Part 2

“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.