IN WHICH FLIP USES NEEDLESSLY LONG WORDS,
BUT, TO WIN OUR GOOD-WILL AGAIN, HE TELLS
A REAL OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALE
FOR a perfectly good story-teller Flip had some rather queer ideas. He didn’t believe in fairy tales: that is, the kind that told about witches and Godmothers and Princes and such. He said he could not explain just why—it had something to do with inefficient education. Of course we do not know what “inefficient education” is, but Father and Mother Dear know, so it must be all right. Nevertheless, everyone knows that real fairy tales are nice even if they are not efficient education, so one night, about an hour before bedtime, when the children were all in the living-room before the fire, Martha Mary asked if, please, Flip would tell one. Flip was in a particularly good humor; there had been a thickish letter from someone during the day, and of course the someone was Jane. So he agreed. Only he was rather annoying; he started by using needlessly long words that no one understood. He said they would have to “create the right atmosphere.” John said he would, although he didn’t know what it meant. But Flip didn’t alone. He put out all the lights so that there was only the log fire to keep people from bumping. The flames really looked like a witch’s fire, only there were no witches in the story. Then he heaped cushions on the floor for Martha Mary to sit on; Flip had been very polite to Martha Mary since Jane’s visit. Walter and Edward Lee lay on their stomachs on a rug. Liza was the only one who was not there. Flip piled some lovely-smelling pine cones on the fire, which sputtered and flamed like a blacksmith’s forge, only didn’t smell at all the same.
“Once, in the days before Mother Dear was born, or Mother Dear’s Grandmother, or her Grandmother’s Great Grandmother’s Great Grandmother, which was many years ago,” said Flip, although everyone knew that, “there lived a King whose lands were so great that it took the birds a whole month to fly across them. He was the richest king who lived in the days of the fairies. His chests were of the finest gold, lined with purple satin, and in them were so many beautiful emeralds and rubies that it would hurt your eyes to look at them. In his garden grew the rarest of flowers; roses that had been brought from England and yellowish brown and purple orchids from Brazil; iris, lilac, cherry blossoms, and St. Joseph’s lilies were there, too, from all the four corners of the earth. In his stables there were Arabian horses and splendid dogs: deerhounds and greyhounds, and had there been St. Bernards in those days, he no doubt would have had some of them, too. In the Palace there were wonderful ancestral paintings, beautiful furniture, table service of pure gold, and glass of the rarest cut. Best of all, there was his very dear Queen Wife and the little prince who would be King when he grew up. It was the sunniest of days when the prince came. The Queen Mother had longed for a son and heir for a very long time. She dreamed one night that when the King had grown to love her very much she would be given a son; you know, there can only be children where there is love. The dream made her more pure and lovely than ever; her thoughts and her ways so delighted the King that he learned to love her more than he thought a mortal could love. And so, just as the rosebush grows until it is lovely and old and wise enough to be a mother, and then the seed develops in it under the petals and finally wins strength and goes away on the breeze to take root for itself and become a rose child, so the seed was born within the Mother Queen. While it was gaining strength within her, she kept her thought cheerful and clean, so that when her child came he would be cheerful and clean always. Then came the sunniest of days; just the day for a Prince’s birth, and early in the morning the King was allowed to come to his wife’s room and there, beside her, on a soft little cushion, was his son, the Prince.
“You can well believe that the King was filled with gladness. He went to the balcony of the Palace with the tiny baby in his arm and held it up so that all the subjects could see it. They cheered and the bronze church bells rang and there was gladness throughout the kingdom.
“From the wisest of the courtiers, guardians were chosen for the Prince. There was the chief astrologer to teach him the knowledge that was in books. The grey-haired old Lord of The Park taught him the beauty of flowers and the song of the bird, and the Master of The Whip showed him the correct way to trot a horse and the manner in which a King’s son should hold his sword. So, surrounded by wealth and the dearest of parents and the wisest of teachers, Prince Winfred grew strong and wise. At the time of my story he was about ten years old, the finest young prince you have ever seen, only of course you have never seen a prince.
“You would think that, with all his wealth and splendor, he would be perfectly happy, but he wasn’t. You see, one day he was riding down the Park road on his white horse and he saw through the Castle gates a farmer’s boy pass by on a burro. It was a perfectly good, young grey burro with a collar of wild flowers and tinkling bells hanging from it. As soon as Winfred saw it he knew that he did not have everything in the world. He made up his mind that he wanted a burro very much. He told his wish to old Esau, the astrologer, but Esau raised his hands in horror and said it would be disgraceful and undignified for His Grace to ride a burro. He would speak to the Master of The Whip, he said, and order new horses. That was not what the Prince wished for; he had plenty of horses already. He did not know just why he wanted a burro; personally, I think I can guess. There was something simple and modest in the small creature that would have been a welcome change from the show and pomp of the Castle. So Winfred went to the Lord of The Park and told him his desire; that proud official sneered rather disrespectfully and said:
“‘Perhaps Your Highness desires a goat, too, to milk when you tire of the burro.’
“Winfred almost lost his temper, but he remembered that Princes had to be dignified, so he went to his father, the King, and in a most proper fashion, said:
“‘Your Majesty, I have a request to make.’
“It pleased the King to be asked favors by his son, and so he smiled and demanded what it might be.
“‘If it please you, Sire,’ said Winfred, ‘I would like a burro.’
“‘A burro?’ said the King. ‘What will you do with a burro?’
“‘Ride him,’ said Winfred.
“At first the King laughed at the idea of seeing his son and heir astride a donkey, but when he found that the boy was serious he went into a rage and Winfred crept away, miserable and frightened. Out into the Park he went and lay down under a large oak, where he wept in a most unprincely manner. He wept until the tears were smeared all over his silk collar and ran down his neck. You should have seen him; one would never have guessed that it was a prince sprawled there, for all the world like a badly trained baby. He really was unhappy, though, so you could not blame him altogether.
“He cried and cried until he heard a rustling above him in the tree. He looked up, and perched on a branch just above his head was a small person, not a great deal larger than a pocket-knife. It was a girl-person, dressed in bright green, with the tiniest of green hats on her bit of sunny hair. She looked down at Winfred and frowned.
“‘What do you want?’ demanded Winfred.
“‘Stop crying,’ said the girl-person.
“‘You are disrespectful,’ said Winfred. ‘I am the Prince.’
“‘I don’t care who you are,’ said the girl-person. ‘I wish you would stop crying.’
“Winfred was so surprised at her lack of respect that he forgot to cry for a moment, but he soon began again.
“‘Stop it, I say,’ said the little thing. ‘Stop it! I hate you when you do that.’
“Winfred cried on.
“Then the girl-person commenced to coax. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘stop and I will give you any wish you ask of me.’
“‘Why should I stop?’ asked Winfred. ‘And who are you that you can grant wishes to a prince?’
“‘You should stop,’ said the girl-person, ‘because I hate tears, and I can grant wishes, because I am a fairy.’
“‘That is very nice,’ said Winfred. ‘I’ve always wished to meet a fairy. Are they all like you?’
“‘Silly,’ said the fairy. ‘Of course not. I am the laughter fairy; I go about the world collecting children’s smiles and giving them to solemn grown-ups. I’m much nicer than most of the fairies; I think I am the nicest fairy there ever was.’
“‘You conceited creature,’ said Winfred. ‘You are not at all nice.’
“The fairy laughed and reached down a tiny foot and kicked Winfred in the nose.
“‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really mean that. There are other fairies as nice—almost—as I am. And I’m not a creature and I wish you wouldn’t call me one. I’m a fairy and my name is—guess what?’
“‘Christine,’ guessed Winfred.
“‘How silly! Christine is not a fairy name at all. Christines are always fat and good cooks. My name is Merrylip. Do you like it?’
“‘Pretty well,’ said Winfred. ‘What does it mean?’
“‘Nothing. It’s just a name, and names never mean anything.’
“‘Oh!’ said Winfred.
“All at once Merrylip commenced to laugh; laughed so hard that her little foot got tangled in a spiderweb and she almost ruined the web getting loose.
“‘Stop it,’ said Winfred. ‘I can’t see anything funny.’
“‘You are funny,’ said Merrylip.
“‘Why?’ demanded Winfred, and showed signs of remembering that he was the King’s son and entitled to respect.
“‘Because,’ said Merrylip.
“‘Because what?’
“‘Because I asked you to stop crying and I talked to you a little and you had to stop.’
“‘Didn’t. I stopped because you said you would grant me a wish.’
“‘I forgot,’ said Merrylip. ‘What do you want?’
“In a flash Winfred remembered what he wanted more than anything else in the world.
“‘Please—a burro,’ he said.
“‘A burro?’ said Merrylip, much surprised. ‘Why in the world do you waste a good wish on a burro? There are much nicer things than that to ask for. Wish, why don’t you, for heaps of money, and then you can buy anything!’
“‘I have plenty of money,’ said Winfred. ‘And all the treasures I want. But a burro is different. You can’t just buy them; you have to be born not a prince to have one. I wish I was a train-engineer or a policeman or a farmhand. A prince has so many duties that it is tiresome. When I am King I shall have a whole stable full of burros.’
“‘Then you won’t enjoy them at all,’ said Merrylip. She was really wise for such a small fairy. ‘You’ll get tired of them. People always do when they have finally got what they wanted very much.’
“‘I wouldn’t,’ said Winfred. ‘I am different.’
“‘I bet you,’ said Merrylip.
“‘Bet what?’
“‘Bet I will show you something nicer than a burro; even nicer than two burros. You’ll be perfectly happy for two hours—then you’ll want to be a prince again and forget everything else.’
“‘You just say that because you are a girl,’ said Winfred. ‘Girls never understand boys.’
“‘I’ll prove it,’ said Merrylip. ‘Come under my cape.’
“‘I can’t,’ said Winfred. ‘I’m too big.’
“‘That is easy,’ said Merrylip. ‘You must kiss me on my ear, then see what happens.’
“‘Kisses are horrid,’ said Winfred. Still he was not going to take any chances of not having his wish, so he reached up and just put the smallest kind of a kiss on Merrylip’s ear. It tasted like marshmallows. As soon as he touched her, Winfred began to grow small. You have never seen a boy as small as he became—about so big. Then he climbed up and drew Merrylip’s cape over him and away they went. Up over the very tops of the trees, out across the Castle wall, down into the valley, pop over a stream, high again so as not to bump into a fat old oak, and—before you knew it—they were right above the city. Far below them were the people, walking about, and they didn’t, any of them, look larger than Merrylip.
“‘Now,’ said Merrylip. ‘Be ready!’
“Down they swooped right to the middle of the street, where a whole dozen children were playing London Bridges. They were rather dirty children; their clothes were not at all nice and their hair was mussed. As soon as the Prince’s feet touched the cobblestones, he became his natural size. Merrylip disappeared altogether, but Winfred heard her buzzing about his ear, telling him what to do.
“You can imagine how surprised all the children were when they found that a strange boy had popped up out of nowhere. They gathered around him and shouted, ‘Who are you?’
“Winfred was going to say, ‘The King’s Son,’ but Merrylip whispered in his ear, so he just said, ‘Winfred.’
“The children didn’t care very much who he was, after all. You see, Merrylip had touched his clothes with her lavender stick and they had become old and dirty just like those of the others. They decided that they would start another game: Rum-ba-loo-pum-ba-loo. The oldest of them counted out loud:
“‘Eny, meny, miny, mo. Catch a fairy by the toe. If he hollers let him go. Fairy, meny, miny, mo. O-U-T spells out, with the Old Mother Witch’s hat turned in—side—out.’ And Winfred was out.
“‘But I don’t know how to play,’ said Winfred.
“‘It’s perfectly easy!’ they shouted. ‘You know, the one who is out is It.’
“‘How can you be It if you are Out?’ asked Winfred.
“They couldn’t explain, but that was the way it was played. The one who was Out was It, and he or she was called Mrs. Rumbaloopumbaloo. She had to be the old witch and live on a stump of a tree. That was all the home she had. Then the children came up and said:
“‘Mother Rumbaloopumbaloo, what are you thinking of?’
“Rumbaloopumbaloo would say the first letter of the word. If it was ice cream, she would say ‘I’; if it was music, she would say ‘M,’ and so on. Then, if one of the children guessed right, Mother Rumbaloopumbaloo would chase them all and the one who was caught was It.
“Up to Winfred came the children and said:
“‘Mother Rumbaloopumbaloo, what are you thinking of?’
“‘It begins with B,’ said Winfred.
“‘Books,’ said one.
“‘Nope.’
“‘Bells?’
“‘Nope.’
“‘Beans?’
“‘No.’
“Then a little girl, whom no one had noticed before, said:
“‘I know. It’s a burro.’
“‘Uhu!’ shouted Winfred, and chased them down the street. He caught the little girl who had guessed rightly and whispered to her:
“‘How did you know?’
“‘Silly, silly,’ said the girl, for it was Merrylip, grown big.
“They played for a very long time, and Winfred was never so happy before.
“‘Isn’t this nicer than a burro?’ asked Merrylip, and Winfred said:
“‘A thousand times nicer.’
“After a while they all were tired and didn’t think the game was fun any more, so they took up their hats and started for home.
“‘You can come home with me for lunch if you want,’ said one of the boys to Winfred. Winfred whispered to Merrylip, and she said he might, so they went. Only Merrylip made herself small again and hid in the Prince’s pocket. They came to a small hut, and the boy, whose name was Michael, rushed in with Winfred after him. They threw their hats on a chair and shouted, and in came a woman, all fat and grey, with a gingham apron. Michael jumped into her arms and shouted: ‘Mother, I’ve brought a boy to lunch. His name is Winfred.’
“The fat Mother kissed Winfred; then they sat down in the kitchen and had oodles of beans and black bread.
“‘Isn’t this nicer than burros?’ whispered Merrylip.
“‘A thousand times nicer,’ whispered Winfred.
“‘And nicer than dinner at home with servants all about?’
“‘A thousand times nicer.’
“When they couldn’t eat any more, the old Mother went to sleep in her chair, and Winfred said good-by to Michael and went out.
“‘Where now?’ he asked Merrylip.
“‘Now the best of all,’ she answered.
“Down the road they went to a large field, where a grey burro was eating grass.
“‘Get on,’ said Merrylip. Winfred patted the burro on the nose, then climbed up. Away they went, much faster than burros usually travel, rushing across the fields till the wind hummed about Winfred’s ears like music. They galloped up across the hills and down into new grass valleys that Winfred had never seen before.
“‘Isn’t this nice?’ shouted Merrylip.
“‘There is nothing nicer in the world!’ Winfred shouted back.
“‘Silly,’ said Merrylip.
“On and on they rode until Winfred grew tired.
“‘Please,’ he said, ‘I would like to stop, now.’
“Immediately the burro disappeared and Winfred was standing under a tree, with Merrylip next to him.
“‘Where do you want to go now?’ she asked.
“‘I’m hungry,’ said Winfred.
“‘Shall we go to the old Mother’s and have more beans?’
“‘I’d rather have fried chicken and strawberries,’ said Winfred.
“‘But the old Mother only eats beans.’
“‘I can eat at home,’ said Winfred.
“‘I’m tired of burros.’
“‘Don’t you want to go back and play with the children?’
“‘No, they were dirty and disrespectful.’
“‘You are horrid,’ said Merrylip. ‘But I knew you would be this way.’
“She thought a moment, frowning the tiniest, most adorable frown.
“Then, ‘I hate boys,’ she said, ‘especially selfish ones. I am going to punish you for growing tired so quickly of the things you wanted more than anything else in the world.’
“All at once there came a rush of wind, and Winfred was alone, and, to his horror, as tiny as a string bean.
“‘Merrylip!’ he called. ‘Don’t leave me alone! I am frightened.’
“But there was no answer.
“Again he called: ‘I can’t go home if you don’t come! My feet are so small and my legs so tiny that I never would get there!’
“Still there was no answer.
“So how do you think he got home?”
None of the children could guess.
“Well,” said Flip, “it is nine o’clock and you all ought to be in bed. So I’m not going to tell you another word, and there will be a second chapter to-morrow night.”
“Please, please!” the children all shouted. “We want to know now.”
“Not a word,” said Flip.
Then suddenly Walter sprang on to Flip’s stomach and Edward Lee sat on his face and Walter shouted for help. John got a rope, and with the aid of Martha Mary they tied Flip to the leg of the library table. The noise was something terrific. In rushed Mother Dear and Father.
“Here, here!” said Father. “What is the noise about?”
“Please,” said Martha Mary, “Walter is a hero and Flip is a villain.”
Then Mother Dear laughed, and when Mother laughs Father always laughs, too. It really is quite funny to see Mother laugh. She is becoming just the least bit stout. Well, when Father laughed, the children jumped on him, too, and tied him to another leg of the table. Father tried to look scandalized, but you could see a laugh lurking out of the corner of his mouth.
Said he, “I consider this very undignified.”
“No,” said Walter, “it is jail. You have to give bail before you can get out.”
“And may I ask how much the bail is?” asked Father, digging his hand into his money pocket.
“It’s not that kind of a bail,” said Edward Lee. “Mother Dear, what shall the bail be?”
Mother Dear had a splendid idea. “We’ll punish Father,” she said, “by making Flip sing, and punish Flip by making Father sing.”
Father did not want to, but the children would not let him go, so he sang in an awful, awful voice:
“There once was a silly old whale
Who drowned himself in a pail.
Amongst folks it is said
There was room for his head,
But not the least bit for his tail.”
“Oh, oh!” moaned Flip. “Spare me, spare me!”
So they spared him, but made him sing to torture Father. Then it was the most surprising thing. He sang in the softest, nicest voice, a voice that just seemed to fit in with the firelight and the “atmosphere”:
“Way up above the blackest trees that tease the sky at night
A million young star children dance a merry, fairy dance.
The fat old moon comes through the clouds and giggles with delight
To see the myriad youngsters as they skip and hop and prance.
Then, when the night is growing old and skies are fading grey
A mother star comes softly out a lullaby to hum.
She warns the dancing children of the coming of the day,
For a very careful Mother is Mrs. Rumdidoodledum.”
Then the children looked out of the window and, sure enough, Lady Rumdidoodledum was just appearing, big and bright, above the pine trees.
“Flip,” coaxed Martha Mary, “don’t you think you could tell us just a bit of how Winfred got home?”
“To-morrow night,” said Flip, and so everyone said good night and went to bed.