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Title: Snythergen
Author: Garrott, Hal
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Snythergen" ***
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[Illustration: _“I did not call you over to give me a bath,” cried
Squeaky_]
SNYTHERGEN
BY
HAL GARROTT
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
DUGALD WALKER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY
1923
Copyright, 1923, by
ROBERT M. MCBRIDE & CO.
First Published, 1923
_Printed in the United States of America._
TO HAL AND JEAN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I SLENDER FOODS AND ROUND FOODS 1
II A TICKLISH TREE 11
III PLAYED ON A MUSICAL SKIRT 21
IV A BIRD AND A TREE PLAY AT HIDE AND SEEK 29
V HOW A PIG LEARNED TO TALK 37
VI THE HOUSE AT THE END OF A ROPE 45
VII BEAR ON ICE 53
VIII A RUNAWAY TREE 65
IX THE DOCTOR DISCOVERS A TREE WITH ST. VITUS’ DANCE 71
X THE BEAR SEES THE “GRASSHOPPER PIG,” HEARS THE
“HUNTSMEN,” AND IS PRESENT AT THE “ESCAPE” 87
XI THE JOURNEY TO THE WREATH—A SPIN IN A HUMMING-TOP—AN
UNKNOWN FRIEND 99
XII ABOARD A FLOATING BEARD 113
XIII THE PIE ROOM—BEAR AGAIN!—SANCHO WING SCOLDS 123
XIV SNYTHERGEN’S TROUBLES 135
XV TOY FOODS 147
XVI HOME 155
THE ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOR
“I did not call you over to give me a bath,” cried Squeaky _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
It was inspiring to hear this chorus accompanied by full orchestra 24
The house was left dangling above ground to receive an airing out 46
“Bears should not talk when their mouths are full of food,” said
Santa Claus kindly 128
IN BLACK AND WHITE
PAGE
His father would stand on one hand and his mother on the other 5
Like mothers the world over she knew how to sacrifice herself 13
His feet projected out of the window in the butler’s pantry 19
Snythergen cried, “Don’t do that!” 33
To die in her arms would have been a happier lot than leaving her 41
“At least I can relieve his headache” 59
“Stick out your tongue!” 75
He would strike a tree-like pose 83
Then went around again to see if he had overlooked any crumbs 91
“Some unusual weight behind” 101
“The only kind of humming-top to have” 105
“Stop the top, stop the top!” bellowed Squeaky 109
“Squeaky, who is a voice with a pig’s body” 117
The door-man, turning his head sideways, wiggled his left ear 125
A traffic butler stood at hall intersections 141
And squeezed him almost as tightly as the farmer’s wife had done 151
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
SLENDER FOODS AND ROUND FOODS
Snythergen’s mother was poor—so poor that she did not feel able to
support her baby boy. So she put him in a basket—it had to be a large
one—and left it on the doorstep of a little old couple who had long
wished for a child.
The pair were very much surprised, not only at finding Snythergen, but at
his unusual appearance. He was thin as bones and very long—so long that
he appeared to be wearing stilts. His body was very ungainly and the
couple’s first feeling was one of disappointment—until they looked into
his eyes. These were bright and roguish and something else not easy to
name—something that made them know he was their child, and they loved him.
The new papa and mamma were very proud. First of all they wanted their
boy to fill out into a healthy well-fed child, so they stoked his
neglected stomach with the richest of farm foods. The effect was prompt.
It was amazing how Snythergen changed from day to day. His cheeks
rounded, his shoulders broadened, and the layers of flesh spread over
his lean trunk until he was as bulging as a rubber ball. He was getting
enormous and his parents were beginning to sense a new danger.
“He will burst if he keeps on getting fatter,” said his mother anxiously.
“I must study the question,” said his father, who was a philosopher.
One day the father came in much excited. “I know what it is that makes
baby so fat! He eats the wrong kind of food. His diet is too round. It
is all pumpkins, potatoes, tomatoes, eggs, oranges. Now to get thin he
should eat thin foods, like celery, asparagus, pie-plant, and macaroni.”
So they fed him long slender foods, and he began changing at once. He
shot up almost as fast as Jack’s beanstalk, until they were alarmed for
fear he would never stop shooting up. He had grown until he could look
into the second story windows standing on the ground, and could place his
hand on the top of the chimney without getting on tiptoes. Again it was
time something was done, and they sat down to think the matter over.
[Illustration]
“I have it,” said the papa at last. “Son must not eat all round nor all
slender foods! The two must be mixed!”
So they mixed them just in time to save Snythergen from shooting up like
a skyrocket. But by the time his growth was arrested he was altogether
too big for a boy.
There was no room in the house large enough for him to sleep in and he
could not go upstairs; the passage was too small and the ceiling too low.
But they found a place by letting his legs and body curl around through
the hallways and connecting rooms of the ground floor. His head rested on
a pillow in the living room and his feet projected out of the window in
the butler’s pantry. Every night before he went to bed his mother tucked
him in carefully, unfurling a roll of sheets and quilts that had been
sewed together and were long enough to stretch from his feet to his neck.
[Illustration: His father would stand on one hand and his mother on the
other]
Before he left for school in the morning his parents always kissed him
good-by affectionately. The parting took place outdoors in front of
the house. Snythergen would bend over and place his broad hands on the
ground, palms up. His father would stand on one hand and his mother on
the other, holding tightly to their son’s coat sleeves. Then Snythergen
would raise his arms, lifting his parents until they were on a level with
his face.
“Now be a good boy, Snythergen,” said the little father, “or I shall
spank you severely!”
“Of course he will be a good boy,” said the mother, as she leaned over
and kissed him.
Then the papa would climb up his ear and place his hands on his son’s
head and give him his blessing. Snythergen would then lower both parents
gently to the ground and start for school.
Snythergen was nearly always late in starting for school. He seldom slept
well, for his bed was uncomfortable and he could not turn over or even
change his position, without injuring the house. Every night before going
to sleep he would resolve to be up early on the morrow, but regularly
failed. And one morning he arose so very late that it was necessary to
find a short cut if he were to arrive at school in time.
What could he do? He tried to think of a scheme while collecting his
books. Bending over to pick up his slate pencil, he placed his head
between his heels, just for the fun of it. And this gave him an idea!
With his head still in this position, he bent his body into a circle
making a hoop of himself. Then he began to roll down hill across the
fields, slowly at first, then faster and faster, then so fast he could
not stop. He bounded over fences and ditches, until, all out of breath
and very much flushed, he found himself at the school house door! This
short cut saved him at least a mile, and it was such fun rolling down
hill, he went that way every morning thereafter, rolling up to the door
just as the school-bell was ringing—to crawl into the passage on his
hands and knees.
There was not room enough for Snythergen to stand up in school, so the
janitor cut a trap door beside his desk so that his feet extended into
the basement. Even then he stood taller in the school room than the other
pupils. But he would have managed very well had the janitor not been
absent-minded and near-sighted. He seemed never able to remember that
those long shanks were legs—not pillars. Again and again he would tie
the clothes-line to them, and on wash days when Snythergen went out at
recess, usually he trailed a piece of clothes-line behind each leg, with
the washing hanging on. And the janitor got such a scolding from his wife
for this that he grew to dislike Snythergen almost as much as Snythergen
disliked him.
One morning the janitor painted the basement. And when Snythergen went
out at recess his legs were a brilliant yellow and pinned to each was a
sign: “Fresh Paint.” That day he had an easy time playing tag, for no one
wanted to get smeared with paint badly enough to touch him.
One day the janitor was so forgetful as to start to drive a nail into one
of Snythergen’s legs. This was too much! The poor boy jumped out of the
cellar, and in rising thrust his head through the roof. So angry was he,
he hardly knew what he was doing. He stepped over the walls carrying the
roof with him, then tossed it on the ground and hurried away. “I won’t,
won’t go back to school,” he kept saying to himself. Rather than go back
and face the ridicule of his schoolmates he decided to run away.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II
A TICKLISH TREE
For some time Snythergen had been thinking of running away and had
planned to go to the forest and live with the trees, whose size was about
like his own. While waiting for the time to arrive, he had made himself
a disguise—and a very good one it was, too,—it was a suit of brown and
green that made him look just like a tree. For a long time he had kept it
hidden in some bushes. Yes, he had quite made up his mind to run away.
He went home that night and looked into the upstairs windows for a last
sight of his dear mother and father. His father was already asleep
when he arrived, but his mother was sitting anxiously by the window
waiting for her little boy to come home. He rubbed his nose on the glass
until she noticed that he was there, then placed a finger to his lips
cautioning her to be quiet. She raised the window softly and whispered:
“Snythergen, what is the matter?”
“Mother, dear, I am going away. I cannot stand going to school any
longer. I am too big and they are beginning to laugh at me. I was never
meant for a student anyway. I am going to live in the forest with the
trees. They will not make fun of me. I have made myself a suit of bark
and branches which makes me look just like one of them. Some day I will
come back to you and take you to my new home. But now I must leave you
and go and seek my fortune!”
[Illustration: Like mothers the world over she knew how to sacrifice
herself when it was for the good of her child]
The poor mother’s heart was almost breaking. The tears streamed from her
eyes, but deep in her heart she knew it was best for him to go. Like
mothers the world over she knew how to sacrifice herself when it was
for the good of her child. She kissed him again and again. Just then the
father turned uneasily in his sleep.
“Hurry, hurry, my darling boy! If your father hears you he will give you
a terrible spanking.” As he rushed away, great tears were dashed from his
eyes by the branches of tree-tops.
Snythergen went straight to the forest and very early the next morning
dressed in his suit of green and took his place as a tree. For a long
time he stood very still, holding his branches out and waving his leaves
in the breeze. “I wish something would happen,” he said to himself. “It
certainly bores one to be a tree.” He had been standing there since
daybreak and the sun was now high in the sky. The birds as yet had not
lighted on him. Some instinct made them hesitate. At last a daring
woodpecker approached his trunk, and began a series of sharp pecks.
Snythergen stifled an “ouch” and made a wry face. The first woodpecker
was followed by others. They attacked his bark until it itched and
smarted all over. In spite of his discomfort he tried to stand very still
for he thought it beneath a tree’s dignity to show its feelings.
Unfortunately Snythergen was ticklish and whenever the birds touched
a sensitive spot he could not help wiggling. This frightened the
woodpeckers for a while and they flew to a neighboring limb to gaze at
the strange tree. But as soon as they stopped tickling Snythergen always
stopped shaking. This puzzled the birds. They could not understand why
they felt the tree shake when they pecked, but could not see it move when
they stopped to look at it. Finally they decided that they only imagined
it moved, and after that they did not fly away unless the wiggling was
very violent—which it was whenever a bird happened to blunder upon
Snythergen’s “funny bone.” Snythergen was beginning to realize that the
life of a tree is not all joy. Hardly could he wait for night to come
when the birds would fly away. In the meantime he tried and tried to
think of a plan to outwit them. “I have it!” he whispered to himself at
last.
When it was quite dark he pulled off his tree suit, and went to a near-by
town to purchase several xylophones. These are musical instruments with
keys usually made of wood, and played on with a little mallet. Snythergen
took the keys apart and strung them about his trunk so that they hung
about him like a skirt of mail, to protect his bark from woodpeckers.
The next morning when the birds began to circle around him, he smiled
to himself. When one of them lighted and began pecking away, a cheery
sound came forth. And when the others followed his example the whole
tree became a bedlam of musical jingles. “Peck away, peck away!” said
Snythergen to himself, “you cannot hurt me now!”
It was not long before the strange sounds issuing from the tree attracted
all the wild life of the forest. The air became almost black with flying
things, and the ground was swarming with animals little and big. Even a
bear came along and Snythergen trembled from roots to peak leaf. How he
wanted to run home to his mother! It would be easier to go back and face
his schoolmates than to stay alone with a bear. But at heart Snythergen
was really a brave little boy and his courage soon returned. He had set
out to be a tree and he made up his mind he would be a worthy one. He did
not want the forest to be ashamed of him. “I must not be the first tree
that ever ran away. It would set all the others such a bad example!” he
thought. So he held his teeth together very firmly, and stood up ever so
straight and stiff. “I must appear calm and unconcerned,” he said to
himself, but his heart beat so rapidly and thumped so loudly he thought
the bear must surely hear it. But the big brute was too much absorbed in
the strange concert to think of anything else, and did not suspect that a
spare-ribbed boy trembled behind a disguise of bark, boughs and leaves.
After a while the novelty wore off and the bear went about his business,
much to Snythergen’s relief. The others, too, felt easier when the big
brute was gone, and crowded more closely about the strange tree.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: His feet projected out of the window in the butler’s
pantry]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III
PLAYED ON A MUSICAL SKIRT
A thoughtful appearing goldfinch hovered about the strange tree. He
would sit long in one of Snythergen’s branches as if lost in a golden
study. Occasionally he would peck at the various wooden keys and listen
critically, but the sounds he produced were sickly compared to the
woodpeckers’ ringing tremolo.
“I wonder what he’s up to,” thought Snythergen. “Some deviltry, I’ll
wager! He seems a wise little bird. Evidently he’s planning to do
something to me. I suppose I’ll find out what it is when he gets ready to
let me know, and not before!”
The goldfinch flew among the woodpeckers and assembled about two hundred
of them in Snythergen’s branches. Then he made them a speech.
“He is explaining his project,” thought Snythergen. The finch would flit
up to a key, peck it and return to his branch, chirping animatedly.
When he had finished the woodpeckers tossed their heads and chorused
something. Snythergen could not decide whether it was an oral vote or a
cheer.
“The meeting must be over,” thought Snythergen, relieved. But his relief
was short-lived. The entire flock flitted down, landing on his trunk, and
covering it until there was a bird stationed beside each xylophone key.
“Whew,” gasped Snythergen. “It wouldn’t be so bad on a cold wintry day,
but this is no time of year to be smothered in an overcoat of xylophones
and birds!”
His sap coursed feverishly through his trunk and the veins of his leaves.
He fanned his moist bark cautiously with his upper boughs. The birds were
too absorbed in their scheme, whatever it was, to pay any attention to
the tree’s unusual motions.
Snythergen was almost suffocated with heat. “Why don’t they tar and
feather me and be done with it!” he groaned. “It amounts to that anyhow,
for my sap is as hot as tar—and as for feathers!”
Here he paused, struck by the sweet sounds issuing from his trunk. The
goldfinch was apparently leading an orchestra of woodpeckers and they
were playing bird calls!
“So this is your scheme,” thought Snythergen. “Not a bad idea at all!”
A cool breeze had just sprung up from the north, enabling Snythergen to
cool off and enjoy the performance. The finch was perched on a central
limb and was pointing his bill at the different players when he desired
them to respond. He was standing on one leg. With the other he beat time,
using a tiny twig as baton. The music attracted many birds and animals
and the goldfinch made them a speech. As nearly as Snythergen could guess
from his gestures the little bird said something like this:
“We’re going to give a symphony concert to-night shortly after bug time!
Everybody is invited to come and bring his family and friends.”
Preparations for the concert were in progress all day. An hour before
the audience was admitted the western sky was ablaze and the animals
thought the forest was on fire. But it was only a cloud of fireflies
coming to light the concert. When they arrived the business manager (an
intelligent crow) directed them to stand just touching each other along
all the branches, twigs and leaves of the tree, until Snythergen sparkled
from roots to peak with thousands of points of light. The branch on which
the goldfinch perched was lighted more brilliantly than the others.
Festoons of acrobatic fireflies holding together hung down from it like
ropes of light.
[Illustration: _It was inspiring to hear this chorus accompanied by full
orchestra_]
At the appointed time animals and birds were admitted to the reserved
space about the tree. Crow ushers kept order and showed each one where to
sit. Birds were admitted to all but the stage branches of the tree, and
they covered every part of Snythergen unoccupied by fireflies. At first
the fireflies were afraid of the great birds that stood close enough to
touch them, and they would have flown off in terror if the crows had not
watched over and protected them. By this time the ground was black with
animals. Not only every seat, but every inch of standing room was taken.
By eight o’clock every member of the orchestra was perched at attention.
Beside every xylophone key a woodpecker awaited the signal to begin.
When all were seated the goldfinch walked proudly forth from his dressing
room of leaves and took his position in the center of the stage-limb. He
was indeed a handsome fellow. His gay head-dress was gracefully arranged.
His feathers were as smooth as satin, and his manicured claws shone in
the light of the fireflies. His entrance was greeted with tremendous
applause and he had to bow again and again. When it was quiet, he raised
his baton and bill together and gave the signal. The concert began.
All listened breathlessly to the wonderful strains. Aside from the
music there was not the faintest sound of animal, bird or insect in the
forest. Even the trees kept tight hold of their leaves, to keep them from
rustling in the breeze.
Before the concert was over the call of nearly every being present had
been given by the orchestra. The meadow lark’s song was encored again and
again. It was so short it was over in a jiffy and the audience could not
get enough of it.
Once during the evening the leader was worried for a moment. In a front
seat he had spied an old frog and he knew his bass woods did not go low
enough to imitate the frog song. So when an usher came up and whispered
in his ear that the frog was stone deaf and would not know it if his call
were omitted, he was very much relieved. Happily the old fellow was the
only frog present.
The favorite number proved to be the brown thrasher’s song. It was long
enough to make a piece, and seemed just suited to xylophones. Since
Snythergen wore at least twelve of these instruments in his skirt of
mail, there were enough different keys to provide soprano, alto, tenor
and bass. The audience was much stirred by the wonderful performance, and
the leader as a compliment to the brown thrashers directed the ushers
to conduct all of them present to a stage limb just beneath him. They
were lined up in a row and firefly foot-lights shone upon a long line of
feathery breasts in front and straight slender tails behind.
It was inspiring to hear this mighty chorus accompanied by full
orchestra, in one of the most beautiful of bird songs. No wonder birds
and animals clapped until their claws and paws ached, and when the
concert was over, refused to go home until the leader announced another
performance next week.
“Well, at last,” said Snythergen, when all had left, “I can have a
moment’s rest. There won’t be another concert if I can help it—and I
think I can!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV
A BIRD AND A TREE PLAY AT HIDE AND SEEK
Snythergen took off his suit and lay upon the ground. In a minute he was
fast asleep. Early the next morning he arose and put on his tree suit
but not the xylophone skirt. It was a hot day and it would be cooler
without that. And he believed that after their hard day the woodpeckers
would sleep till noon. He was right. Not one came to disturb him in the
morning. But without them there were plenty of curious eyes staring. For
the birds and animals could not understand the change that had come over
the strange tree.
The goldfinch did not sleep as late as the woodpeckers, for he did not
believe in lying abed in the morning even if he had been up late the
night before. When he saw that the tree no longer wore its skirt of
xylophone keys he studied Snythergen curiously, hopping from twig to twig
and pondering. He discovered that this tree was much warmer than the
others—for the heavy tree suit made Snythergen very hot. The little bird
wondered if the strange tree would not be a good place in which to build
a winter home. This would save him going south every year. In place of a
one-room nest, why not build a mansion? He flew away excitedly to draw up
the plans.
“At last I can enjoy a little peace,” murmured Snythergen and dozed off
for a standing nap. When he awoke, it was with a start. “Stop biting my
toes,” he cried. Glancing down he saw—a pig! “He must be hungry,” thought
he. “Well, I’ve eaten enough pig in my day. It would only be fair to
let one of his kind have a bite of me. But I am thankful his teeth are
not sharp. The bites feel like little pinches. I hope he is enjoying
himself, but now he is beginning to damage my costume!” He gave a kick
and the pig jumped back, so frightened that his hair and his tail stood
pompadour. He was pale and trembling and his little eyes grew big and
round.
“What in the world is the matter with that tree?” he exclaimed. “I
thought it moved!”
It was now Snythergen’s turn to be surprised. “Can he talk, the little
rascal? Now how did a pig ever learn to talk? I must investigate.”
Evidently the pig liked the taste of bark; and as Snythergen stood very
still the pig’s courage returned. He approached the tree once more, and
was just about to take a really good bite when Snythergen cried, “Don’t
do that!”
“Who said that?” cried the pig, startled.
“Why, I did, of course.”
“Who are you and where are you?”
“Can’t you see, you simpleton!” said Snythergen. “I am the tree and I
want you to stop biting my roots.”
The pig did not wait to hear more. So frightened was he that he ran away
as fast as he could.
“Come back,” shouted Snythergen, “come back after dark and we can visit
without being seen.”
Soon the little finch returned with plans all drawn, and set to work to
build in one of the strange tree’s branches. This made Snythergen anxious
for he did not fancy having his limbs tangled up in nests. And when the
finch flew farther than usual in search of thistle down, Snythergen
strolled softly to an open space several hundred feet away behind a
hillock.
When the finch returned he could not find the tree. Nearly frantic he
flew wildly about in circles; then darted across in diameters. Was he
dreaming? He all but lost his reason and contracted a painfully stiff
neck. “That tree must be somewhere!” he exclaimed, and turning suddenly
he would charge the spot where it had been, as if to take it by surprise.
Then he described larger and larger circles until at length he came upon
Snythergen’s hiding place.
Joyfully he returned to his work careful this time not to let the tree
out of his sight. It was now Snythergen’s turn to be perplexed. How was
he to dodge that energetic nest builder! For every time he attempted to
take to his roots there were those sharp little eyes regarding him.
“No chance! That is the most suspicious goldfinch I ever saw!” he sighed.
[Illustration: Snythergen cried, “Don’t do that!”]
The nest was progressing alarmingly. The fuzzy material tickled
Snythergen’s limb, and every time he tried to rub it, the goldfinch was
watching.
“Is there no way to get rid of the little pest?” he groaned. “Can’t I
ever get him to turn his back long enough for me to rub my itching limb?
My, but he must love me, the way he keeps staring all the while! If this
keeps up much longer I’ll get the St. Vitus’ dance.”
He remembered that the finch had gone a long way off for milkweed silk
and thistle down with which to line his nest, and it was while he was
searching for these that Snythergen had had his chance to hide.
“I’ll just pull out some of that fuzzy stuff and put it in my pocket the
next time birdie turns his back,” he chuckled. “When he sees it is gone
he will go for some more, and when he comes back—well, there won’t be any
tree or any nest to welcome him!”
This thought amused Snythergen so much that he almost gave himself away
by laughing out loud. Luckily the finch thought it was a child in the
woods and turned his back to see. And the moment he did so Snythergen
jerked out most of the fuzzy stuff and put it into his pocket. When the
finch saw the damage he was very much puzzled.
“Bless my feathers! Now how in the world did that happen?” he said.
“This place must be bewitched!”
He looked around, painfully twisting his neck, then sat still on a branch
for a long time, watching and thinking, but he failed to find a single
clue leading to the cause of the damage. At length he gave it up and went
to work to repair it. First he looked all around carefully, then dashed
away to the place where the thistles grew, planning to grab a billful of
down and fly back in the briefest possible time. But the moment he was
out of sight Snythergen took to his roots and ran toward the place where
he had told the pig to meet him, tearing off his tree suit as he ran, and
he had barely gotten out of it when the finch flew screeching by.
“This time I fooled you,” thought Snythergen, as he stretched out on the
ground for a nap.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V
HOW A PIG LEARNED TO TALK
Snythergen dreamed that he was sitting on a pier, dangling his feet in
the water. Little fishes were nibbling his toes, when suddenly a large
one darted up and took a bite that hurt. Raising both feet quickly, he
woke up.
“You don’t need to be so rough,” said the pig, who had been bowled over
by the raising of Snythergen’s feet and lay on his back, waving his legs
in the air.
“It’s you, is it! Up to your favorite trick of biting my toes! Well, it
serves you right. Of course I am glad you like me, but I wish you would
show your affection in some other way!”
“Oh,” cried the pig. “So you were the strange tree that kicked me and
spoke to me! I recognize you by the taste of your toes. But how was I to
know that the last time I nibbled you, you were a tree,—unless I nibbled
you again to find out?”
“In that case, I’ll forgive you,” said Snythergen, “and I hope you’ll
overlook the fright I gave you.”
They lay on the ground side by side and gazed up at the stars.
“Tell me, how did you learn to talk?” asked Snythergen.
“The farmer’s wife taught me,” said the pig.
“Why did she do that?”
“Because I was hungry.”
“That’s no reason. They give people food when they are hungry—they don’t
teach them to talk.”
“This woman did. She would not give me anything to eat until I learned
to ask for it. And as I was nearly starving I learned rapidly,” said the
pig. “As soon as I could ask for things I gained in weight, and when the
farmer saw I was getting fat he asked his wife to keep right on feeding
me so that—”
“Yes,” said Snythergen.
“_So that they could eat me for dinner!_” faltered the pig, dashing a
tear from his eye.
“Then what did you do?” asked Snythergen.
“I ate as little as possible until the farmer’s wife saw I was getting
thin again. Then she told me to eat all I wanted and not to worry. She
said she would manage somehow so—they would not have to—eat—me for
dinner! I trusted her and after that enjoyed three good meals a day. You
see she had taken a fancy to me because I kept myself looking neat, and
tried to be gentlemanly. She called me ‘Squeaky’ and treated me like a
child of her own. Little by little I began to understand what she said,
and learned to talk.
“One day the farmer’s wife was sitting by the window sewing. The farmer
had gone to town. I trotted up as usual for a chat, but instead of
chatting—
“‘You must go away,’ she said, with a catch in her voice, ‘for my husband
says we must have you—for—dinner—to-morrow!’
“She could hardly say the words. We looked at each other sadly. Then she
took me in her arms and squeezed me so tightly I thought she would break
my bones; and I would not have cared much if she had. To die in her arms
would have been a happier lot than leaving her.
“‘But surely I may come back some day,’ I managed to say, ‘or send for
you when my fortune is made.’
“‘I’m afraid not,’ she faltered.
“I cannot tell you any more about our parting. It was too sad. Somehow I
survived it—I suppose because I was young and the world lay before me.
“A farmer’s buckboard approached in the rough lane, thumping over
the frozen ruts, announcing its coming long in advance. I hid in the
cabbage-patch. The farmer’s wife stopped the vehicle and gossiped with
the driver, to give me a chance to climb into the back and hide.
[Illustration: To die in her arms would have been a happier lot than
leaving her]
“It was not easy to scramble up into the vehicle, for I was fat, and
could not get a foothold. I tried using the spokes of the wheel as a
ladder, but kept slipping and falling back. I knew one side of the wheel
would go up and the other down when the wagon started, but could not
figure out which side did which. However, I decided to take a chance.
Taking a firm grip on one of the lower spokes I braced my feet on the
one below it. It happened to be the right side of the wheel. So when
the vehicle started the spoke I was holding to began to rise, carrying
me up nearly to the top of the wagon. Bracing my legs, I gave a leap
that landed me in the buckboard upon some empty potato sacks. Hurriedly
selecting one I crawled into it.
“The farmer thought he had heard something fall into the wagon, and
stopping his horses, he glanced back. I was hidden by this time but he
saw a bulging under the pile of sacks and was about to poke into them
when I said, ‘Please, Mr. Smythers, let me stay here until we get by
those boys in the road. I am hiding from them.’
“When he heard my voice Mr. Smythers, of course, took me for a boy and he
answered: ‘No, you cannot stay there. You will smother. Come out and I
will protect you from the boys.’
“Receiving no reply he poked about among the sacks until he found the one
I was in.
“‘Why, it’s a pig in the bag instead of a boy!’ he cried in great
surprise. ‘Well, I’ll soon fix him so he can’t get away!’ and he tied up
the opening with a string. ‘But where is that boy that spoke to me just
now?’
“Mr. Smythers looked under the wagon, searched both sides of the road,
and even the trees, but of course found no one. Greatly perplexed he got
into his buckboard and drove on, glancing back every few minutes to see
if there wasn’t a boy around somewhere. After he had driven about a mile
he ceased looking around, and as we were going through a dense forest, I
decided to try to escape. The bag I was in had a hole in it (that is why
I had chosen it), and it was not difficult to make the opening larger by
tearing the rotten threads. Little by little I squeezed myself out, and
dropping off the back of the buckboard, fell in a heap in the road.
“‘Now I am free,’ I thought, and I wandered deeper and deeper into the
woods until I found you.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI
THE HOUSE AT THE END OF A ROPE
“Hm,” said Snythergen when Squeaky had finished his tale, and for some
time he remained silent. At last he spoke.
“I think we had better build a house!”
“Good,” said Squeaky, “but is this a safe place? Didn’t I see a bear in
the crowd you attracted?”
“Yes, but I don’t think he’ll come back. If he does my tree suit will
save us. I can bend over until my limbs touch the ground. Then you can
climb into my top branches and I’ll lift you out of danger. The bear will
take me for a tree and leave us alone.”
So they set to work very promptly. The plans they drew called for a round
house. And to make sure it would be big enough for Snythergen, he lay on
the ground curling up in the smallest space he could, and Squeaky traced
a line around him in the dirt to mark the position of the outside wall.
They planned to make the roof high enough for Snythergen when he was
lying down, but of course he would be unable to stand up or even to sit
up without bumping his head on the ceiling. The outer circle just inside
the wall was to be Snythergen’s bedroom, and Squeaky was to occupy the
space in the middle. It took several weeks to build the house and before
the paint was quite dry Snythergen spread pine boughs over the ground
floor to make a soft place for them to lie.
[Illustration: _The house was left dangling above ground to receive an
airing out_]
In the center of the roof was a hook to which was fastened a rope running
up over a pulley attached to the top of a pine tree. From the other end
of the rope hung a huge boulder, just as heavy as the house. The stone
and the building balanced each other so nicely that a little pull would
send the house up or down. In the daytime the house was pulled up and
left dangling above the ground to air out. At night when they went to
bed Snythergen would lie down, bending himself into the exact shape of
his bedroom by following a line marked out on the ground; and when he lay
in just the right position so that the house when lowered would clear
him, Squeaky would crawl over him into his little nest. Then Snythergen,
reaching up, would pull the house down over their ears, making them snug
and cozy for the night.
While they had been at work on their new house a most persistent little
bird had followed them around, perching on a near-by tree or bush. He
appeared to listen to their words and moved his bill as if practicing the
sounds; and sometimes he would make the strangest noises! Squeaky, always
glad of a chance to visit, fell into the habit of talking to the bird. It
did not occur to him that a goldfinch would not be able to understand;
besides the little fellow stood so still when Squeaky spoke to him he
seemed to be taking it in.
“Do you understand me?” Squeaky would ask impatiently.
A strange sound not unlike “no” was the response.
“Then you do understand!” said Squeaky.
“No,” it came unmistakably now.
“Evidently the finch wants to learn to talk,” thought Squeaky, so he
began to instruct him. He knew well how to set about it, for he had
learned himself only with the greatest difficulty. He used the silent
speech method—that is, he had the finch go through the motions of saying
the words with his bill and throat, without actually making a sound.
It was a good way to learn, but amusing to watch. The first day the
goldfinch learned to make the motions for several words. When he did
“cat” how he shuddered and flapped his wings as if to fly away in a
hurry. How his bill did water and what a hungry gleam came into his eyes
when he did “worm”!
Because his teacher would not permit sounds at first, the finch learned
to put great feeling into his gestures and the expression of his face.
And in time when he had learned to talk this assisted him greatly with
animals and birds ignorant of the language. For those who did not
understand what he said, knew what he meant by his gestures. After he
had been instructing the finch for a fortnight and had come to like him,
Squeaky decided to ask Snythergen to invite the little bird to share
their quarters. “He is such a sensible little bird,” thought Squeaky,
“if he behaves well to-morrow, I’ll ask Snythergen’s permission then.”
That was the day the house was completed and that night the owners were
very tired. They slept soundly until three o’clock in the morning when
something woke them.
“What was that?” asked Squeaky in a shaky voice.
“It sounded like a growl,” said Snythergen, and his trembling was so
violent it shook the house. Thereafter no more sleep was possible for
either, but the sound did not return. When morning came they investigated
and found bear tracks leading to the door.
“What shall we do?” asked Snythergen.
As usual the finch was perched on a branch listening, standing so close
to Snythergen’s ear that his wing rubbed against it.
“Who’s tickling my ear?” said Snythergen, looking around. But the finch
had hidden behind a leaf.
“What do bears want?” asked Squeaky.
“To make trouble, I guess,” said Snythergen.
During the building of the house Snythergen had been so busy he had not
even noticed Squeaky’s little friend. Now the finch wished to join in the
conversation, for his teacher had just given him permission to speak out
loud. He wanted to celebrate his first spoken words by saying them at
the top of his voice, so pushing his little bill into Snythergen’s ear,
he screamed:
“Bears don’t want to make trouble, they want food!”
Snythergen jumped as if a bee had stung him.
“What was that!” cried he, looking around and seeing nothing. For again
the finch had hopped behind a leaf.
“It’s my good friend, the goldfinch,” said Squeaky. “I want you to meet
him. I have been teaching him to talk, and you heard the first words he
has spoken out loud. Don’t you think he did them rather well?” he asked,
proud of his pupil.
“If loudness is an indication I should say he did, most decidedly,” said
Snythergen, whose ears were still ringing. “If he keeps on improving they
can hear him in the next county!”
“Come,” said Squeaky, looking around for the finch, “I want you to meet
him.” At Squeaky’s request, the finch came out of his hiding place and
was presented.
“If it isn’t the little goldfinch!” exclaimed Snythergen in surprise, and
he burst out laughing.
“What are you laughing at?” asked the finch suspiciously.
“I was just thinking how difficult it seems to be for some birds to find
their way back to their nests,” said Snythergen.
At this the sensitive bird flushed a brighter gold and hung his bill
dejectedly.
“I suppose trees look a good deal alike,” continued Snythergen mockingly,
“and that is why it is so hard to find the one your nest is in!”
Too confused to answer, the finch made up his mind to question Squeaky
when they were alone, and at the first opportunity told the pig of his
adventure with the strange tree. When Squeaky explained that Snythergen
had a costume of bark, branches and leaves, the little bird understood
how the “tree” had been able to hide from him, and why he had been unable
to get any trace of his nest. Though he felt indignant about the way he
had been treated, he decided for the present to say nothing and bide his
time.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII
BEAR ON ICE
The goldfinch stayed close to his new friends and in the end they
accepted him as one of them. They named him “Sancho Wing” and built
him a little house on the roof of their new home. In many respects it
was not unlike the permanent nest the bird had planned to build in one
of the strange tree’s branches, but it was made of regular building
materials—not woven of twigs and weeds—though Snythergen remembered
Sancho Wing’s weakness for soft things, and caught and saved all the
thistle down and milkweed silk that blew against his leaves to use for
lining the walls and floors. The living rooms were down stairs, but in
the garret above there was ample space in which the finch might store
stray bits of string, odd twigs, and curious little things he found in
the woods—for Sancho Wing was an eager collector of curiosities. But the
most interesting thing about the house was its watch tower, which rose to
a dizzy height—even for a bird. For it was intended as a look-out from
which Sancho might keep a sharp watch for the bear.
Sancho Wing was far too curious a little bird to sit quietly at home and
wait for things to take their course. So, in addition to scanning the
horizon daily for signs of the bear, he searched the forest over until he
located the cave in which the beast lived, and actually flew into it. As
it was getting dark and the beast was half asleep, he mistook the bird
for a bat and paid no attention to him. Although very much frightened,
Sancho hovered around until the brute’s heavy snoring indicated that he
was fast asleep. Then hastening back he assured Snythergen and Squeaky
they might now rest in peace, and retired to his own snug feather bed.
The three friends had been living together happily and unmolested by the
bear for about a month, when one Sunday at daybreak Sancho Wing opened
his eyes and wondered what had awakened him. He listened. There was a
faint sound like the crackling of twigs. He winged a few hundred yards
into the woods in the direction of the cave and saw the bear approaching.
Hastening back he pecked Snythergen until he opened his eyes.
“The bear is coming! Get into your tree suit at once, it’s your only
chance!” said Sancho.
Snythergen pushed the house up out of the way and jumped out of bed,
calling to the pig. But Squeaky would not wake up. He was too fond of
sleep ever to allow himself to be disturbed before breakfast was on the
table, and always he slept rolled into a ball, his head tucked under his
body; and so tightly did he curl himself up that he kept this position no
matter what any one did to him. Snythergen might have rolled him on the
ground or tossed him into the air, without waking him. And had he done so
Squeaky would have recounted these adventures afterwards as part of his
dream.
Therefore Snythergen did not waste time trying to wake Squeaky, but
hastened to arrange himself in his tree suit. This done, he bent over
and with his top branches picked Squeaky up and lifted him out of danger.
Next he lowered the house to the ground to make the bear think it was
occupied, and took his position as a tree. Hardly had he shaken out his
leaves and arranged his branches when the beast arrived.
Casting an inquiring glance at the tree, the bear entered the house
in search of food. He proceeded at once to the ice-box. Luckily (as
it turned out) the door was open. Before leaving Snythergen had had
the quick forethought to put a piece of cheese in his pocket and
had neglected to close the ice-box door. When the bear had eaten up
everything that was handy, he pushed his head far into one of the smaller
compartments of the box to reach a last morsel of jam he had been unable
to get before. This time he succeeded and, licking his lips, attempted to
pull his head out.
He pulled and he pulled but he could not pull his head out. It was caught
in the opening, and the harder he strained, the more firmly the ice-box
became attached to him. He growled and he gnashed his teeth. He stood on
his hind legs and pounded the ice-box against the walls, until Snythergen
and Sancho Wing feared he would knock the house down. Through a window
Sancho saw the bear bracing himself for a mighty blow which, if allowed
to land, would surely break through the wall.
“Quick, quick, pull the house up!” he called.
Grasping the rope with the twigs of a lower limb, Snythergen gave it a
jerk. And just as the brute was delivering a terrific blow the house shot
up and the bear’s effort spent itself in the air harmlessly, except that
the big fellow was thrown sprawling to the ground, with a force that
twisted his neck painfully.
For the moment Snythergen and Sancho Wing forgot their own fears to laugh
at the beast’s comical state. Undoubtedly he was the most surprised bear
in the whole world. Thinking himself still inside of the house (for
whoever heard of a house running away!), he felt about for the walls, but
there were no walls there! The ice-box fastened to his head, blinded him.
Back and forth he stumbled, groping in every direction. And the pounding
of the heavy box on the ground was giving him a splitting headache.
After he had pulled the house up Snythergen was not at all pleased to
find the bear had eaten up all of their food. And now he beheld the
intruder in a rage, bent on breaking their new ice-box! He was so
indignant, his branches fairly itched to punish the clumsy brute. And
the moment the bear was in a favorable position Snythergen crept softly
behind him, stripped the leaves and twigs from one of his stoutest limbs
and gave the beast a sound thrashing. As the blows fell fast and heavy
the bear yelled like a sick puppy. But Snythergen closed his ears to the
sound, and not until he was out of breath and perspiring did he conclude
the brute had had enough. Then his kind heart was touched, for with the
headache and the spanking, the bear was aching and smarting at both ends.
[Illustration: “At least I can relieve his headache”]
“At least I can relieve his headache,” thought Snythergen, bending over
to examine the ice-box. There was still ice in one of the compartments.
Removing a piece Snythergen was able to crowd it in against the bear’s
head, and in spite of the brute’s wiggling, placed it so it rested
against his forehead. Very gently the beast settled down on his aching
haunches, to let the ice cool his throbbing brow. The ice-box was still
attached to him as securely as ever. Apparently he had given up trying
to free himself. But the bear was not to rest in peace for long. His
head recently so hot now became freezing cold. And the pain of it drove
him into a frenzy. Snythergen and Sancho were about to come to his
assistance when he charged blindly forward and a lucky jump was all that
saved Snythergen from a fatal collision. The bear rushed back and forth
beating the ice-box against the rocks and trees, not minding how it
hurt his neck and shoulders. His one desire was to relieve the terrible
freezing in his brain.
Snythergen quite understood all the bear’s thoughts and now decided that
the big fellow had been punished enough. Grasping the rope from which
the boulder dangled, and swinging it around his head, he brought it down
squarely upon the ice-box. This well-aimed blow split open the box,
freeing the bear’s head, but the door frame still clung about his neck—an
absurd collar.
Stunned, lame, and aching, the poor bear crawled into the sunlight to
thaw out his brain and to melt his frost-bitten thoughts. But the sun
did not melt his hard heart or calm his rising indignation. He looked
about angrily for his persecutors. He strode threateningly up to one tree
after another, but they all stood very still and wore the innocent look
that comes natural to trees. Snythergen, however, had not been a tree
long enough to look as unconcerned as the others; besides he had a guilty
conscience.
The bear may have smelled the cheese in Snythergen’s pocket, or maybe
something unusual in his appearance made the beast suspect him, for he
came up and walked around and around the tree until poor Snythergen was
dizzy, following with his eyes, and so frightened he could hardly stand.
Uneasily he swayed from side to side, catching his balance just in time
to avoid a fall. The bear stopped, rubbed his nose on Snythergen’s bark,
dug a claw into it. And Snythergen could not avoid a cry of pain. Sancho
Wing saw the danger his pals were in, and realized that something must be
done quickly if they were to be saved.
“Throw the cheese to him!” cried the little bird. Snythergen tossed it on
the ground a few yards away and the bear followed it eagerly, gulping it
down in one mouthful. Sancho Wing thought he heard woodchoppers in the
distance and flew away to summon help. Soon he found two men with axes
and a rifle, and hiding in some leaves, he called to them:
“Hello, hunters! there is a bear over there near that shaking tree.
Follow the sound of my voice and you will easily find the place.”
The men were simple fellows, only too eager to follow Sancho as he darted
through the leaves calling: “This way, this way!” They could not see who
was calling but supposed it was a little boy who was keeping out of
sight for fear of the bear. Now that help was near, in the midst of his
anxiety Sancho could not avoid chuckling. For he had thought of a way
to get even with Snythergen for the tricks he had played on him about
the nest. As he hurried along he told the woodsmen, after driving away
the bear to cut down a certain tree. “You will know it by the sleeping
pig in its top branches,” he said. Just then the bear saw the huntsmen
approaching and he did not wait for them to come up, but made tracks
before they could get a shot at him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII
A RUNAWAY TREE
Snythergen gave a sigh of relief when the bear went away and was just
about to step out and un-bark, when he heard voices.
“This is the tree we are to chop down!” Snythergen heard one of them say,
and already the woodchopper was swinging his axe. Snythergen did not wait
for the blow to land, but leaped into the air and was off as fast as his
roots would carry him. To be sure, he was hampered by his leaves and his
branches and his sheath bark skirt. Brushing none too gently against
bushes and trees he trod on the toes of innumerable growing things.
Apologizing with his bows to right and left, he did not pause even to see
what damage he had done, nor did he know he had stepped heavily on the
roots of an oak, or rubbed the shins of a birch. He knew only that two
woodsmen were after him, threatening to chop him into kindling wood.
“Did you ever see such a rude tree?” cried a graceful elm suffering from
a broken limb. “And it’s so untreelike to run away like that! Suppose the
rest of us did likewise—what would become of the forest!”
“If he is restless, I don’t object to his walking about in a gentlemanly
manner,” said the birch whose shins had been rubbed, “as long as he picks
his steps carefully; but to go slamming through regardless of the rest of
us is most inconsiderate!”
There was much bobbing of tree-tops and angry shaking of limbs in the
direction the runaway tree had taken. But Snythergen might have saved
himself running so far and so fast, had he taken the trouble to look
around. For the hunters were not following but standing still, astonished
at the spectacle of a tree racing through the forest at break-limb speed.
In all the years they had lived in the woods never had they seen a
runaway tree before.
“Is the forest going crazy?” cried one. “What if all the trees were to
run after us like a herd of buffalo! What chance would we have of escape?”
The mere thought of it was so terrifying they turned and ran, leaving
coats, rifle, and axes where they lay, and they did not stop until they
were well out of the woods and safe in their own home, behind locked
doors and windows. And they did not stir abroad for two days.
When Sancho Wing saw the hunters and Snythergen running away from each
other in opposite directions, it was too much for him. He laughed and
laughed, and shook so that he fell from the limb he was perched on, and
only saved himself from a bad fall by using his wings.
“Surely I have paid Snythergen now for all of his tricks,” he cried
merrily.
During all this time Squeaky actually had remained asleep in Snythergen’s
top branches, though his rest had been somewhat uneven.
“Where am I?” he cried, rubbing his eyes and waking up to find himself
violently tossed about, and bumped against the branches of trees as
Snythergen crashed through the forest.
With a breathless word here and there as he ran, Snythergen gave the
pig an idea of what had happened, and when Squeaky realized all the
dangers he had slept through, he lost his grip and would have fallen had
Snythergen not tightened his hold. On and on ran the tree, stumbling
and reeling, and with every lurch Squeaky’s little heart quivered; for
tree-riding was as terrifying as hanging to the top of a mast in a storm
at sea. What a relief when Snythergen slowed up and stopped at the shore
of a lake, panting like a porpoise!
“I think you had better get down now,” said Snythergen, “for I am going
to wade across that lake and plant myself in the farmer’s yard on the
other side. I shall remain there until the woodchoppers get tired of
looking for me. I believe my leg is cut. Will you look on the ground and
see if I am bleeding?”
“I guess your leg isn’t bleeding,” said Squeaky after looking around,
“for I don’t see any sawdust.”
“Would you mind running home now, Squeaky, just to see that Sancho Wing
is all right? I am a little worried about him. But if you will come back
to this spot twice a day I will signal across the lake to let you know
how I am getting on.”
Very much shaken Squeaky limped home following the broad trail
Snythergen had made through the woods, and found Sancho Wing still
chuckling. After talking over their adventure for a little while they
settled themselves for a nap.
As soon as Squeaky left him, Snythergen waded into the lake. He found the
cool water refreshing to his overheated roots and tattered branches, but
when he bent over to drink he came near losing his balance and floating
away.
Only while he stood erect and kept in shallow water did his roots find
a firm footing on the bottom of the lake. With much splashing of water
and stirring of mud, and by wading around the deep places he managed to
cross. When no one was looking, he crept into the farmer’s yard, where he
hoped to find an end to his troubles. After looking the place over, he
decided to plant himself where he would shade the dining-room window and
could see what the family had for dinner. It occurred to him that if he
became very hungry, he might reach through the window and help himself to
a morsel of food. “Turn about is fair play,” he reasoned. “If I provide
shade for them, they should not begrudge me a bite to eat now and then!”
Luckily the farmer and his wife were away at camp meeting when
Snythergen arrived, and when they returned, it was dark. A crescent moon
and the stars revealed but a dusky outline of the place.
“Somehow things don’t look natural around here,” said the farmer when he
reached home. “The place seems changed, swelled out! Why, I believe the
house has got the mumps!”
“Silas, you don’t think baby has the mumps, do you?” cried his wife,
thinking he must be referring to their child.
“No, no, it’s the house that’s got the mumps,” said the farmer.
“Nonsense, Silas, you must be out of your mind!” she said. She saw
nothing out of the way, for her eyes sought only the windows of a room
on the other side of the house where her small son had been left, and
nothing more was said about the matter that night.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX
THE DOCTOR DISCOVERS A TREE WITH ST. VITUS’ DANCE
The next morning the discovery of a new tree in the farmer’s yard caused
great surprise. At first the people were awed and afraid, and some were a
little suspicious. Indeed, Snythergen had to stand very stiff and still
and put on his very best tree manners to make them believe he was a real
tree. He was watched so closely that he scarcely dared to breathe, and he
feared the cool breeze from the lake might make him cough, for already he
had a slight cold from wading in the chilly water the day before. Once
or twice he nearly exploded trying to hold in a sneeze. But the people
on the ground saw only his top branches tossing and thought it due to an
upper current of air.
Then an adventurous boy began climbing his trunk, and Snythergen thought
surely the little fellow would feel his heart beat. But the child only
climbed higher and higher, venturing out on a high limb which Snythergen
held insecurely with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. It had
been difficult to support the branch alone and keep it from swaying,
but with the heavy boy on it Snythergen found it almost impossible. The
perspiration stood out on every bough. His left arm became so tired it
pained him dreadfully, and it took all his strength to keep from dropping
it to his side. He knew that he could not hold it out much longer, and
yet if he let the branch drop the boy would be dashed to the ground and
perhaps cruelly hurt. In spite of all he could do he was horrified to see
the limb settling slowly downward and he closed his eyes to shut out the
catastrophe that seemed sure to follow. Suddenly there was a cry from
below.
“Get right down out of that tree,” called the mother of the boy.
Snythergen braced himself to hold on a moment longer, and just as the boy
reached his trunk, the branch fell to his side. Snythergen breathed a
prayer of thanksgiving. The child soon was safe on the ground.
Snythergen thought the people in the farmer’s yard curious and watchful,
but he was mistaken. He was soon to learn what real curiosity and
watchfulness are like. Some one had sent for a famous tree doctor, and he
came promptly to look Snythergen over. When he appeared Snythergen put
on his most correct forest behavior and really was a model tree, for the
doctor’s benefit.
“I can’t see anything unusual about that tree,” said the physician,
unpacking his instrument case. Snythergen was holding out his branches
gracefully and letting his leaves flutter naturally in the breeze. The
doctor spread his shining wood-carving tools out on a cloth on the
ground. Much as the little man knew about trees, he had never learned to
climb one, and the farmer had to fetch him a long ladder before he could
make his examination.
When the little man had mounted well up toward the top of Snythergen he
placed a fever thermometer in a knothole, which happened to lead into
Snythergen’s mouth. Leaving it there he descended to the ground, and
wrapped a rubber bandage about his trunk, winding it so tightly that
Snythergen barely avoided a cry of pain. One look at the indicator gave
the tree doctor a shock.
“Sap pressure 110!” he cried. “There must be some mistake!”
Again and again he tried it and each time it registered 110.
“Surely there is something very strange here!” said the doctor. “Never
have I heard of a tree with a sap pressure over 30. Why, it’s as high as
the blood pressure of a boy!”
But the tree doctor was to receive another shock when he tapped
Snythergen’s bark and listened with a tree stethoscope.
“Why, I didn’t think there was a tree in the world with such a violent
throb. It’s as fast and strong as the heart beat of a child!”
But the greatest shock of all was to come when he climbed up to read the
fever thermometer. He could hardly believe his own eyes when he saw what
it registered.
“I never heard of a tree having such a temperature!” he cried. “It is as
high as a boy’s.” Indeed the temperature was so much like a boy’s, the
little doctor so far forgot himself as to shout:
“Stick out your tongue!”
[Illustration: “Stick out your tongue!”]
This command took Snythergen by surprise, and without thinking, he stuck
his tongue out through the knothole, and when the little man saw it, he
was so frightened he nearly fell from the ladder. Snythergen drew back
his tongue in a hurry. The doctor puzzled and puzzled over the matter.
Finally he concluded that he must have seen a squirrel’s red head.
There were so many strange things about the tree that the physician made
up his mind in the interest of science to watch it day and night. He
camped in a tent beside Snythergen, and only when he retired for a cat
nap did he take his owl-like eyes from the tree. Even then Snythergen
could not attempt to escape, or even stretch his limbs and relax, for the
little man was a light sleeper and would rush out at the faintest unusual
rustle of a twig.
Snythergen realized more than ever that the life of a tree is not all
joy. His roots were sore and calloused from standing in one position. A
leg or an arm would go to sleep because he dared not move it. He was numb
all over, besides being cold, tired and hungry. He gazed longingly into
the dining room. His mouth watered and he swallowed hard at the sight of
the rich home cooking. How eagerly would he have eaten the crusts the
farmer’s little boy tried to hide under the edge of his plate! How he
would have enjoyed taking the heaping plate of his tormentor, the little
doctor, when the latter’s back was turned! But usually the window was
closed, or some one was looking.
All the next morning Snythergen watched impatiently for Squeaky to
appear on the opposite shore of the lake. He wondered why Sancho Wing
did not come, but he could not know that Sancho was spending all of his
time keeping track of the bear, who was in a revengeful mood and very
restless. The ice had given him mental chilblains and the pain served as
a reminder, making him more determined than ever to find and punish his
persecutors.
About eleven o’clock Snythergen thought he saw a little movement in the
bushes along the opposite shore of the lake. Then he recognized Squeaky’s
peculiar wobbling walk. So delighted was he that he forgot the little
doctor, and waved his branches excitedly. Squeaky answered. Snythergen
signaled back that he was hungry and wanted some bread and butter with
sugar on it—not an easy message for a tree to wave to a pig all the way
across a lake. It took ingenuity to figure it out, and this is how he did
it.
First Snythergen held out two limbs and pretended he was carrying a slice
of bread in each hand. Next he rubbed an upper branch over these in such
a way that Squeaky would know he wanted them spread with butter—and not
to save on the butter. Then he bent his top boughs down, shaking them
vigorously to make the pig understand that he wanted all the powdered
sugar the bread would hold.
The little tree doctor was watching this performance with the utmost
amazement.
“Why, I believe that tree has the St. Vitus’ Dance!” said the physician.
“I never heard of a tree having it before. The discovery will make me
famous. But I must prove it beyond a doubt or the scientists will never
give me credit for it. In order to be sure I must give it the brass band
test for that is the only reliable one. If our leafy friend here dances
when the band plays I will know then that he has the St. Vitus’ Dance. If
he does not, I may have to ‘tree-pan’ him to find out.”
Snythergen shuddered at the horrible thought of being trepanned—or
in other words of having his skull operated on so his brain could be
examined. As he talked to himself the little man danced excitedly about.
“The fit seems to be over,” he said breathlessly, when Snythergen had
waved his last signal to Squeaky.
“Dinner is ready,” called the farmer’s wife from the house.
“I will be right in,” answered the doctor, for he had decided to wait
until he had eaten before going for the musicians.
The chance of running away to meet Squeaky and bread and butter had
become more and more doubtful now the little doctor had seen him waving,
and Snythergen was so hungry! He looked in through the dining-room window
to see what the family was having to eat. It was a very hot day and the
window was wide open. The farmer was placing a steaming plate of meat
and potatoes before the doctor, who sat facing the window where he could
watch the tree while he ate. The rich odor of food arose to Snythergen’s
nostrils and it was more than he could resist.
“I must have something soon, or I’ll fall over,” he said to himself. “I
wonder how I can manage it?” For a moment he thought, then an idea came
to him. Leaning over, with his top branches he beat violently upon the
roof of the house.
“What’s happening upstairs!” cried the farmer’s wife in alarm.
“It sounds as if the roof was falling in!” said the farmer leaping from
his chair, and they rushed out of the room. In his excitement the doctor
followed part way upstairs. The instant he was gone Snythergen reached
a forked limb into the dining room and helped himself to the doctor’s
dinner.
“He will never miss it,” he thought. “He’s too excited to eat, anyway.”
When the physician returned and found his dinner had disappeared, he was
dumbfounded.
“What has become of it?” he cried, jumping up and looking under the
table. He searched behind the chairs, in the closets, and even in the
hall. In each new place he cried out over and over again, “Who took my
dinner? Who took my dinner?”
While he was thus occupied Snythergen had an opportunity to eat, but
he was in such haste to be done before his tormentor looked out of the
window again, that he entirely forgot his table manners and crammed and
stuffed his mouth with his twigs. The farmer and his wife had found
nothing out of the way upstairs to explain the noise on the roof, and
when they returned the little man was still fussing about, looking in the
china closet, the napkin and silver drawers, and other absurd places.
“What’s up now?” demanded the farmer, who was getting a bit tired of
the tree doctor’s queer ways. The farmer’s wife too was looking on
suspiciously. She did not fancy having a stranger poking into her drawers
and closets.
The physician tried to explain but they only laughed at him.
“The very idea!” cried the farmer’s wife. “Nobody could come into the
room and take your dinner away without your knowing it!”
“Besides, who would want something to eat that bad around here,” said the
farmer. “Everybody knows we feed every tramp that comes along!”
The little doctor felt uncomfortable and embarrassed because they laughed
at him, and he barely touched the second plate of food the farmer served
him. Snythergen was right, he was too excited to eat. Scarcely could he
wait until the dinner was over for the farmer to drive him to town to get
the band.
[Illustration: Thereafter he would strike a tree-like pose not so
difficult to hold]
The doctor’s departure was Snythergen’s cue to escape. Cautiously he
stole away from the house and waited for an opportunity to cross the
lake. The man next door was plowing, and Snythergen had to be very
careful. While the man’s back was turned he ran as fast as possible,
but when he plowed toward him, Snythergen had to stand motionless
and trust that his altered position would not be seen; and whatever
position Snythergen’s limbs were in when the farmer turned toward him,
had to be held while the plow traveled the whole length of the field.
Once when the man approached, Snythergen was in the lake with one root
raised ready to step, and he dared not lower his root or make any other
movement until the farmer had walked the whole distance and had turned
his back again. Thus he stood balancing himself for fifteen minutes, and
to make matters worse he had been caught with his branches pointing to
the sky. The painful experience of holding this position taught him a
lesson, and thereafter when the plow neared the end of the row, he would
strike a tree-like pose not so difficult to hold. Luckily the farmer
was near-sighted, and failed to remark the strange apparition of a tree
wading across the lake up to its branch pits in water.
In spite of various discomforts Snythergen made the crossing successfully
and had no difficulty in following the trail home. On reaching the house
he found Sancho Wing and Squeaky feverishly preparing the bread and
butter and sugar to take to him. They were overjoyed to see him, but
Snythergen was too tired to sit up and visit. He had been standing on
his roots so long he was only too glad to lie down and sleep. But before
he would close his eyes, they had to assure him that the woodchoppers had
left the forest.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X
THE BEAR SEES THE “GRASSHOPPER PIG,” HEARS THE “HUNTSMEN” AND IS PRESENT
AT THE “ESCAPE”
When Snythergen woke up, Sancho Wing was sorry to have to tell him that
the bear had resumed his midnight prowlings and might call upon them at
any time.
“We must prepare to defend ourselves,” said Sancho wisely, as he perched
on Snythergen’s ear.
“How can a pig defend himself from a bear?” asked Squeaky,
absent-mindedly biting one of Snythergen’s toes.
“Simple,” said Sancho. “Give him what he wants. You flatter yourself if
you think he wants you. He is after food, that is all.”
“Well, let us give it to him,” said Snythergen, “as long as he doesn’t
share Squeaky’s weakness for toes.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Sancho. “Let us set a bear lunch
every night, and to make sure he will find it we must spread it in a
circle around the house. Then, no matter from what direction the bear
approaches, he will find something to eat across his path.”
“I’ve heard that round foods make people fat,” said Snythergen. “Maybe
food served on a round table will make the bear fat.”
“That wouldn’t help us any,” said Sancho Wing, “for fat bears are as
dangerous as lean ones.”
“Won’t it be pretty expensive boarding a bear?” asked Squeaky.
“Of course,” said Sancho Wing, “but if we find we can’t afford to feed
him we can build an airplane and journey to a land where there are no
bears. We may have to travel to the end of the sky to find such a place,
but who cares?”
At Sancho Wing’s suggestion Snythergen set to work at once to build a
supper table. When completed it encircled the house and resembled a well
planed sidewalk. That night Squeaky set the table, being careful to
spread the food so thin that it went all the way around.
There were so many hungry beings in the forest besides the bear that
Sancho Wing had to keep a keen look-out for thieves, and his duties kept
him very busy. One minute he would be scanning the woods from the top of
his tower, the next he would dive down to the round table to scream at
the small animals that were forever nibbling. Often he was obliged to
call Squeaky and even Snythergen, to chase away the larger birds, the
rabbits, and the squirrels. Each night they set the table as late as they
dared to prevent so much of the food being stolen.
On the evening of the fourth day the bear paid them a call, but he did
not attempt to enter the house. The lunch on the round table stopped him.
Walking all the way around he ate everything, then went around again to
see if he had overlooked any crumbs. Squeaky happened to be very fussy
about table manners, and he had scattered salad forks, finger bowls and
napkins here and there hoping the bear would take the hint; but the big
beast paid no attention to them, and ate only with his knife and his
paws in the most vulgar manner.
The bear was a hearty eater and what made matters even more serious, his
appetite was growing. Soon it was evident that the food supply would
not last much longer. The three friends realized that the “outer works”
as they called the lunch table, was all that stood between them and
disaster. And now in spite of their efforts they were unable to keep
abreast of the beast’s increasing desire for food. There was nothing to
do but to adopt Snythergen’s plan of building an airplane and fleeing to
a land where there were no bears. They began work immediately and hurried
all they could, but even so they ran out of food when there was still
another day’s work to be done on the plane.
“If we can only keep him away to-night we are saved,” said Squeaky.
[Illustration: Then went around again to see if he had overlooked any
crumbs]
Snythergen dressed in his tree suit to be ready in case of trouble.
Carefully Squeaky set the round table with what few morsels he could
scrape up, arranging them to appear like a bountiful meal. The bear came
a little earlier than usual that night, and made short work of the slim
repast. Indeed Snythergen had just time to tiptoe out and take his place
as a tree when the beast devoured the last bite of food and looked
hungrily about for more. In a stage whisper Snythergen called to Squeaky
who was still in the house, to warn him of his danger. Fortunately the
pig was awake and whispered back that he was coming. A moment later
Snythergen heard the most awful squealing and Squeaky came running out,
the bear after him. Sancho Wing was flying above the pig to encourage him.
“Don’t squeal so! Save your breath for running!” he cried. The bear was
gaining. Bending over Snythergen touched his roots with his top limbs,
to be ready. But Squeaky was slow on his feet, even when running for his
life, and already the bear was upon him. Sure of his prey the great beast
slowed up to brace himself for a lunge. Quick as lightning Snythergen
shot out his branches and grabbed the pig, lifting him to safety.
The bear did not suspect that a tree could come to the rescue of a pig,
and so sure was he that his victim could not escape, he closed his eyes
as he struck at him. But he opened them quickly enough when his paw
struck nothing solider than air. The pig had vanished! But where, and
how? His disappearance had been as sudden as it was complete, and the
bear had not an idea where to look for him. Too surprised for growls,
the big brute rushed distractedly about looking here and there. Naturally
it did not occur to him to look up into the tree tops, for whoever heard
of a pig climbing a tree!
“Did I really see a pig at all?” thought the bear, “or am I losing my
mind! It wouldn’t be surprising with that neuralgia from the ice!”
He paused as the thought struck him: “I wonder if by any possibility it
could have been the Grasshopper Pig?”
The day before the bear had been reading the story of the Grasshopper
Pig to a neighbor’s cubs out of a book of nursery rhymes called “Mother
Moose.” This pig seemed to disappear in much the same way as the one in
the story. For the Grasshopper Pig is said to make long leaps so suddenly
that he cannot be seen making them. One moment he is standing beside you
and the next, bingo! he is a hundred feet away!
“Well, if it’s the Grasshopper Pig, I might as well save myself the
bother of looking,” thought the bear; “no one has ever been able to catch
him!”
As he came to the place where Snythergen was standing he sniffed
curiously, and although Snythergen did his best to stand still, it is
not surprising that he failed. For it takes something stronger than flesh
and blood to stand still while a bear walks around you and stops to paw
your bark, to rub his hungry head against your trunk, or to try his
vicious teeth on your roots.
No wonder the trunk of the tree trembled and its branches twitched
nervously. The big animal was puzzled by the shaking as he nosed about
Snythergen’s extremities and clawed at them. It was more than wood and
sap could stand and the badly frightened boy was weakening rapidly. Again
Snythergen felt the sinking feeling that had come over him the day the
small boy had crawled out on an upper branch. Tottering from side to
side, he caught himself with an effort.
For a while Squeaky managed somehow to hold on with his teeth and legs,
but his teeth were chattering and he was shivering all over with terror.
And a sudden twist of the tree shook him so violently that he lost his
footing. Desperately he reached for a limb. He missed it, and fell
crashing through the branches!
With remarkable quickness of thought Snythergen brought his lower limbs
together to form a basket in which to catch the falling pig. Plunging
through the branches Squeaky landed upon Snythergen’s leafy chest, safe
for the time being, but stunned and out of breath.
“It is the Grasshopper Pig,” cried the bear, seeing him, “and I’ve got
him up a tree!”
Eager to get at Squeaky, he pawed Snythergen’s tender bark and pushed
against him roughly.
All this time Sancho Wing’s little brain had been puzzling to find
some way to save his pals. Flying a little distance and hiding among
the leaves he hallooed at the top of his piping voice, hoping the
woodchoppers might be in the forest, and hear him. Anxiously the bear
glanced around. The hallooing reminded him of the sound the hunters made,
and thinking best not to take any chances he strolled away cautiously.
The three friends breathed a sigh of relief and Squeaky began to dance
for joy.
“We haven’t escaped yet,” Sancho Wing reminded him. “The bear will return
when he discovers the hunters are not after him. We must finish the
airplane immediately.”
At once they resumed work and kept at it until the plane was completed.
And now it needed only to be tested. It was new and stiff and repeatedly
the engine refused to start, though Snythergen cranked it again and
again. It was nearing the bear’s lunch time and Sancho Wing flew away to
the cave to see what the big brute was up to. Soon he came back out of
breath, panting so hard he could scarcely speak, for he had raced all the
way.
“Quick, quick!” he gasped.
Snythergen and Squeaky understood and Snythergen cranked so furiously he
was wet through with perspiration.
“Let me try it,” urged Squeaky impatiently when Snythergen had to rest a
moment to get breath, and the pig grasped the crank and pulled with all
his strength. But he had turned it only half way round when it flew back,
and sent him sprawling. Sancho, who had flown back to keep track of the
bear, now darted up to report him only a few hundred yards away.
“Crank as if your life depended on it!” he cried.
Frantically the little bird flew back and forth to tell them each time
how much nearer the bear had come. Snythergen was cranking mightily while
Squeaky piled in what scanty luggage could be collected in a jiffy.
“He’s almost here!” groaned Sancho Wing.
Snythergen heard the crackling of sticks under the brute’s feet. “It’s
now or never,” thought he, putting all his strength into one last pull.
The engine gave a sickly “pop.” Snythergen’s heart sank. But there was
another little “pop.” Others followed slowly, then more rapidly. Now the
explosions were in quick succession. The engine was running! The three
scrambled aboard. The airplane coasted down hill and rose gently from the
ground. They were saved.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI
THE JOURNEY TO THE WREATH—A SPIN IN A HUMMING-TOP—AN UNKNOWN FRIEND
The plane had to be an exceedingly large one to accommodate Snythergen’s
great length. With much squirming he managed to get out of his tree
suit, and now he lay face down, his feet hanging out over the tail. In
this position his hands came just right for the controls. Sancho Wing’s
compartment was next to Snythergen’s ear and Squeaky occupied a basket on
the opposite side. Sancho would have liked going back a little way for a
last look at the bear, just to make sure they had left him on the ground
but the wind created by their great speed was too strong for a finch to
fly in, and the little bird would have been blown away had he ventured
out. For some strange reason the nose of the plane kept pointing up in
spite of Snythergen’s efforts to keep the machine horizontal.
“Either there is something wrong with the steering gear,” said
Snythergen, “or there is some unusual weight behind that keeps heading
the bow up by pulling the tail down. I can’t point her below that big
star—the one that looks like a flaming doughnut.”
“You will have to keep her on the star then,” said Sancho, “for if
anything is riding under the tail it isn’t safe for any of us to go back
to see what it is.”
All night long Snythergen steered toward the blazing doughnut, which grew
bigger and bigger, they were approaching it so rapidly.
“It must be some new planet floating very near the earth. Maybe we can
land on it to-morrow,” said Snythergen to Squeaky, but the pig did not
answer, nor even look up. He was rolled up in a tight ball, his head
under his body, fast asleep.
[Illustration: “Some unusual weight behind that keeps heading the bow up
by pulling the tail down”]
By daylight the star seemed very near, but it no longer sparkled. Now it
resembled a huge Christmas wreath, tied with a gorgeous bow of red silk
ribbon which hung down in vast folds. Snythergen steered for the center
of the hole, then turning and mounting to the top he made a landing along
the shady side of a grove of pines. The jolt when they struck the ground
wakened Squeaky, and glancing around he thought he saw a prowling shadow
alight from the rear of the plane and disappear into the woods. The
others looked but saw nothing.
“It looked like a bear,” said Squeaky with a shudder.
“Nonsense, you’ve got bear on the brain,” said Snythergen.
Near where they had landed an enormous boy was playing marbles with
bowling balls. He was nearly as tall as Snythergen and heavier.
“Hooray! There’s some one I can talk to without bending down to the
ground,” cried Snythergen joyfully. “I can play with him without being
afraid of stepping on him.” And he strolled up to watch him play marbles
while Sancho Wing and Squeaky remained at a safe distance, a little awed
by the bigness of two such giant boys.
“Want to play?” asked the boy, whose name was Blasterjinx.
“Yes,” said Snythergen, and the two shot the big ten pin balls about as
if they were peas.
“Let’s spin tops,” said Blasterjinx after Snythergen had won most of his
marbles and paid back what he had borrowed.
“This is a hummer,” said the boy, taking a colored top from under his
blouse and winding it with a string as thick as a clothes-line. He hurled
it through the air and it landed upright on its point, spinning so
rapidly it seemed standing still, and as it spun it sang.
Interested in the big top, Sancho Wing and Squeaky edged closer and
closer.
“Why, it sounds like canary birds!” cried Snythergen delighted.
“It ought to!” said Blasterjinx.
“Why?”
Taking the top in his hand Blasterjinx unscrewed the upper part. “See,”
said he. Snythergen looked inside, and beheld a flock of canaries singing
and flying about.
[Illustration: “This is the only kind of humming-top to have”]
“This is the only kind of a humming-top to have,” said Blasterjinx. “For
you can change the music any time you want to. I’ve tried violinists,
pianists, story-tellers, singers, harpists—almost everything you can
think of, but I like canaries best. Wouldn’t your friends here like to
take a spin?” he asked, pointing to Squeaky and Sancho Wing.
It happened to be just what they wanted most, so Blasterjinx opened
a trap door in the floor of the room inside the top, and shooed the
canaries downstairs into the top basement, telling them to remain silent.
Then Squeaky and Sancho Wing descended a silver ladder into the huge
top, and the cover was screwed on. They found themselves in a pleasant
circular room, dimly lighted by stained glass windows and ventilated by
air holes. The objects in the room, piano, chairs, pictures, all were
fastened securely to hold their positions when the top wobbled or fell to
its side. A brass railing attached to the wall ran all the way around, to
give the passengers something to hold to.
“Hold on tight now,” said Blasterjinx, and winding the top carefully he
hurled it through the air. It lighted on its point, spinning at terrific
speed. Through one of the ventilating holes Squeaky watched the topsy
turvey landscape dance giddily about, until it made him dizzy and soon
he became ill from it. Sancho Wing was too busy keeping his balance and
holding on, to pay any attention to how Squeaky was getting along.
“Stop the top, stop the top!” bellowed Squeaky.
“What’s the matter?” cried Snythergen.
“He’ll be all right in a minute,” said Blasterjinx, taking the top in his
hand and winding the string the other way around. When he threw it again
it spun in the opposite direction, unwinding Squeaky and as Blasterjinx
had said, he was all right in a minute. But he was glad when the top
stopped and he could get out.
Snythergen was having such a good time that he forgot why they had come
until Sancho Wing flew up to his ear and whispered: “Ask him if there are
any bears on the Wreath.”
“I never heard of any,” said Blasterjinx, when the question had been
repeated to him. “I am sure you will like the Wreath,” he went on, “for a
good friend of yours lives not far from here.”
“How can you know he is a friend of ours?” asked Sancho Wing in surprise.
“You do not know who our friends are!”
“I know this man is your friend just the same, but I am not going to tell
you who he is because I want it to be a surprise.”
“Have I ever seen him?” said Squeaky.
“I don’t think so,” said Blasterjinx, “but I am sure he has been in
Snythergen’s house.”
“Where does he live?” asked Snythergen.
[Illustration: “Stop the top, stop the top!” bellowed Squeaky]
“In a very big house about a mile from here. You can visit him later on,
but first I want you to spend a week with me and see some of the sights
on the Wreath. Your friend overworked himself last Christmas and needs
another week of rest.”
It made Snythergen homesick to go to Blasterjinx’ house and meet his
parents, for they were small like his own father and mother and their
house was not very large either, except Blasterjinx’ room which was a
separate building covering most of the yard. Blasterjinx’ mother was a
kind soul and made her visitors feel very much at home with the aid of
doughnuts, cookies and pies. Somehow this made Snythergen feel better,
although his mother and father were always in his thoughts.
The three friends told Blasterjinx about their adventures, and he became
so interested he wanted to play tree at once. He tried on Snythergen’s
suit of green but it was not big enough in the waist for him, and when he
squeezed into it the bark began to rip.
“You will tear it,” cried Blasterjinx’ mother, “and then Snythergen won’t
be able to wear it—for I am sure I don’t know how to mend torn bark. I
might sew it with a pine needle, but I wouldn’t know what to use for
thread.”
“Let’s make Blasterjinx a suit for himself,” cried Sancho Wing; and
delighted with the idea they set to work. Blasterjinx was just the right
build for a sturdy oak, and they fastened acorns all over his suit, and
made his bark gnarly and his branches twisty. They tried to teach him the
habits of an oak, but he did not learn readily. For being a tree did not
come natural to him as it did to Snythergen. He was too restless to stand
still very long.
“He’ll never make the birds think he is real,” whispered Sancho Wing to
Squeaky.
“Perhaps it is just as well,” replied Squeaky, looking at Sancho Wing out
of the corners of his little eyes, “for then he won’t be bothered with
any goldfinch nests tickling his branches!”
They were having such fun the week was up in no time and yet they had
done no sight-seeing. With many warm farewells and promises to return
soon, the three companions left to call on their unknown friend.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII
ABOARD A FLOATING BEARD
Squeaky, Snythergen and Sancho Wing were very much surprised when they
saw their unknown friend’s house—for it was the largest home they had
even seen. They mounted the steps and Snythergen sounded the knocker on
the great front door. Immediately it was opened by a flunky arrayed in
shining silk clothes decorated with Teddy bears, parrots and goldfish
embroidered in colors.
“Who lives here?” asked Sancho Wing in his piping voice.
“Santa Claus lives here,” answered the flunky.
“Santa Claus!!” chorused the three in amazement.
“So that’s the friend Blasterjinx meant!” said Snythergen. “I should say
he _was_ our friend!” But they could hardly believe that they really were
at Santa Claus’ door, and in their surprise and wonder they forgot the
doorkeeper who stood attentively awaiting their pleasure.
“We would like to see Santa Claus,” said Squeaky at last.
“I’m sorry, but no one can see him except by appointment,” said the
flunky, “but if you will call at ten o’clock to-morrow morning you may
have a chance to speak with him.” And with that he closed the great door
and they were left alone on the doorstep.
“There must be some way to see him. I am going to investigate,” said
Sancho Wing, and he flew off. Squeaky and Snythergen threw themselves on
the ground in the shade of a great elm. “What a relief to have some other
tree cast your shade for a change!” remarked Snythergen, just as Sancho
Wing flew up very much flustered.
“I know where Santa’s room is!” he cried. “He is taking a nap now.”
“What good will that do us?” said Squeaky, ever practical like stout
people generally.
“A great deal of good,” said Sancho Wing. “You and Snythergen wait near
the door. I am going to make that flunky open it for you.” And he was off
before they could make any reply.
Sancho Wing flew through the open window into Santa Claus’ room.
Cautiously he approached the bed and hid in Santa Claus’ great white
beard. Santa moved uneasily.
“There are three wise men here to see you,” whispered Sancho softly.
“Why didn’t somebody tell me?” murmured Santa Claus, half asleep.
“The doorkeeper said you wouldn’t see anybody except by appointment,”
replied Sancho.
“Is that true?” mumbled Santa Claus drowsily.
“Yes, he would not open the door; that is why I came in through the
window.”
Santa Claus woke up with a jump. “Who am I talking to!” he shouted—“or
was it only a dream? Whoever you are come out and let me see you! What
are you hiding for?”
“I am just a voice, Santa Claus, and the rest of me is not very
presentable. My necktie is untied and there is a hole in my stocking.”
“Where are you hiding!” cried Santa Claus, and he looked under the bed,
behind the chairs, and in the closets. Sancho Wing feared every moment
he would be discovered, and tried to escape by flying out of the window.
But his head had become caught in the long whiskers and he could go only
the length of the beard in any direction. As he flew vigorously about
the room trying to free his head Santa’s beard floated in the air like a
living thing.
Too surprised to move or speak, Santa Claus could only gaze dumbly at his
beard making serpentine movements in the air, or winding about his body
as if to hide behind his back.
“What in the name of Popcorn is the matter with my beard!” cried Santa
Claus, finding his voice at last.
Sancho Wing concluded that it was wiser to stop flying and let the beard
settle back to its accustomed place, lest Santa Claus discover him.
He was too hopelessly caught to escape by flying; but he was so well
concealed by the whiskers that Santa Claus still failed to see him.
“Well, I give up!” said Santa Claus at last. “Wherever you are, you are
well hidden. Did I understand you to say that you and your two friends
had come to visit me? Where are the others?—since I can’t find you. Are
they hiding too?”
“They are waiting at the door.”
[Illustration: “Squeaky, who is a voice with a pig’s body”]
“I invite you all to dinner,” said Santa Claus. “‘Three Wise Men’ I think
you call yourselves?”
“Four, including our host,” said Sancho politely.
“Thanks!” said Santa Claus.
Sancho’s conscience was troubling him for he had hesitated to explain
that they were not just ordinary men, lest Santa Claus might not want to
see them.
“When I said we were men,” began Sancho, “I used the word ‘men’ in a
broad sense, to include birds, animals and trees.”
Santa Claus yawned and stretched his arms. He liked a chat after his nap.
“I am glad to see you are democratic,” said he. “I think it is too bad
that birds, animals and trees are so often left out. If they could talk
they might say some unkind things of us.”
“No, indeed, we won’t, Santa Claus,” assured Sancho eagerly.
“We? Who are ‘we’?” asked Santa Claus.
“One of us is a boy-tree. He is a boy by birth, but a tree by profession.”
“Go on,” demanded Santa Claus.
“Then there is Squeaky, who is a voice with a pig’s body; and as for me,
well, you know me.”
“I know your voice, but the rest of you?” asked Santa Claus.
“Is a goldfinch,” answered Sancho.
“Three wise men indeed,” muttered Santa Claus. “How interesting it will
be to have dinner with a pig, a tree, and a goldfinch! But what can we
have to eat that three such different guests will enjoy?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Sancho Wing. “You can give the others birdseed
porridge.”
“And you?” asked Santa Claus, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, I’ll eat some too,” said Sancho, with seeming indifference, though
it made his bill water to think of his favorite dish.
“What will we do for table conversation?” asked Santa Claus. “I don’t
know what subjects trees, pigs and birds like to talk about.”
“You won’t need to help us talk,” said Sancho. “We are worse than magpies
when we are together.”
“You may go back to your friends now,” said Santa Claus, “and I’ll see
that you are admitted to the house.”
Sancho made an effort to walk out of the beard in a dignified manner,
but he was too firmly caught to get away so easily. He began to pull and
struggle.
“Ouch!” cried Santa Claus, “who’s pulling my beard?”
“I can’t get out,” cried Sancho Wing.
“So there’s where you are! In my beard! Well, of all the places to hide!”
cried Santa Claus in the greatest amazement. With a pair of shears and a
mirror he succeeded in freeing the little bird after the exercise of a
good deal of patience.
As soon as he was released Sancho told Santa Claus he was sorry for the
trouble he had caused, thanked him for the invitation to dinner, and flew
back to his companions.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII
THE PIE ROOM—BEAR AGAIN!—SANCHO WING SCOLDS
“I thought somebody had kidnapped you,” said Snythergen when Sancho Wing
returned. “Why were you gone so long?”
“I was visiting Santa Claus. He invited us all to dinner, and the
door-man will now let us in. Follow me,” said Sancho.
“Is it the three wise men?” bellowed the flunky through the keyhole when
they knocked.
“It is,” said Sancho Wing.
The large door swung open and the flunky prepared to make his best bow.
But he could hardly welcome three such different beings with one salute,
so he greeted each one separately. To Snythergen he leaned back, pointed
his face toward the ceiling, and bobbed down and up by bending and
straightening his knees. Sancho Wing, like most little people, wished to
appear important, and when it came his turn to bow he raised himself on
tip claws and stretched up to make his body as tall as he could; then
leaning forward stiffly he flapped his left wing. Puzzled to know just
how to respond to this, the door-man got down on his knees, and turning
his head sideways wiggled his left ear. Squeaky had a habit of tossing
his head when he bowed, and the flunky merely gave him a toss of the head
in return.
[Illustration: The door-man turning his head sideways wiggled his left
ear]
In the hall the housekeeper welcomed them very kindly, offering to show
them about while Santa Claus dressed for dinner. When she learned that
they were the “three wise men” she treated them with great respect.
Inside, the house seemed even larger than it had from without, and
Snythergen was thankful for ceilings so high that he could stand up
comfortably. So enormous were the rooms each one might have been used
as a public hall. There was little furniture—mostly vast spaces with a
background of oriental carpets and cathedral windows.
“What is this?” asked Snythergen, as they came into an odd little room in
the basement with circular wall and a spotless aluminum floor. To cross
it they walked on a bridge, raised several feet above the floor.
“This is the pie room,” said the housekeeper. “The crust is rolled out on
the pie pan floor and the work of putting in the filling is managed from
the bridge. When it is ready, we light the gas under the floor and the
pie is cooked.”
“But who could ever eat such a big one?” asked Sancho Wing.
“Oh, the bear eats most of it,” said the housekeeper.
“The bear!” cried they in great alarm. “Is there a bear?”
“Yes,” said the housekeeper.
Snythergen turned pale and looked for the door. Squeaky had already
started to run and Sancho Wing flew up to the ceiling.
“Stay right here—there’s nothing to fear,” said the housekeeper, calling
them back.
“The bear arrived about a week ago,” she continued when they were able to
listen. “We did not want to let him in but Santa Claus telephoned the
keeper at the zoological gardens and asked if bears were safe.”
“‘They are,’ said he, ‘if you feed them olives and custard pie.’
“We tried it and it worked, and now there is not a quieter member of our
family than the bear after he is fed. When he is hungry is the only time
he is quarrelsome. But at such times we keep food between ourselves and
him.”
“We had a bear too,” said Snythergen, “but he always stole away as soon
as he had eaten, and never came near except when he was hungry.”
“That’s just like our bear,” said the housekeeper, “forever trying to
hide when he is not at his best. But Santa Claus has him sit around and
visit after dinner, though he makes a very sorry figure.”
“Why, what does he do?” asked Squeaky.
“As soon as he is fed his spirit is gone,” replied the housekeeper. “He
becomes as timid as a mouse, and trembles if you look at him; jumps if
you speak to him; blushes if you pay him any attention.”
“How does a bear blush?” asked Snythergen.
[Illustration: _“Bears should not talk when their mouths are full of
food,” said Santa Claus kindly_]
“He does it with his lips. They change color back and forth very rapidly
from pink to red. But Santa Claus is coming and it is time for dinner.”
As she spoke they entered a dining room so large, the huge table and
ancestral chairs seemed like dolls’ furniture in its vast interior.
And now Santa Claus entered smiling blandly. He was attired in gorgeous
evening clothes—a flaming swallowtail coat lined with crimson, deep
purple vest with large white buttons; a ruby glowing like a burning eye
adorned his shirt. Cream silk stockings and pale blue knickerbockers he
wore, and his boots were red with black trimmings.
Scarcely had Santa Claus entered the room when the bear came lumbering
after him. Eying the “three wise men” with a swift look of recognition he
licked his chops.
“Why, it’s our bear!” said Snythergen in a sickly whisper. “How did he
follow us?”
The three edged around until the table stood between them and the beast,
and they were eying the nearest exit when Santa Claus requested them to
be seated at table. The bear was served first, though “served” is hardly
the word for the way they rushed food to him. Cramming his mouth full he
uttered a few growls.
“Bears should not talk when their mouths are full of food,” said Santa
Claus kindly.
But the bear answered only with an impudent growl which so frightened
Squeaky that he tumbled from his chair, upsetting a bowl of soup as he
fell. In spite of Sancho Wing’s assurance, the table conversation was
exceedingly restrained. Though for politeness’ sake Snythergen did try a
few comments, which came out in faltering tones. Squeaky was so nervous
he could not speak without breaking into little hysterical peals of
laughter which sounded like the squeals of a badly frightened pig. He had
had one of these fits in the middle of the blessing and Santa Claus eyed
him curiously.
Sancho Wing attempted to calm the troubled scene by keeping his head and
saving them from awkward pauses. He was not so much afraid as the others
because he knew that, no matter what the bear did, he could escape by
flying a few strokes into the air. But the nervous way he kept waving his
wings about to be sure they were ready for use, showed how far his little
heart was from peace and a feeling of security.
At first the bear was very noisy about his eating but grew quieter as his
hunger was appeased. And as the meal progressed his eyes became dull, his
manner modest—almost demure. The others saw this and were encouraged.
Squeaky found his speaking voice and talked wisely on the advantages
and disadvantages of pig life. The table talk Sancho Wing had promised
Santa Claus now began to flow, and the host was delighted. He asked
many questions and nearly every one led along some trail of adventure,
relating incidents peculiar to their lives. By this time the bear was
painfully ill at ease, for he had not learned man-talk and the loud firm
voices around him gave him strange fears. Were they plotting against him?
He sat stiffly upright with forepaws crossed upon his chest, and ears
cocked suspiciously. When they arose from the table Sancho Wing hopped
over to the bear for a little private conversation.
“I want to say a few words to you,” he said, “and luckily for you you
will not understand them.”
The bear shuddered and his lips turned a paler pink.
Thoroughly angry Sancho Wing began: “You great big overgrown nuisance of
a brute! You cowardly thieving bully!”
If he did not comprehend the words certainly the bear understood Sancho’s
gestures. And as he talked the little bird’s body shook with passion. He
bobbed his head, flapped his wings, raised one leg threateningly with
claws advanced.
The bear looked sheepish. His startled eyes were pleading now. He hung
his head as he backed away. Sancho Wing followed closely scolding ever
more abusively. The tiny finch seemed to tower with rage as he bullied
the frightened beast, who stood six feet six in his bare hind paws while
the finch was but a few inches high. When they reached the hall the big
fellow dropped to all fours and ran. Returning to the big table Sancho
Wing saw a hurt look in Santa Claus’ face and readily guessed the cause.
“Forgive me for making a scene,” pleaded the little bird.
“The bear is very sensitive,” said Santa Claus seriously. “And on the
whole I think he is rather well behaved for a bear.”
“I am sure I would like the bear much better if I did not know him so
well,” said Sancho Wing.
“What? Do you know him?” asked Santa Claus.
There was an awkward pause. Sancho did not want to tell on the bear, for
like himself he was Santa Claus’ guest.
“I know him distantly,” said Sancho—“just a growling acquaintance. He may
have changed since I saw him last. Maybe I shall like him better now.”
“I am sure you will,” said Santa Claus kindly, as they drew their chairs
up to the fire and prepared to spend a cozy evening.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV
SNYTHERGEN’S TROUBLES
The “Three Wise Men” and Santa Claus were sitting up very late around a
coal fire in the enormous grate. Santa Claus would have preferred a log,
had not delicacy of feeling made him avoid burning wood in Snythergen’s
presence. Sancho was perched on the back of the chair Squeaky had curled
up in; and Snythergen sat tailor fashion on the floor. Santa Claus
nestled in the depths of his great easy chair. There was no light save
the flicker of the fire.
“I don’t know when I have had such an enjoyable evening,” said Santa
Claus, “and I am sure it is past all our bedtimes.”
“Oh, no,” said Squeaky, “we got into the habit of late hours on account
of the bear.”
“What bear?” said Santa Claus, in surprise.
“Oh,” said Sancho on his guard, “there was one prowling about in the
forest where we lived.”
“You needn’t have been afraid if you had provided him with food,” said
Santa Claus.
“So we found,” said Snythergen feelingly.
“I have been thinking,” said Santa Claus, “that we make a cozy little
group together. I would be glad to have you stay here and live with me.”
“Splendid,” cried Snythergen. “This is the only comfortable house I ever
saw. The architect had the good sense to make the ceilings high enough.”
“There is a bedroom upstairs, too, just right for you,” said Santa Claus,
“and you may all occupy it together if you will promise to go to bed and
not talk.”
“Oh, Santa Claus,” cried Snythergen delighted, “you are too good!”
“And we’ll be polite to the bear,” said Squeaky.
“Maybe you won’t like it here as well as you think,” said Santa Claus. “I
shall expect you to do some work.”
“We don’t mind that,” said Sancho Wing. “Snythergen built a house and
table!”
“Speak for yourself,” said Snythergen. “Tell Santa Claus what you can do.”
“Yes, Sancho, what work can you do?” asked Santa Claus.
“Oh, I’m a good watch bird,” said Sancho Wing. “I can get up close to
people and hear all they say, and see all they do without being seen
myself. If necessary there is always some little place for me to hide.
I can dodge into a man’s coat pocket—or”—(with a sly look at Santa
Claus)—“creep into his beard!”
“I can testify to that,” said Santa Claus emphatically.
“And Squeaky here, what can he do?” asked Santa Claus.
“I will say this for him,” said Snythergen, “he’s good about visiting.
Usually he sleeps while I work so as to be bright and lively when I want
to rest. He entertains me and makes me forget my troubles.”
“Your troubles!” said Santa Claus in surprise—“I didn’t think you had
any.”
“Oh, yes, plenty of them! The little ones, such as”—(with a look at
Squeaky)—“pigs nibbling my toes, woodpeckers stabbing my trunk, bears
biting my roots, bothersome nest-builders”—(here Snythergen winked at
Sancho Wing)—“tickling my branches; woodchoppers plotting against my
life—these are bad enough. But my big trouble—” His face grew long and
a great tear trembled on his cheek and splashed down on Squeaky’s head,
making him jump.
“What is the big trouble?” asked Santa Claus kindly, while Sancho Wing
and Squeaky looked up in surprise.
“I never told anybody,” said Snythergen.
“Maybe you would rather not say anything about it now,” said Santa Claus
sympathetically.
“Oh, I must tell you. I have a father and a mother and I love them very
much and they love me. I ran away because they do not make school houses
large enough for boys like me. I told my mother I would come back some
day. Now I think of it I am afraid I cannot come to live with you—it’s
too far away from home.”
“Why, Snythergen, you never told us you had any parents,” said Squeaky.
“I supposed you knew I had. Every boy has to have them. I used to steal
away at night in my tree suit and go home when you and Sancho Wing were
fast asleep. I would brush my branches on the second story windows until
father and mother looked out. I did not dare tell them it was I for fear
they would want to send me back to school, and I feared father might
spank me.”
“It would take rather a tall man to bend you over his knee,” said Santa
Claus.
“Oh, it wasn’t his size, but his voice I was afraid of,” said Snythergen.
“Then your father is a little man?” asked Santa Claus.
“Yes, he and mother are midgets. I guess they adopted me because they
admire big things.”
“What does your father do?” asked Santa Claus.
“He is a philosopher,” said Snythergen. “He thinks and plans while mother
knits.”
“I wonder how midgets would like it here?” asked Santa Claus,
thoughtfully.
“I am sure they would like it very much,” said Snythergen, “except for
one thing. They are sensitive about their size and cannot bear to live
in a house with high ceilings. You see it makes them realize how small
they are. But if you are willing to have them here, I can build a little
two-story house with six rooms, and set it up in a corner of our big
bedroom. I could place it where it would not be in the way, and when the
housemaid comes to sweep and dust I could hang it up on a hook in the
wall.”
“I will have to look up our laws before I can ask them,” said Santa
Claus. “I don’t think grownups are allowed to come to the Wreath. I might
as well repeat, since you may come here to live,” he continued, “that
this is no palace of idleness. There is much to do and everybody helps.
The reindeer’s faces, necks and ears have to be washed every day, and the
sleighbells rubbed with silver polish. We have to keep track of all the
children in the world and enter the new babies in a big book as fast as
they are born. We have a toy factory where Christmas presents are made,
such as popcorn balls, Noah’s arks, fire engines and dolls.”
“What will the bear do?” asked Squeaky anxiously.
“I intend to have him pose as a model for Teddy Bears,” said Santa Claus.
“Of course the housekeeper will have to sit by his side ready to feed him
olives and custard pie the moment he shows any restlessness.”
Santa Claus took his watch from his pocket. “It’s my bedtime,” said he,
“so if you are ready I will escort you to your room.”
[Illustration: A traffic butler stood at hall intersections]
A house automobile was waiting in the hall. The distances between rooms
were so great that Santa Claus used motor cars to take his guests about
the house. As Snythergen was too large to ride he had to walk behind, and
his long strides easily kept pace with the machine—too easily. He was so
taken up with the pictures on the walls and peeping into the rooms they
passed, he neglected to look where he was going. Several times he tripped
on the car, almost upsetting it. The chauffeur grew to fear this danger
from behind more than the perils ahead, and drove looking backwards. Once
when he gave a sudden lurch to avoid Snythergen’s foot, Squeaky fell out,
and there was a great squealing in the hall until he was picked up and
put back. Snythergen apologized to both of them and promised to be more
careful.
The halls were as wide as boulevards and in place of stairways there were
graded inclines, enabling chauffeurs to drive from floor to floor. The
traffic even at that late hour was heavy, for eatables were being taken
from vegetable cellars to kitchens; towels and bedroom linen were being
whisked here and there; servants were returning to their rooms after a
social evening. Muffled honks were heard at the turns, and a traffic
butler stood at hall intersections.
At last they drew up beside an enormous chamber illuminated by points
of light set like diamonds in the deep blue of a vaulted ceiling, to
give the effect of stars. Snythergen was overjoyed when he saw his bed.
Actually it was several feet longer than he was. For once he would not
have to sleep twisted up in a circle, but could lie full length like any
one else.
When Squeaky got into his little bed he was surprised to find a silk
tassel sewed to each of the blankets and sheets, and wondered what it was
for. Pig-like he had to experiment. He pulled one and to his amazement
it resisted. It was as if some one concealed in the foot of the bed were
trying to pull it away from him. No wonder the tassel slipped from his
grasp! A blanket ran away, disappearing into the footboard with a bang.
Squeaky was so shocked he fell to the floor and when he got into bed
again the blanket was nowhere to be seen. He pulled another tassel. This
time a sheet made off. He tried others, and by the time he was through
pulling tassels every bit of bedding had disappeared and he could not
find any of it. Shivering with cold he called Snythergen. But the room
was too big and the beds too far apart for Squeaky to make himself heard.
“What’s this?” he cried, upsetting something on a stand beside his bed.
It was a little telephone. Consulting the directory he found a number
opposite “Big Bed.” When he removed the receiver a bright voice chirped
“Merry Christmas.” It was central and Squeaky gave the number.
Snythergen heard soft chimes at his bedside, and when he saw it was the
telephone he did not remove the receiver at once, for he was enjoying
the sweet tinkling sounds. When at last he did answer, Squeaky was very
impatient.
“Why didn’t you answer?” he demanded.
“What’s the matter?” asked Snythergen.
“Somebody’s stealing the bed clothes, and I am almost frozen. I can’t
find a stitch of covering.”
“Is that all? I will be right over,” and in a moment Snythergen stood
beside the pig’s bed. When he saw what had happened to Squeaky he leaned
back and laughed until another great tear splashed down upon the pig.
“I didn’t call you over to give me a bath,” said Squeaky. “You’re only
making matters worse,—and what are you laughing at anyway! I can’t see
anything amusing.”
“Why, you poor pig!” cried Snythergen, as soon as he could control his
voice. “Can’t you see that the bed clothes wind up in the foot of the
bed on rolls like window shades? All you need do is to lean over and
pull the silk cords, but you must grasp them firmly. You can pull up or
take off as much bedding as you like without getting out of bed. Now good
night, I’m sleepy!” said Snythergen and he went back to his bed for the
first comfortable night’s sleep of his life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV
TOY FOODS
The next morning “the three wise men” had a long chat with Santa Claus,
and it was decided they were to come there to live. But Santa Claus
explained to Snythergen kindly that as he had feared, it was against the
laws of the Wreath to bring any more grownups there; and that he would be
unable to include his parents in the invitation.
Snythergen looked so sorrowful when he heard this that Santa Claus said
brightly:
“Cheer up! Stay for a while, and I will see if it cannot be arranged
somehow.”
Snythergen’s interest in the wonderful things he saw soon revived his
spirits—though the thought of his mother and father was seldom far away.
When Santa Claus explained to the housekeeper that the family would be
enlarged by three new members, she looked rather doubtful.
“Are you sure, Santa Claus,” she asked, “that it is wise to add them all
at once, before you know more about them?”
“Yes, I am sure,” he said, “and I know they will be handy in the toy
factory.”
And so it proved. For a time the newcomers made themselves so useful,
even the housekeeper wondered how they had ever managed without them.
Sancho Wing devised all sorts of new toys. Squeaky made a model of a
Teddy Pig so cunning and lifelike, it bid fair to vie in popularity with
the famous Teddy Bear. When you squeezed it it squeaked so naturally,
that you had to look twice to be sure you were not holding a live pig
in your hands. Snythergen designed a mechanical tree that walked on its
roots and waved its branches in the most comical manner.
For a month Snythergen was happy. He seemed almost to have forgotten his
“big trouble.” But as the novelty of his new life wore away, he found his
thoughts returning more and more often to his mother and father. One day
Santa Claus said to him:
“Snythergen, you are not happy and the reason is not hard to guess. No
boy can be happy long away from his parents. The housekeeper and I have
been talking it over and we can find no way of getting grownups admitted
to the Wreath. So I have decided to give you your choice. Either you
may stay here and live with us, or I will reduce you to the size of an
ordinary boy and let you go home.”
“Can you make me small like other boys!” cried Snythergen excitedly.
“Yes,” said Santa Claus, “I can do it by feeding you toy foods! I can
have my cooks and my bakers make such tiny cakes and pies, that if you
eat them one at a time, you will grow smaller and smaller. It will not
be easy and you may have to go hungry at times, but in the end you will
be just the right size. You can play with the other boys and no one will
laugh at you. Then you may return to your father and mother!”
“And not see you, and Squeaky, and Sancho Wing any more!” faltered
Snythergen.
“You may come and visit us at night after your mother has tucked you in
your bed—just as you used to steal away from the forest to go home.”
Snythergen still hesitated.
“You will be very happy,” said Santa Claus. “You will grow up to be a
man, and all your life you will be happier for having visited Santa
Claus’ land on the Wreath.”
Snythergen made the choice that Santa Claus knew he would, the one
that any boy would have made. There was a great deal of bustle in all
of the kitchens and bakeries on the Wreath, as they made toy foods for
Snythergen. There were wonderful loaves of bread shaped like the little
tree doctor, which Snythergen wanted to devour by the handful, but was
permitted to eat only one at each meal. There were cookies molded in the
form of the woodchoppers’ axes, cakes and pies resembling the nest that
had once tickled his long green boughs.
[Illustration: And squeezed him almost as tightly as the farmer’s wife
had done]
Little by little Snythergen un-grew until he became the size of a boy.
At last the day of his departure arrived and his friends were gathered
before Santa Claus’ door to bid him farewell. The doorkeeper and the
housekeeper said good-by with feeling. When he came to Blasterjinx
the big fellow bent over, placed one hand on the ground, palm up for
Snythergen to stand on, then lifted him up to say good-by. Snythergen
felt a keen pang of regret when the sight of his friend made him realize
that his own great size was gone. But this feeling was soon forgotten in
an affectionate farewell to the faithful chums, with whom he had shared
so many joys and dangers. He took Squeaky into his arms and squeezed him
almost as tightly as the farmer’s wife had done. Sancho Wing perched on
his shoulder and tried to say good-by in as loud a voice as when first
he had spoken to Snythergen, but somehow the words caught in his throat.
As Snythergen said his last farewell to all, even the bear’s eyes filled
with tears (he had just had his olives and custard pie).
“We shall expect you to visit us very soon,” said Santa Claus as they
parted.
How they all waved and cheered as Snythergen rose in his boy’s airplane
and began the journey home! Turning his head he watched them until they
dwindled to mere specks and disappeared.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI
HOME
As Snythergen’s friends passed from view a new happiness came into his
heart, overcoming the sorrows of parting—for at last he was going home.
All day he had been soaring above the clouds, and now he was speeding
through the air in the swift descent. It was night and the Wreath was but
a star. Soon he was sailing above the forest, over the tops of his old
comrades the trees. “They would never recognize me now,” he thought; then
suddenly he wondered: “Will _they_ recognize me!”
He was almost home. Choosing a clear space in a pasture, he made a
landing, and hurried towards the house. It was a warm, still night in
mid-summer. Through the open door he saw his mother and father sitting by
the lamp.
“I wonder where our dear boy is to-night?” Snythergen heard his mother
ask.
“Mother! Mother!” he cried.
“It’s his voice!” cried his mother, jumping up and running to the door.
“Snythergen! Snythergen! Where are you?” Both parents were looking up
among the tree-tops. “Where are you,” they cried.
“Here I am,” answered Snythergen, now but a few feet away. “Don’t you see
me,” he said, almost under their noses.
“No,” said they, looking toward the top of the house.
“Is it only his voice that has come back,” faltered his mother, her eyes
filling with tears.
“No,” cried Snythergen, throwing his arms about her waist.
“What’s that!” she screamed in fright. “Snythergen!” she whispered,
recognizing her boy. “How you have changed!” The mother took her boy in
her arms and kissed him again and again.
The father could hardly believe it was Snythergen, but there was no
mistaking the voice.
“He has come back a regular boy!” cried he, waiting for a chance to hug
his son. “How did you make yourself small?” he asked, too impatient to
wait any longer.
“Toy foods!” shouted Snythergen, half smothered in his mother’s embrace.
“I knew it! I knew it!” cried the father. “Just after you left I thought
of toy foods—but then it was too late.”
They entered the house and Snythergen began telling his adventures. It
was a happy night—the first of countless others that were to come. For a
happier boy than Snythergen simply did not exist.
[Illustration]
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