IN WHICH LIZA GOES UNDER THE SIDEBOARD; WALTER
AND EDWARD LEE FIX THE CAT, AND FLIP
PROVES THAT THE CITY FOGS ARE NICE
IT was Liza who discovered the secret. She was hiding from Hermit, and the best place to hide is under the sideboard, because Hermit is too large to crawl there. She was very quiet; so quiet that no one knew she was there at all. When Mother Dear and Father came in to put flowers on the table, she lay still as still could be and heard everything they said. Then she went right off to tell John although it was supposed to be a secret. John was busy taking an alarm clock apart, but he stopped when Liza came, and kissed her nose.
“Hullo, Big Sister,” he said. “Which way is the wind blowing?” John always asked Liza interesting things. He didn’t act at all grown-upish with her like he did with the others.
“John,” said Liza, “what do you think?”
“It’s a secret,” said Liza.
“What?” said John.
Then Liza told him. The whole family was going to the City on Saturday and Uncle Captain Mick was going to take Martha Mary and John to the theater. The others were to go to the Cliff House and have lunch on the beach with waffles and peanuts.
John pretended not to be very much excited. Even with Liza he was annoying and superior when anyone was so happy that they could hardly keep still. But the others acted differently when they heard. Edward Lee and Walter had to do something big. So Walter put the white and black cat in a bucket of whitewash and Edward Lee put ink on the whitewash to make the black spots again. They always did queer things when they were glad. As for Martha Mary—she sought out Flip to tell him the news and there the rest of the younger part of the family, which was of course the most important part, found her, an hour later.
“Cities aren’t so much,” said John.
Flip thought they were. He had lived in San Francisco years and years ago.
“But you can’t do interesting things there, like rowing and such,” said John.
“You certainly can,” argued Flip.
“And anyway,” said John, “it’s always foggy and cold, and things aren’t alive there like the trees and hills and things in your stories.”
“You are mistaken,” said Flip. “I remember perfectly well——”
“It’s a story; isn’t it, please?” said Martha Mary.
“Well, not exactly a story.”
“Please,” said Martha Mary, and rubbed her soft, pink cheek against Flip’s forehead. So what could Flip do but tell the story?—the story of the Things that are alive in the City.
“You see, John really doesn’t know anything about it. There are just as many dreams and fairies and sprites in the City as there are right here in our own garden. Only everyone has to attend to business in the City and can’t always remember these things. Why, the fairies that dance on Tamalpais are the most gorgeously happy fairies, I think, in all the world.”
“Who’s Tamperpies?” Liza wanted to know.
“Tamalpais is the biggest, oldest mountain you have ever dreamed of anywhere.”
“Just like Smudge?”
“Exactly, only not quite so silly and spoiled as Smudge. It is a very dignified old mountain even if it is so lovely, and it sits right at the North Star corner of the bay and rules all the country for miles and miles around. But old Tamalpais is not the same as it used to be. When it was younger—oh, about twenty years ago—it was all covered with nice, tall trees; some of them so high that one would think the blue sky was resting on them. There were red berries, too, and vines and tremendously big ferns and the green things grew so thickly that one could hardly walk through them. There were wild things there, too; bears and deer and wild cats and heaps of squirrels and more singing birds than there are hairs on Hermit’s tail.
“Right across the sunset water was the loveliest city; a city that rambled over a half-dozen queer old hills, up and down, twisting about like a regular jig-saw puzzle. And oh, it was a proud City, just as haughty and conceited as it could be. Of course it had lots to be conceited about, for there never was such a happy city of people before. They had wonderfully good times in such a perfectly nice way, and were so lively and busy that of course they couldn’t help being proud.
“More than any of these things, the City was proud of its lovely mountain across the bay, and what do you think? The trees and flowers were so thick on the mountain sides that it could never see through them and had no idea that the City was there at all. The City grieved at this because she loved the mountain so much and wanted it to love her. She used to send messengers over to it on Sundays and holidays; boys and girls by the dozen, in old tramping clothes, and they would take their lunch along, and sit in the fields and pick the poppies and violet-blue Lupin to bring back and put in vases and jugs in the City homes. One Sunday,—the sunniest, brightest Sunday you ever saw,—one of the messengers lay down in the grass under a bay tree and lit his pipe and thought. I don’t know what he was thinking; it must have been something uninteresting, for little by little, his eyes closed, and the first thing you knew, he was sound asleep. The pipe fell out of his mouth and right into some dried leaves. Then it was awful; the grass caught on fire and before the messenger awakened the flames had eaten way out into the forest. The messenger awoke and tried to fight the fire alone, but it was useless. He cried for help and people came rushing from all sides to do what they could, but it was no use; on and on the fire spread till all the trees and bushes on the mountain were burned away. All night the flames raged and the sky was red, like a sunset, and smoke poured over the bay. And in the morning the mountain lay, all bare and black, and oh, the City mourned to see it. But you know, when anything unpleasant happens, something nice happens, too. In this case all the growth of green being gone from Tamalpais, he could look about him for miles and the very first thing he saw was the wonderful City—and—it was a case of love at first sight!
“Well, the Mountain and the City loved each other for years and years and years. Every morning, the soldiers in the City would fire a cannon to welcome the sun and that would awaken Tamalpais. He would yawn and look across the water; then he would smile and when he smiled it was like oceans of sunshine. Then the City would smile an answer and the day would begin. The hours were so short until dark, one hardly noticed them pass. In the evening, millions of lights would come out in the City like the loveliest diamond necklace of a fairy queen. Only fairies wear dewdrops and not diamonds. Tamalpais would gaze and gaze at the lights and the City would see the huge, black form standing out against the night sky, and so—just like a couple of children—they grew so interested watching each other that they forgot to go to bed at all. That would never do, you know. First the North Wind scolded the City; then the Lady Moon gave the mountain an awful lecture, but it didn’t do any good. Tamalpais began to have wrinkles because he did not sleep, and the City became rather ill-humored. So the North Wind went to the Sun and asked him what he thought they had better do. Of course the Sun had a good idea; he always does seem to manage things somehow. He waited until late in the afternoon, then the very last thing, just before bedtime, he went west, out into the ocean, and drew the water up in the sky to make lovely white clouds of it. Then the North Wind came over so gently. He took the white clouds through the Golden Gate and heaped them just like hills and hills of white, soft pillows, all over the City, and the mountain too. That night no one could sleep; the Mountain grieved because it couldn’t see the City, and the City was lonely because it couldn’t see the black form of Tamalpais. But that was only the first night. After a while they grew rather used to it and learned to watch for the ocean of white clouds. Then they would go to sleep, and it was always more exciting for them to wake up in the morning and see each other. Of course sometimes they would wake up and the clouds would still be there. Then the Mountain would grumble and the City would shiver, and down would come the North Wind to carry the clouds away again—and there would be sunshine.
“Now, every night, when the bugles in the Presidio sound ‘Taps,’ which is the soldiers’ song when they go to sleep, the North Wind hears the soft, whispering music and brings in arms full of white clouds so that Tamalpais and the City by the Golden Gate can go to sleep.”
Edward Lee laughed when Flip had finished the story.
“That is very impolite of you,” said Martha Mary. “I liked Tamalpais and you shouldn’t laugh.”
“Wasn’t laughing at that,” said Edward Lee.
“What was it, then?” asked Martha Mary.
“It’s Liza,” said Edward Lee. “Look at her. Someone has been putting white clouds over her.”
Sure enough, Liza was sound asleep with her arms about Hermit’s neck.
Hermit was asleep, too, with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, although it is very bad to sleep with one’s mouth open.
But, you see, Hermit is only a dog and dogs can’t understand everything.