +man. + +But his tricks were funnier still, and as Tubby Tim, the old bear +trainer, cracked his whip and shouted his commands, the children of +Pudding Lane, and the grown-ups, too, thought they had never seen such +a remarkable bear. As indeed, they had not, never having seen any bear +at all before. + +“Up, Bumbo, old boy!” shouted Tubby Tim, and the bear stood on his hind +legs. + +“Waltz, Bumbo! One, two, three!” ordered Tubby Tim, and lo, the bear +was swaying around on his hind feet in a waltz that nobody would +have been ashamed of. In truth, Polly Flinders was thinking to herself +that she’d a great deal rather dance with the bear than with Simple +Simon. + +[Illustration: _No Lady Wind was that. No dog either. But a bear that +stood before her. Page 43._] + +But at last, when the old bear had roared loud and alarmingly at the +children (who stopped laughing then), when he had stood on his head +and shown his teeth and rolled a hoop and done a great many other +astounding things, Tubby Tim said abruptly, “That’s all”, and led him +out. But the party wasn’t over yet by a good deal, for there was still +the puppet show, which Tubby Tim now started to make ready. + +Jack and Jill and Humpty Dumpty down in the Dumpty house meanwhile were +having a quiet little game of “Button, button” when they heard a noise +at the door. + +“What’s that?” asked Jack. + +“The Lady Wind,” answered Jill. “March is her month, you know.” + +“It sounds more like a dog than a lady,” said Jack. + +“Ho, ho,” scoffed Jill, “you don’t even know wind when you hear it.” +With which Miss Jill flounced to the door and flung it wide open. +But goodness, what was that in the doorway? No Lady Wind was that. +No dog either. But a _bear_ that stood before her, yellow-eyed and +open-mouthed! + +“Oh!” gasped Jill faintly. + +“Oh, oh!” breathed Jack and Humpty together. + +The bear ambled into the room. + +“Run,” cried Jack to Jill. “Run upstairs and shut the door tight, or +he’ll eat you!” + +“But he’ll eat you too! Come along,” whispered Jill. + +Then they both looked at Humpty Dumpty, who sat quaking and white in +his chair. For Humpty could not run, of course, and he saw himself a +fine meal for that open mouth. + +“No, we must stay with Humpty,” said Jill, shivering with fear. + +“Of course,” answered Jack, trembling. + +“Perhaps if we all fight him, we can get him out,” suggested Jill. + +“Yes, come on, let’s fight him,” replied Jack. + +“I can’t fight,” said Humpty from his chair, “but I can glare mighty +hard. I’ll glare at him, Jill.” + +“Yes, you glare, Humpty Dumpty,” said Jill encouragingly. + +Jack by this time had rolled up his sleeves, ready for battle, and +Jill, flinging back the hair from her eyes, rushed at the bear +headlong. But what was that bear doing, anyway, if he were not rubbing +against Jill’s knees with the affection of an old family cat? What +was he pawing at her so softly, so gently for, if it were not because +he wanted her to play with him? Why did he look up at her with those +funny little yellow eyes, if it were not to reassure her as to his good +intentions? + +“Why,” cried Jill, “I believe he’s a pet bear!” + +“I think he is!” answered Jack. + +“I wonder if he’d like to be patted,” ventured Humpty, putting a timid +hand on Bumbo’s back. The bear dropped on his back and pawed playfully +in the air. + +“He does want to play,” cried Humpty Dumpty. + +What a fine playfellow he was, too, that Bumbo bear, as the three +children romped with him there in Mrs. Dumpty’s back parlor. How he +rolled and pawed and growled--just a pretend-growl, though; you could +tell he didn’t mean a thing by it. How he tumbled and jumped and +trotted around the room. He even seemed to understand that Humpty could +not play as the other children could, but went to Humpty’s chair and +nosed and pawed around so amusingly that the poor invalid quite forgot +himself in his delight. + +The Punch-and-Judy show was meanwhile progressing at the palace, and +Judy had just given Punch a mighty cuff on the cheek, to the infinite +pleasure of the audience, when Mr. Claus, who had laughed until the +tears came, began to fish for his pocket handkerchief. But, as he +fished, his eye was arrested by a startling vision at the door. + +“Great snakes!” he roared suddenly. + +Tubby Tim dropped his puppets and everybody looked up quickly. + +“Saints preserve us!” shrieked Mrs. Grundy. + +And immediately there arose such a bellowing and crying, such a +tumbling of chairs and confusion of figures, as to make Old King Cole’s +birthday party look like a riot instead. Mr. Horner was seen to throw +off his coat in great haste, Simple Simon began to call loudly and +insistently for help, Mrs. Dumpty started to faint, then thought better +of it, and came to again. As for the Queen of Hearts, that royal lady +straightway went into a fine fit of hysterics, deportment which she +considered highly becoming to queens in time of stress. + +And what do you suppose was the cause of all this uproar? What was this +vision in the doorway that had suddenly set all of Pudding Lane to +screaming and bawling? + +It was nothing more than our friend Bumbo, who stood in the doorway +blinking soberly, with Humpty Dumpty on his back and Jack and Jill on +each side of him. Which, you’ll have to admit, was pretty much of a +surprise for people who had supposed that the bear was snoozing in the +pantry; and which looked indeed like a dangerous business to folks that +didn’t know what a very friendly bear Bumbo was. + +But so smiling and serene were those three children, so extremely +placid was Bumbo himself, that it finally became apparent that there +was really nothing to howl about. And so at last the noise did subside +somewhat, save for the exceedingly loud sniffling of Jill’s mother, who +was having a little weep all to herself, and quite naturally too. + +Then Jill explained the business. + +“He was such a friendly bear,” she ended, nodding brightly at Tubby +Tim, “so well-trained, that Jack and I thought there would be nothing +easier than to bring Humpty up here on his back. And it was; it was as +easy as pie. And here he is.” + +But Mr. Claus had started up suddenly at the mention of “pie” and +bolted through the assemblage and out of the door. Old King Cole looked +over at Mrs. Claus in a rather annoyed manner. + +“What’s happened now, Mrs. Claus?” he asked crustily. “Is your husband +ill, perhaps?” + +“Well, I wouldn’t know, your Majesty,” replied Mrs. Claus, who, if the +truth must be told, was deeply ashamed of her husband’s odd company +manners. “He was all right when we left home,” and to herself she +muttered that it wasn’t her fault if the man acted like a zany. Do you +know what a zany is? Well, Mrs. Claus didn’t either, but she supposed +it was some kind of animal, and she liked to apply the word to Mr. +Claus in what she called his “off” moments. + +But bless you, it was Mrs. Claus who was having the off moment this +time, for what the baker had gone for was the secret, a thing that +everybody had completely forgotten in the hubbub and excitement. So +that not only Old King Cole, but everybody else was surprised when Mr. +Claus came strutting back with it, the secret, in his hands. When they +did see it, they remembered again, and all started to sing a verse that +Mrs. Grundy had composed for the occasion, which began, “Sing a song of +sixpence, pocket full of rye.” And now you know, don’t you, what the +surprise was that Mr. Claus had baked for Old King Cole’s birthday? And +sure enough, when that merry old soul cut open his birthday pie, out +flew the four and twenty blackbirds and began to sing; and, as Mrs. +Grundy said, was that not a dainty dish to set before a king? + +Old King Cole thought it was. He was the most surprised and delighted +man you ever saw, and as the birds flew around the room and sang, he +became more charmed and bewildered than ever, so that he really was in +no condition to make a speech when the people called for one. But he +arose just the same and, taking off his crown, fumbled nervously with +it, as he tried to think of something to say. His people the meanwhile +beamed loyally at him, so happy that they had really pleased Old King +Cole, who was always doing something to please them. + +“Friends,” began the King, “I am deeply obliged--” Then he stopped and +burst into a hearty laugh, which rang and reverberated down the great +halls and rooms of the palace until the building almost shook. + +And that was as far as Old King Cole ever got, for every time he’d try +to sober down and go on with the speech, laughter overcame him, until +at last all the people there began to laugh just to see him. They +roared, they shook, they rocked with laughter, did those good people of +Pudding Lane, until it began to look as if they would never get their +faces straight again, never get their breath again, never stop holding +their sides. Even the butcher left off frowning, the baker stopped +looking dismal, the candlestick-maker ceased bowing, as they all +laughed there together. And of course Jack and Jill laughed, and Humpty +Dumpty, too, for they were the ones to whom it was the most fun of all, +because they were the ones who had nearly missed the party. + +And let me tell you something. The bear laughed too. He didn’t make +a noise about it, and he didn’t shake, but there was a look in his +eye that was plainly a look of laughter, and there was a twist to his +mouth, as he stood there by Tubby Tim’s legs, that was unmistakably a +grin. Yes, Bumbo laughed too. And if anybody wants to know, he laughed +many times after that as he thought of King Cole’s birthday party and +of his part in the whole performance. For, of course, if Bumbo had not +trotted off adventuring as he did, Humpty Dumpty would never have got +to the party, and if--oh, well, he did go trotting off, so what’s the +use of if-ing about it? + + + + +IV + +SIMPLE SIMON HAS HIS DAY + + +It had seemed to the children of Pudding Lane that April Fool’s Day +would never, never come, they had been waiting for it so long; and +now that it had come, blest if it wasn’t raining pitchforks, as Mrs. +Claus said. And blest if it wasn’t. It really did look like pitchforks, +that rain, as it came slanting down in sharp, shining spears, splash, +splash, splash, as fast as it could come. It really looked as if the +sun would never shine in Pudding Lane again, for surely no sun would +be foolish enough even to try to break through all that darkness and +wetness and gloom. + +And so, if you had been a frog in a puddle on Pudding Lane that +morning, you would have seen noses pressed tight against every window +there and disappointed eyes fastened sadly on the rainy world outside. +You might even have seen rain in those eyes themselves, though I +wouldn’t be positive of that. That roundish nose there against the +first window was Humpty Dumpty’s; the turned-up one was Jill’s; the +straight little pretty one was Miss Muffett’s; all those pert affairs +sticking out of the buttonholes of the Shoe were no others than the +noses of the children of the Old Woman Who Lived there. + +The only nose that was not plastered against a window was Simple +Simon’s and the reason that Simple Simon’s nose was not there was +because Simple Simon himself was out in the rain, and his nose was with +him. Yes, that foolish fellow was standing in front of the butcher +shop, and as composedly as if it were the sun, and not the rain, that +was beating down on his head. But why was he holding that long thick +rope so carefully in his right hand? And what was that tiny object on +the walk to which his eyes were directed so intently? + +That object seemed to be a purse, a very, very small purse--oh, now we +know what poor Simple Simon thought he was doing, don’t we? He thought +he was going to fool somebody with that old, old trick. He thought +somebody would come along pretty soon, stoop to pick up the pocketbook, +and that he, the clever Simon, would jerk it out of reach. He could +see now, in his mind’s eye, how silly the somebody would look, and +he snickered there to himself at the mere thought of that delicious +moment. Oh, Simon, Simon! As if anybody with half an eye would not have +seen the rope long before he saw the wee pocketbook. As if anybody +would have been apt to come strolling along in the rain, anyway! Ah, +me, I’m afraid Simple Simon’s wits do not improve much with the years. + +Well, it kept on raining and Simple Simon kept on standing there and +the rest of the Pudding Lane children kept on looking forlornly at +the rain, when whirr, swish, plop,--down dropped Mother Goose on the +gander’s back, directly in front of Simple Simon. Simple Simon wrenched +his eyes a moment from the purse to smile swiftly and delightedly at +the beloved old lady, who now hardly looked like herself, so drenched +and dripping was she. + +“Good morning, Simon,” said Mother Goose, as the gander shook a shower +of water from his back. + +Simon’s smile waxed wider. + +“Morning, mum,” he answered with a bow, then straightened up and sent +his eyes flying back to the purse. He didn’t want anybody to come along +and pick it up when he wasn’t looking, you see! Mother Goose regarded +him curiously for a moment. + +“Fooling somebody, Simple Simon?” she asked. + +“Yes’m,” replied Simple Simon gleefully. + +Mother Goose laughed softly. + +“Well, I guess it’s Simple Simon you’re fooling,” she said, and ran +into the Clauses’ next door. + +Simple Simon meditated a while over what Mother Goose had just said +and was highly pleased. How funny that was, he thought, to be fooling +yourself! For, of course, Simple Simon did not mind in the least being +the butt of his own joke. And if he didn’t mind, I suppose we needn’t. +Only it does seem like a queer kind of April Fool’s trick to go to all +that trouble just to fool yourself, doesn’t it? + +Inside the cozy little kitchen at the Clauses’ Mother Goose dried her +clothes and visited comfortably with her daughter, Mrs. Claus, and the +rest of the family. + +“My goodness, Santa,” she exclaimed, “you _are_ a long-faced little +boy! And the twins! Why, what can be the matter with these children, +Nellie?” She turned to her daughter, “Are they ill?” + +“It’s April Fool’s Day, Mother Goose,” spoke up little Santa. + +“I know that,” replied his grandmother promptly. “And I, for one, think +that the Weather Man has done a fine job of fooling all you children.” + +Santa Claus looked up surprised. + +“Do you suppose that’s why he sent the rain?” he asked Mother Goose. + +“Not a doubt of it in the world,” answered the old lady vigorously. +“The Weather Man has to have a little fun, you know. And I’ll venture +he’s laughing fit to kill at the sight of your doleful chops.” + +Here Mother Goose laughed merrily, and Santa Claus tried manfully to +laugh too; but it’s hard to laugh when the joke’s on you, and I’m +afraid he didn’t make a very good job of it. + +“Maybe he’ll fool you again and send the sun pretty soon,” suggested +Mrs. Claus. She felt pretty sorry for the children, did Mrs. Claus, and +she was surprised that Mother Goose did not seem more sympathetic. + +“Nonsense,” said Mother Goose tartly. “I say, you people are +serious-minded folk for such a day as April Fool’s. You must take a +joke better than this, you know, or you’ll spoil the Weather Man’s +fun entirely. Why, I shall be ashamed to show my face up there at the +Weather Man’s house if he thinks my grandchildren don’t know how to +take a joke!” + +“Are you going up to see the Weather Man?” asked Mrs. Claus. + +“I’m on my way there now,” Mother Goose told her. + +“And what about the Man in the Moon?” asked Mrs. Claus, smirking at the +baker, who tried his best to smirk back. + +“The Man in the Moon is suffering a temporary eclipse,” replied the old +lady sharply, at which Mrs. Claus and Mr. Claus both laughed heartily, +and Santa wondered what kind of disease an eclipse was, and if it hurt +as much as the mumps did. + +“As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Mr. Claus,” +said Mother Goose casually to her son-in-law. + +Mr. Claus jumped out of his chair. + +“Seven wives!” he exclaimed. “Great snakes, Mother Goose, seven wives! +Why, what would a man want with _seven_ of ’em--that is--oh, dear, +seven!” Clearly Mr. Claus was greatly agitated over this piece of news. + +“But they weren’t his wives, Mr. Claus,” added Mother Goose. “They +were his brothers’ wives. Ha, ha, April Fool!” cried Mother Goose. At +which she and Mrs. Claus and the children shouted with delight, as poor +Mr. Claus grinned foolishly and wished he hadn’t been so quick to bite +at Mother Goose’s bait. + +But while all this was going on in the Clauses’ house, Simple Simon was +playing another joke all by himself outside. For it had occurred to him +that it would be the best possible fun to play a joke on old Mother +Goose herself. And so, what did Simple Simon do but step softly around +to the shed where the old lady had left her gander? What did he do but +take that gander and carry him into The-House-that-Jack-Built, that big +uninhabited house a few doors away? What did he do but hide the gander +there and then come out on to Pudding Lane again, looking as wicked and +proud of himself as you please? + +“Well,” said Mother Goose, when she went out to the shed and found that +the gander was not there, “this is a pretty pickle.” + +Mrs. Claus agreed that it was a pretty pickle, but Mr. Claus differed a +bit with the ladies and called it a “fine how-do-you-do.” Anyway what +they all meant was that it wasn’t a pretty pickle, or even a fine +how-do-you-do, but that it was instead a very serious thing for Mother +Goose to lose her gander. So they started straightway to hunt the +gander, but although they searched and searched and called and called +that bird, they could not find him in all of Pudding Lane. And at last +they came back to the house, drenched with rain, and sat down in a +gloomy circle around the stove. + +“Whatever will you do without the gander, Mother Goose?” asked Mrs. +Claus. + +“Do?” repeated Mother Goose with some asperity. “Well, I’ll just stay +here the rest of my days, I suppose. I certainly can’t fly around the +world with nothing to fly on, can I?” + +“But what will the Weather Man think when you don’t appear for your +visit?” + +“Goodness only knows,” answered Mother Goose. “He’ll think something, +you may be sure. And we’ll know soon enough what he thinks. If he’s +angry, he might even send a tornado. Oh, don’t shiver now, baker. It +hasn’t struck us yet. What _is_ coming over that bird? He acts like a +loon sometimes. I really think I’ll have to get myself a fine turkey +gobbler to ride on. They have more sense than ganders.” + +Mother Goose would not have scolded and fussed like this at the +poor absent gander had she known what a flutter that bird was in +himself. For the gander had not run away at all, but had been taken +by Simple Simon entirely against his will, and now as he stood in +The-House-that-Jack-Built, tied fast to a bedpost, his were harsh +and desperate thoughts. To think that he had been tricked like this +by that absurd Simple Simon, he of all fowls the most trustworthy, +the most sagacious. Tied to a bedpost indeed! What humiliation, what +degradation! The poor gander squirmed and writhed with the bitter shame +of it; but he might as well have stood still, for he was tied with that +very rope Simple Simon had used for his other joke, and that rope, as +we know, was a very substantial affair, such as no mere gander could +break. + +But while Mother Goose fussed and the gander squirmed, one person was +laughing aloud at the fun of it all, and that person was, of course, +Simple Simon. He could hardly contain himself as he stood there in the +rain and thought about it. And to tell the truth, Mother Goose and Mr. +Claus _had_ looked pretty funny as they ran down Pudding Lane, calling +the gander. Mother Goose, indeed, always looked funny when she ran, +for the good old lady was so accustomed to riding that she took very +ill to running. But when she ran in a rainstorm, as she did on this +day, she was just a little more ridiculous than ever, with her long +skirts wound damply around her legs, her glasses streaming with water, +her feet in Mr. Claus’s enormous rubber boots which sloshed, sloshed, +sloshed. + +As for Mr. Claus, he was not quite so funny until you noticed the +cascade of rain that came spouting down on his nose through a hole in +his umbrella, and then he became very funny indeed. And the really +ludicrous thing about that was that the more Mr. Claus tried to dodge +the waterfall, the faster it came through the hole; and the more he +shifted the umbrella around, the more accurately did the waterfall +strike him on the very tip-tip of his nose. Yes, that was very amusing, +and Simple Simon laughed himself weak now as he remembered it. All the +other children at the windows had laughed at the sight too, though they +did not know why Mr. Claus and Mother Goose were out in the rain like +that. They had paid no attention to Simon and his tricks. Nobody ever +did. + +Up in his home the Weather Man was becoming decidedly worried at the +non-arrival of his expected guest, Mother Goose, and he confessed to +the Weather Woman, his wife, that he was afraid something was terribly, +terribly wrong. + +“She always keeps her engagements,” he said. “She is a most punctual +woman.” + +“Perhaps she is ill,” suggested the Weather Woman. + +“She’s never been ill in her life,” said the Weather Man. + +“No sign she never will be,” retorted the Weather Woman. + +Just then the Weather Girl and the Weather Boy came in, those two hardy +children of the Weather Man. + +“Where’s Mother Goose?” they demanded. + +“Not here,” replied the Weather Man. + +“Didn’t come,” said the Weather Woman. + +“Not here! Didn’t come!” repeated the Weather Children. “Why, what’s +the matter? Is the rain too much for her?” + +The Weather Man looked thoughtful at this suggestion, then turned to +his wife. + +“Weather Woman,” he addressed her, “do you suppose that this rain could +possibly be the reason for Mother Goose’s failure to appear?” + +“I shouldn’t wonder a bit,” replied the Weather Woman. “You know how +those earth-people are about rain. I declare, sometimes I think they’ll +never get used to it, the way they carry umbrellas in the rain, and +wear waterproofs against it, and stay at home because of it, as if a +little water once in a while would hurt the dear creatures!” + +“Well,” spoke the Weather Man, “if that’s the reason that Mother +Goose hasn’t come, we’ll have to stop the rain, that’s all. Weather +Children,” he ordered, “kindly shut off the rain and turn on the sun. +Perhaps we’ve fooled the children of Pudding Lane long enough, anyway.” + +So that is how it happened that three minutes later, Pudding Lane found +itself bathed in clear, sparkling sunshine which left no sign of the +previous rain except the puddles in the street, the gently dripping +trees, and some little ruffled-up birds, who shook themselves furiously +in the sun and sang loud songs of thanksgiving that the downpour was +over. And that is how it happened that all the children came tumbling +out of their homes pell-mell as they did and began fooling each other +as fast as ever they could to make up for lost time. + +Such jokes as those children played too! There was Handy-Spandy, +Jack-a-Dandy, for example, who really was such easy prey it was +almost too bad to fool him. For when Santa Claus offered the greedy +fellow a nice plum cake, or what looked like a plum cake, Handy-Spandy +just grabbed it and sank his teeth into it without a single +question--without even much of a thank-you, though I guess that mumble +in his throat was meant for a thank-you. And when he bit down into the +cake, oh, how the children screamed, for it wasn’t a plum cake at all, +but a cotton cake, which Mr. Claus had made especially for the children +to fool Handy with on that first day of April. + +They fooled Santa Claus too, telling him that Judy wanted him down at +the Shoe; but when Santa ran as fast as he could run down to the shoe, +there was nothing waiting there for him but a big sign which said, +“April Fool, Santa!” Which did surprise that little boy vastly, for he +had forgotten he could be fooled, so busy was he trying to fool other +people. + +The children had a good deal of fun with Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, for +when he wasn’t looking, Johnny Bo-Peep pinned a big card on Tom’s back +which read, “Please to kick me, my dears!” And then when the children +proceeded to obey the injunction, poor Tom looked so bewildered and +foolish that it almost seemed as if that were the very funniest joke of +all. + +Oh, everybody was fooled good and plenty, and great was the noise, +the laughter and shouting. And at last, when all the tricks had been +exhausted, and when the children were exhausted too, out came Mother +Goose from the Clauses’ house. + +“I say,” she cried to the children, who had surrounded her until you +couldn’t see a thing of her but the tip of her pointed hat, “I say, I +know somebody you haven’t fooled!” + +Oh, was there still somebody to fool? Delightful! + +“Yes,” went on Mother Goose, “we can still fool somebody else. We +can still fool the gander, children! For he’s run off to fool us, I +suppose, and now if we find him, it’ll be a joke on the silly bird, you +see.” + +So they started out on the great search for the gander, all of them, +scattered in every direction. And what of Simple Simon? Well, Simple +Simon was just as pleased as he could possibly be over the whole +affair, for now that he had fooled Mother Goose by hiding her gander, +he was perfectly willing to fool the gander by bringing him back to +Mother Goose. You see, he was so simple that he didn’t comprehend that +to bring the gander back would not really fool him at all. So into +The-House-that-Jack-Built trotted Simple Simon, chuckling jovially at +the whole affair, and out he came again in half a minute, leading the +dejected old gander behind him. + +“Bless me,” said Mother Goose, when she caught sight of the gander, +“here he is. Why, Simple Simon, you are a fine fellow, indeed you are.” + +Simple Simon, no longer able to contain himself, laughed outright. + +“I did fool you, after all, didn’t I?” he asked proudly. “I hid the +gander, Mother Goose,” he went on excitedly, “and you never guessed it +at all.” + +And there the absurd fellow had given the whole thing away! Oh, how the +children enjoyed that joke, and how Mother Goose laughed too. But above +all the racket could be heard Simple Simon’s great guffaws celebrating +his own wit and smartness, like the simpleton he was. + + + + +V + +MRS. CLAUS HAS A GREAT HONOR + + +Mrs. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater was briskly shaking out her best +parlor rug in her back garden one fine May day when flap, flap, clack, +clack, came a noise to her ears. + +“Bless me,” said the tiny lady, looking up, “if Mrs. Dumpty isn’t at it +too.” + +True enough, the mother of Humpty was likewise in her back garden, +beating a rug, and as Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater looked to the other side of +her, she discovered that Jill’s mother was doing precisely the same +thing. Then she saw that the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe was shaking +out _her_ rugs too, and so were Mrs. Grundy and Mrs. Claus, the mother +of Santa,--why, all of Pudding Lane was shaking out its rugs at that +very minute! Which was not so strange, when you consider that this was +the first day of May, which, as anybody knows, means house-cleaning +to any right-thinking woman. But the first of May means also a Maypole +and a May Queen and baskets of flowers on the door knobs. And now we’re +coming to the really sad part of this story. + +For it did look as if house-cleaning this year were going to crowd out +May Day in Pudding Lane completely. Always before, while the mothers +of Pudding Lane were cleaning their houses, Mother Goose had come to +give the children their May Day, so that they had never missed it. But +this year Mother Goose had gone to a house party at the Frosts’, Jack +and his wife, you know, who do a good deal of entertaining in their +slack season. And so, since Mother Goose was not there and the mothers +of Pudding Lane were so busy with house-cleaning, it did look very +doubtful about the Maypole. + +The children, Bo-Peep, Jack Horner, Polly Flinders, Jack and Jill and +Santa Claus, were talking about it in Santa Claus’s shed that very +morning. + +“They could house-clean to-morrow. I wouldn’t mind living in a dirty +house one more day,” ruminated Jack. + +“I wouldn’t mind it forever,” spoke up Jill. Which was probably true, +for Jill was not the tidiest little girl in the world. + +Then Simple Simon jumped up quite suddenly and began to dance, throwing +his long legs gleefully around and laughing as he did so,--quite a +spectacle, I can assure you. Even the children, who were used to his +queer ways, were astonished, and they were still more astonished when +he abruptly sat down, and drawing them all close about him on the shed +floor, began to tell them a wonderful secret, in a whispering voice so +full of “shishes” and “shushes” they could hardly hear what he said. + +And as soon as Simple Simon had finished, the children all jumped to +their feet and ran off together, so that in another moment not one of +them was to be seen in Pudding Lane. Their mothers did not even miss +them, so deep were they in the business of house-cleaning. + +A deadly earnest business it was too. You could see by the way Mrs. +Dumpty pressed her lips together that this was no laughing matter. +You could tell by the set of Mother Hubbard’s jaw that she’d see this +affair through to the finish, come what would. And as for the tiny Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater, well, although her rug was three times as big as she +was, and she herself was only one third as big as she ought to have +been, she shook that offending piece of carpet as if to shake its very +red roses off, and I think she would have loosened a petal or two, if +they had been any but woolen roses. + +But if all this were deadly serious to those excellent housewives +themselves, it was an even grimmer business for their husbands. If ever +a man is miserable, it is during spring house-cleaning, and already on +this day uncomfortable things had begun to happen to the men of Pudding +Lane. Mr. Claus, for one, had risen to find the kitchen table upside +down in the back garden and had been forced to eat his breakfast from +the window sill, no good way to start the day, certainly. But it was +rather worse for Jack Spratt, who got no breakfast at all. Mrs. Spratt +simply told him she couldn’t be bothered, unless, she added, he’d “do +with a piece of fat meat”, which of course, being the man he was, he +_couldn’t_ do with. + +Mr. Horner, poor man, slipped on a piece of wet soap which was on the +kitchen floor--though it certainly had no business there--and nearly +broke his neck. And Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater was forced to appear in +public in his shirt sleeves, because, when he had marched to his old +peg that morning to fetch his coat as usual, it was to discover that +not only had the coat disappeared, but the peg had too--which shows how +far things had gone in the pumpkin shell that morning. + +But the most miserable of all men in Pudding Lane that day was Old +King Cole, the merry old soul himself. It does seem as if a King ought +not be bothered with such unpleasant affairs as house-cleaning. But +Old King Cole was bothered, for the Queen of Hearts was nothing if +she was not a good housekeeper. Consequently, the king had awakened +that morning to find carpets up and curtains down, furniture stacked, +dishes, brushes, paint cans, brooms, buckets everywhere, and the Queen, +her royal head in a dust cap, chasing the servants about in what looked +like a mad game of tag. + +Moreover, as the Queen was having the throne regilded and the chairs +all resilvered, poor Old King Cole had to stand up all the time, unless +he chose to sit on wet paint, which he didn’t. And worse than that, he +had to stand perfectly still too, for when he tried to walk, he found +himself stumbling over mattresses, crashing into glass dishes, stepping +into buckets of water, and slipping on wet paint brushes. My goodness, +how uncomfortable he was, standing there in the midst of all that +higgledy-piggledy, while the Queen and the fiddlers three and all the +king’s men rushed insanely around, never once looking at him. + +His legs soon began to ache dreadfully; his head buzzed with the noise. +He called for his pipe. Nobody paid the least attention. He called for +his bowl. It was not brought. He called for his fiddlers three. They +leaped up to him, made deep hurried bows, offered their apologies, and +were off to help the Queen of Hearts again, who at that moment was at +the top of a stepladder, wrestling with a curtain rod. + +“This is enough,” said Old King Cole bitterly to himself, and, smashing +through the glass dishes, paint buckets and wet mops on the floor, he +bounded out of the throne room and through the front door. Old King +Cole had run away from home and family. Not that the Queen of Hearts +cared in the least. In fact, as she saw her liege lord departing, she +was heard to murmur something about “good riddance”, hardly the way to +speak of a king, I should think. Then she continued battling with that +curtain rod with the greatest relish in the world. There’s something +about a curtain rod that makes women--well, anyway, the Queen of Hearts +was certainly enjoying herself, that was evident. + +He ran and ran, did Old King Cole, and he didn’t know in the least +where he was going, and finally, being fat, he just had to stop for +breath. So he did. And then he saw that, although he had been running a +long time, he really hadn’t run far at all, having gone in a circle, as +people so often do when they think they’re going straight. + +“Fiddlesticks,” said Old King Cole. “I thought I’d be halfway to Dover +by this time.” + +Dover? Dover? What was he going to Dover for, do you suppose? Could it +be that Old King Cole had reached such a pitch that he was thinking +of going away over to France to see the King of France for a while? I +shouldn’t be surprised. He really was quite worked up. + +Well, anyway, there he stood on Pinafore Pike, puffing and blowing and +saying “Fiddlesticks”, and goodness knows what he would have done next +if he hadn’t seen Simple Simon ambling along the road. But he did see +him, and Simple Simon told him the secret, and the first thing that +old king knew, he and Simon had gone off in just the opposite direction +from Dover. + +Meanwhile, however, something pretty serious was happening in +the palace. For just at the moment when everything was at its +topsy-turviest, who should walk in on the Queen of Hearts but the King +of France? Yes, right through the front door came that elegant fellow, +and there was the Queen of Hearts, dust cap and all, on the top step +of the ladder. Was ever a woman so humiliated? Was ever a Queen caught +in such a condition? The Queen of Hearts thought not, and as she +climbed, blushing and confused, down that horrible ladder, she wished +desperately to herself that she had never heard of house-cleaning. + +And what was her chagrin when the King of France told her that the +very reason he had left France was to escape the house-cleaning in +his own palace. And he had walked right into the same muss here in +Pudding Lane! The King of France laughed heartily as he told the Queen +of Hearts this, because he thought it was funny, but it wasn’t funny +to the Queen of Hearts--no indeed--and she wrung her grimy hands in +despair. + +The news spread quickly through Pudding Lane that Old King Cole had +slipped away, and that the King of France had walked in suddenly and +caught the Queen in her dust cap. And you may be quite sure that the +people of Pudding Lane soon gathered together to talk it over. + +“We ought to Pay our Respects to him,” said the candlestick-maker. + +They all agreed that they ought. + +“But how do you Pay Respects?” asked Mr. Horner. + +The candlestick-maker, not having the least idea, pretended to be too +deep in thought to hear. + +“It’s certain and sure the poor Queen can’t entertain him for long,” +spoke up Mrs. Grundy, who had a small opinion of Her Majesty, as we +know. + +“She ain’t exactly the brilliant talker,” admitted the +candlestick-maker, who wasn’t exactly the brilliant talker himself, +when it came to that. + +Then Mrs. Claus, looking quickly around, gave a little cry, at which +everybody jumped. + +“Where are the children?” she cried. “I haven’t seen a child since +early morn.” + +Great goodness, where were the children? Pudding Lane had forgotten +them completely in the excitement of house-cleaning, foreign visitors, +and suchlike. But they were aroused to action now, those mothers and +fathers. They ran around the village, calling and shouting, until the +Queen of Hearts and her regal guest heard them and came down to see +what the noise was about. They joined the search party then, and just +as everybody had begun to think that the children had been swallowed +by the earth, or eaten by bears, or something else terrible, they came +across them all, down behind Honeysuckle Hill. And what do you suppose +they were doing? + +They were dancing around a Maypole, a beautiful, flower-covered +Maypole, which stood a little tipsy in the ground, it is true, but +which, nevertheless, was one of the best Maypoles that Pudding Lane had +ever seen. They were dancing and singing, every one of them, and what’s +more, there was Old King Cole himself, between Mistress Mary and Polly +Flinders, galloping around that pole as if he had never heard of gout. +For once, Simple Simon had thought of something really worth while. For +this, you see, had been his secret. He had suggested to the children +that they build their own Maypole, and they had done it. + +[Illustration: _They were dancing around a Maypole, a beautiful, +flower-covered Maypole. Page 76._] + +Well, how surprised the parents were, to see what a beautiful Maypole +the children had made. How surprised Old King Cole was to see the +King of France. And how surprised the Queen of Hearts was to find her +husband there with the children. Indeed, everybody had something to be +surprised about, and so, of course, it was a most exciting occasion. + +Then Old King Cole proposed that the mothers and fathers, with the King +of France and the Queen, should join in the dance. Then the ladies +protested that they weren’t dressed fit and proper. Then Old King Cole +said “Nonsense”, and finally it all ended up with everybody’s getting +in, and dancing and singing, and having a perfectly riotous time. + +They had a Queen of the May too. Everybody thought the Queen of Hearts +ought to be the May Queen, except the Queen of Hearts herself, who was +so tired of being a Queen, and Mrs. Grundy, who wanted to be the May +Queen herself. So Mr. Spratt, who knew what to do and when to do it, +suggested that “our royal and honored guest, the King of France, crown +the Queen of the May, whomsoever he would.” + +The King of France looked critically around the circle of ladies. He +looked at Mrs. Grundy and passed her by. He looked at Humpty Dumpty’s +mother, and that little lady thought she should faint from agitation. +Then he looked at the Old Woman, at Mrs. Horner, at Mrs. Flinders, and +passed them all by. After which, to everybody’s intense excitement and +joy, he marched straight up to--Mrs. Claus, of all people! + +Oh, dear, what a stir that created! And can you imagine how Mrs. Claus +herself felt at this honor? Can you see her blushing and bobbing and +saying, “Yes, Your Majesty,” two dozen times without stopping? Can you +see her grow glassy-eyed with embarrassment when, a moment later, the +King of France laid the crown of roses on her topknot,--which, as she +thought to herself bitterly, hadn’t been crimped for days? Can you see +her sitting stiff as a ramrod and burning with blushes, at the side of +the resplendent King of France, who was also King of the May? + +Well, perhaps a May Queen should not be goggle-eyed and red-faced as +Mrs. Claus was. Perhaps she should not gulp and wring her hands as Mrs. +Claus did. Perhaps she should have had her hair crimped, and perhaps +she would have been better dressed in a gown without those big patches +under the arms. But Pudding Lane was well satisfied with their May +Queen, and thought her most queenly and elegant. So they danced around +her, singing and clapping, and never did a woman feel more proud and +happy than did Mrs. Claus on that day. Only one person felt prouder +and happier than she, and that was Mr. Claus, who at all times thought +his wife a remarkable woman, but in this new glory considered her too +wonderful for speech. And of course, Santa Claus and the twins nearly +burst with pride in their mother. + +As for the real Queen, she was having a lovely time. It seemed so nice +not to have to be regal for once, and she skipped and frolicked between +Jack Spratt and Peter, Peter quite like an ordinary woman. Peter, +Peter, by the way, was the only person there who was not quite happy. +For Peter’s coat never had been found in the frenzy of his wife’s +house-cleaning, and the poor little man was therefore dancing there in +his shirt sleeves, to his great mortification and shame. + +And when it was quite dark, and they couldn’t dance any more, if the +Queen of Hearts, in a spasm of generosity, didn’t invite them all up +to the palace for tarts and lemonade, a fine finish for any May-Day +party. After which the King of France said he thought he ought to be +off. So he went away, and the people of Pudding Lane went home at last, +after a happy and eventful day. + +And ever after that, while the mothers of Pudding Lane cleaned house on +the first of May, the children and the men prepared the May-Day party, +which turned out to be just the way to manage the first-of-May problem, +so that everybody should be happy. So Old King Cole never ran away +from the palace again, of course. And by the way, Old King Cole never +did tell anybody that he had started out for France that time when he +ran away, for he didn’t want to confess that he had gotten lost. But +wouldn’t it have been funny if he _had_ gotten to France only to find +the French palace in the same uproar as his own? There might be a moral +to that, something about home-keeping hearts, or sticking to the ship, +or some such, but I guess we won’t bother with morals. + +[Illustration: _On the same stagecoach from Dover came a present from +the King of France to Mrs. Claus. Page 81._] + + + + +VI + +THE POODLE THAT DIDN’T KNOW ENGLISH + + +It was about a month after the King of France had been to visit Pudding +Lane that the stagecoach from Dover brought the Jack of Hearts on a +visit to Old King Cole and the Queen of Hearts. As you remember, the +Jack had no use for Pudding Lane because it wasn’t Paris, and nobody +quite knew, indeed, why he ever came to the little village which he +held in such scorn. Mrs. Grundy said he came when he ran out of funds +and wanted to live a while on his relatives. Perhaps that was merely +Mrs. Grundy’s rather vulgar way of putting it, and perhaps it was true. +Anyway, he came and upset the palace quite as much as usual with his +French and his fine manners and his old habit of stealing tarts. + +But on the same stagecoach from Dover came a present from the King of +France to Mrs. Claus, which was far more exciting to Pudding Lane than +the presence of the Jack of Hearts. You remember, of course, what an +impression Mrs. Claus had made on His Majesty on May Day, but did you +ever dream he would go so far as to send her a gift? Well, nobody else +did, least of all Mrs. Claus herself, who almost fainted when the coach +drove up to her house and the driver climbed down and handed her a +large square wooden box. + +“Whatever--?” shrieked Mrs. Claus excitedly. + +“Great snakes!” ejaculated the baker, who was standing by. + +“What could be in such a box?” inquired Mrs. Claus of the world at +large. + +“Fine French china,” guessed Mr. Claus. + +Mrs. Claus’s eyes glittered hopefully. + +“A lamp,” suggested the candlestick-maker, who was there too. + +“A dog,” burst out Santa Claus. + +Santa was right. The King’s present was a French poodle, as jolly a +little puppy as Pudding Lane had ever seen. It was surely very kind of +the King of France, and Mrs. Claus was deeply sensible of the honor +paid her by His Majesty, but what did she want with a puppy dog, she +who had six children? as she rather clumsily put it. Santa Claus and +the twins begged so hard to keep him, however, that Mrs. Claus said +well, if they would feed him and wash him and make him mind, he might +stay. + +But the Clauses could not keep the poodle, after all, and all because +of Misery. For that wretched cat began to act like a feline possessed +the minute he laid his green eyes on the newcomer, and clawed and +scratched and spat at the poor little dog until he squealed with terror. + +After a few hours of this, Mrs. Claus shut Misery up in the +woodhouse and locked the poodle in the kitchen and ran over to Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater’s. + +“But I thought Misery loved company,” said Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, when the +story was finished. + +“Not when the company’s a dog,” said Mrs. Claus. “And, oh, dear, Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater, I don’t know what we’ll do unless--unless--well, unless +you’ll take the dog off our hands as a kind and neighborly act.” + +“But, Mrs. Claus,” objected Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, “isn’t the pumpkin +shell too small for a poodle? There is really so little room here.” + +Mrs. Claus looked around the pumpkin shell appraisingly. + +“It is a bit small; he’s a fat poodle.” Then she brightened. “But +perhaps the carpenter would build you a kennel in the back garden, Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater, and you could keep the poodle there.” + +And so it was decided, and that very afternoon the carpenter built the +kennel and the poodle was brought over to the Pumpkin-Eaters. + +The Pumpkin-Eaters were rather nervous over the prospect of keeping a +poodle, but they did consider it an honor to have a gift that the King +of France had sent, and so they met the situation unflinchingly. Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater fed the poodle with the rarest of titbits, beef-steak, +and cream, and mashed potatoes with gravy, until the greedy little +puppy was panting and breathless. Mr. Pumpkin-Eater diddle-daddled +around the kennel, patting the poodle and talking to him, and when Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater wasn’t looking, he brought his own pillow from their bed, +so that the poodle should lie comfortably in his new home. Yes, Mr. and +Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater were just as kind as people could be to that poodle, +and there was no earthly excuse for his acting the way he did. + +But it soon became apparent that he was just about the most troublesome +poodle that ever lived. Not that he was really bad; you could hardly +say that of him. He just acted as if he didn’t have any sense. + +It began after he had recovered his breath from eating. Until then he +was very quiet, except for little grunts, just little happy, eating +grunts that nobody could have objected to. Then, when he did get his +breath, up he jumped from his pillow, and the trouble began. + +The first thing he did was to run straight from the kennel into the +pumpkin shell and upset every stick of the tiny furniture that the poor +Pumpkin-Eaters were so proud of. I don’t think he meant to upset the +furniture, but puppies are not the most graceful beasts in the world, +and so as he waddled through the shell, which was pretty small for him +anyway, he just naturally bumped into the tables and chairs and sent +them spinning. + +How agitated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was then. + +“Shush!” she called imperiously. “Shoo! Get out! Scat!” She said +everything she could think of, and still the puppy kept running +around, knocking over more things, until he finally bumped into +Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and knocked her over too! Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was +extremely small, as you know, and I suppose it didn’t take much to +upset her. She screamed weakly as she hit the floor, at which Mr. +Pumpkin-Eater came running in from the garden. + +“Hey!” called out Mr. Pumpkin-Eater angrily to the poodle. Then he +shushed and shooed and scatted at the poodle, but the blessed dog just +jumped up against him as if he had done something praiseworthy, and the +next thing they all knew, Mr. Pumpkin-Eater was flat on his back too, +bellowing for help, as the poodle ran excitedly about, yelping with joy. + +The neighbors came running in to help, the Clauses, the butcher, Mrs. +Dumpty (who was sure somebody else must have fallen off the wall), the +Old Woman, Mr. Horner, Mr. and Mrs. Flinders, all of them. Of course, +they didn’t all go inside the shell, for there wasn’t room. But Mr. +Horner did and gallantly picked up the prostrate Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, +and the butcher squeezed his way in and lifted Mr. Pumpkin-Eater to his +feet. Then Mr. Pumpkin-Eater made a dive for the poodle, who by that +time was on the bed, chewing up Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s best lace spread. +The puppy, still thinking it all the greatest joke in the world, ran +out of the shell into the garden and jumped right up into the Old +Woman’s arms, squealing as happily as if he had found an old friend. + +“Well,” said the Old Woman, “here he is.” + +“Put him in the kennel!” cried everybody. + +The Old Woman started for the kennel with the puppy wriggling +delightedly in her arms--he still thought it all a lovely lark--and +maybe all would have been well then, if a certain perky little sparrow +had not chosen that particular moment in which to poke his nose into +the kennel. + +He did choose that moment, however, and so the tragedy happened. The +sparrow was halfway into the kennel, pecking at some toothsome crumbs, +when the poodle suddenly leaped from the Old Woman’s arms full on +the back and tail of the unsuspecting little bird. A cry of joy from +the poodle, a shower of feathers, then out backed the poor sparrow, +tottering and surprised, with his tail nipped off. + +How indignant Pudding Lane was at that! How they all scolded the poodle +and sympathized with the sparrow. Sparrows until then had not had very +good standing in the village, as perhaps they have not in yours, but +this calamity made the people forget their old grievances against the +_passeres_ (that’s the sparrow’s dress-up name) and they could only +feel sorry now for the particular _passer_, oh, very sorry. True, +the sparrow, though he staggered uncertainly around and blinked in +amazement, did not act as if he were in pain. But if you’re used to +tails, of course you miss them, and the sparrow’s had disappeared so +suddenly. + +Meanwhile, the poodle was acting just as absurdly as before. He was +running and rolling and yapping in a perfectly abandoned way, and the +more the Old Woman and the butcher and all the rest of them scolded +him, ordered him down and bade him be quiet, the more he cut up. It was +almost as if he were a mad dog, and yet you could see, just by looking +at him, that he was innocent as could be, that he didn’t know in the +least he was doing wrong. Puppies don’t naturally have morals, you +know, and this one apparently hadn’t been taught any. + +Well, things finally got to such a pitch that Mr. Pumpkin-Eater said +firmly that he wouldn’t have such a beast about any more, and Mrs. +Claus declared she wouldn’t have him either, even if he were a royal +poodle straight from the King of France. They decided that the only +thing to do was to put the poodle back in the box and send him home to +Paris. + +“But the King!” remonstrated Mrs. Flinders. + +“I know,” said Mrs. Claus. “But Pudding Lane would be in ruins if we +let this dog stay.” + +“But nobody ever sends presents back to a king,” chimed in Mrs. Grundy. + +“Well, I know somebody that’s a-going to,” said Mrs. Claus stubbornly. + +“He might throw you in prison or something,” suggested Mrs. Grundy. + +At which Mrs. Claus turned white, but stood her ground: she’d have no +dog that threatened the future happiness and safety of Pudding Lane. + +Just then who should come dawdling down Pudding Lane but the Jack of +Hearts, airy as usual? When he saw the commotion in the Pumpkin-Eaters’ +garden, he stepped in. The people curtseyed obediently; they had +manners, even though they didn’t like the Jack. Then they told him what +was the matter. + +“And he won’t do a thing you tell him to!” concluded Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater. “I never saw such a disobedient dog.” + +At that, the poodle leaped up against Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s skirts. + +“Down!” she commanded. + +He barked joyously and leaped the higher. + +“Hush!” she ordered. + +But he didn’t down and he didn’t hush. + +“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater exasperatedly to the Jack. “You +see, he doesn’t mind a single thing.” + +“Of course he doesn’t,” replied the Jack of Hearts quietly. + +“Of course!” repeated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. “I don’t see any ‘of course’ +about it.” + +“Well,” said the Jack of Hearts with his best sneer, “I suppose you +don’t. But didn’t you say the poodle was from France?” + +“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. She did wish the obnoxious +fellow would go away and stop interfering. + +“And haven’t you been talking to this French poodle in English?” he +demanded further. + +“Yes. Well--oh, I see,” cried Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater suddenly. + +“Oh!” murmured everybody else. “Of course!” + +The dog just then sprang higher against the wee Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and +began to lick her face. She cast a beseeching look at the Jack. + +“_Va te coucher!_” commanded that fine fellow to the dog. The poodle +instantly quieted down at Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s feet and began to whine +a little. + +“_Veux-tu te taire!_” he demanded further, and the whining stopped at +once. + +The Jack of Hearts looked at the abashed Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and the +rest of the Pudding Laners, who stood there stupefied. + +“I guess you wouldn’t understand it either, if somebody talked to you +in another language,” he said crushingly, and walked indolently away, +swinging his cane. + +The people of Pudding Lane could have kicked themselves for their +stupidity, they said. Of course, a French poodle straight from Paris +could not understand English. Why had they supposed that he could? +And they were disgusted still more to have been humiliated by the +disagreeable Jack of Hearts. + +But kicking themselves wouldn’t do any good now. There was only one +thing left to do, and that was to present the poodle to the Jack, +whether they wanted to or not, for Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater couldn’t learn +French for any dog. And if she could have, she wouldn’t have, for Mrs. +Pumpkin-Eater had an idea that foreign languages were an indulgence, +like mince pie at night or two dresses in one year, and she wouldn’t +have yielded to it for anything. + +So that’s what they did. They handed the puppy over to the Jack of +Hearts, who could speak to him in his native tongue and make him mind +like an angel. + +As for the sparrow, he soon recovered; that is, he learned to walk as +smartly and perkily as ever without a tail; he even learned to fly +without it, which, as any bird will tell you, is quite a feat. He +looked funny, with his swelled-out chest and airy manners and poor +little chopped-off stumpy back view. But the Pumpkin-Eaters didn’t care +how he looked, for he just exactly fitted the pumpkin shell now and at +last they had a pet, did the Pumpkin-Eaters, just exactly suited to +their needs. So that if you ever pass by the pumpkin shell and look in +at the window, you’ll see him there. But if he turns his back, don’t +laugh at the poor little fellow. It might hurt his feelings. He’s never +seen his back and doesn’t know how funny he looks. + + + + +VII + +BO-PEEP FINDS OUT HOW A DUTCH UNCLE TALKS + + +Mr. Bo-Peep came home to dinner one hot July day to find his daughter +not there. + +“Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep and doesn’t know where to find +them,” explained his wife. + +“Oh, leave them alone and they’ll come home and bring their tails +behind them,” answered Mr. Bo-Peep, sitting down to his dinner. + +“That’s what I told her,” said Mrs. Bo-Peep, “but you know how she is.” + +“Yes, I know how she is,” sighed Mr. Bo-Peep. + +And indeed he did, as did everybody else in Pudding Lane, for hardly +a week went by in that village that Little Bo-Peep did not lose her +sheep. It was really a wonder that she bothered with sheep at all, +for certainly she had more trouble with her flock than any other +shepherdess did in the whole world. And to-day they were lost again, +and, as usual, Little Bo-Peep was hunting for them. + +She walked along Pinafore Pike and passed the Blues’ house, where she +saw Little Boy Blue taking his customary nap under the haystack. She +came to the pickled pepper field where Peter Piper was industriously +picking his peck. She met Old Mother Hubbard’s dog sniffing around a +tree trunk. + +But although Little Bo-Peep saw these familiar Pudding Lane scenes, not +a woolly strand did she see of her sheep until, just as she was about +to give up in despair, she turned a corner and plump! she bumped into +the whole flock of them running down the road toward Pudding Lane as +fast as they could run. + +But who was that driving them and scolding them? A strange-looking +creature with great billowing trousers and a little blue jacket and the +rosiest--though the crossest--face you ever saw. + +“Hey!” called Bo-Peep. + +The rosy-faced man looked up, scowling. + +“Hey!” he replied. “Stop!” he commanded the sheep. “Stop this minute, +you abominable wretches, you stupid beasts, you--” + +“My goodness!” gasped Bo-Peep. “How dare you talk to my sheep like +that? How--” + +“Look here,” interrupted the rosy-faced man. “You be still. You don’t +know who I am.” + +“Well, you’re not very polite, whoever you are,” replied Bo-Peep +indignantly. “You’re certainly not a gentleman.” + +“I am a gentleman!” shouted the man. “And if you were a lady, you’d +know a gentleman when you saw one. Haven’t I got on a gentleman’s +clothes? Haven’t I got a gentleman’s haircut?” He bent down his head +and swept off his hat to show her. “Well, then, I am a gentleman. But +don’t you wish you knew me?” + +“I’m afraid I don’t,” replied Little Bo-Peep more softly. For after +all, she thought to herself, she need not lose her temper just because +he did. “No, sir, I don’t like you very much, really, and I’m going +home now with my sheep.” Then she added, “But I do thank you, sir, +for bringing my sheep back. How did you do it? They’re usually very +disobedient.” + +“How did I do it?” repeated the rosy-cheeked man. “Why, just by talking +to them like a Dutch Uncle. For that’s who I am, my fine young lady. I +am the Dutch Uncle, you know.” + +So he was the Dutch Uncle of whom Little Bo-Peep and all the other +children of Pudding Lane had heard so much, the cross old fellow who +scolded everybody he knew, even those people whom he loved the best. +Bo-Peep had never seen him before, for the Dutch Uncle had not been +to Pudding Lane since many years ago, before Mr. and Mrs. Bo-Peep had +been married, ’way back there when the Queen of Hearts was a bride and +Humpty Dumpty was a baby. But the people of Pudding Lane, often, oh, +very often, referred to the Dutch Uncle; and now here he was, and it +was no wonder Bo-Peep stared. + +“Whose uncle are you, sir?” she asked in her gentlest tones. + +Questions are supposed to be rude, but if you ask them gently, they +somehow don’t sound rude, Bo-Peep had found out. + +“Everybody’s, of course!” replied the Dutch Uncle. “My goodness, you +are an ignorant girl. Now if your parents would only put you in my +charge--” + +Oh, dear, he was off again! But he finally stopped, so Bo-Peep tried +another question. + +“And where is the Dutch Aunt?” + +“Dutch Aunt!” exclaimed the Dutch Uncle scornfully. “She asks me where +the Dutch Aunt is! There isn’t any Dutch Aunt. Didn’t you know that?” + +“No, sir, I didn’t,” replied Little Bo-Peep. “There ought to be one, +you know. Uncles always do have aunts.” + +She didn’t mean that exactly, but you know and the Dutch Uncle knew +what she meant. And now, strangely enough, the Dutch Uncle stopped +frowning at her and smiled. + +“I do indeed need a Dutch Aunt,” he agreed. “In fact, that’s just what +I’ve come to Pudding Lane for, Bo-Peep, to find a Dutch Aunt.” + +“To take her away from Pudding Lane and back to Dutchland?” asked +Bo-Peep. + +“Dutchland!” laughed the Dutch Uncle. “Oh, dear, Bo-Peep, you are an +ignoramus.” + +“Holland, I mean,” Little Bo-Peep corrected herself. + +Only she did think to herself that Dutchland was a better name for it, +after all, than Holland. And she was thinking, too, what an exceedingly +pleasant fellow the Dutch Uncle was when he forgot to talk like a Dutch +Uncle. + +Which is exactly what the people of Pudding Lane had always said about +him; that if only he hadn’t been such an old busybody, attending to +everybody’s affairs, he would have been the nicest uncle in the world. + +The Dutch Uncle got a tremendous ovation when he and Bo-Peep got back +to Pudding Lane with the sheep a few minutes later. At least “ovation” +is what the Town Crier called it. Anyway, they made a big fuss over the +Dutch Uncle, for they loved the old fellow, even if they did call him +names, and they were glad to see him after all these years. + +As for the Dutch Uncle himself, he was overjoyed to see his old +favorites, and he greeted and scolded them all in the most affectionate +manner possible. + +“As I live and breathe, Mrs. Dumpty!” he exclaimed, catching sight of +that fat little lady. “How glad I am to see you. But you ought,” here +he frowned in the midst of his rosy smile, “you ought to take Humpty to +London, you know, to consult the great doctors there.” + +“And there’s Mr. Claus! Baker, baker, why will you waste your talents +in Pudding Lane when you might easily be Assistant Chief Currant Bun +Maker to the Lord Mayor of London himself?” + +(You would have thought he was the British Uncle the way he talked +about London.) + +“Ah, Mrs. Grundy!” He bowed low and kissed that lady’s hand. “How many +moons has it been since I have had this privilege? But that long face +of yours won’t do, my dear old friend. Really, you ought to cheer up, +you know.” + +He next spied a young girl. + +“Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary!” he cried delightedly. “How does your +garden grow? You were just a baby when I saw you last. But you must +mend your ways, Mistress Mary. Contrary girls, you know--” + +And so he went the rounds. He chided Simple Simon for not trying to +improve his wits. He urged Little Miss Muffett to give up her diet and +try green vegetables. He insisted that the Old Woman abandon her Shoe +and go to live in a house like other respectable folk. And he even +rebuked Old King Cole as being far too merry for the dignity of his +position. + +Yes, he was just the same. Queer, wasn’t it? But then everybody is +queer in one way or another, and the Dutch Uncle really did have the +softest heart in the world under his little blue jacket, as the people +of Pudding Lane had always suspected and now found out that very day. + +For suddenly the Dutch Uncle whirled around and demanded: + +“And where is pretty Dolly Daffy-Dill?” + +“Pretty Dolly Daffy-Dill?” repeated everybody, and then they all looked +at each other. + +Could it be possible that the Dutch Uncle believed that Dolly +Daffy-Dill was still the same girl he had known so many years ago? Did +he not know that she had grown older, just as everybody else had? Had +he not heard how crabbed she had become, so crabbed, indeed, that she +wasn’t even called Dolly any more, but Cross-Patch, which suited her +much better? + +It seemed impossible that the Dutch Uncle did not know all these +things, but he didn’t, apparently, so Mr. Horner, the father of Jack, +tried to explain. + +“She’s older now, you understand,” he said. “And we call +her--Cross-Patch.” + + “Cross-Patch, draw the latch, + Sit by the fire and spin,” + +quoted Mrs. Grundy. + +Oh, dear, it was too bad that the Dutch Uncle had to find out all this +about Dolly, and they all felt very sympathetic. But was the Dutch +Uncle distressed? No, indeed. + +“Of course, she’s older!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten that, but it’s +all the better. And you say she’s cross? Hurray, what a fine Dutch Aunt +she’ll make!” + +With which, to everybody’s astonishment, the Dutch Uncle hastened to +old Cross-Patch’s house, the same little house where he used to call on +her when she was a girl and he a dashing young blade. + +And so his courtship commenced, the strangest courtship that Pudding +Lane had ever seen. Isn’t it queer that a cranky old woman like +Cross-Patch should have inspired the tender passion in the hearts of +such hosts of men? First there was the candlestick-maker and now here +was the Dutch Uncle. Well, that’s love, you know, and there’s no doing +anything about it. + +But something else happened in Pudding Lane that quickly drove the +Dutch Uncle’s love affair out of everybody’s thoughts. It was really +something so terrible and so sad that nobody would have ever dreamed it +_could_ happen. And this is what it was: Bo-Peep’s sheep came home one +day, after a long absence, and they didn’t have their tails behind them! + +Oh, so sad! So sad! + +And how Bo-Peep cried, how the lambs bleated, how Mr. Bo-Peep hunted +for the tails, how doleful Old King Cole looked, how frightened +everybody was. But although Little Bo-Peep wept and Mr. Bo-Peep hunted +and Old King Cole worried himself sick, the missing tails were not +returned to their owners and King Cole finally said that everybody, +every single person, would have to go out on a hunt for them. He even +made a speech about it. + +“What is a sheep without a tail?” he asked the assemblage. + +“Nothing!” he answered himself triumphantly, which wasn’t strictly +true, although it made a profound impression on his hearers. + +“Well, then, what is a whole flock of sheep without a tail?” he +finished up in grand climax. + +And so, spurred on by Old King Cole’s oratory, all of Pudding Lane +started on the hunt. It did seem as if they were always searching for +something in that town. Once it was Santa Claus, once it was the Pied +Piper, ganders, cats, and now it was tails. + +I said all of Pudding Lane went on the hunt, but I forgot the Dutch +Uncle, who was sitting with Cross-Patch in her back garden, sipping a +cup of tea. And he must have been talking awfully loud and drinking tea +awfully hard, for he didn’t seem to hear a bit of the commotion when +the whole town departed on its quest. + +But Cross-Patch had sharp ears and she knew what was up, and she said +to her gallant caller: + +“Why don’t you help a body who’s in trouble instead of fiddling with a +teacup?” + +The Dutch Uncle looked at her amazed, for he had just been telling her +what a sweet creature she was and her remark sounded rather abrupt. + +“What is it, my love?” he asked. + +“I said why don’t you go out and help a body? Why don’t you join in the +search for the tails of the sheep?” + +The Dutch Uncle jumped up, ashamed. + +“Oh, I ought to help, I know. I am very fond of Little Bo-Beep and feel +so sorry for her in her trouble.” + +“Then go out and show your sympathy,” replied the Dutch Uncle’s lady +love grimly. “I’d go myself if I weren’t so old and crippled.” + +“Old, love!” repeated the Dutch Uncle playfully. “Crippled!” + +“Go on to your tails,” replied Cross-Patch stolidly. + +The Dutch Uncle, looking crestfallen, ceased his gestures, picked up +his hat and started for the gate. Indeed, he looked so wretched that +Cross-Patch relented a bit. + +“Look here,” she called after him. “If you find the tails, Dutch Uncle, +I might--in fact I will--consider becoming the Dutch Aunt.” + +The Dutch Uncle looked at her beaming, yet almost unbelieving. + +“Wonderful woman!” he exclaimed rapturously. “Glorious--” + +“Will you get on to those tails?” cried Cross-Patch, exasperated. + +She hated foolishness, did Cross-Patch, and the Dutch Uncle was so full +of it. She often wished that he would scold her as he did everybody +else. Being cross herself, she would have enjoyed it. + +When the Dutch Uncle got into the street, he found that every single +person was gone. All the houses and shops were closed. Even the palace +at the top of the hill looked deserted. + +But the Dutch Uncle could hear a little noise from somewhere or other, +and as he listened intently, he decided that it must be the bleating of +those poor little sheep down in Bo-Peep’s meadow. He then went down to +the meadow and there they were, bleating pitifully, and there was +Bo-Peep too, under a tree and crying as if her heart would break. + +[Illustration: _“Look here,” he said to the black sheep. “You’re +responsible for all this.” Page 105._] + +She raised herself up when she heard the Dutch Uncle’s step and wiped +her eyes. + +“Do you hear them bleating?” she asked him. + +“Yes,” replied the Dutch Uncle, “I do.” + +The Dutch Uncle then made a discovery; the black sheep of the flock +was not bleating at all, but was frisking around as merrily as could +be, watching the others with wicked glee out of the corner of his +eye. The Dutch Uncle watched him a moment and then, without a word to +Little Bo-Peep, he marched straight up to that black sheep, took hold +of his pink ribbon collar and looked him sternly in the eye. The sheep +squirmed a little and tried to brave it out, but the Dutch Uncle was +too much for him, so he squirmed a great deal more and dropped his eyes +in the most ashamed way. + +Whereupon the Dutch Uncle _did_ give him a dose of his best Dutch Uncle +talk--such a dose! + +“Look here,” he said to the black sheep. “You’re responsible for all +this. You know exactly where those tails are, and you’ve known all +along, and now right this minute you’re going to take Little Bo-Peep +and me and show us where they are. You are a wicked, wicked sheep, you +are, but we’ve got you this time, you wretch, you--” Well, he couldn’t +think of anything worse than a wretch, so he stopped with that, and +waited for the black sheep to do something. + +And the black sheep did something, right enough. He turned around and +walked off, the Dutch Uncle and Little Bo-Peep behind him, and he kept +on walking until at last they came to a wood on the very edge of which +stood a tree. And there the black sheep stopped. + +“What’s this?” asked the Dutch Uncle. + +“I don’t know,” answered Little Bo-Peep. + +Then the sheep raised his eyes, the Dutch Uncle and Bo-Peep raised +theirs, and there on a branch what should they see but ten little white +tails all in a row, hanging like white flowers among the green leaves, +with one little black one in the middle! + +“Oh!” shrieked Little Bo-Peep joyfully. + +“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the Dutch Uncle. + +And the next thing the tails knew, they were being carried back to the +sheep in the meadow at Pudding Lane. + +Everybody was overjoyed when it was known that Little Bo-Peep had found +her sheep’s tails, but of course, the next problem was to get them +back on the sheep. The carpenter was all for tacking them on, though +he quickly took back his suggestion when he remembered that it was +sheep they were talking about, not houses or boards. Jack-of-All-Trades +offered to glue them neatly back in their places, and the cobbler said +that if sewing were necessary, he would gladly render his services. + +The cobbler’s idea was considered a good one, for the great London +doctors were sewing people now, and if it were good for people, it +would certainly do for sheep. So they called Doctor Foster, who had +just got back from Gloucester, and asked his advice about the sewing. + +“No, no, _no_!” said Doctor Foster. “Doctors don’t sew things on, they +just sew things up. But if you just tie these tails to the sheep, +they’ll grow back as nicely as you please.” + +So that’s what they did, and the tails did grow back, just as he had +said, as nicely as you please. Only one looked a little different from +its old self, and that was the black sheep’s, which was rather to one +side and at a rakish angle. But then the black sheep deserved it, for +all the trouble he had caused. Because the Dutch Uncle thought that +the black sheep not only knew where the tails were all the time, but +that he himself made the sheep lose their tails. I don’t see how he +could have, really. I think the tails just dropped off. Still, the +Dutch Uncle may be right. We’ll never know, for sheep can’t talk, and +the black sheep wouldn’t tell if he could. Anyway, it all came out all +right. + +All but one thing and that concerns the poor Dutch Uncle, who didn’t +get his Cross-Patch, after all. For when he went back to her in high +glee, told her about the tails, and began calling her high-sounding +names, Cross-Patch suddenly became fifty times crosser than she had +ever been before, told him she couldn’t stand his sugarish nonsense and +left the room. + +And that was the end of the Dutch Uncle’s romance. All might have been +different if he had only talked to Cross-Patch like a Dutch Uncle, +but that’s so often the way with gentlemen in love; they become such +different creatures. However, he did turn on Cross-Patch just as she +was leaving the room, and then he certainly did talk to her like a +Dutch Uncle, for he was very angry and disappointed. + +Too late, though. Cross-Patch drew the latch, sat down to spin and +never for a second regretted her action. She was even glad the old +bother was gone. + +Poor Dutch Uncle, having to go back to Holland without the Dutch Aunt +of his dreams. Everybody felt sorry for him, and especially did Little +Bo-Peep, who had come to love him so much. + +It was Little Bo-Peep who walked with him down the road when he set +out that day for Banbury Cross. They said good-by and shook hands. The +Dutch Uncle had tears in his eyes and Bo-Peep was sniffling right out. + +But the Dutch Uncle soon came to himself. + +“Look here, you shouldn’t have come so far with me. The sheep will get +lost and your mother will be worried. Go straight home, you naughty +child.” + +But Bo-Peep only smiled at him. + +“You’re an old fraud,” she told the Dutch Uncle. + +And then it was that the Dutch Uncle knew that she had found him out, +this Little Bo-Peep of Pudding Lane. Yet he wouldn’t give in, even then. + +“Go straight home, I tell you!” + +But he kissed her, and then was gone. + + + + +VIII + +THE SAND MAN’S SCARE + + +Mrs. Blue was busy in her kitchen one August morning when she heard a +racket in the cornfield. + +“At it again,” she murmured and ran out to the side fence. + +“Little Boy Blue,” she called loudly, “come blow your horn. The sheep’s +in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.” + +No answer from the little boy, lying under a near-by haystack. Mrs. +Blue opened her mouth to call again when up popped Farmer Tom from +behind the barn. Farmer Tom was the Blues’ neighbor, and it was Farmer +Tom’s cornfield that the cow was in. + +“Where’s the boy that looks after the sheep?” demanded the farmer. + +“He’s under the haystack fast asleep,” admitted poor Mrs. Blue. + +[Illustration: _What could Mrs. Blue do? She could do nothing but climb +the fence, skirts and all. Page 111._] + +Farmer Tom snorted. + +“Well, he must get them animals out of my corn,” he said. + +“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Blue nervously, and then called again, +“LITTLE BOY BLUE!” so loudly that you would have thought any fellow +might have waked up. Little Boy Blue did almost wake up too. He +grunted, stirred, rubbed his eyes, but then if he didn’t curl down +deeper in the hay and go straight back to sleep. + +What could Mrs. Blue do? She could do nothing but climb the fence, +skirts and all--for the gate was a long way off--and go after Little +Boy Blue, so that’s what she did. She climbed the fence, marched over +to the haystack and shook--yes, shook--her sleeping son until at last +he was awake. Then he scuttled away and led the sheep and cow into the +pasture where they belonged. + +This was the way things were always going with the Blues. Boy Blue was +forever falling asleep, the cows were forever getting in the corn, +Farmer Tom was always scolding and fussing and Mrs. Blue was always +worrying. Of course, it was worse in summer, when the warm air was +drowsy and the haystack was soft and inviting. But even in winter it +was bad enough, for then Little Boy Blue went to sleep over his books, +over his supper, over his games. He had actually been caught at it +during an exciting game of Hide-and-Go-Seek, when he had hidden behind +the hedge in Mistress Mary’s garden and then promptly gone to sleep +there. + +But you cannot sleep all of the time, even if you’re a Little Boy Blue, +and so it was that Little Boy Blue found that he was not sleeping +very well of nights, because he slept all day. It was a dull business +too, lying awake in the dead of the night, with nothing to see except +perhaps a streak of moonlight or the shadow of the pear tree, nothing +to hear except the dickery, dickery, dock, of the kitchen clock, +nothing to do but wait for daylight to come. + +And so on this same night, as usual, Little Boy Blue lay stark awake, +even starker awake than he sometimes was, for his naps had been more +frequent and longer that day. It was early still, about eight o’clock, +and although Little Boy Blue had been in bed only half an hour, it +seemed to him that he had been there exactly one hundred years, he was +so tired of it. + +He twisted and turned and rolled and kicked. He propped himself up +on his elbows and stared up at the stars: “Twinkle, twinkle, little +star, how I wonder what you are,” and then he almost did go to sleep +wondering just exactly what stars were--fire or silver or flowers or +what. Little Boy Blue had not studied astronomy yet. But just as he +almost fell asleep, clink, clank came a noise, and he came to with a +jerk. What was that noise? It sounded like a milk pail, clink, clank. +He listened hard, but no further sound came. He squirmed and turned +some more. Finally he sat up straight in bed. + +“I’m going to get up,” he said to himself. “Right up.” + +Which he did. He groped in the dim light for his clothes and put them +on--his blue suit, his shoes and stockings, his favorite blue cap with +the red button on top. Then he tiptoed softly out of his room, through +the kitchen and into the yard. + +Oh, Little Boy Blue, what would your mother say if she knew you were +not in bed and asleep? What would your father say if somebody should +tell him that his little boy was out in the middle of the night like +this, walking around? But they didn’t know it, those two good souls +nodding by their candle in the second-best parlor, which is probably +a good thing, as it would have distressed them. Not that Little Boy +Blue meant the least harm in the world. He had just thought he’d +take “a bit of a turn” and try that way to get sleepy. He had heard +the candlestick-maker say once that he always took “a bit of a turn” +before he went to bed, which made him sleep like a top. As if tops did +sleep--the funny old candlestick-maker. + +Little Boy Blue had hardly taken three steps when clink, clank, his +foot bumped against something which made that same noise he had heard +a few moments before in bed. He stooped down. It looked like a bucket, +but it wasn’t one of his mother’s milk pails. What could it be? He put +his hands into it. There was something inside that felt gritty and +sticky and damp. He looked closer and felt it again. It was sand. + +But what on earth was a bucket of sand doing on the Blues’ side stoop, +and who in the world had left it there? Little Boy Blue did not know. +Perhaps his father had forgotten it, he thought. Perhaps Farmer Tom +had put it there. He and Mr. Blue were always lending each other +things--bags of gravel, baskets of chips, nails and bridles and chicken +feed. + +Well, whatever it was, this was not the place for it, Little Boy Blue +knew that. So he picked it up and carried it back to the tool house, +and there he put it in a corner out of harm’s way, like the careful +little boy that he was. And then he went away to take his bit of a turn. + +Little did Boy Blue know what he had really done by hiding that bucket +of sand, though the fact was that he had done something epoch-making in +Pudding Lane. Epoch-making is a big word, but then Little Boy Blue had +done a big thing. For whom do you suppose that sand belonged to? + +It belonged to the Sand Man, that fellow who slips along by our windows +at night, throws his handfuls of sand in our eyes and makes us feel +heavy in our eyelids and sleepy all over. He had left his sand for the +least little while on the Blues’ side stoop, while he went up to the +palace to put the King and Queen to sleep, and now Boy Blue had hidden +it. Think of it! The Sand Man without his sand! + +Do you wonder that when he came back, he wrung his sandy hands and +beat his breast in frenzied despair? Do you wonder that he trembled +all over? Poor Sand Man! It did look bad for him. Never before had he +failed to do his work. Every single night, for years and years and +years, he had gone on his circuit from house to house, and put folks +to sleep, first the children, then the grandfathers, and after that, +sometimes quite late, the mothers and fathers and big sisters in the +parlor. + +And now on this night, his sand was gone, everybody would stay wide +awake, and goodness knows what angry message Old King Cole would send +him. That merry old soul might even deprive him of his job, and then +what would he do for a living, and what would the Sand Woman do, and +all the little Sand Children? It was a sad thought, and the Sand +Man shuddered as he stood there in the shadow of the Blues’ house, +wondering what to do next. + +As Little Boy Blue walked down Pudding Lane, he wondered why the Shoe +was lighted up so brilliantly, and as he passed the Dumpties’ he +thought it strange indeed that the candle in Humpty’s room was still +burning. It was late. What should children be doing awake at such an +hour? They hadn’t slept all day to make them wakeful, like Boy Blue +himself. The Clauses’ house was brightly lighted too, and he could see +the Flinderses’ fine new lamp from London burning gayly in Polly’s room. + +Now, of course, we know exactly what was happening, even though Little +Boy Blue did not. We know and the Sand Man knew, but Little Boy Blue +did not know, and certainly the distracted mothers of Pudding Lane did +not know what was the matter with their children that night. And how +exasperated they were too, those mothers. + +“What does _ail_ you, Santa Claus?” asked his mother of that little +boy, who was sitting up in bed with not a sign of sleep about him. + +“I don’t know,” answered Santa Claus, much puzzled himself. “Only I +just can’t sleep, and I don’t believe I ever will sleep again.” + +“Mercy on us!” breathed Mrs. Claus fearfully. + +“Humpty, darling, are you ill?” asked Mrs. Dumpty anxiously. “You’ve +never been wakeful like this before.” + +“No, not ill, just wide awake,” answered Humpty. + +“Children, will you get into your beds and go to sleep?” demanded the +Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, beside herself with impatience at all +these dozens of children scampering around the Shoe at the impossible +hour of nine o’clock. + +“But we’re not a bit sleepy,” spoke up Judy. + +“Not a single bit!” echoed Polly and Jumbo and Jocko and all the rest. + +That was the way it was in every house in Pudding Lane that night. The +mothers tried spanking, and it didn’t work. Spanking really doesn’t +make you sleepy, though sometimes it makes you try harder to get +sleepy. They tried bread and milk. They tried lullabies. They tried +everything, and still the children of Pudding Lane were as wide awake +as could be until finally, when they all begged their mothers to let +them go out and play, those frantic women, wondering what Old King +Cole would say to such a performance, consented. And with a whoop loud +enough to be heard in Banbury Cross, the children of Pudding Lane +rushed outdoors for a glorious romp in the moonlight. + +What a night that was! Everybody was up, even Humpty Dumpty, looking +on from his window. Little Boy Blue had joined them, of course. +Polly Flinders, Little Bo-Peep, all the Old Woman’s children, Jack +Horner--not a single child in Pudding Lane was missing, for even that +baby, The Little Girl Who Had a Little Curl, was brought out and dumped +in the midst of the fun. You know her. She was only three, but already +she was a well-known character in the village. A changeable child. One +minute she would be very good indeed, and the next she would be--simply +horrid. But she was very pretty, and she had a little curl right down +in the middle of her forehead. + +Unless you have played outdoors in the moonlight yourself, you can +never imagine how much fun it is. There’s something about it that makes +mere playing in the daylight and sunshine seem very ordinary. Perhaps +it’s the shadows. You’re always mistaking them for something else, +which is very funny. Little Bo-Peep actually tagged the shadow of the +Clauses’ gate once, thinking it was Jumbo! Perhaps it’s the moonlight +itself, thin and gleaming and rare. Perhaps it’s the jolly little +stars, kicking up their heels there in the sky. Anyway, it’s pure +delight to be out on such a night, and the children of Pudding Lane +thought they simply never had had such a good time as they were having +that night. + +They played Tag and Blind Man’s Buff and Ring-Around-a-Rosy. Oh, yes, +I forgot to say that singing on such a night seems to be music of a +special sort. Even Simple Simon’s poor cracked voice did not sound bad +that night as they sang “Ring Around a Rosy, Pocket Full of Posies.” +They played Drop-the-Handkerchief, too, which is particularly good at +night, for the handkerchief is so hard to see. + +Well, they played on and on, while the mothers looked at them +round-eyed from the windows and wondered if their darling children +would ever, ever, ever get sleepy and come in to bed like good and +law-abiding citizens. They played on and on and on, while the Sand Man +crouched in a corner of the Blues’ side stoop and pondered desperately +on his fate. And they might have been playing yet if the Little Girl +with the Curl had not suddenly cut up one of her capers. + +But she did. She cut up a terrible caper. She cried and kicked and +jumped up and down. She screamed and howled and made faces. Oh, she was +_horrid_! + +At first, the children tried to pacify her by ordinary means. + +“Come ride on my back, Little Girl,” invited Santa Claus. “I’ll be the +horse and you can be the rider.” + +But the Little Girl only stamped her foot at him. + +“Little Girl, look here, I’ve got a top!” called out Tom, Tom, the +piper’s son. + +But the Little Girl only stuck out her tongue at him! + +“Little Girl, look at me!” cried Jack-Be-Nimble, jumping over a +candlestick for her benefit. + +But the Little Girl only lay down on the ground and kicked and screamed +some more. + +The Little Girl’s mother came out, and the Little Girl’s father came +out, and they spanked her. But even that did not do any good on this +terrible night. + +They were all perfectly desperate. What could they do with such a +child? The party was spoiled. The fun was over. The beautiful midsummer +night’s dream was broken. And all because of that horrid Little Girl. + +At last, however, in the midst of her caper, Little Boy Blue had a +sudden idea. He didn’t say a word to anybody, but he ran back to his +father’s tool house, picked up the pail of sand and brought it to the +Little Girl. And lo, when the Little Girl saw that bucketful of lovely +sand, she stopped right in the middle of a howl, sat down and began to +dig in it as hard as she could dig. She dug with both fists and sent +the sand flying. She loved sand to play in, the Little Girl did, and +Pudding Lane had so little sand, being far from the sea. + +The children, breathing sighs of relief, began to play again. + +But the next moment, the games and the night and the whole beautiful +party began to seem rather stupid. First it was Jill who yawned. + +“Oh, dear, I’m really getting sleepy,” she confessed. + +Whereupon Jack said that he was really getting sleepy too. Humpty +Dumpty was seen nodding at the window. The Little Girl with the Curl +had fallen over on her pail, fast asleep. Simple Simon had one eye +closed. Santa Claus had both eyes closed. The Old Woman’s children were +blinking like lazy little pussy cats and Little Boy Blue had gone to +sleep standing up. + +And the next thing they knew it was to-morrow. How surprised they were +to find themselves in bed exactly as if nothing had happened. + +“What did happen?” they asked their mothers. + +“Why, you just got sleepy,” answered the mothers. + +But of course, that really wasn’t it at all, and I think it’s funny +that nobody guessed that the sand belonged to the Sand Man. Nobody did, +however, and they don’t know it to this day. + +And one thing you may be sure of and that is that the Sand Man was +never so careless as to leave his sand bucket around any place again. +That night, when the children had all been carried in to their beds, +he sneaked quietly down from the Blues’, snatched his precious bucket +quickly under his arm and, after putting the grown-ups to sleep, ran +for home. + +“Look here,” he said to the Sand Woman, after he had told her his +exciting story, “I want you to sew a button on my jacket for me to hang +the sand pail on, so that I shall never, never, never forget and leave +it any place again.” + +So the Sand Woman sewed a large button on the Sand Man’s coat, and ever +after that the Sand Man kept his pail right with him wherever he was, +and never, never, never forgot and left it any place again. + + + + +IX + +WHY TAFFY THE WELSHMAN STOLE MEAT + + +Taffy the Welshman had come to Pudding Lane and that quiet village was +in a turmoil. For Taffy was not only a Welshman but Taffy was a thief. +Perhaps you have heard of him. He specialized in meat. + +Some thieves go in for gold watches, some deal in silver spoons. Taffy +confined himself to meat. Once in a while he descended to bones, but +usually it was meat, here a knuckle of veal, there a shoulder of lamb, +yonder a round of beef. If ever a man knew how to steal meat, Taffy +was that man. He could nip off a roast as you or I couldn’t nip off a +feather, airily, easily, with jaunty grace. He could nip it when you +weren’t looking or when you were. He could nip ten pounds or one pound +with equal art. A born genius was Taffy, and he loved his work and +pursued it diligently. + +Thus it was that every morning Mrs. Dumpty, Mrs. Claus, the Old Woman +Who Lived in a Shoe, Mrs. Jack Spratt and all the other women of +Pudding Lane would trot to the butcher’s and buy meat; every afternoon +Taffy would steal it, and every night--no meat for supper. And the men +were getting tired of it. Especially Jack Spratt. + +“It’s all very well,” he said to Mrs. Spratt one day, “it’s all very +well for these foreigners to come swarming into our fair city, but I +must have lean meat soon, or I don’t guarantee, Mrs. Spratt, I don’t +guarantee that nothing will happen.” + +Mrs. Spratt quailed. Her husband’s was a delicate constitution and she +well knew what the effect would be if he were deprived of meat much +longer. He would probably slam doors and kick things. He might even +hurl his shoe. Once he had hurled his shoe when there was a shortage of +lean meat in Pudding Lane. Awful to think of it, but he did do it. + +“Yes,” repeated Jack Spratt, “it’s all very well for foreign robbers to +come swarming--” + +Really though, Jack Spratt was talking nonsense. In the first place, +poor Taffy hadn’t “swarmed” into Pudding Lane. If there’s only one of +you, you can’t swarm; there was only one of Taffy. In the second place, +Jack Spratt needn’t have laid down the law like that to his wife. +She couldn’t help it if Taffy was a thief. She was tired of eggs and +lettuce herself, and thought yearningly of her own favorite fat meat. +At night she dreamed of it, juicy, dripping chunks of it. + +It was like that in every house in Pudding Lane, the men demanding +meat, the women buying it, and then losing it that way. It did seem +rather queer that the women couldn’t keep their meat once they had +bought it, but they couldn’t. Even the Queen of Hearts couldn’t keep +her meat, and the unfortunate lady had many a scene with Old King Cole +over the disappearance of the royal chops. + +“I can’t help it,” she told him, “if your friend Taffy steals meat all +over the place. But if I were the King--of course, I’m only a woman, a +mere Queen--but if I were the King, I’d soon fix that fellow. I’d take +it up with the Welsh ambassador.” Which shows how much she knew about +diplomatic matters. And it wasn’t any use talking to her, for if Old +King Cole had said there wasn’t any Welsh ambassador, the Queen would +have demanded, “Well, why isn’t there one?” and a long argument would +have ensued. Some women are like that. + +Only two people in Pudding Lane did not suffer from the ravages of the +thieving Taffy. One was Little Miss Muffett, who was quite content now, +as always, with her curds and whey; and the other was the butcher. For +the more meat Taffy stole, the more meat the butcher sold. He was doing +a rushing business and he was very happy. Furiously he bought pigs and +sheep and beeves at the big market in Banbury Cross, and brought them +back on loads and droves to Pudding Lane. Furiously the women bought +his meat butchered from these pigs and sheep and beeves. Furiously +Taffy nipped the meat from their cupboards and cellars and shelves. +Yes, the butcher was very happy. + +But as Jack Spratt had intimated, this state of affairs could not go on +forever. The men were getting worse. They stalked savagely; they had +glitterings in their eyes; they gathered in the candlestick-maker’s +shop and muttered together. Even that mild husband and father, Mr. +Claus, was a changed man, and one day, as he eyed his wife in an odd, +bloodthirsty way, Mrs. Claus spoke her mind. + +“Look here, Mr. Claus,” said she, “I’m not a roast of mutton, sir.” + +Mr. Claus gaped. + +“Nor am I a leg of pork,” went on the extraordinary woman. + +Mr. Claus gaped wider. + +“So you needn’t look at me like a cannibal,” she told him. “I won’t be +cooked and eaten, even by you. Pray don’t delude yourself.” + +“My dear--” remonstrated the baker with a ghastly smile. + +“No,” continued Mrs. Claus, “nor shall you cast your eyes upon my +children in that fashion. No doubt Santa Claus would make a delicious +meal, Mr. Claus, but you shall not feast yourself upon him. Yes, and +the twins would probably be as tender flesh as a man could taste, but +you are not the man who will taste it. I am surprised at you, Mr. +Claus, that you should turn heathen like this and want to eat your +family alive; I really am.” + +Oh, what a woman she was! Had Mr. Claus mentioned eating his family? +Had he even thought of such an atrocious thing? Yet on and on rattled +Mrs. Claus, and she probably would have been rattling on yet, if just +then the Town Crier had not come along, ringing his bell and shouting +something. What was he saying? + +“Make your sandwiches! Bake your cakes! To-morrow is picnic day!” + +[Illustration: _The next morning at nine o’clock the whole town started +out for Honeysuckle Hill. Page 129._] + +Picnic day, oh, yes, so it was. To-morrow was picnic day; Mrs. Claus +had quite forgotten it. + +Now the picnic that the Town Crier was calling was the picnic that +Pudding Lane had been talking about all summer, but never, until +now, had really got around to. It was a bit late for picnics, being +September, but you have to have at least one picnic a year, and if +it won’t come off early in the season, it just has to come off late, +that’s all. And to-morrow, finally, Pudding Lane’s annual picnic was to +come off. + +But how can you have a picnic without ham? Mrs. Claus wanted to know. +And what is a picnic without cold tongue? demanded Mrs. Dumpty. +Nevertheless, the women went ahead making their sandwiches just the +same, cheese sandwiches and currant jam sandwiches, and sandwiches of +watercress. They baked their cakes and stuffed their eggs and fished +out their pickles and collected their bananas and packed their baskets +with all these things. And the next morning at nine o’clock the whole +town started out for Honeysuckle Hill. + +The picnic went off with a bang, despite the meat crisis. Indeed, so +successful an affair was that picnic that Old King Cole felt moved +to make a formal statement, and he did so, saying that it was very +gratifying to him as king for a picnic to attain such heights as this. +Although just why he should have been gratified, I don’t know, since +all he did for the picnic was to come to it and eat at it. Still, his +statement made the women very happy; it’s a great thing to please a +king. + +And so everything was going as smoothly as you please--until something +happened to Miss Muffett. + +It was this way. Little Miss Muffett sat on a tuffet, eating her curds +and whey. She was talking and smiling and having a lovely time when +along came a spider and sat down beside her. Oh, dear, how she jumped +and screamed. For if there was anything in the world that Little Miss +Muffett was afraid of, it was a spider. And yet spiders were always +pursuing her. Every time that girl sat down on a tuffet to enjoy her +repast of curds and whey, along would come a spider and sit down +beside her, just as that spider did to-day. It may be that spiders are +particularly fond of curds and whey, or perhaps Miss Muffett herself +had a fatal fascination for spiders. Anyway, wherever she went she was +pursued by spiders, an unhappy fortune, surely, for a little girl as +timid as Miss Muffett. + +To-day, however, the courtly Mr. Horner, always the man to assist +a lady in distress, rose up heroically and chased the spider off. +At least, he thought he chased the spider off, and everybody else, +including Miss Muffett, thought so too, when suddenly the spider +appeared again beside Miss Muffett and this time frightened Miss +Muffett away. + +One look at the hideous creature sitting there so calmly beside her, +and overboard went the bowl of curds and whey, up flew Miss Muffett +shrieking, and away she was gone, down Pinafore Pike in a cloud of dust. + +Mr. Horner, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker and all the +other men let out great roars, the women screamed, the children cried. +What a scene, where all had been sweet peace before. And then, away +leaped Mr. Horner down the road after Miss Muffett, away leaped Mr. +Spratt after him, and in another moment every man, woman and child in +Pudding Lane was tearing madly down Pinafore Pike behind the flying +skirts and scampering feet of Little Miss Muffett. + +And the spider? Well, the spider with one look at the empty havoc +around him, legged it off to Mrs. Spider and the children, sighing as +he went. It was too bad, he was thinking to himself. He adored Little +Miss Muffett with all the fervor of his spiderish heart, yet every time +he went near her, she squealed and pulled up her skirt and ran away +from him. + +Perhaps she didn’t like him, he thought. Oh, dear, it’s a hard world +for spiders. Nobody really likes them, even when they are as faithful +and devoted as this old fellow was. Well, Mrs. Spider liked him anyway, +he reflected, and the spider children liked him too. Home was the place +for spiders, so home he would go and there in the bosom of his family +console himself as best he could. + +For ten good minutes the people of Pudding Lane kept their furious pace +down Pinafore Pike. They panted and heaved and got red in the face, +especially Mrs. Dumpty; their knees wobbled and waggled, especially +the candlestick-maker’s; their tongues hung out, particularly Simple +Simon’s; their arms flapped, Mr. Claus’s most of all. But still they +kept on. + +Old King Cole lost his best ruby crown and never looked back after it. +Polly Flinders stubbed her pretty toes and bore the pain unflinchingly. +Mrs. Claus’s back hair went streaming in the wind, and she didn’t even +know it. + +What they were running for, I don’t know, and they didn’t know +themselves, I’m afraid. Why they didn’t stop, I can’t say. But they +didn’t, until they turned the corner toward Banbury Cross and there +they did stop, suddenly and stock-still. + +And it was no wonder they stopped, for the most astonishing sight +confronted them. Indeed, it was so astonishing they couldn’t believe +they were seeing aright. It didn’t seem possible that they _could_ be +seeing hundreds of cats and hundreds of dogs like that. + +For that’s just what they saw: hundreds of cats and hundreds of dogs, +all there together, with hundreds of bones and hundreds of chunks of +meat. And in the midst of that mass of fur and sharp eyes and wagging +tails and crunching jaws stood Taffy the Welshman, smiling happily at +the scene. + +The people of Pudding Lane blinked; they rubbed their eyes. Surely +something was the matter with their eyesight. But Taffy himself looked +natural enough, and his voice when he spoke, sounded natural too. Taffy +was speaking; he addressed himself, very properly, to Old King Cole. + +“Welcome, sir,” said he graciously. “Welcome to Your Majesty, welcome +to the Queen of Hearts, and heartiest greetings to all your people +here.” + +But Old King Cole couldn’t answer, for staring at the cats and dogs. + +“I knew you would come some day,” went on Taffy smoothly, “and +now--here you are. We welcome you, sir, cats, dogs and Taffy himself.” + +No answer from Old King Cole, glaring angrily now at the cats and dogs. + +“You must understand, sir,” began Taffy. + +“But that’s just it,” burst out Old King Cole, “I don’t understand at +all. I tell you, Welshman, this is a serious thing. You break the law, +you defy punishment, you steal meat from my people day in and day out, +and now I find you here, consorting with hundreds of dogs and hundreds +of cats on the public highway. Can it be, sir, that you have robbed us +of beef and mutton only to feed these beasts?” + +“That is the truth, Your Majesty,” answered Taffy softly. “I spend my +life stealing meat for these poor creatures. Is it so wrong of me?” + +“Wrong? Of course it’s wrong,” thundered Old King Cole. “Don’t you know +wrong from right, Welshman? Didn’t your mother teach you that it was +wrong to steal?” + +“Ah,” replied Taffy, “but you don’t know about these cats and dogs, +King Cole. These are special cats and dogs, sir.” + +“Special cats and dogs?” + +“Yes, sir, stray cats from London and Banbury Cross, the loneliest +cats in the world; dogs without owners, the most miserable dogs there +ever were. Oh, you should have seen them when they first came to me. +They would have broken your heart. Seedy, dingy, scrawny, all of them, +sad-eyed and starving.” + +“Starving?” repeated Old King Cole incredulously. + +“Starving,” whispered everybody else, frightened. + +“Starving,” said Taffy again. “That’s why it takes so much meat now, +King Cole. They eat all the time, sir. You can see how they’re eating +now. I don’t suppose they ever will get really filled up. They’ve been +at it for days, yes, and for nights too.” + +“They eat all night too?” asked King Cole. + +“All night long and all day long and never stop except for the briefest +of naps,” Taffy told him. “You see, there’s no joke about this, King +Cole. These are really hungry animals.” + +It was easy to see that Taffy was right, for as the people of Pudding +Lane looked at the animals, not one cat raised an eye at them, or not +one dog, but lickety-lick, crunchety-crunch, they kept on eating, +eating, eating. + +It was an odd sight, all those gray and black and brown furry bodies, +all those tails in the air, all those clamping jaws, and not one sound +but lickety-lick, crunchety-crunch. It was a sad sight too, for the +people of Pudding Lane had never known that animals could be as hungry +as that. + +And so they nearly turned themselves inside out in their generosity, +those kind-hearted citizens of Pudding Lane. Mr. Spratt declared rashly +that he didn’t care if he never saw a piece of lean meat again; Mr. +Claus magnificently offered to abstain from beef the rest of his life; +and Old King Cole ordered the Queen of Hearts to see that eggs appeared +thereafter on the royal breakfast table, instead of the usual chops. + +Taffy, however, wouldn’t listen to these sacrifices. He was about to +move on anyway, he said. + +“I’m going to Hamelin next and after that, who knows, I may even go to +France and steal some meat from the French awhile. The cats and dogs +have to be fed, but of course I can’t deprive you good people of your +proteins forever.” + +The good people didn’t know what proteins were, but they vowed again +that these poor creatures could have Pudding Lane’s meat as long as +Pudding Lane had any meat, such a pitch had their ecstasy reached. + +But no, Taffy insisted that they had suffered enough, and that he must +go. And before they knew it, he was gone, followed by his winding +procession of cats and dogs. + +The funny part about it was that the people of Pudding Lane were +actually sorry to see him go. They had forgotten he was a thief, you +see; they had forgotten their recent anger and annoyance against him. +They had forgotten everything except that Taffy the Welshman was a man +who was kind to animals, a man who lived and plied his trade for cats +and dogs alone. And this fact was so important that they had forgotten +the picnic too; they had even forgotten the spider. + +And so those very people who had called Taffy the worst names only that +same morning now watched his departing figure down the road and called +out, “Good-by, Taffy, good-by. Good luck, good luck.” + +Fancy wishing a thief good luck! It doesn’t seem respectable, but +that’s what they did. + +And as for Taffy, he did have good luck. He went on his way ever after +that, stealing meat, feeding the cats and dogs and having a lovely +time. For Taffy enjoyed the stealing part quite as much as the feeding +part, if the truth must be known. It’s deplorable. People oughtn’t to +enjoy stealing, but Taffy did enjoy it, and there’s nothing we can do +about it. + +Perhaps some day he’ll reform and be an honest man. Yet if he did, the +cats and dogs might have a hard time of it, so we’d better let him +alone, I guess. If we must have thieves in the world, Taffy’s the very +sort to have. + + + + +X + +THE CROOKED MAN GETS A BRAND-NEW REPUTATION + + +The Crooked Man had invited Santa Claus to visit him and the Clauses +were sitting at the kitchen table trying to decide about it. + +“I can’t think why he should have asked Santa to his house,” said Mrs. +Claus. She looked down at the letter in her hand, which was, of course, +written in extremely crooked characters on a funny little crooked piece +of paper. + +“Perhaps he’s heard about the toys and wants Santa Claus to make some +for the crooked children next Christmas,” suggested Mr. Claus. + +“The crooked children!” exclaimed Mrs. Claus. “You ought to know by +this time, Mr. Claus, that the Crooked Man is a bachelor.” + +“Is he?” asked Mr. Claus. “Dear me. Then who lives with him on the +Crooked Mile?” + +“He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse, and they all +live together in a little crooked house,” explained his wife. + +“Oh, I see,” said the baker. But he didn’t see. He simply couldn’t +imagine a crooked man and a crooked cat and a crooked mouse all living +together in a little crooked house. It sounded like a bad dream to Mr. +Claus, not like real life. In real life, men and cats and mice are +straight. + +“I suppose it will be all right for Santa Claus to go,” Mrs. Claus was +saying. + +“I suppose so,” assented her husband. + +“Nobody ever did visit him, though.” + +“No,” said Mr. Claus, “the Crooked Man doesn’t stand very well among +the best people, I must admit.” + +“Well, do you suppose,” Mrs. Claus stopped, reddening. “Could it be, +baker, that the Crooked Man’s morals are crooked, too?” + +The baker’s face fell. Morals. He hadn’t thought of them. But +naturally, the morals of a crooked man would be crooked, wouldn’t they? + +So he said to Mrs. Claus, “Why, yes, certainly his morals would +be crooked. Santa Claus must not accept this invitation to visit +the Crooked Man. In fact, Mrs. Claus, I forbid it,” he finished up +pompously, just as if he, a sage man, had thought up the morals himself. + +Santa Claus, who was sitting at the table too, didn’t quite understand. + +“What are morals?” he asked his mother. + +“Morals?” replied Mrs. Claus. “Why, washing your face every morning is +morals, and telling the truth, and going to bed at eight o’clock, and +minding your parents, and saving your pennies--all those are morals, +Santa.” + +“Do you have to have them?” asked Santa. They sounded very +uninteresting. He could think of lots of people who were most +amusing and lovable, though they didn’t do all those things: the +candlestick-maker, for instance, who didn’t wash very often; and Piggy +Peddler who stayed up till all hours; and Simple Simon, who didn’t ever +save his pennies, but squandered them prodigally on horehound lozenges, +his favorite confection. + +“Have to have them?” repeated Mrs. Claus, shocked. “Well, I guess you +do, Santa Claus. If you don’t have morals, you don’t get very far in +this world, sir. Morals make the world go ’round, don’t they, Mr. +Claus?” + +Mr. Claus, thus appealed to, looked dubious. + +“I thought it was love that made the world go ’round,” he ventured. + +“Well, love is morals,” asserted Mrs. Claus. You can’t catch that woman +very often. + +The subject was getting too deep, however, and she hastily changed it. + +“I’ll tell you,” she said. “Instead of visiting the Crooked Man, Santa +Claus can go to the Gingerbread Fair.” + +At which suggestion Santa Claus forgot morals and love and the Crooked +Man and everything else, so thrilled was he over the Gingerbread Fair. + +The Gingerbread Fair was the great celebration which was held at Pye +Corner every year. It was a magnificent affair, of that Pudding Lane +was certain, although only Mr. Claus and King Cole had ever gone so far +as to attend it. Mr. Claus went on business, of course, and Old King +Cole went for pleasure. + +And now Santa Claus was going. What an experience for a little boy +only nine years old! Why, most of the grown-ups of Pudding Lane lived +and died without going to it. Even Mr. Flinders, the wealthy, had not +permitted himself that luxury, though it was said that he was planning +to take Mrs. Flinders to the Gingerbread Fair on their twentieth +wedding anniversary. + +Pye Corner was so very far off, you see. It was farther than Banbury +Cross, farther than Hamelin, almost as far as London. You went down +Raspberry Road, along the Crooked Mile, across Minnow Creek, up +Rocking-horse Row, and there, just before you got to London Bridge, was +Pye Corner. It took almost a day to get there by foot; it took half a +day to get there by coach. No wonder the citizens of Pudding Lane had +never traveled so far. + +It was decided that Judy-Who-Lived-in-a-Shoe should accompany Santa +Claus on his trip to Pye Corner, for Santa Claus could hardly bear +to do anything without his favorite little friend, and to do such a +wonderful thing without her was unthinkable. + +Mr. Claus was to take Santa and Judy to the Gingerbread Fair, but +Mr. Claus didn’t take them; he took the mumps instead. Where he took +them from was not known, for the Claus children had had the mumps +long before, but where he took them at was quite clear. His poor +jaws swelled up like balloons, his face ached worse than he had ever +supposed a mere face could ache, and on the very day of the Gingerbread +Fair, Mr. Claus lay in his bed, moaning, without a thought of +gingerbread. + +Poor Mr. Claus, with those aching balloons where his face used to be. +Poor Santa, without any father to take him to the Gingerbread Fair. +Poor Judy, all dressed up and waiting in the Shoe for a Mr. Claus that +would never come. + +Mrs. Claus, however, was not the woman to let plans slip simply +because her spouse had chosen this unlucky moment in which to take +on a distressing malady. She would never get to the Gingerbread Fair +herself, probably, but she was determined that Santa should go. So what +did she do but bustle down to the Town Crier’s and beg him to take the +children and the pies to the Gingerbread Fair? Not that it took much +begging. The Town Crier had his hat on his head before she had finished +her first sentence, and before she had started her second, he was +halfway down Pudding Lane toward the baker’s shop. + +So it was the old Town Crier instead of Mr. Claus who climbed into the +stagecoach ten minutes later, with Santa and Judy in tow, and a great +basket of Mrs. Claus’s pies on his arm. Into the coach they got and +away they went, Santa Claus and Judy and the Town Crier and the pies. +They bowled along Raspberry Road, they bumped along the Crooked Mile, +they forded Minnow Creek, they rolled along Rocking-horse Row, and +they swung into Pye Corner, that great metropolis, at exactly twelve +o’clock. + +“We have arrived,” announced the Town Crier sonorously. The Town Crier +never said things; he always announced them. Even when he uttered a +mere “Good morning”, he rolled it out like a piece of news, sang it, +cried it. + +But Santa Claus and Judy knew they had arrived without his telling +them. They knew it by the sound of a fife and drums; they knew it by +the sight of a dozen merry-go-rounds, of Punch and Judy shows, of +brightly colored stalls, of children, children, everywhere; and most of +all, they knew it by the mountains of gingerbread pigs that were piled +up as high and as far as they could see. + +“Oh, Judy!” whispered Santa Claus, pressing her hand fervently. + +Judy nodded blissfully. + +“I know,” she answered. “But come on. Let’s hurry. Oh, it’s a lovely +Gingerbread Fair, Santa Claus.” + +And it was a lovely Gingerbread Fair, quite the loveliest one Pye +Corner had ever had. And such a time as Santa and Judy had that whole +long, sunny afternoon, while the Town Crier at his stall announced Mrs. +Claus’s pies and made change, incorrectly, for the buyers who ate Mrs. +Claus’s pies. + +The first thing to do was to buy their gingerbread pigs, those brown +crusty beasts with curled tails and sprouting horns (the gingerbread +species have horns if other pigs do not), and each pig bearing the +name of its owner in sticky pink-and-white icing. There on her pig you +could read Judy’s name, plain as day, J-u-d-y, and there on Santa’s +pig blazed forth his name too, S-a-n-t-a. The man did it with a little +squeezer while you waited. + +You picked the pig, you told your name, you paid your penny, and the +pig was yours miraculously. + +Some of the pigs had freckles, candy ones, but the freckled pigs +cost two pennies, and a plain pig does very well if your pennies are +limited, as Santa’s and Judy’s were. There was the merry-go-round yet +to be reckoned with, and the circus, and the Punch and Judy--oh, lots +of things. + +The merry-go-round came next. Judy rode a wild bull, a creature with +snorting nostrils, angry red eyes and a lolling tongue; Santa Claus +strode a Mexican pony whose long tail stuck out straight behind him. +They had just mounted when the music commenced, a tune that wheezed +from a bronchial music box in the middle somewhere; the platform began +to move slowly, the bull and the pony started to rock. + +Faster went the music, faster went the platform, faster rocked the pony +and the bull. Judy’s fat little legs clung frantically; Santa Claus +gripped tight with his fists. The world spun around them, a flying haze +of faces and colors and shapes. On and on and on they went, whirling, +rocking, dipping, swaying, plunging. + +When it was over and they stood dazed on the ground again, Judy gulped, +then turned to Santa. + +“But what makes the merry go ’round, Santa?” she asked. + +Santa Claus didn’t know exactly. In fact, he didn’t know at all. But +that only made it better. If you don’t know precisely how wonderful +things happen, it seems to make them more wonderful, somehow. + +In the circus, they saw an elephant that waltzed and a clown who was +fearfully funny because his coat tails were forever getting afire. In +the Punch and Judy show there were six Punches and five Judys. Think of +it! At the candy stall, Judy and Santa bought taffy that was spun off a +wheel like wool. They shot guns and threw rings at bottles and bowled +at ninepins. And then, when they had spent every single penny they +had, they went back to get the Town Crier--and he wasn’t there. The +stall was deserted, the pies were gone, and so, evidently, was the Town +Crier. + +They looked all over the whole Gingerbread Fair, but no Town Crier was +to be found. Where he had gone, nobody could say, until an old apple +woman in the next stall, who had known it all along, mumbled that he +had picked up his traps and gone home by the five-o’clock stage. + +“Gone home!” ejaculated Judy. + +She and Santa looked at each other. + +“He does forget things, you know,” Santa reminded Judy. + +“But he wouldn’t forget us,” Judy said. + +“He did, though,” put in the old apple woman. Then she softened. “Look +here, you childer,” she said, “it’s yet light. Best hurry home afore +dark. Your mothers will be worried-like.” + +“But it’s too far to walk before dark,” said Santa Claus. “We live ’way +off in Pudding Lane.” + +[Illustration: _“But it’s too far to walk before dark,” said Santa +Claus. “We live ’way off in Pudding Lane.” Page 148._] + +The apple woman considered them a moment. Then she spoke. + +“I’ll give yer a lift. Nobody’s buying apples, anyway,” she said +savagely. + +She did give them a lift, if you can call it a lift, that short ride +she gave them in her wheelbarrow on top of apples. Still, even if Judy +did keep tumbling off like a very apple herself, even if Santa Claus +did ache all over from sitting on the knobby things, it was better than +nothing, the apple woman’s lift. And when she dumped them in front of +her cottage on Rocking-horse Row with a hoarse “Good night to yer”, +Judy and Santa thanked her heartily. + +Their thanks were hearty, though their hearts were rather faint. It did +seem forlorn to be there alone on Rocking-horse Row, so far from home +at such an hour. It was now nearly seven, and the sun was getting ready +for bed behind the hill. + +But Santa and Judy were brave children. Judy didn’t cry and Santa +didn’t flinch. They simply picked up their tired feet and went on. They +weren’t really lost, you see, because they knew the way. Only it was +such a _long_ way; that was the trouble. + +Well, they walked and walked, and finally they came to Minnow Creek, +several inches deep and at least four feet wide. Minnow Creek was +fun, though, because they took off their shoes and stockings and waded +across it. They wiped their feet on Judy’s petticoat, put on their +shoes and stockings and approached the Crooked Mile. That indeed looked +bad. It was such a crooked mile, twisting and curving like dozens of +horseshoes. People always got lost on it. And now, to make it worse, it +was almost dark. In another moment, it would be pitchy. Then what would +they do? + +The darkness plumped down on them at last. Santa Claus could see +nothing but a few feeble stars overhead; Judy could not see a foot +ahead of her. Hands clasped, they walked on, frightened and quiet, +hardly daring to whisper. + +Then, suddenly, a yellow light flashed up ahead of them. + +“Firefly,” said Judy. + +“Lantern,” said Santa. + +But it wasn’t a firefly, it wasn’t a lantern; it was a lamp in a house. +As they got closer, they talked about the house, whose it was and +whether they should knock on the door or not. Judy was afraid it might +be a witch who lived there, but Santa Claus pooh-pooh’ed that. + +“You know there aren’t any witches except in stories,” he said. + +“But this may be a story,” was Judy’s answer. + +“You only read stories.” + +“You could be a story as well as read it,” asserted Judy. + +Santa didn’t understand that, so he made no answer, but marched +straight up to the door and knocked. Witch or no witch, he was going to +ask for help. + +The man that came to the door looked something like a witch, to be +sure, gnarled and twisted as he was, with a long irregular nose, and +knotted, hunched-up body. He spoke pleasantly enough, however. + +“Good evening,” said he. “Why, bless my soul, it’s children.” + +“Please, sir,” spoke Santa Claus courageously, “it’s Judy and Santa +Claus of Pudding Lane.” + +“You don’t tell me,” exclaimed the gnarled man. “Why, come in, Judy and +Santa Claus of Pudding Lane.” + +He held the door open so that the yellow light streamed out of the +little house. The children could see the house more plainly now. It +was an odd-looking house, leaning every which way, like a house in +a puzzle. Its door sagged at a dizzy angle; its windows were put in +aslant. Its very chimneys were askew on top of its zigzag roof. + +Wondering, the children followed the hunched-up man into his crazy +house. How queer it was inside too. The fireplace seemed to stand on +its ear; the table supported itself on one leg; the lamp was upside +down. And there, beside the fire, lay a cat such as had never been seen +before, a cat all angles and points, between his paws a mouse whose +ears were crisscross, whose tail was curly like a corkscrew.... Oh, now +Santa Claus knew. + +This was the Crooked Man, and here was the crooked cat who caught a +crooked mouse and they all lived together in this little crooked house. + +Santa Claus had guessed the truth. When he asked the man timidly if he +really were the Crooked Man, his host gave a pleasant, crooked smile +and jerked his crooked head in assent. + +“I am that,” he replied. “And I’ve wanted to see you, oh, so much, +Santa Claus, because you’re an understanding fellow, even if you are +only nine, and I thought--” + +“You thought--” prompted Santa. + +“Well, I thought--” the Crooked Man seemed rather embarrassed “--I +thought that maybe if you knew me and liked me, just a little, of +course--that maybe--” + +“That maybe everybody else would like you too, and not be afraid of you +any more?” finished up Santa for him. + +The Crooked Man nodded vigorously, with an eager look in his eyes. + +“Why, of course they will,” said Santa Claus. “I do like you, Crooked +Man. You’re very kind and agreeable, and when I tell my friends in +Pudding Lane just how nice you are, I’m sure you’ll be very popular +there. I really am sure of that, sir.” + +The Crooked Man blinked at this, trying to keep back some grateful +tears that wouldn’t be kept, however, but pursued a crooked course down +his cheeks. + +“It’s rather lonely being crooked, I suppose,” said Judy, trying to be +tactful. + +“It is,” replied the Crooked Man huskily. “It isn’t being crooked +that’s so bad; it’s just that nobody else is crooked, you see.” + +“Yes, I see,” said Judy soberly. “It’s like spelling. If nobody else +knew how, you wouldn’t have to learn, but they do, so you do,” she +ended up rather incoherently. + +“Only I can’t help being crooked, no matter how hard I try,” said the +man, “and you can learn spelling.” + +“Can you?” thought Judy. Privately, she thought she would never learn +spelling any more than the Crooked Man would ever straighten out. + +Well, that was the way Pudding Lane discovered what a nice chap the +Crooked Man was, after all. For, of course, he took the children home +in his cart as fast as he could, when they told him their story, took +them home to their mothers, and was the object of much praise and +admiration from all of Pudding Lane. Especially did the Town Crier +praise and admire him. + +“I don’t see how you remembered to bring ’em,” he said, marveling. +“I forgot ’em clean as a whistle. Had a feeling I had left something +behind, but couldn’t remember what it was. You must have an excellent +memory,” he went on. “Perhaps crooked memories are better than straight +ones.” + +“Perhaps,” agreed the Crooked Man, smiling crookedly. + + + + +XI + +MOTHER GOOSE SETTLES A DIFFICULTY + + +The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe was busy making broth one afternoon +when she looked out through the lowest buttonhole of her home and spied +Mrs. Dumpty coming up the walk. + +“Why, Mrs. Dumpty, this _is_ a surprise!” cried the Old Woman. “I’m so +glad to see you. Do come right in.” + +Mrs. Dumpty could not muster a smile in answer to the Old Woman’s +cordial greeting. She was a jolly little pudding of a lady with a round +face and no waistline whatever, but to-day her mouth drooped at the +corners and she looked very worried, as indeed she had looked all these +weeks of Humpty’s confinement. “I just thought I’d run over a while,” +she said to the Old Woman. “Humpty’s asleep.” + +“Of course!” exclaimed the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe delightedly. +“I’m so glad you did, Mrs. Dumpty. Now come right in.” + +Mrs. Dumpty sighed heavily. She was very fond of the Old Woman, but it +was an ordeal to climb into that Shoe every time she wanted to call, +and she had always said she didn’t know why in the world the Old Woman +didn’t call Jack-of-all-Trades and let him build a few steps up to the +Shoe. However, the Old Woman was queer about her home, and so now Mrs. +Dumpty bravely lifted one fat little foot for the climb, and pretty +soon, panting and pink, she had scrambled into the Shoe. + +“And how is Humpty?” inquired the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, as she +hastened to put the kettle on. + +“He will never be any better,” answered Mrs. Dumpty sadly. “He will +never walk another step. Oh, Old Woman, if he had only not sat on the +wall that day--” + +“I know,” murmured the Old Woman sympathetically. “But Humpty doesn’t +suffer any pain, does he?” + +Mrs. Dumpty’s face cleared. “No, not a bit,” she answered. “But, Old +Woman, what do you suppose the doctor says he must have now?” + +“I haven’t the faintest notion,” declared the Old Woman. + +“A wheel chair!” Mrs. Dumpty’s little eyes bulged as she told her news. + +“A wheel chair!” repeated the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. “Well, +whatever in the world is that?” + +“It’s a chair with wheels on it,” explained Mrs. Dumpty. “You see, Old +Woman, if Humpty could be pushed around in a wheel chair, it would be +almost--not quite, but almost--as good as walking.” + +“Why, of course!” agreed the Old Woman. “What won’t they be thinking up +next?” she concluded admiringly. + +“But,” Mrs. Dumpty’s face became troubled again, “there isn’t a +wheel chair in all of Pudding Lane. I’ve been to the butcher’s and +the baker’s and the candlestick-maker’s, and they haven’t any. And +all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, which the king has so +generously put at my disposal”--here Mrs. Dumpty straightened up a bit +proudly--“even they have no wheel chair. And meanwhile my poor Humpty +sits by the window in his rocker.” She was ready to cry, poor thing. + +The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe brought her a cup of tea without a +word, and without a word sat down beside her guest and began to stir +her own tea vigorously. She was thinking, was the Old Woman, for this +was indeed a dilemma for the Dumpties, and the Old Woman wanted to help +them out of it if she could. So she stirred and stirred and stirred her +tea, making a great clatter, while Mrs. Dumpty sat looking sadly at her +cup. + +And finally the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe set her cup down noisily, +with a great light in her eye. “Well, Mrs. Dumpty, why don’t you ride a +cockhorse to Banbury Cross and get a wheel chair there?” she exclaimed +triumphantly. + +At this suggestion Mrs. Dumpty stared at the Old Woman in amazement. +It was a daring idea--Mrs. Dumpty had never been to Banbury Cross in +her whole life; but it was a sensible one, too, for surely if any place +would have a wheel chair, Banbury Cross would be that place. Mother +Goose had been to Banbury Cross time and again, and she had reported it +to be a flourishing center, with as many as a dozen shops. + +Mrs. Dumpty opened her mouth into a little round “O”, then closed it +again and finally spoke. “Why--” she brought out. It was such a truly +astonishing idea, she just couldn’t grasp it all at once. And yet, too, +the minute the Old Woman had spoken, Mrs. Dumpty knew that to go to +Banbury Cross was the very thing to do. + +“Why not?” the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe was urging her. “You could +go one day, come back the next, and stay at the Threepenny Inn all +night. It’s a very fine inn, I hear.” + +Mrs. Dumpty hesitated. “I’ve never traveled,” she ventured timidly, her +fat little body quivering with the excitement of merely thinking about +traveling. + +“Good time to begin,” replied the Old Woman energetically. + +“It’s as far as ten miles,” she objected feebly. + +“The end of the world is farther,” was the Old Woman’s response. + +“I don’t know how to ride a cockhorse.” + +“You just sit on ’em,” the Old Woman enlightened her, though she +herself had never ridden one and didn’t know in the least what she was +talking about. + +Mrs. Dumpty looked at her friend admiringly. “You are so brave,” she +said. “Oh, Old Woman,” she cried out suddenly, “will you go with me?” + +“In the name of goodness!” exclaimed the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. +“What would I do with all my children? Who would spank them and tuck +them in their beds?” + +But it was finally arranged that the Old Woman should go with Mrs. +Dumpty to Banbury Cross to buy the wheel chair for Humpty, and that +night everybody in Pudding Lane knew of the proposed expedition. Mrs. +Claus had kindly offered to look after Humpty, and Old Mother Hubbard +had been asked to bring her poor dog over and stay in the Shoe with the +innumerable children. Needless to say, Mother Hubbard was only too glad +to leave her bare cupboard for a full one, for a couple of days. + +And so the night before the great day Mrs. Dumpty went to bed, +trembling with agitation over the bold undertaking of the morrow, and +hardly slept a wink. But the Old Woman, who stayed awake too, smiled +into the dark as she thought of the journey, for she was an adventurous +old woman, and it looked like a lark to her. + +Of course the Town Crier had got everything all mixed up in his +announcement about the coming event. For he had told it far and wide +that the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe and Mrs. Dumpty would start +on their momentous journey at seven o’clock, which was not at all +the truth, the ladies having set their hour for six. It seemed rather +early; but, as Mrs. Dumpty said, ten miles was a long way, and they +might not get there the same day,--terrifying thought. + +But somehow, what the Town Crier had said didn’t seem to make any +difference, for everybody on Pudding Lane was there at six o’clock +just the same. That is, everybody was there except poor Humpty Dumpty +himself and the Town Crier (who was much astonished when he went out at +seven o’clock to find that the ladies had already gone). The Old Woman +Who Lived in a Shoe and Mrs. Dumpty were indeed being honored with an +impressive send-off. + +And you should have seen those two women! They had never been so +magnificent before; no, not even when Mrs. Claus gave a party and +everybody had been so enormously dressed up. Mrs. Dumpty had got out +her wedding dress for the occasion, and she surely did look elegant in +it, in spite of the fact that it was much too tight, as fat ladies’ +wedding dresses always, always are. In one hand she carried a package +containing her nightcap, three fresh handkerchiefs and a bottle of +cough sirup; in the other an egg basket filled to bursting with lunch. +The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe had wanted very much to wait and +have dinner at the Threepenny Inn, but Mrs. Dumpty would hear of no +such carryings-on. + +As for the Old Woman herself, she was in black silk with a fine new +feather on her bonnet and a pea-green parasol to keep the sun away. +Jumbo and Jocko and Judy and all the other children of the Old Woman, +who followed their mother in a winding string from the Shoe to the +crossroads, had never seen her look so regal and were extremely proud +of her appearance. + +Well, there they stood at the crossroads, Mrs. Dumpty quivering with +fear and excitement, the Old Woman impatient to be off, and all their +friends standing around and wondering how it felt to be going on such a +long journey. And precisely at six o’clock into their midst pranced the +jaunty little cockhorses driven by the keeper of King Cole’s stables. +For these travelers were to ride no ordinary cockhorses, but the King’s +best. The King was still deeply interested in Humpty’s case and was +helping in this substantial manner. One of the horses was a sleek +little white horse with a bright eye; the other was black and tossed +his mane in the liveliest fashion possible. Mrs. Dumpty grew pale at +the sight of them, for she was sure she was going to fall and break +her neck. But the dauntless Old Woman picked up her skirts and almost +danced a jig in her impatience to be off. + +And now the great moment was here. The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe +began hastily to kiss all her children, which took some time, of +course. Mr. Claus, the baker, stepped gallantly forward to offer his +services to Mrs. Dumpty in mounting her horse, a service that Mrs. +Dumpty accepted with deep gratitude. Mr. Claus bent low and cupped his +hand, into which Mrs. Dumpty stepped timidly and uncertainly. As Mr. +Claus gave her a boost, Mrs. Dumpty grabbed the horse’s mane, the horse +started to go, but “Whoa, whoa!” commanded Mr. Claus in a bellowing +voice, and finally, shaking and pale, the little fat lady was on her +horse. + +She was on, but she wished for all the world that she were off. + +However, there was nothing to do except start, and there, who was +that galloping by on the white horse but the Old Woman, holding on +for dear life and waving her parasol in joyful excitement! The black +horse started then too, and clutching the lines and the egg basket and +her bonnet all at once, and screaming weakly, Mrs. Dumpty was seen to +follow her friend in a mad gallop down Pinafore Pike. And that was the +last that Pudding Lane saw of them for seven whole days. + +Yes, Mrs. Dumpty and the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe actually stayed +away from home for seven whole days, a thing that nobody in Pudding +Lane had ever done before, except Mother Goose, who was of course a +privileged character. + +At the end of the second day everybody went down to the crossroads to +meet the home-coming travelers, for nobody dreamed that they wouldn’t +come back just as they had promised; they were such extremely reliable +women. But dusk came, and they had not appeared. Little wobbly stars +ventured out, and no cockhorses came flourishing around the corner. At +last it grew quite black and was really night, and still the Old Woman +and Mrs. Dumpty had not come home to their children. + +Where could they be? asked everybody of everybody else. It was very +mysterious. + +“I’m afraid they’re lost on the road,” said the butcher. + +“It’s a perfectly straight road,” the baker reminded him. + +“They may have come to grief in Banbury Cross,” suggested the +candlestick-maker. + +“I fear they have,” said the carpenter. + +Just then one of the king’s men came riding by and saw the anxious +group. “What is the matter?” he inquired. + +The cobbler stepped up with respectful importance. “The Old Woman Who +Lived in a Shoe and Mrs. Dumpty went to Banbury Cross two days ago and +have not returned, sir,” he said. + +“Have you had bad news of them?” asked the king’s man. “No news is good +news in King Cole’s kingdom, you know,” and with that he flicked his +horse and rode off. + +How relieved they all were! For of course that explained everything. No +news was good news. That was one of old King Cole’s laws. How they had +forgotten it, even for a moment, they could not imagine; but they had, +every one of them, though you couldn’t find a body of more law-abiding +citizens in the whole kingdom. So they went home to bed, with no +further anxiety about the Old Woman and Mrs. Dumpty so far away in +Banbury Cross. + +But even if the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe and Mrs. Dumpty had not +been safe and sound, Pudding Lane would have had no time to worry about +them after that. For something else happened so much more serious that +nobody could think of anything except that. + +It began, indeed, that very night. Everything was still and quiet +throughout the whole village, for it was way past midnight and Pudding +Lane had been asleep hours and hours, when suddenly Polly, one of the +little girls who lived in the Shoe (the fat one, you know), woke up. It +was a queer thing for her to do, to wake up right in the middle of the +night like that, but then she felt queer, with a wavy feeling in her +stomach that was most uncomfortable. Polly had never had such a feeling +before, except one time when she ate too much jelly cake at Mistress +Mary’s birthday party. But there had been no jelly cake this night. +Just the usual broth and spanking. The broth could not do that to her +stomach, she thought to herself, and certainly Old Mother Hubbard’s +gentle little spankings wouldn’t hurt a mouse. The tender-hearted old +lady did not enjoy that part of her duty in the Shoe one bit, and the +children had really almost forgotten what a good sound spanking was +like. + +As Polly lay there, wishing the wavy feeling would go away, she heard +Patsy in the next bed give a little moan. (Patsy was the one without +any front teeth.) The next minute Judy, on the other side of her (the +one who couldn’t spell), turned over in her sleep with a sob. The baby +began to cry; Jocko and Jumbo and the twins and the several unnamed +children sat up in bed with a start; Mother Hubbard’s poor dog began to +bark as if in pain. + +“Mercy on us!” Mother Hubbard jumped out of bed and began to fumble for +a candle. “What in the world is the matter with you children?” + +Just then she stumbled against one of the little beds and the next +minute was pitched off her feet over against another bed. + +“What _is_ the matter?” cried old Mother Hubbard desperately. “Why are +the children sobbing and moaning? Why is this beast yowling? Why can’t +I keep my feet?” + +With that she lighted a candle and looked around, and she soon +discovered what the trouble was. The trouble was that the Shoe, up +to that time a perfectly substantial dwelling, was swaying ever so +slightly in the wind, for all the world like a ship on the gently +rolling waves of the sea. No wonder the children were sick! No wonder +the poor dog yowled and old Mother Hubbard couldn’t walk straight! + +But old Mother Hubbard knew what to do, right enough. She staggered to +the cupboard and took down a big bottle, after which, stumbling and +tumbling, she went to each little bed with a dose and a comforting +pat for every child. She gave the poor dog, not a bone, but a dose +of medicine too, and finally, after she herself had taken a big +tablespoonful, she rolled back into bed, the baby in her arms, her +nightcap over one ear. + +The wind quieted down and the children went to sleep, but the next day +old Mother Hubbard had a fine tale for the women of Pudding Lane. + +“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Claus, when she heard of it. “Whatever +did you do?” + +“I gave ’em a quart of peppermint oil,” related Old Mother Hubbard. +“And they all went to sleep.” + +“Well!” Mrs. Claus drew a long breath. “I must say, neighbor, I’m glad +I have only Humpty to look after. To live in a shoe with all those +children, and to have it act like a rocking-chair at night--” Mrs. +Claus threw up her hands at the thought of such a situation and thanked +her stars it wasn’t _her_ who had to go through it. + +And that was only the beginning of it. The real disaster came four +nights later. + +It was the worst night Pudding Lane had seen in many a day, as Mrs. +Claus said,--a real November storm with a whipping rain that lashed +angrily in every direction and wind that tore at trees and chimneys +until they creaked and cracked with the strain. + +Nobody on Pudding Lane so much as stuck a nose out that night. By seven +o’clock everybody was tight in bed, some of them even hiding under +the bedclothes, and there wasn’t a candle burning in the whole of the +village, not even in the palace of Old King Cole. + +Mrs. Claus, who was staying at the Dumpties’, wondered anxiously about +her own children at home with the baker. As for Mother Hubbard, she did +wish to goodness that she were not sleeping in an old, weather-beaten +shoe that night, for although Jumbo had fastened the buttons up tight +and had put the canvas top up, still she feared that the Shoe might +rock again as it had the other night. + +And sure enough, just as she feared, as the storm grew worse and worse, +the Shoe began to do its old trick. At first it rocked only gently, +slipping uncertainly around in the mud. + +“Oh, dear!” cried Polly. “We are rocking again, Mother Hubbard.” + +“We are that,” replied Mother Hubbard grimly, longing for the safety of +her own kitchen. + +“What shall we do?” asked Polly. “Shall we take more peppermint oil?” + +“There is no more,” replied Old Mother Hubbard. “Let’s see. +Supposing--” She was trying to think of some way to amuse all the +children so they would forget the storm. + +But Mother Hubbard got no further, for suddenly the Shoe leaned over +to one side in the wind, tipping everybody and everything into one +corner. Such a hubbub of noise and confusion as there was! The pots and +pans rattled as they flew from their hooks; the poor dog whimpered and +wailed; the baby cried. Even the older children, who tried to be brave, +were bruised from the bumping and frightened beyond words. Oh, dear, +what a fearful and unexpected catastrophe! And still the storm grew +worse, and the Shoe rocked harder, until they felt as if they were in a +tipsy boat on a sea that raged and tossed. You never would have thought +that this was the dear old Shoe that had been such a happy home all +these years. + +“We’ll have to get out,” said Old Mother Hubbard to herself. + +But as she peeped through the lowest buttonhole she saw that the rain +was beating harder than ever against the trees, and the wind was waving +a thousand arms. + +Worse and worse it got. The Shoe tilted to one side and then the other. +Once it almost tipped completely over, but the wind whirled suddenly +around the other way, and up came the Shoe again, tottering dizzily. + +There was no hope. Mother Hubbard looked around at the frightened +children in the madly-rocking Shoe. + +“We must get out,” she said. “Jumbo, fly out and unbutton the Shoe as +fast as ever you can. Jocko, take the twins with you. Judy and Patsy +and Polly and Nancy, and all the others, line up in a row. I’ll take +the baby. The rest of you jump out the minute the Shoe is opened.” + +Jumbo bravely climbed out of the top of the Shoe into the storm. Jumbo +was twelve and very courageous, as you see. It was his duty to open and +close the Shoe every night, and although the buttonhook was a rather +large and clumsy affair, he handled it like a man, and had often been +much complimented on his skill. In a twinkling the Shoe was open, and +in another twinkling the children had all jumped out into the rain and +wind and thunder and lightning. + +They were just in time. Old Mother Hubbard and the poor dog had but +just stepped out of the rickety Shoe when over it went for the last +time, spilling beds and stoves and stools helter-skelter. It was a +sad spectacle for the children of the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. +But there was no time for repining. Already they were all soaked and +shivering. On a run they all started for Mother Hubbard’s kitchen. + +You can imagine what an uproar there was in Pudding Lane the next day, +when everybody heard of the accident that had happened to the Shoe. +Everybody went to Mother Hubbard’s kitchen to see the children, to ask +questions, to shake their heads and to say what a dreadful thing it +was. It was a great day for the children who had lived in the Shoe, for +although it was sad to be homeless, still they did enjoy being talked +about and made over, and soon began to feel very important. + +On that day nobody even thought of poor Humpty Dumpty, except Mrs. +Claus, who was still staying with him, and Humpty sat at home +alone, wondering where his mother was and wishing somebody--oh, just +anybody--would come to see him. And just as he was wishing that, who do +you suppose came up the walk? + +Yes, it was Mrs. Dumpty, wheeling a great chair in front of her and +smiling as she used to smile in the days when Humpty was well. When +he saw her, Humpty almost jumped out of his rocker with delight, and +indeed that reunion between the Dumpties was such a one as to make Mrs. +Claus, who was there, sniffle and clear her throat. + +“Well, where on earth have you been?” was Mrs. Claus’s question. + +“We’ve been in Banbury Cross,” answered Mrs. Dumpty. “Where else?” + +“But why did you stay so long?” persisted Mrs. Claus. “We have been so +alarmed about you.” + +“Oh,” replied Humpty’s mother, “we had to wait for the sick boy, who +had this chair, to get well. It was the only chair in Banbury Cross, +you see.” + +Mrs. Dumpty’s home-coming was a happy one, but what do you think the +feelings of the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe must have been when she +found out what had happened? + +The Old Woman had had a good time in Banbury Cross. In fact, she had +never had quite such a good time in all her life, she told Mrs. Dumpty. +But just the same, she was most eager to get home to her dear children, +and she was anxious to live in a shoe again after those days in the +Threepenny Inn. And so as she rode the cockhorse up Pinafore Pike and +turned into Pudding Lane, she was indeed a happy woman. + +And then her eyes fell on the poor old overturned Shoe, and she thought +she should faint with terror. Up she dashed to inspect the ruins. The +Shoe was twisted and bent and lying on its side deep in the mud. How +horrible to come home from a journey and find your home a wreck! + +But where were the children? Had they all been carried off by the +storm? With a cry the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe ran down Pudding +Lane. Soon she learned the truth. She was indeed relieved to find her +children, every single one of them, safe and happy with Old Mother +Hubbard. But it was a sorrow to have no home, and the Old Woman, for +the first time in her life, had not the heart to spank the children all +around before putting them to bed. + +The next morning King Cole sent for the Old Woman to come to the +palace, and it was suspected that the merry old soul had some plan for +new quarters for her and all her children. Mother Hubbard’s cupboard +was barer than ever now, and they really could not stay there another +day longer. It turned out to be just as the two women had thought. Old +King Cole, after considering the matter carefully, handsomely offered +the Old Woman the use of The House-that-Jack-Built, rent free, until +another shoe could be found. Shoes were so scarce, you know, that she +might never find one again. And so it was considered that the King’s +offer was a very fine one, and that the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe +and her children ought to be thankful and happy to be given such a +beautiful home. + +But somehow the Old Woman was not happy one single bit, for although +The House-that-Jack-Built was a much more elegant affair than the old +Shoe, still the Old Woman didn’t like houses, however elegant, and had +always said, you know, that she would never live in one. + +She thought and thought before she accepted the King’s offer. The old +slipper she had gone to housekeeping in so many years ago was empty, +but it was far too small for the innumerable children and therefore +would not do. The laced shoe she had moved into next was unfit for +habitation now. It had never been repaired or blackened since it +was first made, and, of course, no shoe can last with that kind of +treatment. So finally she had to accept Old King Cole’s offer, simply +because there wasn’t anything else to do. And that afternoon they moved +in, the Old Woman and all those children. + +The House-that-Jack-Built was really a very beautiful house, with +porches and steps and fine furniture; for Jack had expected to live +there himself and had put a good deal of work on it, as you know. +Moreover, nobody had ever lived in it at all, for Jack had suddenly +lost interest in the house and had gone back to the city, after selling +the house to King Cole. It was understood that the lady for whom Jack +was building the house had changed her mind about marrying him. + +Yes, it was a beautiful house, but somehow the Old Woman and even the +children did not appreciate it at all. It was hard for them to live in +a house, you see, after spending their lives in a shoe, and it really +isn’t any wonder that they all cried a little bit into their pillows +that night before going off to sleep. + +The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe had really expected that she and her +children would get over their homesickness but it seemed that every day +they longed for their old home a little more, until they really were +not happy at all, but quite miserable. They were ashamed of themselves, +for King Cole had been so good to them they felt almost wicked to be +ungrateful, and they tried hard not to let anybody know how wretched +they were in their grand new house. But the truth was that they all +wanted only one thing in the world, and that was their old buttoned +Shoe again, where they could go on living as before. + +And then one day it all came out. The Old Woman was calling on Mrs. +Claus when somebody mentioned the Shoe. Before she knew what she was +doing, the Old Woman was crying--yes, crying as hard as she could +cry--and though she was furious with herself for doing it, she couldn’t +stop at all. + +Mrs. Claus was amazed at this. “Why, Old Woman,” she said kindly, “I +didn’t know you felt that way about the Shoe.” + +The Old Woman nodded her head, as she continued to sob and rock. And +right then Mrs. Claus made a promise to herself. She promised herself +that Mr. Claus, who was a very influential citizen, should go to the +King and tell him just how the Old Woman felt, for surely their good, +kind King could do something about the Shoe, if only he knew how +important it was. + +Mrs. Claus kept that promise to herself, and the next day the baker +went off to interview the King, who was most surprised to hear this +news and extremely worried over it. He was such a merry old soul he +could not bear to have anybody in the kingdom in the least troubled or +unhappy. + +“But there’s no other shoe,” he told Mr. Claus. “What can I do to help +the poor Old Woman?” + +“Could this one not be set up again?” inquired Mr. Claus helpfully. +“Mended, perhaps, and fastened firmly against future storms?” + +“I’ll see; I’ll see,” said the King. “I’ll send for the carpenter and +let him look it over.” + +That same afternoon the carpenter made a careful inspection of the +Shoe. He looked at the buttons. They seemed sound and good. He +investigated the buttonholes, and they were found to be satisfactory. +The sole had not a single hole in it, and the toe could be patched to +be as good as new. But there was that heel, a run-over affair that made +the whole Shoe stand crooked. And even if that were made even again, he +doubted whether it would not slip in the mud as it had before, when the +rains came again. + +The carpenter was about to give an unfavorable report to King Cole, +when he had a sudden and brilliant idea. They could put a rubber heel +on the Shoe, and it would then stand firm and true and never again be +blown by the wind and pushed around in the mud. It was the very thing! + +Old King Cole hailed this as a most excellent idea and straightway sent +for the Old Woman. + +“Dear me, what next?” said the Old Woman, when she got the message to +appear again at the royal palace, for she did not know that Mr. Claus +had taken up her case with the King, you see. + +But up to the palace she went, and when old King Cole told her that she +could live in her Shoe again, after it had been repaired with a patch +on the toe and a rubber heel, the elated woman just danced a jig right +there in the throne room, until King Cole laughed to see her, and even +the Queen was amused. She could hardly stop to thank the King, but she +did manage to make a bow, after which she ran home to the children, +kicking up her heels and waving her arms in hilarious delight. Such a +furor as she created when she told those children that they were going +back to live in the Shoe again. They had never been such a happy family +before. + +Old King Cole had said that they might move into the Shoe in exactly +one week, during which time the carpenter was to make the Shoe as good +as new, even to polishing it with fine new polish. But the King did +not know, when he made that promise, that there was going to be more +trouble. + +The trouble arose when the cobbler heard that the carpenter was going +to London to buy a rubber heel for the Old Woman’s Shoe. + +“Shoes are a cobbler’s business,” he said, and with that he went in +great indignation to Old King Cole. + +“What is this you are saying?” asked the King, who did not always +listen very carefully to what people said. + +“I’m saying, sir,” repeated the cobbler, “that shoes are a cobbler’s +business.” + +“I agree with you,” replied the King. “But why have you come here to +tell me what I already know?” + +“Because, sir, you have put the carpenter to work mending a shoe here +in Pudding Lane,” said the cobbler. + +“Nonsense, of course I haven’t,” began King Cole. “Oh, I see, you mean +the Old Woman’s Shoe?” he asked. + +“That, and no other, sir,” said the cobbler. + +The King looked embarrassed. “Oh--er--well, let’s call the carpenter +in,” he said, for he saw that the cobbler was determined to stay it out. + +But when the carpenter came in, and old King Cole told him that the +cobbler had objected to their previous arrangement, then it was the +carpenter’s turn to be offended. + +“But, sir,” said he, “the Shoe is the Old Woman’s house, isn’t it? Then +why isn’t it a carpenter’s business to make the necessary repairs?” + +The King sighed. It was a problem. Whose business was it to mend the +Old Woman’s Shoe, the cobbler’s or the carpenter’s? It was a shoe, and +it was a house. He was frank to say he couldn’t settle it. He turned to +the queen, but she, as usual, was asleep, her crown on her nose. The +poor King didn’t know which way to turn. + +There was nothing to do except send for the whole town to come up to +the palace to consider the weighty problem. So the Town Crier was sent +out in a great hurry to summon all the people to the palace. And for +once in his life the Town Crier managed to get through the job without +making a single mistake. + +The people of Pudding Lane were indeed surprised that King Cole should +send for them in that hasty manner. + +“It must be very serious,” they told each other. + +“Maybe the Queen is sick,” suggested Mr. Horner. + +“She might even be dead!” Mrs. Grundy added hopefully. + +“Well, come along, let’s hurry,” urged the piper, and so they all +rushed into the street and hurried pell-mell to answer the summons of +the King. + +The King shook hands with everybody and then tried to awaken the Queen, +but that lady must have been exceedingly tired and sleepy, for though +he shook her and shook her, she wouldn’t wake up at all. + +“Let her sleep,” said the butcher in a kindly manner. “We all know what +it is to be sleepy.” + +The King, looking relieved, cleared his throat and told them all +just what the trouble was. When he mentioned the Shoe the Old Woman +almost fell over with astonishment, for she had no idea that it was on +account of her that the meeting had been called. And when he related +how the cobbler and the carpenter were quarreling, the Old Woman felt +a terrible fear in her heart. Supposing the matter never could be +settled, and she would have to stay in The House-that-Jack-Built all +the rest of her life. + +“And now,” the King ended, “I leave it to the people to decide.” + +Everybody looked scared. It was such a knotty problem, and there was +so much to be said for the standpoint of both the cobbler and the +carpenter, that they just stood there and didn’t say anything. + +“Come,” said King Cole. “What do you say, candlestick-maker?” + +The candlestick-maker started and then tried to look wise. “Well, I +wouldn’t exactly know what to say, sir,” he said importantly. + +“What about you, Mr. Horner?” The King turned to Jack Horner’s father. +“What advice have you to offer?” + +Mr. Horner shook his head. “It’s too much for me, sir,” he admitted. + +Then the Old Woman herself was asked for an opinion. + +“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know, King Cole!” she cried out. “But do +let’s settle it somehow. I feel as if I should die if I couldn’t go +back to live in the old Shoe once more.” + +At this outburst of grief the King’s distress increased. He looked at +the cobbler and at the carpenter, but neither one of them would give in +an inch; he could tell that by the set look of their faces. King Cole +sighed loudly, and then opened his mouth to speak. He was going to tell +the Old Woman that, after all, she could not live in the Shoe again, +but would have to put up with the House-that-Jack-Built as best she +could. + +And just at that moment Mother Goose was ushered in. She was on her way +for a visit to the Clauses, and she said she thought she’d just run in +to say hello to the King. + +“But, mercy on us!” she exclaimed, looking around at the assembled +people. “What is it--a coronation?” + +Old King Cole explained affairs to his friend. He told her how sad the +Old Woman was and pointed out the cobbler and the carpenter, who were +standing there, glaring at each other, the cause of the whole trouble. + +“Now isn’t that a hard one?” he asked the old lady, looking at her +anxiously to see what she thought of the matter. + +“Hard one, nothing!” replied Mother Goose, looking sharply at the +cobbler and the carpenter. “Give the business to Jack-of-All-Trades and +let those fellows go.” + +What a happy solution that was. How glad they all were. The Old Woman +Who Lived in a Shoe was too overjoyed for words, but the rest of the +people just chattered and buzzed and fluttered around in their pleased +excitement. + +And so it was decided that Jack-of-All-Trades should mend the shoe, and +the cobbler and the carpenter, feeling very cheap, were dismissed from +the presence of the King. + +It was exactly one week later that the Old Woman took all her children +and moved back into the Shoe, which now stood up proudly on its rubber +heel, mended and polished until it looked like new. In fact, it looked +so fine that the Old Woman and her children hardly recognized it as the +same old Shoe and were almost afraid the King had fooled them and had +got a new shoe somewhere. + +But, sure enough, when they climbed inside, there were the same old +spots and stains on the wall, the same old beds, and the same old pots +and pans. And then they all settled down and knew they would be happy +forever after, because they were back in their dear Shoe, never to +leave it again. + + + + +XII + +SANTA CLAUS HANGS UP HIS STOCKING + + +1 + +Pudding Lane was creaking and cracking with snow. Snow, snow, snow! +It ground under the heel of Old Mother Hubbard as she went to the +butcher’s to buy an especially juicy bone for the poor dog; it crunched +under the tread of Mr. Horner as he walked to the baker’s to order +Jack’s Christmas pie; it squeaked under the tread of the Town Crier as +he trudged up and down Pudding Lane, calling, “Christmas is coming, +Christmas is coming, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” + +For Christmas was coming, and although such an announcement was not +exactly news to the people of Pudding Lane, still it was pleasant just +to hear the Town Crier say it. There’s something about the very word +“Christmas” that makes you feel happy and jolly. + +And so, since Christmas was so close, everybody in Pudding Lane was as +busy as busy could be. The candlestick-maker sat day and night working +his copper and brass. The Clauses were up to their eyes in pies and +cakes. Even the children had no time for play, but spent all their +spare moments gathering holly and mistletoe to deck the windows and +fireplaces with. And as for little Santa Claus, nobody saw him these +days, for Christmas was his busy season, and many weeks before he had +retired to the woodshed and emerged now only for meals and bed. + +But this Christmas there was something else going on in Pudding +Lane, something exciting and mysterious and very important. It was a +tremendous secret. And it was this: the people of Pudding Lane were +going to surprise Santa Claus himself; they were going to hang up his +stocking and put gifts in it, just as if he were not Santa Claus at +all, but a regular little boy like all the others. + +It was strange that nobody had ever thought of this before, for Santa +Claus was just a regular little boy, after all, and surely all little +boys, even Santa Claus, should have a Christmas stocking. But somehow +nobody had thought of it, and although Santa Claus, all these years, +had been giving Christmas gifts to everybody else, he never had got +one himself. He had never hung up his stocking; he had never been +surprised on Christmas morning; he had never had any Christmas fun +except the fun of surprising other people. The funny part of it was, +too, that he had never even thought of such a thing. + +But this year, although Santa Claus had not thought of such a thing, +the rest of Pudding Lane had, and so the secret had been hatched, and +the plans were going merrily on, the plans for surprising Santa Claus +on Christmas morning. + +It was a good thing that Santa Claus was so occupied, or he surely +would have guessed that something unusual was going on. He would have +guessed it from the way Simple Simon sniggered every time he came near +Santa, or by the way Judy kept asking him over and over what he wanted +for Christmas, or by the way everybody nudged everybody else whenever +he appeared in public. But luckily for them, he paid no attention to +all these hints, being far too engrossed in his own Christmas affairs +to notice anything at all. + +Indeed, he was so abstracted as to call forth a comment from that +plain-spoken woman, his mother. + +“Dear me, Santa Claus,” she said one day at dinner, as he sat staring +at the wall, “I really think that if a bear should walk in on you, +you’d sit there staring just the same,--or indeed, if fifty bears +should walk in on you.” + +This flight of imagination brought Santa to. + +“I was thinking about that little red wagon,” he explained. “Simple +Simon wants a little red wagon for Christmas, you see, and it seems +like such a queer gift for him.” + +“Queer gifts to queer people,” replied Mrs. Claus. “But eat your dinner +now, Santa Claus. I don’t intend to cook my life away and have my +children starve to death.” + +There was a reason why Mrs. Claus wanted Santa Claus to hurry and +finish his dinner. The reason was that all the grown-ups of Pudding +Lane were coming to the Clauses’ that evening to discuss the final +plans for Santa Claus’s surprise. Consequently, Mrs. Claus had a great +deal of work to do, and she wanted Santa Claus well out of the way. It +was with a great sigh of relief, therefore, that she saw Santa finish +his dinner and depart again for the woodshed. + +“Well,” said she to Mr. Claus and the twins, “he like to never went!” + +“Yes, he did,” replied the baker, meaning, I suppose, that Santa Claus +did like to never went, whatever that meant. “Do you think, Nellie, +that he guesses the least tiny bit that we’re planning this Christmas +surprise?” + +“No, he doesn’t guess a thing,” replied Mrs. Claus. “He’s thinking only +of little red wagons.” + +“Won’t he be surprised, though?” Mr. Claus grinned at the prospect. + +“No little boy was ever so surprised in the whole world as Santa Claus +will be this Christmas morning,” said Mrs. Claus with conviction. “But +look here, baker, this is no time to sit idly in the kitchen. What +about Jack Horner’s pie, sir? And the animal crackers. Mr. Claus, I am +surprised that you would neglect the animal crackers like this!” + +Whereupon, Mr. Claus, much ashamed of himself, departed for the +bakeshop and Mrs. Claus began to tear things up in the front parlor for +the company that was coming that night. + +Santa Claus and the twins and the baby were all in bed and sound asleep +that night when Mrs. Claus, attired in her best, and Mr. Claus, attired +in his best, sat awaiting their guests. But in spite of their fine +clothes, and in spite of the fact that the Clauses’ front parlor was +brilliantly lighted with as many as eight or ten candles, in spite of +the fact that this was perhaps the most important event that ever was +to take place in the humble home of the Clauses, the host and hostess +at that moment were a far from lively couple. + +For as Mrs. Claus sat there stiffly, she kept opening and closing her +mouth in such tremendous yawns that it was a wonder she didn’t swallow +herself. And as Mr. Claus stood at attention by the door, he dozed and +came to with such lurches and pitches that it seemed as if he must +fall down on the floor just any moment, plunged into the deepest of +slumbers. Indeed, he would have, I do believe, if Mrs. Claus, between +yawns, hadn’t called out: “Look out there, Mr. Claus! Look out!” At +which he then would look out from his heavy, half-shut eyes and stop +lurching for the briefest while. + +The truth was that the Clauses were already so terribly, fearfully, +awfully sleepy that it didn’t seem at all possible that they would get +through the evening, inasmuch as the evening hadn’t even started yet. +Night life in Pudding Lane was not what it might have been and late +hours were extremely rare. + +Well, there they were, Mrs. Claus one great enormous yawn, and Mr. +Claus reeling like a sleepy wooden soldier, when thumpety, thump, came +a noise down Pudding Lane. Mrs. Claus heard the thumpety-thump first +and sat up straighter than ever. + +“Look out there, Mr. Claus, look out!” she warned him, for Mr. Claus by +that time was swaying in a most terrifying fashion. Mr. Claus opened +his eyes. + +“They’re coming!” she told him. + +“Who’s coming?” asked Mr. Claus stupidly. He _was_ far gone, wasn’t he? + +“They!” cried Mrs. Claus, exasperated. “The company!” + +Just at that minute there came a great bang at the door. Mr. Claus +jumped a foot high. + +“Who in the world can that be?” he cried. “Who are you?” he demanded +fiercely. “Who are you?” + +“Mr. Claus,” screamed his wife frantically, “will you open that door or +won’t you? It’s the company come.” + +But Mr. Claus, determined to be a hero at whatever cost, continued to +grow more and more heroic, as the banging at the door went on, and +striking a warlike pose he thundered, “Who are you, I say, coming to +disturb good honest people at such an hour of the night?” + +“Oh!” yelled poor Mrs. Claus at this. “What a man!” She flew from the +sofa and flung open the door for the crowd of people that was waiting. + +Mrs. Grundy, as usual, came strutting in first, ahead even of Old King +Cole, which was not exactly according to court procedure. + +“Well, I must say, baker!” she said haughtily, though what she thought +she must say, she didn’t say, somehow. + +“What’s this, Claus?” asked the butcher jovially. “Did you think we +were come to steal the silver?” + +The Queen of Hearts gave Mr. Claus a playful dig with her elbow. + +“Such a man as you are, baker,” she tittered, “to joke with us like +that.” + +But Mr. Claus, still blinking, did not in the least know what it was +all about, and as he looked from one to the other of that vast company +of his neighbors and friends, he showed such complete bewilderment and +perplexity that they all burst out laughing. All but Mrs. Claus, that +is. If looks could kill, Mr. Claus would have been dead on the spot. +For Mrs. Claus was a hospitable soul and to have her husband treat +company that way was more than she could bear. + +It was the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe who finally took pity on him, +as the rest of the company just stood there and laughed at his funny +puzzled countenance. + +“Wake up, Mr. Claus,” she said. + +“Wake up and stay awake!” added Mrs. Claus, as the Old Woman continued, +“Wake up! We’ve come to talk about the Christmas surprise for Santa +Claus. Don’t you remember?” + +Then suddenly Mr. Claus did remember, and, oh, how chagrined he was +then, how extravagantly he apologized for his rudeness to the company, +and how he upbraided himself for being such a dunderhead, as he +expressed it. + +It was very late in the evening when Old King Cole, rising heavily to +his feet, called for a summing-up of the evening’s business. + +“Mr. Horner,” said he to Jack Horner’s father, “will you please to +summarize the conclusions we have reached this night in regard to Santa +Claus’s Christmas surprise?” + +Mr. Horner, jumping up, bowed low to the King, cleared his throat, +looked uncertainly around him, opened his mouth and began to speak. + +“I--sir--I suggest--” + +“Oh, no,” Old King Cole waved his hand. “No more suggestions, please. +Just summarize, if you will, Mr. Horner, just summarize.” + +Mr. Horner tried again. + +“Your Majesty, I would remark--” + +“Mr. Horner, if you please,” interrupted the merry old soul testily, “I +don’t want you to remark. All that I ask of you is that you summarize. +Surely a King may ask such a small favor of a loyal subject, Mr. +Horner.” + +“Your Majesty,” spoke Mr. Horner with dignity, “I’m afraid I must +refuse to--to--sum--well, to do as you require.” + +With that, Mr. Horner sat down, his face red and his hands shaking. For +the trouble with Mr. Horner was that he didn’t know what “summarize” +meant, but rather than admit it, he would have gone into a deep dungeon +and stayed there the rest of his life, so proud a man was Mr. Horner. + +When Mr. Horner refused the King and sat down as he did, everybody, +including Mr. Horner himself, expected something calamitous to happen, +for that’s what it means to be a King, to have people do as you tell +them. They all shivered as they sat there. What would the King say +to the disobedient Mr. Horner and what would he do? Only Mrs. Horner +did not shiver, for she was too frightened even to shiver, but sat +stone-still in her rocking chair, like a rigid, glass-eyed doll. + +But what was everybody’s astonishment when Old King Cole began to +chuckle, then laugh out loud, and finally so jolly did he become +that he rocked and gasped and held his stomach in a perfect storm of +merriment. Indeed, it began to look as if he would never recover. He +did recover, however, due to the presence of mind of Mrs. Grundy, who +fetched a pitcher of water, saying, as she did so, and very truly too, +that there’s nothing like water to bring a man to his senses. + +“Well, Mr. Horner,” said the King, as he wiped his eyes of their tears +of laughter and his face of the deluge of water, “I admire your spirit, +sir. But come now, it is growing late. Who _will_ summarize for me?” + +Jack Spratt jumped up eagerly. He knew what “summarize” meant and was +bursting to show off his knowledge. And here is the speech he made. +You will agree, I am sure, that Jack Spratt was a masterly hand at +speeches. + +“Your Majesty, Your Gracious Beauty,” (this last was meant for the +Queen of Hearts who now bowed her head in ill-concealed delight at such +praise) “ladies, one and all, and gentlemen: + +“We have decided here to-night on these things, namely, and to wit: + +“That Santa Claus, being quite the kindest, most generous, most +wonderful little boy in Pudding Lane” (you should have seen Mrs. +Claus’s face at that) “in fact, the kindest, most generous, most +wonderful little boy in the wide world” (look out, Mrs. Claus, you +almost fell off your chair then), “that Santa Claus, therefore, shall +be surprised on Christmas morning as he always surprises other children; + +“We have decided further, sir, that all the children shall make with +their own hands gifts for Santa Claus and that Mother Goose shall buy +gifts for us in Banbury Cross, as well; + +“That then these gifts shall be stored here in Mrs. Claus’s cupboard, +shall be locked with a strong key and stay locked until Christmas Eve +when, you, Your Majesty, are to get these things, go up to the roof, +slide down the chimney, and fill little Santa’s stocking full as it +will hold, yes, even fuller, for it is well known, comrades, that a +Christmas stocking isn’t much of a stocking if it doesn’t overflow with +gifts.” + +“Hurrah!” shouted Old King Cole, as Jack Spratt, with one final +flourish of a bow, took his seat again, flushed with success. + +“Hurrah!” they all cried, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Long live Jack +Spratt!” + +But they had cried hurrah one time too many. For upon that last +resounding cry, Santa Claus, in his little bed upstairs, had awakened. +He did not know what this noise was, having no idea that Mr. and Mrs. +Claus were entertaining company that night. And so, since he did not +know what the sound was, he thought he would get up and find out. Which +he did. He fumbled around in the dark for his slippers, groped for his +dressing gown, and upon finding these, hurried into them and ran down +the back stairs. + +The noise had subsided now, however, and as Santa Claus tiptoed in +toward the front parlor, he heard only the low murmur of voices. This +surely was a strange thing, thought Santa Claus to himself--people to +be talking in the Clauses’ front parlor in the middle of the night. He +crept to the parlor door and listened. It sounded as if all Pudding +Lane were there, he thought. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper! +He could hear the deep voice of Old King Cole, rumbling. He could hear +Mrs. Dumpty’s high little chirp. He could hear the cackle of the old +candlestick-maker. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper! + +And what do you think they were talking about? Were they still +discussing the Christmas surprise? And would Santa Claus hear it all +now? Oh, what a disaster that would be. Let us put our ears close to +the door, as Santa was already doing. Hark! The Old Woman Who Lived in +a Shoe is talking. + +“Well,” she was saying, “I wish I were a child. I’d love to hang my +stocking up Christmas Eve, I would.” Whew, that was a narrow squeak, +all right. They might still have been talking about the surprise. + +“You know,” said Mrs. Spratt, “I’ve often wished that myself. That’s +the worst thing about growing up, that you don’t hang up your stocking +on Christmas.” + +“But we could,” exclaimed Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater, “we could +hang up our stockings on Christmas Eve if we wanted to.” + +“Who’d fill ’em?” asked the candlestick-maker bluntly. + +“Yes, who’d fill ’em?” demanded every one else. “There isn’t much use +of hanging up your stocking, Mrs. Peter, if nobody fills it.” + +Mrs. Peter, Peter looked a bit crestfallen. “No, I suppose there +isn’t,” she answered. “Still, I think we might hang them up and just +see whether they got filled or not.” + +“Now, Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater,” said Mr. Horner, “you surely +don’t think that that little boy, Santa Claus, would fill our stockings +if we hung them up, do you? Why, Santa’s got his hands full already, +attending to the children’s stockings.” + +“No, I’m not so foolish as to think that, Mr. Horner,” said Mrs. Peter, +Peter, “but some one else might.” + +“Who might?” they all asked her. “Whoever would fill our stockings, +Mrs. Peter?” + +“Mother Goose might or a fairy might,” burst out the little lady +triumphantly. + +And the grown-ups had to admit to themselves that in truth Mother Goose +or a fairy _might_ fill their stockings on Christmas Eve. Mother Goose +had been known to do stranger things than that in her day, and as for +the fairies, well, nobody can ever tell what they’re going to do. + +Supposing, then, that they all should hang up their stockings on +Christmas Eve! Supposing somebody did fill them with the gifts of +their hearts’ desire! Mrs. Dumpty’s heart fluttered wildly at the +thought; the Old Woman had a new strange light in her eyes; and the +candlestick-maker fidgeted excitedly in his chair. Foolish grown-ups, +to sit there dreaming of impossible things. Or perhaps they were wise. +Anyway, they were certainly happy, as they all forgot everything for a +moment and pretended that it was Christmas Eve and that they were young +again. + +Old King Cole finally broke the silence. + +“Old Woman,” he said gently, “what would you rather have than anything +else in the world? What would you want in your Christmas stocking if +you did hang it up, Old Woman?” + +The Old Woman began to murmur as if to herself, “Once upon a time +when I was a girl, there was a ball given in Banbury Cross, and I was +invited. The Prince was to be there, Prince Charming himself, you know, +and I had a red dress for it, and a pair of gold slippers. Then I got +the measles and I couldn’t go. I’ve never been the same since.” + +“Why, Old Woman,” said the King, “you mean to say you want a ball in +your Christmas stocking?” + +“That’s the only thing I do want,” replied the Old Woman. “Only it +would have to be the same ball, you know. No other ball would do at +all.” + +“Of course not,” King Cole said gravely, “no other ball would ever +do. I don’t care much for balls, Old Woman, but I can understand +that perfectly.” He sighed heavily. It was sad to hear the Old Woman +mourning for that lost joy of her youth, and sadder still, he thought +to himself, that things like balls could never, never, never be put +into old women’s Christmas stockings. He turned then to Mrs. Dumpty. + +“And do you want a ball too, Mrs. Dumpty?” + +Mrs. Dumpty looked up at His Majesty timidly. + +“No, sir,” she replied, and then she hesitated. + +“Well--?” said Old King Cole encouragingly. + +“I’m afraid, sir, that you’ll think I’m rather a foolish woman to want +what I want,” she told him. + +“People aren’t foolish to want things, no matter what they want,” King +Cole pronounced sagely. “What do you want in the whole world, Mrs. +Dumpty?” + +“Well, sir,” began Mrs. Dumpty, “I want--I want--well, I want a lace +petticoat, King Cole, a lace petticoat with a thousand ruffles!” + +“A thousand ruffles!” repeated King Cole, astonished. “Why, Mrs. +Dumpty, I don’t believe there ever was a petticoat with a thousand lace +ruffles on it!” + +“Maybe there wasn’t, and maybe there isn’t,” answered Mrs. Dumpty +doggedly, “but that’s what I want, King Cole. I never had enough +ruffles in my whole life, sir. And somehow, there’s nothing quite like +ruffles to make a woman happy.” + +The women all murmured sympathetically at this, as King Cole nodded +next to Old Mother Hubbard. + +“Ruffles for you too, Mother Hubbard?” he asked. Women were queer, he +was thinking to himself. What on earth did they want of ruffles? + +“Ruffles are all very well,” responded Mother Hubbard, “but I know +something better even than ruffles, sir.” + +“And that is--” King Cole smiled reassuringly at her. + +“And that is a--” Old Mother threw a reckless glance around the room, +“that is a--hurdy-gurdy!” + +A hurdy-gurdy! No wonder they all gasped. Who but Mother Hubbard would +ever have thought of a hurdy-gurdy? + +“Yes,” she repeated defiantly, “a hurdy-gurdy! You all may think it’s +funny to live alone with a dog, with a bare cupboard yawning in your +face, but I tell you it’s not a bit funny. No, not funny at all.” Poor +Mother Hubbard’s voice choked a bit, but she swallowed hard and went +on, “And if I had a hurdy-gurdy--oh, I’ve always longed for music, King +Cole, but now more than ever. If I had a hurdy-gurdy--” + +“If you had a hurdy-gurdy,” supplied Old King Cole eagerly, “you could +play it--” + +“And you could sing--” the Old Woman put in. + +“And you could dance,” cried Mrs. Flinders. + +“And the dog could dance too,” finished up Mrs. Claus. + +“And see how jolly we’d all be,” said Mother Hubbard. “Now a +hurdy-gurdy would be a good thing for me, wouldn’t it?” + +So there they sat, those grown-ups, talking about what they wanted in +their Christmas stockings just as Jack and Jill, just as Mistress Mary, +just as Polly Flinders, and Simple Simon, and Little Boy Blue talked +about what they wanted in their Christmas stockings every single year. + +And these grown-ups did want the strangest things. The +candlestick-maker, who was the dirtiest and shabbiest old man in +Pudding Lane, confessed that he wanted a swallow-tail coat, “with pearl +buttons on it,” he added, “and a silk hankersniff in the top pocket.” +The candlestick-maker always said “hankersniff” for “handkerchief” and +if you corrected him, he would declare emphatically that of course it +was sniff--what else was a hanker for?--which seemed to settle the +matter. + +Mr. Flinders, that citified gentleman who had come to Pudding Lane from +London, stated that he desired pigs. For in pigs, said he, he thought a +man might find a deal of comfort and a relief from the complexities of +this world. The butcher was frank to say that he wanted nothing in this +world but a wife. And Old Cross-Patch, who hadn’t said a word all the +evening, startled the company by grunting suddenly that she would like +to have a baby. + +What amazing things! A ball, a thousand ruffles, a hurdy-gurdy, a +swallow-tailed coat, pigs, a wife, a baby! As Santa Claus stood there +listening behind the door, he thought to himself that no little boy in +the world had ever faced such a problem as this was. For, of course, if +they wanted these things, it was Santa Claus’s duty to provide them, he +thought. That was the kind of boy he was, you know. If anybody in the +world wanted anything, he considered it his business to see that it was +forthcoming. + +Moreover, these grown-ups, Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, Mrs. Dumpty, the Old +Woman, the candlestick-maker, Mr. Flinders, the butcher, Cross-Patch +and all the others, had reached such a pitch now that they were +actually going to hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve. They were +going to do this just for fun, as they said, and yet Santa Claus could +tell by the wistful tone of their voices, by the yearning hope in their +voices, that they did halfway expect that somebody or other would, +after all, make their Christmas wishes come true. + +No wonder he didn’t sleep a wink that night, or at least many winks. +For this was the greatest dilemma any boy ever was in. Here were +people wanting things. Here were people about to hang up their +Christmas stockings. And here was he, Santa Claus, without one thing to +put in those stockings. + +How could _he_ get a swallow-tail coat with pearl buttons and a silk +hankersniff in the top pocket? How could he manage a ball for the Old +Woman? And how on earth could anybody, even Mother Goose or a fairy, +produce a wife for the butcher? Or a baby for Cross-Patch? Santa +Claus’s heart was very heavy as he thought of these things and he +almost wished, although not quite, of course, that he had never gone +into the Christmas business. + +But little did Pudding Lane guess what was going on in Santa Claus’s +mind these days. They were all too busy attending to his surprise. + +The children made presents for Santa Claus. Judy was knitting, with +many grunts and sighs, a pair of red mittens, and although the poor +little girl had made a mistake and knitted both mittens for the left +hand, still they were extremely handsome mittens, red as a holly berry +and warm as fur. Humpty-Dumpty carved a whistle for Santa, one that +blew so shrill and loud that it sounded like the wind itself whistling +around the corner. Jack and Jill had planted an orange seed in a +geranium pot and now, bless you, there was growing up in that pot a +lovely little orange tree, such as nobody in Pudding Lane had ever seen +before. In fact, when they told Mrs. Claus about it, she didn’t believe +it. + +“Has it got oranges on it?” she wanted to know. + +“No,” admitted Jill. + +“Has it got orange blossoms on it?” + +“No, ma’am,” Jill was constrained to admit. “No blossoms, Mrs. Claus.” + +“Well, then,” said that lady, “how do you know it’s an orange tree?” + +“Because it grew from an orange seed,” explained Jill; “nothing would +grow from an orange seed but an orange tree, would it, Mrs. Claus?” + +“That I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Claus, “but it looks to me as though +an orange tree ought to have oranges on it.” + +It was about this time that Mother Goose sent a big box of gifts from +Banbury Cross for Santa Claus’s stocking. It was about this time, too, +that Jack-of-All-Trades made a fine new key for Mrs. Claus’s cupboard, +so that when the gifts were stored there they might be safely locked +up against Santa Claus’s discovery. + +But still Santa Claus himself was deeply troubled. He hammered and +pounded as usual in the old woodshed, making the children’s gifts, but +still he wondered and pondered about the grown-ups’ Christmas, and +still he could see no way out of this overwhelming difficulty. The +days flew by, Christmas was coming closer and closer, and he had done +nothing toward getting the ruffled petticoat, the swallow-tail coat, +the wife and the baby and all the other things. + +And then, unannounced, Piggy-Peddler dropped in one day and something +happened. + +Of all the children in Pudding Lane, Santa Claus was Piggy-Peddler’s +favorite, and so it was quite natural that Piggy-Peddler should notice +how Santa’s little fat chops drooped and how melancholy were his blue +eyes. He did notice these things, and he wasted no time in making +inquiries, but took Santa Claus off into a corner and said, “Look here, +old man, something’s up. Why don’t you tell Piggy-Peddler about it?” + +Santa Claus, oh, so relieved now to have somebody to confide in, told +Piggy-Peddler the whole story. He told Piggy-Peddler how he had heard +the grown-ups talking that night about the things they wanted, how +those grown-ups had planned to hang up their stockings just to see if +something wouldn’t happen, and how he, Santa Claus, longed to find +those things for the grown-ups and put them in their stockings, but +couldn’t possibly do it. + +Piggy-Peddler listened intently, and when Santa Claus had finished, he +spoke softly. + +“So that’s it,” he said. “Those dear, funny, grown-up people. They want +the things they’ve never had. Of course they do.” + +“And they’ve been wanting them ever since they were young,” added Santa +Claus. + +“Mrs. Dumpty and her ruffles,” said Piggy-Peddler. + +“And Cross-Patch,” said Santa. + +“And the candlestick-maker!” continued Piggy-Peddler. “Can’t you just +see him, Santa Claus, switching those tails around, with a dirty shirt +above them, and his rusty boots below?” + +“Still, I think he’d look nice,” Santa Claus said. + +“Nice! He’d look elegant!” + +Santa Claus laughed aloud. It would be such fun, he was thinking, to +see the candlestick-maker flourishing happily around in his tails. + +“I wonder”--Piggy-Peddler was musing--“I wonder if he would do it, just +this once, for these people of Pudding Lane.” + +“Who?” + +Piggy-Peddler was lost in thought. + +“Who, Piggy-Peddler?” persisted Santa Claus. “You wonder if who would +do what?” + +“Oh!” Piggy-Peddler started and laughed. “Why, I was wondering, Santa +Claus, if Father Time wouldn’t, just this one time, let these people +have an hour of their youth again. If he would, you know, they could +have all their desires. Their wishes would all come true.” + +At this Santa Claus could only stare. + +“I don’t understand,” he said. + +“Well, it’s just this, Santa Claus,” explained Piggy-Peddler. “Father +Time, if he wanted to, could turn the clock back on Christmas Eve. He +could let these people fly back to the time when they were young, and +he could give them whatever they wanted.” + +“He could?” Santa’s mouth was wide open at such news. + +“He could,” replied Piggy-Peddler. + +“Would they be children again?” + +“No, you never can be a child again, quite, you know, after you’ve once +grown up,” Piggy said. “But you can feel very young, oh, very young, +even as young as sixteen.” + +Santa Claus, thinking to himself that sixteen was not what he’d call +young, spoke again. + +“He could make their wishes come true, you say?” + +“For an hour.” + +“Only for an hour?” + +“Oh, that’ll be long enough. It isn’t keeping things that’s fun, you +know. Why, they wouldn’t want these things forever, Santa Claus. The +Old Woman can’t jig around at a ball the rest of her life, can she? And +that petticoat! Mrs. Dumpty would worry her life out washing the thing! +You know what a fussy little lady she is.” + +“But the baby for Cross-Patch?” pursued Santa Claus. He was thinking +how badly he’d feel if his baby sister should have stayed with them +only an hour. + +“Well, that is a little different,” admitted Piggy. “But think of the +poor baby living with old Cross-Patch. I’ll tell you, Santa, we’ll get +her a parrot afterwards. They’re lots better for old cross-patches than +babies. Also, the butcher doesn’t really want a wife, you know. He only +thinks he does.” + +“But they said they wanted these things more than anything else in the +world,” said Santa Claus persistently. + +“They do!” cried Piggy. “The things you’ve always wanted are the very +things you want most. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep them +forever. And think how happy they’d all be on Christmas. Why, this will +make them happy the rest of their lives, and they’ll never get through +talking about it.” + +“And Father Time could do this?” asked Santa again. + +“He could,” replied Piggy-Peddler. “He’s very powerful, you know. The +only question is, would he? That’s what I am wondering.” + +“Do you know him, Piggy-Peddler?” + +“Very well,” answered Piggy. + +“Could you ask him?” + +“I could and I will,” came Piggy-Peddler’s reply. “He ought to do it +for you, Santa Claus. Father Time thinks very highly of you, you know.” + +“He doesn’t know me,” said Santa. + +“Oh, yes, he does. He knows everybody. He may be old and his beard may +be long and white, but he knows everybody in the world, Santa Claus, +and don’t you forget that.” + +“And you will go to him, Piggy-Peddler,” begged Santa Claus, “and ask +him to turn the clock back?” + +“I will,” replied Piggy-Peddler, “this very minute I’ll go, Santa +Claus.” + +And he did. He left Pudding Lane that very minute, and as Santa Claus +went back to his work, his heart beat a little rat-a-tat-tat of joy, as +he reflected that maybe, after all, The Old Woman could have her ball, +Mrs. Dumpty her ruffles, and Cross-Patch her baby on Christmas morning. + + +2 + +Christmas Eve had come. Deeper than ever was the snow. The houses +looked as if their mothers had put white hoods on them; the ground was +spread as with white fur; and the trees held their burden of snow as +lightly as if it were lace. + +But nobody had time for scenery in Pudding Lane that night. In every +house, lights were burning; in every house, the mothers were flying +madly about, the fathers were jumping from room to room, and the +children were hopping, shrieking, dancing, as children always do on +this best night of the year. + +At last, however, the stockings were all up at the fireplaces. At last +the children were all in bed and sound asleep. At last it was time for +Santa Claus, that fat little boy in a bright red suit, to take his +pack, go to the roofs, slide down the chimneys and fill the stockings +as he did every year. + +But what about the surprise for Santa himself? Wait a bit. It wasn’t +time for that yet. And what about the gifts for the grown-ups? Were +they to get the things they wanted? Was Father Time really going to +turn the clock back, as Piggy-Peddler and Santa Claus had so ardently +hoped he would? + +Well, whether Father Time was going to make the wishes come true or +not, the grown-ups were certainly hanging up their stockings. For there +was the old candlestick-maker in his shop, pawing through a drawerful +of socks. First he pulled out a white sock, but that one, alas, had a +hole in it. Then he found a brown one, but oh, my goodness, that one +had two holes in it. Then he found a gray sock, a woolen one that Mrs. +Claus, good soul, had knitted for him. But that one had shrunken in the +wash, and nobody wants a shriveled-up sock to hang up for Christmas. +At last he came upon a fine black affair that looked as if it had +been made for a giant, so enormous it was. This was the very thing, +and cackling and wheezing, the candlestick-maker hung it up beside +Jack-Be-Nimble’s smaller stocking and went to bed. + +The butcher hung up his stocking, and lonely it looked too, that +stocking, as it dangled from his bachelor’s fireplace. The Flinderses +hung up their stockings, one on each side of Polly’s; Mrs. Dumpty hung +up hers,--oh, all the grown-ups hung up stockings that night. And +although they tried to pretend to themselves that it was all in fun, +still they all knew perfectly well that it wouldn’t be a bit funny if +they should get up the next morning to find these stockings empty and +their wishes still just wishes. + +Only Mr. and Mrs. Claus did not join in this great stocking ceremony. +Something had happened at the Clauses’, which had turned that humble +home almost inside out and left no time for such minor considerations +as stockings. + +Mrs. Claus discovered it just after Santa had left with his pack. + +“Now,” said she to Mr. Claus, “I’ll get out the things for _his_ +stocking.” + +“But he’ll see ’em when he comes in,” objected the baker. + +“Now, Mr. Claus, you ought to know by this time he always comes in +by the back door and goes up the back steps on Christmas Eve. What’s +the harm, then, of getting out the things now and putting them in his +stocking in the front room?” + +“No harm, no harm at all,” agreed Mr. Claus hastily. + +So Mrs. Claus went to her workbasket to get the key to the cupboard in +which Santa’s surprises were hidden. The key, oddly enough, was not +there. + +“Well, that’s funny,” Mrs. Claus said. Whereupon she went to the +kitchen shelf, but the key wasn’t there, either. Nor was it behind the +clock on the mantel, or in the best alabaster vase in the parlor, or +in the old valise upstairs. And if it wasn’t in these treasure troves, +where was it? That is what Mrs. Claus wanted to know. + +“Where did you put it?” asked the baker innocently. + +“How do I know?” retorted Mrs. Claus. “I seemed to remember putting it +in all these places, but I didn’t.” + +“Look in the almanac,” suggested her husband. + +“The almanac!” repeated Mrs. Claus contemptuously, but she looked there +just the same. + +She also looked in the woodbox and in the apple barrel and in the +cooky jar, where no key ought ever to be and where no key was, either. +She ripped open the beds and searched under the mattresses, and the +fact that her children were in those beds made no whit of difference +to Mrs. Claus. She tore up the carpet from under Mr. Claus’s feet; +she scratched in the corners of the room like a cat digging for a +mouse; she peered sharply down into the stove, and when the key was +not discovered there, shook down the coals angrily. And at last, after +tearing up the entire house by its roots, she sat down on a chair and +looked at Mr. Claus with a tragic face. + +“It’s lost,” she announced hoarsely. + +“Never mind,” Mr. Claus replied soothingly, “we’ll get another.” + +“But it’s a special key,” she wailed, “made specially for this +Christmas Eve. And Jack-of-All-Trades is dead asleep by now, and if he +wasn’t, he’d never have time now to make another.” + +“Well, then, we’ll have to break the door open,” said Mr. Claus. + +“But we have no ax!” Poor Mrs. Claus, she had lost all her old +enterprise in that short time. + +“We’ll borrow one,” replied Mr. Claus, and with that they both leaped +out of the kitchen to borrow an ax from the neighbors. + +It was exactly midnight when Santa Claus had finished filling the +stockings of Simple Simon, Jack and Jill, little Bo-Peep and all the +other children of Pudding Lane. He had just clicked Mistress Mary’s +gate behind him, when up popped Piggy-Peddler in front of him. + +“It’s all right,” whispered Piggy-Peddler delightedly. “It’s going on +right now.” + +“Oh!” cried Santa Claus. “It is? He’s really turning the clock back?” + +“This very minute,” reported Piggy-Peddler. + +“But it’s too early, Piggy-Peddler,” said Santa Claus. “The grown-ups +will never be awake at this hour. They’ve just gone to bed.” + +Piggy-Peddler laughed. + +“Don’t you worry about those grown-ups. They’re worse than children +ever thought of being. Mark my word, they’re sneaking down the steps +right this minute. Father Time knows them; that’s why he set this hour.” + +“Are they really going to get the very things they asked for?” asked +Santa Claus. + +“The very things,” Piggy told him. + +“The petticoat?” + +“Oh, such a petticoat! A riot of ruffles!” Piggy-Peddler answered. + +“A thousand of them?” + +“A thousand, and one for good measure. A thousand and one ruffles, +Santa Claus.” + +“And the baby?” + +“The most wonderful baby,” replied Piggy. “He never cries and never +wakes up in the middle of the night and never swallows safety pins.” + +“Then he isn’t a real baby,” declared Santa Claus. He knew about +babies. There had been five of them in his family. + +“Yes, he’s a real baby,” Piggy-Peddler insisted. “For he does fall out +of bed, and he does eat old shoes, and he does chase sunbeams all over +the nursery floor.” + +Santa Claus, however, was not quite convinced. + +“Does he go into a rage if he can’t get the sunbeam?” + +“The most awful rage, bellowing and roaring.” + +“No tears though,” supplemented Santa Claus. + +“No tears,” corroborated Piggy. “Too mad for tears.” + +“Well, I guess he’s a real baby then,” Santa Claus admitted. “But, +oh, Piggy, don’t you wish we could peep in at the windows and see the +grown-ups getting their Christmas presents?” + +“I never wished anything so much in the world,” was Piggy’s heartfelt +reply. + +“But it isn’t nice to peep in at windows, is it?” + +“Peeping is dreadful,” said Piggy-Peddler. + +“So I suppose we’d better go home,” suggested Santa. + +“I think that’s all we can do,” Piggy agreed. + +So Santa Claus went home, and Piggy went to the Horners’, where he was +staying over Christmas. + +Piggy did not go straight to bed, however, for not only did he find +Mr. and Mrs. Horner up and gloating over the lovely gifts in their +Christmas stockings, but he found Jack Horner up too--think of it, on +Christmas Eve--and moreover, making a great to-do about his Christmas +pie. + +“He wants to eat it now,” Mrs. Horner told Piggy. + +“Well, let him eat it then,” advised Piggy-Peddler, disgusted. + +You couldn’t do anything with a boy like Jack, he was thinking, and +there was no use trying. + +The rest of the grown-ups, however, had no such difficulties to +spoil their Christmas stockings, and right that minute they were all +tiptoeing down to their front parlors just as Piggy-Peddler said they +would be doing. + +Mrs. Dumpty, in her pink flannel nightgown and with her eyes bulging +over her sputtering candle, was the first one down. She craned her +neck as she got near the stocking, and her eyes, pushing themselves +almost out of their sockets, searched the dimness intently. Would the +petticoat be there? Oh, beating heart, be still! Supposing it were not-- + +Ah, but there it was, the petticoat of her heart, lovelier even than +she had imagined. Such foamy ruffles! So many of them! Oh, what a +petticoat! Suddenly Mrs. Dumpty threw it around her and rushed out. +Where was the woman going? + +At about the same time old Cross-Patch came shuffling in to her +stocking. She hadn’t slept much in her excitement, but had lain there +tense and still until at last she could stand it no longer. There she +came, shuffle, shuffle. She held the candle high and squinted at the +stocking. Was that--could it be--a baby’s fuzzy head poking up out of +the top? It was! Oh, happy old Cross-Patch. She pinched the baby to see +if it were real; she grunted and chuckled and cackled. She wasn’t a bit +cross now. Then, taking the baby under one arm, she too rushed out and +away. + +And did the candlestick-maker get his swallow-tail coat? He did. Pearl +buttons, hankersniff and all? Pearl buttons, hankersniff and all. Did +Mr. Flinders find himself possessed of pigs? Most assuredly. Red little +pigs, big black pigs, middle-aged speckled pigs, and all grunting and +wallowing in a manner to delight any pig-lover’s heart. + +But surely the butcher didn’t find a wife in his stocking? Well, he +just did. A charming lady with a pink cheek, a high heel, and a mincing +step, a woman exactly to the butcher’s taste. Old Mother Hubbard got +her hurdy-gurdy too, and you should have seen her and the dog dancing +to its music. + +But the strange thing was that all of them took their gifts in their +arms and rushed out from their homes, just as Mrs. Dumpty and +Cross-Patch had done. They all went to the same place too, and that +place was--guess where--the Old Woman’s Shoe. + +Words fail me as I try to describe the scene they all found in the once +humble old Shoe. There was the Shoe ablaze with light and color; there +were the ladies and gentlemen of the ball, in satins and velvet, bowing +and pirouetting; there was Prince Charming himself, the most agreeable +man you ever want to see; and finally there was the Old Woman, gay as a +feather, almost unrecognizable now in her fine red dress and her gold, +gold slippers. + +With great hilarity the Old Woman greeted her friends, and if she +kissed Mr. Horner and shook hands with Mrs. Horner instead of the other +way around, as she intended, nobody minded, especially Mr. Horner. +Indeed, so enlivened became the gentlemen that they all said they +wanted such a handshake,--which was certainly a gay turn for the party +to take. + +So they frolicked on and danced and were merry. Oh, yes, they admired +each other’s Christmas presents too. The butcher’s wife was received +with great cordiality, Cross-Patch’s baby was declared to be the +nicest baby everybody had ever seen; and Mother Hubbard’s hurdy-gurdy +rolled out its lovely tunes as Mrs. Dumpty, in her ruffled petticoat +and the candlestick-maker, in his tails, stepped gravely through a +minuet. + +Only the Clauses were not there. + +But we know where they were, don’t we? Or do we? + +For if Mr. Claus at that moment didn’t come tumbling head-first into +the Shoe, and if Mrs. Claus didn’t come falling in after him, and then, +right on their heels, if Jack Horner didn’t burst in on everybody. + +“We want an ax!” shouted Mr. Claus. “Been all over the whole town and +not a soul was home.” + +“An ax!” they all shouted back at him. + +“But look here!” called out Little Jack Horner. + +He was holding up a tiny something in his hand. + +“What’s that?” they asked. + +“I stuck in my thumb,” began Jack Horner. + +“Oh, it’s only that old plum he’s always talking about,” said Mrs. +Grundy. + +“No, ma’am,” Jack cried excitedly, “it’s not a plum. It’s a key. I +stuck in my thumb and pulled out a--key!” + +Everybody gasped, Mrs. Claus gave a jump, and as for Mr. Claus, “Great +snakes!” he roared. “It’s it!” + +And before anybody could say another word, he had snatched the key from +Jack Horner’s hands and was gone, leaving Mrs. Claus to explain the +whole thing, a feat she accomplished with much hemming and hawing. + +For Mrs. Claus, you see, in her excitement had baked the key to the +cupboard in Jack Horner’s Christmas pie. Nobody knows how in the world +she could have done such a thing, and indeed, to this day she swears +she _couldn’t_ have done it, but she did do it, just the same, and +everybody knows it. + +The people of Pudding Lane were very kind to her about this mistake. + +“Never mind, Mrs. Claus,” said the Old Woman comfortingly, “it’s +all right now. Mr. Claus has gone home to get the things out of the +cupboard and Santa Claus will have his Christmas stocking just the +same, even if you did think the key was a plum.” + +“I didn’t,” retorted Mrs. Claus. “Whoever could think a key was a +plum?” + +“Well,” cackled the candlestick-maker, “you put the key into the plum +pie, Mrs. Claus.” + +Mrs. Claus wrung her hands and could make no answer. + +“Shame on you, candlestick-maker,” said Cross-Patch reprovingly. “Your +tails have made you cruel, sir. Cheer up, Mrs. Claus,” she went on, +“it’s just as the Old Woman said. Santa Claus will have his Christmas +stocking, after all, and there’s nothing to worry about now.” + +“Well, then,” spoke the Old Woman, “we ought to go on with our party, +oughtn’t we?” + +“We ought to, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dumpty, smoothing her ruffles, +“but--” + +“But what, Mrs. Dumpty?” asked Mr. Flinders from among his litter of +pigs. + +“But--” Mrs. Dumpty hesitated again, “well, the truth is, neighbors, +I’ve had about enough of party.” + +The candlestick-maker stopped switching his coat-tails to give vent to +a great yawn. + +“Wouldn’t mind going to bed myself,” he admitted. + +“The baby’s asleep,” said Cross-Patch. “I guess I’ll go home.” + +The Old Woman rubbed her eyes. + +“Balls are all right,” she said, “but bed is the place for old women at +this time of the night.” + +And that was the end of the lovely Christmas party. It was the end of +the pigs and the ruffles and the swallow-tail coat; it was the end +even of the butcher’s wife and Cross-Patch’s baby. They had had their +wishes, those grown-ups of Pudding Lane, every one of them, and they +had enjoyed that Christmas Eve as they had never enjoyed anything else +before. But now they were just their old selves again and wanted to go +to bed. Father Time had turned the clock up again, you see, and their +hour of youth was past. + +But Santa Claus’s hour was not past, no indeed. + +For the next morning, when he came clattering down the stairs to see +his brothers and sister open their Christmas stockings, what should he +see but his own red stocking hanging there, with a great sign on it, +saying, “Merry Christmas, little Santa, from all your loving friends!” + +And what should he find in that stocking but Judy’s mittens, and Jack +and Jill’s orange tree (and it did have a tiny white blossom on it, +after all) and the whistle that Humpty-Dumpty had carved for him? And +what was there all around that stocking but piles and piles and piles +of gifts, the nicest things that could be bought in Banbury Cross? + +Was he surprised? He nearly swooned, that fat little boy, so surprised +was he. Did he like his gifts? You should have heard him chuckle and +shout and exclaim. Was he touched at the thoughtfulness of his friends? +He thanked them and thanked and thanked them, until they stopped their +ears, and he told his mother that night that never in all the world +were there any such people as those in Pudding Lane. He was curious, +too, to know how they managed it all. + +“Who brought the things down the chimney?” he wanted to know. + +“King Cole,” Mrs. Claus told him. + +“King Cole himself?” + +“King Cole himself,” said Mrs. Claus, but she did not add that the King +had stuck in the chimney on the way down and had to be pulled through +by his feet, although that really happened. + +So that’s the way it all came out. + +Father Time turned back the clock so that the grown-ups could be young +again and have the wishes of their youth. Jack Horner, the glutton, +ate his Christmas pie too early, but, by doing so, saved the day. For +if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have found the key, and Santa Claus might +not have had his wonderful Christmas stocking. Oh, yes, they would have +taken the ax to the cupboard, I suppose, but that’s no way to open a +cupboard, after all. + + +THE END + + + + + Transcriber's Notes: + + Italics are shown thus: _sloping_. + + Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained. + + Perceived typographical errors have been changed. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78322 *** |