Part 11

“Very well,” said the chemist. “You’ve come to me just in time. When I close this shop to-night I’m never coming back, and next week they’re going to start pulling it down. But I’ve got just one dose of medicine for naughty children left, and you shall have it now.”

Then he took Freda round behind the counter, and she watched him while he poured a little from one bottle, and a few drops from another, and a teaspoonful from a third, and just a dash from a fourth. And he mixed them all together until the stuff fizzed and turned pink, and then he poured most of it away and gave the rest to Freda.

“If you drink this,” he said, “it will make you good for twenty-four hours.”

She drank it down, and it tasted delicious.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “And here’s the sixpence.”

“Thank _you_, miss,” said the old chemist. “And here’s your change.”

And he gave Freda half-a-crown from his pocket, and she ran back home as fast as she could and found the front door still open. So she ran right up to the nursery, and she dropped the half-crown into the china pig, and just at that moment the nurse came down from the bathroom.

“Why, Miss Freda,” she said; “how quiet you’ve been.”

“I cannot see,” said Freda, “why any child should ever be anything but quiet. Can you, my dear nurse?”

She was good now, you see, because the pink medicine was beginning to work. And this is the way that good children talk. But the nurse couldn’t make it out.

“Well,” she said, with a laugh, “I’m sure it’s strange to hear you say that, Miss Freda.”

“I fear,” said Freda, “that I have often been extremely thoughtless in the past, and that I have often allowed my temper to get the better of me, with the result that I have lain down on the floor and bellowed at the top of my voice. I can only express my regret that this should have been so, and my hope that you will overlook the trouble which I must have given you.”

The nurse opened her mouth very wide and stared.

“Good gracious, Miss Freda!” she said. “What _has_ come over you?”

“Nothing, that I am aware of,” said Freda. “And now, if you will be good enough to dress me, I think it is time for us to go up to the Park.”

The nurse was more puzzled than ever, for Freda used almost always to make a fuss about going out. But she was still more puzzled by the time they came in again. For Freda hadn’t walked in a single puddle, she had insisted on keeping her gloves on, she hadn’t run, she hadn’t shouted, and she had refused to play with her usual friends because she said their games were so noisy and rough.

At lunch time she asked for a second helping of plain rice-pudding, and ate every scrap of it.

“This can’t last,” said the nurse to herself. But it did. And after tea, when Freda went down to the drawing-room, she quite terrified her mother by asking to be taught a hymn—although her father had just offered to play at tigers with her.

At half-past six she kissed her father and mother and went up to bed without being fetched. While she was having her bath, instead of splashing—and screaming when it was time to come out—she told her nurse how she had decided to give all her toys to the poor children who hadn’t got any. As soon as she was put to bed, she lay quietly down and went fast to sleep.

The nurse and Freda’s mother had a long talk together that evening.

“I don’t see how she can be ill, mum,” said the nurse, “because she’s eaten everything, and made no fuss about it at all. I just can’t make it out.”

“I don’t like it,” said Freda’s mother. “There’s nothing we can do now, and she’s certainly sleeping very peacefully—though I’ve never seen that look on her face before. But if she’s no different in the morning, I shall send for the doctor.”

In the morning Freda was just the same, and her mother sent for the doctor.

“It is very kind of you, dear mother,” said Freda, when she was told, “but I am feeling perfectly well. Would it not be better if the doctor were to visit some of the poor children in the hospital?”

And this alarmed Freda’s mother so much that she went quickly to the telephone, and asked Dr. Tomlinson to put off all his other patients and come at once. When he arrived, he found Freda sitting bolt upright in her little chair and reading a lesson-book.

“Well, my little dear,” he said, “and how do you feel this morning?”

“It is very good of you to ask,” said Freda. “I am happy to say that I am in the best of health. However, if you have a few minutes to spare, perhaps you would be kind enough to hold my book, and see whether I have yet learnt this beautiful poem about the poor little chimney-sweep.”

The doctor did nothing of the sort.

“I’m very glad you sent for me,” he told Freda’s mother, and he picked Freda up and felt her pulse and looked at her tongue and put his head first against her chest and then against her back.

“Well,” he said at length; “this beats me. The child seems to be perfectly well, and yet....” And he scowled and puffed out his cheeks and walked up and down, while all the time Freda’s mother and the nurse waited in the utmost anxiety.

And then all of a sudden the clock struck, and as it was twenty-four hours since Freda had swallowed the magic dose, the effect vanished in a single instant.

The grown-up people who were watching her saw her jump out of the chair, and fling the lesson-book on the ground.

“Now, now,” said Dr. Tomlinson, “oughtn’t you to be more careful with that pretty book?”

Freda gave one look at him, and then she lay down on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice.

“Thank heaven!” said her mother.

“Our dear little Miss Freda has come back to us,” said the nurse.

“Hum-ha,” said Dr. Tomlinson. “Yes, I think we have cured her.”

He had to say this, you see, because he was a doctor. But Freda’s mother was so glad that her little girl was herself once more, that she thanked him over and over again. And all the time Freda lay on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice, and from that moment she was just as naughty as ever she had been before.

I hope that’s all perfectly clear. Some people say that this story will encourage little girls to be naughty, by making them think that their parents and nurses prefer them like that. I should be very sorry if this were so, but of course it’s no use pretending that anything happened otherwise than I have said.

Freda never had another dose of the magic medicine, because the old chemist never came back to his shop, and—as he had said—the next week the men came and began to pull it down. But of course she didn’t go on being naughty for ever, because after a bit she grew up, and now she actually has a little girl of her own. And if there’s one thing that’s absolutely certain, it is that all grown-up people are always good.

The Rhyme of Captain Gale

A. PEMBURY

Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea, When waves are high and winds are free, Will kiss his hand, to make it plain How much he scorns the hurricane; A most imprudent thing to do While sailing on the ocean blue.

He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said, When wiser sailors lie in bed, And far upon the lonely foam, He takes his food as if at home (Including plates of greasy stew); A thing that I could never do.

His ship may toss, his ship may pitch, He doesn’t mind a morsel which; And never seems to care a bit How deep the sea is under it— Though this, to me, beyond a doubt, Is something he should care about. But sailors always were, to me, A singular community.

Sermon Time

HENRY NEWBOLT

The roof is high above my head, With arches cool and white; The man is short, and hot, and red; It is a curious sight.

OLAF THE FAIR AND OLAF THE DARK

CYNTHIA ASQUITH

Once upon a time there lived two boys who were each called Olaf. One had golden curls clustered all over his head—curls so glittering that every woman’s hand must touch their brightness: and to look into his eyes was to see the gleam of blue sky through two rounded windows. In short, he was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.

The other Olaf was crowned with dark curls—blue-black as the plumage of a crow. And to look into his eyes was to see twin stars shine up through the brown depths of a mountain stream. In short, he was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.

Now, these two Olafs had both been born on exactly the same day, but Olaf the Fair was the son of a mighty King, and lived in a dreadfully big palace, and Olaf the Dark was the son of a poor shepherd, and lived in a dreadfully small cottage.

When Olaf the Fair learned to walk, he staggered across a vast floor, and if he tumbled, it was only to sink into the soft depths of thick carpets. In his nursery there was nothing dangerous—not even the corners were allowed to be sharp—so he never knew the fun of watching bruises turn from plain brown to yellow and purple and green.

But Olaf the Dark learned to walk in quite a different way; he staggered across an uneven floor of cold stone, in a small room, crowded with things from whose sharp corners Pain constantly darted out at him. The hard floor seemed to rise up and smite him, first in one place and then in another. His mother was always kissing these places to make them well. He liked these kisses and was proud of his scarred body, especially of the red knees across which his seven skins were never seen all at once. His knees generally looked as though raspberry jam had been spread over them.

Just as you do, both Olafs hated to go to bed, but, just as you do, to bed they both had to go. Olaf the Fair plunged his bright head into a large pillow—so soft that it almost met across his nose, whilst the small pillow on which Olaf the Dark laid his dark head was so bumpy and so hard that in the morning his bruised ear would often ache, he knew not why.

Both boys loved to eat and drink. Olaf the Fair was fed on every sort of delicious food. You should have seen his nursery table piled high with glowing fruits, coloured cakes and trembling jellies. Chicken came every day, and there was always jam for tea. Olaf the Dark seldom swallowed anything more dainty than lumpy porridge, black bread and just a very little bacon. Yet he often knew a treat, that was far greater than any of the dainties in the palace, and this was the taste of his plain food when he was very hungry—so hungry that his empty place was just beginning to hurt.

His father lay all crumpled up with rheumatism, so that, almost as soon as Olaf the Dark could walk, he had to shoulder the shepherd’s heavy staff, whistle to the sheep-dog, and stride forth to guard his father’s flocks.

Watching the baaing sheep as they nibbled the short grass, their bells tinkling as they moved, the lonely little shepherd-boy shivered in the cold, wet winds of winter and gasped in the scorching heats of summer. He would have liked to stay at home, learning to read by the leaping fire whilst his mother stirred the porridge, but day after day, he had to put on his little sheepskin suit, and go out to be hurt by hailstones, terrified by thunder or soaked in the snow.

The year Olaf the Fair was born his father died, so he became king, the smallest king that ever was seen. His crown was heavy and made his head ache. His sad, smiling mother said he must learn how to be a wise king. This meant doing hundreds and hundreds of lessons. Whilst ten tutors tried to stuff figures and facts into his head, he would stare out through the windows wistfully watching all the different sorts of weather. Oh, how he longed to be out in the hail, the thunder, or the snow!

One day as Olaf the Dark sat by his sheep on the high hillside and played on his flute to keep himself company, a huge brown mastiff came into sight. Olaf’s faithful sheep-dog pricked his ears and low thunder rumbled in his shaggy throat. The fierce mastiff sped along the ground, and in the blinking of an eye the two dogs had flown at one another’s throats. Terrified, Olaf the Dark strove with his staff to beat them apart, but all in vain. Fortunately four horsemen, who were the little king’s escort, now galloped up and, leaping from their saddles, contrived to separate the foam-flecked, blood-spattered dogs.

“Well for thee, lad, we were at hand,” said the tallest of the men. “’Twould have gone ill with thy mongrel had he harmed the king’s pet.”

“It was your dog’s fault! He attacked mine!” indignantly answered Olaf the Dark.

“Hush!” said the man roughly. “Here is the king. Bow down to him, you saucy lad!”

For Olaf the Fair had just ridden up. The man held the reins of the snow-white palfrey and the little king dismounted to assure himself of his mastiff’s safety.

Now, Olaf the Dark had never even seen a picture-book, and at the dazzling sight of Olaf the Fair he gasped in amazement. The little king was clad in velvet of shimmering blue, edged with shining silver and on his head was a crown of gold.

He approached the shepherd-boy, and the two Olafs, who were of exactly the same size, stared long at one another.

“I’m glad your dog is not harmed. How long have you had him?” said the king. “Wolf was only given to me yesterday.”

“Sentry is my father’s,” answered the shepherd. “He had him before I was born.”

“How old are you?” asked the king.

“I was seven years yesterday,” answered the shepherd.

“Were you? That’s funny!” exclaimed the king. “Why I had my seventh birthday yesterday, too. But, who is with you? Surely you aren’t allowed to stay out by yourself, are you?”

“I _have_ to stay out,” replied the shepherd. “I should like to go home.”

“You’d like to go home? Funny! Why, I’d give anything to be allowed to sit on that silvery frost! Have you been playing with those nice woolly sheep for long? What pretty bells they’ve got! And wherever did you get that splendid crook’d staff? I’d like to have one just like that,” chattered the little king.

“Sire,” broke in the tall man with a low bow. “We must return home. His Excellency your Tutor-in-Chief said that only one hour could be spared from your Majesty’s studies to-day.”

Olaf the Fair stamped his foot.

“Oh, bother!” he cried. “I can’t bear to go in to yawny lessons! I want to stay out in the shininess. I say, Boy, when have you got to go home and do lessons?”

“Don’t do any lessons,” grunted Olaf the Dark.

“You don’t do any lessons?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “Oh, you _are_ a lucky one! How long will you stay out?”

“Till it gets dark. The sheep must graze till then.”

“Till it gets dark? Oo-oo-oo-ee! Lovely! I’ve never been out in the night. I would like to see how the stars get there. Have you ever seen one just pricking through the blackness? But, where’s your coat? ’Twill surely be cold before ’tis dark.”

“Don’t have a coat.”

“Don’t you wear anything but just that one dead sheep? It must be beautifully comfortable. My clothes are so hot and heavy,” said the king, tugging at his rich robes.

“Sire?” pleaded the attendant.

“All right, I’m coming,” said Olaf the Fair, and reluctantly mounting his palfrey, he turned its arched neck towards the distant palace. “Good-bye, Boy. Wish I could stay and play with you and your sheep.”

Wistfully Olaf the Dark gazed after the gay figure of the king disappearing into the rising mists, and as he rode away, Olaf the Fair turned his head, weary with the weight of his crown, and stared long at the solitary figure of the sturdy little shepherd. Disconsolately, he listened to the tinkling bells till they died away in the distance.

Deep in thought, his forgotten flute on the grass, the shepherd-boy sat on. Hours passed. The sun sank in flaming glories of orange and gold. Dusk thickened into darkness and heavy drops of rain fell coldly on his bare head. Still pondering, Olaf the Dark at last rose and wearily drove his drowsy sheep towards home.

He sat down to his supper. Silently he spooned his burnt porridge and gnawed at his crust of black bread.

“What’s come to thee, son?” asked his mother. “I miss the gabble of thy tongue.”

“I’ve seen the king, mother,” said Olaf, and he told her the story of the dog fight.

“Seen his small majesty, have you? To think of it! Born the very same day as you, he was. Be you two boys much of a size?”

“Yes, he’s no taller nor I and I guess I’m the stronger. But oh, mother, the lovely horse he was riding, and the clothes he had on him, and the glittering crown on his head! ’Twas as though he had caught rays from the sun itself! Oh, mother, I’d like to be a king the same as him, and ride around in coloured clothes, nor need to mind no silly sheep.”

“Is it wanting to be a king you are, Olaf?” laughed his mother. “Sure, there’s no contentment under the sun. But I’m thinking a good shepherd’s better nor a bad king, and they’re saying to be a good king’s no easy calling—subjects being more unaccountable troublesome than sheep themselves. Anyways, you two lads have the same God to serve, and sure you can serve Him from a cottage just as easy as from a palace. To be a good shepherd’s a proud thing, I’m thinking, and as for the rheumatics, they enters the joints be you high or be you low.”

But Olaf the Dark was not to be consoled. For the first time he noticed the shabbiness of his sheepskin suit, and the smallness of the cottage. Discontentedly he looked around.

“What would the king’s palace be like?” he asked.

“Oh!” said his mother. “They do say it be all marble and gold with thousands of lights a-twinkling from the ceiling, and I’ve heard as the wee king sleeps in a bed that’s bigger nor this room and the roof of it’s of gold and there be curtains to it.”

Olaf the Dark blinked.

“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest of sweets.

* * * * *

Now, that same evening, when bedtime came, Olaf the Fair pressed his face against the cold bars of the window and stared wistfully at the spangled blue-blackness outside. He thought with envy of the shepherd-boy out there all alone on the hidden hill. For the little king yearned to go out while darkness was spread over the earth. How mysterious the world looked! What, he wondered, happened to all the ordinary daylight things during the night? If he were outside would he be able to see his shadow and what would the flowers and the trees be doing?

After he had climbed into his high, soft, golden bed, the queen came in to say good night.

“Oh, mother!” he said, snuggling into her white arms, “I’ve done such a dreadful, dreadful lot of lessons to-day.”

“Poor little Olaf,” said the Queen, kissing her son.

“Oh, mother,” the little king continued, “I saw such a nice boy to-day out on the hill. And isn’t he lucky? He doesn’t do any lessons at all, and he’s allowed to stay out by himself with nothing but a lot of sheep. Mayn’t I have some nice woolly sheep to play with, mother?”

“Sheep aren’t toys, Olaf. They’re duties, like lessons. The boy must have been a shepherd.”

“Duties, are they, mother? Then I’d much rather do sheep than do lessons. But was he a real shepherd, that boy? Why, he’s only my age! Oh, mother, can’t I be a shepherd?”

“You are a sort of shepherd, Olaf. But you’ve got human beings to look after instead of animals. I want you to be so good a king that I shall be proud that you were my baby. That’s why you have to work so hard.”

“I do try, mother. But I wish I was a proper out-of-doors shepherd. And please, mother, must I always wear my crown? It is so heavy, and it bites my forehead.”

“Yes, darling. I am afraid you must. Your crown is to remind you that you are a king and not your own master. Now go to sleep and dream that you are a shepherd and have to shiver out of doors in all the cold and wet. You’d soon be glad to wake up in your own bed.”

But Olaf the Fair was not to be persuaded.

“I’d love to be out in the rain!” he exclaimed. “I hate indoors, and I’d like to be dressed in a dead sheep.”

Days, weeks, months passed away, and Olaf the Fair and Olaf the Dark still continued to think of one another. More and more did the little king weary of the long lessons which kept him indoors and of all the solemn attendants who surrounded him. More and more did he pine to be free and wander at will over the hillside. Above all he yearned to go out into the night and feel the darkness. When he looked up at the sad, solemn moon, he would thrill with a strange, unaccountable excitement. The moon! She flooded the earth with a queer, transforming light that drew him out of all sleepiness and made his soul shiver till his body became too excited to lie still. Passionately he envied the shepherd-boy out there in the darkness, playing his flute beneath the pine trees. One night the longing grew too strong, and, as he tossed on his golden bed, it flashed into his memory that the bars of the window in the great hall were wide enough apart to allow his body to squeeze through them. (This was long before even kings had glass in their windows.)

He sat upright. The leaves of the trees just outside rustled mysteriously and tiny twigs tapped against the bars, beckoning him out of bed. Yes, his mind was made up. He was going to escape and run out into the strange silvery light that the moon was making. With hammering heart he slid from his high bed and tiptoed towards the door. There was a low growl, and the mastiff raised his huge head. Oh, heavens, if he were to bark, or follow, he would surely arouse the man who slept just outside across the door! But, fortunately, Olaf remembered the bone he was to give his dog next morning, and in a moment busy sounds of scrunching and gulping filled the room.

One danger passed. But now Olaf must step across the body of the man who, with a dagger in his mouth, guarded his royal master’s door. Supposing the man were awake. Then the adventure would become impossible and Olaf would have to return to the dreariness of trying to go to sleep. Trembling, he turned the handle and pulled the door towards him. Regular breathing reassured him. The man was fast asleep. Softly as snow falls on snow, the boy stepped across the huge form and hastened on swift feet down the long, empty corridor. Shafts of moonlight gleamed through the round windows and shone on the armour stacked against the wall. How strange the palace seemed in this light!

A little scared, Olaf slipped down the wide, shallow steps of the huge staircase. Now he was in the great hall. The night wind blew in and the tapestries trembled on the walls. Olaf shivered with something that was more than cold. High up in the sky a pale moon raced through white trailing clouds. She looked as if she were being pursued.

“I must get out! I must get out!” said Olaf aloud. “I must get out and run after her.”

He reached the window and seized the bars. Oh, heavens, what was this? Consternation crushed into his heart, for crisscross along the iron bars there now ran new horizontal ones. Alas! alas! he had adventured too late. Impossible now to squeeze through to liberty. His palace was a prison. In vain he tugged at the cruel bars. They could not even be shaken. He stamped his foot. Strong sobs shook his small body; tears scalded his eyes.