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Title: Rootabaga pigeons
Author: Sandburg, Carl
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Rootabaga pigeons" ***
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[Illustration: Rag Bag Mammy brings out candy with red and white stripes
wrapped around it]
ROOTABAGA PIGEONS
BY
CARL SANDBURG
Author of “Rootabaga Stories,” “Slabs of the Sunburnt West,” “Smoke and
Steel,” “Chicago Poems,” “Cornhuskers”
ILLUSTRATIONS AND DECORATIONS
BY
MAUD AND MISKA PETERSHAM
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J.
In compliance with current copyright law, LBS Archival Products produced
this replacement volume on paper that meets the ANSI Standard
Z39.48–1984 to replace the irreparably deteriorated original.
1992
♾™
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO THREE ILLINOIS PIGEONS
CONTENTS
1.
Two Stories Told by the Potato Face Blind Man
The Skyscraper to the Moon and How the Green Rat with the
Rheumatism Ran a Thousand Miles Twice _3_
Slipfoot and How He Nearly Always Never Gets What He Goes After _9_
2.
Two Stories About Bugs and Eggs
Many, Many Weddings in One Corner House _19_
Shush Shush, the Big Buff Banty Hen Who Laid an Egg in the
Postmaster’s Hat _27_
3.
Five Stories About Hatrack the Horse, Six Pigeons, Three Wild
Babylonian Baboons, Six Umbrellas, Bozo the Button Buster
How Ragbag Mammy Kept Her Secret While the Wind Blew Away the
Village of Hat Pins _33_
How Six Pigeons Came Back to Hatrack the Horse After Many
Accidents and Six Telegrams _41_
How the Three Wild Babylonian Baboons Went Away in the Rain
Eating Bread and Butter _49_
How Six Umbrellas Took Off Their Straw Hats to Show Respect to
the One Big Umbrella _55_
How Bozo the Button Buster Busted All His Buttons When a Mouse
Came _63_
4.
Two Stories About Four Boys Who Had Different Dreams
How Googler and Gaggler, the Two Christmas Babies, Came Home with
Monkey Wrenches _75_
How Johnny the Wham Sleeps in Money All the Time and Joe the Wimp
Shines and Sees Things _87_
5.
Two Stories Told by the Potato Face Blind Man About Two Girls with Red
Hearts
How Deep Red Roses Goes Back and Forth Between the Clock and the
Looking Glass _97_
How Pink Peony Sent Spuds, the Ballplayer, Up to Pick Four Moons _105_
6.
Three Stories About Moonlight, Pigeons, Bees, Egypt, Jesse James,
Spanish Onions, the Queen of the Cracked Heads, the King of the Paper
Sacks
How Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz Came in the Moonshine Where
the Potato Face Blind Man Sat with His Accordion _115_
How Hot Balloons and His Pigeon Daughters Crossed Over into the
Rootabaga Country _127_
How Two Sweetheart Dippies Sat in the Moonlight on a Lumber Yard
Fence and Heard About the Sooners and the Boomers _139_
7.
Two Stories Out of the Tall Grass
The Haystack Cricket and How Things Are Different Up in the Moon
Towns _153_
Why the Big Ball Game Between Hot Grounders and the Grand
Standers Was a Hot Game _161_
8.
Two Stories Out of Oklahoma and Nebraska
The Huckabuck Family and How They Raised Pop Corn in Nebraska and
Quit and Came Back _169_
Yang Yang and Hoo Hoo, or the Song of the Left Foot of the Shadow
of the Goose _181_
9.
One Story About Big People Now and Little People Long Ago
How a Skyscraper and a Railroad Train Got Picked Up and Carried
Away from Pig’s Eye Valley Far in the Pickax Mountains _191_
10.
Three Stories About the Letter X and How It Got into the Alphabet
Pig Wisps _201_
Kiss Me _207_
Blue Silver _215_
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
Rag Bag Mammy brings out candy with red and white stripes wrapped
around it
_Frontispiece_ (_in color_)
PAGE
On the last step of the stairway my foot slips 11
The Hot Cookie Pan came with a pan of hot cookies and the Coal
Bucket with coal 21
The mouse bit the knot and cut it loose 67
They went to sleep on top of the wagon 81
She was sitting on a ladder feeding baby clocks to the baby
alligators 119
One of the pigeons rang the bell 129
She carried the squash into the kitchen 171
Out into the snowstorm Flax Eyes rode that day 209
1. Two Stories Told by the Potato Face Blind Man.
_People_: Blixie Bimber
Blixie Bimber’s Mother
The Potato Face Blind Man
A Green Rat with the Rheumatism
Bricklayers
Mortar Men
Riveters
A Skyscraper
Slipfoot
A Stairway to the Moon
A Trapeze
[Illustration]
The Skyscraper to the Moon and How the Green Rat with the Rheumatism Ran
a Thousand Miles Twice
Blixie Bimber’s mother was chopping hash. And the hatchet broke. So
Blixie started downtown with fifteen cents to buy a new hash hatchet for
chopping hash.
Downtown she peeped around the corner next nearest the postoffice where
the Potato Face Blind Man sat with his accordion. And the old man had
his legs crossed, one foot on the sidewalk, the other foot up in the
air.
The foot up in the air had a green rat sitting on it, tying the old
man’s shoestrings in knots and double knots. Whenever the old man’s foot
wiggled and wriggled the green rat wiggled and wriggled.
The tail of the rat wrapped five wraps around the shoe and then fastened
and tied like a package.
On the back of the green rat was a long white swipe from the end of
the nose to the end of the tail. Two little white swipes stuck up over
the eyelashes. And five short thick swipes of white played
pussy-wants-a-corner back of the ears and along the ribs of the green
rat.
They were talking, the old man and the green rat, talking about
alligators and why the alligators keep their baby shoes locked up in
trunks over the winter time—and why the rats in the moon lock their
mittens in ice boxes.
“I had the rheumatism last summer a year ago,” said the rat. “I had the
rheumatism so bad I ran a thousand miles south and west till I came to
the Egg Towns and stopped in the Village of Eggs Up.”
“So?” quizzed the Potato Face.
“There in the Village of Eggs Up, they asked me, ‘Do you know how to
stop the moon moving?’ I answered them, ‘Yes, I know how—a baby
alligator told me—but I told the baby alligator I wouldn’t tell.’
“Many years ago there in that Village of Eggs Up they started making a
skyscraper to go up till it reached the moon. They said, ‘We will step
in the elevator and go up to the roof and sit on the roof and eat supper
on the moon.’
“The bricklayers and the mortar men and the iron riveters and the
wheelbarrowers and the plasterers went higher and higher making that
skyscraper, till at last they were half way up to the moon, saying to
each other while they worked, ‘We will step in the elevator and go up to
the roof and sit on the roof and eat supper on the moon.’
“Yes, they were halfway up to the moon. And that night looking at the
moon they saw it move and they said to each other, ‘We must stop the
moon moving,’ and they said later, ‘We don’t know how to stop the moon
moving.’
“And the bricklayers and the mortar men and the iron riveters and the
wheelbarrowers and the plasterers said to each other, ‘If we go on now
and make this skyscraper it will miss the moon and we will never go up
in the elevator and sit on the roof and eat supper on the moon.’
“So they took the skyscraper down and started making it over again,
aiming it straight at the moon again. And one night standing looking at
the moon they saw it move and they said to each other, ‘We must stop the
moon moving,’ saying later to each other, ‘We don’t know how to stop the
moon moving.’
“And now they stand in the streets at night there in the Village of Eggs
Up, stretching their necks looking at the moon, and asking each other,
‘Why does the moon move and how can we stop the moon moving?’
“Whenever I saw them standing there stretching their necks looking at
the moon, I had a zig-zag ache in my left hind foot and I wanted to tell
them what the baby alligator told me, the secret of how to stop the moon
moving. One night that ache zig-zagged me so—way inside my left hind
foot—it zig-zagged so I ran home here a thousand miles.”
The Potato Face Blind Man wriggled his shoe—and the green rat
wriggled—and the long white swipe from the end of the nose to the end of
the tail of the green rat wriggled.
“Is your rheumatism better?” the old man asked.
The rat answered, “Any rheumatism is better if you run a thousand miles
twice.”
And Blixie Bimber going home with the fifteen cent hash hatchet for her
mother to chop hash, Blixie said to herself, “It is a large morning to
be thoughtful about.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Slipfoot and How He Nearly Always Never Gets What He Goes After
Blixie Bimber flipped out of the kitchen one morning, first saying
good-by to the dish-pan, good-by to the dish-rag, good-by to the
dish-towel for wiping dishes.
Under one arm she put a basket of peonies she picked, under the other
arm she put a basket of jonquils she picked.
Then she flipped away up the street and downtown where she put the
baskets of peonies and jonquils one on each side of the Potato Face
Blind Man.
“I picked the pink and lavender peonies and I picked the yellow jonquils
for you to be smelling one on each side of you this fine early summer
morning,” she said to the Potato Face. “Have you seen anybody good to
see lately?”
“Slipfoot was here this morning,” said the old man.
“And who is Slipfoot?” asked Blixie.
“I don’t know. He says to me, ‘I got a foot always slips. I used to wash
windows—and my foot slips. I used to be king of the collar buttons, king
of a million dollars—and my foot slips. I used to be king of the
peanuts, king of a million dollars again. I used to be king of the
oyster cans, selling a million cans a day. I used to be king of the
peanut sacks, selling ten million sacks a day. And every time I was a
king my foot slips. Every time I had a million dollars my foot slips.
Every time I went high and put my foot higher my foot slips. Somebody
gave me a slipfoot. I always slip.’”
[Illustration: On the last step of the stairway my foot slips]
“So you call him Slipfoot?” asked Blixie.
“Yes,” said the old man.
“Has he been here before?”
“Yes, he was here a year ago, saying, ‘I marry a woman and she runs
away. I run after her—and my foot slips. I always get what I want—and
then my foot slips.’
“I ran up a stairway to the moon one night. I shoveled a big sack full
of little gold beans, little gold bricks, little gold bugs, on the moon
and I ran down the stairway from the moon. On the last step of the
stairway, my foot slips—and all the little gold beans, all the little
gold bricks, all the little gold bugs, spill out and spill away. When I
get down the stairway I am holding the sack and the sack holds nothing.
I am all right always till my foot slips.
“I jump on a trapeze and I go swinging, swinging, swinging out where I
am going to take hold of the rainbow and bring it down where we can look
at it close. And I hang by my feet on the trapeze and I am swinging out
where I am just ready to take hold of the rainbow and bring it down.
Then my foot slips.”
“What is the matter with Slipfoot?” asks Blixie.
“He asks me that same question,” answered the Potato Face Blind Man. “He
asks me that every time he comes here. I tell him all he needs is to get
his slipfoot fixed so it won’t slip. Then he’ll be all right.”
“I understand you,” said Blixie. “You make it easy. You always make it
easy. And before I run away will you promise me to smell of the pink and
lavender peonies and the yellow jonquils all day to-day?”
“I promise,” said the Potato Face. “Promises are easy. I like promises.”
“So do I,” said the little girl, “It’s promises pushing me back home to
the dish-pan, the dish-rag, and the dish-towel for wiping dishes.”
“Look out you don’t get a slipfoot,” warned the old man as the girl
flipped up the street going home.
[Illustration]
2. Two Stories About Bugs and Eggs.
_People_: Little Bugs
Big Bugs
The Rag Doll
The Broom Handle
Hammer and Nails
The Hot Cookie Pan
The Ice Tongs
The Coal Bucket
The Bushel Basket
Jack Knife
Kindling Wood
Splinters
Shush Shush
The Postmaster
The Hardware Man
The Policeman
The Postmaster’s Hat
A Buff Banty Egg
[Illustration]
Many, Many Weddings in One Corner House
There was a corner house with corners every way it looked. And up in the
corners were bugs with little bug houses, bug doors to open, bug windows
to look out of.
In the summer time if the evening was cool or in the winter time if the
evening was warm, they played games—bugs-up, bugs-down, run-bugs-run,
beans-bugs-beans.
This corner house was the place the Rag Doll and the Broom Handle came
to after their wedding. This was the same time those old people, Hammer
and Nails, moved into the corner house with all the little Hammers and
all the little Nails.
So there they were, the young couple, the Rag Doll and the Broom Handle,
and that old family, Hammer and Nails, and up in the corners among the
eave troughs and the roof shingles, the bugs with little bug houses, bug
doors to open, bug windows to look out of, and bug games—bugs-up,
bugs-down, run-bugs-run, or beans-bugs-beans.
Around the corner of the house every Saturday morning came the Hot
Cookie Pan with a pan of hot cookies for Sunday, Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday and the rest of the week.
The Ice Tongs came with ice, the Coal Bucket came with coal, the Potato
Sack came with potatoes. And the Bushel Basket was always going or
coming and saying under his breath, “_Bushels, bushels, bushels_.”
[Illustration: The Hot Cookie Pan came with a pan of hot cookies and the
Coal Bucket with coal]
One day the bugs in the little bug houses opened the bug doors and
looked out of the bug windows and said to each other, “They are washing
their shirts and sewing on buttons—there is going to be a wedding.”
And the next day the bugs said, “They are going to have a wedding and a
wedding breakfast for Jack Knife and Kindling Wood. They are asking
everybody in the kitchen, the cellar, and the back yard, to come.”
The wedding day came. The people came. From all over the kitchen, the
cellar, the back yard, they came. The Rag Doll and the Broom Handle were
there. Hammer and Nails and all the little Hammers and all the little
Nails were there. The Ice Tongs, the Coal Bucket, the Potato Sack, were
all there—and the Bushel Basket going and coming and saying under his
breath, “_Bushels, bushels, bushels_.” And, of course, the Hot Cookie
Pan was there hopping up and down with hot cookies.
So Jack Knife and Kindling Wood began living in the corner house. A
child came. They named her Splinters. And the Hot Cookie Pan and
Splinters met and kissed each other and sat together in cozy corners
close to each other.
And the bugs high up in the corners in the little bug houses, they
opened the bug doors, looked out of the bug windows and said, “They are
washing their shirts and sewing on buttons, there is a wedding again—the
Hot Cookie Pan and Splinters.”
And now they have many, many children, the Hot Cookie Pan and Splinters.
Their children have gone all over the world and everybody knows them.
“Whenever you find a splinter or a sliver or a shiny little shaving of
wood in a hot cookie,” the bugs in the little bug houses say, “whenever
you find a splinter or a sliver or a shiny little shaving of wood in a
hot cookie, it is the child of the Hot Cookie Pan and the girl named
Splinters, the daughter of Jack Knife and Kindling Wood, who grew up and
married the Hot Cookie Pan.”
And sometimes if a little bug asks a big bug a queer, quivvical,
quizzical question hard to answer, the big bug opens a bug door, looks
out of a bug window and says to the little bug, “If you don’t believe
what we tell you, go and ask Hammer and Nails or any of the little
Hammers and Nails. Then run and listen to the Bushel Basket going and
coming and saying under his breath, ‘_Bushels, bushels, bushels_.’”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Shush Shush, the Big Buff Banty Hen Who Laid an Egg in the Postmaster’s
Hat
Shush Shush was a big buff banty hen. She lived in a coop. Sometimes she
marched out of the coop and went away and laid eggs. But always she came
back to the coop.
And whenever she went to the front door and laid an egg in the
door-bell, she rang the bell once for one egg, twice for two eggs, and a
dozen rings for a dozen eggs.
Once Shush Shush went into the house of the Sniggers family and laid an
egg in the piano. Another time she climbed up in the clock and laid an
egg in the clock. But always she came back to the coop.
One summer morning Shush Shush marched out through the front gate, up to
the next corner and the next, till she came to the postoffice. There she
walked into the office of the postmaster and laid an egg in the
postmaster’s hat.
The postmaster put on his hat, went to the hardware store and bought a
keg of nails. He took off his hat and the egg dropped into the keg of
nails.
The hardware man picked up the egg, put it in _his_ hat, and went out to
speak to a policeman. He took off his hat, speaking to the policeman,
and the egg dropped on the sidewalk.
The policeman picked up the egg and put it in his police hat. The
postmaster came past; the policeman took off his police hat and the egg
dropped down on the sidewalk.
The postmaster said, “I lost that egg, it is my egg,” picked it up, put
it in his postmaster’s hat, and forgot all about having an egg in his
hat.
Then the postmaster, a long tall man, came to the door of the
postoffice, a short small door. And the postmaster didn’t stoop low,
didn’t bend under, so he bumped his hat and his head on the top of the
doorway. And the egg _broke_ and ran down over his face and neck.
And long before that happened, Shush Shush was home in her coop,
standing in the door saying, “It is a big day for me because I laid one
of my big buff banty eggs in the postmaster’s hat.”
There Shush Shush stays, living in a coop. Sometimes she marches out of
the coop and goes away and lays eggs in pianos, clocks, hats. But she
always comes back to the coop.
And whenever she goes to the front door and lays an egg in the
door-bell, she rings the bell once for one egg, twice for two eggs, and
a dozen rings for a dozen eggs.
[Illustration]
3. Five Stories About Hatrack the Horse, Six Pigeons, Three Wild
Babylonian Baboons, Six Umbrellas, Bozo the Button Buster.
_People_: Hatrack the Horse
Peter Potato Blossom Wishes
Rag Bag Mammy
Gimmes
Wiffle the Chick
Chickamauga
Chattanooga
Chattahoochee
Blue Mist
Bubbles
Wednesday Evening in the Twilight and the Gloaming
Telegrams
The Three Wild Babylonian Baboons
Three Umbrellas
The Night Policeman
Six Umbrellas
The Big Umbrella
Straw Hats
Dippy the Wisp
Bozo the Button Buster
A Mouse
Deep Red Roses
The Beans Are Burning
Sweeter Than the Bees Humming
[Illustration]
How Rag Bag Mammy Kept Her Secret While the Wind Blew Away the Village
of Hat Pins
There was a horse-face man in the Village of Cream Puffs. People called
him Hatrack the Horse.
The skin stretched tight over his bones. Once a little girl said, “His
eyes look like lightning bugs lighting up the summer night coming out of
two little doors.”
When Hatrack the Horse took _off_ his hat he reached his hand around
behind and hung the hat _on_ a shoulder bone sticking out.
When he wanted to put _on_ his hat he reached his hand around and took
it _off_ from where it was hanging on the shoulder bone sticking out
behind.
One summer Hatrack said to Peter Potato Blossom Wishes, “I am going away
up north and west in the Rootabaga Country to see the towns different
from each other. Then I will come back east as far as I went west, and
south as far as I went north, till I am back again where my little pal,
Peter Potato Blossom Wishes, lives in the Village of Cream Puffs.”
So he went away, going north and west and coming back east and south
till he was back again in his home town, sitting on the front steps of
his little red shanty, fixing a kite to fly.
“Are you glad to come back?” asked Peter.
“Yes, this is home, this is the only place where I know how the winds
act up so I can talk to them when I fly a kite.”
“Tell me what you saw and how you listened and if they handed you any
nice packages.”
“They handed me packages, all right, all right,” said Hatrack the Horse.
“Away far to the west I came to the Village of Hat Pins,” he went on.
“It is the place where they make all the hat pins for the hats to be
pinned on in the Rootabaga Country. They asked me about the Village of
Cream Puffs and how the winds are here because the winds here blow so
many hats off that the Village of Hat Pins sells more hat pins to the
people here than anywhere else.
“There is an old woman in the Village of Hat Pins. She walks across the
town and around the town every morning and every afternoon. On her back
is a big rag bag. She never takes anything out of the rag bag. She never
puts anything in. That is, nobody ever sees her put anything in or take
anything out. She has never opened the rag bag telling people to take a
look and see what is in it. She sleeps with the rag bag for a pillow. So
it is always with her and nobody looks into it unless she lets them. And
she never lets them.
“Her name? Everybody calls her Rag Bag Mammy. She wears aprons with big
pockets. And though she never speaks to big grown-up people she is
always glad to meet little growing people, boys and girls. And
especially, most of all, she likes to meet boys and girls who say,
‘Gimme’ (once, like that) or ‘Gimme, gimme’ (twice, like that) or
‘Gimme, gimme, gimme’ (three times) or ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme,
gimme, gimme’ (more times than we can count). She likes to meet the
gimmes because she digs into her pockets and brings out square chocolate
drops and round chocolate drops and chocolate drops shaped like a half
moon, barber pole candy with red and white stripes wrapped around it,
all day suckers so long they last not only all day but all this week and
all next week, and different kinds of jackstones, some that say
chink-chink on the sidewalks and some that say teentsy-weentsy
chink-chink when they all bunch together on the sidewalk. And sometimes
if one of the gimmes is crying and feeling bad she gives the gimme a
doll only as big as a child’s hand but the doll can say the alphabet and
sing little Chinese Assyrian songs.
“Of course,” said Hatrack the Horse, reaching his hand around to see if
his hat was hanging on behind, “of course, you have to have sharp ears
and listen close-up and be nice when you are listening, if you are going
to hear a doll say the alphabet and sing little Chinese Assyrian songs.”
“I could hear them,” said Peter Potato Blossom Wishes. “I am a nice
listener. I could hear those dolls sing the little Chinese Assyrian
songs.”
“I believe you, little pal of mine,” said Hatrack. “I know you have the
ears and you know how to put your ears so you hear.”
“Of course, every morning and every afternoon when Rag Bag Mammy walks
across the town and around the town in the Village of Hat Pins, people
ask her what is in the rag bag on her back. And she answers, ‘It is a
nice day we are having,’ or ‘I think the rain will stop when it stops
raining, don’t you?’ Then if they ask again and beg and plead, ‘_What_
is in the rag bag? What _is_ in the rag bag?’ she tells them, ‘When the
wind blows away the Village of Hat Pins and blows it so far away it
never comes back, then—then, then, then—I will tell you what is in the
rag bag.’”
“One day the wind came along and blew the Village of Hat Pins loose, and
after blowing it loose, carried it high off in the sky. And the people
were saying to each other, ‘Well, now we are going to hear Rag Bag Mammy
tell us what is in the rag bag.’
“And the wind kept blowing, carrying the Village of Hat Pins higher and
farther and farther and higher. And when at last it went away so high it
came to a white cloud, the hat pins in the village all stuck out and
fastened the village to the cloud so the wind couldn’t blow it any
farther.
“And—after a while they pulled the hatpins out of the cloud—and the
village dropped back right down where it was before.
“And Rag Bag Mammy goes every morning and every afternoon with the rag
bag on her back across and around the town. And sometimes people say to
her, ‘The next time the wind blows us away—the next time the wind will
blow us so far there won’t be any cloud to fasten hat pins in—and you
will have to tell us what is in the rag bag.’ And Rag Bag Mammy just
answers, ‘Yes, yes—yes—yes,’ and goes on her way looking for the next
boy or girl to say, ‘Gimme’ (once, like that) or ‘Gimme, gimme’ (twice,
like that) or ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme’ (more times than we
can count).
“And if a child is crying she digs into her pockets and pulls out the
doll that says the alphabet and sings little Chinese Assyrian songs.”
“And,” said Peter Potato Blossom Wishes, “you have to listen close up
with your ears and be nice when you are listening.”
“In the Village of Hat Pins that the wind nearly blew away forever,”
said Hatrack the Horse.
And Peter Potato Blossom Wishes skipped away down from the little red
shanty, skipped down the street, and then began walking slow saying to
herself, “I love Hatrack the Horse like a grand uncle—his eyes look like
lightning bugs lighting up the summer night coming out of two little
doors.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Six Pigeons Came Back to Hatrack the Horse After Many Accidents and
Six Telegrams
Six crooked ladders stood against the front of the shanty where Hatrack
the Horse lived.
Yellow roses all on fire were climbing up and down the ladders, up and
down and crossways.
And leaning out on both sides from the crooked ladders were vines of
yellow roses, leaning, curving, nearly falling.
Hatrack the Horse was waiting. This was the morning Wiffle the Chick was
coming.
“Sit here on the cracker box and listen,” he said to her when she
came; “listen and you will hear the roses saying, ‘This is climbing
time for all yellow roses and climbing time is the time to climb; how
did we ever learn to climb only by climbing? Listen and you will
hear—st..th..st..th..st..th..it is the feet of the yellow roses
climbing up and down and leaning out and curving and nearly falling
..st..th..st..th..’”
So Wiffle the Chick sat there, early in the summer, enjoying herself,
sitting on a cracker box, listening to the yellow roses climb around the
six crooked ladders.
Hatrack the Horse came out. On his shoulders were two pigeons, on his
hands two pigeons. And he reached his hand around behind his back where
his hat was hanging and he opened the hat and showed Wiffle the Chick
two pigeons in the hat.
“They are lovely pigeons to look at and their eyes are full of lessons
to learn,” said Wiffle the Chick. “Maybe you will tell me why you have
their feet wrapped in bandages, hospital liniment bandages full of
hospital liniment smells? Why do you put soft mittens on the feet of
these pigeons so lovely to look at?”
“They came back yesterday, they came back home,” was the answer. “They
came back limping on their feet with the toes turned in so far they
nearly turned backward. When they put their bleeding feet in my hands
one by one each one, it was like each one was writing his name in my
hand with red ink.”
“Did you know they were coming?” asked Wiffle.
“Every day the last six days I get a telegram, six telegrams from six
pigeons—and at last they come home. And ever since they come home they
are telling me they come because they love Hatrack the Horse and the
yellow climbing roses climbing over the six crooked ladders.”
“Did you name your pigeons with names?” asked Wiffle.
“These three, the sandy and golden brown, all named themselves by where
they came from. This is Chickamauga, here is Chattanooga, and this is
Chattahoochee. And the other three all got their names from me when I
was feeling high and easy. This is Blue Mist, here is Bubbles, and last
of all take a look at Wednesday Evening in the Twilight and the
Gloaming.”
“Do you always call her Wednesday Evening in the Twilight and the
Gloaming?”
“Not when I am making coffee for breakfast. If I am making coffee for
breakfast then I just call her Wednesday Evening.”
“Didn’t you tie the mittens on her feet extra special nice?”
“Yes—she is an extra special nice pigeon. She cries for pity when she
wants pity. And she shuts her eyes when she doesn’t want to look at you.
And if you look deep in her eyes when her eyes are open you will see
lights there exactly like the lights on the pastures and the meadows
when the mist is drifting on a Wednesday evening just between the
twilight and the gloaming.
“A week ago yesterday they all went away. And they won’t tell why they
went away. Somebody clipped their wings, cut off their flying feathers
so they couldn’t fly—and they won’t tell why. They were six hundred
miles from home—but they won’t tell how they counted the six hundred
miles. A hundred miles a day they walked, six hundred miles in a week,
and they sent a telegram to me every day, one writing a telegram one day
and another writing a telegram the next day—all the time walking a
hundred miles a day with their toes turned in like pigeon toes turn in.
Do you wonder they needed bandages, hospital liniment bandages on their
feet—and soft mittens?”
“Show me the telegrams they sent you, one every day, for six days while
they were walking six hundred miles on their pigeon toes.”
So Hatrack the Horse got the six telegrams. The reading on the telegrams
was like this:
1. “Feet are as good as wings if you have to. CHICKAMAUGA.”
2. “If you love to go somewhere it is easy to walk. CHATTANOOGA.”
3. “In the night sleeping you forget whether you have wings or feet or
neither. CHATTAHOOCHEE.”
4. “What are toes for if they don’t point to what you want? BLUE MIST.”
5. “Anybody can walk hundreds of miles putting one foot ahead of the
other. BUBBLES.”
6. “Pity me. Far is far. Near is near. And there is no place like home
when the yellow roses climb up the ladders and sing in the early summer.
Pity me. WEDNESDAY EVENING IN THE TWILIGHT AND THE GLOAMING.”
“Did they have any accidents going six hundred miles walking with their
little pigeon toes turned in?” asked Wiffle.
“Once they had an accident,” said Hatrack, with Chattahoochee standing
in his hat, Chickamauga on his right shoulder, Chattanooga on his left,
and holding Blue Mist and Bubbles on his wrists. “They came to an old
wooden bridge. Chattahoochee and Wednesday Evening both cried out, ‘The
bridge will fall if we all walk on it the same time!’ But they were all
six already on the bridge and the bridge began sagging and tumbled them
all into the river. But it was good for them all to have a footbath for
their feet, Wednesday Evening explained.”
“I got a suspicion you like Wednesday Evening in the Twilight and the
Gloaming best of all,” spoke up Wiffle.
“Well, Wednesday Evening was the only one I noticed making any mention
of the yellow roses in her telegram,” Hatrack the Horse explained, as he
picked up Wednesday Evening and reached her around and put her to perch
on the shoulder bone on his back.
Then the old man and the girl sat on the cracker box saying nothing,
only listening to the yellow roses all on fire with early summer
climbing up the crooked ladders, up and down and crossways, some of them
leaning out and curving and nearly falling.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How the Three Wild Babylonian Baboons Went Away in the Rain Eating Bread
and Butter
One morning when Hatrack the Horse went away from his shanty, he put
three umbrellas in the corner next to the front door.
His pointing finger pointed at the three umbrellas as he said, “If the
three wild Babylonian Baboons come sneaking up to this shanty and
sneaking through the door and sneaking through the house, then all you
three umbrellas open up like it was raining, jump straight at the
baboons and fasten your handles in their hands. Then, all three of you
stay open as if it was raining—and hold those handles in the hands of
the baboons and never let go till I come.”
Hatrack the Horse went away. The three umbrellas stood in the corner
next to the front door. And when the umbrellas listened they could hear
the three wild Babylonian Baboons sneaking up to the shanty. Soon the
baboons, all hairy all over, bangs down their foreheads, came sneaking
through the door. Just as they were sneaking through the door they took
off their hats to show they were getting ready to sneak through the
house.
Then the three umbrellas in the corner opened up as if it was raining;
they jumped straight at the three wild Babylonian Baboons; and they
fastened their handles tight in the hands of the baboons and wouldn’t
let go.
So there were the three wild Babylonian Baboons, each with a hat in his
left hand, and an open umbrella in his right hand.
When Hatrack the Horse came home he came, quiet. He opened the front
door, quiet. Then he looked around inside the house, quiet.
In the corner where he had stood the three umbrellas, he saw the three
wild Babylonian Baboons on the floor, sleeping, with umbrellas over
their faces.
“The umbrellas were so big they couldn’t get through the door,” said
Hatrack the Horse. For a long time he stood looking at the bangs hanging
down the foreheads of the baboons while they were sleeping. He took a
comb and combed the bangs down the foreheads of the baboons. He went to
the cupboard and spread bread and butter. He took the hats out of the
left hands of the baboons and put the hats on their heads. He put a
piece of bread and butter in the hand of each baboon.
After that he snipped each one across the nose with his finger
(_snippety-snip!_ just like that). They opened their eyes and stood up.
Then he loosened the umbrella handles from their right hands and led
them to the door.
They all looked out. It was raining. “Now you can go,” he told the
baboons. And they all walked out of the front door, and they seemed to
be snickering and hiding the snickers.
The last he saw of them they were walking away in the rain eating bread
and butter. And they took off their hats so the rain ran down and slid
off on the bangs of their foreheads.
Hatrack the Horse turned to the umbrellas and said, “We know how to make
a surprise party when we get a visit from the Babylonian Baboons with
their bangs falling down their foreheads—don’t we?”
That is what happened, as Hatrack the Horse told it to the night
policeman in the Village of Cream Puffs.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Six Umbrellas Took Off Their Straw Hats to Show Respect to the One
Big Umbrella
Wherever Dippy the Wisp went she was always changing hats. She carried
two hat boxes with big picture hats on her _right_ arm. And she carried
two hat boxes with big picture hats on her _left_ arm. And she changed
from green and gold hats to purple and gray hats and then back to green
and gold whenever she felt like it.
Now the hill that runs down from the shanty of Hatrack the Horse toward
the Village of Cream Puffs is a long, long hill. And one morning the old
man sat watching and away down at the bottom of the long, long hill he
saw four hat boxes. Somebody was coming to call on him. And he knew it
was Dippy the Wisp.
The hat boxes came up the hill. He saw them stop once, stop twice, stop
more times. So he knew Dippy the Wisp was changing hats, changing from
green and gold to purple and gray and then back to green and gold.
When at last she got to the top of the hill and came to the shanty of
Hatrack the Horse, she said to him, “Make up a story and tell me. Make
up the story about umbrellas. You have traveled all over the Rootabaga
Country, you have seen so many umbrellas, and such wonderful umbrellas.
Make me up a big elegant story about umbrellas.”
So Hatrack the Horse took his hat _off_ his head, reached around and
hung it _on_ one of the shoulder bones sticking out behind on his back.
And the old man looked with a faraway look down the long, long hill
running from his shanty toward the Village of Cream Puffs. Then he told
her this story:
One summer afternoon I came home and found all the umbrellas sitting in
the kitchen, with straw hats on, telling each other who they are.
The umbrella that feeds the fishes fresh buns every morning stood up and
said, “I am the umbrella that feeds the fishes fresh buns every
morning.”
The umbrella that fixes the clocks free of charge stood up and said, “I
am the umbrella that fixes the clocks free of charge.”
The umbrella that peels the potatoes with a pencil and makes a pink ink
with the peelings, stood up and said, “I am the umbrella that peels the
potatoes with a pencil and makes a pink ink with the peelings.”
The umbrella that eats the rats with pepper and salt and a clean napkin
every morning, stood up and said, “I am the umbrella that eats the rats
with pepper and salt and a clean napkin every morning.”
The umbrella that washes the dishes with a wiper and wipes the dishes
with a washer every morning stood up and said, “I am the umbrella that
washes the dishes with a wiper and wipes the dishes with a washer every
morning.”
The umbrella that covers the chimney with a dish-pan before it rains
stood up and said, “I am the umbrella that covers the chimney with a
dish-pan before it rains.”
The umbrella that runs to the corner to get corners for the
handkerchiefs stood up and said, “I am the umbrella that runs to the
corner to get corners for the handkerchiefs.”
Now while the umbrellas are all sitting in the kitchen with their straw
hats on telling each other who they are, there comes a big black
stranger of an umbrella, walking into the kitchen without opening the
door, walking in without knocking, without asking anybody, without
telling anybody beforehand.
“Since we are telling each other who we are,” said the stranger, “since
we are telling each other who we are, I am going to tell you who I am.
“I am the umbrella that holds up the sky. I am the umbrella the rain
comes through. I am the umbrella that tells the sky when to begin
raining and when to stop raining.
“I am the umbrella that goes to pieces when the wind blows and then puts
itself together again when the wind goes down. I am the first umbrella,
the last umbrella, the one and only umbrella all other umbrellas are
named after, first, last and always.”
When the stranger finished this speech telling who he was and where he
came from, all the other umbrellas sat still for a little while, to be
respectful.
Then they all got up, took off their straw hats, walked up to the
stranger and laid those straw hats at his feet. They wanted to show him
they had respect for him. Then they all walked out, first the umbrella
that feeds the fishes fresh buns every morning, then the umbrella that
fixes the clocks free of charge, then the umbrella that peels the
potatoes with a pencil and makes pink ink with the peelings, then the
umbrella that eats the rats with pepper and salt and a clean napkin,
then the umbrella that washes the dishes with a wiper and wipes the
dishes with a washer, then the umbrella that covers the chimney with a
dish-pan before it rains, then the umbrella that runs to the corner to
get corners for the handkerchiefs. They all laid their straw hats at the
feet of the stranger because he came without knocking or telling anybody
beforehand and because he said he is the umbrella that holds up the sky,
that big umbrella the rain goes through first of all, the first and the
last umbrella.
That was the way Hatrack the Horse finished his story for Dippy the
Wisp. She was changing hats, getting ready to go.
The old man put his loose bony arms around her and kissed her for a
good-by. And she put her little dimpled arms around his neck and kissed
him for a good-by.
And the last he saw of her that day she was walking far away down at the
bottom of the long, long hill that stretches from Hatrack’s shanty
toward the Village of Cream Puffs.
And twice going down the long hill she stopped and changed hats, opening
and shutting the hat boxes, and changing hats from green and gold to
purple and gray and back to green and gold.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Bozo the Button Buster Busted All His Buttons When a Mouse Came
One summer evening the stars in the summer sky seemed to be moving with
fishes, cats and rabbits.
It was that summer evening three girls came to the shanty of Hatrack the
Horse. He asked each one, “What is your name?” And they answered, first,
“Me? My name is Deep Red Roses”; second, “Me? My name is The Beans are
Burning”; and last of all, “Me? My name is Sweeter Than the Bees
Humming.”
And the old man fastened a yellow rose for luck in the hair of each one
and said, “You ought to be home now.”
“After you tell us a story,” they reminded him.
“I can only tell you a sad story all mixed up to-night,” he reminded
them, “because all day to-day I have been thinking about Bozo the Button
Buster.”
“Tell us about Bozo the Button Buster,” said the girls, feeling in their
hair and fixing the yellow roses.
The old man sat down on the front steps. His eyes swept away off toward
a corner of the sky heavy with mist where it seemed to be moving with
firetails, fishes, cats, and rabbits of slow changing stars.
“Bozo had buttons all over him,” said the old man, “the buttons on Bozo
fitted so tight, and there were so many buttons, that sometimes when he
took his lungs full of new wind to go on talking a button would bust
loose and fly into the face of whoever he was speaking to. Sometimes
when he took new wind into his lungs two buttons would bust loose and
fly into the faces of two people he was speaking to.
“So people said, ‘Isn’t it queer how buttons fly loose when Bozo fills
his lungs with wind to go on speaking?’ After a while everybody called
him Bozo the Button Buster.
“Now, you must understand, Bozo was different from other people. He had
a string tied to him. It was a long string hanging down with a knot in
the end. He used to say, ‘Sometimes I forget where I am; then I feel for
the string tied to me, and I follow the string to where it is tied to
me; then I know where I am again.’
“Sometimes when Bozo was speaking and a button busted loose, he would
ask, ‘Was that a mouse? Was that a mouse?’ And sometimes he said to
people, ‘I’ll talk with you—_if you haven’t got a mouse in your
pocket_.’
“The last day Bozo ever came to the Village of Cream Puffs, he stood on
the public square and he was all covered with buttons, more buttons than
ever before, and all the buttons fitting tight, and five, six buttons
busting loose and flying into the air whenever he took his lungs full of
wind to go on speaking.
“‘When the sky began to fall who was it ran out and held up the sky?’ he
sang out. ‘It was me, it was me ran out and held up the sky when the sky
began to fall.’
“‘When the blue came off the sky, where did they get the blue to put on
the sky to make it blue again? It was me, it was me picked the bluebirds
and the blue pigeons to get the blue to fix the sky.’
“‘When it rains now it rains umbrellas first so everybody has an
umbrella for the rain afterward. Who fixed that? I did—Bozo the Button
Buster.’
“‘Who took the rainbow off the sky and put it back again in a hurry?
That was me.’
[Illustration: The mouse bit the knot and cut it loose]
“‘Who turned all the barns upside down and then put them right side up
again? I did that.’
“‘Who took the salt out of the sea and put it back again? Who took the
fishes out of the sea and put them back again? That was me.’
“‘Who started the catfish fighting the cats? Who made the slippery elms
slippery? Who made the King of the Broken Bottles a wanderer wandering
over the world mumbling, “Easy, easy”? Who opened the windows of the
stars and threw fishes, cats and rabbits all over the frames of the sky?
I did, I did, I did.’
“All the time Bozo kept on speaking the buttons kept on busting because
he had to stop so often to fill his lungs with new wind to go on
speaking. The public square was filled with piles of buttons that kept
busting off from Bozo the Button Buster that day.
“And at last a mouse came, a sneaking, slippery, quick little mouse. He
ran with a flash to the string tied to Bozo, the long string hanging
down with a knot in the end. He bit the knot and cut it loose. He slit
the string with his teeth as Bozo cried, ‘Ai! Ai! Ai!’
“The last of all the buttons busted loose off Bozo. The clothes fell
off. The people came up to see what was happening to Bozo. There was
nothing in the clothes. The man inside the clothes was gone. All that
was left was buttons and a few clothes.
“Since then whenever it rains umbrellas first so everybody has an
umbrella for the rain afterward, or if the sky looks like it is falling,
or if a barn turns upside down, or if the King of the Broken Bottles
comes along mumbling ‘Easy, easy,’ or if firetails, fishes, cats and
rabbits come on the sky in the night, or if a button busts loose and
flies into somebody’s face, people remember Bozo the Button Buster.”
When the three girls started home, each one said to Hatrack the Horse,
“It looks dark and lonesome on the prairie, but you put a yellow rose in
my hair for luck—and I won’t be scared after I get home.”
[Illustration]
4. Two Stories About Four Boys Who Had Different Dreams.
_People_: Googler
Gaggler
Twins
The Family Doctor
The Father of the Twins
The Mother of the Twins
Pen Wipers and Pencil Sharpeners
Smokestacks and Monkey Wrenches
Monkey Faces on the Monkey Wrenches
Left-Handed Monkey Wrenches
Potato Face Blind Man
Ax Me No Questions
Johnny the Wham
Joe the Wimp
Grasshoppers
Thousand Dollar Bills
Brass Doors
Lizzie Lazarus
[Illustration]
How Googler and Gaggler, the Two Christmas Babies, Came Home with Monkey
Wrenches
1
Two babies came one night in snowstorm weather, came to a tar paper
shack on a cinder patch next the railroad yards on the edge of the
Village of Liver-and-Onions.
The family doctor came that night, came with a bird of a spizz car
throwing a big spotlight of a headlight through the snow of the
snowstorm on the prairie.
“Twins,” said the doctor. “Twins,” said the father and mother. And the
wind as it shook the tar paper shack and shook the doors and the
padlocks on the doors of the tar paper shack, the wind seemed to be
howling softly, “Twins, twins.”
Six days and Christmas Eve came. The mother of the twins lit two
candles, two little two-for-a-nickel candles in each little window. And
the mother handed the father the twins and said, “Here are your
Christmas presents.” The father took the two baby boys and laughed,
“Twice times twice is twice.”
The two little two-for-a-nickel candles sputtered in each little window
that Christmas Eve, and at last sputtered and went out, leaving the
prairies dark and lonesome. The father and the mother of the twins sat
by the window, each one holding a baby.
Every once in a while they changed babies so as to hold a different
twin. And every time they changed they laughed at each other, “Twice
times twice is twice.”
One baby was called Googler, the other Gaggler. The two boys grew up,
and hair came on their bald red heads. Their ears, wet behind, got dry.
They learned how to pull on their stockings and shoes and tie their
shoestrings. They learned at last how to take a handkerchief and hold it
open and blow their noses.
Their father looked at them growing up and said, “I think you’ll make a
couple of peanut-wagon men pouring hot butter into popcorn sacks.”
The family doctor saw the rashes and the itches and the measles and the
whooping cough come along one year and another. He saw the husky Googler
and the husky Gaggler throw off the rashes and the itches and the
measles and the whooping cough. And the family doctor said, “They will
go far and see much, and they will never be any good for sitting with
the sitters and knitting with the knitters.”
Googler and Gaggler grew up and turned handsprings going to school in
short pants, whistling with school books under their arms. They went
barefooted and got stickers in their hair and teased cats and killed
snakes and climbed apple trees and threw clubs up walnut trees and
chewed slippery ellum. They stubbed their toes and cut their feet on
broken bottles and went swimming in brickyard ponds and came home with
their backs sunburnt so the skin peeled off. And before they went to bed
every night they stood on their heads and turned flip-flops.
One morning early in spring the young frogs were shooting silver spears
of little new songs up into the sky. Strips of fresh young grass were
beginning to flick the hills and spot the prairie with flicks and spots
of new green. On that morning, Googler and Gaggler went to school with
fun and danger and dreams in their eyes.
They came home that day and told their mother, “There is a war between
the pen wipers and the pencil sharpeners. Millions of pen wipers and
millions of pencil sharpeners are marching against each other, marching
and singing, _Hayfoot, strawfoot, bellyful o’ bean soup_. The pen wipers
and the pencil sharpeners, millions and millions, are marching with
drums, drumming, _Ta rum, ta rum, ta rum tum tum_. The pen wipers say,
No matter how many million ink spots it costs and no matter how many
million pencil sharpeners we kill, we are going to kill and kill till
the last of the pencil sharpeners is killed. The pencil sharpeners say,
No matter how many million shavings it costs, no matter how many million
pen wipers we kill, we are going to kill and kill till the last of the
pen wipers is killed.”
The mother of Googler and Gaggler listened, her hands folded, her thumbs
under her chin, her eyes watching the fun and the danger and the dreams
in the eyes of the two boys. And she said, “Me, oh, my—but those pen
wipers and pencil sharpeners hate each other.” And she turned her eyes
toward the flicks and spots of new green grass coming on the hills and
the prairie, and she let her ears listen to the young frogs shooting
silver spears of little songs up into the sky that day.
And she told her two boys, “Pick up your feet now and run. Go to the
grass, go to the new green grass. Go to the young frogs and ask them why
they are shooting songs up into the sky this early spring day. Pick up
your feet now and run.”
2
At last Googler and Gaggler were big boys, big enough to pick the
stickers out of each other’s hair, big enough to pick up their feet and
run away from anybody who chased them.
[Illustration: They went to sleep on top of the wagon]
One night they turned flip-flops and handsprings and climbed up on top
of a peanut wagon where a man was pouring hot butter into popcorn sacks.
They went to sleep on top of the wagon. Googler dreamed of teasing cats,
killing snakes, climbing apple trees and stealing apples. Gaggler
dreamed of swimming in brickyard ponds and coming home with his back
sunburnt so the skin peeled off.
They woke up with heavy gunnysacks in their arms. They climbed off the
wagon and started home to their father and mother lugging the heavy
gunnysacks on their backs. And they told their father and mother:
“We ran away to the Thimble Country where the people wear thimble hats,
where the women wash dishes in thimble dishpans, where the men go to
work with thimble shovels.
“We saw a war, the left-handed people against the right-handed. And the
smokestacks did all the fighting. They all had monkey wrenches and they
tried to wrench each other to pieces. And they had monkey faces on the
monkey wrenches—to scare each other.
“All the time they were fighting the Thimble people sat looking on, the
thimble women with thimble dishpans, the thimble men with thimble
shovels. They waved handkerchiefs to each other, some left-hand
handkerchiefs, and some right-hand handkerchiefs. They sat looking till
the smokestacks with their monkey wrenches wrenched each other all to
pieces.”
Then Googler and Gaggler opened the heavy gunnysacks. “Here,” they said,
“here is a left-handed monkey wrench, here is a right-handed monkey
wrench. And here is a monkey wrench with a monkey face on the handle—to
scare with.”
Now the father and mother of Googler and Gaggler wonder how they will
end up. The family doctor keeps on saying, “They will go far and see
much but they will never sit with the sitters and knit with the
knitters.” And sometimes when their father looks at them, he says what
he said the Christmas Eve when the two-for-a-nickel candles stood two by
two in the windows, “Twice times twice is twice.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Johnny the Wham Sleeps in Money All the Time and Joe the Wimp Shines
and Sees Things
Once the Potato Face Blind Man began talking about arithmetic and
geography, where numbers come from and why we add and subtract before we
multiply, when the first fractions and decimal points were invented, who
gave the rivers their names, and why some rivers have short names
slipping off the tongue easy as whistling, and why other rivers have
long names wearing the stub ends off lead pencils.
The girl, Ax Me No Questions, asked the old man if boys always stay in
the home towns where they are born and grow up, or whether boys pack
their packsacks and go away somewhere else after they grow up. This
question started the old man telling about Johnny the Wham and Joe the
Wimp and things he remembered about them:
Johnny the Wham and Joe the Wimp are two boys who used to live here in
the Village of Liver-and-Onions before they went away. They grew up
here, carving their initials, J. W., on wishbones and peanuts and
wheelbarrows. And if anybody found a wishbone or a peanut or a
wheelbarrow with the initials, J. W., carved on it, he didn’t know
whether it was Johnny the Wham or Joe the Wimp.
They met on summer days, put their hands in their pockets and traded
each other grasshoppers learning to say yes and no. One kick and a spit
meant yes. Two kicks and a spit meant no. One two three, four five six
of a kick and a spit meant the grasshopper was counting and learning
numbers.
They promised what they were going to do after they went away from the
village. Johnny the Wham said, “I am going to sleep in money up to my
knees with thousand dollar bills all over me for a blanket.” Joe the
Wimp said, “I am going to see things and shine, and I am going to shine
and see things.”
They went away. They did what they said. They went up into the
grasshopper country near the Village of Eggs Over where the grasshoppers
were eating the corn in the fields without counting how much. They
stayed in those fields till those grasshoppers learned to say yes and no
and learned to count. One kick and a spit meant yes. Two kicks and a
spit meant no. One two three, four five six meant the grasshoppers were
counting and learning numbers. The grasshoppers, after that, eating ears
of corn in the fields, were counting how many and how much.
To-day Johnny the Wham sleeps in a room full of money in the big bank in
the Village of Eggs Over. The room where he sleeps is the room where
they keep the thousand dollar bills. He walks in thousand dollar bills
up to his knees at night before he goes to bed on the floor. A bundle of
thousand dollar bills is his pillow. He covers himself like a man in a
haystack or a strawstack, with thousand dollar bills. The paper money is
piled around him in armfuls and sticks up and stands out around him the
same as hay or straw.
And Lizzie Lazarus, who talked with him in the Village of Eggs Over last
week, she says Johnny the Wham told her, “There is music in thousand
dollar bills. Before I go to sleep at night and when I wake up in the
morning, I listen to their music. They whisper and cry, they sing little
oh-me, oh-my songs as they wriggle and rustle next to each other. A few
with dirty faces, with torn ears, with patches and finger and thumb
prints on their faces, they cry and whisper so it hurts to hear them.
And often they shake all over, laughing.
“I heard one dirty thousand dollar bill say to another spotted with
patches and thumb prints, ‘They kiss us welcome when we come, they kiss
us sweet good-by when we go.’
“They cry and whisper and laugh about things and special things and
extra extra special things—pigeons, ponies, pigs, special pigeons,
ponies, pigs, extra extra special pigeons, ponies, pigs—cats, pups,
monkeys, big bags of cats, pups, monkeys, extra extra big bags of
special cats, pups, monkeys—jewelry, ice cream, bananas, pie, hats,
shoes, shirts, dust pans, rat traps, coffee cups, handkerchiefs, safety
pins—diamonds, bottles and big front doors with bells on—they cry and
whisper and laugh about these things—and it never hurts unless the dirty
thousand dollar bills with torn ears and patches on their faces say to
each other, ‘They kiss us welcome when we come, they kiss us sweet
good-by when we go.’”
The old Potato Face sat saying nothing. He fooled a little with the
accordion keys as if trying to make up a tune for the words, “They kiss
us welcome when we come, they kiss us sweet good-by when we go.”
Ax Me No Questions looked at him with a soft look and said softly, “Now
maybe you’ll tell about Joe the Wimp.” And he told her:
Joe the Wimp shines the doors in front of the bank. The doors are brass,
and Joe the Wimp stands with rags and ashes and chamois skin keeping the
brass shining.
“The brass shines slick and shows everything on the street like a
looking glass,” he told Lizzie Lazarus last week. “If pigeons, ponies,
pigs, come past, or cats, pups, monkeys, or jewelry, ice cream, bananas,
pie, hats, shoes, shirts, dust pans, rat traps, coffee cups,
handkerchiefs, safety pins, or diamonds, bottles, and big front doors
with bells on, Joe the Wimp sees them in the brass.
“I rub on the brass doors, and things begin to jump into my hands out of
the shine of the brass. Faces, chimneys, elephants, yellow humming
birds, and blue cornflowers, where I have seen grasshoppers sleeping two
by two and two by two, they all come to the shine of the brass on the
doors when I ask them to. If you shine brass hard, and wish as hard as
the brass wishes, and keep on shining and wishing, then always things
come jumping into your hands out of the shine of the brass.”
“So you see,” said the Potato Face Blind Man to Ax Me No Questions,
“sometimes the promises boys make when they go away come true
afterward.”
“They got what they asked for—now will they keep it or leave it?” said
Ax Me.
“Only the grasshoppers can answer that,” was the old man’s reply. “The
grasshoppers are older. They know more about jumps. And especially
grasshoppers that say yes and no and count one two three, four five
six.”
And he sat saying nothing, fooling with the accordion keys as if trying
to make up a tune for the words, “They kiss us welcome when we come,
they kiss us sweet good-by when we go.”
[Illustration]
5. Two Stories Told by the Potato Face Blind Man About Two Girls with
Red Hearts.
_People_: Blixie Bimber
The Potato Face Blind Man
Shoulder Straps
High High Over
Six Bits
Deep Red Roses
A Clock
A Looking Glass
Baggage
Pink Peony
Spuds the Ballplayer
Four Moon
Peacocks
Frogs
Oranges
Yellow Silk Handkerchiefs
[Illustration]
How Deep Red Roses Goes Back and Forth Between the Clock and the Looking
Glass
One morning when big white clouds were shouldering each other’s
shoulders, rolling on the rollers of a big blue sky, Blixie Bimber came
along where the Potato Face Blind Man sat shining the brass
bickerjiggers on his accordion.
“Do you like to shine up the brass bickerjiggers?” asked Blixie.
“Yes,” he answered. “One time a long time ago the brass bickerjiggers
were gold, but they stole the gold away when I wasn’t looking.”
He blinked the eyelids over his eyeballs and said, “I thank them because
they took gold they wanted. Brass feels good to my fingers the same as
gold.” And he went on shining up the brass bickerjiggers on the
accordion, humming a little line of an old song, “To-morrow will never
catch up with yesterday because yesterday started sooner.”
“Seems like a nice morning with the sun spilling bushels of sunshine,”
he said to Blixie, who answered, “Big white clouds are shouldering each
other’s shoulders rolling on the rollers of a big blue sky.”
“Seems like it’s April all over again,” he murmured, almost like he
wasn’t talking at all.
“Seems just that way—April all over again,” murmured Blixie, almost like
she wasn’t talking at all.
So they began drifting, the old man drifting his way, the girl drifting
her way, till he drifted into a story. And the story he told was like
this and in these words:
“Deep Red Roses was a lovely girl with blue skylights like the blue
skylights of early April in her eyes. And her lips reminded people of
deep red roses waiting in the cool of the summer evening.
“She met Shoulder Straps one day when she was young yet. He promised
her. And she promised him. But he went away. One of the long wars
between two short wars took him. In a far away country, then, he married
another girl. And he didn’t come back to Deep Red Roses.
“Next came High High Over, one day when she was young yet. A dancer he
was, going from one city to another city to dance, spending his
afternoons and evenings and late nights dancing, and sleeping in the
morning till noon. And when he promised she promised. But he went away
to another city and after that another city. And he married one woman
and then another woman. Every year there came a new story about one of
the new wives of High High Over, the dancer. And while she was young
yet, Deep Red Roses forgot all about her promise and the promise of High
High Over, the dancer who ran away from her.
“Six Bits was the next to come along. And he was not a soldier nor a
dancer nor anything special. He was a careless man, changing from one
job to another, changing from paperhanging to plastering, from fixing
shingle roofs where the shingles were ripped to opening cans with can
openers.
“Six Bits gave Deep Red Roses his promise and she gave him her promise.
But he was always late keeping his promise. When the wedding was to be
Tuesday he didn’t come till Wednesday. If it was Friday he came
Saturday. And there wasn’t any wedding.
“So Deep Red Roses said to herself, ‘I am going away and learn, I am
going away and talk with the wives of High High Over, the dancer, and
maybe if I go far enough I will find the wife of Shoulder Straps, the
soldier—and maybe the wives of the men who promised me will tell me how
to keep promises kept.’
“She packed her baggage till her baggage was packed so full there was
room for only one more thing. So she had to decide whether to put a
_clock_ or whether to put a _looking glass_ in her baggage.
“‘My head tells me to carry the clock so I can always tell if I am early
or late,’ she said to herself. ‘But my heart tells me to carry a looking
glass so I can look at my face and tell if I am getting older or
younger.’
“At last she decides to take the clock and leave the looking
glass—because her head says so. She starts away. She goes through the
door, she is out of the house, she goes to the street, she starts up the
street.
“Then her heart tells her to go back and change the clock for the
looking glass. She goes back up the street, through the door, into the
house, into her room. Now she stands in front of the clock and the
looking glass saying, ‘To-night I sleep home here one more night, and
to-morrow morning I decide again.’
“And now every morning Deep Red Roses decides with her head to take the
clock. She takes the clock and starts away and then comes back because
her heart decides she must have the looking glass.
“If you go to her house this morning you will see her standing in the
doorway with blue skylights like the blue sky of early April in her
eyes, and lips that remind you of deep red roses in the cool of the
evening in summer. You will see her leave the doorway and go out of the
gate with the clock in her hands. Then if you wait you will see her come
back through the gate, into the door, back to her room where she puts
down the clock and takes up the looking glass.
“After that she decides to wait until to-morrow morning to decide again
what to decide. Her head tells her one thing, her heart tells her
another. Between the two she stays home. Sometimes she looks at her face
in the looking glass and says to herself, ‘I am young yet and while I am
young I am going to do my own deciding.’”
Blixie Bimber fingered the end of her chin with her little finger and
said, “It is a strange story. It has a stab in it. It would hurt me if I
couldn’t look up at the big white clouds shouldering their shoulders,
rolling on the rollers of the big blue sky.”
“It is a good story to tell when April is here all over again—and I am
shining up the brass bickerjiggers on my accordion,” said the Potato
Face Blind Man.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Pink Peony Sent Spuds, the Ballplayer, Up to Pick Four Moons
Early one summer evening the moon was hanging in the tree-tops. There
was a lisp of leaves. And the soft shine of the moon sifting down seemed
to have something to say to the lisp of the leaves.
The girl named Blixie Bimber came that particular summer evening to the
corner where the Potato Face Blind Man sat with his accordion. She came
walking slow and thoughtful to where he was sitting in the evening
shadows. And she told him about the summer moon in the tree-tops, the
lisp of the leaves, and the shine of the moon trying to tell something
to the lisp of the leaves.
The old man leaned back, fumbled the keys of his accordion, and said it
loosened up things he remembered far back.
“On an evening like this, every tree has a moon all of its own for
itself—if you climb up in a thousand trees this evening you can pick a
thousand moons,” the old man murmured. “You remind me to-night about
secrets swimming deep in me.”
And after hesitating a little—and thinking a little—and then hesitating
some more—the old man started and told this story:
There was a girl I used to know, one time, named Pink Peony. She was a
girl with cheeks and lips the peonies talked about.
When she passed a bush of peonies, some of the flowers would whisper,
“She is lovelier than we are.” And the other peonies would answer in a
whisper, “It _must_ be so, it ... must ... be ... _so_.”
Now there was a ballplayer named Spuds, came one night to take her
riding, out to a valley where the peacocks always cry before it rains,
where the frogs always gamble with the golden dice after midnight.
And out in that valley they came to a tall tree shooting spraggly to the
sky. And high up in the spraggly shoots, where the lisp of the leaves
whispers, there a moon had drifted down and was caught in the branches.
“Spuds, climb up and pick _that_ moon for me,” Pink Peony sang reckless.
And the ballplayer jumped out of the car, climbed up the tall tree, up
and up till he was high and far in the spraggly branches where the moon
had drifted down and was caught.
Climbing down, he handed the girl a silver hat full of peach-color
pearls. She laid it on the back seat of the car where it would be safe.
And they drove on.
They came to another tall tree shooting spraggly to the sky. And high up
the moon was caught.
“Pick _that_ one, Spuds,” Peony sang reckless again. And when he came
climbing down he handed her a circle of gold with a blood-color autumn
leaf. And they put it on the back seat of the car where it would be
safe. Then they drove on.
“Spuds, you are good to me,” said Pink Peony, when he climbed another
tree shooting spraggly high in the sky, and came down with a brass pansy
sprinkled with two rainbows, for her. She put it on the back seat where
it would be safe. And they drove on.
One time more Spuds climbed up and came down with what he picked, up
where the moon was caught in the high spraggly branches. “An Egyptian
collar frozen in diamond cobwebs, for you,” he said. “You are a dear,
Spuds,” she said, reckless, with a look into his eyes. She laid the
Egyptian collar frozen in diamond cobwebs on the back seat of the car
where it would be safe—and they drove on.
They listened a while, they stopped the car and listened a longer while,
to the frogs gambling with golden dice after midnight.
And when at last they heard the peacocks crying, they knew it was going
to rain. So they drove home.
And while the peacocks were crying, and just before they started home,
they looked in the back seat of the car at the silver hat full of
peach-color pearls, the circle of gold with a blood-color autumn leaf,
the brass pansy sprinkled with two rainbows, the Egyptian collar frozen
in diamond cobwebs.
Driving home, the spray of a violet dawn was on the east sky. And it was
nearly daylight when they drove up to the front door of Pink Peony’s
home. She ran into the house to get a basket to carry the presents in.
She came running out of the house with a basket to carry the presents
in.
She looked in the back seat; she felt with her hands and fingers all
over the back seat.
In the back seat she could find only four oranges. They opened the
oranges and in each orange they found a yellow silk handkerchief.
To-day, if you go to the house where Pink Peony and Spuds are living,
you will find four children playing there, each with a yellow silk
handkerchief tied around the neck in a mystic slip knot.
Each child has a moon face and a moon name. And sometimes their father
and mother pile them all into a car and they ride out to the valley
where the peacocks always cry before it rains—and where the frogs always
gamble with golden dice after midnight.
And what they look longest at is a summer moon hanging in the tree-tops,
when there is a lisp of leaves, and the shine of the moon and the lisp
of the leaves seem to be telling each other something.
So the Potato Face came to a finish with his story. Blixie Bimber kissed
him good-night on the nose, saying, “You loosened up beautiful
to-night.”
[Illustration]
6. Three Stories About Moonlight, Pigeons, Bees, Egypt, Jesse James,
Spanish Onions, the Queen of the Cracked Heads, the King of the Paper
Sacks.
_People_: Dippy the Wisp
Slip Me Liz
The Potato Face Blind Man
Egypt
Jesse James
Spanish Onions
The Queen of the Cracked Heads
The King of the Paper Sacks
The Queen of the Empty Hats
Hot Balloons
A Snoox
A Gringo
Sweetheart Dippies
Nail-eating Rats
Sooners
Boomers
_More People_:
Cracked Heads
Clock-eating Goats
Baby Alligators
Pink and Purple Peanuts
Empty Hats
Bats, Cats, Rats
Rag Pickers, Rag Handlers
Squirrels, Fish, Baboons, Black Cats
A Steel Car, an Air Car
Gophers
[Illustration]
How Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz Came in the Moonshine Where the
Potato Face Blind Man Sat with His Accordion
The sky shook a rain down one Saturday night over the people, the
postoffice, and the peanut-stand in the Village of Liver-and-Onions.
And after the rain, the sky shook loose a moon so a moonshine came with
gold on the rainpools.
And a west wind came out of the west sky and shook the moonshine gold on
the tops of the rainpools.
Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz came, two tough pony girls, two limber
prairie girls, in the moonshine humming little humpty dumpty songs.
They came to the postoffice corner where the Potato Face Blind Man sat
hugging his accordion, wondering what was next and who and why.
He was saying to himself, “Who was it told me the rats on the moon in
the middle of the winter lock their mittens in ice boxes?”
And just then Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz came flipping along saying,
“It is a misty moisty evening in the moonshine, isn’t it?”
And he answered, “The moon is a round gold door with silver transoms
to-night. Bumble bees and honey bees are chasing each other over the
gold door of the moon and up over the silver transoms.”
Dippy the Wisp took out a bee-bag, took bees out of the bee-bag,
balanced the bees on her thumb, humming a humpty dumpty song. And Slip
Me Liz, looking on, joined in on the humpty dumpty song. And, of course,
the bees began buzzing and buzzing their _bee_ humpty dumpty song.
“Have you fastened names on them?” asked the Potato Face.
“These three on my thumb, these three special blue-violet bees, I put
their names on silk white ribbons and tied the ribbons to their knees.
This is Egypt—she has inkwells in her ears. This is Jesse James—he puts
postage stamps on his nose. This is Spanish Onions—she likes pearl-color
handkerchiefs around her yellow neck.”
“Bees belong in bee-bags, but these are different,” the old man
murmured.
“Runaway bees, these are,” Dippy the Wisp went on. “They buzz away, they
come buzzing back, buzzing home, buzzing secrets, syllables, snitches.
“To-day Egypt came buzzing home with her inkwells in her ears. And Egypt
buzzed, ‘I flew and flew and I buzzed and buzzed far, far away, till I
came where I met the Queen of the Cracked Heads with her head all
cracked. And she took me by the foot and took me to the palace of the
Cracked Heads with their heads all cracked.
“‘The palace was full of goats walking up and down the stairs, sliding
on the banisters eating bingety bing clocks. Before he bites the clock
and chews and swallows and eats the bingety bing clock, I noticed, each
goat winds up the clock and fixes it to go off bling bling bingety bing,
after he eats it down. I noticed that. And the fat, fat, puffy goats,
the fat, fat, waddly goats, had extra clocks hung on their horns—and the
clocks, tired of waiting, spoke to each other in the bingety bing clock
talk. I noticed that too.
[Illustration: She was sitting on a ladder feeding baby clocks to the
baby alligators]
“‘I stayed all morning and I saw them feed the big goats big hunks and
the little goats little hunks and the big clocks big bings and the
little clocks little bings. At last in the afternoon, the queen of the
Cracked Heads came with her cracked head to say good-by to me. She was
sitting on a ladder feeding baby clocks to baby alligators, winding the
clocks and fixing the bingety bings, so after the baby alligators
swallowed the clocks, I heard them singing bling bling bingety bing.
“‘And the Queen was reading the alphabet to the littlest of the baby
alligators—and they were saying the alligator A B C while she was saying
the A B C of the Cracked Heads. At last she said good-by to me, good-by
and come again soon, good-by and stay longer next time.’
“‘When I went out of the door all the baby alligators climbed up the
ladder and bingety blinged good-by to me. I buzzed home fast because I
was lonesome. I am so, _so_ glad to be home again.’”
The Potato Face looked up and said, “This is nice as the rats on the
moon in the middle of the winter locking their mittens in the ice box.
Tell us next about that blue-violet bumblebee, Jesse James.”
“Jesse James,” said Dippy the Wisp, “Jesse James came buzzing home with
a postage stamp on his nose. And Jesse James buzzed, ‘I flew and I flew
and buzzed and buzzed far, far away till I came where I met the King of
the Paper Sacks who lives in a palace of paper sacks. I went inside the
palace expecting to see paper sacks everywhere. But instead of paper
sacks the palace was full of pink and purple peanuts walking up and down
the stairs washing their faces, stitching handkerchiefs.’
“‘In the evening all the pink and purple peanuts put on their overshoes
and make paper sacks. The King of the Paper Sacks walks around and
around among them saying, “If anybody asks you who I am tell them I am
the King of the Paper Sacks.” And one little peanut flipped up one time
in the King’s face and asked, “Say it again—_who_ do you think you are?”
And it made the King so bitter in his feelings he reached out his hand
and with a sweep and a swoop he swept fifty pink and purple peanuts into
a paper sack and cried out, “A nickel a sack, a nickel a sack.” And he
threw them into a trash pile of tin cans.
“‘When I went away he shook hands with me and said, “Good-by, Jesse
James, you old buzzer, if anybody asks you tell them you saw the King of
the Paper Sacks where he lives.”
“‘When I went away from the palace, the doors and the window sills, the
corners of the roofs and the eave troughs where the rain runs off, they
were all full of pink and purple peanuts standing in their overshoes
washing their faces, stitching handkerchiefs, calling good-by to me,
good-by and come again, good-by and stay longer next time. Then I came
buzzing home because I was lonesome. And I am so, _so_ glad to be home
again.’”
The Potato Face looked up again and said, “It _is_ a misty moisty
evening in the moonshine. Now tell us about that blue-violet honeybee,
Spanish Onions.”
And Dippy the Wisp tied a slipknot in the pearl-color handkerchief
around the yellow neck of Spanish Onions and said, “Spanish Onions came
buzzing back home with her face dirty and scared and she told us, ‘I
flew and flew and I buzzed and buzzed till I came where I met the Queen
of the Empty Hats. She took me by the foot and took me across the City
of the Empty Hats, saying under her breath, “There is a screw loose
somewhere, there is a leak in the tank.” Fat rats, fat bats, fat cats,
came along under empty hats and the Queen always said under her breath,
“There is a screw loose somewhere, there is a leak in the tank.” In the
houses, on the street, riding on the rattlers and the razz cars, the
only people were hats, empty hats. When the fat rats changed hats with
the fat bats, the hats were empty. When the fat bats changed _those_
hats with the fat cats, the hats were empty. I took off my hat and saw
it was empty. _I began to feel like an empty hat myself._ I got scared.
I jumped loose from the Queen of the Empty Hats and buzzed back home
fast. I am so, _so_ glad to be home again.’”
The Potato Face sat hugging his accordion. He looked up and said, “Put
the bees back in the bee-bag—they buzz too many secrets, syllables and
snitches.”
“What do you expect when the moon is a gold door with silver transoms?”
asked Slip Me Liz.
“Yes,” said Dippy the Wisp. “What do you expect when the bumblebees and
the honeybees are chasing each other over the gold door of the moon and
up over the silver transoms?”
And the two tough pony girls, the two limber prairie girls, went away
humming a little humpty dumpty song across the moonshine gold on the
tops of the rainpools.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
How Hot Balloons and His Pigeon Daughters Crossed Over into the
Rootabaga Country
Hot Balloons was a man who lived all alone among people who sell slips,
flips, flicks and chicks by the dozen, by the box, by the box car job
lot, back and forth to each other.
Hot Balloons used to open the window in the morning and say to the rag
pickers and the rag handlers, “Far, far away the pigeons are calling;
far, far away the white wings are dipping in the blue, in the sky blue.”
And the rag pickers and the rag handlers looked up from their rag bags
and said, “Far, far away the rags are flying; far, far away the rags are
whistling in the wind, in the sky wind.”
Now two pigeons came walking up to the door, the door knob and the door
bell under the window of Hot Balloons. One of the pigeons rang the bell.
The other pigeon, too, stepped up to the bell and gave it a ring.
Then they waited, tying the shoe strings on their shoes and the bonnet
strings under their chins, while they waited.
Hot Balloons opened the door. And they flew into his hands, one pigeon
apiece in each of his hands, flipping and fluttering their wings,
calling, “Ka loo, ka loo, ka lo, ka lo,” leaving a letter in his hands
and then flying away fast.
[Illustration: One of the pigeons rang the bell]
Hot Balloons stepped out on the front steps to read the letter where the
light was good in the daylight because it was so early in the morning.
The letter was on paper scribbled over in pigeon foot blue handwriting
with many secrets and syllables.
After Hot Balloons read the letter, he said to himself, “I wonder if
those two pigeons are my two runaway daughters, Dippy the Wisp and Slip
Me Liz. When they ran away they said they would cross the Shampoo river
and go away into the Rootabaga country to live. And I have heard it is a
law of the Rootabaga country whenever a girl crosses the Shampoo river
to come back where she used to be, she changes into a pigeon—and she
stays a pigeon till she crosses back over the Shampoo river into the
Rootabaga country again.”
And he shaded his eyes with his hands and looked far, far away in the
blue, in the sky blue. And by looking long and hard he saw far, far away
in the sky blue, the two white pigeons dipping their wings in the blue,
flying fast, circling and circling higher and higher, toward the Shampoo
river, toward the Rootabaga country.
“I wonder, I guess, I think so,” he said to himself, “I wonder, I think
so, it must be those two pigeons are my two runaway daughters, my two
girls, Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz.”
He took out the letter and read it again right side up, upside down,
back and forth. “It is the first time I ever read pigeon foot blue
handwriting,” he said to himself. And the way he read the letter, it
said to him:
Daddy, daddy, daddy, come home to us in the Rootabaga country where
the pigeons call ka loo, ka loo, ka lo, ka lo, where the squirrels
carry ladders and the wildcats ask riddles and the fish jump out of
the rivers and speak to the frying pans, where the baboons take care
of the babies and the black cats come and go in orange and gold
stockings, where the birds wear rose and purple hats on Monday
afternoons up in the skylights in the evening.
(Signed) DIPPY THE WISP,
SLIP ME LIZ.
And reading the letter a second time, Hot Balloons said to himself, “No
wonder it is scribbled over the paper in pigeon foot blue handwriting.
No wonder it is full of secrets and syllables.”
So he jumped into a shirt and a necktie, he jumped into a hat and a
vest, and he jumped into a steel car, starting with a snizz and a snoof
till it began running smooth and even as a catfoot.
“I will ride to the Shampoo river faster than two pigeons fly,” he said.
“I will be there.”
Which he was. He got there before the two pigeons. But it was no use.
For the rain and the rainstorm was working—and the rain and the
rainstorm tore down and took and washed away the steel bridge over the
Shampoo river.
“Now there is only an air bridge to cross on, and a _steel_ car drops
down, falls off, falls through, if it runs on an _air_ bridge,” he said.
So he was all alone with the rain and the rainstorm all around him—and
far as he could see by shading his eyes and looking, there was only the
rain and the rainstorm across the river—and the _air_ bridge.
While he waited for the rain and the rainstorm to go down, two pigeons
came flying into his hands, one apiece into each hand, flipping and
fluttering their wings and calling, “Ka loo, ka loo, ka lo, ka lo.” And
he could tell by the way they began tying the shoestrings on their shoes
and the bonnet strings under their chins, they were the same two pigeons
ringing the door bell that morning.
They wrote on his thumb-nails in pigeon foot blue handwriting, and he
read their handwriting asking him why he didn’t cross over the Shampoo
river. And he explained, “There is only an _air_ bridge to cross on. A
_steel_ car drops down, falls off, falls through, if it runs on an _air_
bridge. Change my _steel_ car to an _air_ car. Then I can cross the
_air_ bridge.”
The pigeons flipped and fluttered, dipped their wings and called, “Ka
loo, ka loo, ka lo, ka lo.” And they scribbled their pigeon feet on his
thumb-nail—telling him to wait. So the pigeons went flying across the
Shampoo river.
They came back with a basket. In the basket was a snoox and a gringo.
And the snoox and the gringo took hammers, jacks, flanges, nuts, screws,
bearings, ball bearings, axles, axle grease, ax handles, spits,
spitters, spitballs and spitfires, and worked.
“It’s a hot job,” said the snoox to the gringo. “I’ll say it’s a hot
job,” said the gringo answering the snoox.
“We’ll give this one the merry razoo,” said the snoox to the gringo,
working overtime and double time. “Yes, we’ll put her to the cleaners
and shoot her into high,” said the gringo, answering the snoox, working
overtime and double time.
They changed the steel to air, made an _air_ car out of the _steel_ car,
put Hot Balloons and the two pigeons into the air car and _drove the air
car across the air bridge_.
And nowadays when people talk about it in the Rootabaga country, they
say, “The snoox and the gringo drove the air car across the air bridge
clean and cool as a whistle in the wind. As soon as the car got off the
bridge and over into the Rootabaga country, the two pigeons changed in a
flash. And Hot Balloons saw they were his two daughters, his two runaway
girls, Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz, standing and smiling at him and
looking fresh and free as two fresh fish in a free river, fresh and free
as two fresh bimbos in a bamboo tree.”
He kissed them both, two long kisses, and while he was kissing them the
snoox and the gringo worked double time and overtime and changed the
_air_ car back into a _steel_ car.
And Dippy the Wisp and Slip Me Liz rode in that car—starting with a
snizz and a snoof till it began running smooth and even as a
catfoot—showing their father, Hot Balloons, where the squirrels carry
ladders and the wildcats ask riddles and the fish jump out of the rivers
and speak to the frying pans, where the baboons take care of the babies
and the black cats come and go in orange and gold stockings, where the
birds wear rose and purple hats on Monday afternoons up in the skylights
in the evening.
And often on a Saturday night or a New Year Eve or a Christmas morning,
Hot Balloons remembers back how things used to be, and he tells his two
girls about the rag pickers and the rag handlers back among the people
who sell slips, flips, flicks, and chicks, by the dozen, by the box, by
the box car job lot, back and forth to each other.
[Illustration]
How Two Sweetheart Dippies Sat in the Moonlight on a Lumber Yard Fence
and Heard About the Sooners and the Boomers
Not so very far and not so very near the Village of Liver-and-Onions is
a dippy little town where dippy people used to live.
And it was long, long ago the sweetheart dippies stood in their windows
and watched the dips of the star dippers in the dip of the sky.
It was the dippies who took the running wild oleander and the cunning
wild rambler rose and kept them so the running wild winters let them
alone.
“It is easy to be a dippy ... among the dippies ... isn’t it?” the
sweetheart dippies whispered to each other, sitting in the leaf shadows
of the oleander, the rambler rose.
The name of this dippy town came by accident. The name of the town is
Thumbs Up and it used to be named Thumbs Down and expects to change its
name back and forth between Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down.
The running wild oleanders and the running wild rambler roses grow there
over the big lumber yards where all the old lumber goes.
The dippies and the dippy sweethearts go out there to those lumber yards
and sit on the fence moonlight nights and look at the lumber.
The rusty nails in the lumber get rustier and rustier till they drop
out. And whenever they drop out there is always a rat standing under to
take the nail in his teeth and chew the nail and eat it.
For this is the place the nail-eating rats come to from all over the
Rootabaga country. Father rats and mother rats send the young rats there
to eat nails and get stronger.
If a young rat comes back from a trip to the lumber yards in Thumbs Up
and he meets another young rat going to those lumber yards, they say to
each other, “Where have you been?” “To Thumbs Up.” “And how do you
feel?” “_Hard as nails._”
Now one night two of the dippies, a sweetheart boy and girl, went out to
the big lumber yards and sat on the fence and looked at the lumber and
the running wild oleanders and the running wild rambler roses.
And they saw two big rusty nails, getting rustier and rustier, drop out
of the lumber and drop into the teeth of two young rats.
And the two young rats sat up on their tails there in the moonlight
under the oleanders, under the roses, and one of the young rats told the
other young rat a story he made up out of his head.
Chewing on the big rusty nail and then swallowing, telling more of the
story after swallowing and before beginning to chew the nail again, this
is the story he told—and this is the story the two dippies, the two
sweethearts sitting on the fence in the moonlight, heard:
Far away where the sky drops down, and the sunsets open doors for the
nights to come through—where the running winds meet, change faces and
come back—there is a prairie where the green grass grows all around.
And on that prairie the gophers, the black and brown-striped ground
squirrels, sit with their backs straight up, sitting on their soft paddy
tails, sitting in the spring song murmur of the south wind, saying to
each other, “This is the prairie and the prairie belongs to us.”
Now far back in the long time, the gophers came there, chasing each
other, playing the-green-grass-grew-all-around, playing cross tag, hop
tag, skip tag, billy-be-tag, billy-be-it.
The razorback hogs came then, eating pignuts, potatoes, paw paws,
pumpkins. The wild horse, the buffalo, came. The moose, with spraggly
branches of antlers spreading out over his head, the moose came—and the
fox, the wolf.
The gophers flipped a quick flip-flop back into their gopher holes when
the fox, the wolf, came. And the fox, the wolf, stood at the holes and
said, “You _look_ like rats, you _run_ like rats, you _are_ rats, rats
with stripes. Bah! you are only _rats_. Bah!”
It was the first time anybody said “Bah!” to the gophers. They sat in a
circle with their noses up asking, “_What_ does this ‘Bah!’ mean?” And
an old timer, with his hair falling off in patches, with the stripes on
his soft paddy tail patched with patches, this old timer of a gopher
said, “‘Bah!’ speaks more than it means whenever it is spoken.”
Then the sooners and the boomers came, saying “Bah!” and saying it many
new ways, till the fox, the wolf, the moose, the wild horse, the
buffalo, the razorback hog picked up their feet and ran away without
looking back.
The sooners and boomers began making houses, sod houses, log, lumber,
plaster-and-lath houses, stone, brick, steel houses, but most of the
houses were lumber with nails to hold the lumber together to keep the
rain off and push the wind back and hold the blizzards outside.
In the beginning the sooners and boomers told stories, spoke jokes, made
songs, with their arms on each other’s shoulders. They dug wells,
helping each other get water. They built chimneys together helping each
other let the smoke out of their houses. And every year the day before
Thanksgiving they went in cahoots with their post hole diggers and dug
all the post holes for a year to come. That was in the morning. In the
afternoon they took each other’s cistern cleaners and cleaned all the
cisterns for a year to come. And the next day on Thanksgiving they split
turkey wishbones and thanked each other they had all the post holes dug
and all the cisterns cleaned for a year to come.
If the boomers had to have broom corn to make brooms the sooners came
saying, “Here is your broom corn.” If the sooners had to have a gallon
of molasses, the boomers came saying, “Here is your gallon of molasses.”
They handed each other big duck eggs to fry, big goose eggs to boil,
purple pigeon eggs for Easter breakfast. Wagon loads of buff banty eggs
went back and forth between the sooners and boomers. And they took big
hayracks full of buff banty hens and traded them for hayracks full of
buff banty roosters.
And one time at a picnic, one summer afternoon, the sooners gave the
boomers a thousand golden ice tongs with hearts and hands carved on the
handles. And the boomers gave the sooners a thousand silver wheelbarrows
with hearts and hands carved on the handles.
Then came pigs, pigs, pigs, and more pigs. And the sooners and boomers
said the pigs had to be painted. There was a war to decide whether the
pigs should be painted pink or green. Pink won.
The next war was to decide whether the pigs should be painted checks or
stripes. Checks won. The next war after that was to decide whether the
checks should be painted pink or green. Green won.
Then came the longest war of all, up till that time. And this war
decided the pigs should be painted both pink and green, both checks and
stripes.
They rested then. But it was only a short rest. For then came the war to
decide whether peach pickers must pick peaches on Tuesday mornings or on
Saturday afternoons. Tuesday mornings won. This was a short war. Then
came a long war—to decide whether telegraph pole climbers must eat
onions at noon with spoons, or whether dishwashers must keep their money
in pig’s ears with padlocks pinched on with pincers.
So the wars went on. Between wars they called each other goofs and
snoofs, grave robbers, pickpockets, porch climbers, pie thieves, pie
face mutts, bums, big bums, big greasy bums, dummies, mummies, rummies,
sneezicks, bohunks, wops, snorkies, ditch diggers, peanuts, fatheads,
sapheads, pinheads, pickle faces, horse thieves, rubbernecks, big pieces
of cheese, big bags of wind, snabs, scabs, and dirty sniveling snitches.
Sometimes when they got tired of calling each other names they scratched
in the air with their fingers and made faces with their tongues out
twisted like pretzels.
After a while, it seemed, there was no corn, no broom corn, no brooms,
not even teeny sweepings of corn or broom corn or brooms. And there were
no duck eggs to fry, goose eggs to boil, no buff banty eggs, no buff
banty hens, no buff banty roosters, no wagons for wagon loads of buff
banty eggs, no hayracks for hayrack loads of buff banty hens and buff
banty roosters.
And the thousand golden ice tongs the sooners gave the boomers, and the
thousand silver wheelbarrows the boomers gave the sooners, both with
hearts and hands carved on the handles, they were long ago broken up in
one of the early wars deciding pigs must be painted both pink and green
with both checks and stripes.
And now, at last, there were no more pigs to paint either pink or green
or with checks or stripes. The pigs, pigs, pigs, were gone.
So the sooners and boomers all got lost in the wars or they screwed
wooden legs on their stump legs and walked away to bigger, bigger
prairies or they started away for the rivers and mountains, stopping
always to count how many fleas there were in any bunch of fleas they
met. If you see anybody who stops to count the fleas in a bunch of
fleas, that is a sign he is either a sooner or a boomer.
So again the gophers, the black and brown striped ground squirrels, sit
with their backs straight up, sitting on their soft paddy tails, sitting
in the spring song murmur of the south wind, saying, “This is the
prairie and the prairie belongs to us.”
Far away to-day where the sky drops down and the sunsets open
doors for the nights to come through—where the running winds meet,
change faces and come back—there the gophers are playing
the-green-grass-grew-all-around, playing cross tag, skip tag, hop
tag, billy-be-tag, billy-be-it. And sometimes they sit in a circle
and ask, “What does this ‘Bah!’ mean?” And an old timer answers,
“‘Bah!’ speaks more than it means whenever it is spoken.”
That was the story the young rat under the oleanders, under the roses,
told the other young rat, while the two sweetheart dippies sat on the
fence in the moonlight looking at the lumber and listening.
The young rat who told the story hardly got started eating the nail he
was chewing, while the young rat that did the listening chewed up and
swallowed down a whole nail.
As the two dippies on the fence looked at the running wild oleander and
the running wild rambler roses over the lumber in the moonlight, they
said to each other, “It’s easy to be a dippy ... among the dippies ...
isn’t it?” And they climbed down from the fence and went home in the
moonlight.
[Illustration]
7. Two Stories Out of the Tall Grass.
_People_: John Jack Johannes Hummadummaduffer
Feed Box
Eva Evelyn Evangeline Hummadummaduffer
Sky Blue
The Harvest Moon
A Haystack Cricket
Baby Moon
Half Moon
Silver Moon
Doorbells, Chimneys, Cellars
The Night Policeman in the Village of Cream Puffs
Butter Fingers
Three Strikes
Cub Ballplayers
[Illustration]
The Haystack Cricket and How Things Are Different Up in the Moon Towns
There is an old man with wrinkles like wrinkled leather on his face
living among the cornfields on the rolling prairie near the Shampoo
river.
His name is John Jack Johannes Hummadummaduffer. His cronies and the
people who know him call him Feed Box.
His daughter is a cornfield girl with hair shining the way cornsilk
shines when the corn is ripe in the fall time. The tassels of cornsilk
hang down and blow in the wind with a rusty dark gold, and they seem to
get mixed with her hair. Her name is Eva Evelyn Evangeline
Hummadummaduffer. And her chums and the people who know her call her Sky
Blue.
The eleventh month, November, comes every year to the corn belt on that
rolling prairie. The wagons bring the corn from the fields in the
harvest days and the cracks in the corncribs shine with the yellow and
gold of the corn.
The harvest moon comes, too. They say it stacks sheaves of the November
gold moonshine into gold corn shocks on the sky. So they say.
On those mornings in November that time of the year, the old man they
call Feed Box sits where the sun shines against the boards of a
corncrib.
The girl they call Sky Blue, even though her name is Eva Evelyn
Evangeline Hummadummaduffer, she comes along one November morning. Her
father is sitting in the sun with his back against a corncrib. And he
tells her he always sits there every year listening to the mice in the
cornfields getting ready to move into the big farmhouse.
“When the frost comes and the corn is husked and put in the corncribs,
the fields are cleaned and the cold nights come. Papa mouse and mama
mouse tell the little ones it is time to sneak into the cellar and the
garret and the attic of the farmhouse,” said Feed Box to Sky Blue.
“I am listening,” she said, “and I can hear the papa mouse and the mama
mouse telling the little ones how they will find rags and paper and wool
and splinters and shavings and hair, and they will make warm nests for
the winter in the big farmhouse—if no kits, cats nor kittycats get
them.”
The old man, Feed Box, rubbed his back and his shoulders against the
boards of the corncrib and washed his hands almost as if he might be
washing them in the gold of the autumn sunshine. Then he told this
happening:
This time of the year, when the mouse in the fields whispers so I can
hear him, I remember one November when I was a boy.
One night in November when the harvest moon was shining and stacking
gold cornshocks in the sky, I got lost. Instead of going home I was
going away from home. And the next day and the next night instead of
going home I was going away from home.
That second night I came to a haystack where a yellow and gold cricket
was singing. And he was singing the same songs the crickets sing in the
haystacks back home where the Hummadummaduffers raise hay and corn, in
the corn belt near the Shampoo river.
And he told me, this cricket did, he told me when he listened soft if
everything was still in the grass and the sky, he could hear golden
crickets singing in the cornshocks the harvest moon had stacked in the
sky.
I went to sleep listening to the singing of the yellow and gold crickets
in that haystack. It was early in the morning, long before daylight, I
guess, the two of us went on a trip away from the haystack.
We took a trip. The yellow and gold cricket led the way. “It is the call
of the harvest moon,” he said to me in a singing whisper. “We are going
up to the moon towns where the harvest moon stacks the cornshocks on the
sky.”
We came to a little valley in the sky. And the harvest moon had slipped
three little towns into that valley, three little towns named Half Moon,
Baby Moon, and Silver Moon.
In the town of Half Moon they _look_ out of the doors and _come in_ at
the windows. So they have taken all the doorbells off the doors and put
them on the windows. Whenever we rang a door-bell we went to a window.
In the town of Baby Moon they had windows on the chimneys so the smoke
can look out of the window and see the weather before it comes out over
the top of the chimney. And whenever the chimneys get tired of being
stuck up on the top of the roof, the chimneys climb down and dance in
the cellar. We saw five chimneys climb down and join hands and bump
heads and dance a laughing chimney dance.
In the town of Silver Moon the cellars are not satisfied. They say to
each other, “We are tired of being under, always under.” So the cellars
slip out from being under, always under. They slip out and climb up on
top of the roof.
And that was all we saw up among the moon towns of Half Moon, Baby Moon
and Silver Moon. We had to get back to the haystack so as to get up in
the morning after our night sleep.
“This time of the year I always remember that November,” said the old
man, Feed Box, to his daughter, Sky Blue.
And Sky Blue said, “I am going to sleep in a haystack sometime in
November just to see if a yellow and gold cricket will come with a
singing whisper and take me on a trip to where the doorbells are on the
windows and the chimneys climb down and dance.”
The old man murmured, “Don’t forget the cellars tired of being under,
always under.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Why the Big Ball Game Between Hot Grounders and the Grand Standers Was a
Hot Game
Up near the Village of Cream Puffs is a string of ball towns hiding in
the tall grass. Passengers in the railroad trains look out of the
windows and the tall grass stands up so they can’t see the ball towns.
But the ball towns are there and the tall grass is full of pitchers,
catchers, basemen, fielders, short stops, sluggers, southpaws and
backstops. They play ball till dark and after dark they talk ball. The
big fast ballplayers in the Rootabaga Country all come from these ball
towns in the tall grass.
The towns used to have names like names in books. But now the names are
all like ball talk: Knock the Cover Off, Home Plate, Chest Protector,
Grand Stand, Nine Innings, Three Balls and Two Strikes, Bases Full and
Two Out, Big League, Bush League, Hot Grounder, Out Drop, Bee Liner,
Muffs and Pick Ups, Slide Kelly Slide, Paste It On the Nose.
Now the Night Policeman in the Village of Cream Puffs stopped in at the
Cigar Store one night and a gang of cub ballplayers loafing and talking
ball talk asked him if there was anything in the wind. And he told them
this happening:
“I was sitting on the front steps of the postoffice last night thinking
how many letters get lost and how many letters never get answered. A
ballplayer came along with a package and said his name was Butter
Fingers and he was the heavy hitter, the hard slugger, for the Grand
Stand ball team playing a championship game the day before with the Hot
Grounders ball team. He came to the Village of Cream Puffs the day
before the game, found a snoox and a gringo and got the snoox and the
gringo to make him _a home run shirt_. Wearing a home run shirt, he told
me, you knock a home run every time you come to bat. He said he knocked
a home run every time he came to bat, and it was his home runs won the
game for the Grand Standers. He was carrying a package and said the home
run shirt was in the package and he was taking it back to the snoox and
the gringo because he promised he wouldn’t keep it, and it belonged to
the snoox and the gringo and they only rented it to him for the
championship game. The last I saw of him he was hot-footing it pitty-pat
pitty-pat up the street with the package.
“Well, I just said tra-la-loo to Butter Fingers when along comes another
ballplayer. He had a package too, and he said his name was Three
Strikes, and he was the left-handed southpaw pitcher for the Hot
Grounders team the day before playing a game against the Grand Stand
team. He said he knew unless he put over some classy pitching the game
was lost and everything was goose eggs. So he came to the Village of
Cream Puffs the day before the game, found a snoox and a gringo and got
the snoox and the gringo to make him _a spitball shirt_. A spitball
looks easy, he told me, but it has smoke and whiskers and nobody can
touch it. He said he handed the Grand Standers a line of inshoots close
to their chins and they never got to first base. Three Strikes was
carrying a package and he said the spitball shirt was in the package,
and he was taking it back to the snoox and the gringo because he
promised he wouldn’t keep it and it belonged to the snoox and the gringo
and they only rented it to him. The last I saw of him he was hot-footing
it pitty-pat pitty-pat up the street with a package.”
The gang of cub ballplayers in the Cigar Store asked the Night
Policeman, “Who won the game? Was it the Grand Standers or the Hot
Grounders took the gravvy?”
“You can search me for the answer,” he told the boys. “If the snoox and
the gringo come past the postoffice to-night when I sit on the front
steps wondering how so many letters get lost and how so many never get
answered, I will ask the snoox and the gringo and if they tell me
to-night I’ll tell you to-morrow night.”
And ever since then when they talk ball talk in the ball towns hiding in
the tall grass they say the only sure way to win a ball game is to have
a pitcher with a spitball shirt and over that a home run shirt, both
made by a snoox and a gringo.
[Illustration]
8. Two Stories Out of Oklahoma and Nebraska.
_People_: Jonas Jonas Huckabuck
Mama Mama Huckabuck
Pony Pony Huckabuck
A Yellow Squash
A Silver Buckle
A Chinese Silver Slipper Buckle
Pop Corn
Yang Yang
Hoo Hoo
Their Mother
The Shadow of the Goose
The Left Foot of the Shadow of the Goose
An Oklahoma Home
[Illustration]
The Huckabuck Family and How They Raised Pop Corn in Nebraska and Quit
and Came Back
Jonas Jonas Huckabuck was a farmer in Nebraska with a wife, Mama Mama
Huckabuck, and a daughter, Pony Pony Huckabuck.
“Your father gave you two names the same in front,” people had said to
him.
And he answered, “Yes, two names are easier to remember. If you call me
by my first name Jonas and I don’t hear you then when you call me by my
second name Jonas maybe I will.
“And,” he went on, “I call my pony-face girl Pony Pony because if she
doesn’t hear me the first time she always does the second.”
And so they lived on a farm where they raised pop corn, these three,
Jonas Jonas Huckabuck, his wife, Mama Mama Huckabuck, and their
pony-face daughter, Pony Pony Huckabuck.
After they harvested the crop one year they had the barns, the cribs,
the sheds, the shacks, and all the cracks and corners of the farm, all
filled with pop corn.
“We came out to Nebraska to raise pop corn,” said Jonas Jonas, “and I
guess we got nearly enough pop corn this year for the pop corn poppers
and all the friends and relations of all the pop corn poppers in these
United States.”
[Illustration: She carried the squash into the kitchen]
And this was the year Pony Pony was going to bake her first squash pie
all by herself. In one corner of the corn crib, all covered over with
pop corn, she had a secret, a big round squash, a fat yellow squash, a
rich squash all spotted with spots of gold.
She carried the squash into the kitchen, took a long sharp shining
knife, and then she cut the squash in the middle till she had two big
half squashes. And inside just like outside it was rich yellow spotted
with spots of gold.
And there was a shine of silver. And Pony Pony wondered why silver
should be in a squash. She picked and plunged with her fingers till she
pulled it out.
“It’s a buckle,” she said, “a silver buckle, a Chinese silver slipper
buckle.”
She ran with it to her father and said, “Look what I found when I cut
open the golden yellow squash spotted with gold spots—it is a Chinese
silver slipper buckle.”
“It means our luck is going to change, and we don’t know whether it will
be good luck or bad luck,” said Jonas Jonas to his daughter, Pony Pony
Huckabuck.
Then she ran with it to her mother and said, “Look what I found when I
cut open the yellow squash spotted with spots of gold—it is a Chinese
silver slipper buckle.”
“It means our luck is going to change, and we don’t know whether it will
be good luck or bad luck,” said Mama Mama Huckabuck.
And that night a fire started in the barns, crib, sheds, shacks, cracks,
and corners, where the pop corn harvest was kept. All night long the pop
corn popped. In the morning the ground all around the farm house and the
barn was covered with white pop corn so it looked like a heavy fall of
snow.
All the next day the fire kept on and the pop corn popped till it was up
to the shoulders of Pony Pony when she tried to walk from the house to
the barn. And that night in all the barns, cribs, sheds, shacks, cracks
and corners of the farm, the pop corn went on popping.
In the morning when Jonas Jonas Huckabuck looked out of the upstairs
window he saw the pop corn popping and coming higher and higher. It was
nearly up to the window. Before evening and dark of that day, Jonas
Jonas Huckabuck, and his wife Mama Mama Huckabuck, and their daughter
Pony Pony Huckabuck, all went away from the farm saying, “We came to
Nebraska to raise pop corn, but this is too much. We will not come back
till the wind blows away the pop corn. We will not come back till we get
a sign and a signal.”
They went to Oskaloosa, Iowa. And the next year Pony Pony Huckabuck was
very proud because when she stood on the sidewalks in the street she
could see her father sitting high on the seat of a coal wagon, driving
two big spanking horses hitched with shining brass harness in front of
the coal wagon. And though Pony Pony and Jonas Jonas were proud, very
proud all that year, there never came a sign, a signal.
The next year again was a proud year, exactly as proud a year as they
spent in Oskaloosa. They went to Paducah, Kentucky, to Defiance, Ohio;
Peoria, Illinois; Indianapolis, Indiana; Walla Walla, Washington. And in
all these places Pony Pony Huckabuck saw her father, Jonas Jonas
Huckabuck, standing in rubber boots deep down in a ditch with a shining
steel shovel shoveling yellow clay and black mud from down in the ditch
high and high up over his shoulders. And though it was a proud year they
got no sign, no signal.
The next year came. It was the proudest of all. This was the year Jonas
Jonas Huckabuck and his family lived in Elgin, Illinois, and Jonas Jonas
was watchman in a watch factory watching the watches.
“I know where you have been,” Mama Mama Huckabuck would say of an
evening to Pony Pony Huckabuck. “You have been down to the watch factory
watching your father watch the watches.”
“Yes,” said Pony Pony. “Yes, and this evening when I was watching father
watch the watches in the watch factory, I looked over my left shoulder
and I saw a policeman with a star and brass buttons and he was watching
me to see if I was watching father watch the watches in the watch
factory.”
It was a proud year. Pony Pony saved her money. Thanksgiving came. Pony
Pony said, “I am going to get a squash to make a squash pie.” She hunted
from one grocery to another; she kept her eyes on the farm wagons coming
into Elgin with squashes.
She found what she wanted, the yellow squash spotted with gold spots.
She took it home, cut it open, and saw the inside was like the outside,
all rich yellow spotted with gold spots.
There was a shine like silver. She picked and plunged with her fingers
and pulled and pulled till at last she pulled out the shine of silver.
“It’s a sign; it is a signal,” she said. “It is a buckle, a slipper
buckle, a Chinese silver slipper buckle. It is the mate to the other
buckle. Our luck is going to change. Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!”
She told her father and mother about the buckle. They went back to the
farm in Nebraska. The wind by this time had been blowing and blowing for
three years, and all the pop corn was blown away.
“Now we are going to be farmers again,” said Jonas Jonas Huckabuck to
Mama Mama Huckabuck and to Pony Pony Huckabuck. “And we are going to
raise cabbages, beets and turnips; we are going to raise squash,
rutabaga, pumpkins and peppers for pickling. We are going to raise
wheat, oats, barley, rye. We are going to raise corn such as Indian corn
and kaffir corn—but we are _not_ going to raise any pop corn for the pop
corn poppers to be popping.”
And the pony-face daughter, Pony Pony Huckabuck, was proud because she
had on new black slippers, and around her ankles, holding the slippers
on the left foot and the right foot, she had two buckles, silver
buckles, Chinese silver slipper buckles. They were mates.
Sometimes on Thanksgiving Day and Christmas and New Year’s, she tells
her friends to be careful when they open a squash.
“Squashes make your luck change good to bad and bad to good,” says Pony
Pony.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Yang Yang and Hoo Hoo, or the Song of the Left Foot of the Shadow of the
Goose in Oklahoma
Yang Yang and Hoo Hoo were two girls who used to live in Battle Ax,
Michigan, before they moved to Wagon Wheel Gap, Colorado, and back to
Broken Doors, Ohio, and then over to Open Windows, Iowa, and at last
down to Alfalfa Clover, Oklahoma, where they say, “Our Oklahoma home is
in Oklahoma.”
One summer morning Yang Yang and Hoo Hoo woke up saying to each other,
“Our Oklahoma home is in Oklahoma.” And it was that morning the shadow
of a goose flew in at the open window, just over the bed where Yang Yang
and Hoo Hoo slept with their eyes shut all night and woke with their
eyes open in the morning.
The shadow of the goose fluttered a while along the ceiling, flickered a
while along the wall, and then after one more flutter and flicker put
itself on the wall like a picture of a goose put there to look at, only
it was a living picture—and it made its neck stretch in a curve and then
stretch straight.
“Yang yang,” cried Yang Yang. “Yang yang.”
“Hoo hoo,” sang Hoo Hoo. “Hoo hoo.”
And while Hoo Hoo kept on calling a soft, low coaxing hoo hoo, Yang Yang
kept on crying a hard, noisy nagging yang yang till everybody in the
house upstairs and down and everybody in the neighbor houses heard her
yang-yanging.
The shadow of the goose lifted its left wing a little, lifted its right
foot a little, got up on its goose legs, and walked around and around in
a circle on its goose feet. And every time it walked around in a circle
it came back to the same place it started from, with its left foot or
right foot in the same foot spot it started from. Then it stayed there
in the same place like a picture put there to look at, only it was a
living picture with its neck sometimes sticking up straight in the air
and sometimes bending in a long curving bend.
Yang Yang threw the bed covers off, slid out of bed and ran downstairs
yang-yanging for her mother. But Hoo Hoo sat up in bed laughing,
counting her pink toes to see if there were ten pink toes the same as
the morning before. And while she was counting her pink toes she looked
out of the corners of her eyes at the shadow of the goose on the wall.
And again the shadow of the goose lifted its left wing a little, lifted
its right foot a little, got up on its goose legs, and walked around and
around in a circle on its goose feet. And every time it walked around in
a circle it came back to the same place it started from, with its left
foot or right foot back in the same foot spot it started from. Then it
stayed there in the same place where it put itself on the wall like a
picture to look at, only it was a living picture with its neck sticking
up straight in the air and then changing so its neck was bending in a
long curving bend.
And all the time little Hoo Hoo was sitting up in bed counting her pink
toes and looking out of the corners of her eyes at the shadow of the
goose.
By and by little Hoo Hoo said, “Good morning—hoo hoo for you—and hoo hoo
again, I was looking at the window when you came in. I saw you put
yourself on the wall like a picture. I saw you begin to walk and come
back where you started from with your neck sticking straight up and your
neck bending in a bend. I give you good morning. I blow a hoo hoo to
you. I blow two of a hoo hoo to you.”
Then the shadow of a goose, as if to answer good morning, and as if to
answer what Hoo Hoo meant by saying, “I blow two of a hoo hoo to you,”
stretched its neck sticking up straight and long, longer than any time
yet, and then bended its neck in more of a bend than any time yet.
And all the time Hoo Hoo was sitting in bed feeling of her toes with her
fingers to see if she had one toe for every finger, and to see if she
had one pink little toe to match her one pink little finger, and to see
if she had one fat flat big toe to match her one fat flat thumb.
Then when the room was all quiet the shadow of the goose lifted its left
foot and began singing—singing just as the shadow of a goose always
sings—with the left foot—very softly with the left foot—so softly you
must listen with the softest little listeners you have deep inside your
ears.
And this was the song, this was the old-time, old-fashioned left foot
song the shadow of the goose sang for Hoo Hoo:
Be a yang yang if you want to.
Be a hoo hoo if you want to.
The yang yangs always yang in the morning.
The hoo hoos always hoo in the morning.
Early in the morning the putters sit putting,
Putting on your nose, putting on your ears,
Putting in your eyes and the lashes on your eyes,
Putting on the chins of your chinny chin chins.
And after singing the left foot song the shadow of the goose walked
around in a long circle, came back where it started from, stopped and
stood still with the proud standstill of a goose, and then stretched its
neck sticking up straight and long, longer than any time yet, and then
bended its neck bent and twisted in longer bends than any time yet.
Then the shadow took itself off the wall, fluttered and flickered along
the ceiling and over the bed, flew out of the window and was gone,
leaving Hoo Hoo all alone sitting up in bed counting her pink toes.
Out of the corners of her eyes she looked up at the wall of the room, at
the place where the shadow of the goose put itself like a picture. And
there she saw a shadow spot. She looked and saw it was a left foot, the
same left foot that had been singing the left foot song.
Soon Yang Yang came yang-yanging into the room holding to her mother’s
apron. Hoo Hoo told her mother all the happenings that happened. The
mother wouldn’t believe it. Then Hoo Hoo pointed up to the wall, to the
left foot, the shadow spot left behind by the shadow of the goose when
it took itself off the wall.
And now when Yang Yang and Hoo Hoo sleep all night with their eyes shut
and wake up in the morning with their eyes open, sometimes they say,
“Our Oklahoma home is in Oklahoma,” and sometimes they sing:
Be a yang yang and yang yang if you want to.
Be a hoo hoo and hoo hoo if you want to.
[Illustration]
9. One Story About Big People Now and Little People Long Ago.
_People_: Peter Potato Blossom Wishes
Three Whispering Cats
Hannah
Hannah More
Susquehannah
Hoom Slimmer
[Illustration]
How a Skyscraper and a Railroad Train Got Picked Up and Carried Away
from Pig’s Eye Valley Far in the Pickax Mountains
Peter Potato Blossom Wishes sat with her three cats, Hannah, Hannah
More, and Susquehannah, one spring morning.
She was asking different kinds of questions of the three cats. But she
always got the same answers no matter what she asked them.
They were whispering cats. Hannah was a yes-yes cat and always whispered
yes-yes and nothing else. Hannah More was a no-no cat and always
whispered no-no and nothing else. And Susquehannah was a stuttering cat
and whispered halfway between yes and no, always hesitating and nothing
else.
“The bye-low is whistling his bye-low and bye-low again,” Peter said to
herself with a murmur. “It is spring in the tall timbers and over the
soft black lands. The hoo hoo and the biddywiddies come north to make a
home again. The booblow blossoms put their cool white lips out into the
blue mist. Every way I point my ears there is a bye-low whistling his
bye-low and bye-low again. The spring in the timbers and black lands
calls to the spring aching in my heart.”
Now the three whispering cats heard what Peter Potato Blossom Wishes was
murmuring to herself about the spring heartache.
And Hannah, the yes-yes cat, answered yes-yes. Hannah More, the no-no
cat, answered no-no. And Susquehannah, the stuttering cat, hesitated
halfway between yes-yes and no-no.
And Peter rubbed their fur the right way, scratched them softly between
the ears, and murmured to herself, “It is a don’t-care morning—I don’t
care.”
And that morning her heart gave a hoist and a hist when she saw a speck
of a blackbird spot far and high in the sky. Coming nearer it hummed,
zoomed, hong whonged ... shut off the hong whong ... stop-locked and
drop-locked ... and came down on the ground like a big easy bird with
big wings stopped.
Hoom Slimmer slid out, wiped his hands on the oil rags, put a smear of
axle grease on Peter’s chin, kissed her on the nose, patted her ears two
pats—and then they went into the house and had a late breakfast which
was her second breakfast and his first.
“I flew till I came to Pig’s Eye Valley in the Pickax Mountains,” Hoom
Slimmer told her. “The pickax pigs there run digging with their pickax
feet and their pickax snouts. They are lean, long-legged pigs with
pockets all over, fat pocket ears ahead and fat pocket tails behind, and
the pockets full of rusty dust. They dip their noses in their pockets,
sniff their noses full of rusty dust, and sneeze the rusty dust in each
other’s wrinkly, wriggly, wraggly faces.
“I took out a buzz shovel and scraper, pushed on the buzzer, and watched
it dig and scrape out a city. The houses came to my ankles. The
factories came to my knees. The top of the roof of the highest
skyscraper came up to my nose.
“A spider ran out of a cellar. A book fell out of his mouth. It broke
into rusty dust when I took hold of it. One page I saved. The reading on
it said millions of people had read the book and millions more would
read it.”
Hoom Slimmer reached into a pocket. He took out in his hand a railroad
train with an engine hooked on ahead, and a smoking car, coaches and
sleeping cars hooked on behind.
“I cleaned it nice for you, Peter,” he said. “But the pickax pigs
sneezed rusty dust on it. Put it in your handkerchief.”
“And now,” he went on, “I will wrap off the wrappers on the
skyscraper.... Look at it!... It is thirty stories high. On top is a
flagpole for a flag to go up. Halfway down is a clock, with the hands
gone. On the first floor is a restaurant with signs, ‘Watch Your Hats
and Overcoats.’ Here is the office of the building, with a sign on the
wall, ‘Be Brief.’ Here the elevators ran up and down in a hurry. On
doors are signs, bankers, doctors, lawyers, life insurance, fire
insurance, steam hoist and operating engineers, bridge and structural
iron and steel construction engineers, stocks, bonds, securities,
architects, writers, detectives, window cleaners, jewelry, diamonds,
cloaks, suits, shirts, sox, silk, wool, cotton, lumber, brick, sand,
corn, oats, wheat, paper, ink, pencils, knives, guns, land, oil, coal,
one door with a big sign, ‘We Buy and Sell Anything,’ another door, ‘We
Fix Anything,’ and more doors, ‘None Such,’ ‘The World’s Finest,’ ‘The
Best in the World,’ ‘Oldest Establishment in the World,’ ‘The World’s
Greatest,’ ‘None Greater,’ ‘Greatest in the World,’ ‘Greatest Ever
Known.’”
And Hoom Slimmer put his arms around the skyscraper, lifted it on his
shoulder, and carried it upstairs where Peter Potato Blossom said to put
it, in a corner of her sleeping room. And she took out of her
handkerchief the railroad train with the engine hooked on ahead and the
smoking car, coaches and sleeping cars, hooked on behind. And she put
the railroad train just next to the bottom floor of the skyscraper so
people on the train could step off the train and step right into the
skyscraper.
“Little railroad trains and little skyscrapers are just as big for
little people as big railroad trains and big skyscrapers are for big
people—is it not such?” she asked Hoom Slimmer.
And for an answer he gave her a looking glass half as long as her little
finger and said, “The women in that skyscraper used to look at
themselves from head to foot in that looking glass.”
Then Peter sang out like a spring bird song, “Now we are going to forget
the pickax pigs sneezing rusty dust, and the Pig’s Eye Valley and the
Pickax Mountains. We are going out where the bye-low is whistling his
bye-low and bye-low again, where it is spring in the tall timbers and
over the soft black lands, where the hoo hoo and the biddywiddies come
north to make a home again and the booblow blossoms put their cool white
lips out into the blue mist.”
And they sat under a tree where the early green of spring crooned in the
black branches, and they could hear Hannah, Hannah More and
Susquehannah, whispering yes-yes, no-no, and a hesitating stutter
halfway between yes-yes, and no-no, always hesitating.
10. Three Stories About the Letter X and How It Got into the Alphabet.
_People_: An Oyster King
Shovel Ears
Pig Wisps
The Men Who Change the Alphabets
A River Lumber King
Kiss Me
Flax Eyes
Wildcats
A Rich Man
Blue Silver
Her Playmates, Singing
There are six hundred different stories told in the Rootabaga Country
about the first time the letter X got into the alphabet and how and why
it was. The author has chosen three (3) of the shortest and strangest of
those stories and they are told in the next and following pages.
[Illustration]
Pig Wisps
There was an oyster king far in the south who knew how to open oysters
and pick out the pearls.
He grew rich and all kinds of money came rolling in on him because he
was a great oyster opener and knew how to pick out the pearls.
The son of this oyster king was named Shovel Ears. And it was hard for
him to remember.
“He knows how to open oysters but he forgets to pick out the pearls,”
said the father of Shovel Ears.
“He is learning to remember worse and worse and to forget better and
better,” said the father of Shovel Ears.
Now in that same place far in the south was a little girl with two
braids of hair twisted down her back and a face saying, “Here we
come—where from?”
And her mother called her Pig Wisps.
Twice a week Pig Wisps ran to the butcher shop for a soup bone. Before
starting she crossed her fingers and then the whole way to the butcher
shop kept her fingers crossed.
If she met any playmates and they asked her to stop and play
cross-tag or jackstones or all-around-the-mulberry-bush or
the-green-grass-grew-all-around or drop-the-handkerchief, she told
them, “My fingers are crossed and I am running to the butcher shop
for a soup bone.”
One morning running to the butcher shop she bumped into a big queer boy
and bumped him flat on the sidewalk.
“Did you look where you were running?” she asked him.
“I forgot again,” said Shovel Ears. “I remember worse and worse. I
forget better and better.”
“Cross your fingers like this,” said Pig Wisps, showing him how.
He ran to the butcher shop with her, watching her keep her fingers
crossed till the butcher gave her the soup bone.
“After I get it then the soup bone reminds me to go home with it,” she
told him. “But until I get the soup bone I keep my fingers crossed.”
Shovel Ears went to his father and began helping his father open
oysters. And Shovel Ears kept his fingers crossed to remind him to pick
out the pearls.
He picked a hundred buckets of pearls the first day and brought his
father the longest slippery, shining rope of pearls ever seen in that
oyster country.
“How do you do it?” his father asked.
“It is the crossed fingers—like this,” said Shovel Ears, crossing his
fingers like the letter X. “This is the way to remember better and
forget worse.”
It was then the oyster king went and told the men who change the
alphabets just what happened.
When the men who change the alphabets heard just what happened, they
decided to put in a new letter, the letter X, near the end of the
alphabet, the sign of the crossed fingers.
On the wedding day of Pig Wisps and Shovel Ears, the men who change the
alphabets all came to the wedding, with their fingers crossed.
Pig Wisps and Shovel Ears stood up to be married. They crossed their
fingers. They told each other other they would remember their promises.
And Pig Wisps had two ropes of pearls twisted down her back and a sweet
young face saying, “Here we come—where from?”
[Illustration]
Kiss Me
Many years ago when pigs climbed chimneys and chased cats up into the
trees, away back, so they say, there was a lumber king who lived in a
river city with many wildcats in the timbers near by.
And the lumber king said, “I am losing my hair and my teeth and I am
tired of many things; my only joy is a daughter who is a dancing shaft
of light on the ax handles of morning.”
She was quick and wild, the lumber king’s daughter. She had never
kissed. Not her mother nor father nor any sweetheart ever had a love
print from her lips. Proud she was. They called her Kiss Me.
She didn’t like that name, Kiss Me. They never called her that when she
was listening. If she happened to be listening they called her Find Me,
Lose Me, Get Me. They never mentioned kisses because they knew she would
run away and be what her father called her, “a dancing shaft of light on
the ax handles of morning.”
But—when she was not listening they asked, “Where is Kiss Me to-day?” Or
they would say, “Every morning Kiss Me gets more beautiful—I wonder if
she will ever in her young life get a kiss from a man good enough to
kiss her.”
One day Kiss Me was lost. She went out on a horse with a gun to hunt
wildcats in the timbers near by. Since the day before, she was gone. All
night she was out in a snowstorm with a horse and a gun hunting
wildcats. And the storm of the blowing snow was coming worse on the
second day.
[Illustration: Out into the snowstorm Flax Eyes rode that day]
It was then the lumber king called in a long, loose, young man with a
leather face and hay in his hair. And the king said, “Flax Eyes, you are
the laziest careless man in the river lumber country—go out in the
snowstorm now, among the wildcats, where Kiss Me is fighting for her
life—and save her.”
“I am the hero. I am the man who knows how. I am the man who has been
waiting for this chance,” said Flax Eyes.
On a horse, with a gun, out into the snowstorm Flax Eyes rode that day.
Far, far away he rode to where Kiss Me, the quick wild Kiss Me, was
standing with her back against a big rock fighting off the wildcats.
In that country the snowstorms make the wildcats wilder—and Kiss Me was
tired of shooting wildcats, tired of fighting in the snow, nearly ready
to give up and let the wildcats have her.
Then Flax Eyes came. The wildcats jumped at him, and he threw them off.
More wildcats came, jumping straight at his face. He took hold of those
wildcats by the necks and threw them over the big rock, up into the
trees, away into the snow and the wind.
At last he took all the wildcats one by one and threw them so far they
couldn’t come back. He put Kiss Me on her horse, rode back to the lumber
king and said lazy and careless, “This is us.”
The lumber king saw the face of Flax Eyes was all covered with cross
marks like the letter X. And the lumber king saw the wildcats had torn
the shirt off Flax Eyes and on the skin of his chest, shoulders, arms,
were the cross marks of the wildcats’ claws, cross marks like the letter
X.
So the king went to the men who change the alphabets and they put the
cross marks of the wildcats’ claws, for a new letter, the letter X, near
the end of the alphabet. And at the wedding of Kiss Me and Flax Eyes,
the men who change the alphabets came with wildcat claws crossed like
the letter X.
[Illustration]
Blue Silver
Long ago when the years were dark and the black rains used to come with
strong winds and blow the front porches off houses, and pick chimneys
off houses, and blow them onto other houses, long ago when people had
understanding about rain and wind, there was a rich man with a daughter
he loved better than anything else in the world.
And one night when the black rain came with a strong wind blowing off
front porches and picking off chimneys, the daughter of the rich man
fell asleep into a deep sleep.
In the morning they couldn’t wake her. The black rain with the strong
wind kept up all that day while she kept on sleeping in a deep sleep.
Men and women with music and flowers came in, boys and girls, her
playmates, came in—singing songs and calling her name. And she went on
sleeping.
All the time her arms were crossed on her breast, the left arm crossing
the right arm like a letter X.
Two days more, five days, six, seven days went by—and all the time the
black rain with a strong wind blowing—and the daughter of the rich man
never woke up to listen to the music nor to smell the flowers nor to
hear her playmates singing songs and calling her name.
She stayed sleeping in a deep sleep—with her arms crossed on her
breast—the left arm crossing the right arm like a letter X.
So they made a long silver box, just long enough to reach from her head
to her feet.
And they put on her a blue silver dress and a blue silver band around
her forehead and blue silver shoes on her feet.
There were soft blue silk and silver sleeves to cover her left arm and
her right arm—the two arms crossed on her breast like the letter X.
They took the silver box and carried it to a corner of the garden where
she used to go to look at blue lilacs and climbing blue morning glories
in patches of silver lights.
Among the old leaves of blue lilacs and morning glories they dug a place
for the silver box to be laid in.
And men and women with music and flowers stood by the silver box, and
her old playmates, singing songs she used to sing—and calling her name.
When it was all over and they all went away they remembered one thing
most of all.
And that was her arms in the soft silk and blue silver sleeves, the left
arm crossing over the right arm like the letter X.
Somebody went to the king of the country and told him how it all
happened, how the black rains with a strong wind came, the deep sleep,
the singing playmates, the silver box—and the soft silk and blue silver
sleeves on the left arm crossing the right arm like the letter X.
Before that there never was a letter X in the alphabet. It was then the
king said, “We shall put the crossed arms in the alphabet; we shall have
a new letter called X, so everybody will understand a funeral is
beautiful if there are young singing playmates.”
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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