The Joyous Story of Toto
“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-HORSEThere 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-HORSEMany 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.
CHAPTER IX
“OH! what a delightful story, Pigeon Pretty!” cried Toto. “Did you hear any more like it? I wish I had that red book! Did the boy look as nice as his sister? What was his name?”
“His name,” said the pigeon, “was Jim, I think. And he did not – no, Toto, he certainly did not look as nice as his sister. In fact, although I pitied him because he was ill, I thought he looked like a disagreeable sort of boy.”
“Red hair?” interposed the squirrel, looking at the raccoon.
“Freckled face?” asked the raccoon, looking at the squirrel.
“Why, yes!” said the pigeon, in surprise. “He had red hair and a freckled face; but how should you two know anything about him?”
The squirrel and the raccoon nodded at each other.
“Same boy, I should say!” said Cracker.
“Same boy, I should say!” answered Coon.
“What is it?” asked Toto, curious as usual. “Tell us about it, one of you! It is early yet, and we have plenty of time.”
“Well, I will tell you,” said the squirrel. “I meant to keep it and tell it next time, for I cannot make up stories as easily as some of you, and this is something that really happened; but I might just as well tell it now, especially as Pigeon Pretty has told you about the boy.
“You need not be at all sorry for that boy,” he continued. “He is a bad boy, and he deserves all he got, and more too.”
“Dear, dear!” said the grandmother. “I am sorry to hear that. What did he do, Mr. Cracker?”
“He tried to rob my Uncle Munkle of his winter store!” replied the squirrel. “And he got the worst of it, that’s all.”
“Who is your Uncle Munkle?” asked Toto. “I don’t know him, do I?”
“No,” said Cracker. “He lives quite at the 140 other end of the wood, where people sometimes go for fagots and nuts and such things. Nobody ever comes near our end of the wood, because they are afraid of Bruin.
“My uncle is a Munk,” he continued, “and a most excellent person.”
“A monk?” interrupted the grandmother in amazement.
“Yes, a Chipmunk!” said the squirrel. “It’s the same thing, I believe, only we spell it with a u. Third cousin to a monkey, you know.”
Toto and his grandmother both looked quite bewildered at this; but the raccoon smiled sweetly, and said, —
“Go on, Cracker, my boy! never try to explain things too fully; it’s apt to be a little tedious, and it is always better to leave something to the imagination.”
“I am going on,” said Cracker. “As I said before, people sometimes go into that part of the wood; there are one or two hives not far from it.”
“One or two hives?” interrupted Toto. “What do you mean, Cracker?”
“Why, a lot of houses together,” said the squirrel. “Don’t you call them hives? The only other creatures I know that live in that kind of way (and a very poor way it is, to my thinking) are the bees, and their places are called hives.”
“A collection of houses, Mr. Cracker,” said the grandmother gently, “is called a village or a town, according to its size; a village being a small collection.”
“Oh!” said the squirrel. “Thank you, ma’am! I will try to remember that. Well, this boy Jim lives in the nearest village, and sometimes goes into the forest. Now, the autumn is slipping away fast, as we all know; and last week my Uncle Munkle, who is always fore-handed and thrifty, thought it was high time to be getting in his winter store of nuts and acorns. So he sent for his nephews to come and help him (he has no children of his own). We all went, of course, and 142 Coon went with us, for my uncle always gives us a feast after the nuts are in, and Coon always goes wherever there is anything to – ”
“What?” said the raccoon, looking up sharply.
“Wherever there is anything to be done!” said the squirrel hastily.
“The second day, as we were all hard at work shelling the beechnuts, I heard a noise among the bushes, – a crackling noise that did not sound like any animal I knew. I looked, and saw two eyes peering out from the leaves of a young beech-tree. ‘That is a boy,’ said I to myself, ‘and he means mischief!’ So I skipped off without saying anything to the others, and crept softly round behind the bushes, making no more noise than an eel in the mud. There I found, not one boy, but two, crouching among the bushes, and watching the nut-shelling. They were whispering to each other; and I crept nearer and nearer till I could hear all they said.
“‘When shall we come?’ said one.
“‘To-night,’ said the other, who had red hair 143 and a freckled face, ‘when the moon is up, and the little beggars are all asleep. Then we can easily knock them on the head, and get the nuts without being bitten. They bite like wild-cats when they are roused, these little fellows.’
“‘All right!’ said the other, whose face I could not see. ‘I’ll bring a bag and be here at eight o’clock.’
“‘Will you?’ thought I, and I crept away again, having heard all I wanted to know. I went back to the others, and presently a snapping and crackling told me that the boys were gone. Then I went to Uncle Munkle and told him what I had heard. He was very angry, and whisked his tail about till he nearly whisked it off. ‘Call your large friend,’ he said, ‘and we will hold a council.’ So I waked Coon – ”
“Waked Coon?” exclaimed the woodchuck slyly. “What! do you mean to say he was not working twice as hard as any of the others?”
“I had been, my good fellow!” said the raccoon loftily. “I had been; and exhausted with 144 my labors. I was snatching a moment’s hard-earned repose. Go on, Cracker.”
“Well,” continued the squirrel, “we held a council, and settled everything beautifully. Uncle Munkle, who has very particularly sharp teeth, was to get into the nut-closet and wait there. The rest of us were to be ready together on the nearest branch, and Coon was to hide himself somewhere close by. No one was to move until Uncle Munkle gave the signal, and then – well, you shall hear how it happened. We all went on with our work until sunset. Then we had supper, and a game of scamper, and then we began to prepare for business. We sharpened our claws on the bark of the trees till they were as sharp as – as – ”
“Razors,” suggested Toto.
“Don’t know what that means,” said the squirrel.
“As sharp as Coon’s nose, then; that will do.”
“We filled our cheek-pouches with three-cornered pebbles and nut-shells. Then, when the moon rose, and all the forest was quiet, we 145 retired to our posts. We had waited some time, and were becoming rather impatient, when suddenly a distant sound was heard; the sound of snapping and cracking twigs. It grew louder and louder, louder and louder; and presently we saw a freckled face looking out from among the leaves.
