Part 4

“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.

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.

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.