Part 2

“‘Well,’ said the little girl, ‘it’s big enough for a bed. It’s very soft and nice.’

“‘I find it very comfortable,’ said the Thunder, ‘especially when I get home after piloting a tornado through the country. It is tough work, as sure as you are born.’

“The Thunder took the long pipe from the mantel and lit it with a pine splinter, the flame of which flashed through the windows with dazzling brightness.

“‘Folks will say that is heat lightning,’ remarked the little girl.

“‘Yes,’ replied the Thunder; ‘farmers to the north of us will say there is going to be a drought, because of lightning in the south. Farmers to the south of us will say there’s going to be rain, because of lightning in the north. None of them knows that I am smoking my pipe.’

“But somehow, in turning around, the Thunder knocked the big tongs over, and they fell upon the floor with a tremendous crash. The floor appeared to give forth a sound like a drum, only a thousand times louder, and, although the little girl had her fingers in her ears, she could hear the echoes roused under the house by the falling tongs go rattling down the mountain side and out into the valley beyond.

“The Thunder sat in the big armchair smoking, and listening with legs crossed. The little girl appeared to be sorry that she had come.

“‘Now, that is too bad,’ said the Thunder. ‘The Whirlwind in the south will hear that and come flying; the West Wind will hear it and come rushing, and they will drag the clouds after them, thinking that I am ready to take my ride. But it’s all my fault. Instead of turning the winds in the pasture, I ought to have put them in the stable. Here they come now!’

“The little girl listened, and, sure enough, the whirlwinds from the south and the west came rushing around the house of the Thunder. The west wind screamed around the windows, and the whirlwinds from the south whistled through the cracks and keyholes.

“‘I guess I’ll have to go with them,’ said the Thunder, rising from the chair and walking around the room. ‘It’s the only way to quiet them.’

“‘Do you always wear your overcoat?’ the little girl asked.

“‘Always,’ replied the Thunder. ‘There’s no telling what moment I’ll be called. Sometimes I go just for a frolic, and sometimes I am obliged to go. Will you stay until I return?’

“‘Oh, no,’ the little girl replied; ‘the house is too large. I should be afraid to stay here alone.’

“‘I am sorry,’ said the Thunder. ‘Come and see me get in my carriage.’

“They went to the door. The whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west had drawn the clouds to the steps, and into these the Thunder climbed.

“‘Good-by,’ he cried to the little girl. ‘Stay where you are until we are out of sight.’

“There was a flash of light, a snapping sound, a rattling crash, and the Thunder, with the clouds for his carriage and the winds for his horses, went roaming and rumbling through the sky, over the hills and valleys.”

Mr. Thimblefinger paused and looked at the children. They, expecting him to go on, said nothing.

“How did you like my story?” he asked.

“Is it a story?” inquired Buster John.

“Well, call it a tale,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Hit’s too high up in de elements for ter suit me,” said Drusilla, candidly.

“What became of the little girl?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“When the Thunder rolled away,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “she went back to where the old man was awaiting her, and he, having nothing to do, carried her to the Jumping-Off Place.”

III.

THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE.

The children looked at Mr. Thimblefinger to see whether he was joking about the Jumping-Off Place, but he seemed to be very serious.

“I have heard of the Jumping-Off Place,” remarked Mrs. Meadows, “but I had an idea it was just a saying.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “where you see a good deal of smoke, there must be some fire. When you hear a great many different people talking about anything, there must be something in it.”

“What did the little girl see when she got to the Jumping-Off Place?” inquired Sweetest Susan.

“It was this way,” said Mr. Thimblefinger: “When the whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west, working in double harness, carried the thick clouds away, and the Thunder with them, the little girl went back to the place where she had left the old man who had carried her up the mountain.

“She found him waiting. He was sitting at the foot of a tree, sleeping peacefully, but he awoke at once.

“‘You see I am waiting for you,’ he said. ‘How did you enjoy your visit?’

“‘I didn’t enjoy it much,’ replied the little girl. ‘Everything was so large, and the Thunder made so much fuss.’

“‘I hope you didn’t mind that,’ said the old man. ‘The Thunder is a great growler and grumbler, but when that’s said, all’s said. I am sorry, though, you didn’t have a good time. I suppose you think it is my fault, but it isn’t. If you say so, I’ll go to the Jumping-Off Place.’

“‘Where is that?’ asked the little girl.

“‘Just beyond the Well at the End of the World.’

“‘If it isn’t too far, let’s go there,’ said the little girl.

“So the old man lifted her on his back, and they went on their way. They must have gone very swiftly, for it wasn’t long before they came to the Well at the End of the World. An old woman was sitting near the Well, combing her hair. She paid no attention to the travelers, nor they to her. When they had gone beyond the Well a little distance, the little girl noticed that the sky appeared to be very close at hand. It was no longer blue, but dark, and seemed to hang down like a blanket or a curtain.”

“But that couldn’t be, you know,” said Buster John, “for the sky is no sky at all. It is nothing but space.”

“How comes it dey call it sky, ef ’t ain’t no sky?” asked Drusilla, indignantly. “An’ how come’t ain’t no sky, when it’s right up dar, plain ez de han’ fo’ yo’ face? Dat what I’d like ter know.”

“Why, the moon is thousands of miles away,” said Buster John, “and some of the stars are millions and millions of miles farther than the moon.”

“Dat what dey say,” replied Drusilla, “but how dey know? Whar de string what dey medjud ’em wid? Tell me dat!”

“What about our sky?” asked Mrs. Meadows, smiling. “You would never think it was only the bottom of the spring if you didn’t know it; now would you?”

Buster John had nothing to say in reply to this. Whereupon Sweetest Susan begged Mr. Thimblefinger to please go on with his story.

“Well,” said he, “if I am to go on with it, I’ll have to tell it just as I heard it. I’ll have to put the sky just where I was told it was. When the little girl and the old man came close to the Jumping-Off Place, they saw that the sky was hanging close at hand. It may have been far, it may have been near, but to the little girl it seemed to be close enough to touch, and she wished very much for a long pole, so that she could see whether it was made of muslin or ginghams.

“Presently they came to a precipice. There was nothing beyond it and nothing below it. ‘This,’ said the old man to the little girl, ‘is the Jumping-Off Place.’

“‘Does any one jump off here?’ said the little girl.

“‘Not that I know of,’ replied the old man, ‘but if they should take a notion to, the place is all ready for them.’

“‘Where would I fall to, if I jumped off?’ the little girl asked.

“‘To Nowhere,’ answered the old man.

“‘That is very funny,’ said the little girl.

“‘Yes,’ remarked the old man, ‘you can get to the End of the World, but you would have to travel many a long year before you get to Nowhere. Some say it is a big city, some say it is a high mountain, and some say it is a wide plain.’

“The little girl went to the Jumping-Off Place and looked over, the old man holding her hand.

“‘Why, I see the moon shining down there,’ she said. She was glad to see so familiar a face.

“The old man laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the moon is very fond of shining down there, and it runs away from the sun every chance it gets, and hunts up the darkest places, so that it may shine there undisturbed. To-day it is shining down there where the sun can’t see it, but to-night it will creep up here, when the sun goes away, and shine the whole night through.’

“Turning back, the old man and the little girl came again to the Well at the End of the World. The old woman was sitting there, combing her long white hair. This time she looked hard at the little girl and smiled, singing:—

“‘When the heart is young the well is dry— Oh, it’s good-by, dearie! good-by!’

“But the old man shook his head. ‘We have not come here for nothing, Sister Jane,’ he said. With that he took a small vial, tied a long string to it, and let it down the well. He fished about until the vial was full of water, drew it to the top, and corked it tightly. The water sparkled in the sun as if it were full of small diamonds. Then he placed it carefully in his pocket, bowed politely to the old woman, who was still combing her long, white hair, and, smiling, lifted the little girl to his back, and returned along the road they had come, past the Thunder’s house and down the mountain side, until they reached the little girl’s home. Then he took the vial of sparkling water from his pocket. ‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and wherever you go keep it with you. Touch a drop of it to your forehead when Friday is the thirteenth day of a month, and you will grow up to be both wise and beautiful. When you are in trouble, turn the vial upside down—so—and hold it in that position while you count twenty-six, and some of your friends will come to your aid.’

“The little girl thanked the old man as politely as she knew how.

“‘Do you know why I have carried you to the Thunder’s house and to the Jumping-Off Place, and why I have given you a vial of this rare water?’ The little girl shook her head. ‘Well, one day, not long ago, you were sitting by the roadside with some of your companions. You were all eating cake. A beggar came along and asked for a piece. You alone gave him any, and you gave him all you had.’

“‘Were you the beggar?’ asked the little girl, smiling and blushing.

“‘That I leave you to guess,’ replied the old man. He kissed the little girl’s hand, and was soon hid from sight by a turn in the road.”

Mr. Thimblefinger stopped short here, and waited to see what the children would say. They had listened attentively, but they manifested no very great interest.

“I reckon they think there is more talk than tale in what you have told,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the way it appeared to me.”

“Well, I’ll not say that I have come to the end of my story,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, with some show of dignity, “but I have come to the part where we can rest awhile, so as to give Mr. Rabbit a chance to see if he can do any better. We’ll allow the little girl to grow some, just as she does in the story.”

IV.

THE BLUE HEN’S CHICKEN.

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said Mr. Rabbit, “and I never set up for one, but I will say that I like the rough-and-tumble tales a great deal better than I do the kind where some great somebody is always coming in with conjurings and other carryings-on. It’s on account of my raising, I reckon.”

“Well, stories can’t be all alike,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You might as well expect a fiddle to play one tune.”

“Tell us the kind of story you like best,” said Buster John to Mr. Rabbit.

“No, not now,” responded Mr. Rabbit. “I’ll do that some other time. I happened to think just now of a little circumstance that I used to hear mentioned when I was younger.

“In the country next door there used to be a great many chickens. Some were of the barnyard breed, some were of the kind they call game, some were black, some were white, some were brown, some were speckled, and some had their feathers curled the wrong way. Among all these there was one whose name, as well as I can remember, was Mrs. Blue Hen.”

“Was she really blue?” Sweetest Susan inquired.

“Well, not an indigo blue,” replied Mr. Rabbit, after reflecting a moment, “nor yet a sky blue. She was just a plain, dull, every-day blue. But, such as she was, she was very fine. She belonged to one of the first families and moved in the very best circles. She was trim-looking, so I’ve heard said, and, as she grew older, came to have a very bad temper, so much so that she used to fly at a hawk if he came near her premises. Some of her neighbors used to whisper it around that she tried to crow like a rooster, but this was after she had grown old and hard-headed.

“When Mrs. Blue Hen was growing up, she was very nice and particular. She couldn’t bear to get water on her feet, and she was always shaking the dust from her clothes. Some said she was finicky, and some said she was nervous. Once, when she fanned out little Billy Bantam, who called on her one day, a great many of her acquaintances said she would never settle down and make a good housekeeper.

“But after awhile Mrs. Blue Hen concluded that it was about time for her to have a family of her own, so she went away off from the other chickens and made her a nest in the middle of a thick briar patch. She made her a nest there and laid an egg. It was new and white, and Mrs. Blue Hen was very proud of it. She was so proud, in fact, that, although she had made up her mind to make no fuss over it, she went running and cackling toward the house, just as any common hen would do. She made so much fuss that away down in the branch Mr. Willy Weasel winked at Miss Mimy Mink.

“‘Do you hear that?’ says he.

“‘I never heard anything plainer in my life,’ says she.

“Mrs. Blue Hen was so proud of her new, white egg that she went back after awhile to look at it. There it was, shining white in the grass. She covered it up and hid it as well as she could, and then she went about getting dinner ready.

“The next morning she went to the nest and laid another egg just like the first one. This happened for three mornings; but on the fourth morning, when Mrs. Blue Hen went back, she found four eggs in the nest, and all four appeared to be dingy and muddy looking. She was very much astonished and alarmed, as well she might be, for here right before her eyes she saw four eggs, when she knew in reason that there should be but three; and not only that, they were all dingy and dirty.

“Mrs. Blue Hen was so excited that she took off her bonnet and began to fan herself. Then she wondered whether she had not made a miscount; whether she had not really laid four instead of three eggs. The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. She hung her bonnet on a blackberry bush and tried to count off the days on her toes. She began to count,—’One, two, three,’—and she would have stopped there, but she couldn’t. She had four toes on her foot, and she was compelled to count them all. There was a toe on the foot for every egg in the nest.

“This caused Mrs. Blue Hen to feel somewhat more comfortable in mind and body, but she was left in such a hysterical state that she went off cackling nervously, and postponed laying an egg until late in the afternoon. After that there were five in the nest, and she kept on laying until there were ten altogether. Then Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled up her feathers and got mad with herself, and went to setting. I reckon that’s what you call it. I’ve heard some call it ‘setting’ and others ‘sitting.’ Once, when I was courting, I spoke of a sitting hen, but the young lady said I was too prissy for anything.”

“What is prissy?” asked Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Rabbit shut his eyes and scratched his ear. Then he shook his head slowly.

“It’s nothing but a girl’s word,” remarked Mrs. Meadows by way of explanation. “It means that somebody’s trying hard to show off.”

“I reckon that’s so,” said Mr. Rabbit, opening his eyes. He appeared to be much relieved. “Well, Mrs. Blue Hen got mad and went to setting. She was in a snug place and nobody bothered her. It was such a quiet place that she could hear Mr. Willy Weasel and Miss Mimy Mink gossiping in the calamus bushes, and she could hear Mrs. Puddle Duck wading in the branch. One day Mrs. Puddle Duck made so bold as to push her way through the briars and look in upon Mrs. Blue Hen. But her visit was not relished. Mrs. Blue Hen rumpled her feathers up and spread out her tail to such a degree and squalled out such a harsh protest that Mrs. Puddle Duck was glad to waddle off with whole bones. But when she got back to the branch she spluttered about a good deal, crying out:

“‘Aha! aha! quack, quack! Aha! You are there, are you? Aha! you’ll have trouble before you get away. Aha!’

“Now the fact was that Mrs. Puddle Duck was the very one that had caused Mrs. Blue Hen all the trouble,” said Mr. Rabbit, nodding his head solemnly. “While wading in the branch, Mrs. Puddle Duck had seen Mrs. Blue Hen going to her nest for three days, slipping and creeping through the weeds and bushes, and she wanted to know what all the slipping and creeping was about. So, on the third day Mrs. Puddle Duck did some slipping and creeping on her own account. She crept up close enough to see Mrs. Blue Hen on her nest, and she was near enough to see Mrs. Blue Hen when she ran away cackling.

“Then Mrs. Puddle Duck waddled up and peeped in the nest. There she saw three eggs as white and as smooth as ivory, and the sight filled her with jealousy. She began to talk to herself:—

“‘I knew she must be mighty proud, the stuck-up thing! I can see that by the way she steps around here. Quack, quack! and I’ll just show her a thing or two.’

“Then and there Mrs. Puddle Duck, all muddy as she was, got in Mrs. Blue Hen’s nest and sat on her beautiful white eggs and soiled them. And even that was not all. Out of pure spite Mrs. Puddle Duck laid one of her own dingy-looking eggs in Mrs. Blue Hen’s nest, and that was the cause of all the trouble. That was the reason Mrs. Blue Hen found four dingy eggs in her nest when there ought to have been three clean white ones.

“Well, Mrs. Blue Hen went to setting, and after so long a time nine little chickens were hatched. She was very proud of them. She taught them how to talk, and then she wanted to get off her nest and teach them how to scratch about and earn their own living. But there was still one egg to hatch, and so Mrs. Blue Hen continued to set on it. One day she made up her mind to take her chicks off and leave the egg that wouldn’t hatch. The old Speckled Hen happened to be passing and Mrs. Blue Hen asked her advice. But the old Speckled Hen was very much shocked when she heard the particulars.

“‘What! with nine chickens!’ she cried. ‘Why, nine is an odd number. It would never do in the world. Hatch out the other egg.’

“But young people are very impatient, and Mrs. Blue Hen was young. She fretted and worried a good deal, but in a few days the tenth egg hatched. Mrs. Blue Hen felt very much better after this. In fact, she felt so comfortable that she didn’t take the trouble to look at the chicken that hatched from the tenth egg. But when she brought her children off the nest she was very much astonished to find that one of them was entirely different from all the rest. She was not only surprised, but shocked. Nine of her children were as neat-looking as she could wish them to be, but the tenth one was a sight to see. It had weak eyes, a bill as broad as a case-knife, and big, flat feet. Its feet were so big that it waddled when it walked, and all the toes of each foot were joined together.

“Mrs. Blue Hen had very high notions. She wanted everybody to think that she belonged to the quality, but this wabbly chicken with a broad bill and a foot that had no instep to it took her pride down a peg. She kept her children hid as long as she could, but she had to come out in public after a while, and when she did—well, I’ll let you know there was an uproar in the barnyard. The old Speckled Hen was the first to begin it. She cried out:—

“‘Look—look—look! Look at the Blue Hen’s chickens!’

“Then the Guinea hens began to laugh, and the old Turkey Gobbler was so tickled he came near swallowing his snout. Mrs. Blue Hen hung her head with shame, and carried her children away off in the woods.

“But her flat-footed chicken gave rise to a byword in all that country. When any stranger came along looking rough and ragged, it was the common saying that he was the Blue Hen’s chicken.”

“I’ve heard it many a time,” remarked Mrs. Meadows.

“There was no story in that,” Buster John suggested.

“No,” replied Mr. Rabbit. “Just some every-day facts picked up and strung together.”

“Speaking of stories,” said Mrs. Meadows, “I have one in my mind that is a sure enough story—one of the old-fashioned kind.”

“Well, please, ma’am, tell it,” said Buster John, so seriously that they all laughed except Mr. Rabbit.

V.

HOW A KING WAS FOUND.

“What about the little girl who had the vial of sparkling water?” said Sweetest Susan, turning to Mr. Thimblefinger, just as Mrs. Meadows was about to begin her story.

“Oh, she is growing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger.

Buster John frowned at his sister, as boys will do when they are impatient, and Sweetest Susan said no more.

“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Meadows began, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, “there was a country that suddenly found itself without a king. This was a long time ago, before people in some parts of the world began to think it was unfashionable to have kings. I don’t know what the trouble was exactly, whether the king died, or whether he was carried off, or whether he did something to cause the people to take away his crown and put him in the calaboose.

“Anyhow, they suddenly found themselves without a king, and it made them feel very uncomfortable. They were so restless and uneasy that they couldn’t sleep well at night. They were in the habit of having a king to govern them, and they felt very nervous without one.

“Now in that country there were eleven wise men whose trade it was to give advice. Instead of falling out and wrangling with one another and ruining their business, these eleven wise men had formed a copartnership and set up a sort of store, where anybody and everybody could get advice by the wholesale or retail. I don’t know whether they charged anything, because there never has been a time since the world had more than two people in it that advice wasn’t as cheap as dirt.

“The eleven wise men were there, ready to give advice, and so the people went to them and asked them how to select a king. The eleven wise men put their heads together, and after a while they told the people that they must select nine of their best men and send them out on the roads leading to the capital city, and when these nine men found a man sleeping in the shade of a tree, they were to watch him for four hours, and if the shadow of the tree stood still so as to keep the sun from shining on him, he was the one to select for their king. Then the eleven wise men, looking very solemn, bowed the people out, and the people went off and selected nine of their best men to find them a king.

“Now it happened that in a part of the country not far from the capital city there lived a boy with his mother and stepfather. They were not poor and they were not rich, but everybody said the boy was the handsomest and brightest that had ever been seen in that section. He was about sixteen years old, and was very strong and tall.