Mr. Rabbit at Home - Joel Chandler Harris (beach books .txt) 📗
- Author: Joel Chandler Harris
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“The man in the room was not thinking of the stolen ring at all. He was merely bewailing his unhappy lot.
“‘Oh, misery, misery!’ he cried; ‘I have heard of you, but now I know you!’
“He had no sooner said this than there came a knock on the door and a voice said:—
“‘Don’t talk so loud! Open the door!’
“The man opened the door and saw a woman standing there trembling and weeping.
“‘Don’t expose me,’ she said, ‘but spare my life. I have the ring here. I did wrong to steal it.’
“For a moment the man was so overcome with astonishment that he was unable to speak. He took the ring in his hand and looked at it while the woman continued to plead with him. He handed her the ring again.
“‘Take it,’ he said, ‘and place it beneath the corner of one of the rugs in the bedroom of the Princess. Be quick about it, for I am going to the King.’
“The woman ran and did as she had been told, and then the man came from the room and sent an attendant to inform the King that the ring had been found. The King sent for him.
“‘Where is the ring?’
“‘Under a corner of a rug in the bedroom of the Princess, your Majesty,’ replied the man, bowing low and smiling.
“Search was at once made, and sure enough the beautiful ring was found under a corner of a rug in the Princess’s bedroom. The Princess herself came to thank the conjurer, and if he had not been a very sensible man his head would have been turned by the attention he received. Even the King no longer doubted the conjurer’s powers.
“‘There is something in this man,’ said the King, and he straightway offered him a high position among his councilors.
“The man thanked the King most heartily, but declared that his business would not allow him to remain another day at court. So the King gave him a purse of gold, the young Prince gave him another, and the beautiful Princess Myla gave him a string of pearls of great value. Then he went home, bought him some land, built him a comfortable house, and went into business for himself.
“It sometimes happened that his wife complained because he did not accept the King’s offer and remain at court, so that she might have flourished as a fine lady, but he always replied by saying that the man is a fool who will tempt Providence more than three times in a lifetime. Though he went into the palace poor and came out of it rich, he had escaped only by the skin of his teeth. He was always grateful for his good fortune, and by his example taught his children to lead virtuous lives and always to help the poor and needy.”
THE KING OF THE CLINKERS.
Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes had stopped frolicking, and were now listening to the stories. While Mrs. Meadows was telling about the lucky conjurer, Tickle-My-Toes became very uneasy. He moved about restlessly, pulled off his big straw hat, put it on again, and seemed to be waiting impatiently for the time to come when he might say something.
So, when Mrs. Meadows had finished, she looked at Tickle-My-Toes to see what he wanted. The rest did the same. But Tickle-My-Toes blushed very red, and looked at his feet.
“You acted as if you wanted to say something,” said Mrs. Meadows, “and if you do, now’s your chance. What’s the matter? Have you run a splinter in your foot? You look as if you wanted to cry.”
“I did want to say something,” replied Tickle-My-Toes.
“What was it?” Mrs. Meadows inquired.
“Nothing much,” answered Tickle-My-Toes, putting his finger in his mouth.
“I declare, I’m ashamed of you,” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “Here you are mighty near as old as I am, and yet trying to play boo-hoo baby.”
“I don’t think you ought to talk that way,” said Tickle-My-Toes. “I thread your needles for you every day, and I do everything you ask me.”
“I know what’s the matter with you,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You want me to take you in my lap and rock you to sleep.”
“Oh! I don’t!” cried Tickle-My-Toes, blushing again. “I wanted to tell a story I heard, but I’ll go off somewhere and tell it to myself.”
“There wouldn’t be any fun in that,” suggested Buster John.
“No,” said Mrs. Meadows. “Tell the story right here, so we can enjoy it with you.”
“You’ll laugh,” protested Tickle-My-Toes.
“Not unless there’s something in the story to laugh at.”
“This is no laughing story. It’s just as solemn as it can be,” explained Tickle-My-Toes.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Rabbit. “If there’s anything I like, it is one of those solemn stories that make you feel like you want to go off behind the house and shake hands with yourself, and cry boo-hoo to the ell-and-yard and seven stars.”
Mr. Rabbit’s enthusiastic remark was very encouraging to Tickle-My-Toes, who, after scratching his head a little, and looking around to see if he could find a place to hide when the time came, began his story in this wise:—
“Once upon a time, and in a big town away off yonder somewhere, there lived a little boy who had no father nor mother. He was so small that nobody seemed to care anything about him. But one day a woman, the wife of a baker, heard him crying in the streets, and carried him into the house, and gave him something to eat, and warmed him by the fire, and after that he felt better.
“The baker himself grumbled a great deal when he came home and found what his wife had done. He said he wouldn’t be surprised to come home some day and find his house full of other people’s children. But his wife replied that it would be well enough to complain when he found the house full. As for this little brat, she said, he wouldn’t fill a milk jar if he was put in it, much less a great big house.
“The baker growled and grumbled, but his wife paid no attention to him. She sat in her chair and rocked and sang, and was just as good-natured as she could be. After a while the baker himself got over his grumbling, and began to laugh. He told his wife that he had sold all his bread that day, and had orders for as much the next day.
“‘Of course,’ said she; ‘but if I had left that child crying in the streets your business would have been ruined before the year is out.’
“‘Maybe so,’ replied the baker.
“Well, the little boy grew very fast, and was as lively as a cricket. The baker’s wife thought as much of him as if he had been her own son, and the baker himself soon came to be very fond of him. He was very smart, too. He learned to watch the fire under the big oven, and to make himself useful in many ways. He played about the oven so much, and was so fond of watching the bread bake and the fire burn, that the baker’s wife called him Sparkle Spry.
“For many years the country where the baker and his wife and Sparkle Spry lived had been at peace with all the other countries. But one day a man from a neighboring country had his nose pulled by somebody in the baker’s country, and then war was declared by the kings and queens, and the people fell to fighting.
“Now, when people fight they must be fed, and the cheapest thing to feed them on is bread. A part of the army camped near the town where the baker lived, and there was a great demand for bread. The baker’s oven was not a large one, and by running it day and night he could only bake three hundred loaves.
“He and his wife baked until they were tired out. They told Sparkle Spry to watch the oven so that the bread wouldn’t burn, and to wake them when it was brown. They were so tired that Sparkle Spry was sorry for them, and he wondered why he wasn’t big enough to take their places, if only for one day and night. While he was thinking and wishing, he saw something moving. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, and then he saw an old man, no bigger than a broomstick, and no taller than a teacup, peeping from behind the oven.
HE SAW AN OLD MAN, NO BIGGER THAN A BROOMSTICK
“‘Are they all gone?’ he whispered, coming forward a little way.
“‘All who?’ asked Sparkle Spry.
“‘The old ones—the big man and the fat woman.’
“‘They have gone to bed,’ said Sparkle Spry. ‘I can call them!’
“‘No, no,’ cried the old man. ‘They are such fools! They don’t know what is good for them. I have been waiting for years to get a chance to show them how to bake bread. Once I showed myself to the man, and he thought I was a snake; once to the woman, and she thought I was a rat. What fools they are!’
“‘Who are you?’ inquired Sparkle Spry. He didn’t like to hear his friends abused.
“‘Who—me? I’m the King of the Clinkers—twice plunged in the water and twice burned in the fire.’
“‘Well, to-night you can bake all the bread you want to,’ said Sparkle Spry. ‘The baker and his wife have been trying to supply the army that is camped here, but their oven is too small. They have worked until they can work no longer, and now they have gone to bed to rest.’
“‘Good!’ cried the King of the Clinkers. ‘Shut the door, so they can’t hear us! I’ll show them a thing or two about baking bread.’
“Then he walked close to the hot oven, tapped on it with a little poker that he carried in his belt, and called out: ‘Wake up! Get out! Come on! Hurry up! We’ve no time to lose! Show yourselves! Stir about! Be lively!’
“With that, hundreds of little men swarmed out of the ash heap behind the oven, some of them sneezing and some rubbing their eyes, but all jumping about with motions as quick as those of a flea when he jumps.”
“Oh, please don’t talk about fleas,” pleaded Mr. Rabbit, shuddering and scratching himself behind the ear. “It makes the cold chills run up my back. I never hear ’em named but I think I can feel ’em crawling on me.”
“Anyhow, that’s the way the little men jumped about,” said Tickle-My-Toes, resuming his story. “They swarmed in and out of the oven, hot as it was; they swarmed in and out of the flour barrels; they swarmed in and out of the trough where the dough was kneaded; and they swarmed in and out of the woodshed.
“The King of the Clinkers stood sometimes on the edge of the oven, sometimes on the edge of the flour barrels, sometimes on the edge of the trough, sometimes on the woodpile, and sometimes at the door of the furnace. And wherever he stood he waved his tiny poker and told the others what to do.
“Some of the little men carried wood to the furnace, some carried flour
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