Part 10

“Old Deposit is going to be a sign-post,” they cried to one another so merrily that the spiders, who are not companionable creatures, came to the doors of their dens to chuckle too. A sign-post! Lampblack, stretched out in joy upon the board, roused himself and gazed at the change. He had been made into seven letters, thus:

BANDITA.

This word in the Italian country, where the English painter’s studio was, means, Do not trespass, Do not shoot, Do not show yourself here: anything, indeed, that is uncivil to all comers. In these seven letters, outspread upon the board, was Lampblack disgraced!

Farewell, hopes and dreams! He had been employed to paint a sign-board, a thing stoned by the boys, blown on by the winds, gnawed by the rats, and drenched with the winter’s rains. Better the dust and the cobwebs of his old corner than such shame as this!

But there was no help for it. He was dried with a drench of turpentine, hastily clothed in a coat of copal, and, ere he yet was fully aware of all his misery, was being borne away upon the great board out of doors and handed to the gardener. It was the master himself who did this to him. As the door closed on him, he heard all the colors laughing, and the laugh of little Rose Madder was highest of all as she cried to Naples Yellow, who was a dandy and made court to her, “Poor old ugly Deposit! He will grumble to the owls and the bats now!”

The door shut him out forever from all the joyous company and the palace of beauty, and the rough hands of the gardener grasped him and carried him to the edge of the garden, where the wall overlooked the public road, and there fastened him up on high with a band of iron round the trunk of a tree.

That night it rained heavily, the north wind blew, and there was thunder. Lampblack, out in the storm without his tin house to shelter him, felt that of all creatures wretched on the face of the earth there was not one so miserable as he. A sign-board! Nothing but a sign-board!

A color, created for art and artists, could not feel more grievously disgraced. Oh, how he longed for his tin tube and the quiet nook with the charcoal and the palette-knife! He had been unhappy there indeed, but he had had some sort of hope to comfort him,—some chance still remaining that one day he might be allowed to be at least the shadow of some immortal work. Now—nevermore could he be anything but what he was; change there could be none till weather and time should have done their work on him, and he be rotting on the wet earth, a shattered and worm-eaten wreck.

Day broke,—a gloomy, misty morning.

From where he was disgraced upon the tree-trunk he could no longer even see his beloved home, the studio; he could see only a dusky, intricate tangle of branches all about him, and below the wall of flint, with the Banksia that grew on it, and the hard muddy highway, drenched with the storm of the night.

A man passed in a miller’s cart, and stood up and scowled at him, because the people had liked to come and shoot and trap the birds of the master’s wooded gardens, and they knew that they must not do it now. A slug crawled over him, and a snail also. A woodpecker hammered at him with its strong beak. A boy went by under the wall, and threw stones at him, and called him names. The rain poured down again heavily. He thought of the happy painting-room, where it had seemed always summer and always sunshine, and where now in the forenoon all the colors were marshaling in the pageantry of the Arts, as he had seen them do hundreds of times from his lonely corner. All the misery of the past looked happiness now.

“If I were only dead, like Flakewhite,” he thought; but the stones only bruised, they did not kill him; and the iron band only hurt, it did not stifle him. For whatever suffers very much, has much strength to continue to exist. His loyal heart almost hated the master who had brought him to such a fate as this.

The day grew apace, and noon went by, and with it the rain passed. The sun shone out once more, and Lampblack, even imprisoned and wretched as he was, could not but see how beautiful the wet leaves looked, and the gossamers all hung with rain-drops, and the blue sky that shone through the boughs; for he had not lived with an artist all his days to be blind, even in pain, to the loveliness of nature. Some little brown birds tripped out too with the sun—very simple and plain in their dress, but Lampblack knew they were the loves of the poets, for he had heard the master call them so many times in summer nights. The little brown birds came tripping and pecking about on the grass underneath his tree-trunk, and then flew on the top of the wall, which was covered with Banksia and many other creepers. The brown birds sang a little song, for though they sing most in the moonlight they do sing by day too, and sometimes all day long. And what they sang was this:

“Oh, how happy we are, how happy! No nets dare now be spread for us, No cruel boys dare climb, And no cruel shooters fire. We are safe, quite safe, And the sweet summer has begun!”

Lampblack listened, and even in his misery was soothed by the tender liquid sounds that these little throats poured out among the bloom of the Banksia flowers. And when one of the brown birds came and sat on a branch by him, swaying itself and drinking the rain-drops off a leaf, he ventured to ask, as well as he could for the iron that strangled him, why they were so safe, and what made them so happy.

The bird looked at him in surprise.

“Do you not know?” he said. “It is you!”

“I!” echoed Lampblack, and could say no more, for he feared that the bird was mocking him, a poor, silly, rusty black paint, only spread out to rot in fair weather and foul. What good could he do to any creature?

“You,” repeated the nightingale. “Did you not see that man under the wall? He had a gun; we should have been dead but for you. We will come and sing to you all night long, as you like it; and when we go to bed at dawn, I will tell my cousins, the thrushes and merles, to take our places, so that you shall hear somebody singing near you all day long.”

Lampblack was silent. His heart was too full to speak. Was it possible that he was of use, after all.

“Can it be true?” he said, timidly.

“Quite true,” said the nightingale.

“Then the master knew best,” thought Lampblack.

The colors in the studio had all the glories of the world, but he was of use in it, after all; he could save these little lives. He was poor and despised, bruised by stones and drenched by storms; yet was he content, for he had not been made quite in vain.

The sunset poured its red and golden splendors through the darkness of the boughs, and the birds sang all together, shouting for joy and praising God.

—LA RAMÉE

LAZY JACK

Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was Jack. His mother was very poor, but she was hard-working and tried to get her living by spinning. Jack was so lazy he never did anything to help her. So, at last, she said that he should not eat his porridge unless he earned it.

At this out shuffled Jack and hired himself to a farmer and got for his day’s labor a shining new penny. Home he went with it, but on the way let it slip out of his fingers into a brook, unknown to himself.

When his mother saw him smiling and holding his fist closed, she said, “Well, Jack, did you earn your porridge to-day?”

“That I did, mother,” said Jack, “and here’s the penny.” With that he opened his empty hand.

“A penny,” cried his mother, in high delight, “give it here, my darling boy.” But when she saw the empty hand she changed her tune. “You stupid lout,” said she, “you’ve lost the good money. That’s no way to bring home a penny. The safest thing to do with a penny is to put it into your pocket and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” whimpered Jack, “that’s what I’ll do the next time.” So his mother gave him his supper.

The next day Jack went out again, and this time hired himself to a cowherd and got for his day’s labor a jug of new milk. Jack took the jug, squeezed it into the largest pocket of his coat, and set off home, spilling the milk at every step, so that by the time he got home there wasn’t a drop left.

When his mother saw his pocket bulging out, she asked, “What have you there, Jack, my son?”

“A jug of new milk, mother,” answered Jack, tugging it out of his pocket.

“A jug of new milk,” cried his mother, “and you’ve spilled it! Have you no sense, you ninny-hammer? That’s no way to bring home a jug of milk. The safest way to carry a jug of milk is to put it on your head and hold it with both hands and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” whimpered Jack, beginning to blubber; “that’s what I’ll do the next time.” So his mother gave him his supper that time, too.

Well, the next day Jack hired himself to a farmer, and got for his day’s labor a fine fresh cream cheese. Jack took that cheese, placed it on his head, held it down firmly with both hands, and set out home. Now, Jack’s head was warm and the cheese was soft. So it wasn’t long before it began to get softer. By the time he reached home part of it had oozed down over his face and more of it had matted into his hair; he was a sight to behold.

When his mother saw him, she threw up her arms and cried, “Dearie me, dearie me, whatever has happened to my own bonny son?”

“Why, nothing, mother,” said Jack, “and see the fine cheese I’ve brought you home.” With that he took down from his head a bit of grease in each hand.

“You’ve spoiled a cheese, a fine cream cheese,” screamed his mother. “Have you no sense at all, at all, in your empty head, you numbskull? That’s no way to bring home a cheese. The safest thing to do with a cheese is to take it in both hands, hold it out before you, and come straight home.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” said Jack, beginning to snuffle, “that’s what I’ll do the next time.”

So he didn’t go supperless to bed that night either.

It was a baker Jack hired himself to the next day, and at the close of it the baker gave him a cat. “Your mother will find her a good mouser,” said he. And Jack said, “Thank you, kindly, sir,” and took the cat. He held her with both hands out before him and started straight for home. On the way a mouse scurried across his path and the cat leaped from his hands; but Jack still held them out, ready for her when she should come back, and kept on toward home.

When he reached home his mother looked at his hands and said, “What have you in your hands, Jack?”

“I had a cat, mother,” said he, “a good mouser, but she made after a mouse and hasn’t come back yet.”

“Get out of my sight,” cried his mother, “before I lose my patience and do something I might be sorry for. Haven’t you an atom of sense about you at all, at all, at all? Wouldn’t a child know that’s no way to bring home a live cat? The safest thing to do with a cat is to tie a string around her neck, put her on the ground, and draw her home after you.”

“Say no more about it, sweet mother,” cried Jack, bawling outright; “that’s what I’ll do the very next time.” So his mother wouldn’t see him starve that night.

Well, the very next day Jack hired out to a butcher, and got for his day’s labor a splendid shoulder of mutton for Sunday’s dinner, for this was Saturday. Jack took the mutton, tied a string around it, put it on the ground, and dragged it home after him in the mud and dirt. So by the time he got home the meat was completely ruined.

When his mother saw it she was so upset that she threw her apron over her head and rocked herself to and fro and wept aloud. “If you had the least grain of sense in you, you useless omadhaun,” she wailed, “you’d have brought the sweet meat home on your shoulder.”

Jack put his arms around his mother and kissed her and promised to do that the next time. So she gave him his supper, but they had to make their Sunday dinner of cabbage.

Monday morning, bright and early, Jack went out once more and hired himself to a cattle-drover and for his day’s labor got a donkey. Although Jack was a husky fellow, he found it hard to hoist the donkey on his shoulder, but mindful of his mother’s grief he got it up and set out home slowly with the prize.

Now it chanced that on the way home he had to pass the house of a beautiful girl who unfortunately was deaf and dumb. The doctors said she would never speak until someone should make her laugh. Many had tried but without success. In despair her father, who was very rich, had promised that very day whoever could make her laugh should marry her.

The girl happened to be looking out of the window when Jack came along with the donkey on his shoulders, its legs sticking up in the air. He looked so funny she burst into a merry fit of laughter, and at once was able to hear and speak.

So her father, overjoyed, gave her to Jack with a sackful of money and more to come.

“My love, your fortune is made,” cried his mother, when she heard the good news. And she went to live with Jack and his bride, and they all had plenty and were happy ever after.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, Let the wedding bells ring.

—FOLK TALE

THE TIME THAT WILL COME AGAIN

One warm bright day in autumn, when the whole world was changing to brown and red and gold, a little squealing pig was sent by his mother to bring home some beechnuts to Piggikin, the baby.

“They’re dropping now, tender and sweet, in the wood,” said Mother Sow. “Off with you and get some.” So

With a run and a squeal Away went the pig, With an odd little reel.

Now, on the way he passed a boy and a girl sitting by the roadside, with their backs to him. And the boy was saying to the girl,

“A long time ago when pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme And fiddles danced the barn hops”—

“That’s very strange,” said the pig; “can it be true? I’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’d like a pair of wings; I’d fly high, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squeal Away went the pig, With an odd little reel;

and he left the path to the wood to make for a barn half a mile off, where the old witch owl lived.

On the way he met a pup whose father had told him to guard the kennel while he himself went in search of a bone. The pup was rolling on the ground in the sunshine.

“O roly-poly pup,” called out the pig, “what do you think I heard this morning?”

“What?” said the roly-poly pup, running away from the kennel.

“A long time ago when pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time Donkeys brayed in rhyme And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“That’s very strange,” said the pup; “can it be true? We’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’d like to grow in a tree-top. I’d see farther than my nose, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squeal Away went the pig with an odd little reel And the roly-poly pup followed after.

Well, on the way they met a donkey kicking his heels to get rid of the pack on his back. And they called out to him, “O kicking, kicking donkey, what do you think we heard this very morning?”

“What?” said the kicking, kicking donkey, as he kicked the pack from his back.

“A long time ago when pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“That’s very strange,” said the donkey; “can it be true? We’ll ask the old witch owl about it. I’d like to bray in rhyme. I’d bring down the house, I can tell you.” So

With a run and a squeal Away went the pig with an odd little reel, And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey followed after.

Halfway to the barn they met a fiddle lying near a bench. He was in such a bad temper that he had broken the string that makes the sweetest music. But the others were too full of their news to notice his ill humor.

“O fiddle diddle,” they cried, “what do you think we heard this very morning?”

“What?” snapped the fiddle, and he broke another string.

“A long time ago when pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme, And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

“What nonsense!” growled the fiddle, in such an ugly tone that even the donkey rose on his hind legs to cover his big ears with his forefeet.

“We’re going to ask the old witch owl about it,” said the pup. “Come along and hear what she says.”

“Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing,” snarled the fiddle, so fiercely that without waiting for more,

With a run and a squeal Away went the pig with an odd little reel, And the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, And the ill-tempered fiddle followed after.

He sneaked along, though, behind the others, and tripped often in his broken strings, and this made his temper worse.

Well, the day was darkening into twilight when they reached the barn. But they were so anxious to hear the old witch owl’s opinion that they didn’t notice this. The old witch owl stood in a little round opening in the front of the barn, high up near the pointed top where the weathercock turns. She was looking out into the gathering darkness, planning her voyage into the night.

“There she is,” squealed the pig in a whisper, getting behind the pup.

“Her ears are bigger than mine,” said the donkey, getting behind the pig.

But the fiddle pushed to the front and growled, “Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, I’m not afraid of an old witch owl. I’ll ask the ridiculous question.”

“Do, sweet fiddle,” whispered the little squealing pig and the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, “how kind of you to have come.”

“Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, and you, and you; I came to please myself.”

“Madame Witch Owl,” he growled, spoiling the music of the verse, “is it true that

“A long time ago pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme, And fiddles danced the barn hops?”

The old witch looked down at him. And her eyes glowed so much like two round wheels of fire that the fiddle in secret fright burst another string. But for all that he stared back at her. “Hoot-hoot-hoot,” she cried, “wait till I’ve heard your betters. Let the pig stand forth and the pup and the donkey.”

Out came the little squealing pig, but not very far, so that the roly-poly pup might catch him by the tail in case of need; and out came the roly-poly pup, but not very far, so that the little squealing pig might catch him by the tail in case of need; and out came the kicking, kicking donkey, but not very far, so that he might get behind the pup and the pig in case of need.

“Pig, pig,” said the old witch owl, “how did you hear this?”

And the little pig began in a squealing little voice to tell her how Mother Sow had sent him to the wood to get some beechnuts for Piggikin, the baby, and how he had heard the boy tell it to the girl, and how he had set off to ask her about it.

“And Piggikin is still hungry for the beechnuts, is he?” asked the old witch owl, looking beyond the little pig into the darkness.

“Yes,” said the little pig, in a very little voice.

“And Mother Sow is getting anxious as the night grows darker.”

“The night,” cried the little squealing pig and the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, drawing nearer together. And they looked fearfully over their shoulders as the shadows of the apple-tree near the barn moved nearer to them.

When the old witch owl brought back her eyes from the darkness, she looked at the roly-poly pup, and he went on to tell, in a very loud voice to give himself courage, how his father had left him to guard the kennel, but how when he heard the news he, too, set off to ask her about it.

“And the kennel is still unguarded, is it?” asked the old witch owl, looking beyond the roly-poly pup into the darkness.

“Yes,” said the roly-poly pup, in a very small voice.

“And Father Dog is getting anxious as the night grows darker.”

“The night,” cried the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey and the little squealing pig, drawing nearer together. And they looked fearfully over their shoulders as the shadows of the apple-tree near the barn moved nearer to them.

When the old witch owl brought her eyes back from the darkness she looked at the kicking, kicking donkey, and he straightway began to roar how his master had given him a pack to carry, but how, when he heard the news, he had kicked it off and set out to ask her about it.

When he finished he joined forepaws with the pig and the pup and danced around the fiddle; the pig singing,

“O for a pair of wings to fly high,”

and the pup singing,

“O to grow in a tree-top and see farther than my nose,”

and the donkey singing,

“O to bray in rhyme and bring down the house.”

And then they all sang together,

“O for the time when pigs had wings And pups grew in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme, And fiddles danced the barn hops.”

The fiddle never even noticed them; he still stared at the old witch owl, though he did not dare to say anything.

“You kicked off the pack, did you?” asked the old witch owl, turning the full blaze of her eyes on the donkey.

“Yes,” he gasped, running behind the pup and the pig, and the pig tried to catch the pup by the tail, and the pup tried to catch the pig by the tail.

“Do you think,” she cried in a frightful voice, and her feathers stood out straight around her, “that runaways and idlers will ever fly high or see farther than their noses or bring music into the world? They bring nothing but sorrow, sorrow to those that love them.” And suddenly the old witch owl looked out into the night and called,

“Hoo-oo-oo-oo. Is it you-oo-oo? Is it you-oo-oo?”

Immediately out of the night walked the mother of the squealing pig and the father of the roly-poly pup and the master of the kicking, kicking donkey. And into the sky came the moon. And into the moonlight trooped crowds of boys and girls from the land of dreams, led by the boy and girl the little pig had passed in the morning, more and more of them, till they surrounded the barn and covered the shadows cast by the apple-tree.

The little squealing pig ran to his mother and the roly-poly pup ran to his father and the kicking, kicking donkey ran to his master; and there was great rejoicing. The donkey begged his master for a beating, saying he richly deserved it, and so did the pup and the pig. But the grown-ups said, “They’ll do better next time.”

When the dream children heard this they streamed out into the moonlight back to their dreams, singing,

“The time will come again when pigs will have wings And pups will grow in the tree-tops, In that good time donkeys will bray in rhyme, And fiddles will dance the barn hops.”

And lo and behold! when the fiddle heard them he felt his ill-humor slipping away. And as the old witch owl looked at them his strings mended themselves.

Dancing down the path and out into the moonlight after the children he sounded his sweetest notes in time to their singing; and the little pig and his mother and the roly-poly pup and his father and the donkey and his master followed and took up the children’s song. To the very end of it the fiddle danced and played his merriest. At the turn of the road he looked back at the old witch owl and she was looking at him.

“The little pig’s news is good,” he cried, “I’m off to spread it far and wide.”

And as she sailed off into the night he was sure she nodded at him.

And Piggikin got the nuts after all, though they were a day late.

—ANGELA M. KEYES

THE OWL’S ANSWER TO TOMMY