Laura Richards
The Joyous Story of Toto

CHAPTER VII

ON account of the woodchuck’s illness, and at the special request of Pigeon Pretty, the story-telling was postponed for a day or two. Very soon, however, Chucky recovered sufficiently to ride as far as the cottage on Bruin’s back; and on a fine afternoon the friends were all once more assembled, and waiting for Toto’s story.

“I don’t know any long stories,” said Toto, “at least not well enough to tell them; so I will tell two short ones instead. Will that do?”

“Just as well,” said the raccoon. “Five minutes for refreshments between the two, did you say? My view precisely.”

Toto smiled, and began the story of

THE TRAVELLER, THE COOK, AND THE LITTLE OLD MAN

Once upon a time there was a little old man who lived in a well. He was a very small little old man, and the well was very deep; and the only reason why he lived there was because he could not get out. Indeed, what better reason could he have?

He had long white hair, and a long red nose, and a long green coat; and this was all he had in the world, except a three-legged stool, a large iron kettle, and a cook. There was not room in the well for the cook; so she lived on the ground above, and cooked the little old man’s dinner and supper in the iron kettle, and lowered them down to him in the bucket; and the little old man sat on the three-legged stool, and ate whatever the cook sent down to him, with a cheerful heart, if it was good; and so things went on very pleasantly.

But one day it happened that the cook could not find anything for the old man’s dinner. She looked high, and she looked low, but nothing could she find; so she was very unhappy; for she knew her master would be miserable if he had no dinner. She sat down by the well, and wept bitterly; and her tears fell into the well so fast that the little old man thought it was raining, and put up a red cotton umbrella, which he borrowed for the occasion. You may wonder where he borrowed it; but I cannot tell you, because I do not know.

Now, at that moment a traveller happened to pass by, and when he saw the cook sitting by the well and weeping, he stopped, and asked her what was the matter. So the cook told him that she was weeping because she could not find anything to cook for her master’s dinner.

“And who is your master?” asked the traveller.

“He is a little old man,” replied the cook; “and he lives down in this well.”

“Why does he live there?” inquired the traveller.

“I do not know,” answered the cook; “I never asked him.”

“He must be a singular person,” said the traveller. “I should like to see him. What does he look like?”

But this the cook could not tell him; for she had never seen the little old man, having come to work for him after he had gone down to live in the well.

“Does he like to receive visitors?” asked the traveller.

“Don’t know,” said the cook. “He has never had any to receive since I have been here.”

“Humph!” said the other. “I think I will go down and pay my respects to him. Will you let me down in the bucket?”

“But suppose he should mistake you for his dinner, and eat you up?” the cook suggested.

“Pooh!” he replied. “No fear of that; I can take care of myself. And as for his dinner,” he added, “get him some radishes. There are plenty about here. I had nothing but radishes for my dinner, and very good they were, though rather biting. Let down the bucket, please! I am all right.”

“What are radishes?” the cook called after him as he went down.

“Long red things, stupid! with green leaves to them!” he shouted; and then, in a moment, he found himself at the bottom of the well.

The little old man was delighted to see him, and told him that he had lived down there forty years, and had never had a visitor before in all that time.

“Why do you live down here?” inquired the traveller.

“Because I cannot get out,” replied the little old man.

“But how did you get down here in the first place?”

“Really,” he said, “it is so long ago that I hardly remember. My impression is, however, that I came down in the bucket.”

“Then why, in the name of common-sense,” said the traveller, “don’t you go up in the bucket?”

The little old man sprang up from the three-legged stool, and flung his arms around the traveller’s neck. “My dear friend!” he cried rapturously. “My precious benefactor! Thank you a thousand times for those words! I assure you I never thought of it before! I will go up at once. You will excuse me?”

“Certainly,” said the traveller. “Go up first, and I will follow you.”

The little old man got into the bucket, and was drawn up to the top of the well. But, alas! when the cook saw his long red nose and his 114 long green coat, she said to herself, “This must be a radish! How lucky I am!” and seizing the poor little old man, she popped him into the kettle without more ado. Then she let the bucket down for the traveller, calling to him to make haste, as she wanted to send down her master’s dinner.

Up came the traveller, and looking around, asked where her master was.

“Where should he be,” said the cook, “but at the bottom of the well, where you left him?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed the traveller. “He has just come up in the bucket!”

“Oh!” cried the cook. “Oh! oh!! o-o-o-h!!! was that my master? Why, I thought he was a radish, and I have boiled him for his own dinner!”

“I hope he will have a good appetite!” said the traveller.

The cook was a good woman, and her grief was so excessive that she fell into the kettle and was boiled too.

Then the traveller, who had formerly been an ogre by profession, said, “’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good! My dinner was very insufficient;” and he ate both the little old man and the cook, and proceeded on his journey with a cheerful heart.

“The traveller was a sensible man,” said Bruin. “Did you make up that story, Toto?”

“Yes,” replied Toto. “I made it up the other day, – one of those rainy days. I found a forked radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little red man. So I thought that if there was a radish that looked like a man, there might be a man that looked like a radish, you see. And now – ”

“Ahem!” said the raccoon softly. “Did you say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I misunderstand you?” and he winked at the company in a very expressive manner.

Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the only ones that were heard, except the constant “click, click,” of the grandmother’s needles. Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl, —

“Excuse me, ma’am; do you make the gingerbread with those things?”

“With what things, Mr. Bruin?” asked the grandmother.

“Those bright things that go clickety-clack,” said the bear. “I see some soft brown stuff on them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and I thought possibly – ”

“Oh,” said the grandmother, smiling, “you mean my knitting. No, Mr. Bruin, gingerbread is made in a very different way. I mix it in a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?”

Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly at Coon. The latter, however, merely grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing; so he was obliged to answer the grandmother himself.

“Oh, of course,” he said. “If you mix it with a spoon, I should say certainly. As far as a spoon goes, you know, I – ah – quite correct, I’m sure.” Here the poor fellow subsided into a vague murmur, and glared savagely at the raccoon.

But now the gentle wood-pigeon interposed, with her soft, cooing voice. “Toto,” she said, 118 “were we not promised two stories to-day? Tell us the other one now, dear boy, for the shadows are beginning to lengthen.”

“I made this story myself, too,” said Toto, “and it is called

THE AMBITIOUS ROCKING-HORSE

There was once a rocking-horse, but he did not want to be a rocking-horse. He wanted to be a trotter. So he went to a jockey —

“What’s a jockey?” inquired the bear.

A man who drives fast and tells lies.

He went to a jockey and asked him if he would like to buy a trotter.

“Where is your trotter?” asked the jockey.

“Me’s him,” said the rocking-horse. That was all the grammar he knew.

“Oh!” said the jockey. “You are the trotter, eh?”

“Yes,” said the rocking-horse. “What will you give me for myself?”

“A bushel of shavings,” said the jockey.

The rocking-horse thought that was better than nothing, so he sold himself. Then the jockey took him to another jockey who was blind, and told him (the blind jockey) that this was the Sky-born Snorter of the Sarsaparillas, and that he could trot two miles in a minute. So the blind jockey bought him, and paid ten thousand dollars for him.

There was a race the next day, and the blind jockey took the Sky-born Snorter to the race-course, and started him with the other horses. 120 The other horses trotted away round the course, but the Sky-born Snorter stayed just where he was, and rocked; and when the other horses came round the turn, there he was waiting for them at the judge’s stand. So he won the race; and the judge gave the prize, which was a white buffalo, to the blind jockey.

The jockey put the Sky-born Snorter in the stable, and then went to get his white buffalo; and while he was gone, the other jockeys came into the stable to see the new horse.

“Why, he’s a rocking-horse!” said one of them.

“Hush!” said the Sky-born Snorter. “Yes, I am a rocking-horse, but don’t tell my master. He doesn’t know it, and he paid ten thousand dollars for me.”

“Whom did he pay it to?” asked the jockeys.

“To the other jockey, who bought me from myself,” replied the Snorter.

“Oh! and what did he give for you?”

“A bushel of shavings,” said the Snorter.

“Ah!” said one of the jockeys. “A bushel of shavings, eh? Now, how would you like to have those shavings turned into gold?”

“Very much indeed!” cried the Sky-born.

“Well,” said the jockey, “bring them here, and we will change them for you.”

So the rocking-horse went and fetched the shavings, and the jockeys set fire to them. The flames shot up, bright and yellow.

“See!” cried the jockeys. “The shavings are all turned into gold. Now we will see what we can do for you.” And they took the Sky-born Snorter and put him in the fire, and he turned into gold too, and was all burned up. And the blind jockey drove the white buffalo all the rest of his life, and never knew the difference.

Moral: don’t be ambitious.

They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, “Both your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto. One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other 122 burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to tell one that ends cheerfully.”

“Yes, yes!” cried all the others. “Pigeon Pretty shall be the next story-teller!”

“And now,” continued the pigeon, “my Chucky must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet, by any means, and must be very careful of himself. Climb up on Bruin’s back, Chucky dear! so, that is right. Good-night, Toto. Good-night, dear madam. Now home again, all!” and flying round and round the bear’s head, Pigeon Pretty led the way towards the forest.

CHAPTER VIII

“IS this one of your own stories that you are going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?” inquired the squirrel, when they were next assembled around the cottage door.

“No,” replied the wood-pigeon. “This is a story I heard a short time ago. I was flying home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine who live in a village some miles away. As I passed by a pretty white cottage, something like this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered on one of the window-sills. ‘Here lives somebody who is fond of birds!’ said I to myself, and as I was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of the crumbs. The window was open, and looking in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room. Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of about Toto’s age. He was evidently ill, for he 124 had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl, apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her brother) from a large red book. Neither of the children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill for some time, and heard the whole of this story, which you shall now hear in your turn. It is called

THE STORY OF THE TAIL OF THE BARON’S WAR-HORSE

Many years ago there lived a Baron, famous in peace and war, but chiefly in the latter. War was his great delight, fighting his natural occupation; and he was never so much in his element as when leading his valiant troops to battle, mounted on his noble iron-gray charger. Ah! what a charger that was! – stately and strong, swift and sure, fiery and bold, yet ready to obey his master’s lightest touch or softest word; briefly, a horse in 125 ten thousand. Right proud the Baron was of his gallant steed; and right well did they love each other, horse and master.

The vassals of the Baron knew no greater pleasure than to see their lord ride by mounted on Gray Berold; it filled their souls with joy, and caused them to throw up their caps and shout “Hi!” in a hilarious manner. As for the lovely Ermengarde, the Baron’s young and beautiful wife, she would far rather have gone without her dinner than have missed the sight. Whenever Gray Berold was brought to the door, she hastened out, and overwhelmed him with caresses and words of endearment, proffering meanwhile the toothsome sugar and the crisp and sprightly apple, neither of which the engaging animal disdained to accept. In truth, it was a goodly sight to see the golden locks of the lady (for was she not known in all the country as Ermengarde of the Fair Tresses?) mingling with the wavy silver of the charger’s mane as he bent his head lovingly over his fair young mistress, – a goodly sight, 126 and one which often sent the bold Baron rejoicing on his way, with a tender smile on his otherwise slightly ferocious countenance.

It chanced one day that a great tournament was about to take place in the neighborhood. All the knights in the country round, and many bold champions from a greater distance, were to show their prowess in riding at the ring, and in friendly combat with each other. Among the gallant knights, who so ready for the tournament as our bold Baron? He fairly pranced for the fray; for there had been no war for two months, and he was very weary of the long peaceful days. He had been practising for a week past, riding at any number of rings of different sizes, and tilting with his squire, whom he had run through the body several times, thereby seriously impairing that worthy’s digestive powers.

And now the eventful morning was come. The vassals were assembled in the courtyard of the castle, a goodly array, to see their master depart in pomp and pride.

Gray Berold was brought round to the door, magnificently caparisoned, his bridle and housings glittering with precious stones. The gallant steed pawed the ground, and tossed his head proudly, as impatient of delay as his master. From a balcony above leaned the lovely Ermengarde, her golden tresses crowned with a nightcap of rare and curious design; for the Baron was making an early start, and his fair lady had not yet completed her toilet.

Amid the vociferous cheers of his vassals, the Baron descended the steps, armed cap-à-pie, his good sword by his side, and his mace, battle-axe, cutlass, and shillalah displayed about his stately person in a very imposing manner. He could scarcely walk, it is true, so many and so weighty were his accoutrements; but then, as he himself aptly observed, he did not want to walk.

He got into the saddle with some difficulty, owing to the tendency of his battle-axe to get between his legs; but once there, the warrior was at home. An attendant handed him his lance, 128 with its glittering pennon. Gray Berold pranced and curvetted, making nothing of the enormous weight on his back; the Lady Ermengarde waved her broidered kerchief; and, with a parting glance at his lovely bride, the Baron rode slowly out of the courtyard.

But, alas! he was not destined to ride far. Alas for the proud Baron! Alas and alack for the gallant steed!

He had scarcely ridden a hundred paces when he heard a fearful growl behind him, which caused him to turn quickly in his saddle. What was his horror to see a huge bear spring out of the woods and come rushing towards him!

For one moment the Baron was paralyzed; the next, he wheeled his horse round, and couching his lance, prepared to meet his savage assailant.

But Gray Berold had not bargained for this. Many a fair fight had he seen in battle-field and in tourney; many a time he had faced danger as boldly as his rider, and had borne the brunt of many a fierce attack. But those fights were with men and horses. He knew what they were, and how they should be met; but this was something very different. This great creature, that came rushing along with its head down and its mouth open, was something Berold did not know; moreover, it was something he did not like. Stand there and be rushed at by a thing that was neither horse nor man? Not if he knew it! And just when the bear was close upon him, Gray Berold, 130 with a squeal of mingled terror and anger, wheeled short round. The bear made a spring, and caught the charger by the tail. The terrified animal bounded forward; the Baron made a downward stroke with his battle-axe that would have felled an ox, and Master Bruin (no offence to you, my dear fellow! it’s the name of all your family, you know) rolled over and over in the dust.

But alas! and alas! he took the tail with him! That noble tail, the pride of the stable-yard, the glory of the grooms, lay in the road, a glittering mass of silver; and it was a tailless steed that now galloped frantically back into the castle-court, from which only a few short minutes ago he had so proudly emerged.

The Baron was mad with fury. Pity for his gallant horse, rage and mortification at the ridiculous plight he was in, anxiety lest he should be late for the tournament, all combined to make him for a time beside himself; he rushed up and down the courtyard, whirling his battle-axe round 131 his head, and uttering the most fearful imprecations. Finally, however, yielding to the tears and entreaties of his retainers, he calmed his noble frenzy, and set himself to think what was best to be done. “Give up the tournament? Perish the thought! Ride another horse than Berold? Never while he lives! Ride him tailless and unadorned? Shades of my ancestors forbid!” thus cried the Baron at every new suggestion of his sympathizing retainers.

At last the head groom had an idea. “Let us fasten on another tail,” he said, “an’t please your worship!”

“Ha!” cried the Baron, starting at the notion. “’Tis well! Ho! there, Hodge, Barnaby, Perkin! Cut me the tails from the three cart-horses, and tie them together. And be quick about it, ye knaves!”

The three grooms flew to execute their master’s mandate, and returned in a few minutes, bearing a magnificent tail, whose varied hues of black, sorrel, and white, showed it to be the spoil of 132 Dobbin, Smiler, and Bumps, the three stout Flemish cart-horses.

“By my halidome, a motley tail!” exclaimed the Baron. “But it boots not, so it be a tail! Fasten it on with all speed, for time presses! – ha! what is this!”

Well might the Baron start, and exclaim.

The moment the three grooms touched the flanks of Gray Berold, before they had time to lay hands on the stump of his tail, they found themselves flying through the air, and tumbling in a very uncomfortable sort of way against the wall of the courtyard. Marry, that was a brave kick! and when he had given it, the charger looked round after the unhappy grooms, and tossed his stately head, and snorted, evidently meaning to say, “Don’t you want to try it again?”

But the grooms did not want to try it again. They picked themselves up, and rubbed their poor shins and their poor heads, and proceeded to hobble off on their poor feet as fast as they 133 could. But they did not hobble far, for the voice of the Baron was heard in angry expostulation.

“How now, varlets!” cried that nobleman. “Do you slink away like beaten hounds because, forsooth, the good beast shakes off a fly, or lashes out his heels in playful sport? Shame on ye, coward hinds! Back, I command ye, and tie me on that tail. Obey, sirrahs, or else – hum – ha – hrrrrugh!!!” and the Baron waved his battle-axe, 134 and looked as if he had swallowed the meat-chopper and the gridiron and the blunderbuss, all at one mouthful.

Hodge, Barnaby, and Perkin were in a bad way, assuredly. On the one hand was the charger, snorting defiance, and with his heels all ready for the next kick, should they presume to touch him; on the other was the furious Baron, also snorting, and with his battle-axe all ready for the next whack, should they presume not to touch him. Here were two sharp horns to a dilemma!

Cautiously the poor knaves crept up once more behind Gray Berold. “Vault thou upon his back, Perkin!” whispered Barnaby. “Perchance from there – ” Whizz! whack! thud! – This time Berold did not wait for them to touch him: the sound of their voices was enough; there they all lay again in a heap against the wall, moaning sore and cursing the day they were born.

But now the Baron’s humor changed. “Beshrew me!” he cried. “’Tis a gallant steed. 135 He will not brook, at such a moment, the touch of hireling hands. ’Tis well! give me the tail, my masters! and ye shall see.”

Alas! they did see; they saw their Baron rolling over and over on the ground. They saw their Baron roll; they heard their Baron rave; they turned and fled for their lives.

At this moment the portal swung open, and the Lady Ermengarde appeared. She had seen all from an upper window, and she now hastened to raise her fallen lord, who sat spluttering and cursing on the ground, unable to rise, owing to the weight of his armor. “Oh! blame not the steed!” cried the lovely lady. “Chide not the gallant beast, good my lord! ’twas not the touch, ’twas the tail, he could not brook. Tie the rustic tail of a plebeian cart-horse on Gray Berold? Oh! fie, my lord! it may not be. I will provide a tail for your charger!”

“You!” exclaimed the Baron. “What mean you, lady?”

The Lady Ermengarde replied by drawing from 136 the embroidered pouch which hung from her jewelled girdle a pair of shears. Snip! snap! snip! snap! and before her astonished lord could interfere, the golden tresses, the pride of the whole country-side, were severed from her head. Deftly she tied the shining curls together; lightly she stepped to where Gray Berold stood. She stroked his noble head; she spoke to him; she showed him the tresses, and told him what she had done. Then with her own hands she tied them on to the stump of his tail with her embroidered girdle; and Gray Berold moved not fore-leg nor hind, but stood like a steed of granite till it was done.

The retainers were dissolved in tears; the Baron sobbed aloud as he climbed, with the assistance of seven hostlers, into the saddle; but the heroic lady smiled, and bade them be of good cheer. She could get a black wig, she said; and she had always thought she should look better as a brunette.

And to make a long story short, said the wood-pigeon, she did get a black wig, and looked like 137 a beauty in it. And the Baron went to the tournament, and won all the prizes. And Gray Berold lived to be sixty years old, and wore the golden tail to the end of his days. And that’s all.