17168	----	THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE BY BRET HARTE ILLUSTRATED BY KATE GREENAWAY A FACSIMILE FROM THE ORIGINAL PUBLICATION OF 1885 [Illustration] UNIVERSAL BOOKS LTD, LONDON, ENGLAND Harte, Bret, 1836-1902. ISBN 0 86441 018 2. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE MRS SMITH 7 POLLY 10 BEGGAR CHILD 12 SCHOOL MISTRESS 12 INDIAN MAIDEN 13 PROUD LADY 14 CHINESE JUNK 15 SWIMMING FOR HIS LIFE 16 A TENT 17 CAPTURE OF MERCHANTMAN 18 AT SUPPER 20 POLLY IN THE BRANCHES 23 PATSEY 25 SLUMGULLION 28 EACH OTHER'S HANDS 30 EDGE OF CLIFF 31 SLIDING DOWN HILL 32 PIG TAIL ROPE 34 FIREWORKS IN CAVE 37 LADY MARY'S HAIR GONE 39 INVISIBLE MEDICINE 42 CLAD IN DEEPEST MOURNING 44 BROTHER STEP-AND-FETCH-IT 48 WAN LEE 54 NOT ALWAYS PIRATES 56 POLLY BROUGHT HOME 58 ASLEEP WITH DOLL 60 [Illustration] THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE. I first knew her as the Queen of the Pirate Isle. To the best of my recollection she had no reasonable right to that title. She was only nine years old, inclined to plumpness and good humour, deprecated violence and had never been to sea. Need it be added that she did _not_ live in an island and that her name was "Polly." [Illustration] [Illustration] Perhaps I ought to explain that she had already known other experiences of a purely imaginative character. Part of her existence had been passed as a Beggar Child--solely indicated by a shawl tightly folded round her shoulders and chills,--as a Schoolmistress, unnecessarily severe; as a Preacher, singularly personal in his remarks, and once, after reading one of Cooper's novels, as an Indian Maiden. This was, I believe, the only instance when she had borrowed from another's fiction. Most of the characters that she assumed for days and sometimes weeks at a time were purely original in conception; some so much so as to be vague to the general understanding. I remember that her personation of a certain Mrs. Smith, whose individuality was supposed to be sufficiently represented by a sun-bonnet worn wrong side before and a weekly addition to her family, was never perfectly appreciated by her own circle although she lived the character for a month. Another creation known as "The Proud Lady"--a being whose excessive and unreasonable haughtiness was so pronounced as to give her features the expression of extreme nausea, caused her mother so much alarm that it had to be abandoned. This was easily effected. The Proud Lady was understood to have died. Indeed, most of Polly's impersonations were got rid of in this way, although it by no means prevented their subsequent reappearance. "I thought Mrs. Smith was dead," remonstrated her mother at the posthumous appearance of that lady with a new infant. "She was buried alive and kem to!" said Polly with a melancholy air. Fortunately, the representation of a resuscitated person required such extraordinary acting, and was, through some uncertainty of conception, so closely allied in facial expression to the Proud Lady, that Mrs. Smith was resuscitated only for a day. [Illustration] [Illustration] The origin of the title of the Queen of the Pirate Isle, may be briefly stated as follows:-- An hour after luncheon, one day, Polly, Hickory Hunt, her cousin, and Wan Lee, a Chinese page, were crossing the nursery floor in a Chinese junk. The sea was calm and the sky cloudless. Any change in the weather was as unexpected as it is in books. Suddenly a West Indian Hurricane, purely local in character and unfelt anywhere else, struck Master Hickory and threw him overboard, whence, wildly swimming for his life and carrying Polly on his back, he eventually reached a Desert Island in the closet. Here the rescued party put up a tent made of a table cloth providentially snatched from the raging billows, and from two o'clock until four, passed six weeks on the island supported only by a piece of candle, a box of matches, and two peppermint lozenges. It was at this time that it became necessary to account for Polly's existence among them, and this was only effected by an alarming sacrifice of their morality; Hickory and Wan Lee instantly became _Pirates_, and at once elected Polly as their Queen. The royal duties, which seemed to be purely maternal, consisted in putting the Pirates to bed after a day of rapine and bloodshed, and in feeding them with liquorice water through a quill in a small bottle. Limited as her functions were, Polly performed them with inimitable gravity and unquestioned sincerity. Even when her companions sometimes hesitated from actual hunger or fatigue and forgot their guilty part, she never faltered. It was her _real_ existence--her other life of being washed, dressed, and put to bed at certain hours by her mother was the _illusion_. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Doubt and scepticism came at last,--and came from Wan Lee! Wan Lee of all creatures! Wan Lee, whose silent, stolid, mechanical performance of a Pirate's duties--a perfect imitation like all his household work--had been their one delight and fascination! It was just after the exciting capture of a merchantman with the indiscriminate slaughter of all on board--a spectacle on which the round blue eyes of the plump Polly had gazed with royal and maternal tolerance, and they were burying the booty--two table spoons and a thimble in the corner of the closet, when Wan Lee stolidly rose. [Illustration] "Melican boy pleenty foolee! Melican boy no Pilat!" said the little Chinaman, substituting "l's" for "r's" after his usual fashion. "Wotcher say?" said Hickory, reddening with sudden confusion. "Melican boy's papa heap lickee him--spose him leal Pilat," continued Wan Lee, doggedly. "Melican boy Pilat _inside_ housee; Chinee boy Pilat _outside_ housee. First chop Pilat." Staggered by this humiliating statement, Hickory recovered himself in character. "Ah! Ho!" he shrieked, dancing wildly on one leg, "Mutiny and Splordinashun! Way with him to the yard arm." "Yald alm--heap foolee! Allee same clothes hoss for washee washee." It was here necessary for the Pirate Queen to assert her authority, which, as I have before stated was somewhat confusingly maternal. "Go to bed instantly without your supper," she said, seriously. "Really, I never saw such bad pirates. Say your prayers, and see that you're up early to church to-morrow." It should be explained that in deference to Polly's proficiency as a preacher, and probably as a relief to their uneasy consciences, Divine Service had always been held on the Island. But Wan Lee continued:-- "Me no shabbee Pilat _inside_ housee; me shabbee Pilat _outside_ housee. Spose you lun away longside Chinee boy--Chinee boy makee you Pilat." [Illustration] Hickory softly scratched his leg while a broad, bashful smile, almost closed his small eyes. "Wot!" he asked. "Mebbee you too frightened to lun away. Melican boy's papa heap lickee." This last infamous suggestion fired the corsair's blood. "Dy'ar think we daresent," said Hickory, desperately, but with an uneasy glance at Polly. "I'll show yer to-morrow." The entrance of Polly's mother at this moment put an end to Polly's authority and dispersed the pirate band, but left Wan Lee's proposal and Hickory's rash acceptance ringing in the ears of the Pirate Queen. That evening she was unusually silent. She would have taken Bridget, her nurse, into her confidence, but this would have involved a long explanation of her own feelings, from which, like all imaginative children, she shrank. She, however, made preparation for the proposed flight by settling in her mind which of her two dolls she would take. A wooden creature with easy going knees and moveable hair seemed to be more fit for hard service and any indiscriminate scalping that might turn up hereafter. At supper, she timidly asked a question of Bridget. "Did ye ever hear the loikes uv that, Ma'am," said the Irish handmaid with affectionate pride, "Shure the darlint's head is filled noight and day with ancient history. She's after asking me now if Queen's ever run away!" To Polly's remorseful confusion here her good father equally proud of her precocious interest and his own knowledge, at once interfered with an unintelligible account of the abdication of various Queens in history until Polly's head ached again. Well meant as it was, it only settled in the child's mind that she must keep the awful secret to herself and that no one could understand her. [Illustration] The eventful day dawned without any unusual sign of importance. It was one of the cloudless summer days of the Californian foot hills, bright, dry, and as the morning advanced, hot in the white sunshine. The actual, prosaic house in which the Pirates apparently lived, was a mile from a mining settlement on a beautiful ridge of pine woods sloping gently towards a valley on the one side, and on the other falling abruptly into a dark deep olive gulf of pine trees, rocks, and patches of red soil. Beautiful as the slope was, looking over to the distant snow peaks which seemed to be in another world than theirs, the children found a greater attraction in the fascinating depths of a mysterious gulf, or "cañon," as it was called, whose very name filled their ears with a weird music. To creep to the edge of the cliff, to sit upon the brown branches of some fallen pine, and putting aside the dried tassels to look down upon the backs of wheeling hawks that seemed to hang in mid-air was a never failing delight. Here Polly would try to trace the winding red ribbon of road that was continually losing itself among the dense pines of the opposite mountains; here she would listen to the far off strokes of a woodman's axe, or the rattle of some heavy waggon, miles away, crossing the pebbles of a dried up water course. Here, too, the prevailing colours of the mountains, red and white and green, most showed themselves. There were no frowning rocks to depress the children's fancy, but everywhere along the ridge pure white quartz bared itself through the red earth like smiling teeth, the very pebbles they played with were streaked with shining mica like bits of looking-glass. The distance was always green and summer-like, but the colour they most loved, and which was most familiar to them, was the dark red of the ground beneath their feet everywhere. It showed itself in the roadside bushes; its red dust pervaded the leaves of the overhanging laurel, it coloured their shoes and pinafores; I am afraid it was often seen in Indian like patches on their faces and hands. That it may have often given a sanguinary tone to their fancies, I have every reason to believe. [Illustration] It was on this ridge that the three children gathered at ten o'clock that morning. An earlier flight had been impossible on account of Wan Lee being obliged to perform his regular duty of blacking the shoes of Polly and Hickory before breakfast,--a menial act which in the pure Republic of childhood was never thought inconsistent with the loftiest piratical ambition. On the ridge they met one "Patsey," the son of a neighbour, sun burned, broad-brimmed hatted, red handed, like themselves. As there were afterwards some doubts expressed whether he joined the Pirates of his own free will, or was captured by them, I endeavour to give the colloquy exactly as it occurred:-- _Patsey._ "Hallo, fellers." _The Pirates._ "Hello!" _Patsey._ "Goin' to hunt bars? Dad seed a lot o' tracks at sun up." _The Pirates_ (hesitating). "No--o--" _Patsey._ "I am; know where I kin get a six-shooter." _The Pirates_ (almost ready to abandon piracy for bear hunting, but preserving their dignity). "Can't! We've runn'd away for real pirates." _Patsey._ "Not for good!" _The Queen_ (interposing with sad dignity and real tears in her round blue eyes). "Yes!" (slowly and shaking her head). "Can't go back again. Never! Never! Never! The--the--eye is cast!" _Patsey_ (bursting with excitement). "No'o! Sho'o! Wanter know." _The Pirates_ (a little frightened themselves, but tremulous with gratified vanity). "The Perleese is on our track!" _Patsey._ "Lemme go with yer!" _Hickory._ "Wot'll yer giv?" _Patsey._ "Pistol and er bananer." _Hickory_ (with judicious prudence). "Let's see 'em." Patsey was off like a shot; his bare little red feet trembling under him. In a few minutes he returned with an old fashioned revolver known as one of "Allen's pepper boxes" and a large banana. He was at once enrolled and the banana eaten. As yet they had resolved on no definite nefarious plan. Hickory looking down at Patsey's bare feet instantly took off his own shoes. The bold act sent a thrill through his companions. Wan Lee took off his cloth leggings, Polly removed her shoes and stockings, but with royal foresight, tied them up in her handkerchief. The last link between them and civilization was broken. "Let's go to the Slumgullion." [Illustration] "Slumgullion" was the name given by the miners to a certain soft, half-liquid mud, formed of the water and finely powdered earth that was carried off by the sluice boxes during gold washing, and eventually collected in a broad pool or lagoon before the outlet. There was a pool of this kind a quarter of a mile away, where there were "diggings" worked by Patsey's father, and thither they proceeded along the ridge in single file. When it was reached they solemnly began to wade in its viscid paint-like shallows. Possibly its unctuousness was pleasant to the touch; possibly there was a fascination in the fact that their parents had forbidden them to go near it, but probably the principal object of this performance was to produce a thick coating of mud on the feet and ankles, which, when dried in the sun, was supposed to harden the skin and render their shoes superfluous. It was also felt to be the first real step towards independence; they looked down at their ensanguined extremities and recognized the impossibility of their ever again crossing (unwashed) the family threshold. Then they again hesitated. There was a manifest need of some well defined piratical purpose. The last act was reckless and irretrievable, but it was vague. They gazed at each other. There was a stolid look of resigned and superior tolerance in Wan Lee's eyes. Polly's glance wandered down the side of the slope to the distant little tunnels or openings made by the miners who were at work in the bowels of the mountain. "I'd like to go into one of them funny holes," she said to herself, half aloud. Wan Lee suddenly began to blink his eyes with unwonted excitement. "Catchee tunnel--heap gold," he said, quickly. "When manee come outside to catchee dinner--Pilats go inside catchee tunnel! Shabbee! Pilats catchee gold allee samee Melican man!" [Illustration] "And take perseshiun," said Hickory. "And hoist the Pirate flag," said Patsey. "And build a fire, and cook, and have a family," said Polly. The idea was fascinating to the point of being irresistible. The eyes of the four children became rounder and rounder. They seized each other's hands and swung them backwards and forwards, occasionally lifting their legs in a solemn rhythmic movement known only to childhood. "Its orful far off!" said Patsey, with a sudden look of dark importance. "Pap sez its free miles on the road. Take all day ter get there." The bright faces were overcast. "Less go down er slide!" said Hickory, boldly. [Illustration] They approached the edge of the cliff. The "slide" was simply a sharp incline zigzagging down the side of the mountain used for sliding goods and provisions from the summit to the tunnel men at the different openings below. The continual traffic had gradually worn a shallow gulley half filled with earth and gravel into the face of the mountain which checked the momentum of the goods in their downward passage, but afforded no foothold for a pedestrian. No one had ever been known to descend a slide. That feat was evidently reserved for the Pirate band. They approached the edge of the slide hand in hand, hesitated--and the next moment disappeared! [Illustration] * * * * * Five minutes later the tunnel men of the Excelsior mine, a mile below, taking their luncheon on the rude platform of _débris_ before their tunnel, were suddenly driven to shelter in the tunnel from an apparent rain of stones, and rocks, and pebbles, from the cliffs above. Looking up, they were startled at seeing four round objects revolving and bounding in the dust of the slide, which eventually resolved themselves into three boys and a girl. For a moment the good men held their breath in helpless terror. Twice, one of the children, had struck the outer edge of the bank and displaced stones that shot a thousand feet down into the dizzy depths of the valley! and now, one of them, the girl, had actually rolled out of the slide and was hanging over the chasm supported only by a clump of chimasal to which she clung! "Hang on by your eyelids, Sis! but don't stir for Heaven's sake!" shouted one of the men, as two others started on a hopeless ascent of the cliff above them. [Illustration] But a light childish laugh from the clinging little figure seemed to mock them! Then two small heads appeared at the edge of the slide; then a diminutive figure whose feet were apparently held by some invisible companion, was shoved over the brink and stretched its tiny arms towards the girl. But in vain, the distance was too great. Another laugh of intense youthful enjoyment followed the failure, and a new insecurity was added to the situation by the unsteady hands and shoulders of the relieving party who were apparently shaking with laughter. Then the extended figure was seen to detach what looked like a small black rope from its shoulders and throw it to the girl. There was another little giggle. The faces of the men below paled in terror. Then Polly--for it was she--hanging to the long pig-tail of Wan Lee, was drawn with fits of laughter back in safety to the slide. Their childish treble of appreciation was answered by a ringing cheer from below. "Darned ef I ever want to cut off a Chinaman's pig-tail again, boys," said one of the tunnel men as he went back to dinner. Meantime the children had reached the goal and stood before the opening of one of the tunnels. Then these four heroes who had looked with cheerful levity on the deadly peril of their descent became suddenly frightened at the mysterious darkness of the cavern and turned pale at its threshold. "Mebbee a wicked Joss backside holee, He catchee Pilats," said Wan Lee, gravely. Hickory began to whimper, Patsey drew back, Polly alone stood her ground, albeit with a trembling lip. "Let's say our prayers and frighten it away," she said, stoutly. "No! No!" said Wan Lee, with sudden alarm. "No frighten Spillits! You waitee! Chinee boy he talkee Spillit not to frighten you."[A] [Footnote A: The Chinese pray devoutly to the Evil Spirits _not_ to injure them.] Tucking his hands under his blue blouse, Wan Lee suddenly produced from some mysterious recess of his clothing a quantity of red paper slips which he scattered at the entrance of the cavern. Then drawing from the same inexhaustible receptacle certain squibs or fireworks, he let them off and threw them into the opening. There they went off with a slight fizz and splutter, a momentary glittering of small points in the darkness and a strong smell of gunpowder. Polly gazed at the spectacle with undisguised awe and fascination. Hickory and Patsey breathed hard with satisfaction; it was beyond their wildest dreams of mystery and romance. Even Wan Lee appeared transfigured into a superior being by the potency of his own spells. But an unaccountable disturbance of some kind in the dim interior of the tunnel quickly drew the blood from their blanched cheeks again. It was a sound like coughing followed by something like an oath. "He's made the Evil Spirit orful sick," said Hickory, in a loud whisper. A slight laugh that to the children seemed demoniacal, followed. "See," said Wan Lee, "Evil Spillet be likee Chinee, try talkee him." [Illustration] The Pirates looked at Wan Lee not without a certain envy of this manifest favouritism. A fearful desire to continue their awful experiments, instead of pursuing their piratical avocations, was taking possession of them; but Polly, with one of the swift transitions of childhood, immediately began to extemporise a house for the party at the mouth of the tunnel, and, with parental foresight, gathered the fragments of the squibs to build a fire for supper. That frugal meal consisting of half a ginger biscuit, divided into five small portions each served on a chip of wood, and having a deliciously mysterious flavour of gunpowder and smoke, was soon over. It was necessary after this, that the Pirates should at once seek repose after a day of adventure, which they did for the space of forty seconds in singularly impossible attitudes and far too aggressive snoring. Indeed, Master Hickory's almost upright _pose_, with tightly folded arms, and darkly frowning brows was felt to be dramatic, but impossible for a longer period. The brief interval enabled Polly to collect herself and to look around her in her usual motherly fashion. Suddenly she started and uttered a cry. In the excitement of the descent she had quite overlooked her doll, and was now regarding it with round-eyed horror! "Lady Mary's hair's gone!" she cried, convulsively grasping the Pirate Hickory's legs. [Illustration] Hickory at once recognised the battered doll under the aristocratic title which Polly had long ago bestowed upon it. He stared at the bald and battered head. "Ha! ha!" he said, hoarsely; "skelped by Injins!" For an instant the delicious suggestion soothed the imaginative Polly. But it was quickly dispelled by Wan Lee. "Lady Maley's pig-tail hangee top side hillee. Catchee on big quartz stone allee same Polly, me go fetchee." "No!" quickly shrieked the others. The prospect of being left in the proximity of Wan Lee's evil spirit, without Wan Lee's exorcising power, was anything but reassuring. "No, don't go!" Even Polly (dropping a maternal tear on the bald head of Lady Mary) protested against this breaking up of the little circle. "Go to bed," she said, authoritatively, "and sleep until morning." Thus admonished, the pirates again retired. This time effectively, for worn by actual fatigue or soothed by the delicious coolness of the cave, they gradually, one by one, succumbed to real slumber. Polly withheld from joining them, by official and maternal responsibility sat and blinked at them affectionately. [Illustration] Gradually she, too, felt herself yielding to the fascination and mystery of the place and the solitude that encompassed her. Beyond the pleasant shadows where she sat, she saw the great world of mountain and valley through a dreamy haze that seemed to rise from the depths below and occasionally hang before the cavern like a veil. Long waves of spicy heat rolling up the mountain from the valley brought her the smell of pine trees and bay and made the landscape swim before her eyes. She could hear the far off cry of teamsters on some unseen road; she could see the far off cloud of dust following the mountain stage coach, whose rattling wheels she could not hear. She felt very lonely, but was not quite afraid; she felt very melancholy, but was not entirely sad. And she could have easily awakened her sleeping companions if she wished. [Illustration] No! She was a lone widow with nine children, six of whom were already in the lone churchyard on the hill, and the others lying ill with measles and scarlet fever beside her. She had just walked many weary miles that day, and had often begged from door to door for a slice of bread for the starving little ones. It was of no use now--they would die! They would never see their dear mother again. This was a favourite imaginative situation of Polly's, but only indulged when her companions were asleep, partly because she could not trust confederates with her more serious fancies, and partly because they were at such times passive in her hands. She glanced timidly round; satisfied that no one could observe her, she softly visited the bedside of each of her companions, and administered from a purely fictitious bottle spoonfuls of invisible medicine. Physical correction in the form of slight taps, which they always required, and in which Polly was strong, was only withheld now from a sense of their weak condition. But in vain, they succumbed to the fell disease--(they always died at this juncture)--and Polly was left alone. She thought of the little church where she had once seen a funeral, and remembered the nice smell of the flowers; she dwelt with melancholy satisfaction on the nine little tombstones in the graveyard, each with an inscription, and looked forward with gentle anticipation to the long summer days when, with Lady Mary in her lap, she would sit on those graves clad in the deepest mourning. The fact that the unhappy victims at times moved as it were uneasily in their graves or snored, did not affect Polly's imaginative contemplation, nor withhold the tears that gathered in her round eyes. [Illustration] Presently the lids of the round eyes began to droop, the landscape beyond began to grow more confused, and sometimes to disappear entirely and reappear again with startling distinctness. Then a sound of rippling water from the little stream that flowed from the mouth of the tunnel soothed her and seemed to carry her away with it, and then everything was dark. The next thing she remembered was that she was apparently being carried along on some gliding object to the sound of rippling water. She was not alone, for her three companions were lying beside her, rather tightly packed and squeezed in the same mysterious vehicle. Even in the profound darkness that surrounded her, Polly could feel and hear that they were accompanied, and once or twice a faint streak of light from the side of the tunnel showed her gigantic shadows walking slowly on either side of the gliding car. She felt the little hands of her associates seeking hers, and knew they were awake and conscious, and she returned to each a reassuring pressure from the large protecting instinct of her maternal little heart. Presently the car glided into an open space of bright light, and stopped. The transition from the darkness of the tunnel at first dazzled their eyes. It was like a dream. They were in a circular cavern from which three other tunnels like the one they had passed through, diverged. The walls, lit up by fifty or sixty candles stuck at irregular intervals in crevices of the rock, were of glittering quartz and mica. But more remarkable than all were the inmates of the cavern, who were ranged round the walls; men, who like their attendants, seemed to be of extra stature; who had blackened faces, wore red bandanna handkerchiefs round their heads and their waists, and carried enormous knives and pistols stuck in their belts. On a raised platform made of a packing box, on which was rudely painted a skull and cross bones, sat the chief or leader of the band covered with a buffalo robe; on either side of him were two small barrels marked "Grog" and "Gunpowder." The children stared and clung closer to Polly. Yet, in spite of these desperate and warlike accessories, the strangers bore a singular resemblance to "Christy Minstrels" in their blackened faces and attitudes that somehow made them seem less awful. In particular, Polly was impressed with the fact that even the most ferocious had a certain kindliness of eye, and showed their teeth almost idiotically. "Welcome," said the leader. "Welcome to the Pirate's Cave! The Red Rover of the North Fork of the Stanislaus River salutes the Queen of the Pirate Isle!" He rose up and made an extraordinary bow. It was repeated by the others with more or less exaggeration to the point of one humourist losing his balance! "O, thank you very much," said Polly, timidly, but drawing her little flock closer to her with a small protecting arm; "but could you--would you--please--tell us--what time it is?" "We are approaching the Middle of Next Week," said the leader, gravely; "but what of that? Time is made for slaves! The Red Rover seeks it not! Why should the Queen?" "I think we must be going," hesitated Polly, yet by no means displeased with the recognition of her rank. "Not until we have paid homage to your Majesty," returned the leader. "What ho! there! Let Brother Step-and-Fetch-It pass the Queen around that we may do her honour." Observing that Polly shrank slightly back, he added: "Fear nothing, the man who hurts a hair of Her Majesty's head, dies by this hand. Ah! ha!" [Illustration] The others all said, ha! ha! and danced alternately on one leg and then on the other, but always with the same dark resemblance to Christy Minstrels. Brother Step-and-Fetch-It, whose very long beard had a confusing suggestion of being a part of the leader's buffalo robe, lifted her gently in his arms and carried her to the Red Rovers in turn. Each one bestowed a kiss upon her cheek or forehead, and would have taken her in his arms, or on his knees, or otherwise lingered over his salute, but they were sternly restrained by their leader. When the solemn rite was concluded, Step-and-Fetch-It paid his own courtesy with an extra squeeze of the curly head, and deposited her again in the truck--a little frightened, a little astonished, but with a considerable accession to her dignity. Hickory and Patsey looked on with stupefied amazement. Wan Lee alone remained stolid and unimpressed, regarding the scene with calm and triangular eyes. "Will Your Majesty see the Red Rover's dance?" "No, if you please," said Polly, with gentle seriousness. "Will Your Majesty fire this barrel of Gunpowder, or tap this breaker of Grog?" "No, I thank you." "Is there no command Your Majesty would lay upon us?" "No, please," said Polly, in a failing voice. "Is there anything Your Majesty has lost? Think again! Will Your Majesty deign to cast your royal eyes on this?" He drew from under his buffalo robe what seemed like a long tress of blond hair, and held it aloft. Polly instantly recognized the missing scalp of her hapless doll. "If you please, Sir, it's Lady Mary's. She's lost it." "And lost it--Your Majesty--only to find something more precious! Would Your Majesty hear the story?" A little alarmed, a little curious, a little self-anxious, and a little induced by the nudges and pinches of her companions, the Queen blushingly signified her royal assent. "Enough. Bring refreshments. Will Your Majesty prefer winter-green, peppermint, rose, or accidulated drops? Red or white? Or perhaps Your Majesty will let me recommend these bull's eyes," said the leader, as a collection of sweets in a hat were suddenly produced from the barrel labelled "Gunpowder" and handed to the children. "Listen," he continued, in a silence broken only by the gentle sucking of bull's eyes. "Many years ago the old Red Rovers of these parts locked up all their treasures in a secret cavern in this mountain. They used spells and magic to keep it from being entered or found by anybody, for there was a certain mark upon it made by a peculiar rock that stuck out of it, which signified what there was below. Long afterwards, other Red Rovers who had heard of it, came here and spent days and days trying to discover it; digging holes and blasting tunnels like this, but of no use! Sometimes they thought they discovered the magic marks in the peculiar rock that stuck out of it, but when they dug there they found no treasure. And why? Because there was a magic spell upon it. And what was that magic spell? Why, this! It could only be discovered by a person who could not possibly know that he or she had discovered it, who never could or would be able to enjoy it, who could never see it, never feel it, never, in fact know anything at all about it! It wasn't a dead man, it wasn't an animal, it wasn't a baby!" "Why," said Polly, jumping up and clapping her hands, "it was a Dolly." "Your Majesty's head is level! Your Majesty has guessed it!" said the leader, gravely. "It was Your Majesty's own dolly, Lady Mary, who broke the spell! When Your Majesty came down the slide, the doll fell from your gracious hand when your foot slipped. Your Majesty recovered Lady Mary, but did not observe that her hair had caught in a peculiar rock, called the 'Outcrop,' and remained behind! When, later on, while sitting with your attendants at the mouth of the tunnel, Your Majesty discovered that Lady Mary's hair was gone; I overheard Your Majesty, and despatched the trusty Step-and-Fetch-It to seek it at the mountain side. He did so, and found it clinging to the rock, and beneath it--the entrance to the Secret Cave!" Patsey and Hickory, who, failing to understand a word of this explanation, had given themselves up to the unconstrained enjoyment of the sweets, began now to apprehend that some change was impending, and prepared for the worst by hastily swallowing what they had in their mouths, thus defying enchantment, and getting ready for speech. Polly, who had closely followed the story, albeit with the embellishments of her own imagination, made her eyes rounder than ever. A bland smile broke on Wan Lee's face, as, to the children's amazement, he quietly disengaged himself from the group and stepped before the leader. "Melican man plenty foolee Melican chillern. No foolee China boy! China boy knowee you. _You_ no Led Lofer. _You_ no Pilat--you allee same tunnel man--you Bob Johnson! Me shabbee you! You dressee up allee same as Led Lofer--but you Bob Johnson--allee same. My fader washee washee for you. You no payee him. You owee him folty dolla! Me blingee you billee. You no payee billee! You say, 'Chalkee up, John.' You say, 'Bimeby, John.' But me no catchee folty dolla!" [Illustration] A roar of laughter followed, in which even the leader apparently forgot himself enough to join. But the next moment springing to his feet, he shouted, "Ho! ho! A traitor! Away with him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat!" Hickory and Patsey began to whimper. But Polly, albeit with a tremulous lip, stepped to the side of her little Pagan friend. "Don't you dare to touch him," she said, with a shake of unexpected determination in her little curly head; "if you do, I'll tell my father, and he will slay you! All of you--there!" "Your father! Then you are _not_ the Queen!" It was a sore struggle to Polly to abdicate her royal position, it was harder to do it with befitting dignity. To evade the direct question she was obliged to abandon her defiant attitude. "If you please, Sir," she said, hurriedly, with an increasing colour and no stops, "we're not always pirates, you know, and Wan Lee is only our boy what brushes my shoes in the morning, and runs of errands, and he doesn't mean anything bad, Sir, and we'd like to take him back home with us." "Enough," said the leader, changing his entire manner with the most sudden and shameless inconsistency. "You shall go back together, and woe betide the miscreant who would prevent it. What say you brothers? What shall be his fate who dares to separate our noble Queen from her faithful Chinese henchman?" "He shall die!" roared the others, with beaming cheerfulness. "And what say you--shall we see them home?" "We will!" roared the others. [Illustration] Before the children could fairly comprehend what had passed, they were again lifted into the truck and began to glide back into the tunnel they had just quitted. But not again in darkness and silence; the entire band of Red Rovers accompanied them, illuminating the dark passage with the candles they had snatched from the walls. In a few moments they were at the entrance again. The great world lay beyond them once more with rocks and valleys suffused by the rosy light of the setting sun. The past seemed like a dream. But were they really awake now? They could not tell. They accepted everything with the confidence and credulity of all children who have no experience to compare with their first impressions and to whom the future contains nothing impossible. It was without surprise, therefore, that they felt themselves lifted on the shoulders of the men who were making quite a procession along the steep trail towards the settlement again. Polly noticed that at the mouth of the other tunnels they were greeted by men as if they were carrying tidings of great joy; that they stopped to rejoice together, and that in some mysterious manner their conductors had got their faces washed, and had become more like beings of the outer world. When they neared the settlement the excitement seemed to have become greater; people rushed out to shake hands with the men who were carrying them, and overpowered even the children with questions they could not understand. Only one sentence Polly could clearly remember as being the burden of all congratulations. "Struck the old lead at last!" With a faint consciousness that she knew something about it, she tried to assume a dignified attitude on the leader's shoulders even while she was beginning to be heavy with sleep. [Illustration] And then she remembered a crowd near her father's house, out of which her father came smiling pleasantly on her, but not interfering with her triumphal progress until the leader finally deposited her in her mother's lap in their own sitting room. And then she remembered being "cross" and declining to answer any questions, and shortly afterwards found herself comfortably in bed. Then she heard her mother say to her father:-- "It really seems too ridiculous for any thing, John, the idea of these grown men dressing themselves up to play with children." "Ridiculous or not," said her father, "these grown men of the 'Excelsior' mine have just struck the famous old lode of Red Mountain, which is as good as a fortune to everybody on the Ridge, and were as wild as boys! And they say it never would have been found if Polly hadn't tumbled over the slide directly on top of the outcrop, and left the absurd wig of that wretched doll of hers to mark its site." "And that," murmured Polly sleepily to her doll as she drew it closer to her breast, "is all that they know of it." [Illustration] 
16731	----	The Garden of the Plynck by Karle Wilson Baker Contents Chapter I. The Dimplesmithy Chapter II. Avrillia Chapter III. Relations Chapter IV. The Invaders Chapter V. Crumbs and Waffles Chapter VI. The Little Lost Laugh Chapter VII. Accepting an Invitation Chapter VIII. The Vale of Tears Chapter IX. Cheers and Butter Chapter X. Sara's Day Chapter I The Dimplesmithy Grown people have such an exasperating way of saying, "Now, when I was a little girl--" Then, just as you prick up the little white ears of your mind for a story, they finish, loftily, "I did--or didn't do--so-and-so." It is certainly an underhand way of suggesting that you stop doing something pleasant, or begin doing something unpleasant; and you would not have thought that Sara's dear mother would have had so unworthy a habit. But a stern regard for the truth compels me to admit that she had. You see, Sara's dear mother was, indeed, most dear; but very self-willed and contrary. Her great fault was that she was always busy at something. She would darn, and she would write, and she would read dark-colored books without pictures. When Sara compared her with other mothers of her acquaintance, or when this very contrary own-mother went away for a day, she seemed indeed to Sara quite desperately perfect. But on ordinary days Sara was darkly aware, in the clearest part of her mind--the upper right-hand corner near the window--that her mother, with all her charm, really did need to be remoulded nearer to her heart's desire. She was especially clear about this on the frequent occasions when she would come into the room where her mother was sitting, and plump down upon a chair with a heart-rending sigh, and say, "I wish I had somebody to play with!" For then her dear but most contrary mother would glance up from her book or her darning and remark, with a calm smile, "When I was a little girl--" "Ah!" "I used to go inside my head and play." And Sara would answer with a poor, vindictive satisfaction, "There's nothing in my head to play with!" And her kind-hearted mother would snip off her thread and say gently, in a tone of polite regret, "Poor little girl!" Then Sara would gnash the little milk-teeth of her mind and have awful thoughts. The worst she ever had came one day when Mother, who had already filled about fourteen pages of paper with nothing in the world but words, acted that way again. And just as she said, "Poor little girl!" Sara thought, "I'd like to take that sharp green pencil and stick it into Mother's forehead, and watch a story run out of her head through the hole!" But that was such an awful thought that she sent it scurrying away, as fast as she could. Just the same, she said to herself, if Mother ever acted that way again-- And, after all, Mother did. And that was the fatal time--the four-thousand-and-fourth. For, after Mother had suggested it four thousand and four times, it suddenly occurred to Sara that she might try it. So she shut the doors and went in. Yes, I said shut the doors and went in; for that is what you do when you go into your head. The doors were of ivory, draped with tinted damask curtains which were trimmed with black silk fringe. The curtains fell noiselessly behind Sara as she entered. And there in the Gugollaph-tree by the pool sat the Plynck, gazing happily at her Echo in the water. She was larger than most Plyncks; about the size of a small peacock. Of course you would know without being told that her plumage was of a delicate rose color, except for the lyre-shaped tuft on the top of her head, which was of the exact color and texture of Bavarian cream. Her beak and feet were golden, and her eyes were golden, too, and very bright and wild. The wildness and brightness of her eyes would have been rather frightening, if her voice, when she spoke, had not been so soft and sweet. "I think a little girl has forgotten something," she said gently, looking down into her Teacup. Sara examined herself anxiously. She knew it was something about herself, because the Plynck's tone was exactly like Mother's when she wished to remind Sara, without seeming officious, that she had not wiped her feet on the mat, or spread out her napkin, or remembered to say "Thank you" at the exact psychological moment. Sara was extremely anxious to please the Plynck, because she thought her so pensive and pretty; but, try as she would, she couldn't think what she had forgotten to do. "Does a little girl wear her dimples in The House?" asked the Plynck, still more gently. "Oh, of course not!" said Sara, taking them off hastily. But she could not help adding, as she looked around appreciatively at the silver bushes and the blue plush grass and the alabaster moon-dial by the fountain, "But this isn't The House, is it?" "Isn't it?" asked the Plynck, glancing uneasily about her. What she saw startled her so much that she dropped her Teacup. Of course it flew up to a higher branch and balanced itself there instead of falling; but the poor little thing was so round and fat, that--especially as it hadn't any feet--it had some difficulty at first in perching. As for the Plynck, she seemed so embarrassed over her mistake that Sara felt dreadfully uncomfortable for her. Recovering herself, however, in a moment, she said in her sweet, gentle way, "Well, dear, you wouldn't want the Zizzes to fall into them, even if this isn't The House--would you?" Sara hadn't noticed until then that the air was full of Zizzes; but the minute she saw their darling little vibrating wings she knew that she wouldn't for anything have one of them come to grief in her dimples. They were more like hummingbirds than anything she had ever seen outside of her head, but of course they were not nearly so large; most of them were about a millionth-part as large as a small mosquito. She noticed, too, that their tails were bitter. If it had not been for the bitterness of their tails, she would not have felt so uneasy about them; as it was, she held the dimples tight in her hand, with the concave side next her palm. "Avrillia's at home," said the Plynck gently, with her eyes on her Teacup, which she was gradually charming back into her hand. (Her hands were feet, you know, like a nightingale's, only golden; but she called them hands in the afternoon, to match her Teacup.) The timid little thing was fluttering back, coming nearer twig by twig; and it trembled up to the Plynck just as she said, softly and absent-mindedly, "Avrillia's at home." "Oh, is she?" exclaimed Sara, clapping her hands with joy. She did not know who Avrillia was; nevertheless, it somehow seemed delightful to hear that she was at home. But alas and alas! when she clapped her hands she forgot all about the dimples she had been holding so carefully. To tell the truth, she had never taken them off before; but she was ashamed to let the Plynck know about that, especially as she had lived in The House all her former life. Her first thought, indeed, when she realized what had happened, was to conceal the catastrophe from the Plynck; but before she could get her breath that gentle bird startled her almost out of her wits by shrieking, "Watch out! the Snimmy will get it!" And there, at Sara's feet, where a bit of the dimple lay on the taffy (looking very much like a fragile bit of a Christmas-tree ornament), was a real Snimmy, vest-pocket and all. His tail was longer than that of most Snimmies, and his nose was sharper and more debilitating, but you would have known him at once, as Sara did, for a Snimmy. She thought, too, that he trembled more than most of them, and that he was whiter and more slippery. Ordinarily, she had never felt afraid of Snimmies; but the startling shriek of the Plynck, and the exposed position of her dimple, set her to jumping wildly up and down. And, indeed, the worst would have happened, had not the Echo of the Plynck, with great presence of mind, cried out', "Cover it! Cover it!" And at that cry the Teacup fluttered hastily down and turned itself upside down over the piece of dimple. And there it sat, panting a little, but looking as plump and pleased as possible, though the Snimmy was still dancing and sniffing ferociously around its rim. "There!" said the Plynck in her own gentle voice, though it still shook with excitement. "It's a mercy you settled without breaking." Then, turning to Sara, "And goodness knows how we'll ever get it out, Sara. It will take at least three onions to anaesthetize the Snimmy." Now, this was indeed dreadful. Sara had been conscious enough before this announcement of the havoc she had wrought by her carelessness; and now to have brought down upon herself a word like that! She was almost ready to cry; and to keep from being quite ready, she suggested, tremulously, "Do you suppose I could go after the onions?" The Plynck looked at her in surprise. "Why, didn't you bring them with you?" she said. Then, suddenly, she noticed how threateningly the Snimmy was dancing and squeaking around Sara's feet, and how Sara was shrinking away from him. "He won't hurt you," she began. "He's perfectly kind and harmless, aside from his mania for dimples. He still smells the piece under the Teacup." Then, all at once, she grew rigid, and her golden eyes began to leap up and down like frightened flames. "It's the ones in your hand!" she shrieked. "In your hand! Sit down for your life!" Sara at first thought she had said, "Run for your life," and had indeed taken two-elevenths of a step; but when she realized that the Plynck had said, "Sit down for your life," she sat down precisely where she was, as if Jimmy had pulled a chair out from under her, on the very ice-cream brick her feet stood on. She realized that in a crisis like this obedience was the only safe thing. And the instant she touched the pavement, the Snimmy gave a great gulping sob and hid his face in his hands; and small, grainy tears the size of gum-drops began to trickle through them and fall into his vest-pocket. The Echo of the Plynck in the water gave a rippling laugh of relief. "Well," she said, "it's a mercy you remembered that. Perhaps you don't know, my dear," she said, turning to Sara, "that no Snimmy can endure to see a mortal sit down. It simply breaks their hearts. See, he's even forgotten about the dimples." And indeed, the Snimmy was standing before her, overcome by remorse. He was holding his shoe in his hand in the most gentlemanly manner, and Sara forgave him at once when she saw how sorry and ashamed he was. "I--hope you'll try to--to--to excuse me, Miss," he sobbed, humbly offering her a handful of gum-drops. "Them dimples--" here, for a moment, his nose began to wink and his feet pranced a little, but he looked closely to see that she was still sitting down, and controlled himself. "Them dimples--" he began again; but he could say no more. The gum-drops began falling all around like hail-stones, so fast that Sara felt that she ought to help him all she could--without getting up--to get them into his vest-pocket. The clatter of the gum-drops again attracted the attention of the Plynck's Echo, who said, kindly, "Go and take a nap, now, Snimmy, and you'll feel better." The Snimmy lifted his shoe and tried to reply, but he only gave a respectful sob. So he turned away and crept back to his home in the prose-bush--where, all this time, his wife had been sitting in plain sight on her own toadstool, grimly hemming the doorknob. At her feet lay her faithful Snoodle. Up to this time, Sara had not ventured to address the Teacup. But, as she looked around and saw her still sitting there, so pleasant and bland and fragile, and with such a consanguineous handle, she felt a sudden certainty that the Teacup would always be kind and helpful; so she suggested timidly, "Then we shan't need the onions?" "Oh, dear, yes," answered the Teacup, in a soft, wrinkled voice. "We'd never in Zeelup be able to get the pieces of the dimple to Schlorge without first anaesthetizing the Snimmy." Sara jumpled: that awful word again! Her head reeled (exactly as heads do in grown-up stories) as she realized how many things there were in this strange place that she didn't know. Who was Schlorge, for example? And how was she to get anything to anybody without getting up? And "anaesthetize"? She hated to disturb the Teacup; she was knitting so placidly, and murmuring over and over to herself, "Never in Zeelup." She looked up into the tree; the Plynck, too, had fallen asleep, worn out by the unwonted excitement of the morning; and her lovely Echo also slept in the amber pool. Sara now noticed that, though the Plynck was rose-colored, her Echo was cerulean. The great, soft, curled plumes of the Plynck and her Echo rippled as they breathed and slept, rather like water or fire in a little wind; and with every ripple they seemed to shake out a faint perfume that drifted across Sara's face in waves. And they both looked so lovely that she could not think of disturbing them, either. So she looked about to see if there might be any one else who could enlighten her. And there at her elbow, as luck would have it, stood a Koopf. Up to this time, Sara had not been able to tell a Koopf from a Gunkus. To be sure, there isn't any difference, really; but you would think that any fairly imaginative child ought to be able to tell one. However, Sara now saw that the ground was swarming with Gunki. "Do you know who Schlorge is?" asked Sara, rather timidly. At first the Koopf only grinned. "Guess I do," he managed to say at last. Then he surprised and rather startled her by winking his left ear at her. "He's the best dimplesmith ever," he said at last. "He's--he's--" he began looking all about him, vaguely and a little wildly. But, just as Sara was growing a little afraid of him, his attention suddenly came back to her with a kind, businesslike interest. "Need some repairs?" he asked. "Some fractured dimples, maybe?" "Yes, sir," said Sara, earnestly. "I have most of them here in my hand." She opened her hand and showed him the pretty little pieces. "Where's the rest?" he inquired, with another grin. "Your plump friend, here, sitting on 'em?" Sara nodded. The Koopf stooped and picked up one of the gum-drops that had rolled out of the Snimmy's vest-pocket. "Thought so," he said. "Happens every now and then. Only lately there ain't been anybody here that was dimpliferous, to speak of." Then, suddenly, as if somebody had told him his house was on fire, he turned and set off down the path as fast as he could run. "Bring 'em to the shop!" he shouted back over his shoulder, excitedly. "Bring 'em to the shop!" While Sara was looking after him, and wondering where the shop might be, and whether she dared try to get up without waking the Snimmy, the Koopf suddenly stopped running, and started thoughtfully back up the path toward her. "Don't know how I happened to forget it," he said, "but I--well, fact is, I'm--where's a stump? Where's a stump?" He looked hastily about him, and this time, seeing a stump near by, he clambered upon it, thrust one hand into his bosom and the other behind his back, like the pictures of Napoleon, and repeated, solemnly, "I am Schlorge the Koopf, King of Dimplesmiths. "Under the gright Gugollaph-tree The Dimplesmithy stands; The smith is harder than the sea And softer than the lands; He mends cheek-dimples frank and free, But will not work on hands." And as soon as he had finished he started wildly down the path again, shouting back, "Bring 'em to the shop!" Sara sat looking down the path, then at the dimples in her hand. "Well," she said aloud, "I'm glad they're cheek-dimples, anyhow. But what in the world shall I do about the onions?" "What in Zeelup," corrected the Teacup gently, counting her stitches. "Milder than swearing, my dear, more becoming, and quite as effective." Sara wanted to tell her she wasn't swearing, but just at that moment the wife of the Snimmy remarked, with some disgust in her voice, "Well, if you'd of asked me sooner, I could of told you. I have them in the sugar-bowl, of course. Do you suppose I'd be without, and him subject to such fits?" And so saying, she replaced the doorknob, which was now neatly hemmed, on the front door of the prose-bush, and came down the steps to Sara, carrying three large onions. She was not a bad-looking person, though an amnicolist. She then proceeded to slice the onions very deftly with a tuning-fork, after which she rubbed the ice-cream of the pavement with the slices, making a circle all around the Teacup, and another all around Sara, somewhat like the ring they used to burn about a fire in the grass, to keep it from spreading. All this time she was talking to them grumblingly, though she never once looked up. "I should think anybody'd know better than to bring dimples around where he is," she said, "and I have my opinion of such. A poor, hardworking man like him, that tries to act moral. I should think--" She kept on saying things like this, that made Sara feel very uncomfortable. But at last she finished her work, and looking watchfully back over her shoulder at the sleeping Snimmy, she said grudgingly to them both, "Now get up careful." Sara rose to her feet, and the Teacup lifted her dainty little skirt ever so slightly. The minute the perfume from the dimples reached the Snimmy (he couldn't smell those in Sara's hand, of course, so long as she was sitting down), he sprang to his feet, quivering; but almost immediately he caught a whiff of the onions, and sank down again, entirely overcome, into a deep sleep. The Teacup arose and shook out her skirts. She picked up the tiny, sparkling piece of dimple she had been protecting so long, and handed it prettily to Sara. "Now, my dear," she said, "I think I shall return to my mistress. I would suggest that you take your dimples to the shop immediately." So saying, she hopped up into the tree and settled quietly down beside the dreaming Plynck, taking great care not to disturb her. And Sara started down the path toward the Dimplesmithy. The path turned presently into a wide road, very pleasant and peaceful-looking, and so deep with pollen-dust that Sara's shoes soon looked as if they were powdered with gold. Sunset sheep came wandering down the road now and then, and lines of white geese, and once she passed a little pond where green ducks were quacking and paddling; the road was so pretty, indeed, that it was hard for her to keep her mind on finding the Dimplesmithy. There were tall Gugollaph-trees all along the road, here and there, but Sara felt sure she would know the right one when she saw it. And sure enough, there it was, with the smithy in the shade of it, and the Koopf blowing up the fire in his forge with a pair of puff-ball bellows. She knew now why he had hurried home so fast: it was to put on his apron. It was of the finest mouse-hide, and he was plainly very proud of it. He took the dimples from Sara at once, and showed a keen professional interest in them. He assured her that he had never seen a finer pair. "But you must take better care of them," he said. He seemed so kind and interested that Sara thought perhaps he would help her with a problem she had been revolving in her mind ever since the accident. (She had fastened the problem on a little stick with a pin, like the paper windmills Jimmy made, so that she could turn it around very easily, and so see all sides of it.) So she asked the Koopf, quite respectfully, "What ought I to do with them, when I shut the doors and come in?" "Well," said the Koopf, judiciously, "the Plynck's Echo should have seen to that, first thing. Ought to have had a dimple-holder at the gate. Ought to know the Snimmy, by this time. A good fellow--can't help his failing. We used to keep a dimple-holder there all the time, but it's been so long, as I told you, since we've had anybody come along that was dimpliferous, to speak of. We've got sort of careless, I guess. I've got a very nice stock, here; I'll put one up before you go, so you'll know where to find it next time." As he spoke he took down from a shelf behind him a sort of receptacle which looked rather like a soap-bubble, rather like a gazing-globe; except that it had a tiny opening at the top, and a cushion of whipped cream in the bottom. Then he picked up from his bench the dimples, which he had been mending as he talked. "It's a good thing the Snimmy can't see 'em now," he said, holding them off at arm's length and looking at them with frank admiration. "They're as good as new. Now let me show you what to do with 'em next time you come." So saying, he dropped them into the holder, where they looked very pretty sparkling on the whipped cream cushion. "Now," he said, "you carry them, and I'll bring the pedestal." He tucked the pedestal under his arm, and they started back down the road together. It was very lovely to be trudging along under the late clear sky, through the sweet-smelling pollen-dust, and now and then meeting the sunset sheep, who, by this time, had found their little lambs. When they got back to the Garden, and stood in front of the gate through which Sara had entered, Schlorge had Sara sit down at once. It was really an unnecessary precaution, he said, since the holder was a non-conductor of dimple-waves, and not even the Snimmy could detect their presence when they were inside of it. "Still," said Schlorge, "I'll feel safer about 'em when they're on the pedestal out of his reach," and with that he took the globe from Sara's hands and fastened it deftly on the pedestal. Sara had never enjoyed herself more than she did as she sat by the amber waters in the fading light, watching the kind, clumsy Koopf (who was yet so skilful at his own work) place the pretty globe with so much pride and pleasure. She kept sniffing, meanwhile, at the tantalizing perfume that seemed to sift downward from the feathers of the Plynck, as she stirred, ever so softly, in her dreams. At last the Koopf took a large slice of onion, which the Snimmy's wife had left convenient, and rubbed it all around the base of the pedestal. "Now," he said, "if you'll always remember to stand inside of that circle, when you take 'em off and put 'em on, there won't be any more trouble. And take 'em off as soon as you shut the doors. If you dilly-dally a minute--" At that moment the Plynck awoke and saw Sara. She stretched her warm, shimmering feathers and smiled. "Avrillia's at home," she said, gently. Chapter II Avrillia "I make it a rule," the Plynck was saying, as Sara dropped the curtain behind her the next morning, "to fly around the fountain at least twice every day." As she spoke, she reached out and took, from a bundle that lay within easy reach in a crotch of the Gugollaph-tree, something that looked like a little ivory stick. She snapped it easily with one golden claw, dropped the fragments, and reached out with careless grace for another. "Oh," breathed Sara, clasping her hands. And she could not help adding, shyly, "If I could only see you when you fly--Madame Plynck!" Sara was very proud of herself after she had said that. She had never called anybody "Madame" before, but she had read it in books, and it seemed just the title for a creature so beautiful and gentle and stately as the Plynck. It seemed so suitable that it gave her courage to repeat, "If I could only see you fly!" "But I don't do it often, you see," answered the Plynck, quietly. "Why--!" exclaimed Sara. "I thought you just said--" Not for worlds would she have seemed rude or impolite to the Plynck, but she was completely puzzled. The Plynck looked very kind. "I said I make it a rule," she said, gently. "I didn't say--you explain it to her," she said suddenly to her Echo in the pool, who had been looking on with rather an amused expression. The Echo fluffed out her deep blue plumes a little and took up the task. "What are rules for, my dear?" she began. "Why--to keep, I guess," ventured Sara, a little flustered. "Aren't they?" The Echo glanced up at the Plynck with a twinkling smile. "Do you hear that?" she asked. "Bless the child! She says rules are made to keep!" She laughed to herself a little longer, then she turned to Sara more soberly. "As far as your country is concerned, my dear, you are doubtless right, and I suppose it's important for you to keep that fact in mind. But here it's very different. Our rules are made to break. Don't you hear the Plynck breaking them?" So that was what she was doing! For the first time, Sara understood why she had so enjoyed the delightful little snapping sounds, which made her think of corn dancing against the lid of a corn-popper--or of the snapping of little dry twigs under the pointed shoes of a brownie, slipping through the woods alone on Christmas Eve. She thought it was the most completely satisfying sound she had ever heard. She thought, too, that the broken rules under the tree made a charming litter, and wished that the Gunki who were raking them up would leave them there instead. But they went on piling them into wheelbarrows and trundling them down the road toward the smithy. "They are taking them to be mended," said the Echo of the Plynck, who had been watching her. "We believe in conservation, you see. Schlorge mends them one day, and she breaks them the next, and so we usually have plenty." Sara was charmed. But as she stood gazing at the Plynck she remembered what she had heard her say as she came in. "Will--will she fly?" she whispered to the Echo. "Well, I don't know," said the Echo of the Plynck. "There's a rule that she must, and so it's quite an effort. And there's a rule that she must not sit on that particular branch of the Gugollaph-tree. So of course she usually sits there. You wouldn't think, yourself, that she'd want to sit there, day after day, if there wasn't--would you?" Sara was speechless; she was wondering why anything that seemed so reasonable and familiar should sound so strange. But it was a blissful wonder, and she stood spellbound, while the sound of breaking rules continued to fall with an enchanting effect upon the still air of the Garden. All at once she was startled nearly out of her wits by the Plynck, who dropped an unbroken rule and shrieked, "Look! Be careful! Oh, dear, oh, dear, it's in!" "Oh, what is it?" cried Sara, afraid to move, yet longing to clap her hand to her cheek; for she knew by a sudden terrible tickling there that something had happened to her southwest dimple--and she had meant to be so careful! And yet she had allowed herself to get so interested in the talk of the Plynck and her Echo that she had walked right past Schlorge's beautiful dimple-holder. "What is it?" she cried, jumping up and down. "Oh, what is it?" "It's one of the Zizzes!" cried the Plynck. "Where are the forceps? Run for Schlorge--won't somebody please run for Schlorge?" She sat fluttering her lovely pink plumes and gazing around with her sweet, wild, golden eyes in such acute distress that the sight of her grieved and terrified Sara even more than the awful tickling. "I'll go--" she began, desperately. But that seemed to frighten the Plynck more than ever. "Oh, don't you go," she cried, more wildly than before. "You stay right here where I can watch it! Oh, somebody--" "I can't come out of the pool," panted her Echo, fluttering around the rim distressfully. "I know I could never in Zeelup get there, with this consanguineous handle," hesitated the Teacup, in tears. And just then they saw one of the Gunki rushing off down the road as fast as his feet could carry him. The Plynck drew a sobbing breath of relief. "Don't cry, dear--stand still," she said, finding time at last to feel sorry for Sara. "We'll soon have it out now, when Schlorge gets here." Sara stood as still as she could, for the tickling. "What is it?" she ventured to ask, tremulously. "It's a Zizz, dear," said the Plynck, soothingly. "He flew into your dimple and got stuck in the sugar left there from your last smile. You should have wiped it off," she added, very gently. "Standing so close to the pool has made it sticky, and now the poor little Zizz--" "I meant to take off my dimples entirely," said Sara, her lip beginning to tremble again. "Never mind, dear," said the Plynck. "It will be all right now. I see Schlorge coming with his forceps." And sure enough, in a moment Schlorge came panting up, with his forceps in his hair, as usual. Very deftly he extricated the poor little Zizz, and held it out for Sara to see, still buzzing its wings as furiously as it could, with so much syrup on them. The Teacup fluttered down, and they all looked at it with mingled sympathy and curiosity. The mixture seemed to agree with it, too, for the familiar faint, pale-blue "zizzing" sound began to come from its wings. "Poor little thing!" said the Echo of the Plynck. "Why will they persist in doing it? Flying right into the syrup like that!" "It's on account of the bitterness of their tails," explained Schlorge absently, without looking up from his work. "Oh, yes," said Sara, though she didn't quite understand. "Will it ever be able to fly again?" "Well," answered Schlorge, "I'm afraid you'll have to dry it." He looked about him. "Where's the stump?" He found it presently, and led Sara to its mossy base; then he gently pressed one of her shoe-buttons, and she was lifted upon it in safety. "Now," he explained, "you got it all sticky with your smile, and you'll have to frown on it to dry it. I know it's hard to do, here, but if you keep your mind on it, you can. I'll hold the Zizz's wings out, and it won't take long. Think of something very unpleasant--something you came here to escape. Come, what shall it be?" "Fractions," said Sara. "All right," said Schlorge. "Now think hard. And frown." So Sara sucked in the corners of her mouth to keep from smiling, and tried hard to feel very cross indeed. But, as you will imagine, it was not easy to do in that place. As you have already guessed, the place into which Sara went when she shut the ivory doors was a sort of garden, but not an ordinary one. To be sure, it had the pool, and the fountain in the middle, and the moon-dial, like most gardens, and the Gugollaph-tree where the Plynck sat, and a good many prose-bushes besides the one with the hemmed doorknob where the Snimmy lived with his wife. But not many gardens have such charming little openings in the flowery hedges that shut them in, through which little paths run out as if they were escaping through sheer mischief, and on purpose to lead you on. And not many are placed, as this one seemed to be, in the middle of a sort of amphitheatre, with distant mountains rising like walls about it, golden and pansy-colored, a million miles away. The space that lay between the hedge and the mountain-walls seemed to be filled with sunrises and sunsets, like the Grand Canyon. I said, all around; but, really, the walls of the amphitheatre didn't quite meet. On one side, over the hedge, Sara could see a marble balcony, with box-trees in vases on the balustrades; and beyond and beneath it there was Nothing--Nothing-at-All. Sometimes, as Sara afterward learned, the sun came to that place to set; but usually it was too lonesome, and he set nearer the Garden. You may well imagine that it was not easy for Sara to look cross in such a strange, delicious place. But she knew she owed it to the poor little Zizz, so she tried with all her might to think only of fractions and asparagus. (Her mother had an obstinate conviction that that, too, was good for children.) They were all so interested in listening to the deepening blueness of the sound the Zizz made that they kept quite still. Suddenly Schlorge thought of something. "Where's the Snimmy?" he asked, sharply. "He's gone with his wife to bathe the Snoodle," answered the Echo of the Plynck. "They have to bathe it every three days, you know, in castor oil. That's what keeps it white. And there isn't any here." "Thank goodness!" thought Sara, who had nearly jumped off the stump at the sound of those baleful syllables. It would be good to think of, anyhow, she decided; and as she thought of it, the wings of the Zizz began to dry so fast that they fairly sang. And suddenly it zizzed right out of Schlorge's forceps and went buzzing straight off to the flowery hedge. "Well!" said Schlorge, with much satisfaction, "that's over." Then, as Sara's face twinkled into smiles, he added, excitedly, "Bless my bellows! She's still got on her dimples! Won't you learn, Sara? Course I didn't notice 'em while you frowned. Come, now--" "And it's time for the Snimmy to be back," interrupted the Teacup, who had fluttered down and perched on the edge of the moon-dial to see what time it was. "They said they'd only be gone two hours." "Then there's no time to lose," said Schlorge. He pressed Sara's shoe-button decidedly and she floated softly down upon the blue plush, like a milk-weed seed in the fall. And then Schlorge deftly took off her dimples--it felt very funny to have them removed with the forceps--and put them in the dimple-holder where they belonged. Then, drawing a deep breath, he rubbed his hands and smiled at her, saying, "What's the next thing you'd like to do?" Sara saw that, though he was still rather bashful, Schlorge had taken a great fancy to her. It pleased her very much; he was such a useful and accommodating person. While she was trying to decide which one of several places she would ask him to show to her, the Plynck remarked, gently, "Avrillia's at home." Avrillia--that was it! Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder, and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only jarred them a little. It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned to work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them. But it didn't worry her. Avrillia--that was it. She had come this time especially to see Avrillia. "Do you know where she lives?" she asked Schlorge. "Avrillia? I should say so. Everybody knows Avrillia. At least I know her to speak to. As to what goes on inside of her, I can't say. She's queer. She writes poetry, you know." "But she's nice?" asked Sara anxiously. "Oh, she's pleasant-spoken," said Schlorge, "and pretty. Some like her, and some don't. The Plynck, here," he spoke respectfully, though dissentingly, "thinks the sun rises and sets in her. For myself, I like folks of a more sensible turn." "Even fairies?" asked Sara, half inclined to protest. For the first time Schlorge was almost rude to her. "Well, do you take me for a human? And I can do something besides write poetry on rose-leaves." He replaced the forceps in his hair with obvious professional pride--and, of course, when he put them in in that way, they stayed. But Sara echoed delightedly, "On rose-leaves?" "Well, go and see her, then," said Schlorge, ungraciously. Then, relenting a little, "Come on, I'll take you--if you're stuck on verse-writing females." He took Sara by the hand, and of course his hand was kinder than his voice. To Sara's joy they struck into the curliest of the little paths, which slipped suddenly through a half-hidden arch in the hawthorn hedge, and then skipped confidingly right up to Avrillia's door. Avrillia's house was right on the Verge, but the Verge was quite wide at this point, and very lovely. It was more like a beach than anything else; and the sands, of course, like those of most beaches, were of gold; but instead of being bare, like most beaches, it was sprinkled quite thickly with lovely clumps of fog-bushes, which were of a different color every hour of the day and every day of the year; and the shells had stems and leaves, and were prettier even than most shells. And Avrillia's house had sails, instead of curtains. Still, it was not a boat, because it had star-vines climbing all over the terrace (the flowers were of all colors, except square, and only opened in the evening) and it had the marble balcony, with the box-trees in urns. For, without knowing it, it was Avrillia's balcony that Sara had seen from the stump. "Well, there's Pirlaps," said Schlorge, lifting his shoe politely and turning back toward the Dimplesmithy. "He'll tell you where to find Avrillia." Sara was left looking at a middle-aged fairy-gentleman with a little pointed beard, who was sitting on a sort of stool or box before an easel, hard at work. He had on white tennis-flannels, and an odd but becoming sort of cap. Usually Sara was very shy of strangers; but this gentleman looked so pleasant that she had almost made up her mind to speak to him when she saw Schlorge running wildly back up the path. "Where's a stump?" he panted. "I forgot--where's a stump?" He spoke so loudly that the gentleman in tennis-flannels heard him and looked around. "Oh, it's you, Schlorge," he said. "Why, there isn't any stump here, you know--but you may use my step, if you like." He had lovely manners, even with a plain dimplesmith like Schlorge; and he rose as he spoke, with his palette in his hand, and made a pleasant gesture to indicate that Schlorge was quite welcome to it. But Schlorge looked at it doubtfully; and, indeed, Sara saw that it was of chocolate, and rather soft where the gentleman had been sitting on it. "I don't want to soil my soul," mumbled Schlorge, standing on one foot and looking down at the sole of the other, very much agitated and embarrassed. "That's true," said the gentleman politely; "I never stand on it." At that Sara could not help showing that she noticed the large black spot left by the chocolate on the seat of his trousers. He saw her look at it, and spoke to her kindly. "That's all right, little girl," he said. "Avrillia will have me change them in a minute." Then he noticed Schlorge's dreadful impatience for something to stand on, and rang a little bell in his left ear. Immediately a small servant, also of chocolate, came tumbling out of the house. He was the most attractive-looking person you can imagine. His eyes and teeth were exactly like the filling in a chocolate cream, and how his eyes rolled and his teeth twinkled! But it was the inside of his mouth that fascinated Sara most. It was of the lovely, violent red of certain jelly-beans she had known, and she caught the most tantalizing, cavernous glimpses whenever he grinned. "Yassuh," said his master, "go at once and get a piece of plain white satin for Mr. Schlorge to stand on. You'll find a bolt in the tool-box." Yassuh scrambled off down the path. (He was very bow-legged, because his mother had allowed him to go out in the sun too much, when he was a baby, and, being of chocolate, his legs had softened into that shape.) Almost immediately he came rolling back with the white satin, which he spread on the box. All this time Schlorge had been in an agony of impatience. Almost stepping on Yassuh in his eagerness, he jumped upon the box, and, arranging his hands as before, shouted loudly, "Pirlaps, this is Sara, a little girl! Sara, this is Pirlaps, Avrillia's step-husband!" Then he sprang down and went running down the path again, shouting excitedly, "See you again, Sara! See you again!" "Well, Sara," said the pleasant fairy-gentleman, taking her hand, "how are you? Did you come to see Avrillia?" "Yes, sir," said Sara, looking up at him from under her lashes and thinking she had never see a shaving-person, except her own father, so delightful. "I think you'll find her on her balcony," said Pirlaps, kindly. "I just heard a poem drop over the Verge. Here, Yassuh," he said, "take this little girl to your mistress." Sara followed Yassuh along the path of silver gravel that led around the house, and then up a little outside staircase of marble to the balcony; and there, on the third step from the top, she paused. Has any mortal but Sara ever seen Avrillia? Certainly there never was another fairy so wan and wild and beautiful. When Sara caught sight of her she was leaning over the marble balustrade, looking down into Nothing, and one hand was still stretched out as if it had just let something fall. She seemed to be still watching its descent. Her body, as she leaned, was like a reed, and her hair was pale-gold and cloudy. But all that was nothing beside Avrillia's eyes. For she turned around after a while and saw Sara, and smiled at her without surprise, though she looked absent-minded and wistful. "It didn't stick," she said. "What didn't?" asked Sara. Her words may not sound very polite; but if you could have heard the awe and wonder in her little voice you would have pardoned her. "The poem," said Avrillia. What was it her voice was like? Sheep-bells? Sheep-bells, that was it. Sheep-bells across an English down--at twilight! Sara had never seen more than three sheep in her life; and those three didn't wear bells; and she had never heard of a down. And yet, Avrillia's voice sounded to Sara exactly as I have said. Moreover, it drew Sara softly to her side. Her dress smelled like isthagaria; and it was very soft to touch. For Sara touched it as confidingly as she would her own mother's. At that Avrillia seemed to remember her. Sara saw at once that Avrillia never remembered anybody very long at a time. She was kind, and her smile was entrancingly sweet; but her mind always seemed to be on something else. Probably on her poetry, Sara decided. Now, however, she remembered Sara, and asked, "Would you like to look over?" "What's down there?" Sara could not help asking. "Nothing. Would you like to see it?" Sara drew nearer the balustrade, full of awe, and uncertain whether she wished to look or not. But presently curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned over the balustrade and looked down into Nothing. It was very gray. "Do you throw your poems down there?" she asked of Avrillia, in inexpressible wonder. "Of course," said Avrillia. "I write them on rose-leaves, you know--" "Oh, yes!" breathed Sara. She still thought she had never heard of anything that sounded lovelier than poems written on rose-leaves. "Petals, I mean, of course," continued Avrillia, "all colors, but especially blue. And then I drop them over, and some day one of them may stick on the bottom--" "But there isn't any bottom," said Sara, lifting eyes like black pansies for wonder. "No, there's no real bottom," conceded Avrillia, patiently, "but there's an imaginary bottom. One might stick on that, you know. And then, with that to build to, if I drop them in very fast, I may be able to fill it up--" "But there aren't any sides to it, either!" objected Sara, even more wonderingly. Avrillia betrayed a faint exasperation (it showed a little around the edges, like a green petticoat under a black dress). "Oh, these literal people!" she said, half to herself. Then she continued, still more patiently, "Isn't it just as easy to imagine sides as a bottom? Well, as I was saying, if I write them fast enough to fill it up--I mean if one should stick, of course--somebody a hundred years from now may come along and notice one of my poems; and then I shall be Immortal." And at that a lovely smile crossed Avrillia's face. Sara stood a long time, thinking. She couldn't help loving Avrillia, although she knew that Avrillia was not nearly so fond of her as the Plynck, or Schlorge, or even the Teacup. Yet she would have loved Avrillia, even if she had not been kind to her at all. Now she attracted her attention again by timidly touching her dress. "It--it seems a waste," she murmured. I think probably she was thinking of the rose-petals rather than of the poems. All those lovely "rose-leaves"! And she had never seen even one blue one. But Avrillia was thinking of the poems. "That's the regular way to do about Poetry," she said, with a pretty little air of authority. "First, you write it, and then you drop it over the Verge into Nothing. But it must be very good--otherwise, it isn't worth while to spend your time on it." But just then the thermometer went off. Yes, the thermometer. Well, perhaps you do set the alarm-clock; but Avrillia was a poetess, and a fairy besides, and she set the alarm-thermometer. It sounded very pleasant to Sara, like soda-water running through a straw on a hot afternoon; but Avrillia seemed to find it rather nerve-racking. "There it goes," was all she said, however. Sara noticed that her voice and manner were extremely quiet and controlled; but she had a suspicion that it was because her eyes were so very wild. Oh, yes, they were beautiful, but wild--wilder even than the Plynck's. The Teacup, however, had quite tame eyes; it must be confessed that, when Sara saw the effect of the thermometer upon Avrillia she wished for the Teacup, a little. But Avrillia merely called Yassuh in her sweet, controlled voice, and, when he appeared, said to him quietly, "Go tell your master it's time for him to change his trousers and shave." When Yassuh was gone she turned to Sara again--rather as one entertains a visitor when one really wants to be doing something else--and said, politely, "I suppose you know he's my step-husband. That makes it rather troublesome." Sara, remembering Pirlaps and his white trousers, looked so eager and so uncomprehending that Avrillia evidently felt called upon to explain further. "It makes it necessary for him to sit on the step constantly, you see. And it's of chocolate. That's unfortunate, too, but it can't be helped. It's all right in winter, of course, but in summer it's a great deal of trouble. When we were first married he used to wear black trousers in summer; but I soon put a stop to that. I have him trained now so that he always wears white ones, and I set the thermometer and remind him to change them every two hours. That's my part of the bargain. He has forty-seven pairs. And, every time he changes them, he has to shave. That's part of the agreement, too." "Why," began Sara, "I thought he had--" "To be sure he has," said Avrillia, looking a little amused. "It grows so fast, you see." Sara turned this over in her mind for several moments. Then her thoughts returned to the step. She simply couldn't help making suggestions to Avrillia. She seemed, for all her little haughty politenesses, so helpless. "You might put something over it--" she began. "I have suggested that," said Avrillia, "but he would not consent to it. He says it would be circumnavigating Nature. Of course, when it's necessary to offer it to guests--" But just at that moment Pirlaps himself came out of the house, wearing a fresh, immaculate pair of trousers. His little pointed beard was gone; but Sara thought she could see it already coming back. Yassuh came along behind him, carrying the step. "You see, marriage is very civilizing, Sara," he said, in his gay, kind way. "I wouldn't do this for anybody but Avrillia. How's the poetry, Avrillia?" "Doing nicely, thank you," said Avrillia, pleasantly. "How's the painting?" "Flourishing," said Pirlaps, cheerfully. "How are the children?" "I haven't seen them this week," said Avrillia. "I vanished them last Roseday." Pirlaps' face fell a little--perhaps an inch, altogether. But Sara cried out, clapping her hands again with impunity (try doing it that way, sometime--it's great fun), "Oh, are there children?" "Yes," said Avrillia. "How many?" "Oh, about seventy," said Avrillia, a little languidly. "May--may I see them?" asked Sara. "I hope so," said Avrillia. "Perhaps you'll come some day when they're not vanished." Sara, somehow, felt herself to have been politely dismissed; and she soon found herself walking beside Pirlaps down the little marble stairs. She slipped her hand into his as she would into her own father's, and, looking up into his face, said, enthusiastically, "Oh, isn't she lovely?" Pirlaps seemed very much pleased, and looked down upon her more kindly than ever. "You like Avrillia?" he said. "That's good. It isn't everybody that appreciates Avrillia." He stopped before a lilac-colored fog-bush and put his step down before his easel. Sara did not dare remonstrate, but she cast an agonized look first at the step and then at his lovely white trousers. "Is--is that what is meant by step-relations?" was all she could say. "Why, yes," said Pirlaps, sitting firmly down on the chocolate. "Are you interested in relations?" he asked eagerly, after he had adjusted his easel. "Because, if you are, we'll go to see mine, some day. I have a lot." Chapter III Relations Sara was determined, when she shut the ivory doors behind her the next morning, to do two things, no matter what happened; first, she would put her dimples in the dimple-holder immediately; and, second, she would go right on to find Pirlaps, and not be beguiled into lingering around the pool by the fascinating talk of the Plynck and her Echo. For, ever since she left him, she had been thinking of the offer Pirlaps had made to take her to see his relations; and she had been growing more and more curious and interested. And this time she did remember her dimples; she saw them sparkling on the whipped cream cushion, all safe and contented, before she so much as lifted her eyes from the blue plush grass. But alas, for her resolution not to loiter! For although, on the other days, there had been such a variegated murmur of delighted sound--the Echo of the Plynck in the pool, and the lovely crackling of breaking rules, and the deep-blue singing of the Zizzes' wings, and the melodious snoring of the Snoodle (like that of a tuning-fork when it sleeps on its side) --yet everything had been as still and motionless to the eye as an April daydream. But this morning it was the other way around. Not a sound was to be heard; but what a scene! You see, for the first time, the Snoodle was awake, frisking soundlessly around the fountain; and the Plynck--the Plynck was flying! Now, it is true that a Plynck at rest is a beautiful sight; but it is nothing to the charm and wonder of a Plynck in motion. (The same, as we shall see in a moment, is true in a lesser degree of a Snoodle.) Its long, rosy plumes, like those of an ostrich, only four times as long, went waving through the air with an indescribably dreamy grace; and now Sara could actually see the perfume, which before she had only smelled. It rained down through the air, as the Plynck circled slowly round and round the fountain, and looked rather like a sort of golden spice. And as Sara stood watching, spellbound and sniffing, she knew she had been mistaken in thinking that, there was no sound at all. There was just one: a little soft, straining sound the Plynck's cerulean Echo made as it circled round and round in the pool and tried to keep up with the Plynck. Her motions would have been exactly as lovely as those of the Plynck, if they had not been just a trifle labored, owing to the difficulty of flying under water; and her breathing was distinctly perceptible. Sara could hear it, too; and it sounded like the ghost of a dead breeze in a pine-top. As soon as Sara could take her ravished eyes from the sight, she looked down to see what was nuzzling about her shoe-buttons; and, just as she had suspected, it was the Snoodle, frisking and tumbling and rolling about her feet to make her notice him. And, indeed, when he was awake, the Snoodle was irresistible. Not that he looked like anything Sara had ever seen before. He might, perhaps, have looked like a dog, except that he was so very long--his length, indeed, gave him a haunting resemblance to a freshly cooked piece of macaroni. (Sara was later to find out the reason for this; but at the moment she was puzzled, just as you are when you meet a stranger who looks like somebody else, and you can't remember who else it is.) And his head, which was not very clearly defined, was finished off with a neat little cap that looked like a snail-shell, and seemed to be fastened to him. His eyes, which stuck out several inches in front of his face on long prongs, were delightfully mischievous and confiding; and he was covered with the most beautiful snow-white, curly hair. But he had one drawback; and Sara discovered that when she started to pick him up. It was a sort of little window in the exact middle of his back, with an ising-glass cover, like the slide-cover of some boxes. The minute you touched him, this little slide drew back, and from within there escaped an odor of castor oil. It, too, was distinctly perceptible; Sara could even smell it. As soon as she did so, she herself drew back, and contented herself with looking admiringly at the confiding, playful little Snoodle. As she stood watching his pretty antics she became aware that the Snimmy's wife had stopped her work and was watching them with a grim smile. Sara saw that she had just unscrewed the knob of the prose-bush, and was still holding the doorknob and the corkscrew in her hand. As far as Sara could tell, the doorknob seemed as neatly hemmed as ever; so, overcome by curiosity, she asked the Snimmy's wife what she was going to do with it. "This is the day to unhem it," she answered rather glumly. "I unhem it every Pinkday, and hem it every Lilyday. I used to hem it only oncet a month, but Avrillia said that wasn't civilized, and whatever she says, goes. At least," she added, glancing up at the Plynck, who was still circling beautifully around the fountain, "she thinks so. And as long as I live neighbor to her it's sort-of up to me to respect her standards." Avrillia! Ah, now Sara remembered! She had meant to go straight to find Pirlaps and Avrillia! She glanced around to see if she could find the curly little path; but she could not really start until she had asked a few questions about the darling little Snoodle. "Is--isn't he lovely?" she began, aware of a vague necessity of pleasing the wife of the Snimmy, if one wanted to find out anything. However, she was quite honest; she really did think the Snoodle was lovely--except for his drawback. "You think so?" answered the Snimmy's wife, trying hard not to show how foolishly pleased she really was. "He's the only child we have." If Sara had thought a minute, she would not have asked the next question--certainly not of so formidable a person as the Snimmy's wife. But she didn't think. She just asked, eagerly, "Is he a--a sort of--dog?" "A sort of _dog_?" echoed the Snimmy's wife, in the most outraged italics. "A--kind of--puppy?" "A kind of--PUPPY?" said the Snimmy's wife, in perfectly withering small capitals. Then she said, in the loftiest large capitals Sara had ever seen, "HIS MOTHER WAS A SNAIL--SHE HELD THE WORLD'S RECORD FOR SLOWNESS. AND HIS FATHER WAS A PEDIGREED NOODLE." Sara looked at him in awe; now she understood the cap, and the prongs, and the extreme length. But, in spite of the Snimmy's wife's indignant mood, she had to ask one more question. "But you said he was your child," was the way she put it. "I didn't," retorted the Snimmy's wife, with undisguised contempt. "I said he was the only child we have. We have him, haven't we?" And with that she sat down with her back to Sara on her own toadstool, and curled her long white tail around the base with quite unnecessary tightness. Her nose was not quite so debilitating as the Snimmy's; still, it nearly stuck into the doorknob as she hemmed. Sara saw there was nothing further to be got out of her, and she did not wish to pick up the Snoodle on account of his drawback; so she decided to go on to Avrillia's without further delay, and began to look around her again for the little curly path. It was pink, this time, instead of curly, but that made it all the more attractive; so she struck into it at once, and went skipping happily toward the arch in the hawthorn hedge. Just before she reached it she heard Avrillia's thermometer go off, so she knew that she was on the right path. The minute she got through the hedge she saw Avrillia, and, oh, loveliest of wonders! What were those? Flying around her hair, clinging to her silken skirts, dancing among the shell-flowers, swarming over the balcony, playing a dainty game up and down the marble stairs--oh, it was the children! The children were at home! And when Avrillia saw Sara she came toward her with the loveliest look of welcome, the children hanging all around her like rose-garlands. And if Sara had loved Avrillia the day before, she could simply find no words now to express her adoration. For Avrillia knelt down among the shell-flowers, and held out her arms (which were like the necks of swans) to Sara; and she really seemed to see her this time. And when she smiled at her, her eyes were hardly at all wild, but quite playful and gentle; and so sweet that Sara, for a moment, had a dizzy conviction that if she were a Zizz she would fly right into them. (Though, of course, the Zizzes' tails were bitter.) Besides, Avrillia held her at that minute tight to her breast, which was as soft as her own perfect, contrary mother's, and had, besides a most entrancing, faint perfume of isthagaria. When she had finished hugging Sara, she held her off at arms' length, and said to her, smiling, in that lovely voice, "Well, Sara, you see the children are here. Aren't they nice?" And once more Sara could find no words to express their niceness. And she could no more have described them to you than if they had been so many endearing young charms. But one of the queerest, prettiest things she was sure about: their faces were all dimples! Moreover, they were much more becoming to them than ordinary features would have been. "How old are they?" asked Sara, in the most delighted bewilderment. The friendly little things fluttered and chattered and chirruped around her in the most distracting way, brushing her face with their wings in their eagerness to get acquainted, and even getting their silver sandals tangled in her hair. "Well," said Avrillia with great exactitude--Sara had already discovered that Avrillia had a weakness for being considered practical--"fourteen of them are six and three of them are two and thirty are seven and ten are nine, and five are six months." "My!" said Sara, in doubt and wonder. And right there she had a suspicion that that was one reason she had loved Avrillia from the first: she couldn't do arithmetic! To be sure, Sara herself couldn't add all that mixture in her head--at least not with all those lovely children about--but it sounded like a great deal more than seventy; and there certainly looked to be a million. So, as she stood and gazed, she said, more in wonder than with any idea of correcting Avrillia, "And you said there were just seventy?" For a moment Avrillia's eyes again grew distraught and doubtful, and she answered, uncertainly, "I think there are just seventy." Then she called to Pirlaps, who was sitting on his step in the light of a glorious flame-colored fog-bush, hard at work, "Pirlaps, have we had any children since Sara was here yesterday?" "Not one," said Pirlaps, smiling at her with a look of pleasant amusement. "Don't you remember that you dropped poems over the Verge all day?" "I thought so," said Avrillia, with relief, "but Sara seemed to think there were more than seventy." Then her eyes fell upon the trousers of Pirlaps, who had risen and was coming toward them now, with Yassuh rolling along behind with the step. "O Pirlaps," said Avrillia, her sweet voice full of reproach, "you haven't changed your trousers! That's just the way things go," she added, beginning to look wild and worried and distraught, "when the children are here! I can't keep up with everything! And the thermometer went off fifteen minutes ago! I heard it, but I was busy with the children. And your shaving-water will be perfectly cold!" She grew more and more agitated. "Never mind, Avrillia," said Pirlaps, soothingly, and Sara noticed that his pleasant, cheerful ways always had a wonderfully calming effect upon Avrillia. "I'm going right in now to change; and then I have a plan that will straighten things out and please everybody." "What is it?" asked Avrillia, looking more hopeful. "It's too soon to tell yet," said Pirlaps, with a delightfully wise air, and he went on up the steps, with Yassuh tumbling after him, leaving them all feeling very much relieved. Avrillia, making a brave effort to recover her composure, began playing with the children again, and they were having almost as delightful a time as if nothing distressing had occurred, when Pirlaps reappeared, all fresh-shaven and immaculate. "Put the step out in the sun where it will keep soft, Yassuh," he said. "I shan't need it this afternoon." They all stopped playing and looked at him in wonder. "I'm going to take Sara to see my relations, as I promised her I would," he explained, taking Sara kindly by the hand. "Oh, that's lovely," said Avrillia, looking at Pirlaps gratefully out of her speaking eyes. "There's nobody like you, Pirlaps." Pirlaps looked wonderfully pleased with himself; and, since there was not a bit of chocolate on his trousers, he looked unusually spruce and handsome, too. Sara skipped along beside him delightedly; only, sometimes when she looked back, she wished she could stay with Avrillia while she was in such a lovely mood, and all those interesting children. Still, Sara's dear, self-willed mother had taught her to be a considerate little girl, and she reflected that she really ought not to bother Avrillia with another child, when she already had seventy to look after. The thoughts of Pirlaps also seemed to be running in the same channel (indeed, Sara could catch glimpses of them, trickling along under that thin, funny cap he always wore), and he presently said, "It's too bad to bring you away when the children are at home, Sara, but you know they are a great deal of care to Avrillia, and when they're at home I try to do everything I can to relieve her. Now, you see, she won't have to bother about my trousers for the whole afternoon." "But how can you get along without your step?" asked Sara. She knew this was a personal question, but she felt, somehow, that Pirlaps would not think her impolite. He looked down at her and smiled, just as her own father did when she asked questions which showed her youth and inexperience. "I'm not a step-man, Sara," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement at her lack of information, "only a step-husband. When I'm away from Avrillia I don't need the step." All this time they had been walking along hand in hand. Sara noticed that they had left the Verge behind, and were following a very pleasant sort of ridge, from which they could see down into a sort of hollow for smiles and smiles, and, beyond the hollow, the buff-colored hills and mountains that formed the walls of the amphitheatre. There were not so many Gugollaph-trees as there were in the Garden and along the road to the Dimplesmithy, owing to the different topography of the country; instead, there were a good many poker-bushes. "My relations live in a colony," said Pirlaps. "There used to be nearly seven hundred of them; but now there are only eight hundred and three." And just at that moment they came in sight of the colony. It consisted in a large number of odd, attractive-looking little houses grouped around an open space covered with pleasant red grass, which Pirlaps told her was an uncommon. In the middle of the uncommon was a sort of platform, and upon the platform there was something which Sara, at first glance, took to be an enormous statue. But even at that distance she could see it move; so she hastened to ask Pirlaps what it was. "Why, that's my Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather," said Pirlaps, with a good deal of pride. "He occupies the Post of Honor in the colony, you know, because he's the oldest and the largest. He's really great, and quite pleasant; you'll enjoy meeting him." By this time they were going down a little shady road that led straight to the uncommon. Sara was so struck by the large number of curious and interesting people she saw on all sides, going quietly about their regular occupations, that she could hardly look where she was going. But Pirlaps led her right to the foot of the post, and the first thing she knew he was introducing her. "This is Sara, Great-Great-Great-Great," he was saying; and Sara looked up and saw, sitting in a sort of easy chair on top of the post, the very largest person she had ever seen. In size he was a veritable giant, or even an ogre; but anybody could see that in disposition he was as far as possible from being either. Indeed, his disposition was evidently very like that of her own grandfather (who wasn't great at all, at least not in comparison with this one), even to the bag of marshmallows in his pocket. Sara could see it sticking out--but such enormous marshmallows! Why, each one was larger than the biggest, fattest sofa-pillow Sara had ever seen. And, of course, beside the marshmallows, the Great-Great-Great-Great had beautiful white hair, and twinkling eyes, and all the usual equipment of a grandfather. "Why, good afternoon, Pirlaps," said the Great-Great-Great-Great, in a little high, cracked voice that seemed very odd. ("As they get greater, their voices get smaller," explained Pirlaps, who had noticed that Sara jumped when the old gentleman spoke.) "Would you like a marshmallow?" he continued, tossing one down to her; and Sara saw that it would have tipped her over, as Jimmie's missiles sometimes did when they had a pillow-fight, if Pirlaps had not caught it. While she was wondering what would be the polite way to eat so huge a marshmallow, she saw the other Grandfathers coming toward her. She knew them because there were four of them, marching in single file, with their hands on each other's shoulders. The Great-Great-Great, who was next in size to the one on the Post of Honor, was leading, and they were arranged in order down to the plain Grandfather, who was not much above the usual height. At the same moment she saw the Grandmothers coming from the opposite direction, in the same manner. Only, the mate to the Great-Great-Great-Great was leading, and they were coming straight toward the vacant Post. Sara watched them with extreme interest. They, too, were of quite the usual grandmotherly pattern, but were equally variable and extraordinary in size. When they reached the Post they made a sort of living stepladder, like the acrobats in the circus; that is, the plain Grandmother stooped over, like a boy playing leapfrog, and the Great mounted on her back; then the Great-Great mounted on her back, and so on, until finally the Great-Great-Great-Great got upon the very top and so stepped upon the Post. She took her seat in an arm-chair like the one on the other Post, and Sara noticed that her kerchief was exactly the size of one of Mother's hemstitched sheets. She was indeed a handsome, venerable and distinguished-looking old lady, if you stood far enough away to see her all at once. "Well, Sara, should you like to see the cousins?" asked Pirlaps, when this interesting manoeuvre had been completed and the other Grandmothers began to disperse. "We'll be just about in time for the drill." "Yes, indeed," cried Sara, who was very fond of watching drills. So Pirlaps led her to a level place which he told her was the cousins' drill-ground. It was hard and smooth, and marked off with lines like a tennis-court, only much more intricately. And there were numbers of cousins standing about, each one looking very erect and alert, with his hand on the back of a chair. Just as Sara came up, the captain of the cousins stepped out in front and called, "Attention!" The cousins looked so attentive it was almost painful. Then he called out, "First Cousin once removed!" and the First Cousin marched out very stiffly and set his chair down accurately on the first mark, after which he sat down in it with military precision. Then the captain called, "Second Cousin once removed!" and the Second Cousin marched out and sat down in the right place quite as impressively. Well, you can imagine how it went on, as far as Tenth Cousin eighth removed; and after they had gone through it straight the captain began skipping them around. It was very lively and exciting; but when Pirlaps heard Sara give a little sigh, and asked her, with a twinkle, how she liked it, she was obliged to answer, "I like it, but--it makes my head turn around. It's so much like arithmetic." "That's what Avrillia says," answered Pirlaps, smiling. "Well, let's walk around a bit. And then I'll show you the Strained Relations." Sara thought that sounded very interesting; and, besides, she was glad to walk after standing still so long. So they strolled about, enjoying the pleasant afternoon, and the oddity of the people and their ways. There were any number of step-relatives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, sitting around on their various steps, or carrying them jauntily under their arms. She noticed that none of them had a servant to carry them, however, from which she concluded that they were not so well-to-do as Pirlaps. But then, none of the steps were of chocolate. They were of various materials, however, even yellow. Once, in crossing the uncommon, they met one of Pirlaps' half-sisters. She was divided lengthwise, and so had only a profile; but, as her profile was very pretty, the effect was not at all unpleasant. While they were talking to her, one of his half-brothers came up, but he was divided crosswise, and so had no back. However, from the front, of course, you hardly noticed it. "Well," said Pirlaps, at last, glancing at the small clinical thermometer he carried, "we'll just have time to take a look at the Strained Relations, and then I must get back and help Avrillia vanish the children." He led Sara to a distant corner of the uncommon that was fenced off from the rest by a high wire netting. It looked rather like the high nets about a tennis-court, except that it was made of silver wire, with a mesh as fine as a milk-strainer. Inside the wire, in a sort of little private park, she could see a number of very haughty-looking persons moving about. "Don't speak to them," said Pirlaps, as they drew near. "They're entirely too snobbish to be spoken to." Sara approached in awe, and they stood gazing at the pale, supercilious-looking creatures, who returned their gaze through monocles, lorgnettes, and other contemptuous media. "You see," explained Pirlaps, "nobody speaks to them. Every time they go in or out, they pass through the strainer, and that strains out all of their red corpuscles and leaves only the blue. That's why they are so superior and exclusive. Of course, too, it makes them very thin, and gives them that sheer, transparent look." And, indeed, Sara noticed that she could see quite through one of the thinnest ones, who wore a very high-necked dress buttoned in the back. Pirlaps was now growing anxious to be at home, so after saying good-by to the important personages on the Posts of Honor, they started back. As they drew near, they saw Avrillia in the rose-garden near the balcony, looking very lovely as she moved among the flowers. "Ah," said Pirlaps, "she's already vanished them. She's gathering rose-leaves for tomorrow's poems." As he spoke, Avrillia, looking up, waved a blue rose to them, and disappeared within the house. In a moment she reappeared, wearing the sweetest smile Sara had ever seen. Pirlaps looked greatly pleased and touched. And no wonder; for Avrillia was coming out to meet him, bringing him his step with her own hands. Chapter IV The Invaders When Sara dropped the curtains behind her the next morning she paused in horror, with her hand poised above the dimple-holder. What had happened to her lovely Garden in the night? It looked exactly as her own little garden was accustomed to look three days after a hard freeze. Blighted--that was the word: it was blighted. The leaves hung limp and brown from the trees; the blue plush grass, and even the blue bark of the Gugollaph-tree, had turned a most sickly green. The water was frozen in the pool; and, imprisoned below it, she could see the Echo of the Plynck, perfectly stiff, and looking as if she were in some sort of awful trance. The Plynck, on the other hand, drooped on her accustomed branch like the leaves on the trees, as if she hardly had strength to hold her loosened plumes together. The Snimmy's wife sat on her own toadstool, rigid and angry-looking, with her tail wound tightly around the base, and with the half-hemmed doorknob forgotten in her lap; the Snimmy lay watchfully at the door of the prose-bush, with his long, debilitating nose on his paws, shivering terribly; and the Snoodle looked as if somebody had put salt on his mother. And the poor, timid Teacup looked like a gentle, fat little old lady who has just been shot out of a volcano. Avrillia and Pirlaps were standing together in the little arch, looking with passionate and indignant eyes upon the general distress and havoc, and especially upon the insolent creatures who had caused it. For Sara saw, after a few minutes of bewilderment, that the beautiful place with its gentle inhabitants had been overrun in the night by a horde of Fractions. For there they sat, grouped insolently around the fountain, drinking tears out of mugs of enormous sighs, and hammering with their fists upon the peculiarly disagreeable-looking tables at which they sat. These tables were of various sizes, but they were all very ponderous and slippery-looking; and observing them closely, Sara saw that her instinctive aversion was well founded--for they were multiplication tables. The Two-Times table was nearest to her, being placed just to the left of the dimple-holder; and they increased regularly in size up to the Twelve-Times table, at which the officers were sitting. The whole crowd of invaders were disgustingly haughty and self-important--worse even than the Strained Relations, Sara thought; but the officers were the worst of all. From the Least Common Multiple up to the Greatest Common Divisor, from the thin, poker-like Quotient with the fierce white moustache to the enormous, puffy Multiplicand, Sara thought they were the most pompous lot she had ever seen. However, since they were officers and units, she could imagine that they might have some excuse; but what possible excuse could there be for conceit in the Fractions, every one of whom had something missing about him? Some of them, of course, lacked only an ear or a little finger; but numbers of them had only one leg or one arm, and many of them were much worse off! Why, at the farthest side of the Three-Times table Sara saw a Fraction who consisted entirely of one eye! There was one table, to be sure, the Eleven-Times, the noisiest of all, that was occupied entirely by Improper Fractions; but aside from their table-manners and general behavior, which were shocking, Sara thought they looked even worse than the proper ones. For one of them had two faces, another three feet, and a third one had as many arms as an octopus. Sara positively refused to look at them. While Sara stood gazing in horror and dismay, and feeling so grieved for her friends that she could not bring herself to ask anybody what had happened or what could be done, she saw Schlorge coming at a run down the path from the Dimplesmithy. He looked as wild and distracted as any of them, but Sara felt a great relief when she saw him, because she knew he was so clever and practical. She felt, too, that she could ask him what the trouble was and he could bear it--better than the Teacup, for instance, who, she feared, would go all to pieces, or the Echo of the Plynck, who was clearly all in. So she ran up to him and touched his elbow and asked, almost crying, "What is it, Schlorge? How did it happen?" Schlorge, even in his excitement, was comforted by her sympathy, and evidently very glad to see another ally. "Why--a--" he began, and then, remembering, he cried excitedly, "Where's the stump--where's the stump? I have to tell Sara about it!" But alas, the invaders had razed the stump to the ground, apparently out of wanton malice, for they had made no use of it. All over and around it were strewn plus-signs, minus-signs, and other weapons; and Sara noticed that the dots from the divided-by signs were rolling about everywhere on the withered grass. Manifestly, Schlorge could not get upon the fallen stump, through such a thicket of debris, and he dared not move them nor step on them; besides, it is doubtful if he could have told Sara about it unless the stump were right side up. At this juncture, however, Pirlaps stepped boldly forward and once more offered Schlorge his step. Schlorge sprang upon it without noticing the chocolate, but he was so agitated that he put his left hand into his bosom and his right behind his back, instead of the other way around. However, it was in a loud, firm voice, with fierce, defiant looks at the invaders, that he informed Sara: "The Fractions came down like a wolf on the fold: Their ears are acute but their noses are cold. They know nothing of poetry, music or art-- So why in Sam Hill should they think they're so smart?" "Why in Zeelup?" corrected the Teacup, from above, in a tremulous, weeping voice; but even had it been louder it would have been drowned in the clamor that rose from the tables. "Silence, impudent clown!" roared the fat, fierce-looking Multiplicand. "Ignoramus! nothing of music! Why, you don't know Common Time!" Sara quaked; only yesterday she had got all tangled up trying to tell the difference between three-four time and two-four time; and she knew Schlorge was wrong and the dreadful creature was right. But Schlorge was beside himself with fury and beyond the reach of fear or reason. "Oh, go on!" he shouted fiercely. "You don't know nothing about the insides of music--that's only the outsides! Besides, what time does a bird sing by? That's music, ain't it?" But before the Multiplicand could answer, his henchman, the Multiplier, called out, "And what do you know of art, Oaf? Don't you know that modern art is colored geometry?" "And poetry?" squeaked the Quotient, fiercely, "Don't poets have to count their feet to write poems?" But at that juncture they were all electrified to see Avrillia stepping forward, looking so beautiful and so queenly and so transfigured by righteous indignation that even the invaders merely blinked. "Not modern poets," she said, with an icy authority that sent a hostile shiver up and down the multiplication tables. "They do not count anything--not even the cost." It was not so much what Avrillia said, as the way she said it, and the way she looked, that cowed even the all-powerful invaders for a moment. Pirlaps, at her side, said, "Good for you, Avrillia!" under his breath; and Schlorge glared at the Fractions with triumphant scorn and continued, "Like leaves of the forest when summer is green Our beautiful Garden at sunset was seen; Like leaves of the forest when autumn is flown, You see it this morning all withered and strown." As he finished this stanza Schlorge seemed to rise to twice his full height (indeed, he seemed to Sara for a moment almost half as tall as her waist) in his eloquent fury, as he continued: "But we will lambast you, you straight-waisted pigs, As sure as black's yellow and thistles is figs! Yea, surer than squashes our vengeance we'll wreak; If it isn't today, why, we'll do it next week!" Sara had a distressed feeling that this was rather a weak ending, but nobody else seemed to notice it; indeed, several of the Fractions were so incensed at the bold threat that two or three of them called out, "Shoot him at sunrise!" The Greatest Common Divisor, however, merely gave him a savage and contemptuous glance over his tear-mug, as much as to say that he would annihilate him when it was quite convenient. In a few moments they were again entirely absorbed in their drinking and carousing, and then Pirlaps cautiously touched Schlorge on the arm. "Let's have a council of war," he said, in a very low voice, drawing him a little to one side. "I have an idea. Where shall we go?" "Better come down to the Smithy," said Schlorge. "They haven't discovered it yet." Very quietly then, while the Fractions were busy drinking, Schlorge and Pirlaps and Avrillia and Sara and the Snimmy and the Snimmy's wife slipped out of the Garden and down the path to the Dimplesmithy. They didn't think it necessary to tell the Plynck, who was too much crushed to be of use, or the Teacup, for whom they dreaded the slightest shock. The Echo of the Plynck might have been useful, only she was still frozen into the pool. The farther they got from the Garden the less blighted and the more natural everything looked; and by the time they reached the road, they would not have suspected, from the look of the country, that destruction was lurking so near. When they reached the Dimplesmithy, they sent the Snimmy to sniff out the neighborhood carefully with his debilitating nose, to see if there were any spies about; and when he returned, Pirlaps carefully unfolded his plan. "I am convinced," he said earnestly, "from what I have observed this morning, that Poetry will be absolutely fatal to these hateful intruders who have descended upon us. The only question in my mind is, How shall we apply it? After thinking about it most carefully, I have worked out a tentative plan. Avrillia, I am sure, can furnish us plenty of ammunition." (Sara, glancing admiringly at Avrillia, saw the thrilling look of high resolve that shone in her face.) "And Schlorge will have to make us two or three more pairs of bellows. Are you strong enough to wield a pair, Sara?" he asked. Even in the stress of this dire moment he spoke so kindly that she loved him more than ever; and she told him proudly that she was sure she could. Schlorge had already dragged down from a shelf three extra pairs of bellows--one brand-new one and two old ones; and he was busy at his forge mending and putting them in order. All the while, however, he was listening anxiously to Pirlaps. "The only part I haven't been able to work out," said Pirlaps, with a worried look, "is this: How can we reduce the Poetry to a powdered form fast enough to be effective?" This was a problem indeed; and everybody thought deeply and desperately. Avrillia, Sara could see, was already so absorbed in making the poems that she didn't even hear; but it was an agonizing moment for the rest of them. It did not last long, however; for the Snimmy's wife stepped forward and said triumphantly, in her deep, cross voice, "My coffee-mill!" "Ah, these practical people!" cried Pirlaps, rubbing his hands delightedly. "Now for our organization. Avrillia, have you plenty of rose-leaves?" "An extra supply," answered Avrillia, raptly. "Yassuh filled the leaf-closet only yesterday. How fortunate!" "Then the problem of transportation," said Pirlaps, greatly pleased. "There must be no break--" "The Gunki will bring 'em," said Schlorge, decisively. "Here, you!" he shouted; and a swarm of Gunki came tumbling out from under the adjacent bushes. "Bring your coal-scuttles!" he shouted; and each Gunkus scuttled back, reappearing in a moment with the desired receptacle. "Good!" said Pirlaps. "Stand at attention until I give you further orders." And each Gunkus stood perfectly still and straight, holding his coal-scuttle by the handle between his teeth, and dropping his eyes into it. They hit the bottom of the scuttle with a ringing, martial sound. "Now," said Pirlaps, "how many hands for the bellows? Avrillia will be busy writing poems; Mrs. Snimmy will be busy grinding them. That leaves Schlorge, Sara, Mr. Snimmy and myself. Four pairs of bellows--how fortunate!" He then explained to the Gunki that they were to march straight to Avrillia's balcony and form an unbroken line from there to the Snimmy's wife's coffee-mill, on the front porch of the prose-bush; and that they were to pass the scuttles full of loaded rose-leaves in a steady stream, as fast as they could. The last Gunkus was to empty the scuttles into the coffee-mill. In a very short time they had this plan in execution. When they slipped back into the Garden they found that the Fractions had been drinking so heavily that many of them were snoring loudly under the multiplication tables; and the rest were carousing so uproariously that they took no notice whatever of the preparations for their overthrow. The Snimmy's wife took her station grimly at the coffee-mill; Pirlaps, Schlorge, Sara and the Snimmy grouped themselves about her, and in a very few minutes the first scuttleful of poems arrived. The first Gunkus emptied them into the mill; Mrs. Snimmy began to grind violently; the gunners, with hands trembling with excitement, loaded their bellows. Even in this terrible moment Sara could not help noticing what a lovely stuff the powder was--a blue and silver dust, with a delicate fragrance like sachet powder. Surely it could not harm anybody! She felt a sinking of the heart; but she kept her eyes on Pirlaps, and his splendid, confident bearing helped to reassure her. And when he said, "A--B--C!" they all fired simultaneously. And oh, glorious success! It was clear that the poem-dust was absolutely deadly to the enemy. At the first shot the Least Common Multiple and a number of privates fell out of their chairs, as dead as if they had been caught between the covers of an arithmetic! Moreover, the poem-dust that filled the air seemed to tend to stupefy the others; so that, though there was a terrible uproar and a desperate scramble for weapons, victory for the defenders was certain from the start. There was only one defect in the organization; one thing had escaped Pirlaps' wonderful foresight. There was no efficient way to get the powder from the coffee-mill to the bellows; and in the loading much time was wasted and much ammunition spilled. While Pirlaps was looking about him with great anxiety, trying to think of some way to remedy the trouble, the little Teacup came fluttering tremulously down from above. "Let me do it!" she cried; and while they all looked on in admiration (though with only one eye apiece, since the other was busy aiming at the enemy) she proceeded to load one pair of bellows after another, with the utmost nicety and plenty of poetry-powder. A little was spilled, to be sure, because she trembled so terribly; still, it was an enormous improvement, and they all praised and congratulated the Teacup. "Ah, these sheltered women!" said Pirlaps. "How an emergency does bring them out!" The battle must have raged for nearly an hour; but at the end of that time there was not so much as a One-Twenty-Second left alive. The Greatest Common Divisor, as befitted his rank, was the last to succumb; and when he went down the defenders of the Garden threw down their weapons and began tossing their shoes into the air and shaking each others' hands and talking all at once. The Gunki passed the word down the line to Avrillia, who presently came floating in, with her wild eyes shining and her pale-gold hair rumpled, and her golden swan's-quill still in her hand; and everybody fell upon her with congratulations. But, indeed, everybody was congratulating everybody else, and calling him or her the hero or heroine of the day. Schlorge was doubly cordial to Avrillia because he felt that he had underestimated her; and for the same reason Pirlaps was particularly delighted with the Teacup and the Snimmy's wife--whom, to tell the truth, he had always considered very ordinary women. The Teacup fluttered and laughed nervously, murmuring, whenever anybody praised her, "If my handle hadn't been so consanguineous--" But the Snimmy's wife merely smiled grimly, as much as to say that she had always thought they would all come to their senses sooner or later. Presently the Snimmy, who had been sniffing about the fallen invaders, suggested, "What's to be done with the remains, begging everybody's pardon?" "Don't make such long speeches, Snimmy," said his wife, "and don't beg anything. Didn't you blow as hard as any of 'em?" But Schlorge was already deeply interested in the problem. He began walking around among them, now and then turning one over with his foot. Of course there had never been an ounce of flesh and blood among them; they were as dry as bones--which, indeed, they much resembled. "I could make them into first-class rules," he said, picking up the waist-line of an Improper Fraction and snapping it easily across his knee. "They'd keep the Plynck supplied a whole winter." The Plynck! In the excitement of victory they had all momentarily forgotten the Plynck, though, when the fight was hottest, it had been the sight of her tragic drooping plumes among the blighted leaves that had nerved them to redoubled effort. Now Avrillia stepped softly under the tree and called gently, "O Plynck, dear Plynck! They're all dead, and Schlorge is going to make them into rules for you to break!" A shiver ran through the soft, rosy plumes of the Plynck; she opened her terrified eyes, and when she saw that the good tidings was indeed true, she began to shine and smile down upon them again like a convalescent rainbow. The Gunki had already formed a line to Schlorge's smithy, and were briskly sending scuttlefuls of the hateful fragments down the line. "I--I'm sorry I was so useless," apologized the Plynck with deep humility, looking down upon her faithful friends. But they one and all began to protest that she had not been needed in the least. "It was for you as we done it, ma'am," Schlorge assured her, looking up into her tree with his shoe in his hand; and the poor Snimmy was so overcome by emotion that he was compelled to lie down at the foot of the Gugollaph-tree, with his debilitating nose on his little cold paws, and sniffle frankly. "But how will they get back the lovely grass and flowers?" asked Sara of Pirlaps, softly. Her friends were saved; but her Garden still looked sadly afflicted. "Well, perhaps it will snow," said Pirlaps, hopefully. "Snow?" asked Sara. "Will that bring the grass and leaves back?" "Why, certainly, Sara," said Pirlaps, looking down at her with his kind, amused smile. Pirlaps was often amused at her ignorance; but he was always so kind about it that Sara didn't mind at all. Chapter V Crumbs and Waffles Sara beheld such an entrancing sight the next morning that her dimples nearly escaped from her control while she was putting them into the dimple-holder. The Snimmy leaped up with a wild sniff, only to sink down again, trembling, as Sara shooed the little rollicking things safely down through the opening. For it had indeed snowed in the night; the whole glittering Garden was as white as the Snoodle. The pool was unfrozen, and in her accustomed place within it sat the Echo of the Plynck, looking wonderfully happy and refreshed; the bark of the Gugollaph-tree was again a healthy, dazzling blue, and the branches were piled with little ridges of fluffy-looking snow, which produced a delightful effect. And among them, with her happy golden feet in the snow, and her rosy plumes fluffed out, sat the Plynck, looking as softly dazzling as a snowy sunrise. An army of Gunki were busily mowing the deep snow with scintillating long-handled ice-sickles. It flew up in clouds as they mowed, and another army of Gunki was engaged in catching it in baskets and spreading it smoothly down again. One and all, they seemed deeply absorbed in this useful work. Still a third crew of Gunki were engaged in helping Schlorge reset the stump. They had got it nearly into place by the time Sara arrived. It was a tremendous engineering feat, and had evidently required any number of ropes and pulleys and things. Sara could see that the ropes were made of taffy, but she could not imagine where they had found enough pulley-bones to supply all the pulleys. So she asked Schlorge about it, and he explained with great relish that they had used the wish-bones of the Fractions themselves. "Oh, we've made 'em useful!" said Schlorge, triumphantly. "We've used everything about 'em except their conceit. We didn't want that, so we just raked it up into piles and burned it." As he talked, Schlorge was busy fitting the stump exactly to the root that was left in the ground, so that it would grow back just right when the snow melted. "I have to hurry," explained Schlorge, working away with an anxious expression, "because I have an announcement to make to you--a message from Avrillia." "Oh, do hurry!" cried Sara, clapping her hands so recklessly that Schlorge looked up from his work to say, "Take care--I don't mend them knuckles ones, you know." So Sara sat down very quietly on the snow near by, keeping a watchful eye out for the Gunki with the keen ice-sickles, and sitting very still so that she would not disturb Schlorge. And in a very little while, indeed, the work was finished, and Schlorge scrambled eagerly upon the stump and arranged his hands. Then he began: "I'm requested to say On this glickering day That Avrillia is feeding the Birds; And if Sara will come She will find her at home, With waffles and welcoming words." Schlorge jumped down and began scrambling his tools together; then he went rushing wildly, as usual, down the road to the Dimplesmithy. "Go see her, Sara!" he shouted back over his shoulder encouragingly. "You'll enjoy it! Go on!" So Sara, who really needed no urging, went smiling down the little path (it was curly again, though very white) toward the little arch in the hedge. And from there she looked out upon another exhilarating scene. Now I did not think it necessary to say that the snow in the Garden was of powdered sugar, as it is in all well-informed stories; but beyond the hedge, as far as the eye could reach (and Sara had quite a long eye for her age--her mother was kept busy letting out hems) the snow was of powdered silver. I am sorry to say it was not good to eat at all; but it was so much more beautiful than the common garden kind that I do not believe you would have minded, any more than Sara did. It was, of course, fairy snow, while the other was just the plain imaginary kind. But the scene before her was so strange and animated that even the snow could not hold Sara's attention for long. (It was slippery, for one thing; and, besides, the crust was thin, and Sara's attention was so excited and skippy that it was continually breaking through.) Beyond Avrillia's house on one side, in the direction Sara had gone with Pirlaps to see his relations, was a long, delightful hill; and there all the seventy children were coasting and snowballing. Every one of them had on a cap that seemed to be made of a tiny red pepper, and their little mittened fists looked exactly like holly-berries. Their sleds were of curled rose-petals, and Sara knew without being told that it had cost their mother quite a struggle to spare so many from the supply she had collected to write poems on. Sara had watched them for several minutes before she noticed that they always coasted uphill and dragged their sleds down. And all the time the air flashed with snowballs so big that they looked like the tantalizing silver balls which sometimes occur in the nicest boxes of chocolates. It was some time before Sara could disengage her attention (it had become entangled in the rope on one of the smaller children's sleds) to examine the extraordinary scene near at hand. For, on the lawn at one side of Avrillia's house, opposite the rose-garden, where Pirlaps usually sat painting under the fog-bushes, a large table had been placed; and around it were assembled a group of the most remarkable-looking persons Sara had ever seen. If they had not been so large, Sara would have been sure that they were birds; but the largest one was a head taller than Sara herself, and the very smallest was at least as large as her youngest cousin. Pirlaps, who was helping Yassuh put some sort of food on the table, looked up and saw Sara; and in a moment he put down the dish he had in his hand and seemed to slip away unnoticed, to come to her. Sara wondered at this, for Pirlaps was always so polite; it would have been much more like him to excuse himself with a courteous bow to his guests. "Good morning, Sara," he said in a low tone, when he reached her side. "A glorious morning, isn't it? Avrillia thought you would enjoy seeing the Birds fed, and the children at their winter sports. Avrillia herself is very busy just now; the suet gave out and she's gone to order some more. But I daresay she'll have time to speak to you after a while. Meantime, I'll tell you who they are: it isn't polite to introduce them to anybody. Indeed, I must tell you that their ways are very peculiar, and they are very easily offended; so try to be careful. For instance, you must never speak aloud in their presence, but only behind your hand, in a whisper; and if you wish to make the best impression, do not seem to see them at all. Also, if you should care to partake of any of the food, remember not to touch it with your hands: that is the very worst of bad manners. Always take it with your beak--I mean your mouth." Sara stood perfectly still, watching; never had she been so charmed and astonished. "Who are they?" she asked, after a moment. "Well, the tallest one, with the high blue beaver hat, is the Popinjay," said Pirlaps. "He's just about the cock of the walk, and he's quite self-important and touchy. The one with the very long bill, and the stiff, stumpy tail that he uses for a cane, is the Redpecker. The one in the checked suit, with the black necktie, yellow satin sleeve-linings, and white patch on his coat-tail, is the Snicker. He's full of fun and a good fellow, but rather crude--for he'll sometimes talk to you a little if he's sure the others aren't looking. Ants are his favorite food, but Avrillia didn't put up any this summer, so I had to send Yassuh down to the colony to get one of my uncles for him. Poor Uncle," said Pirlaps, looking very sad for a moment, "I hated to do it; but he was only a half-uncle and quite old, and lately he had grown so thin that he was hardly more than a three-eighths one. However, he was plenty for the Snicker," he added more cheerfully, "he's not as exacting as most of them. The little lady in brown, with the bustle, is a When; like the Snicker, she's really quite a charming little person, though of an interrogative turn of mind; and they all frown on her sociable ways. The fierce-looking old gentleman with the Roman nose is the Squawk; he has a worse disposition, even, than the Popinjay. That beautiful little lady with the deep blue velvet cloak and the vest that looks like ploughed fields in March, is the Skybird; she is lovely and gentle, and reminds me of Avrillia. But she's quite absent-minded. Besides, she's very careful of her manners; so don't expect her to speak to you. Now come on, and watch them eat." Sara was very curious, but a little timid, the visitors looked so large and so strange; so she held tight to Pirlaps' hand as they stole carefully up to the group and stopped near the table. The Popinjay, the Squawk, the Redpecker and the Skybird went on eating as if nothing had happened, so Sara felt sure she had been sufficiently polite; but the little When, who was hopping about from one side of the table to the other, cast a bright, questioning glance at her that made her whisper, behind her hand, and under her breath, "Next August!" And then she was sure she heard the Snicker wink. All this time Sara had been aware of an irresistible curiosity about the table. It looked somehow familiar and unpleasant; and yet it was of a beautiful primrose yellow, decorated with blue roses. At last she put up her hand and whispered to Pirlaps, "The table! Where did you get the table? It wasn't here the other day!" Pirlaps laughed softly. "Ah, Sara," he said, "you aren't easy to hoodwink! That's the Seven-Times table. Avrillia and I had a regular battle about it. Of course we never really quarrel," he explained seriously, "but we sometimes have a lively clash of wills. After we finished off the Fractions yesterday, I was determined to save that table for a memento. Avrillia hated the idea, and positively refused to have it in the house; and then I won my point by remembering that we'd never had a table large enough for the birds to eat from when it snowed. I told her we'd keep it on the lawn. She tried to persuade me to order a plain Time-Table from your country, instead; saying that, though it would be bad enough to have our nice clean eternity cluttered up with a Time-Table, it would be better than one of these. But I finally brought her around, by promising to paint it and make it as pretty as possible. She'll forget its real nature after a while, and I shall always value it greatly for its historical interest." Sara's mind was distracted toward the close of this explanation by the peculiar, not to say angry, behavior of the Popinjay and the Squawk, who, she was sure, had become displeased about something. One peculiarity of the Popinjay's she had not noticed until she came near the table. It was that, though he had two perfectly good feet, they seemed to have grown to a sort of perch, which was fastened crosswise to a sharp peg; and when he wished to move he had to hop from place to place, sticking this peg into the snow. He was now hopping round and round the table with loud, incoherent cries, while the little When flitted from place to place to keep out of his way, and the Snicker laughed softly in his yellow satin sleeve. Sara touched Pirlaps on the arm. "Mercy me!" cried Pirlaps, speaking softly, but forgetting in his excitement to cover his mouth with his hand. "The table is quite empty, and Avrillia has not come with the rest of the suet! Yassuh should have brought more crumbs long ago. Let's go to the house and see what's the trouble, Sara!" They hurried to the house, and began looking everywhere. They even opened the door of Avrillia's own bed-room, which was upholstered entirely in pink morning-glory satin, with hangings of opalescent mist; Sara thought it was quite the most ravishing place she had ever seen; at least she though so until Pirlaps distractedly led her down into the basement to Avrillia's kitchen. A smell of something delectable scorching enveloped them as they opened the door. And there beside the stove, all deliciously sticky and comfortable, lay Yassuh, fast asleep and half melted; while little wisps of smoke curled out of the crack between the oven and the door. The stove was almost as big as the tin one Jimmy had given Sara for Christmas, but much more massive and efficient-looking. On the table, looking so delicious that they made your mouth water, were the ingredients with which Yassuh had been working: a bubble-pitcher of milk-weed cream, a bowl of butterfly eggs (the daintiest things!), a silver panful of flour from the best white miller, and a large silk sack of snow-sugar from the Garden. Sara had to put her hands behind her back. "Yassuh!" shouted Pirlaps; and Sara had never before heard him speak angrily. "The messy little rascal! I can't even kick him to wake him up--I'd never get my foot out! Where are the tongs? Here, Sara, you take the poker, and help me with him!" So saying, Pirlaps picked the soft and sleeping Yassuh up gingerly with the tongs, and Sara put the poker crosswise under the softest part of him to keep him from pulling apart, and together they carried him to the door and dropped him outside, where he made a delicious-looking brown puddle on the silver snow. "You stay and watch him till he hardens," called Pirlaps, hurrying back toward the kitchen, "and don't let him go to sleep again. As soon as he's hard enough, send him straight in here to me." Sara stood on the doorstep watching Yassuh, who was now awake and grinning, and she was very much interested to see how, as he hardened, he wriggled himself back into shape, like a chrysalis that has just shed its caterpillar skin. She was sure this was no new experience to Yassuh. Presently she thought he was hard enough to be taken back into the kitchen; and there they found Pirlaps, sitting with flushed face upon his own fast-melting step, taking little muffin-pans full of fresh-baked crumbs out of the oven. One panful, alas, was burnt to a crisp, and some of the others were a shade too brown; but oh, they did smell and look so very delightful! Considered as muffins (and they looked so like them that Sara could not help being reminded of them) they were certainly the tiniest things imaginable; considered as crumbs (and that was what she had heard Pirlaps call them) they were considerably above the average in size. For all that, what discouragingly small crumbs for such appallingly large birds! No wonder Pirlaps was so worried, and looked so unnaturally hurried and strenuous! "Here, Yassuh!" he called, without stopping to scold him. "You empty these into the baskets and take them right out to the table; and then you hurry right back and get another batch into the oven as quick as you can. Roll!" Yassuh, apparently quite refreshed by his nap, went tumbling out with the fragrant baskets, and Sara hurried after Pirlaps in his anxious search for Avrillia. At last they thought of the balcony; and as they ran up the stairs, there, indeed, they saw Avrillia, with her white arm outstretched above the balustrade, watching a curled rose-leaf as it floated down, down, down. "Avrillia!" called Pirlaps. "Where is the suet?" Avrillia was leaning far out over the balcony, gazing down into Nothing. She straightened up and turned around, looking at them with eyes that hardly saw them. "It didn't stick," she murmured. "Avrillia! the suet!" cried Pirlaps, laying his hand on her arm and shaking it ever so little. "The suet!" He was not cross--he couldn't be cross with Avrillia--but Sara thought he was for once almost half impatient. Avrillia's mind came back into her beautiful eyes and she cried remorsefully, "O Pirlaps, I forgot. Is it all gone? What will they think of me?" "Every bit," said Pirlaps, relenting at once. "And Yassuh went to sleep and burnt up a whole panful of crumbs." "Oh, dear!" cried Avrillia, "how dreadful! The suet came quite a while ago, but while I was slicing it I thought of a poem about snow; and then I happened to think that maybe the air over the Verge might be a little warmer than it is here, and so the poem might melt a little as it fell, and, maybe, stick. But it didn't," she finished, growing abstracted again. "Too bad," said Pirlaps, peering down into Nothing with real sympathy in his voice. Then, with a start, "But the suet, Avrillia?" "Oh, let's go get it," cried Avrillia. "I laid it on my dressing-table when I went to get a fresh handkerchief just before I sat down to write." So they flew to Avrillia's pink bed-room, and there was the suet, in the midst of Avrillia's lacy pin-cushions and crystal toilet-bottles. They gathered it up and hurried out to the Birds, who were now eating crumbs and looking fairly good-natured; though you could tell by the way Yassuh's knees trembled that he had found them in a dreadful state. Well, you can hardly imagine how busy they were kept, all that afternoon--Sara and Yassuh and Pirlaps and Avrillia--supplying crumbs and suet to those thankless Birds. The lovely Skybird did, toward sundown, trill a beautiful little song of gratitude; but she addressed it to nobody in particular, and looked all the time straight into a fog-bush--because of course it would have been very bad manners, as she thought, to pay any attention to her hosts. The little When cast a bright look at Avrillia, who whispered, when no one was looking, "Next year, dear--the first snow," and the Snicker, who was the most reckless of all, nudged Sara with his elbow and said in a stage-whisper, "Certainly did have a good time," and then snickered loud and long. But the Popinjay and the Squawk and the Redpecker departed without a word of thanks for all the food they had eaten and all the trouble they had caused. As soon as they were gone Pirlaps and Avrillia drew a long, relieved breath; then Pirlaps tossed his step to Yassuh and seized Avrillia about the waist, and whirled her up and down the silver paths in the gayest, most fantastic little dance Sara had ever seen. Presently they stopped before Sara. "Now for the waffles, Sara," said Pirlaps; and Avrillia stooped and kissed her and said, "Come, Sara, and see what I can cook!" Sara thought the notion of Avrillia's cooking must be an odd and pretty fancy, but she skipped back with them to their little house, holding a hand of each. Through the windows she could see the fairy lights gleaming, for it was growing late and cold. They led her again down into the little shining, warm kitchen, where the lights from the glowing stove danced upon the silver bowls, and the air was full of delicious, spicy smells. "Lie down, Yassuh, and go to sleep," cried Avrillia; and so saying she took down her kitchen-apron from the gold-headed pin where it hung and began to flit about the cook-table--measuring out snow-sugar and breaking butterfly eggs into her shining cups and bowls. Then she got out the silver waffle-irons (Sara wanted them for her toy stove) and buttered them, and put them on the stove to heat while she beat up the batter. Meantime, Sara helped Pirlaps to set a dainty little round table (not at all like a multiplication table) with pink shell dishes, and put on a jar of honeysuckle honey and a pat of buttercup butter. Then Avrillia baked the waffles and they sat down to eat. Avrillia had hardly taken the first mouthful when she cried, "I forgot the children!" and sprang up and flitted to the door. As she opened the door Sara heard faint little cries and tinkling laughter, drifting back from the hill where the children still played and frolicked in the snow. Presently Avrillia shut the door and came back to her place at the table. "Bless their hearts!" she said, smiling, "I think I'll just let them stay out and play all night--they're always begging me to let them. And they're having such a good time I can't bear to vanish them. They won't bother us," she added, daintily pouring honeysuckle syrup on her waffle. The waffles were so tiny and delicious that, every time she had swallowed one, Sara almost thought she had dreamed it. "I didn't know you could cook, Avrillia," she said, shyly and admiringly. Avrillia looked pleased. "Oh, anybody can cook!" she said, lightly. Sara understood from her tone that not everybody could write poems on rose-leaves. "We do this every year, Sara," said Pirlaps, "the first time it snows. It's our favorite philanthropy. It's a big undertaking, and rather too much of a strain for Avrillia, but we can't make up our minds to give it up." "And then, when it's all over," continued Avrillia, "I make waffles (aren't they good, Sara?) and we eat down here in the kitchen, and relax, and have a lovely, cozy time. And it makes it doubly pleasant when we have some congenial person to help us celebrate--like you, Sara." Sara's little heart swelled with love and pride. Her eyes traveled once more over the shining little table, and the friendly faces of Pirlaps and Avrillia, and the glowing little kitchen, and out through the little window, where the fog-bushes were making long blue shadows, and the fairy lights danced on the silver snow. Never before had she stayed so late. But neither had she ever had such a lovely time. Chapter VI The Little Lost Laugh Sara had always intended to take her dolls with her to the Garden, but every morning before the sixth morning she forgot it. On the sixth morning, however, her arms were so full of dolls that she could not take off her dimples. She had not foreseen that difficulty. She had not really intended to bring them all. But the Brown Teddy-Bear looked so fiercely sad that she decided at the very outset that she could not leave him. He was not really a doll, of course, but as Sara kept him dressed in a kerchief and full skirt, he had the effect of a doll--a sort of Wolf-Grandmother-of-Red-Ridinghood doll. And the Billiken looked so cheerful that Sara decided that she must surely take him along, to reward him for being so unfailingly pleasant. And the Japanese doll had to go, because he was the newest, and because he was the only one who was large enough to wear the pink tulle lady-doll's hat Sara's aunt had sent her on her birthday. His head was as bare as an egg, because the little rosette of black hair that distinguishes a Japanese doll had come unglued. This made the effect of the hat a little odd; still, he could wear it. The Kewpie was just too cunning to leave--that was all there was to that; and no right-minded mother ever left the baby. So that made it necessary to take the Baby doll with the long clothes. (That is, she should have been wearing long clothes, but Sara's dolls never wore the clothes that belonged to them; and this morning the Baby was tastefully attired in a wide red sash, with the Japanese doll's paper parasol stuck through it, like the dagger in a comic opera.) So there was Sara, with five dolls in her arms, and the Snimmy shuddering deliciously from head to foot because he was beginning to smell dimples in his sleep. "What in the world shall I do?" wondered Sara, half aloud. "What in Zeelup, my dear," corrected the Teacup, leaning out from her perch with sympathetic interest. And then, what do you think the Teacup saw? She saw the Kewpie, who was always a friendly little soul, reach up and take off Sara's dimples himself! "I'll do it for Sara," he said, helpfully, as he dropped them safely upon the whipped cream cushion. And then what do you think happened? Why, the daintiest little creature sprang right out from between Sara's lips and went skipping and leaping and tumbling and running over the ice-cream bricks around the pool, across the blue plush grass, and, before you could tell it, disappeared around the turn of a little dim path Sara had never followed. Sara stood gazing after him. She had never seen anything that looked like that before. Some of Avrillia's children came nearest to looking like it: but not even they were so tinkly or so bubbly or so altogether gay-looking. And how nimble it was--disappearing like a drop of water trickling down a rock! "What in the world?" breathed Sara again. "--In Zeelup?" breathed the Teacup, quite as softly. But Sara hardly heard her: she was so astonished at the babel of small voices that started up about her feet. She had been so startled at the appearance and the disappearance of that strange little creature that she had not noticed that all the dolls were wriggling out of her arms and sliding down her skirts and legs like schoolboys escaping from a burning dormitory. Not that they were afraid of anything: it was only that they were so glad to be able at last to move and talk. "There he goes!" cried the Japanese doll, pointing excitedly: and indeed they did catch one more glimpse of the fleeting sprite between the shrubs. "He was mighty jolly," said the Brown Teddy-Bear enviously, in his deep, mournful voice; and "Let's go catch him!" cried the Baby, where it sat flat on the bricks, crowing and clapping its hands. "I'll have to get off these togs, then," said the Billiken, who was always fat and cheerful, but seldom spoke. He was driven to it this time by the fact that Sara had dressed him in the Baby's long clothes. "But what is it?" asked Sara, still bewildered. "Why, it's your laugh, child," said the Echo of the Plynck, who, all this time, had been watching the scene with much amusement. "Don't you know your own laugh when you see it?" "I never saw it before," said Sara with a wondering smile. "I guess I've heard it." "Now, isn't that odd--and interesting!" said the Echo to the Plynck. "The child says she has heard it, but never seen it. Here," she added, turning to Sara, and speaking in a louder tone, "we see a great deal of laughter--but we never hear it." "Well, and are you going to stand there all day staring?" suddenly put in the wife of the Snimmy from the prose-bush. "Ain't you going to go after it and ketch it? What'll your Maw say if you come home without your laugh? And your Paw?" Sara had not thought of that. But when she did think, she realized that it would be dreadful. What would Father think when he told her his funniest story and she did not laugh? "But--but what shall I do?" she wondered, half to herself. The dolls at her feet set up a clamor of plans, but as they were all talking at once (except the Brown Teddy-Bear, who looked even more pessimistic than usual) their suggestions were not very helpful. Sara and her other friends stood knitting their brows in perplexity. (Sara was just learning to knit, so she had her needles and a ball of yarn sticking out of her apron pocket. She was delighted to find brows so much easier to knit than yarn.) Suddenly the Snimmy's wife spoke again. "Send for Schlorge," she said. "He'll know what to do." No sooner were the words out of her mouth than they saw a Gunkus running down the path toward the Dimplesmithy to tell Schlorge. "In the meantime, Sara, you'd better dress me more suitably," suggested the Billiken kindly. Sara had never heard him object before to wearing the Baby's long dress; but he was evidently looking forward to a race and did not wish to be handicapped. So Sara sat down on the blue plush grass, and undressed the Billiken while they waited for Schlorge. She had time now to notice that the snow had melted and left everything beautifully fresh and bright, just as Pirlaps had assured her it would do. She had never seen the Garden look so lovely and spring-like. She was glad, too, to see that the stump had grown back exactly as it was; they had even removed the ropes and scaffolding. She took the Baby's clothes off the Billiken, and left him all free and unimpeded in his own, fat, white, furry body. You see, she always called the Teddy-Bear the Brown Teddy-Bear because the Billiken was his first cousin, and had a white Teddy-Bear body; it was only their colors and their heads that were different. Oh, yes,--and their dispositions; for the Billiken was a supremely cheerful person, while the Brown Teddy-Bear was a misanthrope. Sara had always known that he had something very depressing on his mind; and she was planning, now that he had learned to talk, to ask him what it was at the first suitable opportunity. When she had got the clothes off the Billiken, she started to put them on the Baby; but the Baby behaved as it had never done before. It had always been a good baby, adapting itself amiably to any schedule its mother saw fit to adopt. Sara saw at once that animated babies are not so easy to manage as inanimate ones; for the Baby kicked and cried and positively refused to be dressed. So Sara, who was really a very young mother, and had not yet trained herself to be firm and self-willed and contrary, put the Baby's clothes in her pocket with the yarn and knitting needles and a ginger-snap she had brought, and set the stubborn Baby down on the blue plush grass, where it rolled around quite happily again in its red sash and parasol. And just at that moment she saw good old Schlorge hurrying down the path from the Dimplesmithy with the Gunkus at his heels. Of course they all had to tell Schlorge about it at once, even the dolls (all except the Brown Teddy-Bear), so that Schlorge looked quite wild, and scratched his head a good deal before he was finally quite clear what had happened. Then he turned and looked thoughtfully down the path they had pointed out to him, and scratched it some more. Finally he said slowly, "I tell you what we'll have to do,"--and then, looking about him all at once very wildly,--"where's the stump--I'll have to tell Sara! Where's the--" But this time he found it without loss of time; and scrambling upon it, he adjusted his hands and shouted loudly, "Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough briar, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, We'll have to follow everywhere, If Sara's laughter we would snare. I will go and lead the van, You may follow if you can. Sara's would be an awful plight To go home laughterless tonight." Then he sprang from the stump and went rushing straight down the little dim path, shouting back over his shoulder, "Come along, all of you! Sara, ask the Plynck to come, too!" Down the path they went tumbling--the Snimmy, his wife, a crowd of Gunki, and all the dolls. Sara and the faithful little Teacup stayed behind to see if the Plynck would come, and the Snoodle was still asleep. "Will you come with us, dear Madame Plynck?" asked Sara, softly, looking up into the tree; and "Do you think you could stand it?" fluttered the Teacup solicitously. "It's against my rules to leave the Garden," said the Plynck, and Sara's heart sank; for she really thought the search would be a sort of picnic, and she had hoped that the lovely Plynck would go, too. It sank clear to the bottom of the pool, and the Plynck's Echo fished it up and handed it back to her, all wet and shiny, just as the Plynck finished her sentence, "So I think I'll go." Sara clapped her hands, and to add to her pleasure she heard just then the most delicious crashing sound: the kind of sound she had imagined when she stood at the top of the basement steps at home with the glass pitcher in her hands, wishing she could hurl it down upon the cement because Mother would not let her wear her new short-sleeved dress. She saw at once that the Plynck had broken the largest rule she had, and dropped it upon the pile at the foot of the tree; and now she was moving her plumes softly for flight, so that the golden spice was falling in Sara's hair. The Teacup was looking intensely pleased and flustered, and both of them had forgotten the poor Echo, who was scrambling about the rim of the pool like a swimmer trying to draw himself out of the water by a slippery bank. When she saw Sara looking at her, however, she stopped trying, and sat down stiffly in her usual place. "I can't go, of course," she said with dignity, "but go ahead--don't mind me." "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry!" said the Plynck, hovering over her softly. "I wish you could!" "Go ahead," said the Echo, trying hard not to look sulky and virtuous; and so Sara ran down the path after the others, with the Plynck and the Teacup fluttering gracefully over her head. As she passed through the hedge she cast a backward look at the Garden, which was now so still that she thought it looked like a picture in a dream--shimmering and bright and clear, without a soul left at home but the Plynck's cerulean Echo and the sleeping Snoodle. As soon as they passed through the hedge they found themselves in a picturesque broken country, rather difficult to traverse, but very prettily decorated with rocks, streams, and waterfalls. Little groves of cedars, the exact size and shape of Christmas-trees, grew out of the rocks; the candles were already full-grown, but Schlorge sent the Japanese doll running back to tell Sara that she must not light them, as they would not be ripe till Christmas Eve. Sara had never seen a prettier place, but she was rather worried by a maternal anxiety about the dolls. For it was certainly not a very safe place for them. Of course the Brown Teddy-Bear and the Billiken were all right, though the latter might come to grief if he should fall on his head. The Japanese doll, who had lost a hand, was unbreakable; but unbreakable only means that you may be dropped from a reasonable height upon hard-wood floors, but not from a second-story window on concrete or asphalt. That was how the Japanese doll had lost his hand (it would have been his head, but for the fact that the accident happened while he was indisposed from neuralgia, and had his head pinned up in the Baby's flannel petticoat). And these rocks certainly looked as hard as any pavement. And even as Sara worried, the worst happened: she heard a dreadful cracking sound, followed by a shrill clamor from the dolls and a hoarse cry from Schlorge, and the grim, excited voice of the Snimmy's wife. It was by no means a pleasant sound, like the cracking of breaking rules: no, it was the familiar, heart-rending sound that makes the heart of any mother of dolls turn cold. Sara went leaping and scrambling down the rocks, with the Plynck and the Teacup hovering anxiously over her. In a few moments she reached the scene of the accident, and found them all gathered around the Kewpie, who lay in the lap of the Snimmy's wife with both legs broken. Sara ran and knelt beside her. "Now, here, don't you go and burst into tears," said Schlorge, speaking in the gruff tone an anxious doctor uses toward an excitable patient. "I'll have my hands full mending your baby here, without having to mend you. He has no internal injuries," he added, turning the Kewpie upside down and peering down the stumps of his legs (which were hollow) into a perfectly pink and smooth and healthy-looking interior, "and you might have. Besides, we'll fix it up all right." "Can you really, Schlorge?" asked Sara. There were tears in her voice, but, by trying very hard, she did keep from bursting into them. "Of course I can!" said Schlorge, speaking quite crossly to conceal his sympathy. "Here--you Gunki! A stretcher!" So the Gunki came running with a stretcher made out of a large mullein-leaf, and they put the Kewpie and his legs tenderly upon it. He was a trifle pale, but still smiling, and insisted that he did not suffer at all. "Only it's inconvenient, you know, not to be able to walk," he explained, "and I didn't want to miss the fun. Would it be too much trouble--could you take me this way? These gentlemen, now--" "Sure!" said the four Gunki at once, in tenor, baritone, bass, and second bass. Sara, even in her distress, was charmed; for that was the first time she had heard a Gunkus speak. "Are you sure you won't faint from loss of air?" asked Schlorge looking at the patient anxiously; and indeed the air was pouring in a steady stream out of the Kewpie's inside. "I'll be all right--only take me along," maintained the Kewpie, valiantly. So they all started on again across the rough, uncharted country. Now, all this time they had not had so much as a glimpse of Sara's laugh. The Snimmy ran along ahead with his long, quivering, debilitating nose to the ground; and two or three times he raised it, and said in an excited undertone, to Schlorge, "It touched here." And then they would all look anxiously about, under every rock, and behind every stump, without finding a trace of it. But after they had gone a long way, and were all getting tired and thirsty (not to say hungry) they came to a most inviting little grove around a spring; and here, with one accord, they all threw themselves down to rest. The Teacup, with an arch look, dropped down to the spring, filled herself with water, and fluttered up to Sara's lips, saying softly, "Allow me, my dear!" Sara drank, in delight and wonder, and found that the spring was not made of water, but of a sort of super-lemonade, the most delicious beverage she had ever tasted. After she had drunk, the Teacup took a drink to the Plynck, explaining to her with an apologetic smile, "I served her first, my dear, because she was the guest of honor--so to speak," and the Plynck assented most graciously. Then the kind-hearted and democratic little Teacup performed the same gracious office for the whole company, one after the other--even the Baby doll and the Gunki who bore the stretcher. But the Billiken did look very funny drinking out of the Teacup; and it was just at that moment that they were startled by a little gurgling sound in the tree above them (as if a Brownie had overturned a blue honey-pitcher, and the little drops were tumbling over each other upon a silver floor) and Sara's lost laugh sprang from the top of the tree to the ground, and went tinkling off again among the rocks. They all looked after it with their mouths open, as a fisherman gazes at the hook from which he has just lost the largest fish that ever was on sea or land. "There, now! If we had only been more watchful!" exclaimed the Japanese doll. The pink tulle lady-doll hat had slipped far back on his perspiring head; he looked as if he had come a long way. "I thought I saw something moving up in the tree--I was just going to speak about it," said the plucky little Kewpie, who, being compelled to lie on his back, had been gazing straight up into the branches. "Well!" said Schlorge grimly. "It won't do that again." They all saw that Schlorge had something on his mind, and began to watch him as he took his gimlet out of his pocket and began to cut a small willow wand. "What are you going to do, Schlorge?" asked the Japanese doll, who was a good sort of a person, but a little lacking in tact. "Never mind me," said Schlorge, "the rest of you take a nap!" Sara saw that his professional pride, as the leader and practical man of the party, had been hurt by the escape of her laugh; and he spoke so crossly that they all turned around and began to try to make conversation to cover their embarrassment. But they didn't succeed very well; and presently the Baby spoke the thought that was uppermost in everybody's mind. "I'm hungry!" he said. Alas, so were they all! It was no use trying to disguise it! So the Snimmy said, almost tearfully, "Why didn't we think to bring some lunch?" "Humph!" retorted his wife. "You'd never think of anything--except dimples!" So saying, she took down a large hamper which she had been carrying on her head, and removed the cloth which was tucked neatly over it. They had all noticed the hamper, but supposed it was Avrillia's wash, which the Snimmy's wife always took home on Poppyday. Now it proved to be packed full of a rich and varied picnic luncheon, the sight and aroma of which made even the Brown Teddy-Bear look eager. The Snimmy's wife set all the viands out on the grass, and the Plynck graciously drifted down and took her place at the head of the table. There was a trifle too much sand in the sandwiches, but everything else was perfect; and they all ate as immoderately as people do at picnics. Sara found herself seated next to the Brown Teddy-Bear. After he had eaten a pickle or two and begun to look cheerful, she asked him, tactfully, what he had had so long on his mind. "I'll tell you, Sara," said the Brown Teddy-Bear candidly and mournfully. "I'm so ephemeral." Sara opened her eyes, and looked at him carefully. What new affliction was this? "Do you mean you're sick?" she asked, after a while. "No, Sara," said the Teddy-Bear, smiling sadly. "You don't understand. What I mean is, I'm already old-fashioned; I've had my day. Twenty years from now, nobody will know what you mean when you speak of a Teddy-Bear." "I will," said Sara, squeezing his paw affectionately. "Well, perhaps you will, Sara," admitted the Teddy-Bear, "because you'll remember. But the children won't, and they're the only ones that matter." "I'll tell mine," insisted Sara stoutly. "Ah, yes, Sara," said the Teddy-Bear, still more sadly, "but such loyalty as yours is rare. I have but a frail hold upon posterity. The same is true of many of my colleagues--the Billiken, for instance, and the Kewp. But the Billiken is a philosopher, and doesn't care; and the Kewp is a careless child. But I feel it, Sara; I have to confess to you that I am a prey to the 'last infirmity of noble minds.'" After a moment he added, less sadly but more irritably, "That creature, now, brainless as it is, is just a doll. And dolls are immortal." "It's a Baby doll," said Sara, wishing to offer consolation, but really not knowing what to say. "Humph," said the Brown Teddy-Bear disgustedly. "Babies are as universal as dolls." Sara was still trying to think of something pleasant to say to him, when she noticed that the Plynck, having finished her luncheon, had flown up to a bough of the tree just over the spring; and suddenly she heard her speak. "Well!" she said in astonishment. "Where did you come from?" And looking down, Sara saw the Echo of the Plynck in the water. She looked quite imperturbable again, and quite cerulean. "Oh, I have ways of doing things," she answered, preening her feathers. And the Plynck was so mystified that she did not say another word. Really, she didn't have time, for Schlorge strolled back into their midst at that moment, carrying a butterfly net he had just finished. The stick was made of the willow wand Sara had seen him cut; and the bag was made of two thicknesses of spider's web. "Now I'll get him," said Schlorge grimly. "Pack up now, and let's start out again." So all together they started out, climbing hills, and jumping across tumbling streams, and scrambling over rocks. It was quite hard for the stretcher-bearers, but they bore up manfully; and the Kewpie never lost his arch, heroic smile. Suddenly Schlorge, who was ahead, came stealing back to them. "Hist!" he cried, and all the Gunki hissed venomously. "I saw it light in an am-bush just to the left of that big rock. Now, I want you all to spread out and form a large circle, with the bush in the centre; then, if I miss it, everybody must try to shoo it back toward the middle. Don't let it pass over you." So they all stole to the places Schlorge indicated, and then waited breathlessly while he stealthily approached the am-bush. The little laugh, feeling over-confident, must have been dozing; for it did not see him until he was within a few feet. Then it flew out wildly, with a sound like that made by the wings of a mother bird who leaves her nest at the last moment. But it was caught at last. With one skilful, triumphant swoop Schlorge had it. And then how it did titter and twitter and giggle and struggle! It fanned its wings as furiously as a Zizz; it was as wild as a moon-moth in a net, or a bird you hold in your hand. And all the time, it was about to die with amusement. They all gathered around to see what a darling little thing it was. Even Schlorge admired it openly; and the Snimmy's wife said grudgingly, "It sure is pretty." As for the Snimmy, he buried his face in his hands. "I can't stand it!" he groaned, and the gum-drops began to squeeze through his fingers. "It makes him think of dimples," his wife explained, in a low tone, to Sara. "'So near and yet so far,' you know," fluttered the Teacup, sympathetically. The next thing was to decide how to get their captive home. Schlorge was quite sure it couldn't break the net; still, he thought it best to accept the Brown Teddy-Bear's suggestion that they put it, net and all, into the Snimmy's wife's basket, and tie the lid securely. "'Specially since we have to go around by the Smithy," he added, "and patch up our brittle friend, here." So they made the little laugh secure in the basket, and went on toward the Smithy. It kept them all amused by the happy, ridiculous little sounds it made, giggling and scuttling and fluttering about in the basket. Even the Brown Teddy-Bear smiled once or twice. Toward sundown they reached the Smithy, and Schlorge had soon turned his anvil into an operating table, on which they laid the uncomplaining little sufferer. The Snimmy's wife said there were plenty of onions at home in the sugar-bowl, and Schlorge offered to send a Gunkus after them; but the Kewpie would not hear of it, so Schlorge mended him quite quickly and neatly without an anaesthetic at all. He declared himself able to walk, at once, but they persuaded him to let the Gunki carry him to the gate on the stretcher. And so they all escorted Sara and her dolls back to the dimple-holder in state. The Snoodle was awake, and howling lonesomely; but he was soon frisking happily about their feet. The Plynck flew at once to her branch and looked into the pool, and there sat her Echo. "Have a pleasant day?" the latter asked, inscrutably. But the Plynck was so puzzled that she said nothing at all. However, when she was leaving the Garden, Sara heard her say to the Teacup, as she slipped on an iris-colored kimono and shook down her back plumes, "I think I won't break any rules tomorrow. I think I'll just rest." Chapter VII Accepting an Invitation The next morning Sara took with her only the Kewpie and the Baby. The Japanese doll was perfectly willing either to go or stay; he was not at all temperamental, and anything suited him. She could tell from the Billiken's smile that he didn't mind staying in the least; and the Brown Teddy-Bear looked tired. He couldn't talk, of course, on the everyday-side of the ivory doors; but with the new insight she had acquired into his character, Sara felt sure his expression meant, "I think I'd rather just sit in the corner. At my age a little excitement goes a long way." As for the Kewpie, Sara was determined to take him, as a reward for the distinguished fortitude he had shown the day before; and the Baby, on the other hand, had behaved so badly that she felt uneasy about leaving him. If he should act that way again--for instance, when Lucy disturbed him in dusting the room--why, Lucy might spank him! So the Kewpie was rewarded for being good, and the Baby was rewarded for being bad, and Sara slipped through the ivory doors with both of them tucked under one arm. Almost immediately a Gunkus in livery stepped up and handed her a note from Avrillia. He made a low bow, holding his shoe in his right hand over his heart. It was written on a rose-leaf, of course, and it had a delightful faint odor, not only of roses, but of isthagaria. Sara opened it, and read, "We're leaving on the early boat. Would you like to go with us? We'll be gone all day." There was no answer to that but to run as fast as she could down the little curly path. This morning it was not so much curly as melodious; but Sara was in such a hurry that she hardly noticed. She forgot to dismiss the Gunkus, but left him standing in front of the dimple-holder, still bowing low, with his left shoe in his right hand over his heart. Pirlaps was standing on the front steps, all ready to start, and beside him grinned Yassuh, carrying the step in one hand and an enormous traveling-bag (almost as large as Sara's mother's leather purse) in the other. "Good-morning, Sara," said Pirlaps, in his unfailingly delightful way, "I'm glad you got here in time. Avrillia will be ready in a second or two." Sara could hardly keep from skipping, she was so pleased at the prospect of a day's expedition with Pirlaps and Avrillia. She did not know where they were going, but that didn't matter: she was sure to see something interesting. She edged up to Yassuh, taking care, however, not to get close enough to brush against his chocolate outside, which might come off on her clean apron. "What's in your bag?" she coaxed, mischievously. "Only my extra trousers, Sara," said Pirlaps, smiling; and then Sara remembered that, though he did so many useful things (when he was not asleep), she had never once heard Yassuh speak. He only grinned and rolled his white eyes as Pirlaps continued, "We're taking twelve extra pairs." Just then Avrillia came out of the door. Avrillia could not be ungraceful or abrupt, but she was evidently in a hurry. Her motions were rather like that of a wisp of white sea-fog that is blown ahead of a rising wind. "There was so much to do before I could get off!" she explained a little breathlessly. "The children came unexpectedly, too, and I had to vanish them. Then, while I was dressing, I thought of a poem I had to write about hair-pins--and oh, it almost stuck! It acted as if it were going to, so I watched it longer than usual. But now I guess we're off," she ended turning to fasten the door behind her. Sara noticed that she fastened it with a hook and eye exactly like the ones on Mother's prettiest waist--only this one was more valuable, being of gold. "Well, it's quite a long walk down to the landing," said Pirlaps, leading the way, "and we don't want to miss the boat." So they started off in the direction Sara had never gone before, following a path that presently began to wind down among the cliffs, giving them a blue view of the sea. Sara could hardly follow the path for looking. Before long they could look back and see Avrillia's balcony, with the little box-trees on the marble balustrade, and, far below it, the gray abyss of Nothing. It was very strange and beautiful, but it gave Sara a queer, empty feeling somewhere under her little apron; and she was glad to turn her eyes back to the sea, which beckoned far below them, a dancing blueness; and to the golden cliffs, laughing in the sunlight far and near. The path was quite steep and winding and unexpected, and Yassuh scrambled about a good deal; but he managed to keep hold of the step and the bag. As for Sara, she had never seen a more fascinating place, and she supposed these great cliffs must form a part of the walls of the amphitheatre she had seen from Schlorge's stump. Presently, at one especially wild, golden place, where the path followed the edge of a chasm, Pirlaps paused a moment and said, "You can hear a lovely reflection from here, Sara. Shall I call?" "A reflection?" said Sara, wonderingly. "Surely," said Pirlaps. "Listen." Then he cupped his hands about his lips and called clearly, "Avrillia!" "'Rillia!" came back the wild, eerie syllables, so distinctly that Sara's heart leaped. "Oh, an echo!" she cried, clapping her hands. "How beautiful!" "Bless the child!" said Pirlaps, smiling at Avrillia. "You hear a reflection, Sara; you see an echo." "Like the Echo of the Plynck in the pool," supplemented Avrillia. "Don't you remember, Sara?" Sara was sure her father had told her it was just the other way around; but she was too happy to argue. So, to change the subject, she asked Pirlaps very respectfully where they were going. "To Zinariola, Sara--to the City. You've never been there, have you?" Never, never had Sara been there; and she began immediately trying to build that lovely city in her mind--the frail spires, and the rich bazaars, dusky and spicy and full of brocades and silks, and the little narrow, climbing streets. But, though it was a pleasure to try, she knew she could not imagine anything so strange and charming as the real City of Zinariola would be. All this time they had been winding steadily down to the sea. And presently they caught sight of the boat, riding at anchor near the landing place, with a little skiff drawn up on the sand. Of course you know that the boat was a scallop-shell, with sails of gossamer; but Sara had been expecting an ordinary boat, and she was perfectly delighted. Of course it was large enough to hold Sara, as well as the rest of the party; but just barely. And the sailors were no larger than Pirlaps, though of course more rugged-looking and not so smooth-shaven. And not one of them said a single word, during the entire voyage, except "Yo-ho!" They sang that out continually; but as their voices were small and musical (though hoarse) one didn't mind the monotony of it. The sea was very smooth that morning, and not one of the party was seasick; and Sara, who had been gazing, fascinated, into the water in front of the bow was just beginning to suspect that the boat was being drawn by a very large amber-colored fish who kept just ahead of it and just under the surface (with the sails chiefly for ornament) when Avrillia called suddenly from the stern, "You can see Zinariola now, Sara!" Ah, there was the magical city!--for that it was magical the most matter-of-fact person could see at a glance. Of course it was not just imaginary, like the one Sara had built up in her mind, for this little city was shining upon the cliffs; but for all that it was not a common city--it was a toy one, and enchanted at that. And it was even more strange and beautiful than she had dreamed. For streamers of violet fog blew up its streets from the sea, and a wild light from behind the farthest cliff struck across its green roofs and gilded weather-vanes. Just as they drew up to the quay they heard a tinkling sound of music and much laughter; and an organ-man with a monkey came spilling out of one of the little streets, followed by a crowd of clapping children. They were somewhat like Avrillia's children, only quite foreign-looking, with green and red and yellow kerchiefs. The organ-man was not so large as Yassuh, and the monkey was about the size of a small spider. As for the organ, it looked strangely like the music-box that belonged to Sara's dolls. Sara had never before seen a city simply swarming with fairies. Any city was a wide-eyed place to Sara; so what of the wonder of a fairy city? To be sure, many of them were foreign-looking, like the ones who followed the organ-man, and in other ways, too; still, as Zinariola was a seaport, it was very cosmopolitan, and one saw all sorts of people on its streets. Many were just natural-looking people, like Pirlaps and Avrillia; but some were of chocolate, like Yassuh, and some were Chinese, with long pigtails of black buttonhole-twist; and some were Parisians, with hats exactly like the one that the Japanese doll wore so unbecomingly. (Yes, Sara knew in her heart that it was unbecoming, though she would not have admitted it, even to you.) On the gay Parisian lady-fairies, however, these hats were charming--but hardly more striking than the many-colored headdresses, made of humming-bird's feathers, that attracted so much attention when a band of wild Indians went whooping down one of the principal streets. And everywhere one saw sailors--rolling along the sidewalks and greeting each other with loud "Yo-ho's!" (Loud, that is, for their size, but always hoarsely musical.) This visit of Sara's took place before automobiles were introduced into Zinariola, and the carriages were drawn by devil's horses. Of these Sara was frankly afraid--they reared so, and turned their heads so weirdly on their long green necks. Sara noticed one in particular, which was drawing a carriage in a wedding procession that was just leaving a church. This was a closed carriage, occupied by the bride and groom; and the devil's horse was not looking where he went at all; he had turned his head completely around, and was staring through the little window straight into the carriage! Sara was afraid to cross the street in front of horses that never looked where they stepped. It took all her courage to attempt it, and you may be sure she held fast to Pirlaps. And when Pirlaps had to leave them in order to go to a barber-shop (Avrillia had not insisted upon his bringing his shaving things today, but he went to a barber-shop every two hours) she would not cross the street, but stayed on the sidewalk. Pirlaps changed his trousers at the barber-shop, too, whenever it was necessary; but today there were so much to do and see that he did not sit on his step as much as usual, and so did not need as many. For they had a good deal of shopping to do, besides showing Sara the sights. In the first place, Avrillia had to go to the stationery store and get a new supply of swan's-quill pens. "That's one store I always know where to find," she said. "The others change about so that I always have to ask somebody." Then, Pirlaps needed some new trousers (two or three pairs had worn out and he only had forty-four or five left) and some shaving soap. "And besides," said Avrillia, smiling at Sara mysteriously, "we want to get some presents." "And you'll have to make your usual visits of charity. Oh, I know you, Avrillia," said Pirlaps. "If we don't hurry we won't catch the evening boat." So they went first to the stationery store (which, just as Avrillia had said, was in the usual place), and then to a bazaar where they disposed of their household buying. While Sara was feasting her eyes on the strange, delicious-looking fruits, the old candlesticks, and the bolts and lengths of rich-looking cloth with stories woven into it, she heard Avrillia say, "Now a set of self-buttoning buttons, please." The jolly little old leather-colored man who kept the bazaar winked at Sara as he brought out the buttons for Avrillia's inspection. They looked very much like ordinary buttons, except that they were, of course, more intelligent-looking, and they were on a pink card instead of a white one; also, they were in a shiny lacquer box, the lid of which was watched over by gold dragons. "They will do very nicely," said Avrillia. "Now a thimble--a really good one, please, that is thoroughly finger-broken, and has a tractable disposition and some sense. The one this little girl has now is simply abominable, and wouldn't push a needle through cobweb--not to mention the heavy textiles they are obliged to use in her country. Now, some knotless thread, please," she continued, having decided upon a thimble after much careful thought. "Oh, no--not that! I don't mean the kind that won't take a knot at the end; what I want is the kind that won't tangle and snarl, even if a child's fingers are tired. There, that's it!" and she tucked a smiling little spool into Sara's apron pocket. "Now, Sara," she asked, "is there any other simple little thing you'd like to have? They have self-washing hands and self-learning lessons, and such things, but they're very expensive, and I know your mother wouldn't want you to accept expensive presents," and she smiled at Sara affectionately. Sara wanted terribly to ask for a set of self-learning multiplication tables, but she knew Avrillia was right, and that her mother wouldn't like it. Besides, how could she ever get all that furniture home on the boat? So she assured Avrillia that she was more than satisfied--as, indeed, being a dear child, she was. And then Avrillia nearly took her breath away by saying, "Well, then, we'll go up and fit the dollies--just for good measure. I know a shop where the loveliest doll clothes may be bought for a trifle." And, would you believe it, that was the first time that Sara had remembered the Baby doll and the Kewpie! However, one could tell from the Kewpie's delighted smile that no harm had been done, so far as he was concerned; and the Baby, for a wonder, was asleep. So Avrillia took them to the oddest little shop, the shape of a Dutch teapot, kept by a little old-lady doll who was delighted to show them everything. They bought a complete wardrobe for the Kewpie, who had never had any clothes, and was charmed by the novelty of possessing them; but the Baby nearly spoiled everything by waking up and kicking and squalling and refusing to try on a thing! "You'd better behave, you little rascal," said Pirlaps, "it will be a long while before you'll ever have another chance like this!" But the Baby only kicked the harder. However, the little shop-keeper doll was very patient, and by measuring him between kicks they managed to fit him out with a very nice layette. And then Avrillia insisted on buying all sorts of things for the dolls at home--gorgeous oriental costumes for the Japanese doll, sailor-suits for the Billiken, and a handsome fur overcoat, of a conservative style and cut, for the Brown Teddy-Bear. "Now," said Pirlaps, "we'll have luncheon--it's getting rather late--and then I suppose Avrillia will have to call on her poor families." He led them to a little Chinese restaurant where a dumb-waiter with a pigtail noiselessly served them with very good things to eat--though Avrillia said the prices were outrageous. As they were dipping their eyelashes daintily in the finger-bowls, Pirlaps said, "Well, Sara, shall we go with Avrillia, or would you rather stay here?" "Oh, let's go!" cried Sara. She would have stayed anywhere with Pirlaps, but if there was more to see, she wanted to see it. "Have you had the measles?" asked Pirlaps. Sara had; she could not be mistaken about it. "And the mumps?" Again Sara nodded, swallowing hard as she thought of lemons and vinegar. "All right, come ahead," said Pirlaps. And they started off. "But the Baby hasn't!" suddenly remembered Sara. "The Kewpie has, but the Baby hasn't." "Then it will never do to take him," said Pirlaps, decisively. "Here, Yassuh, you stay here and keep the Baby." Pirlaps saw a look of doubt and reluctance in Sara's eyes as he was about to consign the Baby to Yassuh's sticky care. So he handed the Baby back to Sara and darted into a store near by where he got some clean wrapping-paper. He then rolled the Baby, in its nice white dress, up in the paper, taking care to leave its nose out, so it could breathe. Then he handed it over to Yassuh, and Sara felt quite comfortable and contented. "Keep out of the sun," he called back to Yassuh, "and mind you don't melt!" The next thing, Avrillia said, was to stop in a drug store. They found one quite readily, and Sara watched with astonished eyes while Avrillia purchased a very large stock of drugs. Even a fairy drug store is a disagreeable place to a child with a past like Sara's, and if this one had not had a show-case full of candies for her to look at she would have been exceedingly restless. But the bonbons were charming--of all shapes and colors, and almost as large as a pinhead. Sara was really suffering from curiosity to know what Avrillia was going to do with the medicines, but she had already asked so many questions that she thought she would try to be very polite, and wait. Waiting was made easier by the fact that the poorer quarter of the city, through which they were now walking, was very queer and interesting. It was like most such places, but Sara had not seen many, and she was fascinated by the babies tumbling about on the sidewalk, and the clothes-lines on the upstairs porches with clothes drying on them. Once a goat in an alley looked up and spoke to her--but she did not understand what he said. His mouth was full; for he was eating a tin can that looked strangely like Sara's old thimble. Presently they stopped before a mean-looking house and Avrillia knocked. Now, you often hear that word applied to quite innocent houses that are only plain and poor; but this one really was mean-looking. And Sara noticed with wonder that there was a red flag over the door. A disagreeable-looking woman with watery eyes and her handkerchief to her nose opened the door; and then, at the sound of Avrillia's voice, there swarmed out from the rooms on both sides of the hall a crowd of the most unattractive children! They fairly mobbed Avrillia, all talking at once and snatching at the bottles which they could see sticking out of Avrillia's basket. They had the reddest faces Sara had ever seen, and no manners at all; for without even asking permission they began to drink out of the bottles, quarreling among themselves into the bargain. Sara drew as far away from them as she could; and while Avrillia was talking kindly to the woman and the children (who didn't listen to her), and also to an old man who sat hunched over a stove in the corner, she whispered to Pirlaps, "Who are they?" "Why, the Measles, of course," said Pirlaps. "I told you we were coming to see them! They live with their mother, Mrs. Sneeze, and their grandfather, Old Man Cough. Avrillia thinks she can help them, but they're a shiftless lot. Haven't a particle of get-up-and-go! Always waiting for somebody to take 'em!" Avrillia was too much interested to notice what Sara and Pirlaps were doing. "Now, children," she was saying kindly but severely, "I shall expect to find you better the next time I come. No, you can't have that bottle--that's for the Mumps." Sara found, as they left the house, that the Mumps were an old couple who lived only a few doors down the same street. Old Mr. Mump had once made a fortune in the pickle-business; but he had had reverses, and was now very old and poor. They found the old couple sitting in front of their rickety grate, with their jaws tied up in red flannel. The old man evidently had a vicious temper, but he was plainly glad to see Avrillia. The old lady was more mild and tearful; and both were overjoyed to get the medicine. As they went out into the street again, Sara gave a sigh of relief; but Avrillia looked quite rapt and uplifted. Sara was anxious to see if any mishap had overtaken Yassuh and the Baby; but when they had hurried back to the restaurant they found Yassuh still awake and the Baby still asleep. Pirlaps took off the sticky paper and handed him, as clean as ever, back to Sara, who was very glad that she had not exposed him to those dreadful diseases. They caught the scallop-shell boat, though they had to run for it, and they were quite quiet all the way home. Avrillia sat by the rail, watching the gulls, and dreaming; and Sara strained her eyes for a long time to catch the last glimpse of the little magic, toy City of Zinariola. She was still lost in memories when the boat scraped on the beach; and then they climbed the little path among the cliffs through the sunset. As soon as they reached the house Pirlaps sat emphatically down on his step, remarking, "My, but it's good to be at home!" But Avrillia hurried off to her balcony, murmuring absent-mindedly, "I must write a poem about streets!" As for Sara, she sped along the little curly path in the dusk toward the ivory doors. And there, in front of the dimple-holder, stood the Gunkus in livery, still bowing low, holding his left shoe in his right hand over his faithful heart. Sara was much ashamed of having forgotten him, and she had no money with her; but she had a postage stamp in her pocket, from which the puppy had licked the mucilage. This she gave him. It was, in all other respects, a perfectly good stamp. And the faithful Gunkus seemed much pleased. Chapter VIII The Vale of Tears Such a thing had never happened before, and how it happened this time I am at a loss to understand: but when Sara entered the Garden on this particular morning her eyes were full of tears. She had to fumble blindly around for her dimples, and when she did find them they were buried quite deep in her little wet cheeks. She would have strayed right on into the Garden without removing them, except that as soon as she saw the Snimmy's wife, absorbed in some simple domestic task, and sitting on her own toadstool at the door of the prose-bush with her tail wrapped so tightly around the base, she felt that she might smile after a while, and then it might be too late to save the dimples from the Snimmy. But before they had touched the whipped cream cushion in the bottom of the holder, two Gunki rushed forward in great excitement, and seizing her by the arms, began to hurry her through the Garden, crying hoarsely, "She's crying! She's crying! She mustn't cry here!" Sara had never had a Gunkus touch her before; but, though they hurried her so fast that she was breathless, and the tears hung where they were on her lashes without having time to fall, they were as gentle with her as possible, and she understood that their anxiety was all on her account. She was further reassured when she saw the Teacup fluttering and hopping along--now on one side, now on the other, and now in front--and murmuring, "What in Zeelup, my dear?" with the utmost solicitude expressed on her gentle old face. Sara knew that the Teacup was timid, and seldom left the Garden; and she realized that her affection and concern for her must be very deep, to bring her fluttering along with her in this fashion, without stopping to ask the Plynck, or to think of the consequences to herself and her consanguineous handle. By this time they had passed through the hawthorn hedge that bounded the Garden, and could see just below them a beautiful little Vale, with a rainbow arching over the entrance to it, like a gate. Inside the Vale the view was not very distinct, for streamers of light mist blew across its green moss, and its white boulders, and the little stream that wound down the middle of it. It was rather a sad-looking little place, of course, but not bitter-looking or very long; and now and then a sun-pencil struck across it, and for a moment made more rainbows like the one at the entrance. As soon as they had passed through the hedge the Gunki stopped, breathing heavily and mopping their brows with their hatbands. "Rest a minute, dear, and try to keep them from falling," said the Teacup, who was also breathless, but very kind. "Of course, if they should fall here it wouldn't be so bad; still, if you can keep them on your lashes till we reach the Vale--" "What would they do," asked Sara, in awe, "if they fell in the Garden?" The Teacup and the Gunki looked at each other with wide, horrified eyes, each waiting for the other to speak. "Well, you see, none ever have fallen in the Garden," said the Teacup, at last, speaking in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "Before my Saucer was broken--" "She's a widow, Miss," explained the Gunki, whispering to Sara behind their hands. One whispered in baritone, one in bass. "Before my Saucer was broken," continued the Teacup, with a grateful look at the thoughtful Gunki, "I've heard him say that a little girl came into the Garden one day with tears in her eyes, and that one would have fallen, if a Gunkus had not caught it in his shoe. Haven't you noticed the old, gray-haired Gunkus, who always wears a wooden medal on his coat-tail--" "Our grandfather," whispered the Gunki, behind their hands. This time they whispered in second bass and tenor. "Yes, the grandfather of these dear boys," said the susceptible old lady. "He was showing the little girl about the Garden, and so had his shoe in his hand out of respect for her; so he caught the tear in his shoe with the greatest presence of mind, and ran down here with it before any actual harm was done. What the child was crying about I can't imagine; though, for that matter, why any nice child should bring tears into the Garden--" "Would it be worse than the Fractions?" asked Sara, hastily. "It would," said the First Gunkus, in bass. "It would," said the Second Gunkus, in the solemnest second bass. "Much, much worse," said the Teacup, in her soft, anxious tremolo. "One snow remedied that, you see; but if a tear fell--but oh, dear, let's don't talk about it! My handle is so consanguineous, and I forgot to ask the Plynck--and--and--" The poor old lady was evidently growing hysterical herself; so the faithful Gunki hastily put up their hatbands, seized Sara by the arm, and again began hurrying toward the Rainbow Gate. The Teacup, having again to put her mind on the task of keeping up with them, regained her composure--at least as much of it as she had ever had since her Saucer was broken. Once inside the little arch, the Gunki stopped and relaxed their hold on Sara's arm. "Now you can cry, Miss," they said, with evident relief. "But I don't want to, now," said Sara, wonderingly. "Treatment successful," said the First Gunkus. "That's what usually happens," explained the Teacup. "At least I've heard my Saucer say that that's what happened to the other little girl. But here, boys, you must attend to these two she's already cried." The two Gunki stepped up with alacrity, a little ashamed of having to be reminded of their duties. "Mad or sad?" they asked. "Wh-what?" stammered Sara. "Mad or sad?" repeated the Gunki, twirling their thumbs. "They mean, my dear," explained the Teacup, "were you crying because you were angry, or for some more or less legitimate reason--because you cut your finger, for instance, or broke one of the charming children you had with you the other day? Because--" "It was because Jimmy wouldn't play what I wanted--" began Sara, hanging her head, and thinking she might as well get it out and over with. "Mad!" commented the Gunki in unison, with great professional interest. "Then they'll have to go to the fishes. Steady, now--" As he said the last words the First Gunkus stepped up and deftly removed the tear from Sara's right eyelashes, while the Second Gunkus, with almost equal skill, captured the one from her left ones. They ran with them toward the little stream, and Sara was so curious to know what they meant to do with them that she followed unconsciously. Now this was, indeed, the saddest little stream Sara had ever seen. Its source was hidden in mist, and after it passed through the rainbow arch it disappeared somewhere, as if the earth had swallowed it. But all along its banks, where Sara could see it, sat great frogs, with their green pocket handkerchiefs to their eyes; and every now and then the most dismal sounds escaped them. Sara did not need to be told that they were Sobs--anybody would have known it. Looking closely, Sara could see in the water hundreds of little black fish, decorated with silver dots and streaks. As the Gunki approached the stream with Sara's tears, all the Sobs began to sob at once, and at the sound the little black fish all stuck their wide, greedy mouths up out of the water. The Gunki fed the tears to the two nearest, and then they all sank again, with a great splashing and flouncing. "You see, Miss," explained the First Gunkus (who seemed to have taken a great liking to Sara, in spite of all the trouble she had caused him), "we have to feed 'em all the mad tears. The sad ones turn into these." Sara looked where he pointed, and there, at her feet, she saw numbers of little blue-eyed flowers. They were extremely pretty, and by far the pleasantest things she had seen in this Vale; but even they had a sad little fragrance, and each eye had a dewdrop on it. Sara found that, if she looked at them long, she felt a lump coming in her throat; and at last she turned to her friends and said what she had been trying to get up courage to say from the first, "Please--I don't like this place! I want to go!" "There, there, dear," said the Teacup, soothingly, looking as if she had been dreading the worst, and it had come. "We has orders, Miss," said the First Gunkus, stepping up, "that we must keep you here three-quarters of an hour, and show you the whole Vale, Miss." "Whose orders?" faltered Sara. For a moment the Gunki looked quite wild and disorganized. Then the First Gunkus collected himself and said quite firmly, "Just orders, Miss--without any whose." "But I can tell you why, dear," interrupted the Teacup soothingly, as if she hoped to distract Sara's mind. "I've heard my Saucer say why. It's so children can understand what kind of a place mothers have to stay in, when they cry. So cheer up, dear, and try to enjoy the scenery. The trip through the Vale won't last long." Sara felt a good deal like crying again--but it was like carrying coals to Newcastle to cry in a place like this! Besides, she was thinking of what the Teacup had said about mothers. Was it possible that she brought anything like this on her own dear, self-willed Mother every time she indulged in a few natural tears? And the more she thought of it, the more strongly she decided that she just wouldn't cry. And just at that moment one of those lovely pencils of sunlight, that looked brighter in this misty green place than anywhere she had ever been, fell across her path. "What's that?" she asked the Teacup. "Why, dear, that comes from the Smiles. They live just over the way, you know. We'll go by and see them on our way home." Here was good news, indeed! Sara had never felt more relieved. But at that very moment she drew back; for she had seen several disheveled, cross, black-browed children peering at her out of a sort of cave in the rock. Behind them was a very ill-natured-looking old man. "Those are the Frowns," said the Teacup, holding Sara's hand reassuringly. "They live in that cave with their step-father, Old Man Scowl. Just come on by, as if you didn't notice them. But remember how they look. And listen to those sighs!" So that was the doleful noise she had been hearing, up in the little pine-trees? Sara looked up, and for a minute could see them quite distinctly--little wispy, gray creatures, blowing about in the wind. They were better than the Frowns and the Sobs, she decided,--but dear me! Why should anybody be so dismal? They had now followed the windings of the little Vale till they came to a great wall of rock that rose across it. In the rock was an opening closed by a sagging, worm-eaten door, and in front of the door hung a rusty black curtain. "Children don't go in there, dear," said the Teacup, as Sara stood gazing at it, fascinated. But indeed she had no wish to go in; and it was with a skip of joy that she heard the First Gunkus say, "Time's up, Miss!" At that word, back they all went scampering through the Vale, till they came to a bridge, which was made of another rainbow. On this bridge they crossed the stream, and found themselves at the entrance of a little opening between the hills that shut in the Vale. The sunshine streamed through it, and looking down it Sara could see that it opened into a meadow full of daffodils and buttercups and black-eyed Susans. There seemed to be children playing in it, and a few lambs; and down the path toward it waddled a long line of snowy geese. Altogether, it seemed to Sara she had never beheld so peaceful and ravishing a scene. "This way out," said the First Gunkus, touching Sara's arm, and pointing up to a signpost, marked "Exit," beside the path. Drops of water, like tears, dripped continually from this sign; but the sunshine falling upon them from beyond the valley made them look like jewels. The Teacup had told Sara that the Smiles lived in a peaceful village just beyond the valley; so she knew that the children playing among the flowers were their children. She would have been glad to stop and join in the gay, fairy-like games the little Smiles were playing; but she could see that the Teacup was getting a little nervous, and anxious to be back in the Garden. And, since the kind little Teacup had broken into her regular habits, and braved so many dangers and discomforts just to keep her company through the dismal Vale, she felt that she ought to be very considerate. So she followed her down the path, which was now turning into a little lane, though she walked backward part of the way, with her eyes on the children and the lambs. When she turned around she could see a lovely little old village ahead of her. It nestled at the foot of a mountain, and it had vine-covered cottages with thatched roofs, and spreading trees that made a velvety shade underneath and winked in the sunshine above. The air was full of the prettiest sounds; and Sara, listening, thought they must come from the mountain. The mountain itself looked like Fairyland; it was covered with ferns and blossoming laurel and festoons of jessamine; and the sounds that seemed forever playing and skipping about from wall to wall and rock to rock were like the echoes (or was it the reflection?) of happy bells. Sara thought she ought to know what they were, but she could not quite make out. "Why, that's where Laughter lives, my dear," said the Teacup when she asked her. "That's where your own little Laugh was making off to, the day you caught him. Listen--there are some as little as he was." And indeed Sara could distinguish many sorts--small, gurgly Baby-Laughs, dimpled Little-Girl Laughs, Chuckles like Jimmy's, soft Laughs like Mother's, and--almost the pleasantest of all,--deep, delighted Father-Laughs that almost made her homesick. They seemed to be having such a very good time up there that she would have liked to listen to them forever; besides, she kept thinking she might catch sight of one. But, though she several times saw the vines swaying, or something flashing behind a laurel-bush, she was obliged to go on without really seeing any. At the shady door of almost every cottage a pleasant Smile in a very white, old-fashioned kerchief and cap sat spinning at a queer sort of wheel; and the Teacup explained to Sara that this was where the dimples were made. "It's the chief occupation of the women," said the Teacup. "The thread they use is something like spun-glass, and this is the only place in the world where the secret of making it is known. They weave it into this fabric that looks something like cloth, and then cut it into the different shapes with their scissors. You see now why dimples are so fragile." The Smiles all spoke to them with pleasant looks, and gladly stopped their work to talk to Sara, as she stood admiringly beside their wheels. She saw a good many gentleman Smiles going happily about their work--drawing water, watering the flowers, or (since it was getting late) milking the little buttercup-colored cows. Here and there, too, a happy Smile, too little to go with the other children, rolled about and gurgled at its Mother's feet like a Cupid escaped from a Valentine. All this time Sara had been struggling with a plan that had been shaping itself in her mind as she looked at basket after basket full of shimmering, shining dimples, sitting beside the spinning wheels. After trying to start several times, she finally managed to ask of one of the pleasantest Smiles, "Do you--do you sell them?" "Well, we don't usually sell them here," she answered doubtfully. "We ship them, you see, to the Stork. He takes our entire output. But, if you like, I could let you have a dozen for a kiss or two." Sara clapped her hands, and drew the Teacup aside. "I'd like to take some to the Snimmy," she explained. "He wanted mine so. Do you think I might?" "Why, bless the child!" cried the Teacup. She looked pleased and flustered and doubtful, all at once; for she wasn't used to taking so much responsibility. "That's very dear and generous of you, I'm sure. It's never been done, has it?" she asked, turing to the Gunki, who, for their part, were so surprised that they only blinked. "No, I'm sure it's never been done; but I don't see how it can do the least harm. Why, yes, my dear--I wouldn't refuse you the pleasure." So Sara picked out a dozen of the largest dimples, and paid gladly with two kisses. Then, though she could hardly bear to leave the pretty village, with the laughter always echoing over it like bells, she grew all at once terribly impatient to take the Snimmy his dimples. "It will be such fun to feed him," she said. For a while Sara was too much absorbed in anticipation to notice that something was the matter with the Gunki. Then, all of a sudden, she noticed that they were looking crestfallen and chagrined. Sara was sorry to notice this because they had been very kind to her all through this rather trying day. She began to feel sure that she had in some way hurt or offended them; and while she was wondering how she could have done it, and how she might make amends, the First Gunkus saw her looking at him. "I'd be willing to do anything I could for you, Miss," he blurted out, turning his shoe awkwardly round and round in his hand. "What's more, we done all we could," said the Second Gunkus, looking deeply hurt. "Oh!" said Sara, who now understood. "Why-why! You've been so kind to me! I'd love to repay you in some way! I haven't any money with me," she went on doubtfully,--"or any postage stamps,--or any ginger-snaps-- Do you--do you like kisses?" The First Gunkus drew the back of his hand across his mouth and giggled. The Second Gunkus dropped his shoe, and fumbled about trying to pick it up. "Don't we, though!" said both of them, at last. So Sara gave the faithful creatures two kisses apiece, which left them beaming. "Do--do you like them as well as dimples?" she asked. "Because, if you'd like dimples, I'll give you some of the Snimmy's." But the Gunki felt themselves honored beyond any Snimmy who had ever sniffed. They stuck their noses into the air and strutted along like drum-majors. "Dimples is for folks with tails," said the First Gunkus. It was blue dusk and starlight when they reentered the Garden. Sara, with her friends standing a little apart to enjoy the fun, slipped unseen quite close to the prose-bush, where the Snimmy lay with his long debilitating nose on his paws, looking up at the stars. Sara waited until the nose began to quiver and twitch; and then she suddenly emptied her whole handkerchief full of dimples out before him. Sniff-gobble-gulp! Was there ever such haste and excitement? Sara jumped up and down with delight, and everybody in the Garden laughed. As for the Snimmy, he was quite overcome, and began to shed gum-drops of joy. "For once he's had a full meal," said his wife, grimly indulgent. As for Sara, she ran off, laughing, to tell Jimmy how funny he had looked. The Plynck waked up from her first nap and rustled her fragrant plumes. "Was that Sara?" she asked of her Echo. "Of course," said the Echo. "You've been asleep." "Then it wasn't Sara this morning--the strange child with the tears?" Her more practical Echo shrugged her wings. "Go explain to her," she said to the Teacup. So the little Teacup, very glad to be safe at home again, fluttered up to her place beside her mistress; and they talked about Sara and her strange adventures far into the night. Chapter IX Cheers and Butter You would have followed the Snoodle, too, if he had wagged himself at you in that delightful, insinuating fashion, rolled over and over across your foot, and then gone frisking down the path, looking back beguilingly over his shoulder. So of course Sara did, as soon as she had properly disposed of her dimples. She went skipping along so eagerly that she did not notice that it was an entirely different path--neither pink nor curly--until she had gone through a new arch in the hedge and found herself in the meadow, with the Equine Gahoppigas, all saddled and bridled, waiting for her. She had known from the first, just from his general expression, that the Snoodle was going to lead her to something interesting; but she was not prepared for this. It was clear, of course, that she was expected to ride the creature; but what it was she could not at first make out. It was about the size of a large hobby-horse, and, in respect to its beautiful, wavy mane and tail, much resembled it. Otherwise, it was exactly like a grasshopper. And it was rearing and snorting in a most alarming manner. As Sara stood considering, however, she caught a backward look out of its wild eyes that said, "Oh, come on; it's all a joke." So Sara took her seat in the saddle. Just as she gathered up the reins the Snoodle leaped up behind her--exactly as the trained dog in the circus leaps up behind the monkey on the big Newfoundland. (Only, don't fall into the error of thinking that the Snoodle was a dog; you remember his mother was a snail.) It was a novel and exhilarating sensation to Sara (that means the way you feel when you shoot the chutes at the Park) to go bounding through the sunny air on the back of the Gahoppigas. The soft wind whistled through her hair, and blew past her so strongly that she was not even conscious of the Snoodle's drawback, though he sat so close to her. At the end of every leap the Gahoppigas rested for an instant upon a daisy head, and Sara saw that the heads of these daisies were as big as her own. Now, though Sara was really a nice child, there were two things she had always been rather greedy about: and they were flowers and butterflies. She had often wished, of a spring morning, wandering along her own garden paths, and gazing at the velvety brightness of the daisies, and the marvelous patterns of the butterflies who uncoiled their long tongues above them, that she might some day discover a meadow full of flowers as large as moons, perpetually fluttered over by butterflies as big as peacocks! Here, at last, were just such flowers; and since the grasshoppers were as large as hobby-horses--no, it was not a grasshopper, it was an Equine Gahoppigas! Still, it was more like a grasshopper than anything else she had ever seen. You must not be surprised that Sara's thoughts were quite jerky and disconnected, for she had never before traversed a meadow in soaring leaps, with only a minute now and then to take breath--and even that minute spent among the flying yellow hair of a swaying daisy. Still, all through the enjoyment and excitement, she managed to keep tight hold of one wish--if only there would be butterflies as big as peacocks! Well, there were, of course; on that side of the ivory doors you cannot wish for anything as hard as Sara did without getting your wish. To be sure, they must have been there long before Sara wished; for the Butterfly Country on which Sara now rested her astonished eyes had the look of a long-settled community. I need not tell you that it was so beautiful it fairly took your breath: you would know that it had to be, with those great flowers nodding everywhere, and those great gay wings drifting, and sailing, and soaring, and zigzagging, and crossing over them. But, all of a sudden, Sara made a discovery that stopped her heart in a breath. In a country where the butterflies were as big as peacocks, the caterpillars were as big as boa-constrictors! Sara didn't know the exact size of a boa-constrictor, having met them only in her Geography: but surely they couldn't be any bigger than these! Certainly they were big enough to swallow her as easily as the big black snake Jimmy had killed swallowed the egg. Now, if you can imagine a country inhabited by sea-serpents, of bright green and brown and pink and yellow, with all kinds of assorted horns and knobs and prickles, you can imagine what Sara saw as the Gahoppigas took its last flying leap and alighted on a flaming marigold at the foot of the palace-steps. Well, of course you would have to imagine the palace, too; and part of it would be quite hard to imagine. It was a gorgeous place, of a beautiful amber color, and was built of solid blocks of honey-comb,--which, however, had been treated by the builders so that they had a hard glaze, to prevent the wings and feet of the butterflies from sticking when they touched the walls. The roof was a woven affair, very cunningly made so that the top surface was a sort of thatch of flower-stems, while the ceiling was a solid sheet of flowers. Of course, in this climate, they were always fresh. The butterflies had their beds on the ceiling; indeed, as Sara arrived rather early, a few roistering young blades who had been out late the night before were still hanging with closed wings from the roof, fast asleep. Sara could see all this through the open door, which was made of an enameled lily-pad (extra-size, like the other things in this luscious place). But the thing that startled her most, and that you would have found it most difficult to imagine, was the strange way in which the roof was supported. A very elegant butterfly, who seemed to be an officer in uniform, was standing on his hind legs at the right of the entrance. His waist was very slim, his wings were very rich, and he was curling and uncurling his proboscis languidly. Sara slid off the Gahoppigas and approached as near as she dared. At that moment a little gong sounded somewhere (like a temple-gong in a Japanese fairy-story) and the Butterfly-Officer straightened up and called out in a sharp, military voice, "Shift Three!" Instantly the caterpillars that were supporting the roof began wriggling out from under it, and a new relay that appeared as if by magic began taking their places, planting their tails firmly on the floor and adjusting their heads against the ceiling, and pressing upward by making their long bodies very stiff and straight. Of course they did not all do it at once, or the roof would have floated off into the sky; on the other hand, they relieved each other a few at a time, with admirable precision and with no disorder whatever, as if they had had long drill in this complicated manoeuvre. The caterpillars who had been relieved seemed to be very much relieved indeed; they stretched out their long, cramped bodies luxuriously, and went lumbering off together by twos and threes, with their hands in their pockets. Sara started to follow a bristly comma-caterpillar who went off alone, but he was so big that she just couldn't make up her mind so do it. She had once fed one for three weeks in a fruit jar, and she knew that kind couldn't hurt her--still-- She felt she was just compelled to talk to somebody; but she believed she would rather try the Butterfly-Officer who was on duty at the entrance. He looked bored and supercilious, but his wings were beautiful. She drew near after a while and said, as pleasantly as she could, "Good-morning!" "Yes," said the officer, without looking around. Sara was a little taken aback, but he looked so conceited, as he stood there coiling and uncoiling his watch-spring tongue, that she suddenly felt herself growing quite provoked. "That isn't the right answer," she said. The Butterfly-Officer turned his lazy eyes and looked her over for some time without speaking. "You said it was a good morning, didn't you?" "Yes." "And I agreed, didn't I?" "Yes," said Sara. "Well, then," said the Butterfly-Officer, turning away and beginning to coil and uncoil his spring. This was not a very promising beginning. Sara would never learn anything at this rate. She must be more direct. "Whose palace is this?" she asked. "The Monarch's." "Might--might I go in?" "Certainly." What a baffling person! He agreed to anything, apparently, and yet one never learned anything. Sara wandered past him, presently, quite subdued by his elegant scorn. She strayed on into the palace. She was speechless with admiration--even if there had been anybody to talk to. There were numbers of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting about, but nobody seemed in the least surprised to see her, and they all seemed too languid to talk. Sara heard them exchange a word occasionally, but for the most part they simply stood about, fanning themselves and coiling and uncoiling their springs. Never, however, had Sara seen such sumptuous costumes. Such court-trains, and velvet breeches, and rainbow-colored cloaks! Presently, since nobody seemed to mind, Sara wandered straight into the throne-room; and there sat the Monarch dozing on his throne, while fourteen courtiers took turns in fanning him with their wings. At Sara's entrance, however, he awoke with a start; and Sara was terribly startled herself, because it was the first time anybody had really taken any notice of her. "Bring her some butter!" he commanded. At his command four of the courtiers drifted away, and presently returned carrying a silvery-white cloth, very rich and lustrous, woven of many thicknesses of milk-weed-silk. This they spread on the green-tiled floor in a corner of the throne-room, near a little fountain that trickled continually a sort of silver-colored syrup, which made a drowsy sound as it fell. Then they flew away again, and after a good while returned carrying a pat of butter in a large magnolia petal. The magnolia petal was about the size of Mother's best turkey-platter, and as white and fragrant as the magnolias at home. And the pat of butter was about as large as a veal loaf. Of course it did not look in the least like a veal loaf; it looked exactly like butter--a delectable, golden yellow, and all dewy-looking, as it used to come out of the spring-house at Grandmother's. "Sit," said the Monarch, briefly. Sara sat. "Eat," said the Monarch, in the same sleepy but authoritative voice. Now, Sara was terribly uncomfortable. To be sure, nothing had ever looked more delicious, and Sara liked butter on bread--a great deal of it, in fact. But to eat all butter, without anything to go with it! Yet she felt it would be dreadfully impolite to refuse; and she could not bear to be thought impolite by all these haughty and elegant persons. She was just about to say, humbly, "Please, might I have a little bread?" when it occurred to her that she might just taste it, at least. And oh, how glad she was that she did! For, of course, you have guessed that it was not just ordinary butter, though it looked exactly like it. It was not even the plain imaginary kind: it was enchanted butterfly butter. And if you have ever seen a monarch butterfly as big as a peacock, sitting on a throne, you know what it tasted like. The nearest I can come to explaining is to say that it tasted a little like custard and a little like ice-cream and a little like a sort of candy Sara had forgotten the name of. And it had a fragrance something like that of isthagaria. The Monarch went to sleep as soon as he saw that Sara had begun to eat; but just before she finished he was awakened by a court official who came in to announce, with a bored expression, that two ladies of high degree, members of families very prominent in the realm, desired an audience with His Majesty. The Monarch sighed and rubbed his eyes with his feelers. "Show them in," he said. The two ladies came zigzagging in, talking and arguing excitedly; they were the first really animated persons Sara had seen in all this warm, shimmering place. "The Princess Interrogation: the Countess Leaf-Wing," announced the courtier. Then the two ladies, who had been talking to each other, both began talking at once to the king. In spite of their aristocratic, high-bred air, their long necks and waists and slender wrists and ankles, their high heels and gorgeous clothes, they were as angry as cooks. "She was laying eggs on my food-plant!" cried the Princess. "I wasn't!" shrilled the Countess. "What do I want with her old nettle? Don't I know Croton capita turn when I see it? I was just resting, and she came and pushed me off--" "She had already come and stuck her long tongue into a lily I had just occupied," continued the Princess. "And I saw the eggs after she left--" "They were your own old flat eggs," said the Countess contemptuously. "You haven't mind enough to remember where you put them!" "Oh, roses!" sighed the Monarch, "I suppose I'll never have any peace. Always on the verge of civil war! Yesterday it was the clover-caterpillars complaining that the zebras were eating their food--" Sara was just thinking how shockingly unbecoming such conduct was, and how they were all behaving more like children than like the nice, unintelligent lower animals they ought to be, when another messenger came flying in in a state of actual excitement. "Your Majesty!" he cried. "There's a strange animal attacking the caterpillars!" Sara's heart sank. The Snoodle--she knew it must be the Snoodle! And she felt responsible for him! She jumped up from her silver table-cloth and ran out of the palace door, with the whole court zigzagging excitedly after her. It was a noiseless chase, for the butterflies (except when they quarrel) are very quiet; but there was much excitement nevertheless. Sara ran a little way from the palace before she came to the scene of the disturbance--and such a scene as it was! Caterpillars everywhere, bristling, smooth, green, pink, eye-marked and eyeless; caterpillars standing on their tails, or crouching in every conceivable attitude of defense; and in their midst the little Snoodle, frisking and fawning and endeavoring to come to grips with the horny and horrified worms. There was one old Hickory Horn-Devil in particular, who had come out in front of the others like Goliath before the ranks of the Philistines; and the Snoodle was dancing around him in an ecstasy of anticipation. Though he was so excited, he looked so good-natured that Sara could not believe that he wished to harm even these fierce-looking brutes; indeed, there was a sort of resemblance between them, except for the expression. And, as she thought that, it flashed into Sara's mind that the Snoodle did not really want to hurt them, at all, but only to embrace them! So she ran forward and cried to the excited populace (who were spinning this way and that, wildly coiling and uncoiling their springs and crying, "What in butter shall we do?), "He won't hurt them--he won't hurt them! He only wants to embrace them! He thinks they're his relatives--his father was a noodle!" At this the people grew calmer, and began to gather around her head, asking cautious questions. The caterpillars did not seem to understand, and looked as frightened and agitated as ever; for Sara was unconsciously speaking the butterfly language, and the caterpillars spoke a different dialect. "Give me a chance to prove my theory!" continued Sara, in the butterfly language. "Here, Snoodle!" she called, soothingly. "Here--Horn-Devil!" It took a great deal of courage for Sara to speak soothingly to the giant caterpillar; but you see the butterfly people were beginning to think her a very wise, brave person, and that made it rather necessary for her to be one. So she gave a little gulp which the spectators took for a sign of bravery, and drawing nearer by inches, actually laid her hand on the rearing, plunging, panic-stricken creature! He lurched and snorted terribly when her hand first touched him, but as he did nothing worse, Sara grew braver and more hopeful, and began to pat and stroke him and say soothing words. Of course he could not understand the words, but he seemed to understand the tone, for presently he stopped rearing, and at last stood quite quiet, only breathing hard and trembling a little. "Now, Snoodle, come here!" cried Sara, nerving herself for the supreme test of her theory. The Snoodle sprang forward at the word, and, as Sara had foretold, threw his paws about the Horn-Devil's neck. The Horn-Devil sprang into the air, making a sort of wild, whinnying sound (the only sound Sara ever heard, then or afterward, from a caterpillar); but as Sara patted him kindly and the Snoodle only wagged himself ecstatically, he grew quiet again, and allowed himself to be hugged without further protest. Then the Snoodle, having finished his embrace, released his long-lost relative and sat down on his long hinder-parts, looking about at the spectators with an air that said, "There! I'm satisfied! I didn't do any harm, did I?" And at that the populace went wild. You never saw such a change come over a nation of people in your life. They showered attentions upon Sara until she was so delighted that she scarcely knew how to deport herself. They proclaimed her a heroine; they brought a sort of sedan chair, borne, not by the common cabbage butterflies who usually carried them, but by a Chrysophanus hypophlaeas and a Lavatera assurgentiflora. And when they had put her into it they carried her at the head of a procession to the royal gardens behind the palace, where no mortal had ever entered; and there they crowned her with flowers which have no name in our language, but which the butterflies call tinnulalia. And they fed her--not with butter this time--but with honey-dew. They fanned her with their enormous wings (as big as peacocks') and hovered over her, and murmured compliments in her ears, until it was hard for her to believe that they were the same lovely but supercilious race who had received her so coolly in the morning. And when, suddenly, the temple-gong sounded, and the Equine Gahoppigas, saddled and bridled, and champing his bit, appeared at the entrance to the royal gardens, they all took out their cobweb handkerchiefs and wept bitterly. And, indeed, Sara was loth to go; for this strange land was an enchanting place when its people were kind. But she saw that it was growing late; and, as the shadows began to lengthen, she suddenly remembered that she had followed the Snoodle away without telling anybody. She was certainly older than the Snoodle; he was so young and irresponsible. Ought she not to have told the Snimmy's wife? Perhaps he was running away! So she gathered up the reins and saw him leap safely up behind her; then she turned to wave good-by to the Butterfly Country and its strange, changeable, elegant inhabitants. And as long as she could see anything she watched the pulsing, many-colored wings waving regretfully over the royal garden with the strange flowers. The ride home through the cool of the evening was as delightful as the morning's ride had been; but not quite so breathless and exciting, because it seemed to Sara by this time quite natural to ride upon a Gahoppigas. But when she slid off her charger at the entrance of the Plynck's Garden her ears were assailed by an unspeakable clamor of mournful sound; it sounded a little like a Swiss yodler with a broken heart, and a little like a dog howling because the yodler was singing. And it went "Snoodle-oodle-oodle-ooo!!" And Sara knew, with a sinking heart, that it was the Snimmy's wife lifting up her voice in lamentation for her lost child. Therefore, for the first time, she was a little afraid to go into the Garden. But she had already been so brave that day that she had rather contracted the habit; so she drew a long breath, and, saying calmly, "Come, Snoodle!" she walked straight up to the pool. And such a clamor of rejoicing as arose at their appearance! The Plynck was so surprised that she crowed like a rooster; and then apologized to everybody (half-laughing and half-crying) for being so unladylike. The Teacup fluttered, the Snimmy sniffed; and the Snimmy's wife--that grim, undemonstrative woman--rushed out from the prose-bush and gathered her darling, and Sara, too, to her heart. But Sara was not through being brave. She stepped up upon Schlorge's stump, and, swallowing hard, said in a clear voice, "Perhaps it was my fault. I'm older than the Snoodle--" "Hurrah for Sara! She's older than the Snoodle!" cried the First and Second Gunki. And at that the whole Garden went wild over her just as the butterflies had done. The Gunki carried her around on their shoulders; the Snimmy and his wife pelted her with moon-flowers; the Plynck and the Teacup kept up an agitated patter of feminine hand-clapping; and Schlorge came running down the path from the Dimplesmithy, cheering wildly. When they finally put her down beside the dimple-holder, very rumpled and bright-eyed and flushed, Sara felt her little heart swell with pride. For twice that day she had been acclaimed a heroine--once because she had tamed a caterpillar, and once because she was older than the Snoodle. Chapter X Sara's Day Something told Sara, the next morning, to take every one of her dolls. And the minute she entered the Garden she was glad that she had. It was clear that something very unusual was afoot. She had never seen her dear Garden look so festive. It was lavishly decorated with sun-shafts and rainbows, and everywhere waved streamers of pink sunrise and violet mist. Over the fountain, in front of the tree where the Plynck sat, had been stretched a large electric sign. It read, "In Honor of Sara. Because She is Older than the Snoodle!" It was made of white and pink gum-drops, and they told her afterward that the Snimmy had sat up all night to weep them. The Plynck furnished the electricity by smiling every little while. This lit up the pink and white gum-drops, till they looked like the tiny globes on the Wooded Island at the Park. Of course this was in the daytime, but the Plynck's smile was so much stronger than ordinary electricity that even in daytime it shone with quite a dazzling effect. All of her friends were there except Avrillia. Pirlaps had come and brought all seventy of the children; he said Avrillia was coming on in a moment, and kept looking down the path for her. The minute the Kewpie saw Avrillia's children, he slid out of Sara's arms and ran to them; and all that day Sara could hardly pick him out from the rest of them. The Baby, too, kicked and cried and stretched out his hands until one of the older children came and took him; and all day long they passed him, too, from one to another, and he seemed perfectly contented. The Teddy-Bear sat down in a quiet corner and shaded his eyes from the lights; the Billiken strolled about with his hands in his pockets, smiling at everything; and the Japanese doll went over and took a seat on the steps of the prose-bush, where he was soon discussing with Mrs. Snimmy the best way to stew onions. There were so many of Avrillia's children and so many of the Gunki that the Garden had a delightfully animated appearance. Yassuh was there, carrying Pirlaps' step and the hand-bag with his shaving-things and extra trousers; but as Avrillia hadn't come yet he hadn't used his step, and his clothes were quite immaculate. He now stepped up to Sara, who stood looking about her with surprise and wonder, and said, "Well, Sara, this is your day. You are the guest of honor, and we're all proud of you. We hope you'll have the pleasantest time you ever had." Sara was as charmed as she was bewildered. She didn't say anything at first, because she didn't want them to know that she didn't quite understand what it was all about. But presently she couldn't stand not knowing any longer, so she whispered to Pirlaps, "Is--is it a sort of birthday?" "Well,--yes, I suppose you might call it that," answered Pirlaps, looking at her in the kind, indulgent way he had when she showed her odd little ideas and her inexperience. "Didn't you announce yesterday that you were older than the Snoodle?" For a moment Sara felt as if she ought to explain that that was only the beginning of her speech, and that, if they had not interrupted her, she had meant to tell them that she was sorry that she had not taken more responsibility for the Snoodle, and reminded him to ask permission from the Snimmy's wife before he left the Garden. But, on reflection, she realized that they did not blame her in the least, so there was no need to make excuses; and they all seemed so delighted to find that she was older than the Snoodle! A birthday is too charming a thing to refuse, even if it's a special sort of birthday one doesn't exactly understand; so Sara decided to accept hers with a thankful heart. Besides, it must be confessed that she had caught glimpses of parcels here and there. The Plynck, she was sure, had one under her right wing; and there was no doubt that one was sticking out from under the coat-tails of the First Gunkus. "We are to celebrate all day in your honor, Sara," added Pirlaps. "And this evening, when you are ready to go home, Schlorge will made you an address of welcome. But what can be keeping Avrillia?" They all looked down the pathway, but no Avrillia was in sight. Suddenly the Echo of the Plynck spoke from the pool. "The guest of honor always goes and fetches anybody who doesn't come," she said. "Does she?" asked Sara, opening her eyes wide; but Pirlaps said, "To be sure! I had forgotten. Come on, Sara. Let's go bring Avrillia." Sara was always glad to go to Avrillia's lovely house, though she couldn't help thinking as she ran that this was one manner Mother failed to remind her of, whenever she was overhauling her manners for any especial use. All was still about the beautiful little house where Avrillia lived, and Sara looked at it lovingly, for she had a sort of feeling somewhere deep under her little apron that she would not see it again for a long while. Pirlaps, who knew Avrillia pretty well, did not look in the pink bed-room, or the kitchen, or the sitting-room; no, he went straight to the balcony. And there sat Avrillia, in a mist of her bright, wild hair, so intent upon her writing that she did not see them, or hear them speak. "Sh--sh--" said Pirlaps, in a low tone, when he saw how absorbed she was. "We'll wait till she finishes that one. Why didn't I bring my step?" As he didn't have it, however, he leaned against the alabaster wall, and waited patiently; though Sara, it must be confessed, was quite restless. After what seemed to her a very long time, Avrillia drew a deep breath and shook back her golden hair, and moving like a lost bird to the balustrade, leaned far out and let her new poem flutter from her hand. For another long time she did not move, straining her eyes down into the abyss. At last she straightened up with a long sigh, and, seeing them, smiled. "Did it stick?" asked Pirlaps, eagerly. "No," was all Avrillia said, but her voice made Sara's heart quiver, for in the sound of it she seemed to hear the temple-bells, and the fairy hand-organ she had heard in the steep street at Zinariola, and the drowsy tinkle of the fountain in the Butterfly Palace, and the little Laughs that leaped about the mountain, and the morning and evening sheep-bells, all gathered together into one sound that seemed to say that presently she would have to say good-by to Avrillia. But Avrillia, seeing her suddenly sad little face, stooped and kissed her as she had done that other morning, and patted her cheek, and said, "Oh, but I have a present for you, Sara! This is your day--we must all be very merry!" And with that she picked up something that was wrapped in several layers of silver fog and tied with a ripple, and seizing them both by the arm, went dancing with them down the path to the Garden. Everybody applauded when they saw Pirlaps and the guest of honor returning with Avrillia; and the Teacup, unable longer to restrain her excitement, fluttered down to the rim of the pool and cried excitedly, "Now let's give the presents!" Then something happened that came near turning the fete into a tragedy; for the Teacup lost her balance in the excitement, and splashed right over into the pool! The Plynck screamed, Schlorge whistled, the Gunki came running from every direction; but it was the Echo who saved the Teacup's life. With great presence of mind she spread out her cerulean plumes so that the Teacup settled upon them harmlessly, instead of crashing down upon the hard emerald bottom and shattering to bits. Then, of course, Schlorge could very easily reach down and draw her out. The poor Teacup was naturally very much upset. "If my handle had not been so consanguineous--" she quavered, again and again. But, on the whole, considering her age and her timid disposition, they were all rather surprised at her fortitude. Schlorge, who was still holding her, was looking very grave. "Sara will have to frown on her," he said, "as she did on the Zizz." "But I can't frown, today," cried Sara, in dismay. "I know it's hard," said Schlorge. "Or at the Teacup!" pleaded Sara. "It's your duty, Sara," said the Echo. "Oh, dear, it's putting off the presents!" sighed one of the oldest of Avrillia's children; then, as she looked at the poor little gentle, bedraggled Teacup, with her consanguineous handle, she felt ashamed of herself, and hid behind her mother's drapery. As for Sara, she was indeed in distress. "If some of you would only think of something to make me frown--I can't even think of any disagreeable things today!" "You're frowning now!" suddenly cried the First Gunkus, waving his shoe; and they all forgave him his lack of respectfulness, because he was plainly so excited. "Hold her up, Schlorge!" cried Pirlaps, running forward. "There--Sara--hold that expression--just a moment. Fix your eyes here--on this leaf! And keep your mind firmly on this thought: 'The Disagreeable Necessity of Frowning in the Presence of Presents.'" Sara remembered how brave and useful she had been the day before, and concentrated her mind by a really tremendous effort. And she was soon rewarded; for in a few minutes everybody was clapping hands and waving handkerchiefs and crying, "She's dry! She's dry! Three cheers for Sara!" Sure enough, the little Teacup was dry enough to flutter back to her perch, on which she sat throwing kisses to Sara. And then Pirlaps came forward, and taking Sara by the hand, said, "Come, Sara." He then began leading her in a sort of triumphal march around the pool, while the rest fell in behind them and formed a procession. As there were so many of the Gunki and Avrillia's children it was quite a long procession, so that the only way they could tell the head from the tail of it was by remembering that Sara was the head and that the Snimmy's wife was the tail. The Echo, who could not leave the pool to march, spread out the lyre-shaped feathers on the top of her head and played the most beautiful rippling chords for them to march by. And suddenly, when they had gone three times around the fountain, Pirlaps said, "Take the seat of honor, Sara, and receive our gifts." And there, in front of the Gugollaph-tree, was an enormous frosted cake, as big around as a wagon-wheel. Sara was sure it had not been there when the march began. She would have rubbed her eyes, had she not felt that such a conventional proceeding would be wholly inadequate. "Take your seat, Sara," said Pirlaps kindly, enjoying her delight and astonishment. Sara came to herself with a start. "Wh-where?" she asked. She was anxious not to appear awkward, but she did not see any particular place to sit. "On the cake, dear, of course," said Pirlaps, who seemed never to tire of smiling at her odd little questions. Sara had never done this before, but she was willing to try; and she was just about to climb upon the cake when another thought deterred her. "But the candles? Won't my dress catch?" "Try and see," said Pirlaps; but Avrillia whispered in her ear, "They aren't flames, dear: they're only colored perfumes." So, reassured, Sara took her seat on the cake; and at once she saw that it made a very nice sort of throne. The frosting was resilient, but firm; and she now saw that the candles were arranged so that they made a sort of semicircle about her. Just as Avrillia had said, she could pass her hands across their wicks without being burned at all; they only winked and breathed out sweet odors--each flame a different color and scent. They were as tall as her head, as she sat among them; and the one at her right ear was of isthagaria, while the one on the left faintly suggested tinnulalia-flowers. Before she had finished examining the candles, the Plynck flew down with the first present. "A lock of my hair," she said, looking eager, but a little embarrassed; and she actually perched on the rim of the pool while Sara unwrapped it, so that she might see whether or not she was pleased. But I do not need to tell you that Sara was; for it was one of her loveliest tail-feathers, a rich, curling plume of the deepest rose, from which sweet odors were shaken out as Sara lifted it to the light. Weeks afterward, when Sara astonished her mother by begging for the pink plume on her prettiest hat, what she was really pining for was a lock of the Plynck's hair. Avrillia came next with her present. It was a little urn of jade and ivory, and it was full to the top of dried poems written on rose-leaves. Have you ever seen the quaint rose-jars some old-fashioned ladies have in their parlors? Well, some one of them, when she was little, saw one of Avrillia's poem-jars; and she made these others in a homesick effort to imitate it. And the fragrance--like nothing else you ever smelled--is the perfume of Avrillia's poems, as nearly as that little old-fashioned lady, after she grew up, could remember it. You would not expect me to remember all of the presents Sara got that day. But a good many I can remember. Pirlaps brought her a picture he had painted; a very beautiful view of Nothing from Avrillia's balcony. Yassuh brought her a delicious Crumb; it was wrapped in a sticky paper covered with his finger-prints, but inside the paper was one of Avrillia's exquisite napkins of embroidered mist. The First Gunkus, remembering how she had loved the mountain, brought her a little live Laugh. He had climbed the mountain and trapped it for her, and made her a little cage to take it home with. It was very funny to hear it tittering about inside. The rest of the Gunki had clubbed together and bought her a gold-headed tuning-fork, so that she might be sure their answers were in tune. The Snimmy's wife brought her three large onions, neatly hemmed and tied in a bouquet with purple ribbon; the Snimmy himself a striped paper bag full of gum-drops. And the Snoodle's present was too cunning for anything! It was a little silver plum-extractor. With it a child could extract all the fattest raisins from her piece of mince-pie or portion of rice pudding without having to bother with the uninteresting remainder and being reprimanded; for the ingenious little instrument was invisible to adults. All the other presents were marked "For Sara, with our congratulations, because she is older than the Snoodle." But this one was marked, in a round, childish hand, "For my dear Sara--because she is older than me." But the grand surprise came when, near the last, four Gunki hurried in bearing a large chest, which they placed at Sara's feet. "It came by the Gahoppigas Express, Miss, with no message," they explained. And when Sara opened it she found that it was full of butterfly money--the loveliest pieces of gold and silver that the frittilaries and papilios had collected from their own wings. Just inside the lid was a lily leaf bearing the inscription, "For Sara, from a grateful Nation, Because she is older than the Snoodle." Sara distributed handfuls of the beautiful little coins among them and again they cheered her for her generosity. Sara felt that she really did not deserve the cheering, however, as she seemed to have as many as ever--even after she had filled Mrs. Snimmy's apron and a shoe apiece for each Gunkus. When the excitement over the money had subsided a little, Pirlaps announced; "The Banquet is now ready!" and again offering Sara his arm, he led her at the head of another procession three times around the fountain; and the third time, as before, there beside the cake was the banquet table--all spread and loaded down and glittering. Of course it was quite a long table, with a good many covers; there had to be one for each of Avrillia's children and for every one of the Gunki. The covers were very thin (being made of cobweb, of course) still, having so many, spread one on top of the other, made the table quite high, so that there were step-ladders instead of chairs. As there was a step-ladder for each guest, and as they were made of gold and silver, arranged alternately, the effect was very unique and elaborate. Sara, being the guest of honor, was assigned the most inconspicuous place, three step-ladders south of the centre. When they were seated, and Sara's mouth was fairly watering at the sight of all the fairy delicacies the table displayed, Pirlaps, as master of ceremonies, rose and said, "You understand, Sara, that, on occasions like this, the guest of honor eats nothing but Toast." Now, just imagine how disappointed Sara was! She really was having a hard time to wink back the tears, when Avrillia, who often understood more than the others, leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Wait till you taste it, Sara!" Avrillia's eyes sparkled so that Sara was quite reassured; besides, she suddenly remembered the butterfly butter, and how her distress had been turned into rapture on that occasion. And when Avrillia added, "Besides, you have Birdsong wine with it!" she felt as happy as ever, and quite confident that there would be some delightful surprise about it. When Pirlaps announced the first Toast, however, and the first slice walked heavily out from behind the little screen at the toastmaster's elbow, Sara again felt a sinking of the heart; for, except that he walked on his lower right-hand corner, as he had been trained to do, and made a rather awkward and laborious bow when his name was announced, he looked otherwise so exactly like a plain, brown, fat, every-day-in-the-year piece of breakfast toast that it was hard to be enthusiastic about him--at least in the presence of all the exotic-looking dainties the other guests were to have! However, Sara made a great effort, and settled herself to listen to the Toasts politely. The name of this Toast was "Sara's Day--Because She is Older than the Snoodle," and the Plynck responded to it. The way she responded was this: the Toast balanced himself with difficulty on his lower corner, and said, in a throaty voice, "How do you do, Madame Plynck?" and the Plynck bowed (much more gracefully) and responded, "How do you do, Toast?" And then she made a speech on the Toast's subject. While she was making the speech (which was lovely--she fairly soared) the Toast tottered over to Sara's plate and lay down in it, without any further sign of life or animation. Avrillia leaned over and Whispered, "Eat it, Sara," and then Sara did. And she didn't have any trouble keeping from being disappointed, after that. For, just as Avrillia had hinted, the toast, in spite of its appearance, was really Angel Food cake; and as she ate it, Sara found at her elbow a bottle marked "Birdsong Wine--Bluebird." As the Gunki were all eating, they couldn't wait on her, so she poured it into her glass herself; and when she had taken a sip, it tasted just like April! You may imagine that, from that time on, Sara had no further anxiety about what she was to eat, and that her mind was now entirely free to enjoy the Toasts. The second Toast was announced, indeed, before she had recovered from her first surprise and delight. The subject of this Toast was, "Sara's Dimples--May I Never Get Them"; and of course it was responded to by the Snimmy. There was no variety either in the looks or in the performance of the Toasts; I must admit that they were very heavy, awkward, and short of breath, and were as much alike as the trained sea-lions at a circus. However, you felt that, like the sea-lions, they were doing very well to perform at all. (Avrillia whispered to Sara that Pirlaps, as toastmaster, had spent days and days preparing them; so Sara suspected that Pirlaps, at least, had known all along that she was older than the Snoodle.) The speeches, on the other hand, were marvels of variety and interest. The Snimmy's, of course, was sad--even heartrending; and he was sniffing before he had finished saying, "How do you do, Toast?" and shedding gum-drops like hail-stones before he was half through. His Toast, however, was orange-cake, unusually delicious; and the wine served with it was a sparkling cherry-colored beverage marked "Cardinal." It was so heady that it even had a topknot, and it served admirably to counteract the depressing effect of the Snimmy's speech. The next Toast was responded to by the First and Second Gunki; and its subject was, "Sara's Tears--May There Be No Mad and Few Sad." The speech was in the form of a duet, rendered by the Gunki with deep feeling, and accompanied by the Plynck and her Echo with liquid-sounding arpeggios on their lyres, that were most appropriate. The Toast was old-fashioned jelly-cake, with Robinsong wine. Avrillia responded to a thin slice, whose subject was "Nothing"; everybody clapped when this subject was announced, for they felt that the subject was in the hands of an authority, and would be handled in a masterly manner. Nor were they disappointed; Avrillia's speech was in the form of a long poem, which she recited from memory, looking very wild and lovely. The Toast was silver-cake, with Veerie wine. Pirlaps himself, although he was toastmaster, responded to a Toast called "Sara's Questions--Bless Their Hearts!" and his Toast was chocolate-cake, with Wren wine. The Snoodle was too young to make a speech, but they had taught him to respond to a simple little Toast, "On Being Older than Snoodles," and it was very charming to hear him lisp, "How do you do, Toast?" like the others. His Toast was a plum-cake; and you should have seen how pleased he was when Sara took out the little silver plum-extractor, and used it like an adept! And the Teacup, having responded to a Toast with the subject, "If Only My Saucer Could Have Known Sara," made a very graceful but agitated little speech that brought out many cobweb pocket-handkerchiefs. Of course that is not all the Toasts, nor even half of them; they kept it up until it was growing quite late, and at last Pirlaps said, "Sara, Schlorge did not bring you a present or respond to a Toast, because he has made you an address of welcome. You have spent many happy days with us, and will soon be leaving. The time has come at last for us to bid you welcome. We will not dwell on the natural sadness of the occasion; rather, let us rejoice in the delights we have enjoyed together, and hope for a recurrence of these fair and memorable days. Sehlorge!" Schlorge, overcome with pride and embarrassment, rose from his seat. He started around the pool with much dignity; then his composure suddenly gave way. "Where's the stump?" he began to shout wildly. "Where's the--where's the--" "There, there, Schlorge, you're walking right to it," said Pirlaps, soothingly, hastening after him and laying a hand upon his arm. Then, as Schlorge scrambled upon it, Pirlaps raised his hand to command attention. "Schlorge wishes me to state," he said, in his pleasant, clear voice, "that the gesture he will now make goes with the first line of his address. He cannot make it at that point because his hands will be already arranged. But I will request that you all observe it carefully, and hold it in mind until it is needed." Thereupon Schlorge made a large, deliberate, comprehensive gesture. It included the pool, the Gugollaph-tree, the prose-bush--not only the whole Garden, in fact, but the lovely amphitheatre beyond it. Moreover, it seemed to Sara to include even more distant things; the Rainbow Vale and the Butterfly Country, and the colony where lived the relations of Pirlaps, and the Laughter Mountain and Avrillia's house and the magic toy City of Zinariola. At last, having concluded his gesture, Schlorge arranged his hands and began in a loud voice: "A little girl's mind is a place like this-- At least, that of one little dear girl is: Full of quaint little thoughts made of sugar and spice, And queer little notions like little white mice. "But a little boy's mind is not nearly so neat, And a little boy's fancies are scarcely so sweet: So we'll give you a tale next, if fortune avails, Full of snapses and snailses and puppy-dog's tails." Then, for the last time, Schlorge went running wildly down the dear, familiar path toward the Dimplesmithy. "Come again, Sara!" he shouted back, excitedly, over his shoulder. "Come again! And bring Jimmy!" Sara knew that he could not bear to tell her good-by; and, suddenly, she felt the same way about them all. They had been so kind to her! So she began to throw kisses to them all, and then, suddenly, slipped down from her step-ladder. Her dollies jumped down and gathered about her, and with them all at her heels she went running past the dimple-holder and out through the ivory gates. And the last thing she saw, when she turned to throw her last kiss, was the Echo, who, overcome by emotion, had at last climbed clear out upon the rim of the pool, where she sat waving her plumes to Sara in plain sight of them all. 
29593	----	[Illustration: "COLONEL TAKE YOUR COLORS!"] THE SOCK STORIES, BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER. RED, WHITE, AND BLUE SOCKS. Part First. BEING THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SERIES. BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER, THE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE WHITE ANGEL." WITH AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER, BY "AUNT FANNY" HERSELF. NEW YORK: LEAVITT & ALLEN, 21 & 23 MERCER ST. 1863. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by S. L. BARROW, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. JOHN F. TROW, Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper, 60 Greene Street, New York. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. PAGE INTRODUCTION--THE STORY OF THE SOCKS, 7 COLONEL FREDDY; OR, THE MARCH AND ENCAMPMENT OF THE DASHAHED ZOUAVES, CHAP. I.--RAISING A REGIMENT, 35 II.--"MARCHING ALONG," 55 III.--CAMP LIFE, 76 DEDICATION. MY DEAR LITTLE COOLEY AND GEORGIE: WHEN you see that this book is dedicated to you, I hope your bright eyes will sparkle with pleasure; but I am afraid your pretty curly heads will hardly retain a recollection of a little personage who once lived close to your beautiful home on Staten Island. She remembers _you_, however, and sends you this soldier story with her very best love--the love she bears in her inmost heart for God and little children. And now she asks you to hunt in every corner of those same precious little heads for a kindly remembrance of your affectionate friend, "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER. THE STORY OF THE SOCKS. BY AUNT FANNY. "OH dear! what _shall_ I do?" cried George, fretfully, one rainy afternoon. "Mamma, do tell me what to do." "And I'm _so_ tired!" echoed Helen, who was lazily playing with a kitten in her lap. "I don't see why it should rain on a Friday afternoon, when we have no lessons to learn. We can't go out, and no one can come to see us. It's too bad, there!" "Helen, do _you_ know better than _God_?" asked her mother, speaking very gravely. "You forget that He sends the rain." "I suppose I was thoughtless, mamma," answered the child; "I did not mean to be wicked, but, dear me, the time passes _so_ slowly, with nothing to do." "Have you and George read all your books?" "Oh yes! two or three times over," they both answered; "and oh, mamma," continued Helen, "if the one who wrote 'Two Little Heaps,' or the 'Rollo' book writer, or the author of 'The Little White Angel,' would only write some more books, I, for one, would not care how hard it rained. If I was grown up and rich, I wouldn't mind giving a dollar a letter for those stories." "Nor I," shouted George in an animated tone, quite different from the discontented whine he had favored his mother with a few moments before; "the best thing is to have them read aloud to you; that makes you understand all about it so much better. I say, mamma, couldn't you write a letter to one of those delightful people and beg them to hurry up with more stories, especially some about bad children;--not exactly wicked, you know, but full of mischief. _Then I am sure that they are all true._ Only wait till I'm a man! I'll just write the history of some jolly fellows I know who are always getting into scrapes, but haven't a scrap of meanness about them. That's the kind of book I like! I'll write dozens of them, and give them to all the Sunday school libraries." His mother smiled at this speech, and then said quietly, "I know a gentleman who likes the story of 'The Little White Angel,' as much as you do, and he has written a letter to request the author to write six books for him." "Six! hurrah!" shouted George, "how glad I am!" and he skipped up to Helen, caught her by the hands, and the two danced round the room, upsetting a chair, till Helen, catching her foot in the skirt of her mother's dress, they both tumbled down on the carpet together. "If you cut up such violent capers," said the kind mother, laughing, "at the first part of my information, it may be dangerous to tell you what the author replied." "Oh no, do tell us!" cried the children. "We'll be as still as our shadows;" and while they made violent efforts to look grave and stand quiet, their mother told them that the author had consented, the six books were to be written, and she would buy them the very first day they were published. "Perhaps," she continued, "mind, only perhaps, I may get them for you _before_ they are ever printed." "Why, how, mamma?" they both asked. "Well, suppose you make some very good resolutions--let me see," and she took a pencil out of her pocket, and drawing a sheet of paper toward her, began to write: "1st. To endeavor to say your prayers morning and evening without a _wandering thought_. "2d. To try to keep faithfully 'the Golden Rule.' "3d. To obey your parents immediately, without asking 'why?' "4th. (A little rule, but very important.) To keep your teeth, nails, and hair scrupulously clean and neat. "5th. To bear disappointments cheerfully. "There, I think that will do. They are all hard rules except the fourth. I do not keep them well myself, my dear children. No one can, without constant watchfulness and prayer for help from above; but you can try, will you?" "I will, mamma," said Helen, in a low, earnest tone, her blue eyes filling with tears. "And you, George, will you?" "Yes, mamma, I will try. I can't be a very good boy, as you know. I get so tired of being good sometimes, that I feel like jumping over the house to get the badness out of me, instead of sitting down quietly and thinking about my duty, as papa says I must. When papa locked me up in his dressing room last summer, and I kicked the door as hard as ever I could, which made him call out that I should stay there two hours longer, I was mad enough, I tell you! but I did not cut my name with a knife on his rosewood bureau _because_ I was angry. It was because I was almost crazy with doing nothing but think what a bad boy I was. That made me worse, you see. The best way to punish me is to see you crying about my conduct. I can't stand that," and the boy put his arms round his mother's neck, and kissed her fondly. "My dear boy," said his mother, returning the caress, "there is One whom you grieve more than me. I wish you would think oftener of that. I know that different children require different sorts of punishment, and as neither your father nor I approve of beating you like a dog, and you say that shutting you up with nothing to do only makes you worse, I shall advise him the next time you are naughty, to send immediately for a load of wood, and make you saw it all up into small pieces, or take you where some house is building and order you to run up and down a long ladder all day with a hod of bricks on your shoulder, or hire you out to blow the big bellows for a blacksmith. How do you think you would like that?" "I had a great deal rather run after the fire engines, to put the fire out. That's the kind of work I would like. Every body screaming, and pumping, and playing streams of water--twenty firemen rushing up ladders, pulling old women and cats out of the windows, and somebody inside pitching out the looking glasses and crockery to save them! I wish our house was on fire this very minute, so I could pull you and Helen out, and save all the furniture. That would be the greatest fun in the world!" "Please don't set fire to the house," cried his mother, laughing, "for the fun of saving our lives. I prefer to keep it just as it is, and walking quietly out at the door." As she spoke, the sun suddenly burst forth from the clouds, and his bright rays darting into the room, the children sprang joyfully up, and, with their mother's consent, were soon out of the house with jumping-rope and hoop, to join their little companions in a neighboring park. George and Helen were two charming, ingenuous children. George was full of frolic, mischief, and fun, with generous impulses and excellent intentions, which only required peculiar and careful training and encouragement to develop him into a steady, high-principled man. Locking him up with nothing to do, as he truly said, did him more harm than good; he required active punishment, and his mother wisely intended to take the hint for his future benefit. Her little Helen, though just as full of play and fun, was more easily managed. A present of a book so won upon her love and gratitude, that her mother had only to hold out the prospect of a new one, and a loving kiss (Helen prized the kiss even more than the book) as a reward for good behavior, to make her quite a pattern of a dear, amiable little girl. The next morning the kind mother called upon her friend Aunt Fanny, bringing George and Helen with her, as it was Saturday. First she told all the conversation of the afternoon before, which amused Aunt Fanny very much, and then she continued, "You told me the other day that your daughter was very busy writing six books for Mr. Leavitt the publisher. I know you love my children." "Yes, indeed!" cried Aunt Fanny. "I love children from my heart, straight out to the ends of my fingers; and when a pen is in my hands, the love runs into it, and then out again, as fast as it can scratch all over ever so many sheets of paper. My thumb aches so sometimes with writing, that I often wish I had half a dozen extra ones, so I could take the tired one off and screw another on, and even then I am afraid I could never exhaust my love for my darlings;" and she looked at the children and held out her hand with such an affectionate smile, that Helen came timidly up and gave her a little winning kiss immediately, while George, blushing all over his face, showed two great dimples in his cheeks, but had not the courage to leave his chair. You may be sure that Aunt Fanny, after Helen's kiss, was quite ready to grant any favor the mother might ask for her children. She was perfectly willing to catch a comet for them to play with, or jump down a volcano to find out who lived in the bottom of it, if anybody would only show her how. Helen's mother knew this, but she hesitated a little before she made this strange request: "My dear friend, my two children have made me the promises I have told you of, in regard to keeping my little rules and resolutions, and now I think it will be the most wonderful and delightful reward possible, if they were to be permitted to see and read your daughter's stories in manuscript." "Manuscript! what does that mean, mamma?" "In her own handwriting, dear." "Oh yes! yes! how very strange and delightful! And then to see the very same stories printed! that would be so astonishing! We should like that better than anything, Aunt Fanny!" "Very well," continued their mamma; "now I have come to beg you to lend me the stories as fast as they are written. I will take the greatest care of them, and return them to your daughter quickly and punctually. I have a plan in my head which will make my children very happy, if you consent." "To be sure I will," said Aunt Fanny, "but what is your plan?" Thereupon commenced a great whispering between the two ladies, while the children looked pleased, puzzled, and eagerly curious all at once; but they were not to know. Aunt Fanny and their mother, after a great deal of nodding of heads together, and laughing and whispering, got this mysterious affair settled to their satisfaction, and then took leave of each other. Aunt Fanny kissed Helen, and George, too, in spite of his blushes, and told them to bottle up their patience so that it would last for one whole week, observing that she was thankful that curiosity was not made of gunpowder, and there was no danger of their blowing up before the great secret came out. It is very seldom that you hear of such remarkably good children as George and Helen were for the next few days. They were really something astonishing! George did not slam the door more than once or twice in a whole day; and one morning when he was going to ride on the bannisters as usual, he said "Oh, I forgot!" and immediately walked down stairs as slowly and gravely as a grandfather. As for Helen, she was, if possible, still more wonderful, for she learned "six times" in the multiplication table, and said it straight on, and skipping, and even backward, in a way that surprised her teacher. Helen could say "twice one" up to "five times twelve," very glibly, but "six times" never would stay in her head, she said; especially "six times nine." She always said it was "seventy-two," or "sixty-three," or "eighty-one," at a desperate venture, and was always wrong. Now she knew, and meant to remember; and would pack away the fact that "six times nine are fifty-four," in a comfortable place in the very middle of her head, to be ready for any one that wanted to know it. At last the next Friday came, and just before the children retired for the night, their mother said: "Something came for you to-day. Guess what it is?" Up they both sprang, exclaiming, "Something for us? Oh, that is so very delightful! What can it be?" "My instructions are, to put it either in George's sock or in Helen's stocking, after you are fast asleep. It is for both of you, and I leave you to decide where it shall be put." "In my sock!" shouted George. "In my stocking!" cried Helen. "Oh certainly, I forgot!" exclaimed George, generously; "in Helen's stocking." "No, mamma," said Helen, "in George's sock." "Stocking!" cried George. "Sock!" cried Helen. They kept this up about a dozen times, laughing and jumping about the room like two crazy monkeys, their mamma and papa laughing too, till all their faces were in a perfect glow, which made them look like a very handsome family--for, let me tell you, that good humor and innocent merriment are very becoming to everybody, while ill-temper makes one look like a fright. But how was this difficult matter of sock and stocking to be settled? Why, by the children's papa, to be sure! for he was a lawyer, and did nothing all day long but settle difficulties, or make them worse, I don't know which. He took two long slips of paper, and wrote "Socks" on one and "Stockings" on the other. These he put in his hat, which George brought out of the hall. Then he rang the bell, and told the waiter who answered it to request Mrs. Custard, the cook, to come up to the parlor for a moment. Mrs. Custard, who was very fat, and, besides, had the rheumatism, came into the room quite breathless, looking very much surprised and a little frightened. She had dropped her thimble that day, when she was sewing up the stuffing in the turkey, and had not had time to look for it; and she was panic struck lest her master had found it roasted in the very middle of the turkey, and was going to ask her if she thought she was cooking for an ostrich, which, as everybody knows, prefers a dinner of iron spikes, pebble stones, and oyster shells to roast beef. But nothing of the kind happened. The children's papa only said, "Good evening, Mrs. Custard, you gave us a very nice dinner to-day. I want you to put your hand in this hat and draw out one piece of paper." "Laws me, sir!" exclaimed the cook, "I hopes you don't mean to play no trick on me; will it bite?" The children fairly screamed with laughter at the idea of a piece of paper biting; and the cook made them laugh still harder, when she put her hand in very cautiously, and twitched it out three times, before she ventured to feel for the paper. At last one piece was caught, and on it was written "SOCKS," which made George first jump up and down in an ecstacy of delight, and then run to Helen and tell her he was really sorry that it had not been the other. This decided the momentous question, and Mrs. Custard hobbled down stairs, and the children hopped, skipped, and jumped up stairs, both wondering what would come of this magical word "socks." Helen had a pretty little room opening out of her mother's, but George's was in an upper story. When they were both asleep, the mother took out of her son's bureau a clean white sock, sewed a tape loop on the edge, put a small parcel inside, and hung it on a neat brass nail, which was driven in a door directly opposite his bed, where it would catch his eye as soon as he awoke. You may be sure both the children were up bright and early the next morning. Helen dressed herself quickly and ran down stairs into the dining-room to wait for her brother. George opened his eyes upon the sock the very first thing. He sprang out of bed and made but two steps to the door, raised his hand eagerly, and then the generous little fellow stopped. "No!" he cried aloud, "I will not even squeeze the outside to guess what it is, till I am with Helen." [Illustration: GEORGE AND HELEN READING "SOCKS"] He did not stop to count his toes or fingers, though he did manage to clean his teeth, wash his face, neck, and hands, and brush his hair in about five minutes, then taking hold of the precious sock by the loop at the top, he carried it down stairs very much as if he had hold of a mouse by the tail. He was met by Helen at the door with an "Oh, George, what is it?" They both stared with all their eyes, while George told Helen she might take the wonderful thing out. She gladly obeyed, and drew out a compact roll of letter paper neatly tied with sky-blue ribbon. Helen untied the little bow, her fingers trembling with eagerness, and unrolled the paper. It seemed to be a great many pages covered with writing, and they were all fastened together at the top with another bit of blue ribbon. The fair and clear handwriting was delightful to look at. "Oh, mamma! Oh papa! do come and look!" cried George. "I do believe this is a story before it is printed. See! on the top of the page is written 'Colonel Freddy; or, the March and Encampment of the Dashahed Zouaves.'" "Yes; Aunt Fanny sent it to me yesterday; and her daughter hopes her little story about soldiers will please you." "Please us! I guess it will! I'd rather hear about soldiers than anybody else in the world, even giants! because, you know, mamma, Uncle Charley has gone to fight, and if the Southerners had only put off the war a few years longer, I would have gone to fight them too; so Hurrah for the Dashahed Zouaves!" "Three cheers for the Dashahed Zouaves!" cried Helen, and they were given with a will. The children could hardly eat their breakfast in their eagerness to hear the story which was sent to them before it was printed. This latter fact gave it an extraordinary interest which they could not explain. It seemed to be such a remarkable honor to be singled out in this way; particularly as their mother told them, before she began to read, that Aunt Fanny had requested them to be sure to let her know if they thought any part stupid or too long, and her daughter would improve and shorten it immediately. How extremely complimentary! to be asked to sit and listen as critics and judges, and they only children! Really, it was almost too much to believe! But it added tremendously to the charm, and George and Helen took their seats after breakfast, invested with this new and important dignity, with such an expression of solemn delight on their faces, that their mother had to run out of the room and have a good laugh by herself in the hall, after which she returned, and, with as serious a face as she could call up with those two little figures so stiff and stark before her, smoothed out the manuscript, and began as follows: COLONEL FREDDY; OR, THE MARCH AND ENCAMPMENT OF THE DASHAHED ZOUAVES. CHAPTER I. RAISING A REGIMENT. ONE bright afternoon last summer, about two weeks after the dreadful battle of Bull Run, Freddy Jourdain burst open the door of his mother's room and rushed in, exclaiming: "Jolly, mother! such fun! What _do_ you think the boys in our school are going to do?" "Why what?" asked his mother. "Yes, I should really like to know why you come tearing up stairs yelling like forty steam engines!" added his sister Bella, who was rather a particular young lady. "Well," began Freddy, looking very important, "I'll _try_ to explain, but I don't believe _you women_ can understand about _us boys_!" "After that speech I think you had better explain," said Bella, "if you're not in want of a thimble pie on your knuckles." "Well, then," cried Freddy, with sparkling eyes, "the boys at our school are all _square_ against that old Jeff. Davis, and in recess yesterday, we concluded that we ought to go and help shoot the Southerners. So we've organized a regiment, and I'm chosen Colonel; and I'm going to take my regiment to camp on Monday, that is, if you'll let me. Mayn't I, mother? It's such fun, and Tom Pringle's given me such a jolly popgun! Hurrah for Jackson and the Stars and Stripes!" So saying, Freddy cut a caper in the air, that made about forty "chaney alleys," "stony alleys," "glass agates," and "middles," pop out of his satchel, which was slung over one shoulder, and roll into all the corners of the room. "Where is your encampment to be?" said his mother, as gravely as she could. "Oh, down on Mr. Schermerhorn's place at Astoria. Peter Schermerhorn told us to-day that his father was willing we should have it there, and has invited us all to come and stay a whole week. We're to live in _real tents_!" (here Freddy couldn't help cutting another caper,) "and cook our own dinners, and--oh, mother, mayn't I go? say!" "I do not think of any objection at present," replied Mrs. Jourdain, "but you must wait until your father comes home, and hear what he has to say. It was very kind of Mr. Schermerhorn to invite you all, but I am afraid he will be driven distracted with such a number of harem-scarem boys running about his place." At this moment Joseph, the black waiter, knocked at the door, and announced, with an air of high-flown elegance, that "Major Schermerhorn was in the _drawing salon_ (which he considered the purest Parisian French for front parlor), and desired to see Col. Jourdain;" and our young friend was off like a shot, Joseph following at a dignified pace. Joseph, like most other colored servants in New York, was a person of the highest fashion, according to his own notions. No short words for _him_, I can tell you. I remember well the first time I called upon his mistress, I inquired, "Does Mrs. Jourdain live here?" and Joseph, drawing himself up with an air of superior refinement, replied, "Mrs. Jourdain _resides_ here, madam." At dinner parties, when he waited upon table, he was the most dignified person present, and held his head up so high that he looked as if it would shortly go through the chandelier. He was always dressed in the finest broadcloth and patent leather, his black face and white necktie presenting an admirable contrast, while he used all the five cornered words in the dictionary in replying to any question, and always handed the dishes to the ladies with a flourish of the most astonishing character. Now, if I tell you a secret, you must promise not to let any one know it. Freddy's parents live in the Fifth avenue above Madison Square, in the city of New York. His father is a rich man, and Freddy, a bright, manly lad, between thirteen and fourteen at the time I am writing about, and the only son, is a good deal indulged. But don't think he ever abuses the kindness of his loving papa and mamma; no--although he is full of noise, fun, and innocent mischief, he is a good, obedient little fellow--and that is why they love to do all they can to make him happy. But you must not tell that I said where he lives. When Mr. Jourdain came home that evening, Freddy, of course, began to tell him the first thing, about the regiment and Mr. Schermerhorn's delightful invitation. You may be sure he gave a full-length description of the pleasures of camp life, as retailed by Peter to an enthusiastic audience at recess; and backed up his request to go by such powerful pleas of sparkling, eager eyes, flushed, happy face, and irresistible, dimpling smile, that the hardest-hearted papa in existence would have said "yes." Mr. Jourdain, being anything but hard-hearted, readily consented, as he was intimately acquainted with Mr. Schermerhorn and family, and knew there was no fear on a private place of their meeting with danger, or getting into trouble. Then his father went on to ask a great many questions about the regiment, how many boys belonged to it, what their sizes were, and where they lived; all of which Freddy delightedly answered, and kept up a continuous chattering until a quarter past nine, which, being his bed time, he was reluctantly obliged to trot up stairs. After he was fairly out of the room, his father and mother had a long consultation, which resulted next day in Mr. Jourdain's paying a visit to "Brooks Brothers," the tailors in Broadway, and afterward going to a certain store in Maiden Lane, which had all manner of toy knapsacks and guns in the window. What could he have gone there for, I wonder? and then betaken himself to the police station in B---- street? Really, it seems very mysterious, but wait a little, and you'll see. Meanwhile Freddy, with his satchel hanging down his back to look as much like a knapsack as possible, marched off to school bright and early; whistling the "Star-spangled Banner" as he went along, and looking with the utmost pity upon strange boys, who hadn't the honor of belonging to his glorious regiment, the "Dashahed Zouaves," as his father had advised him to name it. He reached Dr. Larned's academy just as Peter, Harry, and half a dozen others were going in. They greeted him directly with a shout of "Well, Fred, what does your father say?" "Oh, I'm to go!" cried Freddy, "I say, fellows, what do you think of the Dashahed Zouaves for a name?" "That's splendid! capital!" was the cry of the party. I am afraid I must add that Peter said "that's _gay_!" There was no time to talk now, however, for it was full nine o'clock; so the boys, hanging up their hats in the hall, entered the school room, and prayers over, the lessons began. But who could be very attentive to his _ante_-cedents, or _uncle_-cedents either, when, in three days, the _se_-cedents were to be utterly routed by the Dashahed Zouaves? The boys were so full of chuckle and bounce, that, I'm afraid, poor Dr. Larned would have become cracked and crazy, if he hadn't reflected that the holidays and Fourth of July, or, as Peter called it, "the Fourth of Ju-New Year's" were coming, and that probably the state of things was owing to those important facts. The recitations on that memorable Friday, however, were something wonderful, sure enough. For instance, the lesson in geography was about China. The doctor asked a boy, "Where is Shanghai situated?" and he replied, "On Long Island, about two miles from Astoria landing!--that is," and there he stopped, looking as awkward and silly as a Shanghai chicken. "Won't do, sir," said the doctor, in a grave tone, "you must study the lesson over again, and go down one;" and down he had to go, feeling rather flat. Then the doctor asked Freddy what the principal manufactures were, and he answered, "Tea, porcelain, silk, and Zouave drill--no, no, the other kind of drill! dear me, what do I mean?" "I cannot imagine," returned Doctor Larned, in a severe tone, but with a little bit of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. "You appear to be thinking of anything but your lessons, young gentlemen--but as it is the last day of school, I excuse you. We will have recess earlier than usual, and see if we cannot do better afterward." So saying, he opened the door leading from the school room to his private study, and went in; while the boys, luncheon in hand, ran to the playground. "The playground," as it was called, was the large yard attached to the house, which had been fitted up with a few simple gymnastic contrivances, and formed a capital place where the boys might amuse themselves in fine weather. Down they sat, and for a few moments were so busy trying who could take the biggest semicircular bite out of a slice of bread and butter that nobody spoke a word. At last Freddy commenced, by calling out, "I say, fellows!" "Silence in the guard tent! the Colonel's going to speak!" cried Peter, making a new version of the old school saying. "Don't you know all the real Zouaves have their hair cut as short as anything? and just look at mine!" and Freddy tossed back his silky, golden curls in high disgust. "Fellows, _it must be done_! We must have that hair off, short order!" continued the Colonel, solemnly. "Well," exclaimed George Chadwick, who was the oldest of the party, and would certainly have been Colonel if Freddy had not been prime favorite with everybody, "Don't you see how we can manage that?" "Why, how?" was the general question. "Just you wait a moment," replied the inventor, and he put for the house in double quick time, whence he presently returned with an immense pair of scissors, which he had borrowed of the cook. "Now, then, who'll be scissorized first?" "I! I! I!" cried a chorus of voices. "Can't do every one at once; come, Freddy, you're the commander-in-chief, suppose you set the example." "Here goes, then!" exclaimed Freddy; and down he sat on the spring board. Snip! went the long scissors, and off came a beautiful curl. Snap! more demolition on the other side, and in five minutes such a worn-out old scrubbing brush as his head looked like, never was seen anywhere, even on a Zouave; George, of course, running out his tongue so far at every snip of the scissors, that it was a mercy it didn't get cut off, too. [Illustration: "FIRE AWAY OLD CHAP!"] "Jolly! what a fright you look!" shouted Peter. "I say Freddy, I expect you'll scare General Beauregard into the cholera the first time he sees you. Now, then, it's my turn; fire away old chap!" My conscience! what hair cutting that was! Some parts were scratched nearly bald, while in others, little bunches of hair were left standing up like stubble in an autumn cornfield. Their heads looked as if they had been gnawed by the mice or dug up in spots by the roots; and I am sure their own mammas would scarcely have known them again. "Come, number three's turn now!" exclaimed George, flourishing his scissors. "No, I don't know about that," put in Tom Pringle, who was the most thoughtful of the party, "I guess I'd rather see what my mother thinks before I have _my_ hair cut off." This speech caused the rest of the regiment to think of something which hadn't struck them before, namely what _their_ mothers would say on the subject of Zouave hair dressing, and as George began to be a little frightened by this time, at the fearful and astonishing results of his patent plan, it was decided to defer the rest of the operation until another time. But the amazement of Dr. Larned, when he beheld his pupils in such a condition, was beyond everything. "Why, Peter! Freddy! what have you been doing?" he exclaimed, raising his hands, and pushing his spectacles to the top of his forehead, to look at them better. "Oh, only getting our hair cut in the Zouave pattern," said Peter, as cool as a cucumber. "Don't you know, Doctor, that we've organized a regiment?" "Organized a regiment!" repeated the doctor, his spectacles almost falling off with astonishment. "Yes, sir, the Dashahed Zouaves; haven't you heard of them?" "Is there any end to the mischief of boys?" exclaimed the doctor; "If such things had happened in my young days, our old master, Dr. Birchemwell, would have verified his name even oftener than he did. I do not know what your mothers will say when they see such a couple of scarecrows; but come, we have wasted quite time enough; lessons! lessons!" And to the credit of the boys, be it said, they really did set to work like good fellows, recited the unlucky geography lesson without a single mistake, ciphered like perfect calculating machines, and had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Larned say, as they shook hands for good-bye, "Really, young gentlemen, you have done very well--very well, indeed; so now good-bye, and pleasant holidays!" CHAPTER II. "MARCHING ALONG." MONDAY morning at last! and a bright, beautiful day. The sky was as blue as possible; the sun shone so brightly that it seemed as though it must have been polished up for the occasion, and Colonel Freddy, as soon as he awoke, could not help giving a little shout of joy. But what was that right opposite his bed? A large wooden box, with "Colonel Jourdain, Dashahed Zouaves, First Regiment L. I. Volunteers," painted on the lid in great black letters. Up jumped the new Colonel quicker than any grasshopper, rushed to the mysterious box, and raised the lid. Lying on top was a letter at least six inches square, directed like the box, and closed with a great red seal. Underneath _that_ was--what do you think? A splendid uniform for a Colonel of Zouaves! sword, cap, and epaulettes, complete! Freddy's eyes and mouth opened to their widest compass, as he stared at the box, too much surprised to move. Presently his father came in, looking highly amused. "Good morning, Colonel," he began. "Oh, father!" interrupted Freddy, finding his tongue at last, "do look here! Did you ever see anything so splendid in your life? Where _did_ they come from?" "Perhaps the letter will tell you," was all his father would say. Freddy snatched up the big letter, broke the seal, and with sparkling eyes read the following. NEW YORK, _July --th, 1861_. MY DEAR SON: In consideration of your heroic determination to enter the army in the service of your country, and seeing how nobly you have prepared to engage in the contest by making your hair look as if it had been driven in or pulled out, I have thought best to present you with this uniform to whip the Southerners in; a suit of which I have also sent to every _man_ in your regiment. As I entertain scarcely a doubt that Old Abe will shortly summon you to start down South to Dixie, I hope that you will have a brave regiment, a pleasant encampment, and a first-rate time. And that, in later years, should it be necessary, you will _truly_ distinguish yourself, through God's assistance, under the banner of our country, and stand up in the field in the cause of Truth and Justice, is the sincere wish of Your affectionate Father, L. JOURDAIN. Freddy was delighted at this letter, with its mingled playfulness and sincere patriotism. With all his fun, he was uncommonly intelligent, and understood and appreciated many things which far older boys might have failed to comprehend; and now his splendid blue eyes were raised to his father's face, flashing with real enthusiasm; he felt and looked at that moment, like his noble French ancestors, a born soldier. But the serious mood was soon displaced by a fresh access of glee. "Oh, thank you, papa!" he cried, "how very kind of you! How surprised the boys will be! Hurrah! what a jolly time we shall have! and do you think the President will really send for us? He will be a perfect jay-bird of a President if he does!" "No doubt he will be highly desirous to secure the services of the gallant Dashahed Zouaves," replied his father, laughing; "but make haste now, Fred, it's nearly breakfast time." So saying, he left the room. Of course, the new clothes had to go on directly; and first my young soldier donned a pair of remarkably baggy red trowsers, which looked as if they had a connection with the Manhattan Gas Company like a new sort of balloon, they were so puffy; and a pair of leather gaiters reaching from the calf of the leg to the ancle. Then came a most splendid bluejacket, covered in every direction with gold lace, a killing little ruffled shirt, and a flourishing blue sash. Perched on top of his head, where his hair had been the day before, was a red fez with a long blue tassel, and, to crown all, or, I might say, _cutting-out_ everything else, was a splendid sword, as bright as silver, with a terribly sharp-looking edge, and an elegant gold handle. When he was all dressed, he ran down stairs and found, on entering the dining room, that he was the only one there. A large mirror was over the mantel, which reflected the handsome room, with its deep bay window, filled with flowers, its sideboard, loaded with massive plate, and the breakfast table, covered with its snowy cloth, and nice beefsteak, muffins, and coffee, looking so tempting to hungry folks. Freddy's eye fell on the mirror, and a new idea came into his head. "Hurrah! here's a capital chance to see how I look from head to foot," he thought; so, without remembering the long pier glasses in the parlor, he dragged his father's arm chair in front of the fireplace, and, jumping on the seat, stood turning and twisting about, staring at himself all the time, and quite put out at not being able to see the whole of his back at once. Finally he concluded his performance by striking a tremendous attitude, with his legs as far apart as the chair would permit, his sword in the air, and such a ferocious scowl on his face, that it was a mercy his brows didn't get tied up in a double bow knot then and there. All at once there was a little laugh in the direction of the door. Freddy wheeled round, and there were papa, mamma, and Bella looking on, and trying hard to keep in the laughter! Down scrambled Colonel Freddy from his perch, blushing up to the very roots of his hair. There wasn't much more than the roots left, to be sure; but his father laid his hand on the epauletted shoulder with a good-natured, "Never mind, old fellow, you look fine enough to justify a little personal reflection." Hardly had Freddy taken his place at the table, and his father asked a blessing, than there came such a tremendous ring at the bell, that they thought the President must have come to town to see the regiment off on its travels; but, instead of Old Abe, Major Peter Schermerhorn (who passed the week with an aunt in town, and only went down to Astoria on Saturdays) popped into the room. He was dressed, like Freddy, in a bran new Zouave suit, and the very first thing he said was, "Oh, Fred! only see what I found in my room this morning;" and Peter stood on one leg, and twirled round to show off his new clothes. "So did I in mine!" said Freddy. "Where could they have come from?" continued Peter. "I asked Aunt Edith, and all she would tell me was that the box was sent last night, from a friend. Have you any idea, Fred?" Freddy burst out laughing. "They came from a good fairy," he said, "and there he is!" and he pointed to his father, who pretended not to hear. "Hurrah for Mr. Jourdain!" shouted Peter, tossing his cap in the air. "Will you have some breakfast, Peter?" asked Mrs. Jourdain. "Thank you, ma'am, I had my breakfast before I started, all alone by myself--but," looking at the nice beefsteak, "I think I _could_ eat a little more." "How many apples, by the way Peter?" asked Bella, mischievously. "Only two," he answered, quite seriously, "and a piece of taffy, and two cents' worth of peanuts! that's all, I think; no, a cent's worth of ice cream!" "Of ice cream!" exclaimed Bella, "where can you get ice cream for a cent?" "Why, on the street corners--real good ice cream, too--don't you know that?" and Peter put on an air of superior wisdom, as though he was a knowing young gentleman, who understood better than anybody where nice things were to be had. "But come, Peter," said Mr. Jourdain, "I should like to hear something more about your encampment. How long is your father willing you should have it?" "Father says, sir," replied Peter, "that we can stay until he leaves for Niagara, which will be next week, I guess. We're to have our camp on the lawn, most a quarter of a mile from the house, and some of our men are fixing the tents this morning. There are to be eight of 'em--isn't that gay, Fred? and we've got the smoke house by way of a guard tent beside; but there--I forgot all this time that I have a letter from papa for you, sir--here it is." Mr. Jourdain opened the letter, and read as follows: MY DEAR JOURDAIN: I send you three words, through my harum-scarum Peter, merely to beg that Mrs. Jourdain and yourself will feel no uneasiness concerning the military expedition which has been the principal subject of discussion in my household, and I presume in yours also, since Thursday last. The invincible Zouaves will be stationed too near the house to make any danger possible, and as my family are going to Niagara on Tuesday, and I shall be left a "lone lorn creetur," it will be as much an amusement as anything to make their safety and happiness my special care. Hoping that you will permit Fred to remain in my charge a few days, I am, with regards to Mrs. Jourdain, Very sincerely yours, H. SCHERMERHORN." Ting-a-ling-ling went the front door bell, as if the bull in Cock Robin had hold of the handle. Tramp, tramp, shuffle, shuffle, in the hall, and then Joseph tapped at the door, and showed in a whole troop of merry, noisy boys, all costumed à la Zouave, and with their hair shaved so close that they had to frown very hard to keep their caps on. The famous Dashahed Zouaves were all mustered, sure enough; and turned out to consist of sixteen high privates, four captains, and a standard-bearer, master Tom Pringle, with a perfectly magnificent Star-spangled Banner in his hand, surmounted by an astonishing spread eagle. Then came Major Peter Schermerhorn, who was the prime spirit of mischief of the party, and last, though not least, the great Colonel Freddy; who was dancing about in a high state of glee; while the rest of the _men_, seeing that the _Colonel_ didn't regard dignity in the least, had an impromptu Zouave drill (which consists principally in turning somersaults) all round the dining room, the grown people looking on, in agonies of suppressed laughter. While this novel entertainment was in full swing, the bell tingled again, and Joseph entered once more, to announce, "Master Frederic, the escort and the band have _arriven_, and desire me to say that they are awaiting your pleasure." The escort and the band! Was there any end to wonders this morning? At those magical words, the regiment couldn't resist giving three cheers that nearly took the top of the house off; followed by three for Mr. Jourdain, when Peter made a mock-heroic speech about the uniforms; and finished off with a dozen more for anybody and everybody. At last Mr. Jourdain glanced at his watch and said, "Come, Colonel, I'm afraid you'll miss the boat if you don't make haste. Remember, you have a long march before you, and it is almost ten o'clock now." "Ah, that's a fact!" exclaimed the commander. "Ahem! fall in, old chaps, that is, squad--battalion--what's his name; pshaw! and let's be off." This mandate to "fall in" certainly appeared to be translated "poke in" by the greater part of the corps, for it was directly followed by such a treading upon everybody's toes, and a ramming of elbows into other people's stomachs and chests, and such imminent danger incurred of every eye in the company being put out with bayonets held upside down, straight out, wiggle-waggle, and "various," as rendered it highly likely that matters would be terminated by a fall _out_; but at last they were fairly in line, and marched down the steps into the street; feeling a little shame-faced, but excessively proud of their new and conspicuous position. All the neighbors were leaning out of windows, nearly petrified with astonishment at what was going on; while at least fifty little ragged boys stood staring at the door, their eyes almost popping out of their heads, as the glorious Dashahed Zouaves made their appearance; trying desperately to tuck in the broad grins that _would_ show at the corners of their mouths, and disturb the proper gravity of a soldier. But their good behavior was nearly put to flight altogether when they beheld, waiting to escort them, three of the tallest policemen in the city (to engage whom Mr. Jourdain had made that third call, you remember, in B---- street), and Dodworth's splendid brass band, marshalled in full force. Oh! how their eyes did sparkle! They could hardly get into marching order, or wait until Freddy, who had lingered behind to say good-by, came out and took his place at the head of the regiment. Then, with one more tremendous cheer, rang out the command, MARCH! Out burst the band with the glorious "Star-spangled Banner;" brightly streamed the folds of the flag itself in the wind; proudly Colonel Freddy waved his sword in the air; and so, with steps that kept time to the music, and hearts that thrilled with a mixture of fun and patriotism, the gallant Dashahed Zouaves marched off for Camp McClellan. CHAPTER III. CAMP LIFE. TOOT-TOOO! went the whistle of the steamboat "Mattano." "All aboard!" yelled the captain, and all aboard it was for the Dashahed Zouaves, and ever so many people beside, who, you may be sure, were all eyes when they found out that such a _killing_ regiment was going down with them. "Good-by, my boy," called Mr. Jourdain (who had followed the march in a stage) from the wharf. "Good-by, father; I say, old Beauregard will have to keep his eyes open now the Dashahed Zouaves are in the field!" and Freddy waved his cap in one hand and his sword in the other to his father, as long as he could see him. In a few moments the boat was fairly out from the wharf, and the whole regiment comfortably seated on the promenade deck; very proud of their new responsibilities as members of the army and society generally, and surrounded by a crowd of admirers. "Jolly, ain't I hungry!" exclaimed Freddy, as he joined them; "I went off with hardly any breakfast, I declare! wasn't that noble?" "Noble? I don't see it!" said Charley Spicer. "Nobody asked you to go without your breakfast!" "Why, wasn't I in a hurry to serve my country? When I was so full of glory, I couldn't stop to get full of beefsteak and coffee beside!" "Never mind!" cried Harry Livingston, "I have some sandwiches in my knapsack, and you shall have some, Fred." "Have you? there's six big apples in mine," said Charley. "Here's a quart of peanuts and half a pound of taffy for my share," added Jimmy Boorman. "And I've a pair of broiled spring chickens! high diddle-diddle!" shouted George. "Good boy!" exclaimed Tom Pringle; "here, take my molasses and water bottle--canteen, I mean, and pass round the tin plate for the Colonel!" Amid high glee, every one bestowed a part of his provisions on Freddy until a sufficiently motley meal was collected; half of which he immediately offered again to his companions, who, of course, were quite ready to feel hungry too, and they all munched together, like a company of gypsies. "I say, Capting," said a tall Yankee in a fur hat, to Peter, "what may yew calculate dewing on Long Island?" "Why, we're going into camp, to be sure." "Lors-a-massy! them air boys all alone by theirselves!" exclaimed an old countrywoman, carrying a large market basket, and wearing a great pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. "It beats all natur!" "Yew ha'n't got no one to look arter you?" continued the tall Yankee. "Certainly; here's our commanding officer, Col. Jourdain." "Let me present Mr. ----," added Freddy, full of laugh, and highly enjoying the fun. "Captin George Washington Kosciusko Peter Bonaparte Solomon Hopkins!" said the countryman, with an awkward bow; while the boys hardly dared to look at each other, they were so afraid of bursting out laughing at his ridiculous name. Its fortunate possessor, nothing abashed, went on, "But dew tell, wha--at on airth _dew_ you call yourselves?" "These, sir," replied Freddy, as grave as a judge, though his eyes sparkled with fun, "are the famous Dashahed Zouaves, First Regiment Long Island Volunteers; I am the Colonel, this is Major Schermerhorn, Captains Spicer, Chadwick, Livingston, and Boorman, Sergeant Pringle, and Adjutant Costar." "Oh, _light infantry_ regiment, I calculate." "No, sir, _heavy veterans_!" put in Will Costar. "Wal I never!" exclaimed Captin George Washington Kosciusko Peter Bonaparte Solomon Hopkins (here the boat touched the pier of the Flushing Railroad); "Naow mind, Kurnel Jordan, if ever your regiment comes to Hempstead, yeou put for Captin Hopkins' farm, and if yeou don't get the biggest lot of red apples yeou ever _did_ see, I'll be made into apple pie myself!" and off marched the Yankee, while the boys, as soon as he was fairly out of sight, indulged rather ungratefully in an explosion of laughter. Presently the boat stopped at Ravenswood, and here the old woman got off; but before she went, she took an immense shiny hunk of gingerbread out of the great market basket, and bestowed it on Freddy, saying, "Here, take this, sonny; you air a dear little fellow, so like my Sammy, too"--and the poor old woman's voice broke, and tears began to gather under the brass-bound spectacles, as she turned to leave the boat. Freddy put down his cake, and ran after her, saying, "Thank you, ma'am, thank you very much; I am sorry you are distressed." The old woman stopped, and saying softly, "Bless you, my son!" she kissed the bright, rosy cheek, and went away quite comforted. Freddy wasn't ashamed either, not a bit, when they teased him afterward, but said, "I don't care, she's a real nice old thing; now, there!" Soon the boat ran up to the wharf at Astoria. Delighted to arrive at their journey's end, the boys scampered off as soon as the plank touched the shore, and "formed" on the road in fine style. "Goodness, Peter!" exclaimed Freddy, "I hope it's not very far to your father's place; I'm afraid I shall be melted altogether if it is." "Well, it _is_ a good way," began Peter, with rather a rueful face. "So far that I intend to take you there in comfort," said a pleasant voice close behind them. "Oh, father," cried Peter (for it was Mr. Schermerhorn), "how kind of you! Only look, boys!" and he pointed to two double rockaways which were waiting on the pier. In they all swarmed, managing to find places for everybody (and really, it is surprising how a rockaway can _stretch_ on occasion), and after a rapid drive along a level sandy road, the ha-ha fences of Mr. Schermerhorn's splendid country seat, "Locust Grove," came in view. Soon the carriages entered the beautiful rustic gate, its pillars surmounted by vases, filled with trailing plants; and in a moment more were dashing over the gravelled drive toward the western side of the place. At one point, the road led directly over a deep ravine, spanned by a bridge of rough logs. Then they whirled past a tranquil lake, dotted with pond lilies, and shaded by drooping willows, through which might be caught a glimpse of the tall white chimneys of the house. At last, with a sudden bend, the drive came out on a wide velvet lawn, relieved by a fringe of the beautiful locusts, covered, at this season of the year, with the fragrant pinkish flowers. At some distance a quaint Chinese summer house served as an observatory; beds of brilliant scarlet verbena and many-colored petunias dotted the grass here and there, and right before them, most beautiful of all in their eyes, was the encampment itself, eight snowy white tents, four in a row, while in the midst rose a tall flagstaff, with the dear old Red, White, and Blue floating from the summit. "Hurrah, boys, there's the tents!" shouted Peter, at the top of his voice "Come, let's see who'll get there first;" and, before the carriage could stop, Peter had hopped out, tumbled head over heels on the soft grass, jumped up, and scampered on in advance, followed a moment after by the rest. These wonderful tents were furnished just like real soldiers' dwellings; with a good warm blanket for each of the three occupants, a bright tin basin and tooth mug, a cedar bucket to draw water, a square looking glass, like a sticking plaster, and a couple of wooden lockers (which, between ourselves, were made of claret boxes) in each one; beside camp stools in abundance for everybody. "Here's the officers' quarters!" cried George, as he flung open the door of the smoke house. "No, that's the guard house, Chadwick," said Harry, "where we put the refracti-rac-tic-tactories." "Oh, is it? I go in for that!" shouted Will Costar, "whatever reractitactories may be." "You're on the wrong tack now, old chap," added Tom Pringle. "But only see what I've discovered! such a high old battery, boys! six brass cannon nearly as big as boot-jacks. Hurrah for the Dashahed Zouaves!" and away scampered the boys to look at the guns, while Colonel Freddy, quite forgetting his dignity, fell to and executed a volunteer Jim Crow polka, and Peter sang the following ridiculous song, making up words as he went along: "Ain't I glad I'm out in the wilderness, Out in the wilderness, Out in the wilderness, Ain't I glad I'm out in the wilderness, Down in Astori-_or_? "Good-by, boys, I'm off for Dixie, Off for Dixie, Off for Dixie, Good-by, boys, I'm off for Dixie, And sha'n't come back no more!" Meanwhile, Mr. Schermerhorn had been superintending certain arrangements for the provisioning of the camp, and presently a bugle call, sounded by one of the stable men, summoned the regiment to prepare for dinner. Peter took a bucket and went to draw some water; George and Harry made a fire in the smoke house, which, after all the guesses, turned out to be intended for the regimental kitchen; Jimmy and Tom were initiated into the mysteries of frying ham and potatoes by the cook, and the rest set the table (for the soldiers considered it a point of honor that they should wait on themselves). Amid high glee the table, consisting of a broad smooth plank placed upon horses, was laid with the tin cup and plates, the pewter forks and spoons, and horn-handled knives, which the boys carried in their knapsacks just like real soldiers, after which the table was further embellished by the remains of the rations they had brought with them, disposed around wherever they thought the dishes would have the best effect. The grand feast of fried ham was ready at last, and the new cooks presented themselves and it at table, very hungry and happy. Mrs. Mincemeat, the fat cook, had made the boys each put on one of her blue check aprons, tied under their chins, to save their uniforms; and when they appeared in this new array, their faces as red and shining as a stick of sealing wax, there was a general shout of laughter. "Well, my precious babies," cried one. "Don't soil your new bibs, my tiddy-ikle duckies!" called another. "There, don't tease them," said Freddy, the general peacemaker; "Come, fellows, let's have dinner; ham's good, I tell you!" and down they sat at table, in high, good humor. Of course the cooking business was rather to amuse the boys than in earnest, for the fried ham formed only a small part of the abundant dinner set before the gallant Zouaves. There was lamb, and green peas, new potatoes, fresh tomatoes, custard pudding, and raspberries, all of which was pronounced "fine," although Jimmy declared there never was any dish at Delmonico's to equal or surpass his fried ham, and the others fully concurred in this opinion. As soon as the dinner was fairly under way, Mr. Schermerhorn rose from his place at the table, where he had been carving, and said, with a pleased smile on his face, "Now, my brave soldiers, I must take my leave. Have the goodness not to do double-quick over the flower beds, leave a dish or so of cherries in the orchard, and, whatever you do, don't tumble into the lake, and I shall be satisfied." "Three cheers for Mr. Schermerhorn!" shouted Colonel Freddy. In an instant every fellow was on his feet, every cap was in the air, and a tremendous "Hurrah! hurrah! ti-ga-a-ah!" made the echoes around Camp McClellan wake up in a hurry, and poke their heads out of the hills to see where the cannonading was. Of course, being boys, the regiment cleared the dishes in astonishing style, and polished their plates so thoroughly that you would hardly have thought they wanted the grand washing they had when dinner was over. After stowing all the things away neatly in the smokehouse, and arranging their surplus luggage (which had been sent down the previous Saturday), in the lockers, they all had a grand game at fox and geese, which lasted until Freddy, perfectly worn out with laughing and scampering about, exclaimed, "Come, fellows, do let's sit down and be quiet; I'm as tired as if I had walked from here to China." "Yes, let's be _solemn_ a little while," said Peter. "In these _momentous_ times, we _army men_ ought to be thinking how to fix off the old secessionists and that sort of thing. I move we all sit down in a circle, and the first who laughs shall tell a story." The boys thought this was a grand idea. So they found a nice place, just beneath the sheltering boughs of the locusts, and, putting the camp stools in a ring, they sat down, to see how solemn they could be. But it was no use; though they pinched up their mouths, and frowned, and did their best to look like a company of highly respectable owls, in two minutes they all burst out laughing, so nearly together that nobody could tell who had begun. As soon as the broad faces had come back to their proper length, there was a general cry for a story; and as Peter had instituted the new regulation, he undertook to carry it out; so, drawing a long breath to start with, he commenced: "Once upon a time, there lived a family of bears in a thick wood. Grumpy-growly, the father, was a jolly, cross old fellow--oh! I guess he was! and the little ones didn't dare so much as to snap at a fly without permission, when he was around. "One day Grumpy-growly went out to take a walk, bidding the young ones to be very good while he was away; for he was a widower, poor fellow! and had to see after his family himself. "As soon as he was fairly gone, Longclawse, the eldest, said, 'Seems to me, brothers, we have stood this long enough. All the other cubs in the wood can run about as they please, and why should we be kept in this poky old cave? Suppose we try to get away the big log before the door?' for this was what Grumpy-growly put up to keep them at home. "'Good! I go in for that!' cried Bushyball, Titehugge, and Stubtail, the other cubs. "So first they tried to poke their noses under the log, but the plaguy old thing wouldn't stir. Then they turned their backs against it, and all kicked together with their hind legs, and presently away it went, to the great delight of the four bears, who didn't trouble themselves to put it back again, but just packed up their carpet bags, and cut stick, I tell you." Here Peter opened his eyes and mouth very wide, and ran out his tongue for a moment to get an airing, a proceeding which he frequently repeated during the story. Then he went on: "They had a jolly time climbing trees, rolling on the soft grass, and playing with the other bears they met; but at last Titehugge and Stubtail, the youngest, declared they were too tired to go another step, and must take a little nap. Longclawse and Bushyball thought they would go off to see the election, which they had been told was to take place that very day, and the others, promising not to stir from the spot without them, curled themselves up into tight round balls, and went to sleep. "While they were dreaming away, a fox came along. He was a cunning old codger, and hated Grumpy-growly like mustard, because the old fellow had once treated him, in a fit of rage, to a hug that nearly put an end to him. When he saw the sons of his enemy asleep, he made up his mind to fool them in revenge; and after he had rummaged both their carpet bags, to see if there was anything worth taking, he went up to Titehugge and pulled his ear a little to waken him. Titehugge, who was as cross as two sticks, and always fighting his brothers, opened his eyes, and for a moment looked so very like giving the fox a gentle squeeze, that foxy was rather startled. However, he took courage, and laying his paw on his heart, he made the bear such an elegant bow that he nearly cracked his spine. 'Ah, my d-e-a-r Titehugge! so glad to see you. You know I have always been a great friend of your dear papa's, and now, I should be overjoyed to do you a little favor. Do you happen to know that there is a tree near here, which is hollow from root to branches, and filled with wild bees' combs and honey?' "'No! cried Titehugge, 'is there? Show it to me directly, master fox, and don't stand there gaping at me!' You see, bears were never celebrated for being polite, and Titehugge had no more manners than any of 'em. "'Come along, then,' said the fox, 'but take care to make no noise, or you will waken your brother, and then he'll be wanting to have half the honey.' "Titehugge was a selfish little pig--bear, I mean--and though he felt rather shy of going off alone for the first time in his life, he was too greedy after the honey to let that trouble him much. However, he said, 'You had better be careful not to play any tricks, master fox, for if you do, I'll give you a hug that will settle _you_--if you are such a dear friend of mine.' "'My d-e-a-r friend!' exclaimed the fox, 'd-o-n't say so! How can you suppose I would do such a shabby thing? Come, we shall soon be at the tree.' "Titehugge waited for nothing more, but started off with master fox, who kept on flattering him all the way until Titehugge thought him the first-_ratest_ fellow in the whole world. Presently they came to the hollow tree, and Titehugge, without waiting to ask any questions, shinned up like a streak of lightning, and began smelling down the hole. 'But, it looks very dark down here,' cried he at last 'and I don't see any honey'. "'Oh, you must poke your nose further in,' said the fox, 'and you'll soon come to it.' "Titehugge accordingly rammed and jammed his head with great difficulty into the hole, which proved such an uncommonly tight fit, that, not finding any honey, he began trying to pull it back double quick; but lo and behold! pull and tug, scratch and swear as he might, he was caught in a mouse trap not intended for bears, while the fox stood below giggling. After he had amused himself enough with Titehugge's struggles, he scampered off to find Stubtail; bawling out, 'Good-by, my d-e-a-r friend, I hope you'll find the honey answer your expectations.' "Meanwhile, master Stubtail was snoring away like a catamount, when the fox trotted up, and seating himself beside him, began to sing a popular fox ballad, beginning, 'Oh? don't I love to cheat 'em!' "This soon awoke Stubtail, and opening his eyes, he saw the fox sitting, singing away, as if he never dreamed of such a person as Stubtail being near. "'Well, master fox!' he said, in a dandified way, 'whawt business have you, I should like to know, in the--aw company of a bearah of fashion? Make your mannahs, sir, and don't sit down before your bettahs! How horrid vulgah you are--aw!' "Up jumped the fox, and made such a beautiful bow this time, that he fell over on his nose, and nearly stuck his tail in the bear's face, as he exclaimed, 'Oh, my d-e-a-r friend! d-o-n'-t say that! I didn't mean to be uncivil. I only came to ask you to a little fox party that is coming off this afternoon, if your highness will favor us with your honorable company. Only ten of my cousins and seven of my brothers and sisters are coming--just a nice little family party; but then they are all such beauties! particularly my cousin, Miss Slygo Brighteyes! She is perfectly lovely; as slender as a bean pole, and smooth as a young rabbit; and then such sharp teeth, such a fine bushy tail! oh my! and _such_ a dancer, too, as she is!' "Now, Stubtail was as fond of dancing and flirting as his brother of eating, and tried to be a great dandy and beau; so when master fox gave such a glowing description of Miss Slygo Brighteyes, his charming cousin, Stubtail's whiskers curled up tighter than ever; and he could hardly manage to _drawl_ out, 'Aw--yaas, I think I _will_ dwop in for harf an 'ouah!' "When the fox heard that, he was ready to stand on his head for joy; and could scarcely wait while Stubtail opened his carpet bag, and took out his all-rounder collar, his lemon-colored kid gloves, and his pork pie hat, to wear at the fox's party. "But what has become of Titehugge?' he asked, suddenly noticing that his brother was not there. "'Oh, never mind _him_,' said the fox, 'I saw the selfish little wretch gobbling away at some honey as I came along, and you see he was too greedy to ask you to share it.' "This was enough for Stubtail, who was too hard at work drawing on his tight gloves to think of anything else, and away he trotted with the fox; who took him to a lonely hollow in the wood, where, sure enough, there were about fifty other foxes clustered together, but who looked at Stubtail as he came among them, in anything but a pleasant manner. "'Now, my friends!' exclaimed master fox himself, in a furious tone, 'you see before you the son of that old scoundrel Grumpy-growly, who nearly killed me last year. At him, my dear cousins! scratch his eyes out! ahaaa!' and with a long growl of rage the fox made a sudden jump at poor Stubtail before he had time to run away, followed by all the others. "Stubtail fought like a perfect Zouave, hugging, scratching, and biting his enemies with might and main; but after all, one poor little cub could not do very much against a whole army of foxes, and Stubtail would have been killed outright before long, when suddenly a tremendous growling was heard! and up dashed Grumpy-growly himself, who most fortunately happened to be passing, and came to see what the row was, followed by Longclawse and Bushyball, full tilt! They didn't stop to inquire whether this was a free fight or not, but pitched in like a thousand of bricks, and demolished the foxes in a way which astonished them considerable. "As to master fox, he was making off first of anybody, leaving his friends in the lurch; but Grumpy-growly saw him, and catching him by the ear, made him confess all the mischief he had been about that morning; and as soon as he had finished, Grumpy-growly gave him one good hug, which killed him as dead as a coffin nail. "After the grand battle was over, Grumpy-growly marshalled the three cubs before him, hanging their heads, and looking perfectly miserable with shame and fatigue, and started off to find Titehugge; scolding and beating them all the way for their naughty conduct, though they were punished enough already; for Longclawse and Bushyball had gone to the election, where they had been well pummelled by a shoulder-hitting baboon, because they insisted on voting for Douglas as the beariest fellow on the ticket, and afterward met by their father, who gave them another thrashing for daring to come out without leave, and dragged them howling away. Stubtails ears were torn into ribbons, his head bleeding in twenty places, and unfortunately no 'Balm of the Blooming Blossoms of Gilead' to put on it, and, in short, the whole party looked as if they had been at an Irish funeral and nearly been made 'cold corpuses' themselves. After a long hunt, they at last found Titehugge stuck fast where the fox had left him, and now the puzzle was to get him out. The three brothers all tried in vain, and at last Grumpy-growly caught hold of Titehugge's tail, Longclawse of Grumpy-growly's, Stubtail of Longclawse's, and Bushyball of Stubtail's, and they all pulled and tugged together; ouf! ouf! altogether now! one, two, three, Pop! out came Titehugge, and out came his tail, too! and the five bears rolled head over heels together in such a hurley-burley, that it was a long time before they could get straight enough to start for home; and when they _did_ get there, Grumpy-growly put up the big log again, and put a big stone on top of that, and a hundred pound weight on top of that, and _one_ of those home-made pies we used to have at boarding school on top of _that_, which proved the heaviest of the lot, and if they ever happened to get out of prison again, it is more than I know." Thus ended the wonderful story of the five bears, which gave great amusement to the hearers, and was pronounced "first rate." Pretty soon after, they had a scrambling sort of tea, not quite as orderly as dinner, for they were all tired out with the day's adventures; and about seven o'clock, George, who, as I told you, was the oldest of the party, sensibly proposed that the regiment should go "early to bed," on the principle of the old maxim, and in order to be "early to rise," after the example of real soldiers. As they were not quite certain what were the usual ceremonies attendant upon soldiers' retiring, Freddy undertook to "do the thing up brown," as he said, in a novel and delightfully military manner. So, taking his place about a dozen yards in advance of the camp, and standing as stiff as a ramrod, just as he had seen the officers do at West Point, he called out "Battalion, attention!" At these words, the regiment strung themselves in a long line, like so many kibobs on a straw, with their captains standing in front. "Now, Captain Livingston, dismiss your company to quarters," and off marched the first company, four "men" strong, toward the tents; then the next four, and so on, until all had gone, and then came posting back again without the smallest delay. Colonel Freddy was obediently following his own orders by dismissing himself, with a sublime disregard of rank, when Peter suddenly called out, "I say, Fred, there's one thing you've forgotten!" "What is that?" asked Freddy, stopping short. "Why, we ought to have a guard. You know they always do in camps." "To be sure! I never thought of that. Come, fellows, the safety of Camp McClellan must be looked out for." "Very well, suppose you begin!" laughed Jimmy. "Hum, I'm the Colonel; Colonels can't be sentinels." "But I want to go to bed!" objected Will Costar. "Well, I love my country, but I think the country had better turn in too!" said Harry. "What business has the country to be awake and getting into mischief in the middle of the night?" "Voted," cried Peter, "that the guard be mounted, but that it shall go to bed as soon as it gets sleepy!" "Good for you! that's the way to fix it!" said Colonel Freddy. "Now then, boys, who'll turn out?" and two of the gallant Zouaves being posted, one on each side of the camp, the others produced their nightgowns (which, by their special entreaty, had been crammed into the little knapsacks), and with several hair breadth escapes from having one or two of the tents pitched over, as the occupants incautiously ran against the poles, the regiment after, I am glad to say, a most sincere and earnest repetition of their prayers, fell into the sweet sound sleep of happy childhood; while the guard, after prancing up and down about ten minutes, concluded to follow their example, as there was nothing particular in the way of an enemy to look out for. Ah! how charming looked now the little encampment, with the full radiance of the harvest moon streaming over the white tents, standing gleamingly out from the dark background of trees. No sound but the chirpings of insects could be heard; nothing moved about the spot but the flag, stirring dreamily in the summer breeze. And now the wind springs fresher up; it catches the bright folds, and they flash out in full view. God bless you, glorious old banner! floating there over as loyal, though boyish hearts, as ever beat in the midnight camp of the Army of Freedom. END OF VOL. I. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 18, "contined" changed to "continued" (then she continued) 
32726	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories October 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [Illustration: The B. E. M. purred contentedly as the giant stroked his eyeballs] DEATH OF A B. E. M. by BERKELEY LIVINGSTON The writer hated to create bug-eyed monsters, but they hated him too! "Blast them!" the writer groaned in bitter accents. "How I hate those B. E. M's.!" "Hang them!" the artist yelled. "How I hate those B. E. M's.!" "Darn them!" the B. E. M. moaned. "How I hate those humans!" * * * * * The artist and the writer sat staring at each other in wordless misery, their coffee untasted and their spirits at low ebb. Up above, in the beehive that was the publishing house which gave them their livelihood, the word had gone around. _B. E. M'S, B. E. M'S...._ Sadly, in accents forlorn, the writer said: "Bug-eyed monsters! Ye gads! Bug-eyed monsters! Jack, old boy, do you realize we're setting science-fiction back a hundred years?" "I know just how you feel, Harry," the artist replied. "After all, we too had presumed that we had been freed of these monsters. So back we go to the drawing board, our minds tortured and twisted ..." He sighed disconsolately. "Oh, well," the writer sighed and blew out his breath. He stared fixedly at his coffee until a something blue slipped into focus. His glance traveled upward from the hem of the girl's apron, past the lovely swell of her charms and on past the sweet throat, to the gay, smiling face and sparkling eyes. Forgotten then were B. E. M's. for both. Diane, the goddess of the restaurant corps of enchanting waitresses, was at their side.... * * * * * Hiah-Leugh was having his eyeballs massaged. It was a delicate and tedious operation for the one doing the massaging; not every Goman was possessed of eight eyeballs. But Hiah-Leugh was not an ordinary Goman. Not he! He was chief of all the Gomans, which meant he was head of all the bug-eyed monsters on the whole of the planet of XYZ268PDQ. The four-headed slave, one of the giants Hiah-Leugh's tribe had captured on one of their forays into the terrible forest of Evil Contractions, scratched himself with one of his six arms. He was quite bored with this peaceful, though tedious pursuit the tribe of Hiah-Leugh had given to him as his duties. Especially the massaging of eyeballs. Of course it helped to have six arms. Ooh! His four heads ranged themselves in a single line. The slave had committed a sin. There were three cardinal sins on the planet of XYZ268PDQ. Two of them were unmentionable and the third was forgetting to massage all of the eight eyeballs of Hiah-Leugh at one and the same time. If it were not for the massage the giants of the planet would all live in peace. But it took a man with six arms to do the job. In fact it was to the regret of Hiah-Leugh that the giants did not have eight arms. Now one of the eyelids was closing. In a second or two it would be closed completely and once a single of the eight eyes closed the others automatically followed suit. There was but a single thing to do in this case. The giant did it. He poked his finger into the drooping lid. Hiah-Leugh awoke with a suddenness of shock and startled surprise. He howled in pain then leaped from the chair, scuttling about the room-of-massage on his twelve pairs of crablike legs at a great pace. "Heavens to Betsy!" Hiah-Leugh screamed. "You _are_ the clumsiest giant.... But what can a B. E. M. expect? Oh, well! You're excused. Go and see if there are any children to frighten...." There were four different expressions on the four heads. One showed pleasure, and another, surprise and a third, gloom and the fourth was blank completely. This head was the dumb one. It had but one expression, blankness. The four heads bent and the great body bowed low, and slowly, with great effort and with many bumpings into various pieces of furniture, the giant bowed himself out of the massage parlor. Hiah-Leugh was left alone. But not for long. Suddenly a whole section of the wall slid back showing another room. This was the famous Gloating Chamber of Hiah-Leugh. Here were brought all the victims the tribe captured. And here it was that their chief was supposed to spend his time in _Gloating_ over the tortures his torturers were supposed to spend their time in devising. But business had been very bad lately. Not only was there not a single victim in the Gloating Chamber, there was not a single torturer available. Hiah-Leugh suddenly remembered. Something about a picnic.... Then why had the wall slid back? "_Hiah-Leugh! Hiah-Leugh!_" it was the clarion call of his ninth concubine, the lovely and charming Sally Patica. But what in the name of all that was unmentionable was she doing in the Gloating Chamber? Of course she too could be _Gloating_! He moved slowly toward the room, hoping against hope she was not in a bad mood. The last time she had called in that tone of voice he had suffered greatly. She had made him go without an eyeball massage for a whole week.... * * * * * She was pacing back and forth on the long, raised platform. Hiah-Leugh skirted the Iron Maiden, the Pallid Pulley, the Bronze Beater, the Copper Conker, and Giant Mas-Mixer, which was a fake. Nothing was ever mixed in it except the noxious weed Hiah-Leugh used in his pipe. At the sound of his approach Sally stopped her pacing and fixed him with a baleful glance out of eyes, four and five. Eyes, two and three were busy seeing if her coiffure was right and eyes one, six and seven were having their lids tweezed. After all, she had twelve pairs of legs which were also used for hands. A heck of a lot could be done with so many appendages. She started in even before he quite reached her side: "Where is everybody? Do I have to sit by myself every day? _Must_ you have your eyeballs massaged _everyday_? Where are the torturers? Where is everybody...?" "I think there's a picnic scheduled for today, dear," Hiah-Leugh said. "Why wasn't I told about it?" Sally demanded. She had very probably _been_ told about it but knowing his ninth concubine and the limits of her memory, she had very surely forgotten. "Hiah-Leugh!" she broke in on him before he could frame a reply. "I'm so terribly, terribly bored! There hasn't been a good torture since, since ... when _was_ the last time there was a torture party?" "The time Gin-Pad was caught stealing wokkerjabbies from his youngest child," Hiah-Leugh said. "We put him in the Pallid Pulley and stretched four of his legs until they were longer than the rest. And to this day Gin-Pad walks like he's looking for something between his forelegs...." Six of Sally's seven pairs of eyes crossed suddenly, a sign she was in thought. Hiah-Leugh had the wishful hope that the seventh pair would cross. When that happened Sally would be ex-concubine. She would also be ex-living but that didn't bother him. We all have to die sometime, he thought. But why does she have to live so long? The thought processes of Sally Patica wound their weary way and came to their proper end. Life was boresome. And she had to think of something to make it less so. She did. "Y'know, Hiah," she said as she uncrossed her eyes, "I have an idea...." The chief of all the Gomans rolled all eight pairs of his eyes ceiling-ward. Not another of her ideas. Oh no! Not that! The last time she had one of her ideas it was for a treasure hunt, a treasure hunt for a five-headed giant, despite Hiah-Leugh's insistence there were no such beings. But she wanted one dead or alive. She got it, dead. What Sally didn't know was that her mate gave orders to have one killed and have a fifth head sewn on his shoulders. Love, however, was as strong on planet XYZ268PDQ as it was on any other planet, and as burdensome, and though Hiah-Leugh felt his heart sink, he also knew he would give in to her wishes. "... What do you think of this; bring some humans up here and we'll run a torture party for our fiends?" The male's jaw dropped, all three feet of it. This was even worse than he had imagined. _Bring some humans up here_, she said. Had she any idea of what that entailed? No. _NOO!_ He tried to reason with her: "Darling. Wait. Don't be hasty. Let me explain. In the first place have you ever met a human?" "What difference does that make?" she pouted. "I've heard about them." "But sweetheart," he went on in his pleading. "They're quite horrible. They have but one head, and a single pair of arms and legs. They walk upright and they can only bear _children_...." This was new to her. "... Children...?" "Yes! And they're horrible things, really. Must be raised on pablum and formulas and things like that. _Formulas._ Sounds mechanical. No, Sally, my pet. I'll think of something else. Something which will not require so much work...." It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the instant he said it. "_Work!_" she yelped. "So that's what's troubling you. Too much work you say. And what is occupying your time now? Have you even so much as gone to the forest of Evil Contractions to capture a giant in the past six months? Not you! You're satisfied with the way things are. You wouldn't give a hang if I died of boredom. And when I ask for something like a torture party, all you can say is, it's too much work." She started to cry. And after all she had seven pairs of eyes to shed tears from. It was the biggest crying jag since the invasion from space a millenium before when the invaders used tear gas.... Hiah-Leugh threw up all the arms he could spare and shouted: "Okay. _OKAY!_ I'll call a meeting of the Council and we'll plan something." * * * * * "The situation is this," Hiah-Leugh said in opening the meeting, "we must (get the) right to work and bring some humans up here." The assembled B. E. M's. stopped looking bored at the words. They had wondered why their chieftan had called the meeting. Now they knew. One after the other they repeated the words as if they couldn't believe their senses. Humans! Here on Planet XYZ268PDQ. "But mighty chief," one of them said in objection. "Do you realize what you're asking of us?" Another said: "How, when...?" And a third asked: "Who?" "Our scientists, that's who," Hiah-Leugh answered. "What the heck we got them for anyway? Seems all they do is sleep. Let them wake up and to work." But the oldest and wisest of them said: "Why can't we be normal monsters and not act like we're expected to? Isn't peace enough for us? Must we look for trouble?" But their chieftan knew there was no turning back. Not if he wanted peace. And knowing Sally Patica, he also knew there would be no peace for him until he brought some humans up for torture. "Let them construct space ships, terrible weapons of war, plagues and all the necessary adjuncts to planetary invasion. Let them prepare for the holocaust," Hiah-Leugh shouted, drowning out the others. But it was the youngest, a mere youth of ten thousand years, upon whose head but a single eye showed, who pointed out the path. He was already bored with this meeting; besides, he had but fallen in love the day before and wanted to get back to his amorata. "Why all this fuss?" he asked. "What's more, we don't have scientists, or mathematicians, or warriors. If the giants weren't so stupid we'd never capture them. So let's stop this foolishness, this dreaming...." That was the clue. After all, Hiah-Leugh hadn't been made chief of all the Gomans for nothing. He proved his right to the leadership then. "That's it!" he said. "The artists and writers of the human world have made monsters of us, even though we can't do any of the things they pretend we can. There is but a single attribute we possess which they have said we do. We can project ourselves through space and time. So let us to the Earth, and pluck one or two of these humans, and if I may offer a suggestion, let us take a writer and artist from among them and bring them back with us...." * * * * * Harry Zmilch, writer-extraordinary of science-fiction, passed weary fingers across a furrowed brow. A few feet to the rear of the desk at which Zmilch labored stood the drawing board of Jack Gangreneyellow, the artist. He too paused in his labors. At one and the same instant they turned and regarded each other with solemn, staring eyes. "No use, Joe," Harry said. "I can't do it. I've beaten my brain until it refuses to function. I keep typing the same word over and over again ... nuts ... nuts!... Bug-eyed monsters! There aren't such things. My imagination just can't bring them to paper." "Nor can mine to the board," Jack said. "Still it's easier for you," Harry said. "All you've got to do is draw a spider or huge bug of sorts, put a man and woman somewhere in the drawing, make the woman appear as if she'd lost half her clothes in a struggle, and you've got your piece. With me it's different." Gangreneyellow snorted. This character, he thought, knew as little of art and the difficulties of composition as the next guy. "That's what you think," he retorted. "All you guys have to do is _imagine_ a monster, have a man and woman placed in peril by the monster's presence and you've got a story. With us it's different...." Zmilch was half-turned, facing his friend across the width of one shoulder. At the other's words, Zmilch turned all the way, got up from his chair and strolled to the board on which a drawing in full color was in its last stages. The drawing depicted a jungle scene. In the foreground a man and woman stood in petrified stance, the man's arm around the woman's shoulders. He was dressed for safari, pith helmet, breeches, boots, open shirt and all. The woman looked like she'd spent all her life in the jungle. She wore a leopard skin draped becomingly to show the greater part of her charms. They were in semiprofile so that the artist could depict the terror on their faces. And full in the center of the drawing was an immense web stretched between the boles of two jungle giants. Descending the web was a gigantic bug, or spider, the artist had not detailed it too well. "I thought you said you were finding it hard to do?" Zmilch asked. "Why you've just about finished it." Gangreneyellow, not to be outdone by his friend, walked over to the other's desk and read aloud from the author's manuscript: "'... Tom Brighteyes knew he hadn't the smallest chance of escaping. The hordes of Micro Ambrosia were but a short way off. Ahead the Great Swamp blocked any chances of escape for him and the Leopard Girl. Their doom was sealed. He turned to her and said: "Leopard Girl, I love you. I know. I'm from another world, a world where men and women are not the same as this. Oh, I don't mean the outward man and woman, but the inward. This is a savage world, a world where both men and women have to struggle to exist against terrifying odds. Horrible beasts, terrible insects, and natural phenomena make this place a nightmare of existence. But here I found love and perhaps death. I am not sorry I came." "Tom Brighteyes," the girl turned to him and drew close. "I love you too. I think I felt love from the first instant I saw you, backed against a tree, with your puny weapons facing Hogo the Mogo, king of all the swampland. Hogo the Mogo used to eat guys like you for breakfast. Yet you drew a cigarette from a silver, enamel case upon whose shining face a small chaste crest revealed your excellent taste in such things, and while Hogo the Mogo slavered his hate in your face, you drew a king's size, Exhilirato from the case and lit it with a nonchalance that took my breath away...." "What the heck are you complaining about?" Gangreneyellow asked. "You're not doing so badly yourself." "Yeah," said a strange voice. "Neither of you are doing badly. Everything is just horrible, isn't it? The B. E. M's. march across your pages and drawing boards with assembly-line facility. But have either of you two had any feelings for us?" The two men turned startled and terrified faces in the direction of the mysterious voice. They could see nothing. Yet they could feel the impalpable presence of some strange being in this very room with them. Suddenly they became aware of a strange fog emanating from one wall. It swept closer drawing them into its greasy folds. The voice seemed to come from the very heart of this fog: "... Well, perhaps things will be different soon...?" Then the fog enveloped them completely, and their senses fled from them.... * * * * * It was an odd sort of voice, mellow, fluid, yet holding accents of anger in its even flow: "Both of you complained you couldn't imagine this. So we brought you here to prove its existence." The writer and artist opened their eyes and the fog in which they'd been bound was no longer there. They were in an immense chamber whose vaulted ceiling extended for a full hundred feet in the air and seemed suspended by slender strings, so tenuous were the web-like supports, so fragile were the arches. They were standing before a tremendous table whose semi-circular length might have been fifty feet from one end to the other. And seated at the table were the most horrifying monsters they had ever seen. There was one, a huge beetle-like thing with two heads and a scaly body and four pairs of pincers extending from the line of jaw. There was, another, somewhat like a spider, but with dozens of legs. A third was half-man, half alligator; a fourth was all snake, but with three human heads; and another was all head without body. They were, the two men realized, the most terrible _things_ they had ever imagined. "... And there is the rub," the voice went on. "We are all as you have imagined us. We exist only in your imagination." "But how can that be?" Harry Zmilch asked. "We are here. We can see you...." "Only because your imaginations have been developed to such a degree," the voice replied. "Were you able to you would imagine us as something altogether different. But since there are limits to your imagination we are as we are. Now you must pay the penalty of that imagination. "Torture will be the price we will exact from you...." In an instant they were transported to the torture chamber. They saw the horrible machines, the Copper Conker, the Pallid Pulley, and the rest. And up on the platform they saw Sally Patica in all her glory, her seven pairs of eyes watering so great was her excitement. The monsters got in each other's way so hurried were they to tie and make fast the two humans to the torture machines. And despite Harry's and Jack's screams, they were bound, hand and foot and placed on each of the machines in turn. But though the machines whirled and clanked and ground and grunted and snarled their vicious ways the two humans could not feel a single thing. Yet all about them the horrible monsters screamed and shouted and laughed and danced and on the platform Sally Patica shrieked with joy. "A torture party at last," she screamed. "Oh, Hiah-Leugh, I'm so happy. I'm the happiest monster in the whole world." But down below, on the last of the machines in the assembly line, Harry Zmilch thought as he was being whirled around, his head always meeting a mace-like thing which was supposed to shear a slice from his head at every turn but which felt like a feather, gosh! If I get back alive what a story I could do on B. E. M's. While on another instrument of torture, the Pallid Pulley, a device supposed to tear the limbs slowly from a man, Jack Gangreneyellow thought, man! what a cover I could make if ever I get out of this. A strange thing happened then. The machines stopped their whirring, the monsters stopped their shriekings, and Jack and Harry stopped moving. "Ohh, you nasty humans," Hiah-Leugh said. "Now you've spoiled our party!" "Why?" Harry asked. "Because all this has been in vain. All you can see is that we're monsters. And as such we have no feelings except for the giving of pain, torture and death. Gosh, fellas! Can't you see these things aren't real? We're the nicest monsters." But all Harry and Jack could think of was that B. E. M's. were real. Further, they were as terrible as anything they had ever imagined. "Yes," Hiah-Leugh went on. "We are as you have imagined because we live only in your imagination. And there we live as monsters. If in the beginning you had given us other lines to read and other lives to live, things might be as they really are. But no. The human race had to be the master race. The insect world and the animal world could only provide danger and conflict." He turned to the assembled monsters and said, sadly, "Okay, boys. Turn 'em loose. Let them go back to their typewriters and drawing boards...." * * * * * Harry Zmilch shook his head savagely and looked at his friend. He was doing the same. "Got dizzy for a second," Harry said. "Gees! Have I got a swell ending for my story...." "Funny," Jack said. "I got dizzy too. And have I got a sweet idea for a monster. All detail...." Harry went back and typed: 'But Tom Brighteyes was no longer listening to the voice of his beloved. Behind him were the advance guards of Hogo the Mogo. And ahead the dreaded swamp. There was but one thing to do, go into the sixth dimension, the fifth was already too perilous. Drawing the girl within the embrace of his brawny arms, he closed his eyes and sent out the powerful thought waves which would send him into the sixth dimension....' And at the end, he tacked on: To be continued next month.... 
29594	----	[Illustration: BULL RUN.] THE SOCK STORIES, BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER. RED, WHITE, AND BLUE SOCKS. Part Second. BEING THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SERIES. BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER, THE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE WHITE ANGEL." NEW YORK: LEAVITT & ALLEN, 21 & 23 MERCER ST. 1863. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by S. L. BARROW, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER, 50 Greene Street, New York. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. PAGE COLONEL FREDDY; OR, THE MARCH AND ENCAMPMENT OF THE DASHAHED ZOUAVES, CHAP. I.--BELLIGERENT POWERS, 5 II.--BULL RUN, 30 III.--BEFORE MONTEREY, 50 IV.--A GRAND REVIEW, 87 V.--"HOME! SWEET HOME!" 111 CONCLUSION, 125 COLONEL FREDDY; OR, THE MARCH AND ENCAMPMENT OF THE DASHAHED ZOUAVES. PART II. CHAPTER I. BELLIGERENT POWERS. TUESDAY morning dawned "as clear as a bell," as an old lady once said, and the Dashahed Zouaves, if not exactly up with the sun, were awake and stirring at a much earlier hour than usual; and after a rather more careful washing and brushing than soldiers usually indulge in, assembled on the lawn, looking as bright as their own buttons. "What fun it is to be soldiers!" cried a little lisping fellow, one of the privates. "I only wish thome Southerners would come along now, and you'd thee how I'd _thmash_ 'em." "Bravo, Louie!" said Harry, laughing; "I dare say, if we were to go to the wars, you'd keep on fighting the battles of your country till you were chopped into inch bits!" "And pickled! I expect to be made Lieutenant-general, Commander-in-chief, Colonel, Major, Captain, Lieutenant, Sergeant Hamilton at the very least!" "Pooh! that's nothing to the feats of bravery I intend to perform!" cried Peter. "In my first battle I shall capture a 2,000-pound columbiad with one hand tied behind me, and carry it home for a paper weight!" "While I'm charging a regiment of mounted infantry single handed, and making them throw away their swords, and pistols, and things, and run for that 'last ditch' of theirs double quick!" said Will Costar, laughing; "but here comes breakfast, I'm happy to say. It strikes me camping out makes a fellow awful hungry, as well as no end of brave." A servant who had been sent from the house with breakfast materials, now approached, and the table being laid, the soldiers drew their camp stools around it; Colonel Freddy sitting at the head and pouring out coffee with great gravity. Everything was going on smoothly enough, when Harry tilted the tray on one side, and Charley knocked his elbow on the other, and away went the coffee to the very end of the table! "Charley," exclaimed the Colonel, severely, "what do you mean, sir? I'll have you put in arrest if you don't look out!" "Who'll put me there?" "Me!" shouted Peter. "I'm the boy to manage refractories. You'll see how I will come after you with a sharp stick--bayonet, I mean--and put you in arrest like that!" snapping his fingers. "By the way, when we've caught our rebels, where is the prison to be?" asked Jimmy. "Why, in the smoke house. There's a patent spring bolt on the door--father had it fixed the last time we had hams made; and if anybody was once in there, they'd never get out in the world, unless they could draw themselves fine like a wire and squeeze through the chimney." "We'll take care to keep out of it, then!" said Charley; "so, Colonel, I beg pardon for tilting the biggin--I didn't mean to do it so much--really!" "I, too!" cried Harry; "shake hands, old chap!" Good-tempered Freddy, always ready to "make up," caught a hand of each of his comrades, and breakfast went on amicably. Now, there lived in the house an old English man servant named Jerry Pike. He had formerly been a groom and attendant on Peter's uncle, Major Schermerhorn, and volunteered in the army at the time of the war with Mexico, that he might follow his dear master, whom he had served and loved ever since the Major was a mere boy. He had fought bravely beside him in many a hard battle, and, for his gallant conduct, been promoted to the rank of sergeant. When the hand of death removed that kind master, Mr. Schermerhorn had gladly taken Jerry to his own house, and promised him that should be his home as long as he lived. So now, like a gallant old war horse, who has a fresh green paddock, and lives in clover in his infirm age, Jerry not only stood at ease, but lived at ease; and worked or not as he felt disposed. When breakfast was over, Peter suddenly cried out, "I say, fellows, suppose we employ ourselves by having a drill! You know old Jerry that I told you about? I'll ask him to give us a lesson!" "Yes! that will be grand fun!" said Freddy. "Do go and find him, Peter; I should really like to learn how to drill as the soldiers do; so when General McClellan comes along, he'll admire us as much as the English General, old Sir Goutby Slogo, did the Seventh Regiment when they paraded before the Prince. 'Really, most extraordinary style of marching these American troops have,' said he, 'most hequal to the 'Orse Guards and the Hoxford Blues coming down Regent street!'" Meanwhile, Peter had scampered off to the house, and in a short time returned with a comical-looking little old man, dressed in faded regimentals. He touched his cap to the boys as he approached, in military style, and then drew himself up so very stiff and straight, awaiting their orders, that, as Freddy whispered to Tom, it was a perfect wonder he didn't snap short off at the waist. "Now, Jerry," began the Colonel, "we want you to give us a _real_ drill, you know, just as you used to learn." "Yes, a regular one!" chimed in the rest; "we'll run for our guns." "Not fur your fust drill, I reckon, genl'men. You'll do bad enough without 'em, hech, hech!" cackled Jerry. "Very well--come begin then, Jerry!" cried impatient Will. "Are ye all ready?" "Yes, and waiting." "Then, genl'men, FALL IN!" exclaimed the sergeant, the first two words being uttered in his natural voice, but the last in an awful sepulchral tone, like two raps on the base kettle drum. Off duty, Jerry rather resembled a toy soldier, but when in giving his orders he stiffened his body, threw up his head, and stuck out his hands, he looked so like the wooden figures out of Noah's ark, that the boys burst into a shout of laughter. "Now, genl'men," exclaimed Jerry in a severe tone, "this won't do. Silence in the ranks. Squad! 'Shun. The fust manoover I shel teach you, genl'men, is the manoover of 'parade rest.' Now look at me, and do as I do." Anybody would have supposed, naturally enough, that to stand at rest meant to put your hands in your pockets and lean against a tree; but what Jerry did, was to slap his right hand against his left, like a torpedo going off, and fold them together; stick out his left foot, lean heavily upon his right, and look more like a Dutch doll than ever. The boys accordingly endeavored to imitate this performance; but when they came to try it, a difficulty arose. Whatever might be their usual ideas on the subject, there was a diversity of opinion now as to the proper foot to be advanced, and a wild uncertainty which was the left foot. The new soldiers shuffled backward and forward as if they were dancing hornpipes; while Jerry shouted, "Now, then, genl'men, I can't hear them hands come together smartly as I'd wished, not like a row of Jarsey cider bottles a poppin' one arter the other, but all at once. Now, then, SQUAD! 'SHUN!" in a voice of thunder, "Stan' at parade rest! No--no--them _lef futs_ adwanced! Well if ever!" And Jerry in his indignation gave himself such a thump on his chest that he knocked all the breath out of his body, and had to wait some moments before he could go on; while the boys, bubbling over with fun, took his scoldings in high good humor, and shrieked with laughter at their own ridiculous blunders, to the high wrath of their ancient instructor; who was so deeply interested and in earnest about his pursuit, that he didn't fail to lecture them well for their "insubornation;" which, indeed, nobody minded, except Tom Pringle, who, by the by, was from Maryland, and many of whose relations were down South. He had been looking rather sulky from the beginning of the drill, and now suddenly stepped from his place in the ranks, exclaiming, "I won't play! now I vow I won't!" "Why, Tom, what is the matter? Are you mad at us?" cried half a dozen voices at once. "Humm--" grumbled sulky Tom. "What say? I can't hear you," said Freddy. "Nonsense, Tom, don't be poky, come back and drill." "I won't! Let us alone, will you?" "All we want is, let us alone!" chanted Peter. "There, Fred, let him be cross if he wants to, we can play without him;" and the boys ran back to their places in the ranks, Freddy calling out, "Come fellows, let's try that old parade rest once more;" and on Jerry's giving the command, they really _did_ do it this time, and were pronounced capable of passing to grander evolutions. The first of these was the turn about so as to fall in ranks; something the Dashahed Zouaves hadn't dreamt of before. Get into ranks? Nothing could be easier than to stand four in a row, as they had done before; but when it came to "right face," most of the soldiers were found to have opposite views on the subject, and faced each other, to their mutual astonishment. The natural consequence was, that in three seconds the regiment was in such a snarl and huddle, that no one could tell which rank he belonged to or anything else; so Jerry, perfectly purple in the face with shouting, by way of helping them out of the scrape, gave them the following remarkable advice: "Squad, 'shun! At th' wud 'Foz' the rer-rank will stepsmartly off wi' th' leffut, tekkinapesstoth' rare--Fo-o-o-res!" "W-h-a-t!" was the unanimous exclamation. Jerry repeated his mandate, which, after infinite puzzling (the honest sergeant being no assistance whatever), was discovered to mean, "At the word 'Fours,' the rear rank will step smartly off with the left foot, taking a pace to the rear. Fours!" This difficulty solved, the next "article on the programme," as Peter said, was the command March! or "harch!" according to Jerry. Out stepped Freddy, confident that he knew this much at any rate, followed by the others; but here again that celebrated left foot got them into trouble. The right foot _would_ pop out here and there, and as sure as it did, at the third step the unlucky Zouave found his leg firmly stuck between the ankles of the boy in front; and the "man" behind him treading on his heels in a way calculated to aggravate a saint; while meantime, the fellows in the rear rank, who were forever falling behind while they were staring at their feet to make sure which was the left one, _would_ endeavor to make up for it by taking a wide straddling step all of a sudden, and encircled the legs of people in front; a proceeding which, not being in accordance with "Hardee's Tactics," was not received with approbation by Jerry; who, looking at them with a sort of deprecating pity, hoarsely said, "Now, Company D! wot--wrong agin? fowod squad! wun, too, three, foore; hup! hup! hup! hold your head up, Mr. Fred; turn out your toes, Master William, and keep STEADY!" "Goody!" exclaimed Freddy at last, stopping short in the middle of his marching, "I can't stand this any longer! There, Jerry, we've had drill enough, thank you; I am knocked into a cocked hat, for my part!" "Very well, sir; it _is_ powerful hot; an' I must say you young genl'men have kep' at it steadier nor I expected, a gred deal." "Thank you, Jerry," said George, laughing, "we shall not forget our first drill in a hurry. I can't tell, for my part, which has been most bothered, you or we." "Allers glad to give you a little practice," grinned Jerry, "though you'd rive the gizzard out of an army drill sergeant, I'd wenture to say, if he hed the teachin' of you. Hech! hech! hech! Mornin', genl'men, your sarvent," and Jerry touched his cap to Colonel Freddy and marched off chuckling. As soon as he had made his exit, the boys clustered around Tom, as he sat turning his back on as many of the company as possible, and all began in a breath, "Now, Tom, do tell us what you're mad at; what have we done? please speak!" "Well, then," shouted Tom, springing up, "I'll tell you what, Frederic Jourdain! I won't be ordered around by any old monkey like that,"--pointing toward Jerry--"and as for _you_ and _your_ ordering about, I won't stand that either! fine as you think yourself; the Colonel, indeed!" "Why, Tom, how can you talk so? can't you play like the rest of us? I'm sure I haven't taken advantage of being Colonel to be domineering; have I, boys?" "No, no! not a bit, Fred--never mind what he says!" "Oh _do_--_don't_ appeal to them! You do that because you daren't say outright you mean to have everything your own way. That may be very well for them--you're all a parcel of Yankee shopkeepers together--but, I can tell you, no Southern _gentleman_ will stand it!" "North or South, Tom," began Will Costar, pretty sharply, "every regiment must have a head--and obey the head. We've chosen Fred our Colonel, and you must mind him. When he tells you to drill you've _got to do it_!" Tom wheeled round perfectly furious. "You say that again," he shouted, "and I'll leave the regiment! I will. I won't be told by any Northerner that I'm his subordinate, and if my State hadn't thought so too, she'd never have left the Union." "What! you dare to say anything against the Union!" cried George, turning white with rage; "do you mean to say that you _admire_ the South for seceding?" "Yes! I've a great mind to secede myself, what's more!" Freddy, as I said, was as sweet-tempered a little fellow as ever lived; but he was fairly aroused now. His blue eyes flashed fire; he crimsoned to the temples; his fists were clenched--and shouting, "you traitor!" like a flash, he sent Tom flying over on his back, with the camp stool about his ears. Up jumped Tom, kicked away the stool, and rushed toward Fred. But the others were too quick for him; they seized his arms and dragged him back; Peter calling out "No, don't fight him, Colonel; he's not worth it; let's have a court martial--that's the way to serve traitors!" Amid a perfect uproar of rage and contempt for this shameful attack on their Colonel, the Zouaves hastily arranged some camp stools for judge and jury; and George being chosen judge, the oldest members of the regiment took their places around him, and Tom was hauled up before the Court. "Oh stop, pray stop!" cried Freddy at this stage of affairs. "Indeed, I forgive him for what he said to me, if he will take back his language about the Union. I can't stand _that_." "You hear what the Colonel says," said George, sternly; "will you retract?" "No, never! if you think I'm going to be frightened into submission to a Northerner you're very much mistaken! No Southerner will ever be that! and as for your precious Union, I don't care if I say I hope there never will be a Union any more." "Then, by George!" shouted the judge, fairly springing from his seat, "You're a traitor, sir! Fellows, whoever is in favor of having this secessionist put under arrest, say Aye!" "Aye! AYE! AYE!" in a perfect roar. "Does any one object?" Nobody spoke. "Then I sentence him to be confined in the guard house till he begs pardon; Livingston, Costar, and Boorman to take him there." His captors pounced upon their prisoner with very little ceremony when this sentence was pronounced; when Tom, without attempting to escape, suddenly commenced striking out at every one he could reach. A grand hurley-burley ensued; but before long Tom was overpowered and dragged to the smoke, _alias_ guard house; heaping insults and taunts on the Union and the regiment all the way. Harry flung open the door of the prison, a picturesque little hut built of rough gray stone, and covered with Virginia creepers and wild honeysuckles. The others pushed Tom in, and Peter, dashing forward, slammed the door on him with a bang. Snap! went the bolt, and now nothing earthly could open it again but a Bramah key or a gunpowder explosion. Young Secession was fast, and the North triumphant. Hurrah! CHAPTER II. BULL RUN. THEIR first excitement over, the gallant Zouaves couldn't help looking at each other in rather a comical way. To be sure, it was very aggravating to have their country run down, and themselves assailed without leave or license; but they were by no means certain, now they came to think of it, that they had acted rightly in doing justice to the little rebel in such a summary manner. Peter especially, who had proposed the court martial, had an instinctive feeling that if his father were to learn the action they had taken, he would scarcely consider it to tally with the exercise of strict politeness to company. In short, without a word said, there was a tacit understanding in the corps that this was an affair to be kept profoundly secret. While they were still silently revolving this delicate question, little Louie Hamilton suddenly started violently, exclaiming, "Only listen a moment, felloth! what a strange noithe! It sounds like thome wild beast!" "Noise? I don't hear any," said Freddy; "yes I do, though--like something trampling the bushes!" "There's nothing worse than four cows and a house dog about our place," said Peter; "but what that is I don't know--hush!" The boys listened with all their ears and elbows, and nearly stared themselves blind looking around to see what was the matter. They had not long to wait, however, for the trampling increased in the wood, a curious, low growling was heard, which presently swelled to a roar, and in a moment more, an immense brindled bull was seen dashing through the locusts, his head down and heels in the air, looking not unlike a great wheel-barrow, bellowing at a prodigious rate, and making straight toward the place where they stood! "Murder, what _shall_ we do?" cried Louie, turning deadly pale with terror, while the Zouaves, for an instant, appeared perfectly paralyzed. "Why run! run for your lives!" shouted George, who was the first to recover himself. "Peter, you lead the way; take us the shortest cut to the house, and--oh!" Not another word did George utter. He was saving his breath for the race. And now, indeed, began a most prodigious "skedaddle;" the boys almost flying on ahead, running nearly abreast, and their terrible enemy close behind, tearing up the ground with his horns, and galloping like an express! On sped the gallant Zouaves, making off as rapidly from the scene of action as their namesakes from Manassas, without pausing to remark which way the wind blew, until, at last, they had skirted the grove, and were on the straight road for the house. Here Peter stopped a moment, "Because some of the men will be near here, perhaps," he pantingly said, "and Master Bull will be caught if he ventures after us." Scarcely had he spoken, when the furious animal was once more seen, dashing on faster than ever, and flaming with rage, till he might have exploded a powder mill! Now for a last effort! One determined burst over the smooth road, and they are safe in the house! Little Louie, who was only nine years old, and the youngest of the party, had grasped hold of Freddy's hand when they first started; and been half pulled along by him so far; but now that safety was close at hand, he suddenly sank to the ground, moaning out, "Oh Fred, you must go on and leave me; I can't run any more. Oh mamma!" "No, no, Louie! don't do so!" cried Freddy. "Get up, little man! why, you can't think I would leave you, surely?" and, stooping down, the brave little fellow caught Louie up in his arms, and, thus burdened, tried to run on toward the house. The rest of the boys were now far beyond them; and had just placed their feet upon the doorstone, when a loud shout of "help!" made them turn round; and there was Freddy, with Louie in his arms, staggering up the road, the horns of the bull within a yard of his side! Like a flash of lightning, Will snatched up a large rake which one of the men had left lying on the grass, and dashed down the road. There is one minute to spare, just one! but in that minute Will has reached the spot, and launching his weapon, the iron points descend heavily on the animal's head. The bull, rather aghast at this reception, which did not appear to be at all to his taste, seemed to hesitate a moment whether to charge his adversary or not; then, with a low growl of baffled fury, he slowly turned away, and trotted off toward the wood. The help had not come a minute too soon; for Freddy, his sensitive organization completely overwrought by the events of the morning and his narrow escape from death, had fallen fainting to the ground; his hands still clenched in the folds of little Louie's jacket. Will instantly raised him, when he saw that all danger was over, and he and some of the others, who had come crowding down the road, very gently and quickly carried the insensible boy to the house, and laid him on the lounge in the library; while Peter ran for the housekeeper to aid in bringing him to life. Good Mrs. Lockitt hurried up stairs as fast as she could with camphor, ice water, and everything else she could think of good for fainting. "Mrs. Lockitt, where is papa?" asked Peter, as he ran on beside her. "Gone to New York, Master Peter," she replied; "I don't think he will be home before dinner time." Our little scapegrace breathed more freely; at least there were a few hours' safety from detection, and he reentered the library feeling considerably relieved. There lay Colonel Freddy, his face white as death; one little hand hanging lax and pulseless over the side of the lounge, and the ruffled shirt thrust aside from the broad, snowy chest. Harry stood over him, fanning his forehead; while poor Louie was crouched in a corner, sobbing as though his heart would break, and the others stood looking on as if they did not know what to do with themselves. Mrs. Lockitt hastened to apply her remedies; and soon a faint color came back to the cheek, and with a long sigh, the great blue eyes opened once more, and the little patient murmured, "Where am I?" "Oh, then he's not killed, after all!" cried Louie, running to his side. "Dear, dear Freddy! how glad I am you have come to life again!" This funny little speech made even Freddy laugh, and then Mrs. Lockitt said, "But, Master Peter, you have not told me yet how it happened that Master Frederic got in such a way." The eyes of the whole party became round and saucer-y at once; as, all talking together, they began the history of their fearful adventure. Mrs. Lockitt's wiry false curls would certainly have dropped off with astonishment if they hadn't been sewed fast to her cap, and she fairly wiped her eyes on her spectacle case, which she had taken out of her pocket instead of her handkerchief, as they described Freddy's noble effort to save his helpless companion without thinking of himself. When the narrative was brought to a close, she could only exclaim, "Well, Master Freddy, you are a little angel, sure enough! and Master William is as brave as a lion. To think of his stopping that great creetur, to be sure! Wherever in the world it came from is the mystery." So saying, Mrs. Lockitt bustled out of the room, and after she had gone, there was a very serious and grateful talk among the elder boys about the escape they had had, and a sincere thankfulness to God for having preserved their lives. The puzzle now was, how they were to return to the camp, where poor Tom had been in captivity all this time. It was certainly necessary to get back--but then the bull! While they were yet deliberating on the horns of this dilemma, the library door suddenly opened, and in walked--Mr. Schermerhorn! "Why, boys!" he exclaimed, "how do you come to be here? Fred, what's the matter? you look as pale as a ghost!" There was general silence for a moment; but these boys had been taught by pious parents to speak the truth always, whatever came of it. Ah! that is the right principle to go on, dear children; TELL THE TRUTH when you have done anything wrong, even if you are sure of being punished when that truth is known. So George, as the eldest, with one brave look at his comrades, frankly related everything that had happened; beginning at the quarrel with Tom, down to the escape from the bull. To describe the varied expression of his auditor's face between delight and vexation, would require a painter; and when George at last said, "Do you think we deserve to be punished, sir? or have we paid well enough already for our court martial?" Mr. Schermerhorn exclaimed, trying to appear highly incensed, yet scarcely able to help smiling: "I declare I hardly know! I certainly am terribly angry with you. How dare you treat a young gentleman so on my place? answer me that, you scapegraces! It is pretty plain who is at the bottom of all this--Peter dares not look at me, I perceive. At the same time, I am rather glad that Master Tom has been taught what to expect if he runs down the Union--it will probably save him from turning traitor any more, though you were not the proper persons to pass sentence on him. As for our plucky little Colonel here--shake hands, Freddy! you have acted like a hero! and for your sake I excuse the court martial. Now, let us see what has become of the bull, and then go to the release of our friend Tom. He must be thoroughly repentant for his misdeeds by this time." Mr. Schermerhorn accordingly gave orders that the bull should be hunted up and secured, until his master should be discovered; so that the Zouaves might be safe from his attacks hereafter. If any of our readers feel an interest in the fate of this charming animal, they are informed that he was, with great difficulty, hunted into the stables; and before evening taken away by his master, the farmer from whom he had strayed. Leaving the others to await his capture, let us return to Tom. He had not been ten minutes in the smoke house before his wrath began to cool, and he would have given sixpence for any way of getting out but by begging pardon. That was a little too much just yet, and Tom stamped with rage and shook the door; which resisted his utmost efforts to burst. Then came the sounds without, the rushing, trampling steps, the furious bellow, and the shout, "Run! run for your lives!" Run! why on earth must they? What had happened? and especially what would become of him left alone there, with this unseen enemy perhaps coming at him next. He hunted in vain in every direction for some cranny to peep through; and if it had been possible, would have squeezed his head up the chimney. He shouted for help, but nobody heard him; they were all too frightened for that. He could hear them crunching along the road, presently; another cry, and then all was still. "What shall I do?" thought poor Tom. "Oh, where have they gone to? Please let me out, Freddy! do forgive me, boys! I'll f-fight for the Union as m-much as you like! oh! oh!" and at last--must it be confessed?--the gallant Secesh finished by bursting out crying! Time passed on--of course seeming doubly long to the prisoner--and still the boys did not return. Tom cried till he could cry no more; sniffling desperately, and rubbing his nose violently up in the air--a proceeding which did not ameliorate its natural bent in that direction. He really felt thoroughly sorry, and quite ready to beg pardon as soon as the boys should return; particularly as they had forgotten to provide the captive with even the traditional bread and water, and dinner-time was close at hand. While he was yet struggling between repentance and stomachache, the welcome sound of their voices was heard. They came nearer, and then a key was hastily applied to the fastenings of the door, and it flew open, disclosing the Zouaves, with Freddy at the head, and Mr. Schermerhorn bringing up the rear. Tom hung back a moment yet; then with a sudden impulse he walked toward Freddy, saying, "I beg your pardon, Colonel; please forgive me for insulting you; and as for the flag"--and without another word, Tom ran toward the flag staff, and catching the long folds of the banner in both hands, pressed them to his lips. "The chivalry forever!" said Mr. Schermerhorn, smiling. "That's right, Tom! bless the old banner! it is your safeguard, and your countrymen's too, if they would only believe it. Go and shake hands with him, boys; he is in his right place now, and if ever you are tempted to quarrel again, I am sure North and South will both remember "BULL RUN!" CHAPTER III. BEFORE MONTEREY. IT is not necessary to describe the particular proceedings of the Dashahed Zouaves during every day of their camp life. They chattered, played, drilled, quarrelled a little once in a while, and made it up again, eat and slept considerably, and grew sunburnt to an astonishing degree. It was Thursday morning, the fourth of their delightful days in camp. Jerry had been teaching them how to handle a musket and charge bayonets, until they were quite excited, and rather put out that there was no enemy to practise on but the grasshoppers. At length, when they had tried everything that was to be done, Harry exclaimed, "I wish, Jerry, you would tell us a story about the wars! Something real splendid, now; perfectly crammed with Indians and scalps and awful battles and elegant Mexican palaces full of diamonds and gold saucepans and lovely Spanish girls carried off by the hair of their heads!" This flourishing rigmarole, which Harry delivered regardless of stops, made the boys shout with laughter. "You'd better tell the story yourself, since you know so much about it!" said Tom. "I allow you've never been in Mexico, sir," said Jerry, grinning. "I doubt but thar's palisses somewhar in Mexico, but I and my mates hev been thar, an' _we_ never seed none o' 'em. No, Master Harry, I can't tell ye sich stories as that, but I do mind a thing what happened on the field afore Monterey." The boys, delightedly exclaiming, "A story! a story! hurrah!" drew their camp stools around him; and Jerry, after slowly rubbing his hand round and round over his bristling chin, while he considered what to say first, began his story as follows: JERRY'S STORY. "It wor a Sunday night, young genl'men, the 21st of September, and powerful hot. We had been fightin' like mad, wi' not a moment's rest, all day, an' now at last wor under the canwas, they of us as wor left alive, a tryin' to sleep. The skeeters buzzed aroun' wonderful thick, and the groun' aneath our feet wor like red-hot tin plates, wi' the sun burnin' an blisterin' down. At last my mate Bill says, says he, 'Jerry, my mate, hang me ef I can stan' this any longer. Let you an' me get up an' see ef it be cooler out-o'-doors.' "I wor tired enough wi' the day's fight, an' worrited, too, wi' a wound in my shoulder; but the tent wor no better nor the open field, an' we got up an' went out. Thar wor no moon, but the sky was wonderful full o' stars, so we could see how we wor stannin' wi' our feet among the bodies o' the poor fellows as had fired their last shot that day. It wor a sight, young genl'men, what would make sich as you sick an' faint to look on; but sogers must larn not to min' it; an' we stood thar, not thinkin' how awful it wor, and yet still an' quiet, too. "'Ah, Jerry,' says Bill--he wor a young lad, an' brought up by a pious mother, I allow--'I dunnot like this fightin' on the Sabba' day. The Lord will not bless our arms, I'm afeard, if we go agin His will so.' "I laughed--more shame to me--an' said, 'I'm a sight older nor you, mate, an' I've seed a sight o' wictories got on a Sunday. The better the day, the better the deed, I reckon.' "'Well, I don't know,' he says; 'mebbe things is allers mixed in time o' war, an' right an' wrong change sides a' purpose to suit them as wants battle an' tumult to be ragin'; but it don't go wi' my grain, noways.' "I hadn't experienced a change o' heart then, as I did arterward, bless the Lord! an' I hardly unnerstood what he said. While we wor a stannin' there, all to onct too dark figgers kim a creepin' over the field to'ard the Major's tent. 'Look thar, Jerry,' whispered Bill, kind o' startin' like, 'thar's some of them rascally Mexicans.' I looked at 'em wi'out sayin' a wured, an' then I went back to the tent fur my six-shooter--Bill arter me;--fur ef it ain't the dooty o' every Christian to extarminate them warmints o' Mexicans, I'll be drummed out of the army to-morrer. "Wall, young genl'men--we tuck our pistols, and slow and quiet we moved to whar we seed the two Greasers, as they call 'em. On they kim, creepin' to'ard my Major's tent, an' at las' one o' 'em raised the canwas a bit. Bill levelled his rewolver in a wink, an' fired. You shud ha' seed how they tuck to their heels! yelling all the way, till wun o' em' dropped. The other didn't stop, but just pulled ahead. I fired arter him wi'out touching him; but the noise woke the Major, an' when he hearn wot the matter wor, he ordered the alarm to be sounded an' the men turned out. 'It's a 'buscade to catch us,' he says, 'an' I'm fur being fust on the field.' "Bill an' I buckled on our cartridge boxes, caught up our muskets, an' were soon in the ranks. On we marched, stiddy an' swift, to the enemy's fortifications; an' wen we were six hundred yards distant, kim the command, 'Double quick.' The sky hed clouded up all of a suddent, an' we couldn't see well where we wor, but thar was suthin' afore us like a low, black wall. As we kim nearer, it moved kind o' cautious like, an' when we wor within musket range, wi' a roar like ten thousand divils, they charged forred! Thar wor the flash and crack o' powder, and the ring! ping! o' the bullets, as we power'd our shot on them an' they on us; but not another soun'; cr-r-r-ack went the muskets on every side agin, an' the rascals wor driven back a minnit. 'Charge bayonets!' shouted the Major, wen he seed that. Thar wos a pause; a rush forred; we wor met by the innimy half way; an' then I hearn the awfullest o' created soun's--a man's scream. I looked roun', an' there wos Bill, lying on his face, struck through an' through. Thar wos no time to see to him then, fur the men wor fur ahead o' me, an' I hed to run an' jine the rest. "We hed a sharp, quick skirmish o' it--for ef thar is a cowardly critter on the created airth it's a Greaser--an' in less nor half an' hour wor beatin' back to quarters. When all wor quiet agin, I left my tent, an' away to look fur Bill. I sarched an' sarched till my heart were almost broke, an at last I cried out, 'Oh Bill, my mate, whar be you?' an' I hearn a fibble v'ice say, 'Here I be, Jerry!' "I swon! I wor gladder nor anything wen I hearn that. I hugged him to my heart, I wor moved so powerful, an' then I tuck him on my back, an' off to camp; werry slow an' patient, fur he were sore wownded, an' the life in him wery low. "Wall, young genl'men, I'll not weary you wi' the long hours as dragged by afore mornin'. I med him as snug as I could, and at daybreak we hed him took to the sugeon's tent. "I wor on guard all that mornin' an' could not get to my lad; but at last the relief kim roun', an' the man as was to take my place says, says he, 'Jerry, my mate, ef I was you I'd go right to the hosp'tl an' stay by poor Bill' (fur they all knew as I sot gret store by him); 'He is werry wild in his head, I hearn, an' the sugeon says as how he can't last long.' "Ye may b'lieve how my hairt jumped wen I hearn that. I laid down my gun, an' ran fur the wooden shed, which were all the place they hed fur them as was wownded. An' thar wor Bill--my mate Bill--laying on a blanket spred on the floore, wi' his clothes all on (fur it's a hard bed, an' his own bloody uniform, that a sojer must die in), wi' the corpse o' another poor fellow as had died all alone in the night a'most touching him, an' slopped wi' blood. I moved it fur away all in a trimble o' sorrer, an' kivered it decent like, so as Bill mightn't see it an' get downhearted fur hisself. Then I went an' sot down aside my mate. He didn't know me, no more nor if I wor a stranger; but kept throwin' his arms about, an' moanin' out continual, 'Oh mother! mother! Why don't you come to your boy?' "I bust right out crying, I do own, wen I hearn that, an' takin' his han' in mine, I tried to quiet him down a bit; telling him it wor bad fur his wownd to be so res'less (fur every time he tossed, thar kim a little leap o' blood from his breast); an' at last, about foore o'clock in the day, he opened his eyes quite sensible like, an' says to me, he says, 'Dear matey, is that you? Thank you fur coming to see me afore I die.' "'No, Bill, don't talk so,' I says, a strivin' to be cheerful like, tho' I seed death in his face, 'You'll be well afore long.' "'Aye, well in heaven,' he says; and then, arter a minnit, 'Jerry,' he says, 'thar's a little bounty money as belongs to me in my knapsack, an' my month's wages. I want you, wen I am gone, to take it to my mother, an' tell her--'(he wor gaspin' fearful)--'as I died--fightin' fur my country--an' the flag. God bless you, Jerry--you hev been a good frien' to me, an' I knows as you'll do this--an' bid the boys good-by--fur me.' "I promised, wi' the tears streamin' down my cheeks; an' then we wor quiet a bit, fur it hurt Bill's breast to talk, an' I could not say a wured fur the choke in my throat. Arter a while he says, 'Jerry, won't you sing me the hymn as I taught you aboard the transport? about the Lord our Captin?' "I could hardly find v'ice to begin, but it wor Bill's dying wish, an' I made shift to sing as well as I could-- "'We air marchin' on together To our etarnal rest; Niver askin' why we're ordered-- For the Lord He knoweth best. Christ is our Captain! 'Forred!' is His word; Ranks all steady, muskets ready, In the army o' the Lord! "'Satan's hosts are all aroun' us, An' strive to enter in; But our outworks they are stronger Nor the dark brigades o' sin! Christ is our Fortress! Righteousness our sword; Truth the standard--in the vanguard-- O' the army o' the Lord! "'Comrads, we air ever fightin' A battle fur the right; Ever on the on'ard movement Fur our home o' peace an' light. Christ is our Leader! Heaven our reward, Comin' nearer, shinin' clearer-- In the army o' the Lord!' "Arter I hed sung the hymn--an' it wor all I could do to get through--Bill seemed to be a sight easier. He lay still, smilin' like a child on the mother's breast. Pretty soon arter, the Major kim in; an' wen he seed Bill lookin' so peaceful, he says, says he, 'Why, cheer up, my lad! the sugeon sayd as how you wor in a bad way; but you look finely now;'--fur he didn't know it wor the death look coming over him. 'You'll be about soon,' says the Major, 'an' fightin' fur the flag as brave as ever,' "Bill didn't say nothing--he seemed to be getting wild agin;--an' looked stupid like at our Major till he hearn the wureds about the flag. Then he caught his breath suddint like, an', afore we could stop him, he had sprang to his feet--shakin' to an' fro like a reed--but as straight as he ever wor on parade; an', his v'ice all hoarse an' full o' death, an' his arm in the air, he shouted, 'Aye! God--bless--the--flag! we'll fight fur it till--' an' then we hearn a sort o' snap, an' he fell forred--dead! "We buried him that night, I an' my mates. I cut off a lock o' his hair fur his poor mother, afore we put the airth over him; an' giv it to her, wi' poor Bill's money, faithful an' true, wen we kim home. I've lived to be an old man since then, an' see the Major go afore me, as I hoped to sarve till my dyin' day; but Lord willing I shel go next, to win the Salwation as I've fitten for, by Bill's side, a sojer in Christ's army, in the Etarnal Jerusalem!" The boys took a long breath when Jerry had finished his story, and more than one bright eye was filled with tears. The rough words, and plain, unpolished manner of the old soldier, only heightened the impression made by his story; and as he rose to go away, evidently much moved by the painful recollections it excited, there was a hearty, "Thank you, sergeant, for your story--it was real good!" Jerry only touched his cap to the young soldiers, and marched off hastily, while the boys looked after him in respectful silence. But young spirits soon recover from gloomy influences, and in a few moments they were all chattering merrily again. "What a pity we must go home Monday!" cried Louie; "I wish we could camp out forever! Oh, Freddy, do write a letter to General McClellan, and ask him to let us join the army right away! Tell him we'll buy some new india-rubber back-bones and stretch ourselves out big directly, if he'll only send right on for us!" "Perhaps he would, if he knew how jolly we can drill already!" said Peter, laughing. "I tell you what, boys, the very thing! let's have a review before we go home. I'll ask all the boys and girls I know to come and look on, and we might have quite a grand entertainment. Won't that be splendid? We can march about all over, and fire off the cannons and everything! I'm sure father will let us." "Yes, but how's General McClellan to hear anything about it?" inquired practical Louie. "Why--I don't know," said Peter, rather taken aback by this view of the subject. "Well, somehow--never mind, it will be grand fun, and I mean to ask my father right away." "Take me with you?" called a dozen fellows directly. Finally it was concluded that it might make more impression on Mr. Schermerhorn's mind, if the application came from the regiment in a body; so, running for their swords and guns, officers and men found their places in the battalion, and the grand procession started on its way--chattering all the time, in utter defiance of that "article of war" which forbids "talking in the ranks." Just as they were passing the lake, they heard carriage wheels crunching on the gravel, and drew up in a long line on the other side of the road to let the vehicle pass them; much to the astonishment of two pretty young ladies and a sweet little girl, about Freddy's age, who were leaning comfortably back in the handsome barouche. "Why, Peter!" exclaimed one of the ladies, "what in the world is all this?" "This!" cried Peter, running up to the carriage, "why, these are the Dashahed Zouaves, Miss Carlton. We have been in camp ever since Monday. Good morning, Miss Jessie," to the little girl on the front seat, who was looking on with deep interest. "Oh, to be sure, I remember," said Miss Carlton, laughing; "come, introduce the Zouaves, Peter; we are wild to know them!" The boys clustered eagerly about the carriage and a lively chat took place. The Zouaves, some blushing and bashful, others frank and confident, and all desperately in love already with pretty little Jessie, related in high glee their adventures--except the celebrated court martial--and enlarged glowingly upon the all-important subject of the grand review. Colonel Freddy, of course, played a prominent part in all this, and with his handsome face, bright eyes, and frank, gentlemanly ways, needed only those poor lost curls to be a perfect picture of a soldier. He chattered away with Miss Lucy, the second sister, and obtained her special promise that she would plead their cause with Mr. Schermerhorn in case the united petitions of the corps should fail. The young ladies did not know of Mrs. Schermerhorn's departure, but Freddy and Peter together coaxed them to come up to the house "anyhow." The carriage was accordingly taken into the procession, and followed it meekly to the house; the Zouaves insisting on being escort, much to the terror of the young ladies; who were in constant apprehension that the rear rank and the horses might come to kicks--not to say blows--and the embarrassment of the coachman; who, as they were constantly stopping unexpectedly to turn round and talk, didn't know "where to have them," as the saying is. However, they reached their destination in safety before long, and found Mr. Schermerhorn seated on the piazza. He hastened forward to meet them, with the cordial greeting of an old friend. "Well, old bachelor," said Miss Carlton, gayly, as the young ladies ascended the steps, "you see we have come to visit you in state, with the military escort befitting patriotic young ladies who have four brothers on the Potomac. What has become of Madame, please?" "Gone to Niagara and left me a 'lone lorn creetur;'" said Mr. Schermerhorn, laughing. "Basely deserted me when my farming couldn't be left. But how am I to account for the presence of the military, mademoiselle?" "Really, I beg their pardons," exclaimed Miss Carlton. "They have come on a special deputation to you, Mr. Schermerhorn, so pray don't let us interrupt business." Thus apostrophised, the boys scampered eagerly up the steps; and Freddy, a little bashful, but looking as bright as a button, delivered the following brief oration: "Mr. Schermerhorn: I want--that is, the boys want--I mean we all want--to have a grand review on Saturday, and ask our friends to look on. Will you let us do it, please?" "Certainly, with the greatest pleasure!" replied Mr. Schermerhorn, smiling; "but what will become of you good people when I tell you that I have just received a letter from Mrs. Schermerhorn, asking me to join her this week instead of next, and bring Peter with me." "Oh! father, please let me stay!" interrupted Peter; "can't you tell ma I've joined the army for the war? We all want to stay like everything!" "And forage for yourselves?" said his father, laughing. "No, the army must give you up, and lose a valuable member, Master Peter; but just have the goodness to listen a moment. The review shall take place, but as the camp will have to break up on Saturday instead of Monday, as I had intended, the performances must come off to-morrow. Does that suit your ideas?" The boys gave a delighted consent to this arrangement, and now the only thing which dampened their enjoyment was the prospect of such a speedy end being put to their camp life. "Confound it! what was the fun for a fellow to be poked into a stupid watering place, where he must bother to keep his hair parted down the middle, and a clean collar stiff enough to choke him on from morning till night?" as Tom indignantly remarked to George and Will the same evening. "The fact is, this sort of thing is _the_ thing for a _man_ after all!" an opinion in which the other _men_ fully concurred. But let us return to the piazza, where we have left the party. After a few moments more spent in chatting with Mr. Schermerhorn, it was decided to accept Colonel Freddy's polite invitation, which he gave with such a bright little bow, to inspect the camp. You may be sure it was in apple-pie order, for Jerry, who had taken the Zouaves under his special charge, insisted on their keeping it in such a state of neatness as only a soldier ever achieved. The party made an extremely picturesque group--the gay uniforms of the Zouaves, and light summer dresses of the ladies, charmingly relieved against the background of trees; while Mr. Schermerhorn's stately six feet, and somewhat portly proportions, quite reminded one of General Scott; especially among such a small army; in which George alone quite came up to the regulation "63 inches." Little Jessie ran hither and thither, surrounded by a crowd of adorers, who would have given their brightest buttons, every "man" of them, to be the most entertaining fellow of the corps. They showed her the battery and the stacks of shining guns--made to stand up by Jerry in a wonderful fashion that the boys never could hope to attain--the inside of all the tents, and the smoke guard house (Tom couldn't help a blush as he looked in); and finally, as a parting compliment (which, let me tell you, is the greatest, in a boy's estimation, that can possibly be paid), Freddy made her a present of his very largest and most gorgeous "glass agates;" one of which was all the colors of the rainbow, and the other patriotically adorned with the Stars and Stripes in enamel. Peter climbed to the top of the tallest cherry tree, and brought her down a bough at least a yard and a half long, crammed with "ox hearts;" Harry eagerly offered to make any number of "stunning baskets" out of the stones, and in short there never was such a belle seen before. "Oh, a'int she jolly!" was the ruling opinion among the Zouaves. A private remark was also circulated to the effect that "Miss Jessie was stunningly pretty." The young ladies at last said good-by to the camp; promising faithfully to send all the visitors they could to the grand review, and drove off highly entertained with their visit. Mr. Schermerhorn decided to take the afternoon boat for the city and return early Friday morning, and the boys, left to themselves, began to think of dinner, as it was two o'clock. A brisk discussion was kept up all dinner time you may be sure, concerning the event to come off on the morrow. "I should like to know, for my part, what we do in a review," said Jimmy, balancing his fork artistically on the end of his finger, and looking solemnly round the table. "Why, show off everything we know!" said Charley Spicer. "March about, and form into ranks and columns, and all that first, then do charming "parade rest," "'der humps!" and the rest of it; and finish off by firing off our guns, and showing how we can't hit anything by any possibility!" "But these guns won't fire off!" objected Jimmy. "Well, the cannon then!" "But I'm sure father won't let us have any powder," said Peter disconsolately. "You can't think how I burnt the end of my nose last Fourth with powder! It was so sore I couldn't blow it for a week!" The boys all burst out laughing at this dreadful disaster, and George said, "You weren't lighting it with the end of your nose, were you?" "No; but I was stooping over, charging one of my cannon, and I dropped the 'punk' right in the muzzle somehow, and, would you believe it, the nasty thing went off and burnt my nose! and father said I shouldn't play with powder any more, because I might have put out my eyes." "Well, we must take it out in marching, then," said Freddy, with a tremendous sigh. "No, hold on; I'll tell you what we can do!" cried Tom, eagerly. "I have some 'double headers' left from the Fourth; we might fire them out of the cannon; they make noise enough, I'm sure. I'll write to my mother this afternoon and get them." The boys couldn't help being struck with the generosity of this offer, coming from Tom after their late rather unkind treatment of him; and the older ones especially were very particular to thank him for his present. As soon as dinner was over, he started for the house to ask Mr. Schermerhorn to carry his message. As he hurried along the road, his bright black eyes sparkling with the happiness of doing a good action, he heard trotting steps behind him, felt an arm stealing round his neck, schoolboy fashion, and there was Freddy. "I ran after you all the way," he pantingly said. "I want to tell you, dear Tom, how much we are obliged to you for giving us your crackers, and how sorry we are that we acted so rudely to you the other day. Please forgive us; we all like you so much, and we would feel as mean as anything to take your present without begging pardon. George, Peter, and I feel truly ashamed of ourselves every time we think of that abominable court martial." "There, old fellow, don't say a word more about it!" was the hearty response; and Tom threw his arm affectionately about his companion. "It was my fault, Freddy, and all because I was mad at poor old Jerry; how silly! I was sorry for what I said right afterward." "Then we are friends again?" cried Freddy, joyfully. "Yes; I'll like you as long as I live! and ever so much longer." And so we will leave the two on their walk to the house, and close this abominably long chapter. CHAPTER IV. A GRAND REVIEW. THERE are really scarcely words enough in the dictionary properly to describe the immense amount of drill got through with by the Dashahed Zouaves between three o'clock that afternoon and twelve, noon, of the following day. This Friday afternoon was going to be memorable in history for one of the most splendid reviews on record. They almost ran poor old Jerry off his legs in their eagerness to go over every possible variety of exercise known to "Hardee's Tactics," and nearly dislocated their shoulder blades trying to waggle their elbows backward and forward all at once when they went at "double quick;" at the same time keeping the other arm immovably pinioned to their sides. Then that wonderful operation of stacking the rebellious guns, which obstinately clattered down nine times and a half out of ten, had to be gone through with, and a special understanding promulgated in the corps as to when Jerry's "'der arms!" meant "shoulder arms," and when "order arms" (or bringing all the muskets down together with a bang); and, in short, there never was such a busy time seen in camp before. Friday morning dawned, if possible, still more splendidly than any of the preceding days, with a cool, refreshing breeze, just enough snowy clouds in the sky to keep off the fiery summer heat in a measure, and not a headache nor a heartache among the Zouaves to mar the pleasure of the day. The review was to come off at four o'clock, when the July sun would be somewhat diminished in warmth, and from some hints that Jerry let fall, Mrs. Lockitt, and the fat cook, Mrs. Mincemeat, were holding high council up at the house, over a certain collation to be partaken of at the end of the entertainments. As the day wore on the excitement of our friends the Zouaves increased. They could hardly either eat their dinners, or sit down for more than a moment at a time; and when, about three o'clock, Mr. Schermerhorn entered the busy little camp, he was surrounded directly with a crowd of eager questioners, all talking at once, and making as much noise as a colony of rooks. "Patience, patience, my good friends!" laughed Mr. Schermerhorn, holding up a finger for silence. "Every one in turn. Tom, here are your 'double headers,' with love from your mother. Fred, I saw your father to-day, and they are all coming down to the review. George, here is a note left for you in my box at the Post Office, and Dashahed Zouaves in general--I have one piece of advice to give you. Get dressed quietly, and then sit down and rest yourselves. You will be tired out by the end of the afternoon, at all events; so don't frisk about more than you can help at present;" and Mr. Schermerhorn left the camp; while the boys, under strong pressure of Jerry, and the distant notes of a band which suddenly began to make itself heard, dressed themselves as nicely as they could, and sat down with heroic determination to wait for four o'clock. Presently, carriages began to crunch over the gravel road one after another, filled with merry children, and not a few grown people besides. Mr. and Mrs. Jourdain, with Bella, were among the first to arrive; and soon after the Carltons' barouche drove up. Jessie, for some unknown reason, was full of half nervous glee, and broke into innumerable little trilling laughs when any one spoke to her. A sheet of lilac note paper, folded up tight, which she held in her hand, seemed to have something to do with it, and her soft brown curls and spreading muslin skirts were in equal danger of irremediable "mussing," as she fidgetted about on the carriage seat, fully as restless as any of the Zouaves. Mr. Schermerhorn received his guests on the piazza, where all the chairs in the house, one would think, were placed for the company, as the best view of the lawn was from this point. To the extreme right were the white tents of the camp, half hidden by the immense trunk of a magnificent elm, the only tree that broke the smooth expanse of the lawn. On the left a thick hawthorne hedge separated the ornamental grounds from the cultivated fields of the place, while in front the view was bounded by the blue and sparkling waters of the Sound. Soon four o'clock struck; and, punctual to the moment, the Zouaves could be seen in the distance, forming their ranks. Jerry, in his newest suit of regimentals, bustled about here and there, and presently his voice was heard shouting, "Are ye all ready now? SQUAD, 'SHUN! HARCH!" and to the melodious notes of "Dixie," performed by the band, which was stationed nearer the house, the regiment started up the lawn! Jerry marching up beside them, and occasionally uttering such mysterious mandates as, "Easy in the centre! keep your fours in the wheel! _Steady_ now!" Oh, what a burst of delighted applause greeted them as they neared the house! The boys hurrahed, the girls clapped their hands, ladies and gentlemen waved their hats and handkerchiefs; while the Dashahed Zouaves, too soldierly _now_ to grin, drew up in a long line, and stood like statues, without so much as winking. And now the music died away, and everybody was as still as a mouse, while Jerry advanced to the front, and issued the preliminary order: "To the rear--open order!" and the rear rank straightway fell back; executing, in fact, that wonderful "tekkinapesstoth'rare" which had puzzled them so much on the first day of their drilling. Then came those other wonderful orders: "P'_sent_ humps! "_Der_ humps! "Gr'_nd_ humps!" And so on, at which the muskets flew backward and forward, up and down, with such wonderful precision. The spectators were delighted beyond measure; an enthusiastic young gentleman, with about three hairs on each side of his mustache, who belonged to the Twenty-second Regiment, declared "It was the best drill he had seen out of his company room!" a celebrated artist, whose name I dare not tell for the world, sharpened his pencil, and broke the point off three times in his hurry, and at last produced the beautiful sketch which appears at the front of this volume; while all the little boys who were looking on, felt as if they would give every one of their new boots and glass agates to belong to the gallant Dashahed Zouaves. [Illustration: "DOUBLE-QUICK."] After the guns had been put in every possible variety of position, the regiment went through their marching. They broke into companies, formed the line again, divided in two equal parts, called "breaking into platoons," showed how to "wheel on the right flank," and all manner of other mysteries. Finally, they returned to their companies, and on Jerry's giving the order, they started at "double quick" (which is the most comical tritty-trot movement you can think of), dashed down the slope of the lawn, round the great elm, up hill again full speed, and in a moment more were drawn up in unbroken lines before the house, and standing once again like so many statues. It was really splendid! Round after round of applause greeted the Zouaves, who kept their positions for a moment, then snatching off their saucy little fez caps, they gave the company three cheers in return, of the most tremendous description; which quite took away the little remaining breath they had after the "double quick." Thus ended the first part of the review; and now, with the assistance of their rather Lilliputian battery, and Tom's double headers, they went through some firing quite loud enough to make the little girls start and jump uncomfortably; so this part of the entertainment was brought to rather a sudden conclusion. Jerry had just issued the order, "Close up in ranks to dismiss," when Mr. Schermerhorn, who, with Miss Carlton and Jessie, had left the piazza a few minutes before, came forward, saying, "Have the goodness to wait a moment, Colonel; there is one more ceremony to go through with." The boys looked at each other in silent curiosity, wondering what could be coming; when, all at once, the chairs on the piazza huddled back in a great hurry, to make a lane for a beautiful little figure, which came tripping from the open door. It was Jessie; but a great change had been made in her appearance. Over her snowy muslin skirts she had a short classic tunic of red, white, and blue silk; a wreath of red and white roses and bright blue jonquils encircled her curls, and in her hand she carried a superb banner. It was made of dark blue silk, trimmed with gold fringe; on one side was painted an American eagle, and on the other the words "Dashahed Zouaves," surrounded with a blaze of glory and gold stars. She advanced to the edge of the piazza, and in a clear, sweet voice, a little tremulous, but very distinct, she said: "COLONEL AND BRAVE SOLDIERS: "I congratulate you, in the name of our friends, on the success you have achieved. You have shown us to-day what Young America can do; and as a testimonial of our high admiration, I present you the colors of your regiment! "Take them, as the assurance that our hearts are with you; bear them as the symbol of the Cause you have enlisted under; and should you fall beneath them on the field of battle, I bid you lay down your lives cheerfully for the flag of your country, and breathe with your last sigh the name of the Union! Colonel, take your colors!" Freddy's cheeks grew crimson, and the great tears swelled to his eyes as he advanced to take the flag which Jessie held toward him. And now our little Colonel came out bright, sure enough. Perhaps not another member of the regiment, called upon to make a speech in this way, could have thought of a word to reply; but Freddy's quick wit supplied him with the right ideas; and it was with a proud, happy face, and clear voice that he responded: "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: "I thank you, in the name of my regiment, for the honor you have done us. Inspired by your praises, proud to belong to the army of the Republic, we hope to go on as we have begun. To your kindness we owe the distinguishing colors under which we march hereafter; and by the Union for which we fight, they shall never float over a retreating battalion!" Oh! the cheers and clapping of hands which followed this little speech! Everybody was looking at Freddy as he stood there, the colors in his hand, and the bright flush on his cheek, with the greatest admiration. Of course, his parents weren't proud of him; certainly not! But the wonders were not at an end yet; for suddenly the band began playing a new air, and to this accompaniment, the sweet voice of some lady unseen, but which sounded to those who knew, wonderfully like Miss Lucy Carlton's, sang the following patriotic ballad: "We will stand by our Flag--let it lead where it will-- Our hearts and our hopes fondly cling to it still; Through battle and danger our Cause must be won-- Yet forward! undaunted we'll follow it on! 'Tis the Flag! the old Flag! still unsullied and bright, As when first its fair stars lit oppression's dark night And the standard that guides us forever shall be The Star-spangled Banner, the Flag of the Free! "A handful of living--an army of dead, The last charge been made and the last prayer been said; What is it--as sad we retreat from the plain That cheers us, and nerves us to rally again? 'Tis the Flag! the old Flag! to our country God-given, That gleams through our ranks like a glory from heaven! And the foe, as they fly, in our vanguard shall see The Star-spangled Banner, the Flag of the Free! "We will fight for the Flag, by the love that we bear In the Union and Freedom, we'll baffle despair; Trust on in our country, strike home for the right, And Treason shall vanish like mists of the night. Then cheer the old Flag! every star in it glows, The terror of traitors! the curse of our foes! And the victory that crowns us shall glorified be, 'Neath the Star-spangled Banner, the Flag of the Free!" As the song ended, there was another tumult of applause; and then the band struck up a lively quickstep, and the company, with the Zouaves marching ahead, poured out on the lawn toward the camp, where a bountiful collation was awaiting them, spread on the regimental table. Two splendid pyramids of flowers ornamented the centre, and all manner of "goodies," as the children call them, occupied every inch of space on the sides. At the head of the table Jerry had contrived a canopy from a large flag, and underneath this, Miss Jessie, Colonel Freddy, with the other officers, and some favored young ladies of their own age, took their seats. The other children found places around the table, and a merrier féte champêtre never was seen. The band continued to play lively airs from time to time, and I really can give you my word as an author, that nobody looked cross for a single minute! Between you and me, little reader, there had been a secret arrangement among the grown folks interested in the regiment, to get all this up in such fine style. Every one had contributed something to give the Zouaves their flag and music, while to Mr. Schermerhorn it fell to supply the supper; and arrangements had been made and invitations issued since the beginning of the week. The regiment, certainly, had the credit, however, of getting up the review, it only having been the idea of their good friends to have the entertainment and flag presentation. So there was a pleasant surprise on both sides; and each party in the transaction, was quite as much astonished and delighted as the other could wish. The long sunset shadows were rapidly stealing over the velvet sward as the company rose from table, adding a new charm to the beauty of the scene. Everywhere the grass was dotted with groups of elegant ladies and gentlemen, and merry children, in light summer dresses and quaintly pretty uniforms. The little camp, with the stacks of guns down its centre, the bayonets flashing in the last rays of the sun, was all crowded and brilliant with happy people; looking into the tents and admiring their exquisite order, inspecting the bright muskets, and listening eagerly or good-humoredly, as they happened to be children or grown people, to the explanations and comments of the Zouaves. And on the little grassy knoll, where the flag staff was planted, central figure of the scene, stood Colonel Freddy, silent and thoughtful for the first time to-day, with Jerry beside him. The old man had scarcely left his side since the boy took the flag; he would permit no one else to wait upon him at table, and his eyes followed him as he moved among the gay crowd, with a glance of the utmost pride and affection. The old volunteer seemed to feel that the heart of a soldier beat beneath the little dandy ruffled shirt and gold-laced jacket of the young Colonel. Suddenly, the boy snatches up again the regimental colors; the Stars and Stripes, and little Jessie's flag, and shakes them out to the evening breeze; and as they flash into view and once more the cheers of the Zouaves greet their colors, he says, with quivering lip and flashing eye, "Jerry, if God spares me to be a man, I'll live and die a soldier!" The soft evening light was deepening into night, and the beautiful planet Venus rising in the west, when the visitors bade adieu to the camp; the Zouaves were shaken hands with until their wrists fairly ached; and then they all shook hands with "dear" Jessie, as Charley was heard to call her before the end of the day, and heard her say in her soft little voice how sorry she was they must go to-morrow (though she certainly couldn't have been sorrier than _they_ were), and then the good people all got into their carriages again, and drove off; waving their handkerchiefs for good-by as long as the camp could be seen; and so, with the sound of the last wheels dying away in the distance, ended the very end of THE GRAND REVIEW. CHAPTER V.--AND LAST. "HOME, SWEET HOME." AND now, at last, had come that "day of disaster," when Camp McClellan must be deserted. The very sun didn't shine so brilliantly as usual, thought the Zouaves; and it was positively certain that the past five days, although they had occurred in the middle of summer, were the very shortest ever known! Eleven o'clock was the hour appointed for the breaking up of the camp, in order that they might return to the city by the early afternoon boat. "Is it possible we have been here a week?" exclaimed Jimmy, as he sat down to breakfast. "It seems as if we had only come yesterday." "What a jolly time it has been!" chimed in Charley Spicer. "I don't want to go to Newport a bit. Where are you going, Tom?" "To Baltimore--but I don't mean to Secesh!" added Tom, with a little blush. "I have a cousin in the Palmetto Guards at Charleston, and that's one too many rebels in the family." "Never mind!" cried George Chadwick; "the Pringles are a first rate family; the rest of you are loyal enough, I'm sure!" and George gave Tom such a slap on the back, in token of his good will, that it quite brought the tears into his eyes. When breakfast was over, the Zouaves repaired to their tents, and proceeded to pack their clothes away out of the lockers. They were not very scientific packers, and, in fact, the usual mode of doing the business was to ram everything higgledy-piggledy into their valises, and then jump on them until they consented to come together and be locked. Presently Jerry came trotting down with a donkey cart used on the farm, and under his directions the boys folded their blankets neatly up, and placed them in the vehicle, which then drove off with its load, leaving them to get out and pile together the other furnishings of the tents; for, of course, as soldiers, they were expected to wind up their own affairs, and we all know that boys will do considerable _hard work_ when it comes in the form of _play_. Just as the cart, with its vicious little wrong-headed steed, had tugged, and jerked, and worried itself out of sight, a light basket carriage, drawn by two dashing black Canadian ponies, drew up opposite the camp, and the reins were let fall by a young lady in a saucy "pork pie" straw hat, who was driving--no other than Miss Carlton, with Jessie beside her. The boys eagerly surrounded the little carriage, and Miss Carlton said, laughing, "Jessie begged so hard for a last look at the camp, that I had to bring her. So you are really going away?" "Really," repeated Freddy; "but I am so glad you came, Miss Jessie, just in time to see us off." "You know soldiers take themselves away houses and all," said George; "you will see the tents come down with a run presently." "And here comes Jerry to help us!" added Harry. As he spoke, the donkey cart rattled up, and Jerry, touching his cap to the ladies, got out, and prepared to superintend the downfall of the tents. By his directions, two of the Zouaves went to each tent, and pulled the stakes first from one corner, then the other; then they grasped firmly the pole which supported the centre, and when the sergeant ejaculated "Now!" like a flash! the tents slid smoothly to the ground all at the same moment, just as you may have made a row of blocks fall down by upsetting the first one. And now came the last ceremony, the hauling down of the flag. "Stand by to fire a salute!" shouted Jerry, and instantly a company was detached, who brought the six little cannon under the flagstaff, and charged them with the last of the double headers, saved for this purpose; Freddy stood close to the flagstaff, with the halyards ready in his hands. Crack! fizz! went six matches for the cannon. "Make ready! apply light, FIRE!" BANG! and the folds of the flag stream out proudly in the breeze, as it rapidly descends the halyards, and flutters softly to the greensward. There was perfectly dead silence for a moment; then the voice of Mr. Schermerhorn was heard calling, "Come, boys, are you ready? Jump in, then, it is time to start for the boat." The boys turned and saw the carriages which had brought them so merrily to the camp waiting to convey them once more to the wharf; while a man belonging to the farm was rapidly piling the regimental luggage into a wagon. With sorrowful faces the Zouaves clustered around the pretty pony chaise; shaking hands once more with Jessie, and internally vowing to adore her as long as they lived. Then they got into the carriages, and old Jerry grasped Freddy's hand with an affectionate "Good-by, my little Colonel, God bless ye! Old Jerry won't never forget your noble face as long as he lives." It would have seemed like insulting the old man to offer him money in return for his loving admiration, but the handsome gilt-edged Bible that found its way to him soon after the departure of the regiment, was inscribed with the irregular schoolboy signature of "Freddy Jourdain, with love to his old friend Jeremiah Pike." As for the regimental standards, they were found to be rather beyond the capacity of a rockaway crammed full of Zouaves, so Tom insisted on riding on top of the baggage, that he might have the pleasure of carrying them all the way. Up he mounted, as brisk as a lamplighter, with that monkey, Peter, after him, the flags were handed up, and with three ringing cheers, the vehicles started at a rapid trot, and the regiment was fairly off. They almost broke their necks leaning back to see the last of "dear Jessie," until the locusts hid them from sight, when they relapsed into somewhat dismal silence for full five minutes. As Peter was going on to Niagara with his father, Mr. Schermerhorn accompanied the regiment to the city, which looked dustier and red brickier (what a word!) than ever, now that they were fresh from the lovely green of the country. By Mr. Schermerhorn's advice, the party took possession of two empty Fifth avenue stages which happened to be waiting at the Fulton ferry, and rode slowly up Broadway to Chambers street, where Peter and his father bid them good-by, and went off to the dépôt. As Peter had declined changing his clothes before he left, they had to travel all the way to Buffalo with our young friend in this unusual guise; but, as people had become used to seeing soldiers parading about in uniform, they didn't seem particularly surprised, whereat Master Peter was rather disappointed. To go back to the Zouaves, however. When the stages turned into Fifth avenue, they decided to get out; and after forming their ranks in fine style, they marched up the avenue, on the sidewalk this time, stopping at the various houses or street corners where they must bid adieu to one and another of their number, promising to see each other again as soon as possible. At last only Tom and Freddy were left to go home by themselves. As they marched along, keeping faultless step, Freddy exclaimed, "I tell you what, Tom! I mean to ask my father, the minute he comes home, to let me go to West Point as soon as I leave school! I must be a soldier--I can't think of anything else!" "That's just what I mean to do!" cried Tom, with sparkling eyes; "and, Fred, if you get promoted before me, promise you will have me in your regiment, won't you?" "Yes I will, certainly!" answered Freddy; "but you're the oldest, Tom, and, you know, the oldest gets promoted first; so mind you don't forget me when you come to your command!" As he spoke, they reached his own home; and our hero, glad after all to come back to father, mother, and sister, bounded up the steps, and rang the bell good and _hard_, just to let Joseph know that a personage of eminence had arrived. As the door opened, he turned gayly round, cap in hand, saying, "Good-by, Maryland; you've left the regiment, but you'll never leave the Union!" and the last words he heard Tom say were, "No, by George, _never_!" * * * * * And now, dear little readers, my boy friends in particular, the history of Freddy Jourdain must close. He still lives in New York, and attends Dr. Larned's school, where he is at the head of all his classes. The Dashahed Zouaves have met very often since the encampment, and had many a good drill in their room--the large attic floor which Mr. Jourdain allowed them for their special accommodation, and where the beautiful regimental colors are carefully kept, to be proudly displayed in every parade of the Zouaves. When he is sixteen, the boy Colonel is to enter West Point Academy, and learn to be a real soldier; while Tom--poor Tom, who went down to Baltimore that pleasant July month, promising so faithfully to join Freddy in the cadet corps, may never see the North again. And in conclusion let me say, that should our country again be in danger in after years, which God forbid, we may be sure that first in the field, and foremost in the van of the grand army, will be our gallant young friend, COLONEL FREDDY. CONCLUSION. IT took a great many Saturday afternoons to finish the story of "Colonel Freddy," and the children returned to it at each reading with renewed and breathless interest. George and Helen couldn't help jumping up off their seats once or twice and clapping their hands with delight when anything specially exciting took place in the pages of the wonderful story that was seen "before it was printed," and a great many "oh's" and "ah's" testified to their appreciation of the gallant "Dashahed Zouaves." They laughed over the captive Tom, and cried over the true story of the old sergeant; and when at length the very last word had been read, and their mother had laid down the manuscript, George sprang up once more, exclaiming; "Oh, I wish I could be a boy soldier! Mamma, mayn't I recruit a regiment and camp out too?" "And oh! if I could only present a flag!" cried his sister; "I wish I had been Jessie; what a pity it wasn't all true!" "And what if I should tell you," said their mother, laughing, "that a little bird has whispered in my ear that 'Colonel Freddy' was wonderfully like your little Long Island friend Hilton R----?" "Oh, mamma! why, what makes you think so?" "Oh, something funny I heard about him last summer; never mind what!" The children wisely concluded that it was no use to ask any more questions; at the same moment solemnly resolving that the very next time they paid a visit to their aunt, who lived at Astoria, they would beg her to let them drive over to Mr. R----'s place, and find out all about it. After this, there were no more readings for several Saturdays; but at last one morning when the children had almost given up all hopes of more stories, George opened his eyes on the sock hanging against the door, which looked more bulgy than ever. "Hurrah!" he shouted; "Aunt Fanny's daughter hasn't forgotten us, after all!" and dressing himself in a double quick, helter-skelter fashion, George dashed out into the entry, forgot his good resolution, and slid down the banisters like a streak of lightning and began pummelling on his sister's door with both fists; shouting, "Come, get up! get up, Nelly! here's another Sock story for us!" This delightful announcement was quite sufficient to make Helen's stockings, which she was just drawing on in a lazy fashion, fly up to their places in a hurry; then she popped her button-over boots on the wrong feet, and had to take them off and try again; and, in short, the whole of her dressing was an excellent illustration of that time-honored maxim, "The more _haste_, the worse _speed_;" George, meanwhile, performing a distracted Indian war dance in the entry outside, until his father opened his door and wanted to know what the racket was all about. "Socks! socks! father!" cried George, joyfully. At this moment Helen came out, and the two children scampered down stairs, and sitting down side by side on the sofa, they proceeded to examine this second instalment of the Sock stories. They found it was again a whole book; and the title, on a little page by itself, read "GERMAN SOCKS." "Oh, I am so glad!" said Helen. "These must be more stories like that dear 'Little White Angel.'" And so they proved to be; for, on their mother's commencing to read the first story, it was found to be called, "God's Pensioners;" and commenced, "It was a cold--" but stop! halt! This book was to be devoted to "Colonel Freddy;" but if you will only go to Mr. Leavitt's, the publishers, you will there discover what was the rest of the second Sock Stories. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 41, "dilemna" changed to "dilemma" (horns of this dilemma) Page 81, "arttisically" changed to "artistically" (his fork artistically) 
26322	----	PETERKIN [Illustration: MAMMA . . . HUGGED HIM AS IF HE'D BEEN LOST FOR A YEAR. [_Frontispiece._] PETERKIN BY MRS. MOLESWORTH AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY' _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR_ =London= MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1902 _All rights reserved_ TO "ALEX" ALEXANDER DOBREE HERRIES I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY 155 SLOANE STREET, S.W. _May Day_ 1902 CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. WHAT _CAN_ HAVE BECOME OF HIM? 1 II. FOUND 19 III. AN INVITATION 34 IV. VERY MYSTERIOUS 50 V. 'STRATAGEMS' 69 VI. MARGARET 84 VII. THE GREAT PLAN 101 VIII. A TERRIBLE IDEA 118 IX. IN A FOG 135 X. BERYL 149 XI. DEAR MAMMA 165 XII. NO MYSTERY AFTER ALL 182 ILLUSTRATIONS MAMMA . . . HUGGED HIM AS IF HE'D BEEN LOST FOR A YEAR _Frontispiece_ OUR MISSING PETERKIN _To face page_ 13 NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP " " 52 PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID " " 97 WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR " " 108 HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID " " 145 'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT' " " 159 THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE " " 173 PETERKIN CHAPTER I WHAT _CAN_ HAVE BECOME OF HIM? WE were all at tea in the nursery. All except him. The door burst open and James put his head in. 'If you please, Mrs. Brough,' he began,--'Mrs. Brough' is the servants' name for nurse. Mamma calls her 'Brough' sometimes, but we always call her 'nurse,' of course,--'If you please, Mrs. Brough, is Master Peterkin here?' Nurse looked up, rather vexed. She doesn't like burstings in. 'Of course not, James,' she said. 'He is out driving with his mamma. You must have seen them start.' 'It's just that,' said James, in his silly way. 'It's his mamma that wants to know.' And then we noticed that James's face was much redder than usual. It may have been partly that he had run upstairs very fast, for he is really very good-natured, but it looked as if he was rather in a fuss, too. Nurse sat very bolt up in her chair, and _her_ face began to get queer, and her voice to get vexeder. Lots of people get cross when they are startled or frightened. I have noticed it. 'What do you mean, James? Please to explain,' she said. 'I can't stop,' he said, 'and I don't rightly understand, myself. His mamma sent Master Peterkin home before her, half-an-hour ago or more, but he hasn't come in, not as I've seen, nor nobody else, I'm afraid. So where he's got to, who can say?' And James turned to go. Nurse stopped him, getting up from her place as she spoke. 'Was he in the carriage?' she asked. 'Of course not. Beckett would have seen him in, all right, if he had been,' said James, in a very superior tone. 'He was to run home by himself a bit of a way, as I take it,' he added, as he hurried off at last. 'I must go downstairs to your mamma,' said nurse. 'Miss Blanchie, my dear, will you look after Miss Elvira, and see that she doesn't spill her tea?' '_Nursie_,' said Elvira, in a very offended tone, 'you know I never spill my tea now.' 'Not since the day before yesterday,' I was beginning to say, but I didn't. For I thought to myself, if there was any real trouble about Peterkin, it wouldn't be at all a good time to tease each other. I don't think Elf--that's Elvira's pet name--had understood about him being lost. Indeed, I don't think I had quite taken it in myself, till I saw how grave the two eldest ones were looking. 'Clem,' I said, 'do you think there can really be anything the matter?' Clement is the eldest of us all, and he is always the one we go to first if we are in any trouble. But he is sometimes rather slow; he is not as quick and clever as Blanche, and she often puts him down at first, though she generally comes round to his way in the end. She answered for him now, though I hadn't spoken to her. 'How can there not be something the matter?' she said sharply. 'If Peterkin has been half-an-hour or an hour, perhaps, wandering about the streets, it shows he has at least lost his way, and who knows where he's got to. I wish you wouldn't ask such silly questions, Giles.' Then, all of a sudden, Elf burst out crying. It may have been partly Blanche's sharp tone, which had startled her, and made her take more notice of it all. 'Oh, Clem, Clem,' she wailed, 'could he have been stolened?' 'No, no, darling,' said Clement, dabbing her face with his pocket-handkerchief. 'There are kind policemen in the streets, you know. They wouldn't let a little boy like Peterkin be stolen.' 'But they does take little boys to pison,' said Elf. 'I've see'd them. It's 'cos of that I'm frightened of them for Peterkin.' That was not quite true. She had never thought of policemen till, unluckily, Clem spoke of them in his wish to comfort her. She did not mean to say what was not true, of course, but there never was such a child as Elf for arguing, even then when she was only four years old. Indeed, she's not half as bad now that she is eight, twice as old, and I often tell her so. Perhaps that evening it wasn't a bad thing, for the talking about policemen stopped her crying, which was even worse than her arguing, once she started a good roar. 'It's just because of that, that I'm so frightened about dear sweet little Peterkin,' she repeated. 'Rubbish, Elf,' I began, but Clem looked at me and I stopped. 'You needn't be frightened that Peterkin will be taken to prison, Elfie,' he said in his kind, rather slow way. 'It's only naughty little boys that the policemen take to prison, and Peterkin isn't naughty,' and then he wiped Elf's eyes again, and she forgot to go on crying, for just then nurse came upstairs. _She_ was not actually crying, of course, but she did look very worried, so Clem and Blanche's faces did not clear up at all. Nor did mine, I suppose. I really did not know what to think, I was waiting to see what the others thought, for we three younger ones looked up to Clement and Blanche a good deal, and we still do. They are twins, and they seem to mix together so well. Blanche is quick and clever, and Clement is awfully sensible, and they are both very kind, though Clem is the gentlest. They are nearly sixteen now, and I am thirteen past, so at the time I am writing about they were twelve and I was going to be ten my next birthday, and Peterkin was eight and Elvira five. I won't say much about what sort of a boy Peterkin was, for as my story is mostly about him and the funny things he did and thought, it will show of itself. He _was_ a funny child; a queer child in some ways, I mean, and he still is. Mamma says it is stupid to say 'funny' when we mean queer or odd, but I think it says it better than any other word, and I am sure other children will think so too. Blanche was the first to speak to nurse. 'Is mamma really frightened about Peterkin, nurse?' she asked. 'Tell us what it is.' But nurse had caught sight of her darling pet baby's red eyes. 'Miss Blanchie,' she said, 'I asked you to look after Miss Elvira, and she's been crying.' 'You asked me to see that she didn't spill her tea, and she hasn't spilt it. It's some nonsense she has got in her head about policemen taking strayed children to prison that she has been crying about,' replied Blanche, rather crossly. 'I only wish,' began nurse, but the rest of her sentence she mumbled to herself, though I heard part of it. It was wishing that the policemen _had_ got Peterkin safely. 'Of course, your poor mamma is upset about it,' she went on, though I could see she did not want to say very much for fear of Elf's beginning to cry again. 'It was this way. Your mamma had to go round by Belton Street, and she did not want to keep Master Peterkin out so late to miss his tea, so she dropped him at the corner of Lindsay Square, and told him to run home. It's as straight as straight can be, and he's often run that far alone. So where he's got to or gone to, there's no guessing.' 'And what is mamma doing?' asked Blanche. 'She has sent Mr. Drew and James off in different directions,' said nurse, 'and she has gone herself again in the carriage to the station, as it's just time for your papa's train, and he will know what more to do.' We did not live in London then; papa went up and down every day from the big town by the sea where our home was. Clement thinks perhaps I had better not say what town it is, as some people might remember about us, and I _might_ say things that would vex them; so I won't call it anything, though I must explain that it is not at all a little place, but quite big enough for any one to lose their way in, if they were strangers. But Peterkin wasn't a stranger; and the way he had to come was, as nurse said, as straight as straight. We all listened with grave faces to what nurse told us. Suddenly Clement got up--I can't say 'jumped up,' for he was always rather slow. 'Nurse,' he said, 'mamma's out, so I can't ask her leave. But I've got an idea about Peterkin. Will you give me leave to go out for half-an-hour or so? I promise you I won't go far, but I would rather not tell you where I want to go, as it may be all nonsense.' Nurse looked at him doubtfully. She trusted Clem the most of us all, I know, and she had good reason to do so, for he was and is very trustworthy. And it was nice of him to ask her leave, considering he was twelve years old and quite out of the nursery, except that he still liked having tea there when he came in from school every evening. 'Well, Master Clement,' said nurse, 'I don't quite know. Supposing you go out and don't get back as soon as you expect? It would be just a double fright for your poor mamma.' 'Let me go too!' I exclaimed, and I jumped up so suddenly that I made all the cups rattle and nearly threw over the table altogether. 'Then if anything stops Clem getting back quickly, I can run home and explain. Anyway you'd be more comfortable if you knew the two of us were on the hunt together. You don't mind my coming, do you, Clem?' 'No,' said Clem, 'but do let's go.' 'And you won't be long?' pleaded nurse. Clem shook his head. 'I don't think we can be--not if there's anything in my idea', he called out, as we ran off. We didn't take a minute to pull on our coats, which were hanging in the hall. I daresay I should never have thought of mine at all, if Clem hadn't reminded me, even though it was late in November and a cold evening. And as soon as we were outside and had set off at a good pace, I begged Clem to tell me what his idea was, and where we were going to look for Peterkin. 'It's the parrot,' he replied; 'the parrot in Rock Terrace.' 'I don't know what you mean,' I said. 'I never heard of a parrot, and I don't know where Rock Terrace is.' 'Nonsense,' said Clem, stopping for a moment. 'You must have forgotten.' 'I haven't indeed,' I said. 'Not about the parrot that Peterkin has been dreaming of ever since we passed it on Saturday, when we were out with mamma--next door to old Mrs. Wylie's?' Clem exclaimed. 'No,' I repeated. 'I wasn't with you that day, and----' 'No more you were,' said Clem. 'And,' I went on, 'I don't know where Mrs. Wylie lives, though I've often seen her herself at our house. And you know, Clement, that's just like Peterkin. If he's got anything very much in his head, he often doesn't speak of it, except to any one who knows about it already.' 'He hasn't said very much about it, even to me,' said Clement. 'But, all the same, I know he has got it tremendously in his head.' 'How do you mean? Is he making up fairy stories about it?' 'Perhaps! You see he had never heard a parrot speaking. I'm not sure if he knew they ever did. But he wanted very much to see it again, and it just came into my mind all at once, that if he had a chance he might have run round there and lost his way. I don't suppose he _meant_ to when mamma told him to go home. It may just have struck him when he got to the corner of Lindsay Square.' I did not answer. We were walking so fast that it was not easy to go on speaking. But I did think it was very clever of Clement to have thought of it. It was so like Peterkin. Clement hurried on. It was quite dark by now, but the lamps were lighted, and Clem seemed quite sure of his way. In spite of feeling rather unhappy about Peterkin, I was enjoying myself a little. I did not think it possible that he was really badly lost, and it was very exciting to rush along the streets after dark like this, and then I could not help fancying how triumphant we should feel if we actually found him. It was not very surprising that I did not know where Rock Terrace was, or that I had never even heard of it. It was such a tiny little row of such tiny houses, opening out of one corner of Lindsay Square. The houses were rather pretty; at least, very neat-looking and old-fashioned, with a little bit of garden in front, and small iron gates. They looked as if old maids lived in them, and I daresay there were a good many. Clement hurried along till he was close to the farther off end. Then he stopped short, and for the first time seemed at a loss. 'I don't know the number,' he said, 'but I'm sure it was almost the end house. And--yes--isn't that a big cage on the little balcony, Giles? Look well.' I peeped up. The light of the lamps was not very good in Rock Terrace. 'Yes,' I said. 'It is a big cage, but I can't see if there's a bird in it.' 'Perhaps they take him in at night,' said Clement. Then he looked up again at the balconies. 'Let me see,' he went on, 'which side is Mrs. Wylie's? Mamma went in at the--' but before he had time to finish his sentence his doubts were set at rest--his doubts and all our fears about Peterkin. For the door on the left of the parrot's home opened slowly, letting out what seemed, in contrast with the darkness outside, a flood of light, just within which, in the small hall or lobby of the miniature house, stood two figures--the one, that of a short thin old lady with white hair, dressed all in black; the other, a short fat little boy in a thick coat--our missing Peterkin! [Illustration: OUR MISSING PETERKIN.--p. 13.] They were speaking to each other most politely. 'So pleased to have seen you, my dear,' said Mrs. Wylie. 'Give my love to your dear mamma. I will not forget about the parrot, you may be sure. He shall have a proper invitation. And--you are quite certain you can find your way home? Oh, dear!--that poor child must have been bemoaning herself again! Polly always knows.' And as we stood there, our minds scarcely made up as to what we should do, we heard a queer croaking voice, from inside the house on the right of Mrs. Wylie--the parrot's voice, of course, calling out-- 'I'm so tired, Nana; I'm so tired. I won't be good; no, I won't.' Mrs. Wylie and Peterkin both stood silent for a moment, listening. So did we. Then Clement opened the gate and ran up the two or three steps, I following him. 'Peterkin!' he exclaimed, 'mamma has been so frightened about you.' And Peterkin turned round and looked up in his face with his big blue eyes, apparently quite astonished. 'Has mamma come back?' he said. 'I've only been here for a minute or two. I just wanted to look at the parrot.' Mrs. Wylie was a quick-witted old lady. She took it all in, in a moment. 'Dear, dear!' she said. 'I am afraid it is my fault. I saw the dear boy looking up at the parrot next door when I came in from my stroll round to the pillar-box with a letter, and he told me he was one of Mrs. Lesley's little sons, and then we got talking. But I had no idea his mamma would be alarmed. I am afraid it has been much more than a few minutes. I _am_ sorry.' It was impossible to say anything to trouble the poor old lady: she looked as if she were going to cry. 'It will be all right now,' said Clement. 'Mamma will be so delighted to see him safe and sound. But we had better hurry home. Come along, Peterkin.' But nothing would make Peterkin forget his good manners. He tugged off his sailor cap again, which he had just put on, and held out his hand, for the second or third time, I daresay, as he and his old lady had evidently been hobnobbing over their leave-takings for some minutes before we made our appearance. 'Good-bye!' he said; 'and thank you very much. And I'll ask mamma to let me come whenever you fix the day for the parrot. And please tell me all he tells you about the little girl. And--thank you very much.' They were the funniest pair. She so tiny and thin and white, with bright dark eyes, like some bird's, and Peterkin so short and sturdy and rosy, with his big dreamy ones looking up at her. She was just a little taller than he. And suddenly I saw his rosy face grow still rosier; crimson or scarlet, really. For Mrs. Wylie made a dash at him and kissed him, and unluckily Peterkin did not like being kissed, except by mamma and Elf. His politeness, however, stood him in good stead. He did not pull away, or show that he hated it, as lots of fellows would have done. He stood quite still, and then, with another tug at his cap, ran down the steps after Clem and me. Clement waited a moment or two before he spoke. It was his way; but just now it was a good thing, as Mrs. Wylie did not shut the door quite at once, and everything was so quiet in that little side street, in the evening especially, that very likely our voices would have carried back to her. I, for my part, was longing to shake Peterkin, though I felt very inclined to burst out laughing, too. But I knew it was best to leave the 'rowing' to Clem. 'Peterkin,' he began at last, 'I don't know what to say to you.' Peterkin had got hold of Clem's hand and was holding it tight, and he was already rather out of breath, as Clem was walking fast--very fast for him--and he has always been a long-legged chap for his age, thin and wiry, too; whereas, in those days--though, thank goodness, he is growing like a house on fire _now_--Peterkin was as broad as he was long. So to keep up with Clement's strides he had to trot, and that sort of pace soon makes a kid breathless, of course. 'I--I never thought mamma'd be flightened,' he managed to get out at last. He had been a long time of saying his 'r's' clearly, and now they still all got into 'l's' if he was bothered or startled. 'I never thought she'd be flightened.' 'Then you were a donkey,' I burst out, and Clement interrupted me. 'How could she not have been frightened?' he went on. 'She told you to run straight home, which wouldn't have taken you five minutes, and you have been at least an hour.' 'I thought it wouldn't be no farther to come this way,' replied Peterkin, 'and I only meant to look at the pallot one minute. And it would have been very lu--_rude_ not to speak to the old lady, and go into her house for a minute when she asked me. Mamma always says we mustn't be rude,' said Peterkin, plucking up some spirit. 'Mamma always says we must be _obedient_' replied Clement, severely. Then he relapsed into silence, and his quick footsteps and Peterkin's short trotty ones were the only sounds. 'I believe,' I couldn't help murmuring, half to myself, half to Peterkin--'I believe you've got some rubbish in your head about the parrot being a fairy. If I were mamma I'd stop your----' but at that I stopped _myself_. If Clement had heard me he would have been down upon me for disrespectfulness in saying to a baby like Pete what I thought mamma should or should not do; and I didn't care to be pulled up by Clement before the little ones. Peterkin was as sharp as needles in some ways. He guessed the end of my unfinished sentence. 'No,' he half whispered, 'mamma'd _never_ stop me reading faily stolies--you know she wouldn't, Gilly, and it's velly unkind of you to say so.' 'I didn't say so,' I replied. 'Be quiet, both of you,' said Clem, 'and hurry on,' for we had slackened a little. But in spite of the breathlessness of the pace, I heard another gasp from Peterkin-- 'It _is_ velly like the blue-bird,' were the words I distinguished. And 'I knew I was right,' I thought to myself triumphantly. CHAPTER II FOUND THE carriage was standing waiting at our own house when we got there. And there was some bustle going on, for the front door was not shut, and we could see into the hall, which of course was brightly lighted up. Papa was there, speaking to some one; he had his hat on, as if he was just coming out again. And--yes--it was Drew he was speaking to, and James too, I think--but behind them was poor mamma, looking so dreadfully unhappy. It did make me want to shake Peterkin again. They did not see us as quickly as we saw them, for it was dark outside and they were all talking: papa giving directions, I fancy. So they did jump when Clem--hurrying for once--rushed up the steps, dragging Peterkin after him. 'We've found him--we've found him!' he shouted. 'In with you, Pete: show yourself, quick.' For mamma had got quite white, and looked as if she were going to faint or tumble down in some kind of a fit; but luckily before she had time for anything, there was that fat boy hugging and squeezing her so tight that she'd have been clever to move at all, though if she _had_ tumbled down he would have made a good buffer. 'Oh, mamma, mamma--oh, mummy,' he said, and by this time he was howling, of course, 'I never meant to flighten you. I never did. I thought I'd been only five minutes, and I thought it was nearly as quick home that way.' And of course mamma didn't scold him! She hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year, and as if he was the prodigal son and the good brother mixed up together. But papa looked rather stern, and I was not altogether sorry to see it. 'Where have you been, Peterkin?' he said. And then he glanced up at us two--Clem and me--as Peterkin seemed too busy crying to speak. 'Where has he been?' papa repeated. 'It was very clever of you to find him, I must say.' And mamma's curiosity began to awaken, now that she had got old Pete safe in her arms again. She looked up with the same question in her face. 'Where--' she began. And I couldn't help answering. 'It was all Clem's idea,' I said, for it really was only fair for Clem to get some praise. 'He thought of the parrot.' 'The _parrot_', mamma repeated, growing more puzzled instead of less. 'Yes,' said Clement. 'The parrot next door to Mrs. Wylie's. Perhaps you don't remember, mamma. It was the day Peterkin and I were out with you--Giles wasn't there--and you went in to Mrs. Wylie's and we waited outside, and the parrot was in a cage on the balcony, and we heard it talk.' 'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'he _talked_,' as if that was an explanation of everything. Mamma's face cleared. 'I think I do remember something about it,' she said. 'But I have never heard you mention it since, Peterkin?' 'No,' said Peterkin, getting rather red. 'He has spoken of it a little to me,' said Clement; 'that's how I knew it was in his mind. But Peterkin often doesn't say much about what he's thinking a lot about. It's his way.' 'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'it's my way.' 'And have you been planning all these days to run off to see the parrot again?' asked mamma. I wasn't quite sure if she was vexed or not, but _I_ was; it seemed so queer, queer as Pete often was, for him not to have confided in somebody. But we were mistaken. 'No, no, truly, mamma,' he said, speaking in a much more determined way now, and shaking his curly head. 'I didn't ever think of it till after I'd got out of the calliage and I saw it was the corner of the big square where the little houses are at one end, and then I only meant to go for one minute. I thought it was nearly as quick that way, and I ran fast. I never meant to flighten you, mamma,' he repeated again, his voice growing plaintive. 'I wasn't planning it a bit all these days. I only kept thinking it _were_ like the blue-bird.' The last sentence was almost in a whisper; it was only a sort of honesty that forced him to say it. As far as Clement and I were concerned, he needn't have said it. 'I knew he'd got some fairy-story rubbish in his head,' I muttered, but I don't think Peterkin heard me, though papa and mamma did; for I saw them glance at each other, and papa said something under his breath, of which I only caught the words 'getting too fanciful,' and 'schoolboy,' which made mamma look rather unhappy again. 'I don't yet understand how old Mrs. Wylie got mixed up in it all,' said papa. 'She lives next door to the parrot,' said Clem, and we couldn't help smiling at the funny way he said it. 'And she saw me when she was coming back from the post, and she was very kind,' Peterkin went on, taking up the story again, as the smile had encouraged him. 'She 'avited me to go in, up to her drawing-room, so that I could hear him talking better. And he said lots of things.' 'Oh yes, by the bye,' I exclaimed, 'there was something about a little girl, Mrs. Wylie said. What was it, Pete?' But Peterkin shut up at this. 'I'll tell you the next time I go there. Mummy, you will let me go to see that old lady again, won't you?' he begged. 'She was so kind, and I only thought I'd been there five minutes. Mayn't I go again to see her?' '_And_ the parrot,' said mamma, smiling. She was sharp enough to take in that it was a quarter for Mrs. Wylie and three quarters for the parrot that he wanted so to go back to Rock Terrace. 'Well, you must promise never to pay visits on your own account again, Peterkin, and then we shall see. Now run upstairs to the nursery as fast as you can and get some tea. And I'm sure Clem and Giles will be glad of some more. I hope poor nurse and Blanche and Elfie know he is all right,' she added, glancing round. 'Yes, ma'am. I took the liberty of going up to tell the young ladies and Mrs. Brough, when Master Peterkin first returned,' said James in his very politest and primmest tone. 'That was very thoughtful of you,' said mamma, approvingly, which made James get very red. We three boys skurried upstairs after that. At least I did. Clement came more slowly, but as his legs were long enough to take two steps at a time, he got to the top nearly as soon as I did, and Peterkin came puffing after us. I was rather surprised that Blanche and Elf had been content to stay quietly in the nursery, considering all the excitement that had been going on downstairs, and I think it was very good of Blanche, for she told me afterwards that she had only done it to keep Elvira from getting into one of her endless crying fits. They always say Elf is such a nervous child that she can't help it, but _I_ think it's a good bit of it cross temper too. Still she is rather growing out of it, and, after all, that night there was something to cry about, and there might have been worse, as nurse said. She had been telling the girls stories of people who got lost, though she was sensible enough to make them turn up all right at the end. She can tell very interesting stories sometimes, but she keeps the _best_ ones to amuse us when we are ill, or when mamma's gone away on a visit, or something horrid like that has happened. They all three flew at Peterkin, of course, and hugged him as if he'd been shipwrecked, or putting out a fire, or something grand like that. And he took it as coolly as anything, and asked for his tea, as if he deserved all the petting and fussing. That was another of his little 'ways,' I suppose. Then, as we were waiting for the kettle to boil up again to make fresh tea, if you please, for his lordship--though Clem and I were to have some too, of course, and we did deserve it--all the story had to be told over for the third or fourth time, of the parrot, and old Mrs. Wylie meeting Pete as she came in, and his thinking he'd only been there about five minutes, and all the rest of it. 'And what did the Polly parrot talk about?' asked Elf. She had a picture of a parrot in one of her books, and some rhymes about it. 'Oh,' answered Peterkin,' he said, "How d'ye do?" and "Pretty Poll," and things like that.' 'He said queerer things than that; you know he--' I began. I saw Pete didn't want to tell about the parrot copying the mysterious child that Mrs. Wylie had spoken of, so I thought I'd tease him a bit by reminding him of it. I felt sure he had got some of his funny ideas out of his fairy stories in his head; that the little girl--for Mrs. Wylie had spoken of a 'her'--was an enchanted princess or something like that, and I wasn't far wrong, as you will see. But I didn't finish my sentence, for Peterkin, who was sitting next me, gave me a sort of little kick, not to hurt, of course, and whispered, 'I'll tell you afterwards.' So I felt it would be ill-natured to tease him, and I didn't say any more, and luckily the others hadn't noticed what I had begun. Blanchie was on her knees in front of the fire toasting for us, and Elf was putting lumps of sugar into the cups, to be ready. Pete was as hungry as a hunter, and our sharp walk had given Clem and me a fresh appetite, so we ate all the toast and a lot of plum-cake as well, and felt none the worse for it. And soon after that, it was time to be tidied up to go down to the drawing-room to mamma. Peterkin and Elvira only stayed half-an-hour or so, but after they had gone to bed we three big ones went into the library to finish our lessons while papa and mamma were at dinner. Sometimes we went into the dining-room to dessert, and sometimes we worked on till mamma called us into the drawing-room: it all depended on how many lessons we'd got to do, or how fast we had got on with them. Clement and Blanche were awfully good about that sort of thing, and went at it steadily, much better than I, I'm afraid, though I could learn pretty quickly if I chose. But I did not like lessons, especially the ones we had to do at home, for in these days Clem and I only went to a day-school and had to bring books and things back with us every afternoon. And besides these lessons we had to do at home for school, we had a little extra once or twice a week, as we had French conversation and reading on half-holidays with Blanche's teachers, and they sometimes gave us poetry to learn by heart or to translate. We were not exactly _obliged_ to do it, but of course we didn't want Blanche, who was only a girl, to get ahead of us, as she would very likely have done, for she did grind at her lessons awfully. I think most girls do. It sounds as if we were rather hard-worked, but I really don't think we were, though I must allow that we worked better in those days, and learnt more in comparison, than we do now at--I won't give the name of the big school we are at. Clement says it is better not--people who write books never do give the real names, he says, and I fancy he's right. It is an awfully jolly school, and we are as happy as sand-boys, whatever that means, but I can't say that we work as Blanche does, though she does it all at home with governesses. That part of the evening--when we went back to the drawing-room to mamma, I mean--was one of the times I shall always like to remember about. It is very jolly now, of course, to be at home for the holidays, but there was then the sort of 'treat' feeling of having got our lessons done, and the little ones comfortably off to bed, and the grown-up-ness. Mamma looked so pretty, as she was always nicely dressed, though I liked some of her dresses much better than others--I don't like her in black ones at all; and the drawing-room was pretty, and then there was mamma's music. Her playing was nice, but her singing was still better, and she used to let us choose our favourite songs, each in turn. Blanche plays the violin now, very well, they say, and mamma declares she is really far cleverer at music than she herself ever was; but for all that, I shall never care for her fiddle anything like mamma's singing; if I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget it. It is a great thing to have really jolly times like those evenings to think of when you begin to get older, and are a lot away from home, and likely to be still less and less there. But I must not forget that this story is supposed to be principally about Peterkin and his adventures, so I'll go on again about the night after he'd been lost. He and I had a room together, and he was nearly always fast asleep, like a fat dormouse, when I went up to bed. He had a way of curling himself round, like a ball, that really did remind you of a dormouse. I believe it kept him from growing; I really do, though I did my best to pull him out straight. He didn't like that, ungrateful chap, and used to growl at me for it, and I believe he often pretended to be asleep when he wasn't, just to stop me doing it; for one night, nurse had come in to know what the row was about, and though she agreed with me that it was much better for him to lie properly stretched at his full length, she said I wasn't to wake him up because of it. But if he was generally fast asleep at night when I came to bed, he certainly made up for it by waking in the morning. I never knew anything like him for that. I believe he woke long before the birds, winter as well as summer, and then was his time for talking and telling me his stories and fancies. Once I myself was well awake I didn't mind, as it was generally rather interesting; but I couldn't stand the being awakened ages before the time. So we made an agreement, that if I didn't wake him up at night, he'd not bother me in the morning till I gave a sign that I was on the way to waking of myself. The sign was a sort of snort that's easy to make, even while you're still pretty drowsy, and it did very well, as I could lie quiet in a dreamy way listening to him. He didn't want me to speak, only to snort a little now and then till I got quite lively, as I generally did in a few minutes, as his stories grew more exciting, and there came something that I wanted him to alter in them. That night, however, when I went up to bed there was no need to think of our bargain, for Peterkin was as wide awake as I was. 'Haven't you been to sleep yet?' I asked him. 'Not exactly,' he said. 'Just a sort of half. I'm glad you've come, Gilley, for I've got a lot of things in my head.' 'You generally have,' I said, 'but _I'm_ sleepy, if you're not. That scamper in the cold after you, my good boy, was rather tiring, I can tell you.' 'I'm very sorry,' said he, in a penitent tone of voice, 'but you know, Giles, I never meant to----' 'Oh, stop that!' I exclaimed; 'you've said it twenty times too often already. Better tell me a bit of the things in your head. Then you can go to sleep, and dream them out, and have an interesting story ready for me in the morning.' 'Oh, but--' objected Pete, sitting up in bed and clasping his hands round his knees, his face very red, and his eyes very blue and bright, 'they're not dreamy kind of things at all. There's really something very misterist--what is the proper word, Gilley?' '"Mysterious," I suppose you mean,' I said. 'Yes, misterous,' repeated he, 'about what the parrot said, and I'm pretty sure that old lady thinks so too.' 'Didn't she explain about it, at all?' I asked him. I began to think there _was_ something queer, perhaps, for Peterkin's manner impressed me. 'Well, she did a little,' he replied. 'But I'd better tell you all, Gilley; just what I first heard, before she came up and spoke to me, you know, and----' Just then, however, there came an interruption. Mamma put her head in at the door. 'Boys,' she said, 'not asleep yet? At least _you_ should be, Peterkin. You didn't wake him, I hope, Giles?' I had no time for an indignant 'No; of course, not,' before Pete came to my defence. 'No, no, mummy! I was awake all of myself. I wanted him to come very much, to talk a little.' 'Well, you must both be rather tired with all the excitement there has been,' mamma said. 'So go to sleep, now, and do your talking in the morning. Promise,--both of you--eh?' 'Yes,' we answered; 'word of honour, mamma,' and she went away, quite sure that we would keep our promise, which was sealed by a kiss from her. Dear little mother! She did not often come up to see us in bed, for fear of rousing us out of our 'beauty' sleep, but to-night she had felt as if she must make sure we were all right after the fuss of Peterkin's being lost, you see. And of course we were as good as our word, and only just said 'Good-night!' to each other; Pete adding, 'I'll begin at the beginning, and tell you everything, as soon as I hear your first snort in the morning, Giles.' 'You'd better wait for my second or third,' I replied. 'I'm never very clear-headed at the first, and I want to give my attention, as it's something real, and not one of your make-ups,' I said. 'So, good-night!' It is awfully jolly to know that you are trusted, isn't it? CHAPTER III AN INVITATION I SLEPT on rather later than usual next morning. I suppose I really was tired. And when I began to awake, and gradually remembered all that had happened the night before, I heartily wished I hadn't promised Peterkin to snort at all. I took care not to open my eyes for a good bit, but I couldn't carry on humbugging that I was still asleep for very long. Something made me open my eyes, and as soon as I did so I knew what it was. There was Pete--bolt upright--as wide awake as if he had never been asleep, staring at me with all his might, his eyes as round and blue as could be. You know the feeling that some one is looking at you, even when you don't see them. I had not given one snort, and I could not help feeling rather cross with Peterkin, even when he exclaimed-- 'Oh, I am so glad you're awake!' 'You've been staring me awake,' I said, very grumpily. 'I'd like to know who could go on sleeping with you wishing them awake?' 'I'm very sorry if you wanted to go on sleeping,' he replied meekly. He did not seem at all surprised at my saying he had wakened me. He used to understand rather queer things like that so quickly, though we counted him stupid in some ways. 'But as I am awake you can start talking,' I said, closing my eyes again, and preparing to listen. Pete was quite ready to obey. 'Well,' he began, 'it was this way. Mamma didn't want me to be late for tea, so she stopped at the end of that big street--a little farther away than Lindsay Square, you know----' 'Yes, Meredith Place,' I grunted. 'And,' Pete went on, 'told me to run home. It's quite straight, if you keep to the front, of course.' 'And you did run straight home, didn't you?' I said teasingly. 'No,' he replied seriously, but not at all offended. 'When I got to the corner of the square I looked up it, and I remembered that it led to the funny little houses where Clem and I had seen the parrot. So, almost without settling it in my mind, I ran along that side of the square till I came to Rock Terrace. I ran _very_ fast----' 'I wish I'd been there to see you,' I grunted again. 'And I thought if I kept round by the back, I'd get out again to the front nearly as soon--running all the way, you see, to make up. And I'd scarcely got to the little houses when I heard the parrot. His cage was out on the balcony, you know. And it is very quiet there--scarcely any carts or carriages passing--and it was getting dark, and I think you hear things plainer in the dark; don't you think so, Gilley?' I did not answer, so he went on. 'I heard the parrot some way off. His voice is so queer, you know. And when I got nearer I could tell every word he said. He kept on every now and then talking for himself--real talking--"Getting cold. Polly wants to go to bed. Quick, quick." And then he'd stop for a minute, as if he was listening and heard something I couldn't. _That_ was the strange part that makes me think perhaps he isn't really a parrot at all, Giles,' and here Pete dropped his voice and looked very mysterious. I had opened my eyes for good now; it was getting exciting. 'What did he say?' I asked. 'What you and Clement heard, and a lot more,' Peterkin replied. 'Over and over again the same--"I'm so tired, Nana, I won't be good, no I won't."' 'Yes, that's what we heard,' I said, 'but what was the lot more?' 'Oh, perhaps there wasn't so _very_ much more,' said he, consideringly. 'There was something about "I won't be locked up," and "I'll write a letter," and then again and again, "I won't be good, I'm so tired." That was what you and Clement heard, wasn't it?' 'Yes,' I said. 'And one funny thing about it was that his voice, the parrot's, sounded quite different when he was talking his own talking, do you see?--like "Pretty Poll is cold, wants to go to bed"--from when he was copying the little girl's. It was always croaky, of course, but _squeakier_, somehow, when he was copying her.' Peterkin sat up still straighter and looked at me, evidently waiting for my opinion about it all. I was really very interested, but I wanted first to hear all he had in his head, so I did not at once answer. 'Isn't it very queer?' he said at last. 'What do you think about it?' I asked. He drew a little nearer me and spoke in a lower voice, though there was no possibility of any one ever hearing what he said. 'P'raps,' he began, 'it isn't _only_ a parrot, or p'raps some fairy makes it say these things. The little girl might be shut up, you see, like the princess in the tower, by some _bad_ fairy, and there might be a _good_ one who wanted to help her to get out. I wonder if they ever do invite fairies to christenings now, and forget some of them,' he went on, knitting his brows, 'or not ask them, because they are bad fairies? I can't remember about Elf's christening feast; can you, Gilley?' 'I can remember hers, and yours too, for that matter,' I replied. 'You forget how much older I am. But of course it's not like that now. There are no fairies to invite, as I've often told you, Pete. At least,' for, in spite of my love of teasing, I never liked to see the look of distress that came over his chubby face when any one talked that sort of common sense to him, 'at least, people have got out of the way of seeing them or getting into fairy-land.' 'But we _might_ find it again,' said Peterkin, brightening up. And I didn't like to disappoint him by saying I could not see much chance of it. Then another idea struck me. 'How about Mrs. Wylie?' I said. 'Didn't she explain it at all? You told her what you had heard, didn't you? Yes, of course, she heard some of it herself, when we were all three standing at the door of her house.' 'Well,' said Peterkin, 'I was going to tell you the rest. I was listening to the parrot, and it was much plainer than _you_ heard, Gilley, for when you were there you only heard him from down below, and I was up near him--well, I was just standing there listening to him, when that old lady came up.' 'I know all about that,' I interrupted. 'No, you don't, not nearly all,' Peterkin persisted. He could be as obstinate as a little pig sometimes, so I said nothing. 'I was just standing there when she came up. She looked at me, and then she went in at her own gate, next door to the parrot's, you know, and then she looked at me again, and spoke over the railings. She said, "Are you talking to the parrot, my dear?" and I said, "No, I'm only listening to him, thank you"; and then she looked at me again, and she said, "You don't live in this terrace, I think?" And I said, "No, I live on the Esplanade, number 59." Then she pulled out her spectacles--long things, you know, at the end of a turtle-shell stick.' 'Tortoise-shell,' I corrected. 'Tortoise-shell,' he repeated, 'and then she looked at me again. "If you live at 59," she said, "I think you must be one of dear Mrs. Lesley's little sons," and I said, "That's just what I am, thank you." And then she said, "Won't you come in for a few minutes? You can see the Polly from my balcony, and it is getting cold for standing about. Are you on your way home from school?" So I thought it wouldn't be polite not to go in. She was so kind, you see,' and here his voice grew 'cryey' again, 'I never thought about mamma being flightened, and I only meant to stay a min----' 'Shut up about all that,' I interrupted. 'We've had it often enough, and I want to hear what happened.' 'Well,' he said, quite briskly again, 'she took me in, and up to her drawing-room. The window was a tiny bit open, and she made me stand just on the ledge between it and the balcony, so that I could see the parrot without his seeing me, for she said if he saw me he'd set up screeching and not talk sense any more. He knows when people are strangers. The cage was close to the old lady's end of the balcony, so that I could almost have touched it, and then I heard him say all those queer things. I didn't speak for a good while, for fear of stopping him talking. But after a bit he got fidgety; I daresay he knew there was somebody there, and then he flopped about and went back to his own talking, and said he was cold and wanted to go to bed, and all that. And somebody inside heard him and took him in. And then--' Pete stopped to rest his voice, I suppose. He was always rather fond of resting, whatever he was doing. 'Hurry up,' I said. 'What happened after that?' 'The old lady said I'd better come in, and she shut up the window--I suppose she felt cold, like the parrot--and she made me sit down; and then I asked her what made him say such queer things in his squeakiest voice; and she said he was copying what he heard, for there was a little girl in the _next_ house--not in his own house--who cried sometimes and seemed very cross and unhappy, so that Mrs. Wylie often is very sorry for her, though she has never really seen her. And I said, did she think anybody was unkind to the little girl, and she said she hoped not, but she didn't know. And then she seemed as if she didn't want to talk about the little girl very much, and she began to ask me about if I went to school and things like that, and then I said I'd better go home, and she came downstairs with me and--I think that's all, till you and Clement came and we all heard the parrot again.' 'I wonder what started him copying the little girl again, after he'd left off,' I said. 'P'raps he hears her through the wall,' said Pete. 'P'raps he hears quicker than people do. Yes,' he went on thoughtfully, 'I think he must, for the old lady has never heard exactly what the little girl said. She only heard her crying and grumbling. She told me so.' 'I daresay she's just a cross little thing,' I said. 'And I think it was rather silly of Mrs. Wylie to let you hear the parrot copying her. It's a very bad example. And you said Mrs. Wylie seemed as if she didn't want to talk much about her.' 'I think she's got some plan in her head,' said Peterkin, eagerly, 'for she said--oh, I forgot that--she said she was going to come to see mamma some day very soon, to ask her to let me go to have tea with her. And I daresay she'll ask you too, Gilley, if we both go down to the drawing-room when she comes.' 'I hope it'll be a half-holiday, then,' I said, 'or, anyway, that she will come when I'm here. It is very funny about the crying little girl. Has she been there a long time? Did your old lady tell you that?' Peterkin shook his head. 'Oh no, she's only been there since Mrs. Wylie came back from the country. She told me so.' 'And when was that?' I asked, but Pete did not know. He was sometimes very stupid, in spite of his quickness and fancies. 'It's been long enough for the parrot to learn to copy her grumbling,' I added. 'That wouldn't take him long,' said Peterkin, in his whispering voice again, '_if_ he's some sort of a fairy, you know, Gilley.' This time, perhaps, it was a good thing he spoke in a low voice, for at that moment nurse came in to wake us, or rather to make us get up, as we were nearly always awake already, and if she had heard the word 'fairy,' she would have begun about Peterkin's 'fancies' again. Some days passed without our hearing anything of the parrot or the old lady or Rock Terrace. We did not exactly forget about it; indeed, it was what we talked about every morning when we awoke. But I did not think much about it during the day, although I daresay Pete did. So it was quite a surprise to me one afternoon, about a week after the evening of all the fuss, when, the very moment I had rung the front bell, the door was opened by Pete himself, looking very important. 'She's come,' he said. 'I've been watching for you. She's in the drawing-room with mamma, and mamma told me to fetch you as soon as you came back from school. Is Clem there?' 'No,' I said, 'it's one of the days he stays later than me, you know.' Peterkin did not seem very sorry. 'Then she's come just to invite you and me,' he said. 'Clement _is_ too big, but she might have asked him too, out of polititude, you know.' He was always fussing about being polite, but I don't think I answered her in that way. 'Bother,' I said, for I was cross; my books were heavier than usual, and I banged them down; 'bother your politeness. Can't you tell me what you're talking about? Who is "she" that's in the drawing-room? I don't want to go up to see her, whoever she is.' 'Giles!' said Peterkin, in a very disappointed tone. 'You can't have forgotten. It's the old lady next door to the parrot's house, of course. I told you she meant to come. And she's going to invite us, I'm sure.' In my heart I was very anxious to go to Rock Terrace again, to see the parrot, and perhaps hear more of the mysterious little girl, but I was feeling rather tired and cross. 'I must brush my hair and wash my hands first,' I said, 'and I daresay mamma won't want me without Clement. She didn't say me alone, did she?' 'She said "your brothers,"' replied Peterkin, 'but of course you must come. And she said she hoped "they" wouldn't be long. So you must come as you are. I don't think your hands are very dirty.' It is one of the queer things about Peterkin that he can nearly always make you do what he wants if he's really in earnest. So I had to give in, and he went puffing upstairs, with me after him, to the drawing-room, when, sure enough, the old lady was sitting talking to mamma. Mamma looked up as we came in, and I saw that her eyes went past me. 'Hasn't Clement come in?' she asked, and it made me wish I hadn't given in about it to Pete. 'No, mamma,' I said. 'It's one of his late days, you know. And Peterkin made me come up just as I was.' I felt very ashamed of my hair and crushed collar and altogether. I didn't mind so much about my hands; boys' hands _can't_ be like ladies'. But Mrs. Wylie was so awfully neat--she might have been a fairy herself, or a doll dressed to look like an old lady. I felt as clumsy and messy as could be. But she was awfully jolly; she seemed to know exactly how uncomfortable it was for me. 'Quite right, quite right,' she said. 'For I must be getting back. It looks rather stormy, I'm afraid. It was very thoughtful of you both, my dear boys, to hurry. I should have liked to see Mr. Clement again, but that must be another time. And may we fix the day now, dear Mrs. Lesley? Saturday next we were talking of. Will you come about four o'clock, or even earlier, my dears? The parrot stays out till five, generally, and indeed his mistress is very good-natured, and so is her maid. They were quite pleased when I told them I had some young friends who were very interested in the bird and wanted to see him again. So you shall make better acquaintance with him on Saturday, and perhaps--' but here the old lady stopped at last, without finishing her sentence. Nevertheless, as each of us told the other afterwards, both Peterkin and I finished it for her in our own minds. We glanced at each other, and the same thought ran through us--had Mrs. Wylie got some plan in her head about the little girl? 'It is very kind indeed of you, Mrs. Wylie,' said mamma. 'Giles and Peterkin will be delighted to go to you on Saturday, won't you, boys?' And we both said, 'Yes, thank you. It will be very jolly,' so heartily, that the old lady trotted off, as pleased as pleased. Of course, I ran downstairs to see her out, and Pete followed more slowly, just behind her. She had a very nice, rather stately way about her, though she was so small and thin, and it never suited Pete to hurry in those days, either up or down stairs; his legs were so short. We were very eager for Saturday to come, and we talked a lot about it. I had a kind of idea that Mrs. Wylie had said something about the little girl to mamma, though mamma said nothing at all to us, except that we must behave very nicely and carefully at Rock Terrace, and not forget that, though she was so kind, Mrs. Wylie was an old lady, and old ladies were sometimes fussy. We promised we would be all right, and Peterkin said to me that he didn't believe Mrs. Wylie was at all 'fussy.' 'She is too fairyish,' he said, 'to be like that.' That was a very 'Peterkin' speech, but I did not snub him for it, as I sometimes did. I was really so interested in all about the parrot and the invisible little girl that I was almost ready to join him in making up fanciful stories--that there was an ogre who wouldn't let her out, or that any one who tried to see her would be turned into a frog, or things like that out of the old fairy-tales. 'But Mrs. Wylie _has_ seen her,' said Peterkin, 'and _she_ hasn't turned into a frog!' That was a rather tiresome 'way' of his--if I agreed about fairies and began making up, myself, he would get quite common-sensical, and almost make fun of my ones. 'How do you know that she doesn't turn into a frog half the day?' I said. 'That's often the way in enchantments.' And then we both went off laughing at the idea of a frog jumping down from Mrs. Wylie's drawing-room sofa, and saying, 'How do you do, my dears?' instead of the neat little old lady. So our squabble didn't come to anything that time. Blanchie and Elf were rather jealous of our invitation, I think, though Blanche always said she didn't care to go anywhere without Clement. But Elf made us promise that some day we would get leave to take her round by the parrot's house for her to see him. Of course we never said anything to any one but ourselves about the shut-up little girl, and Clement had forgotten what he had heard that evening. He was very busy just then working extra for some prize he hoped to get at school--I forget what it was, but he did get it--and Blanche was helping him. CHAPTER IV VERY MYSTERIOUS SATURDAY came at last. Of course jolly things and times _do_ come, however long the waiting seems. But the worst of it is that they are so soon gone again, and then you wish you were back at the looking forward; perhaps, after all, it is often the jolliest part of it. Clement says I mustn't keep saying 'jolly'; he says 'nice' would be better in a book. He is looking it over for me, you see. _I_ think 'nice' is a girl's word, but Clem says you shouldn't write slang in a book, so I try not to; though of course I don't really expect this story ever to be made into an actual book. Well, Saturday came, and Peterkin and I set off to Mrs. Wylie's. She was a very nice person to go to see; she seemed so really pleased to have us. And she hadn't turned into a frog, or anything of the kind. She was standing out on the little balcony, watching for us, with a snowy-white, fluffy shawl on the top of her black dress, which made her seem more fairyish, or fairy-godmotherish, than ever. I never did see any one so beautifully neat and spotless as she always was. As soon as the front door was opened, we heard her voice from upstairs. 'Come up, boys, come up. Polly and I have both been watching for you, and he is in great spirits to-day, and so amusing.' We skurried up, and nearly tumbled over each other into the drawing-room. Then, of course, Peterkin's politeness came into force, and he walked forward soberly to shake hands with his old lady and give her mamma's love and all that sort of thing, which he was much better at than I. She had just stepped in from the balcony, but was quite ready to step out again at the parrot's invitation. 'Come quick,' he said, 'Polly doesn't like waiting.' [Illustration: NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP.--p. 52.] Really it did seem wonderful to me, though he wasn't the first parrot I had ever seen, and though I had heard him before--it did seem wonderful for a bird, only a bird, to talk so sensibly, and I felt as if there might be something in Peterkin's idea that he was more than he seemed. And to this day parrots, clever ones, still give me that feeling. They are very like children in some ways. They are so 'contrairy.' You'd scarcely believe it, but no sooner did the creature catch sight of us two with his ugly, round, painted-bead-looking eyes--I don't like parrot's eyes--than he shut up, and wild horses couldn't have made him utter another word, much less Mrs. Wylie. I was quite sorry for her, she seemed so disappointed. It was just like a tiresome baby, whose mamma and nurse want to show off and bring it down to the drawing-room all dressed up, and it won't go to anybody, or say 'Dada,' or 'Mam-ma,' or anything, and just screeches. I can remember Elvira being like that, and I daresay we all were. 'It is too bad,' said our old lady. 'He has got to know me, and I have been teaching him some new words. And his mistress and her maid are out this afternoon, so I thought we should have him all to ourselves, and it would be so amusing. But'--just then a bright idea struck her--'supposing you two go back into the room, so that he can't see you, and I will say "Good-bye, my dears," very loud and plainly, to make him think you have gone. Then I will come out again, and you shall listen from behind the curtain. I believe he will talk then, just as he has been doing.' Pete and I were most willing to try--we were all three quite excited about it. It was really quite funny how his talking got the Polly treated as if he was a human being. We stalked back into the drawing-room, Mrs. Wylie after us, saying in a very clear tone-- 'Good-bye, then, my dears. My love to your mamma, and the next time you come I hope Poll-parrot will be more friendly.' And then I shut the door with a bang, to sound as if we had gone, though, of course, it was all 'acting,' to trick the parrot. Peterkin and I peeped out at him from behind the curtain, and we could scarcely help laughing out loud. He looked so queer--his head cocked on one side, listening, his eyes blinking; he seemed rather disgusted on the whole, I thought. Then Mrs. Wylie stepped out again. 'Polly,' she said, 'I'm ashamed of you. Why couldn't you be kind and friendly to those nice boys who came to see you?' 'Pretty Poll,' he said, in a coaxing tone. 'No,' she replied; 'not pretty Poll at all. Ugly Poll, I should say.' 'Polly's so tired; take Polly in. Polly's cold,' he said, in what we called his natural voice; and then it seemed as if the first words had reminded him of the little girl, for his tone suddenly changed, and he began again: 'I'm so tired, Nana. No, I won't be good; no, I won't. I'll write a letter, and I won't be locked up,' in the squeakier sort of voice that showed he was copying somebody else. 'Nonsense!' said Mrs. Wylie. 'You are not tired or cold, Polly, and nobody is going to lock you up.' He was silent for a moment, and peeping out again, we saw that he was staring hard at the old lady. Then he said very meekly--I am not sure which voice it was in-- 'Polly be good! Polly very sorry!' Mrs. Wylie nodded approvingly. 'Yes,' she said, 'that's a much prettier way to talk. Now, supposing we have a little music,' and she began to sing in a very soft, very thin, old voice a few words of 'Home, Sweet Home.' There was something very piteous about it. I think there is a better word than 'piteous'--yes, Clement had just told it me. It is 'pathetic.' I felt as if it nearly made me cry, and so did Peterkin. We told each other so afterwards, and though we were so interested in the parrot and in hearing him, I wished he would be quiet again, and let Mrs. Wylie go on with her soft, sad little song. But of course he didn't. He started, too, a queer sort of whistle, not very musical, certainly, but yet, no doubt, there was a bit of the tune in it, and now and then sounds rather like the words 'sweet' and 'home.' I do think, altogether, it was the oddest musical performance that ever was heard. And when it was over, there came another voice. It was the maid next door, who had stepped quietly on to the balcony-- 'I'm afraid, ma'am, I must take him in now,' she said, very respectfully. 'It is getting cold, and it would never do for him to get a sore throat just as he's learning to sing so. You are clever with him, ma'am; you are, indeed: there's quite a tune in his voice.' Mrs. Wylie gave a little laugh of pleasure. 'And did the young gentlemen you were speaking of never come, after all?' the maid asked, as she was turning away, the big cage in her hand. 'Oh yes,' said Mrs. Wylie, 'they are here still. But Polly was very naughty,' and she explained about it. 'He's learnt that "won't be good" from next door,' said the girl, 'and I do believe he knows what it means.' 'I very sorry; I be good,' here said the parrot. They both started. 'Upon my word!' exclaimed the maid. 'Has he learnt _that_ from next door?' said Mrs. Wylie, in a lower voice. 'I hope so. It's very clever of him, and it's not unlikely. The child is getting better, I believe, and there's not near so much crying and complaining.' 'So I have heard,' said the old lady, and we fancied she spoke rather mysteriously, 'and I hope,' she went on, but we could not catch her next words, as she dropped her voice, evidently not wishing us to hear. Peterkin squeezed my hand, and I understood. There _was_ a mystery of some kind! Then Mrs. Wylie came in and shut the glass door. She was smiling now with pleasure and satisfaction. 'I did get him to talk, did I not?' she said. 'He _is_ a funny bird. By degrees I hope he will grow quite friendly with you too.' I did not feel very sure about it. 'I'm afraid,' I said, 'that he will not see us enough for that. It isn't like you, Mrs. Wylie, for I daresay you talk to him every day.' 'Yes,' she replied, 'I do now. I have felt more interested in him since--' here she hesitated a little, then she went on again--'since the evening I found Peterkin listening to him,' and she smiled very kindly at Pete. 'Before that, I had not noticed him very much; at least, I had not made friends with him. But he has a wonderful memory; really wonderful, you will see. He will not have forgotten you the next time you come, and each time he will cock his head and pretend to be shy, and gradually it will get less and less.' This was very interesting, but what Peterkin and I were really longing for was some news of the little girl. We did not like to ask about her. It would have seemed rather forward and inquisitive, as the old lady did not mention her at all. We felt that she had some reason for it, and of course, though we could not have helped hearing what she and the parrot's maid had said to each other, we had to try to think we _hadn't_ heard it. Clement says that's what you should do, if you overhear things not meant for you, unless, sometimes, when your having heard them might really matter. _Then_, he says, it's your duty--you're in honour bound--to tell that you've heard, and _what_ you've heard. 'Now,' said our old lady, 'I fancy tea will be quite ready. I thought it would be more comfortable in the dining-room. So shall we go downstairs?' We were quite ready, and we followed her very willingly. The dining-room was even smaller than the drawing-room, and that was tiny enough. But it was all so neat and pretty, and what you'd call 'old-fashioned,' I suppose. It reminded me of a doll-house belonging to one of our grandmothers--mamma's mother, who had kept it ever since she was a little girl, and when we go to stay with her in the country she lets us play with it. Even Peterkin and I are very fond of it, or used to be so when we were smaller. There's everything you can think of in it, down to the tiniest cups and saucers. The tea was very jolly. There were buns and cakes, and awfully good sandwiches. I remember that particular tea, you see, though we went to Mrs. Wylie's often after that, because it was the first time. The cups _were_ rather small, but it didn't matter, for as soon as ever one was empty she offered us more. I would really be almost ashamed to say how many times mine was filled. And Mrs. Wylie was very interesting to talk to. She had never had any children of her own, she told us, and her husband had been dead a long time. I think he had been a sailor, for she had lots of curiosities: queer shells, all beautifully arranged in a cabinet, and a book full of pressed and dried seaweed, and stuffed birds in cases. I don't care for stuffed birds: they look too alive, and it seems horrid for them not to be able to fly about and sing. Peterkin took a great fancy to some of the very tiny ones--humming-birds, scarcely bigger than butterflies; and, long afterwards, when we went to live in London, Mrs. Wylie gave him a present of a branch with three beauties on it, inside a glass case. He has it now in his own room. And she gave me four great big shells, all coloured like a rainbow, which I still have on my mantelpiece. Once or twice--I'm going back now to that first time we went to have tea with her--I tried to get the talk back to the little girl. I asked the old lady if she wouldn't like to have a parrot of her own. I thought it would be so amusing. But she said No; she didn't think she would care to have one. The one next door was almost as good, and gave her no trouble or anxiety. And then Peterkin asked her if there were any children next door. Mrs. Wylie shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'The parrot's mistress is an old maid--not nearly as old as I am, all the same, but she lives quite alone; and on the other side there are two brothers and a sister, quite young, unmarried people.' 'And is the--the little girl the only little girl or boy in _her_ house?' asked Peterkin. He did stumble a bit over asking it, for it had been very plain that Mrs. Wylie did not want to speak about her; but I got quite hot when I heard him, and if we had been on the same side of the table, or if his legs had been as long as they are now, I'd have given him a good kick to shut him up. Our old lady was too good-natured to mind; still, there was something in her manner when she answered that stopped any more questions from Pete. 'Yes,' she said, 'there are no other children in that house, or in the terrace, except some very tiny ones, almost babies, at the other end. I see them pass in their perambulators, dear little things.' It was quite dark by the time we had finished tea, and the lamps were lighted upstairs in the drawing-room, where Mrs. Wylie showed us some of the curiosities and things that I have already written about. They were rather interesting, but I think we've got to care more for collections and treasures like that, now, than we did then. Perhaps we were not quite old enough, and, I daresay, it was a good deal that the great reason we liked to go to Mrs. Wylie's was because of the parrot and the mysterious little girl. At least, _Peterkin's_ head was full of the little girl. I myself was beginning to get rather tired of all his talk about her, and I thought the parrot very good fun of himself. So when the clock struck six, and Mrs. Wylie asked us if mamma had fixed any time for us to be home by--it wasn't that she wanted to get rid of us, but she was very afraid of keeping us too late--we thought we might as well go, for mamma had said, 'soon after six.' 'Is any one coming to fetch you?' Mrs. Wylie said. I didn't quite like her asking that: it made me seem so babyish. I was quite old enough to look after Pete, and the fun of going home by ourselves through the lighted-up streets was one of the things we had looked forward to. But I didn't want Master Peterkin to begin at me afterwards about not being polite, so I didn't show that I was at all vexed. I just said-- 'Oh no, Peterkin will be all right with me!' And then we said good-bye, and 'thank you very much for inviting us.' And Pete actually said-- 'May we come again soon, please?' His ideas of politeness were rather original, weren't they? But Mrs. Wylie was quite pleased. 'Certainly, my dear. I shall count on your doing so. And I am glad you spoke of it, for I wanted to tell you that I am going to London the end of this next week for a fortnight. Will you tell your dear mamma so, and say that I shall come to see her on my return, and then we must fix on another afternoon? I am very pleased to think that you care to come, and I hope you feel the same,' she went on, turning to me. She was so kind that I felt I had been rather horrid, for I _had_ enjoyed it all very much. And I said as nicely as I could, that I'd like to come again, only I hoped we didn't bother her. She beamed all over at that, and Peterkin evidently approved of it too, for he grinned in a queer patronising way he has sometimes, as if I was a baby compared to him. I was just going to pull him up for it after we had got on our coats and caps, and were outside and the door shut, but before I had got farther than--'I say, youngster,'--he startled me rather by saying, in a very melancholy tone-- 'It's too bad, Giles, isn't it? Her going away, and us hearing nothing of the little girl. I really thought she'd have asked her to tea too.' 'How you muddle your "her's" and "she's"!' I said. But of course I understood him. 'I think you muddle yourself too. If there's a mystery, and you know you'd be very disappointed if there wasn't, you couldn't expect the little girl to come to tea just as if everything was quite like everybody else about her.' 'No, that's true,' said he, consideringly. 'P'raps she's invisible sometimes, or p'raps she's like the "Light Princess," that they had to tie down for fear she'd float away, or p'raps----' 'She's invisible to us, anyway,' I interrupted, for, as I said, I was getting rather tired of Pete's fancies about the little girl, 'and so----' But just as I got so far, we both stopped--we were passing the railing of the little girl's house at that moment, and voices talking rather loudly caught our ears. Peterkin touched my arm, and we stood quite still. No one could see us, it was too dark, and there was no lamp just there, though some light was streaming out from the lower windows of the house. One of them, the dining-room one, was a little open, even though it was a chilly evening. It was so queer, our hearing the voices and almost seeing into the room, _just_ as we had been making up our minds that we'd never know anything about the little girl; it seemed so queer, that we didn't, at first, think of anything else. It wasn't for some minutes, or moments, certainly, that it came into my head that we shouldn't stay there peeping and listening. I'm afraid it wasn't a very gentlemanly sort of thing to do. As for Peterkin, I'm pretty sure he never had the slightest idea that we were doing anything caddish. What we heard was this-- 'No, I don't want any more tea. I'd better go to bed. It's so dull, Nana.' Then another voice replied--it came from some one further back in the room, but we could not distinguish the words-- 'There aren't any stars. You may as well shut the window. And stars aren't much good. I want some one to play with me. Other little--' but just then we saw the shadow of some one crossing the room, and the window--it was a glass-door kind of window like the ones up above, which opened on to the balcony, for there was a little sort of balcony downstairs too--was quickly closed. There was no more to be heard or seen; not even shadows, for the curtains were now drawn across. Pete gave a deep sigh, and I felt that he was looking at me, though it was too dark to see, and there was no lamp just there. He wanted to know what I thought. 'Come along,' I said, and we walked on. 'Did you hear?' asked Peterkin at last. 'She said she wanted somebody to play with her.' 'Yes,' I said, 'it is rather queer. You'd think Mrs. Wylie might have made friends with her, and invited her to tea. But it's no good our bothering about it,' and I walked a little faster, and began to whistle. I did not want Pete to go on again talking a lot about his invisible princess, for such she seemed likely to remain. It was far easier, however, to get anything into Peterkin's fancy than to get it out again, as I might have known by experience. We had not gone far before I felt him tugging at my arm. 'Don't walk so fast, Gilley,' he said--poor, little chap, he was quite breathless with trying to keep up with me, so I had to slacken a bit,--'and do let me talk to you. When we get home I shan't have a chance--not till to-morrow morning in bed, I daresay; for they'll all be wanting to hear about Mrs. Wylie, and what we had for tea, and everything.' I did not so much mind about _that_ part of it, but I did not want to be awakened before dawn the next morning to listen to all he'd got to say. So I thought I might as well let him come out with some of it. 'What do you want to talk about?' I said. 'Oh! of course, you know,' he replied. 'It's about the _poor_ little girl. I am so dreffully sorry for her, Gilley, and I want to plan something. It's no good asking Mrs. Wylie. We'll have to do something ourselves. I'm afraid the people she's with lock her up, or something. _P'raps_ they daren't let her go out, if there's some wicked fairy, or a witch, or something like that, that wants to run off with her.' 'Well, then, the best thing to do _is_ to lock her up,' I said sensibly. But that wasn't Peterkin's way of looking at things. 'It's never like that in my stories,' he said--and I know he was shaking his curly head,--'and some of them are very, very old--nearly as old as Bible stories, I believe; so they must be true, you see. There's always somebody that comes to break the--the--I forget the proper word.' 'The enchantment, you mean,' I said. 'No, no; a shorter word. Oh, I know--the spell,' he replied. 'Yes, somebody comes to break the _spell_. And that's what we've got to do, Gilley. At least, I'm sure I've got to, and you must help me. You see, it's all been so funny. The parrot knows, I should think, for I'm sure he's partly fairy. But, very likely, he daren't say it right out, for fear of the bad fairy, and----' 'Perhaps he's the bad fairy himself,' I interrupted, half joking, but rather interested, all the same, in Peterkin's ideas. 'Oh no,' he replied, 'I know he's not, and I'm sure Mrs. Wylie has nothing to do with the bad fairy.' 'Then why do you think she won't talk about the little girl, or invite her, or anything?' I asked. Pete seemed puzzled. 'I don't know,' he said. 'There's a lot to find out. P'raps Mrs. Wylie doesn't know anything about the spell, and has just got some stupid, common reason for not wanting us to play with the little girl, or p'raps'--and this was plainly a brilliant idea--'_p'raps_ the spell's put on her without her knowing, and stops her when she begins to speak about it. Mightn't it very likely be that, Giles?' But I had not time to answer, for we had got to our own door by now, and it was already opened, as some tradesman was giving James a parcel. So we ran in. CHAPTER V 'STRATAGEMS' I REALLY don't quite know what made me listen to Peterkin's fancies about his invisible princess, as I got into the habit of calling her. It was partly, I suppose, because it amused me--we had nothing much to take us up just then: there was no skating that winter, and the weather was dull and muggy--and partly that somehow he managed to make me feel as if there might really be something in it. I suppose when anybody quite believes in a thing, it's rather catching; and Peterkin's head was so stuffed and crammed with fairy stories that at that time, I think, they were almost more real to him than common things. He went about, dreaming of ogres and magicians, and all the rest, so much, that I scarcely think anything marvellous would have surprised him. If I had suddenly shot up to the ceiling, and called out that I had learnt how to fly, I don't believe he would have been startled; or if I had shown him a purse with a piece of gold in it, and told him that it was enchanted, and that he'd always find the money in it however often he spent it, he'd have taken it quite seriously, and been very pleased. So the idea of an enchanted little girl did not strike us as at all out of the way. We did not talk about her any more that night after we had been at Mrs. Wylie's, for we had to hurry up to get neat again to come down to the drawing-room to mamma. Blanche and Elf were already there when we came in, and they, and mamma too, were full of questions about how we'd enjoyed ourselves, and about the parrot, and what we'd had for tea--just as I knew they would be; I don't mean that mamma asked what we'd had for tea, but the girls did. And then Pete and Elf went off to bed, and when I went up he was quite fast asleep, and if he hadn't been, I could not have spoken to him because of my promise, you know. He made up for it the next morning, however. I suppose he had had an extra good night, for I felt him looking at me long before I was at all inclined to open my eyes, or to snort for him to know I was awake. And when at last I did--it's really no good trying to go to sleep again when you feel there's somebody fidgeting to talk to you--there he was, his eyes as bright and shiny as could be, sitting bolt up with his hands round his knees, as if he'd never been asleep in his life? I couldn't help feeling rather cross, and yet I had a contradictory sort of interest and almost eagerness to hear what he had to say. I suppose it was a kind of love of adventure that made me join him in his fancies and plans. I knew that his fancies were only fancies really, but still I felt as if we might get some fun out of them. He was too excited to mind my being grumpy. 'Oh, Gilley!' he exclaimed at my first snort, 'I am so glad you are awake at last.' 'I daresay you are,' I said, 'but I'm not. I should have slept another half-hour if you hadn't sat there staring me awake.' 'Well, you needn't talk,' he went on, in a 'smoothing-you-down' tone; 'just listen and grunt sometimes.' I did grunt there and then. There was one comfortable thing about Peterkin even then, and it keeps on with him now that he is getting big and sensible. He always understands what you say, however you say it, or half say it. He was not the least surprised at my talking of his staring me awake, though he had not exactly meant to do so. 'It has come into my mind, Giles,' he began, very importantly, 'how queer and lucky it is that the old lady is going away for a fortnight. I should not wonder if it had been managed somehow.' He waited for my grunt, but it turned into-- 'What on earth do you mean?' 'I mean, perhaps it's part of the spell, without her knowing, of course, that she should have to go to London. For if she was still there, we couldn't do anything without her finding out.' 'I don't know what you mean about doing anything,' I said. 'And please don't say "we." I haven't promised to join you. Most likely I'll do my best to stop whatever it is you've got in that rummy head of yours.' 'Oh no, you won't!' he replied coolly. 'I don't know that you could if you tried, without telling the others. And you can't do that, of course, as I've trusted you. It's word of honour, you see, though I didn't exactly make you say so. And it's nothing naughty or mischievous, else I wouldn't plan it.' 'What is it, then? Hurry up and tell me, without such a lot of preparation,' I grumbled. 'I can't tell you very much,' he answered, ''cos, you see, I don't know myself. It will show as we go on--I'm certain you'll help me, Gilley. You remember the prince in the "Sleeping Beauty" did not know exactly what he would do--no more did the one in----' 'Never mind all that,' I interrupted. 'Well, then, what we've got to do is to try to talk to her ourselves without any one hearing. That's the first thing. We will tell her what the parrot says, and then it will be easy to find out if she knows herself about the spell.' 'But what do you think the spell is?' I asked, feeling again the strange interest and half belief in his fancies that Peterkin managed to put into me. 'What do you suppose your bad fairies, or whatever they are, have done to her?' 'There are lots of things, it might be,' he replied gravely. 'They may have made her not able to walk, or very queer to look at--p'raps turned her hair white, so that you couldn't be sure if she was a little girl or an old woman; or made her nose so long that it trails on the floor. No, I don't think it's that,' he added, after stopping to think a minute. 'Her voice sounds as if she was pretty, even if it's rather grumbly. P'raps she turns into a mouse at night, and has to run about, and that's why she's so tired. It might be that.' 'It would be easy to catch her, then, and bring her home in your pocket, if you waited till the magic time came,' I suggested, half joking again, of course. 'It might be,' agreed Pete, quite seriously, 'or it might be very, very difficult, unless we could make her understand at the mouse time that we were friends. We can't settle anything till we see her, and talk to her like a little girl, of course.' 'You certainly couldn't talk to her like anything else,' I said; 'but I'm sure I don't see how you mean to talk to her at all.' 'I do,' said Peterkin. 'I've been planning it since last night. We can go round that way once or twice to look at the parrot, and just stand about. Nobody would wonder at us if they saw we were looking at him. And very likely we'd see _something_, as she lives in the very next-door house. P'raps she comes to the window sometimes, and she might notice us if we were looking up at the parrot. It would be easiest if she was in the downstairs room.' 'I don't suppose she is there all day,' I said. 'The parrot would not have heard her talking so much if she were. I think she must have been out on the balcony sometimes when it was warmer.' 'Yes,' Peterkin agreed. 'I thought of that. Very likely she only comes downstairs for her dinner and tea. It's the dining-room, like Mrs. Wylie's.' 'And if she only comes down there late she wouldn't see us in the dark, and, besides, the parrot wouldn't be out by then. And besides that, except for going to tea to Mrs. Wylie's, we'd never get leave to be out by ourselves so late. At least _you_ wouldn't. Of course, for me, it's sometimes nearly dark when I come home from school.' I really did not see how Pete did mean to manage it. But the difficulties I spoke of only seemed to make him more determined. I could not help rather admiring him for it: he quite felt, I fancy, as if he was one of his favourite fairy-tale princes. And in the queer way I have spoken of already, he somehow made me feel with him. I did not go over all the difficulties in order to stop him trying, but because I was actually interested in seeing how he was going to overcome them. He was silent for a moment or two after my last speech, staring before him with his round blue eyes. Then he said quietly-- 'Yes; I'd thought of most of those things. But you will see. We'll manage it somehow. I daresay she comes downstairs in the middle of the day, too, for she's sure to have dinner early, and the parrot will be out then, if we choose a fine day.' 'But we always have to be in for our own dinner by half-past one,' I said. 'Well, p'raps _she_ has hers at one, or even half-past twelve, like we used to, till you began going to school,' said he hopefully. 'And a _very_ little talking would do at the first beginning. Then we could be very polite, and say we'd come again to see the parrot, and p'raps--' here Peterkin looked rather shy. 'Perhaps what? Out with it!' I said. 'We might take her a few flowers,' he answered, getting red, 'if--if we could--could get any. They're very dear to buy, I'm afraid, and we haven't any of our own. The garden is so small; it isn't like if we lived in the country,' rather dolefully. 'You wouldn't have known anything about Rock Terrace, or the invisible princess, or the parrot, if we lived in the country,' I reminded him. 'No,' said Pete, more cheerfully, 'I hadn't thought of that.' 'And--' I went on, 'I daresay I could help you a bit if it really seemed any good,' for I rather liked the idea of giving the little girl some flowers. It made it all look less babyish. Peterkin grinned with delight. 'You _are_ kind, Gilley!' he exclaimed. 'I knew you would be. Oh, bother! here's nurse coming, and we haven't begun to settle anything properly.' 'There's no hurry,' I said; 'you've forgotten that we certainly can't go there again till Mrs. Wylie's out of the way. And she said, "the end of the week"; that means Saturday, most likely, and this is--oh dear! I was forgetting--it's Sunday, and we'll be late.' Nurse echoed my words as she came in-- 'You'll be late, Master Giles, and Master Peterkin, too,' she said. 'I really don't think you should talk so much on Sunday mornings.' It wasn't that we had to be any earlier on Sundays than any other day, but that dressing in your best clothes takes so much longer somehow, and we had to have our hair very neat, and all like that, because we generally went down to the dining-room, while papa and mamma and Clement and Blanche were at breakfast, after we had had our own in the nursery. There would be no good in trying to remember all our morning talks that week about Peterkin's plans. He did not get the least tired of them, and I didn't, for a wonder, get tired of listening to him, he was so very much in earnest. He chopped and changed a good bit in little parts of them, but still he stuck to the general idea, and I helped him to polish it up. It was really more interesting than any of his fairy stories, for he managed to make both himself and me feel as if we were going to be _in_ one of them ourselves. So I will skip over that week, and go on to the next. By that time we knew that Mrs. Wylie was in London, because mamma said something one day about having had a letter from her. Nothing to do with the little girl, as far as we knew; I think it was only about somebody who wanted a servant, or something stupid like that. It got on to the Monday of the next week _again_, and by that time Pete had got a sort of start of his plans. He had got leave to come to meet me at the corner of Lindsay Square, once or twice in the last few days. I used to get there about a quarter or twenty minutes to one. We were supposed to leave school not later than a quarter past twelve, but you know how fellows get fooling about coming out of a day-school, so, though it was really quite near, I was often later. Mamma was pleased for Peterkin to want to come to meet me. She was not at all coddling or stupid like that about us boys, though her being in such a fuss that evening Pete was lost may have seemed so. And she was always awfully glad for us to be fond of each other. She used to say she hoped we'd grow up 'friends' as well as brothers, which always reminded me of the verse about it in the Bible about 'sticking closer than a brother.' And I like to think that dear little mummy's hopes will come true for her sons. It wasn't exactly a fit of affection for me, of course, that made Pete want to get into the way of coming to meet me. Still, we _were_ very good friends; especially good friends just then, as you know. So that Monday, which luckily happened to be a very nice bright day, he had no difficulty in getting leave for it again. I had promised him to hurry over getting off from school, so we counted on having a good bit of time to spend in looking at the parrot and talking to him, and in 'spying the land' generally, including the invisible princess, if we got a chance, without risking coming in too late for our dinner. We had taken care never to be late, up till now, for fear of Peterkin's coming to meet me being put a stop to; but we hadn't pretended that we would come straight home, and once or twice we had done a little shopping together, and more than once we had spent several minutes in staring in at the flower-shop windows, settling what kind of flowers would be best, and in asking the prices of hers from a flower-woman who often sat near the corner of the square. She was very good-natured about it. We shouldn't have liked to go into a regular shop only to ask prices, so it was a good thing to know a little about them beforehand. I remember all about that Monday morning particularly well. I did hurry off from school as fast as I could, though of course--I think it nearly always happens so--ever so many stupid little things turned up to keep me later than I often was. I skurried along pretty fast, you may be sure, once I did get out, and it wasn't long before I caught sight of poor old Pete eagerly watching for me at the corner of Lindsay Square. He did not dare to come farther, because, you see, he had promised mamma he never would, and that if I were ever very late he'd go home again. I didn't give him time to be doleful about it. 'I've been as quick as I possibly could,' I said, 'and it's not so bad after all, Pete. We shall have a quarter of an hour for Rock Terrace at least, if we hurry now. Don't speak--it only wastes your breath,' for in those days, with being so plump and sturdy and his legs rather short, it didn't take much to make him puff or pant. He's in better training now by a long way. He was always very sensible, so he took my advice and we got over the ground pretty fast, only pulling up when we got to the end, or beginning, of the little row of houses. 'Now,' said I, 'let's first walk right along rather slowly, and if we hear the Polly we can stop short, as if we were noticing him for the first time, the way people often do, you know.' Peterkin nodded. 'I believe I see the corner of his cage out on the balcony,' he said, half whispering, 'already.' He was right. The cage was out. We walked past very slowly, though we took care not to look up as if we were expecting to see anything. The parrot was in the front of the cage, staring down, and I'm almost certain he saw us, and even remembered us, though, out of contradiction, he pretended he didn't. 'Don't speak or turn,' I whispered to Pete. It was so very quiet along Rock Terrace, except when some tradesman's cart rattled past--and just now there was nothing of the kind in view--that even common talking could have been heard. 'Don't speak or seem to see him. They are awfully conceited birds, and the way to make them notice you and begin talking and screeching is to pretend you don't see them.' So we walked on silently to the farther end of the terrace, in a very matter-of-fact way, turning to come back again just as we had gone. And I could be positive that the creature saw us all the time, for the row of houses was very short, and he was well to the front of the balcony. Our 'stratagem'--I have always liked the word, ever since I read _Tales of a Grandfather_, which I thought a great take-in, as it's just a history book, neither more nor less, and the only exciting part is when you come upon stratagems--succeeded. As we got close up to the parrot's house, next door to Mother Wylie's, you understand, _and_, of course, next door to the invisible princess's, we heard a sound. It was a sort of rather angry squeak or croak, but loud enough to be an excuse for our stopping short and looking up. And then, as we still did not speak, Master Poll, his round eyes glaring at us, I felt certain, was forced to open the conversation. 'Pretty Poll,' he began, of course. 'Pretty Poll.' 'All right,' I called back. 'Good morning, Pretty Poll. A fine day.' 'Wants his dinner,' he went on. 'I say, wants his dinner.' 'Really, does he?' I said, in a mocking tone, which he understood, and beginning to get angry--just what I wanted. 'Naughty boy! naughty boy!' he screeched, very loudly. Pete and I grinned with satisfaction! CHAPTER VI MARGARET THERE'S an old proverb that mamma has often quoted to us, for she's awfully keen on our all being 'plucky,' and, on the whole, I think we are-- 'Fortune favours the brave.' I have sometimes thought it would suit Peterkin to turn it into 'Fortune favours the determined.' Not that he's _not_ 'plucky,' but there's nothing like him for sticking to a thing, once he has got it into his head. And certainly fortune favoured him at the time I am writing about. Nothing could have suited us better than the parrot's screeching out to us 'naughty boy, naughty boy.' I suppose he had been taught to say it to errand-boys and boys like that who mocked at him. But we did not want to set up a row, so I replied gently-- 'No, no, Polly, good boys. Polly shall have his dinner soon.' 'Good Polly, good Polly,' he repeated with satisfaction. And then--what _do_ you think happened? The door-window of the drawing-room of the next house, _the_ house, was pushed open a little bit, and out peeped a child's head, a small head with smooth short dark hair, but a little girl's head. We could tell that at once by the way it was combed, or brushed, even if we had not seen, as we did, a white muslin pinafore, with lace ruffly things that only a girl would wear. My heart really began to beat quite loudly, as if I'd been running fast--we had been so excited about her, you see, and afterwards Pete told me his did too. The only pity was, that she was up on the drawing-room floor. We could have seen her so much better downstairs. But we had scarcely time to feel disappointed. When she saw us, and saw, I suppose, that we were not errand-boys or street-boys, she came out a little farther. I felt sure by her manner that she was alone in the room. She looked down at us, looked us well over for a moment or two, and then she said-- 'Are you talking to the parrot?' She did not call out or speak loudly at all, but her voice was very clear. 'Yes,' Peterkin replied. As he had started the whole business I thought it fair to let him speak before me. 'Yes, but he called out to us first. He called us "naughty boys."' 'I heard him,' said the little girl, 'and I thought perhaps you _were_ naughty boys, teasing him, you know, and I was going to call to you to run away. But--' and she glanced at us again. I could see that she wanted to go on talking, but she did not quite know how to set about it. So I thought I might help things on a bit. 'Thank you,' I said, taking off my cap. 'My little brother is very interested in the parrot. He seems so clever.' At another time Pete would have been very offended at my calling him 'little,' but just now he was too eager to mind, or even, I daresay, to notice. 'So he is,' said the little girl. 'I could tell you lots about him, but it's rather tiresome talking down to you from up here. Wait a minute,' she added, 'and I'll come down to the dining-room. I may go downstairs now, and nurse is out, and I'm very dull.' We were so pleased that we scarcely dared look at each other, for fear that somehow it should go wrong after all. We did glance along the terrace, but nobody was coming. If only her nurse would stay out for ten minutes longer, or even less. We stood there, almost holding our breath. But it was not really--it could not have been--more than half a minute, before the dark head and white pinafore appeared again, this time, of course, on the ground floor; the window there was a little bit open already, to air the room perhaps. We would have liked to go close up to the small balcony where she stood, but we dared not, for fear of the nurse coming. And the garden was very tiny, we were only two or three yards from the little girl, even outside on the pavement. She looked at us first, looked us well over, before she began to speak again. Then she said-- 'Have you been to see the parrot already?' 'Oh yes,' said Peterkin, in his very politest tone, 'oh yes, thank you.' I did not quite see why he said 'thank you.' I suppose he meant it in return for her coming downstairs. 'I've been here two, no, three times, and Giles,' he gave a sort of nod towards me, 'has been here two.' 'Is your name Giles?' she asked me. She had a funny, little, rather condescending manner of speaking to us, but I didn't mind it somehow. 'Yes,' I replied, 'and his,' and I touched Pete, 'is "Peterkin."' 'They are queer names; don't you think so? At least,' she added quickly, as if she was afraid she had said something rude, 'they are very uncommon. "Giles" and "Perkin."' 'Not "Perkin,"' I said, "Peterkin."' 'Oh, I thought it was like a man in my history,' she said, 'Perkin War--something.' 'No,' said Peterkin, 'it isn't in history, but it's in poetry. About a battle. I've got it in a book.' 'I should like to see it,' she said. 'There's lots of _my_ name in history. My name is Margaret. There are queens and princesses called Margaret.' Pete opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but shut it up again. I know what he had been on the point of saying,--'Are you a princess?' 'a shut-up princess?' he would have added very likely, but I suppose he was sensible enough to see that if she had been 'shut-up,' in the way he had been fancying to himself, she would scarcely have been able to come downstairs and talk to us as she was doing. And she was not dressed like the princesses in his stories, who had always gold crowns on and long shiny trains. Still, though she had only a pinafore on, I could see that it was rather a grand one, lots of lace about it, like one of Elf's very best, and though her hair was short and her face small and pale, there was something about her--the way she stood and the way she spoke--which was different from many little girls of her age. Peterkin took advantage very cleverly of what she had said about his name. 'I'll bring you my poetry-book, if you like,' he said. 'It's a quite old one. I think it belonged to grandmamma, and she's as old as--as old as--' he seemed at a loss to find anything to compare poor grandmamma to, till suddenly a bright idea struck him--'nearly as old as Mrs. Wylie, I should think,' he finished up. 'Oh,' said Margaret, 'do you know Mrs. Wylie? I've never seen her, but I think I've heard her talk. Her house is next door to the parrot's.' 'Yes,' said I, 'but I wonder you've never seen her. She often goes out.' 'But--' began the little girl again, 'I've been--oh, I do believe that's my dinner clattering in the kitchen, and nurse will be coming in, and I've never told you about the parrot. I've lots to tell you. Will you come again? Not to-morrow, but on Wednesday nurse is going out to the dressmaker's. I heard her settling it. Please come on Wednesday, just like this.' 'We could come a little earlier, perhaps,' I said. Margaret nodded. 'Yes, do,' she replied, 'and I'll be on the look-out for you. I shall think of lots of things to say. I want to tell you about the parrot, and--about lots of things,' she repeated. 'Good-bye.' We tugged at our caps, echoing 'good-bye,' and then we walked on towards the farther-off end of the terrace, and when we got there we turned and walked back again. And then we saw that we had not left the front of Margaret's house any too soon, for a short, rather stout little woman was coming along, evidently in a hurry. She just glanced at us as she passed us, but I don't think she noticed us particularly. 'That's her nurse, I'm sure,' said Peterkin, in a low voice. 'I don't think she looks unkind.' 'No, only rather fussy, I should say,' I replied. We had scarcely spoken to each other before, since bidding Margaret good-bye. Pete had been thinking deeply, and I was waiting to hear what he had to say. 'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment or two's silence,--'I wonder how much she knows?' 'Why?' I exclaimed. 'What do you think there is to know?' 'It's all very misterous, still,' he answered solemnly. 'She--the little girl--said she had lots to tell us about the parrot and other things. And she didn't want her nurse to see us talking to her. And she said she could come downstairs _now_, but, I'm sure, they don't let her go out. She wouldn't be so dull if they did.' 'Who's "they"?' I asked. 'I don't quite know,' he replied, shaking his head. 'Some kind of fairies. P'raps it's bad ones, or p'raps it's good ones. No, it can't be bad ones, for then they wouldn't have planned the parrot telling us about her, so that we could help her to get free. The parrot is a sort of messenger from the good fairies, I believe.' He looked up, his eyes very bright and blue, as they always were when he thought he had made a discovery, or was on the way to one. And I, half in earnest, half in fun, like I'd been about it all the time, let my own fancy go on with his. 'Perhaps,' I said. 'We shall find out on Wednesday, I suppose, when we talk more to Margaret. We needn't call her the invisible princess any more.' 'No, but she is a princess sort of little girl, isn't she?' he said, 'though her hair isn't as pretty as Blanche's and Elf's, and her face is very little.' 'She's all right,' I said. And then we had to hurry and leave off talking, for we had been walking more slowly than we knew, and just then some big clock struck the quarter. I think, perhaps, I had better explain here, that none of us--neither Margaret, nor Peterkin, nor I--thought we were doing anything the least wrong in keeping our making acquaintance a secret. What Margaret thought about it, so far as she did think of that part of it, you will understand as I go on; and Pete and I had our minds so filled with his fairies that we simply didn't think of anything else. It was growing more and more interesting, for Margaret had something very jolly about her, though she wasn't exactly pretty. I can't remember if it did come into my mind, a very little, perhaps, that we should tell somebody--mamma, perhaps, or Clement--about our visits to Rock Terrace even then. But if it did, I think I put it out again, by knowing that Margaret meant it to be a secret, and that, till we saw her again, and heard what she was going to tell us, it would not be fair to mention anything about it. We were both very glad that Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow. It would have been a great nuisance to have had to wait a whole week, perhaps. And we were very anxious when Wednesday morning came, to see what sort of weather it was, for on Tuesday it rained. Not very badly, but enough for nurse to tell Peterkin that it was too showery for him to come to meet me, and it would not have been much good if he had, as we couldn't have spoken to Margaret. Nor could we have strolled up and down the terrace or stood looking at the parrot, even if he'd been out on the terrace, which he wouldn't have been on at all on a bad day--if it was rainy. It would have been sure to make some of the people in the houses wonder at us; just what we didn't want. But Wednesday was fine, luckily, and this time I got off from school to the minute without any one or anything stopping me. I ran most of the way to the corner of Lindsay Square, all the same; and I was not too early either, for before I got there I saw Master Peterkin's sturdy figure steering along towards me, not far off. And when he got up to me I saw that he had a small brown-paper parcel under his arm, neatly tied up with red string. He was awfully pleased to see me so early, for his round face was grinning all over, and as a rule it was rather solemn. 'What's that you've got there?' I asked. He looked surprised at my not knowing. 'Why, of course, the poetry-book,' he said. 'I promised it her, and I've marked the poetry about "Peterkin." It's the Battle of Blen--Blen-hime--mamma said, when I learnt it, that that's the right way to say it; but Miss Tucker' ('Miss Tucker' was Blanche's and the little ones' governess) 'called it Blen_nem_, and I always have to think when I say it. I wish they didn't call him "_little_ Peterkin," though,' he went on, 'it sounds so babyish.' 'I don't see that it matters, as it isn't about you yourself,' I said. 'I'd forgotten all about it; I think it's rather sharp of you to have remembered.' 'I couldn't never forget anything I'd promised _her_,' said Pete, and you might really have thought by his tone that he believed he was the prince going to visit the Sleeping Beauty--after she'd come awake, I suppose. We did not need to hurry; we were actually rather too early, so we went on talking. 'How about the flowers we meant to get for her?' I said suddenly. '_I_ didn't forget about them,' he answered, 'but we didn't promise them, and I thought it would be better to ask her first. She might like chocolates best, you know.' 'All right,' I said, and I thought perhaps it was better to ask her first. You see, if she didn't want her nurse to know about our coming to see her it would have been tiresome, as, of course, Margaret could not have told a story. There she was, peeping out of the downstairs window already when we got there. And when she saw us she came farther out, a little bit on to the balcony. It was a sunny day for winter, and besides, she had a red shawl on, so she could not very well have caught cold. It was a very pretty shawl, with goldy marks or patterns on it. It was like one grandmamma had been sent a present of from India, and afterwards Margaret told me hers had come from India too. And it suited her, somehow, even though she was only a thin, pale little girl. She smiled when she saw us, though she did not speak till we were near enough to hear what she said without her calling out. And when we stopped in front of her house, she said-- 'I think you might come inside the garden. We could talk better.' So we did, first glancing up at the next-door balcony, to see if the parrot was there. Yes, he was, but not as far out as usual, and there was a cloth, or something, half-down round his cage, to keep him warmer, I suppose. He was quite silent, but Margaret nodded her head up towards him. 'He told me you were coming,' she cried, 'though it wasn't in a very polite way. He croaked out--"Naughty boys! naughty boys!"' We all three laughed a little. 'And now,' Margaret went on, 'I daresay he won't talk at all, all the time you are here.' 'But will he understand what we say?' asked Peterkin, rather anxiously. Margaret shook her head. [Illustration: PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID.--p. 97.] 'I really don't know,' she replied. 'We had better talk in rather low voices. I don't _think_,' she went on, almost in a whisper, 'that he is fairy enough to hear if we speak very softly.' Peterkin gave a sort of spring of delight. 'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I am _so_ glad you think he is fairyish, too.' 'Of course I do,' said she; 'that's partly what I wanted to tell you.' We came closer to the window. Margaret looked at us again in her examining way, without speaking, for a minute, and before she said anything, Pete held out his brown-paper parcel. 'This is the poetry-book,' he said, 'and I've put a mark in the place where it's about my name.' He pulled off his cap as he handed the packet to her, and stood with his curly wig looking almost red in the sunlight, though it was not very bright. 'Put it on again,' said Margaret, in her little queer way, meaning his cap. 'And thank you very much, Perkin, for remembering to bring it. I think I should like to call you "Perkin," if you don't mind. I like to have names of my own for some people, and I really thought yours was Perkin.' I wished to myself she would have a name of her own for _me_, but I suppose she thought I was too big. 'I think you are very nice boys,' she went on, 'not "naughty" ones at all; and if you will promise not to tell any one what I am going to tell _you_, I will explain all I can. I mean you mustn't tell any one till I give you leave, and as it's only about my own affairs, of course you can promise.' Of course we did promise. 'Listen, then,' said Margaret, glancing up first of all at the parrot, and drawing back a little into the inside of the room. 'You can hear what I say, even though I don't speak very loudly, can't you?' 'Oh yes! quite well,' we replied. 'Well, then, listen,' she repeated. 'I have no brothers or sisters, and Dads and Mummy are in India. I lived there till about three years ago, and then they came here and left me with my grandfather. That's how people always have to do who live in India.' 'Didn't you mind awfully?' I said. 'Your father and mother leaving you, I mean?' 'Of course I minded,' she replied. 'But I had always known it would have to be. And they will come home again for good some day; perhaps before very long. And I have always been quite happy till lately. Gran is very good to me, and I'm used to being a good deal alone, you see, except for big people. I've always had lots of story books, and not _very_ many lessons. So, after a bit, it didn't seem so very different from India. Only _now_ it's quite different. It's like being shut up in a tower, and it's very queer altogether, and I _believe_ she's a sort of a witch,' and Margaret nodded her head mysteriously. '_Who?_' we asked eagerly. 'The person I'm living with--Miss Bogle--isn't her name witchy?' and she smiled a little. 'No, no, not nurse,' for I had begun to say the word. '_She_ is only rather a goose. No, this house belongs to Miss Bogle, and she's quite old--oh, as old as old! And she's got rheumatism, so she very seldom goes up and down stairs. And nurse does just exactly what Miss Bogle tells her. It was this way. Gran had to go away--a good way, though not so far as India, and he is always dreadfully afraid of anything happening to me, I suppose. So he sent me here with nurse, and he told me I would be very happy. He knew Miss Bogle long ago--I think she had a school for little boys once; perhaps that was before she got to be a witch. But I've been dreadfully unhappy, and I don't know what's going to happen to me if I go on like this much longer.' She stopped, out of breath almost. 'Do you think she's going to enchanter you?' asked Peterkin, in a whisper. 'Do you think she wasn't asked to your christening, or anything like that?' Margaret shook her head again. '_Something_ like that, I suppose,' she replied. 'She looks at me through her spectacles so queerly, you can't think. You see, I was ill at Gran's before I came here: not very badly, though he fussed a good deal about it. And he thought the sea-air would do me good. But I've often had colds, and I never was treated like this before--never. For ever so long, _she_,' and Margaret nodded towards somewhere unknown, 'wouldn't let me come downstairs at all. And then I cried--sometimes I _roared_, and luckily the parrot heard, and began to talk about it in his way. And you see it's through him that _you_ got to know about me, so I'm sure he's on the other side, and knows she's a witch, but----' CHAPTER VII THE GREAT PLAN AT that moment the clock--a clock somewhere near--struck. Margaret started, and listened,--'One, two, three.' She looked pleased. 'It's only a quarter to one,' she said. 'Half-an-hour still to my dinner. What time do you need to get home by?' 'A quarter-past will do for us,' I said. 'Oh, then it's all right,' she replied. 'But I must be quick. I want to know all that the parrot told you.' 'It was more what he had said to Mrs. Wylie,' I explained, 'copying you, you know. And, at first, she called you "that poor child," and told us she was so sorry for you.' 'But now she won't say anything. She pinched up her lips about you the other day,' added Peterkin. Margaret seemed very interested, but not very surprised. 'Oh, then, Miss Bogle is beginning to bewitch her too,' she said. 'Nurse is a goose, as I told you. She just does everything Miss Bogle wants. And if it wasn't for the parrot and you,' she went on solemnly, 'I daresay when Gran comes home he'd find me turned into a pussy-cat.' 'Or a mouse, or even a frog,' said Peterkin, his eyes gleaming; 'only then he wouldn't know it was you, unless your nurse told him.' 'She wouldn't,' said Margaret, 'the witch would take care to stop her, or to turn her into a big cat herself, or something. There'd be only the parrot, and Gran mightn't understand him. It's better not to risk it. And that's what I'm planning about. But it will take a great deal of planning, though I've been thinking about it ever since you came, and I felt sure the good fairies had sent you to rescue me. When can you come again?' 'Any day, almost,' said Pete. 'Well, then, I'll tell you what. I'll be on the look-out for you passing every fine day about this time, and the first day I'm sure of nurse going to London again--and I know she has to go once more at least--I'll manage to tell you, and _then_ we'll fix for a long talk here.' 'All right,' I said, 'but we'd better go now.' There was a sound of footsteps approaching, so with only a hurried 'good-bye' we ran off. We did not need to stroll up and down the terrace to-day, as we knew Margaret's nurse was away; luckily so, for we only just got home in time by the skin of our teeth, running all the way, and not talking. I wish I could quite explain about myself, here, but it is rather difficult. I went on thinking about Margaret a lot, all that day; all the more that Pete and I didn't talk much about her. We both seemed to be waiting till we saw her again and heard her 'plans.' And I cannot now feel sure if I really was in earnest at all, as she and Peterkin certainly were, about the enchantment and the witch. I remember I laughed at it to myself sometimes, and called it 'bosh' in my own mind. And yet I did not quite think it only that. After all, I was only a little boy myself, and Margaret had such a common-sensical way, even in talking of fanciful things, that somehow you couldn't laugh at her, and Pete, of course, was quite and entirely in earnest. I think I really had a strong belief that _some_ risk or danger was hanging over her, and I think this was natural, considering the queer way our getting to know her had been brought about. And any boy would have been 'taken' by the idea of 'coming to the rescue,' as she called it. There was a good deal of rather hard work at lessons just then for me. Papa and mamma wanted me to get into a higher class after Christmas, and I daresay I had been pretty idle, or at least taking things easy, for I was not as well up as I should have been, I know. So Peterkin and I had not as much time for private talking as usual. I had often lessons to look over first thing in the morning, and as mamma would not allow us to have candles in bed, and there was no gas or electric light in our room, I had to get up a bit earlier, when I had work to look over or finish. And nurse was very good about that sort of thing: there was always a jolly bright fire for me in the nursery, however early I was. Our best time for talking was when Peterkin came to meet me. But we had two or three wet days about then. And Margaret did not expect us on rainy days, even if Pete had been allowed to come, which he wasn't. It was, as far as I remember, not till the Monday after that Wednesday that we were able to pass along Rock Terrace. And almost before we came in real sight of her, I felt certain that the little figure was standing there on the look-out. And so she was--red shawl and white pinafore, and small dark head, as usual. We made a sort of pretence of strolling past her house at first, but we found we didn't need to. She beckoned to us at once, and just at that moment the parrot, who was out in _his_ balcony, most luckily--or cleverly, Peterkin always declares he did it on purpose--screeched out in quite a good-humoured tone-- 'Good morning! good morning! Pretty Poll! Fine day, boys! Good morning!' 'Good morning, Poll,' we called out as we ran across the tiny plot of garden to Margaret. 'I'm so glad you've come,' she said, 'but you mustn't stop a minute. I've been out in a bath-chair this morning--I've just come in; and now I'm to go every day. It's horrid, and it's all nonsense, when I can walk and run quite well. It's all that old witch. I'm going again to-morrow and Wednesday; but I'm going to manage to make it later on Wednesday, so that you can talk to me on the Parade. Nurse is going to London all day on Wednesday, but I'm to go out just the same, for the bath-chair man is somebody that Miss Bogle knows quite well. So if you watch for me on the Parade, between the street close to here,' and she nodded towards the nearest side of Lindsay Square, 'and farther on _that_ way,' and now she pointed in the direction of our own house, 'I'll look out for you, and we can have a good talk.' 'All right,' we replied. 'On Wednesday--day after to-morrow, if it's fine, of course.' 'Yes,' she said; 'though I'll _try_ to go, even if it's not _very_ fine, and you must try to come. I know now why nurse has to go to London. It's to see her sister, who's in an hospital, and Wednesday's the only day, and she's a dressmaker--that's why I thought nurse had to go to a dressmaker's. I'm going on making up my plans. It's getting worse and worse. After I've been out in the bath-chair, Miss Bogle says I'm to lie down most of the afternoon! Just fancy--it's so _dreadfully_ dull, for she won't let me read. She says it's bad for your eyes, when you're lying down. Unless I do something quick, I believe she'll turn me into a--oh! I don't know what,' and she stopped, quite out of breath. 'A frog,' said Peterkin. He had enchanted frogs on the brain just then, I believe. 'No,' said Margaret, 'that wouldn't be so bad, for I'd be able to jump about, and there's nothing I love as much as jumping about, especially in water,' and her eyes sparkled with a sort of mischief which I had seen in them once or twice before. 'No, it would be something much horrider--a dormouse, perhaps. I should hate to be a dormouse. 'You shan't be changed into a dormouse or--or _anything_,' said Peterkin, with a burst of indignation. 'Thank you, Perkins,' Margaret replied; 'but please go now and remember--Wednesday.' We ran off, and though we thought we had only been a minute or two at Rock Terrace, after all we were not home much too early. 'We must be careful on Wednesday,' I said. 'I'm afraid my watch is rather slow.' [Illustration: WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR.--p. 108.] 'Dinner isn't always quite so pumptual on Wednesdays,' said Pete, 'with its being a half-holiday, you know.' It turned out right enough on Wednesday. Considering what a little girl she was then--only eight and a bit--Margaret was very clever with her plans and settlings, as we have often told her since. I daresay it was with her having lived so much alone, and read so many story-books, and made up stories for herself too, as she often did, though we didn't know that then. We had no difficulty in finding her bath-chair, and the man took it quite naturally that she should have some friends, and, of course, made no objection to our walking beside her and talking to her. He was a very nice kind sort of a man, though he scarcely ever spoke. Perhaps he had children of his own, and was glad for Margaret to be amused. He took great care of the chair, over the crossing the road and the turnings, and no doubt he had been told to be extra careful, but as Miss Bogle had no idea that Margaret knew a creature in the place I don't suppose 'the witch' had ever thought of telling him that he was not to let any one speak to her. It was a very fine day--a sort of November summer, and when you were in the full sunshine it really felt quite hot. There were bath-chairs standing still, for the people in them to enjoy the warmth and to stare out at the sea. Margaret did not want to stare at it, and no more did we. But it was more comfortable to talk with the chair standing still; for though to look at one going it seems to crawl along like a snail, I can tell you to keep up with it you have to step out pretty fast, faster than Peterkin could manage without a bit of running every minute or so, which is certainly _not_ comfortable, and faster than I myself could manage as well as talking, without getting short of breath. So we were very glad to pull up for a few minutes, though we had already got through a good deal of business, as I will tell you. Margaret had made up her mind to run away! Fancy that--a little girl of eight! Pete and I were awfully startled when she burst out with it. She could stand Miss Bogle and the dreadful dulness and loneliness of Rock Terrace no longer, she declared, not to speak of what might happen to her in the way of being turned into a kitten or a mouse or _something_, if the witch got really too spiteful. 'And where will you go to?' we asked. 'Home,' she said, 'at least to my nursey's, and that is close to home.' We were so puzzled at this that we could scarcely speak. 'To your _nurse's_!' we said at last. 'Yes, to my own nurse--my old nurse!' said Margaret, quite surprised that we didn't understand. And then she explained what she thought she had told us. 'That stupid thing who is my nurse now,' she said, 'isn't my _real_ nurse. I mean she has only been with me since I came here. She belongs to Miss Bogle--I mean Miss Bogle got her. My own darling nursey had to leave me. She stayed and stayed because of that bad cold I got, you know, but as soon as I was better she _had_ to go, because her mother was so old and ill, and hasn't _nobody_ but nursey to take care of her. And then when Gran had to go away he settled it all with that witchy Miss Bogle, and she got this goosey nurse, and my own nursey brought me here. And she cried and cried when she went away, and she said she'd come some day to see if I was happy, but the witch said no, she mustn't, it would upset me; and so she's never dared to; and now you can fancy what my life has been,' Margaret finished up, in quite a triumphant tone. Peterkin was nearly crying by this time. But I knew I must be very sensible. It all seemed so very serious. 'But what will your grandfather say when he knows you've run away?' I asked, while Peterkin stood listening, with his mouth wide open. 'He'd be very glad to know where I was, _I_ should say,' Margaret replied. 'My own nursey will write to him, and I will myself. It'll be a good deal better than if I stayed to be turned into something he'd never know was me. Then, what would Dads and Mummy say to _him_ for having lost me?' 'The parrot'd tell, p'raps,' said Pete. 'As if anybody would believe him!' exclaimed Margaret, 'except people who understand about fairies and witches and things like that, that you two and I know about.' She was giving _me_ credit for more believing in 'things like that' than I was feeling just then, to tell the truth. But what I did feel rather disagreeably sure of, was this queer little girl's determination. She sometimes spoke as if she was twenty. Putting it all together, I had a sort of instinct that it was best not to laugh at her ideas at all, as the next thing would be that she and her devoted 'Perkins' would be making plans without me, and really getting lost, or into dreadful troubles of some kind. So I contented myself with just saying-- 'Why should Miss Bogle want to turn you into anything?' 'Because witches are like that,' said Peterkin, answering for his princess. 'And because she hates the bother of having me,' added Margaret. 'She has written to Gran that I am very troublesome--nurse told me so; nurse can't hold her tongue--and I daresay I am,' she added truly. 'And so, if I seemed to be lost, she'd say it wasn't her fault. And as I suppose I'd never be found, there'd be an end of it.' 'You couldn't but be found _now_,' said Peterkin, 'as, you see, _we'd_ know.' 'If she didn't turn _you_ into something too,' said Margaret, with the sparkle of mischief in her eyes again. Pete looked rather startled at this new idea. 'The best thing to do is for me to go away to a safe place while I'm still myself,' she added. 'But have you got the exact address? Do you know what station to go to, and all that sort of thing?' I asked. 'And have you got money enough?' 'Plenty,' she said, nodding her head; 'plenty for all I've planned. Of course I know the station--it's the same as for my own home, and nursey lives in the village where the railway comes. Much nearer than _our_ house, which is two miles off. And I know nursey will have me, even if she had to sleep on the floor herself. The only bother is that I'll have to change out of the train from _here_, and get into another at a place that's called a Junction. Nursey and I had to do that when we came here, and I heard Gran explain it all to her, and I know it's the same going back, for the nurse I have _now_ told me so. When she goes to London she stays in the same railway; but if you're _not_ going to London, you have to get into another one. And nursey and I had to wait nearly half-an-hour, I should think, and that's the part I mind,' and, for the first time, her eager little face looked anxious. 'The railway people would ask me who I was, and where I was going, as, you see, I look so much littler than I am; so I've planned for you two kind boys to come with me to that changing station, and wait till I've got into the train that goes to Hill Horton; that's _our_ station. I've plenty of money,' she went on hurriedly, for, I suppose, she saw that I was looking very grave, and Peterkin's face was pink with excitement. 'It isn't that,' I said; 'it's--it's the whole thing. Supposing you got lost after all, it would be----' 'No, no! I won't get lost,' she said, speaking again in her very grown-up voice. 'And remember, you're on your word of honour as _gentlemen_!--_gentlemen_!' she repeated, 'not to tell any one without my leave. If you do, I'll just run away by myself, and very likely get lost or stolen, or something. And how would you feel then?' 'We are not going to break our promise,' I said. 'You needn't be afraid.' 'I'm not,' she said, and her face grew rather red. 'I always keep _my_ word, and I expect any one I trust to keep theirs.' And though she was such a little girl, not much older than Elvira, whom we often called a 'baby,' I felt sure she _would_ 'keep hers.' It certainly wouldn't mend matters to risk her starting off by herself, as I believe she would have done if we had failed her. It has taken longer to write down all our talking than the talking itself did, even though it was a little interrupted by the bath-chair man every now and then taking a turn up and down, 'just to keep Missy moving a bit,' he said. Margaret's plans were already so very clear in her head that she had no difficulty in getting us to understand them thoroughly, and I don't think I need go on about what she said, and what we said. I will tell what we fixed to do, and what we did do. Next Wednesday--a full week on--was the day she had settled for her escape from Rock Terrace. It was a long time to wait, but it was the day her nurse was pretty sure--really quite sure, Margaret thought--to go to London again, for she had said so. She went by a morning train, and did not come back till after dark in the evening, so there was no fear of our running up against her at the railway station. There was a train that would do for Hill Horton, after waiting a little at the Junction, at about three o'clock in the afternoon; and as it was my half-holiday, Peterkin and I could easily get leave to go out together if it was fine, and if it wasn't, we would have to come without! We trusted it would be fine; and I settled in my own mind that if we _had_ to come without asking, I'd leave a message with James the footman, that they weren't to be frightened about us at home, for I didn't want mamma and all the others to be in a fuss again, like the evening Peterkin was lost. Margaret said we needn't be away more than about an hour and a half. I don't quite remember how she'd got all she knew about the times of the trains. I think it was from the cook or housemaid at Miss Bogle's, for I know she said one of them came from near Hill Horton, and that she was very good-natured, and liked talking about Margaret's home and her own. So it was settled. Just to make it even more fixed, we promised to go round by Rock Terrace on Monday at the usual time, and Margaret was either to speak to us from the dining-room window, or, if she couldn't, she would hang out a white handkerchief somewhere that we should be sure to see, which would mean that it was all right. We were to meet her at the corner of her row of houses nearest Lindsay Square, at half-past two on Wednesday. How she meant to do about her bath-chair drive, and all the rest of it, she didn't tell us, and, really, there wasn't time. But I felt sure she would manage it, and Peterkin was even surer than I. The last thing she said was-- 'Of course, I shall have very little luggage; not more than you two boys can easily carry between you.' CHAPTER VIII A TERRIBLE IDEA THAT was on a Wednesday, and the same day the next week was to be _the_ day. On the Monday, as we had planned, we strolled along Rock Terrace. Luckily, it was a fine day, and we could look well about us without appearing to have any particular reason for doing so. It would have seemed rather funny if we had been holding up umbrellas, or, I should say, if _I_ had been, for when it rained Peterkin wasn't allowed to come to meet me. We stood still in front of the parrot's house. He was out on the balcony. I wondered if he would notice us, or if he did, if he would condescend to speak to us. Yes, I felt that his ugly round eyes--don't you think all parrots' eyes are ugly, however pretty their feathers are?--were fixed on us, and in a moment or two came his squeaky, croaky voice-- 'Good morning, boys! Good morning! Pretty Poll!' 'He didn't say "naughty boys,"' I remarked. 'No, of course not,' replied Peterkin; 'because he knows all about it now, you see.' 'We mustn't stand here long, however,' I said. 'I wond----' 'I wonder why Margaret hasn't hung out a handkerchief if she couldn't get to speak to us,' I was going to have said, but just at that moment we heard a voice on the upstairs balcony-- 'Good Polly,' it said, 'good, good Polly.' And the parrot repeated with great pride-- 'Good, good Polly.' But when we looked up there was no one to be seen, only I thought one of the glass doors of Margaret's dining-room clicked a little. And I was right. In another moment there she was herself, on the dining-room balcony--half on it, that's to say, and half just inside. 'Isn't he good?' she said, when we came as near as we dared to hear her. 'I told him to let me know as soon as he saw you, for I couldn't manage the handkerchief, and I was afraid you might have gone before I could catch you. Nurse has been after me so this morning, for the witch was angry with me yesterday for standing at the window without my shawl. But you mustn't stay,' and she nodded in her queenly little way. 'It's keeping all right--Wednesday at half-past two, at the corner next the Square--wet or fine. Good-bye.' 'Good-bye, all right,' we whispered, but she heard us. So did the parrot. 'Good-bye, boys; good Polly! good, good Polly!' and something else which Peterkin declared meant, 'Wednesday at half-past two.' I felt pretty nervous, I can tell you, that day and the next. At least I suppose it's what people call feeling very nervous. I seemed half in a dream, and, as if I couldn't settle to anything, all queer and fidgety. A little, just a very little perhaps, like what you feel when you know you are going to the dentist's, especially if you _haven't_ got toothache; for when you have it badly, you don't mind the thought of having a tooth out, even a thumping double one. Yet I should have felt disappointed if the whole thing had been given up, and, worse than that, horribly frightened if it had ended in Margaret's saying she'd run away by herself without us helping her, as I know--I have said so two or three times already, I'm afraid: it's difficult to keep from repeating if you're not accustomed to writing and feel very anxious to explain things clearly--as I know she really would have done. And then there was the smaller worry of wondering what sort of weather there was going to be on Wednesday, which did matter a good deal. I shall never forget how thankful I felt in the morning when it came, and I awoke, and opened my eyes, without any snorting for once, to hear Peterkin's first words-- 'It's a very fine day, Gilley--couldn't be better.' 'Thank goodness,' I said. He was sitting up, as usual; but I don't think he had stared me awake this morning, for he was gazing out in the direction of the window, where up above the short blind a nice show of pale-blue sky was to be seen; a wintry sort of blue, with the early mist over it a little, but still quite cheering and 'lasting' looking. 'All the same,' I went on, speaking more to myself, perhaps, than to him, 'I wish we were well through it, and your princess safe with her old nurse.' For I could not have felt comfortable about her, as I have several times said, even if _we_ had not promised to help her. More than that--I do believe she was so determined, that supposing mamma or Mrs. Wylie or any grown-up person had somehow come to know about it, Margaret would have kept to her plan, and perhaps even hurried it on and got into worse trouble. She needed a lesson; though I still do think, and always shall think, that old Miss Bogle and her new nurse and everybody were not a bit right in the way they tried to manage her. I hurried home from school double-quick that morning, you may be sure. And Peterkin and I were ready for dinner--hands washed, hair brushed, and all the rest of it--long before the gong sounded. Mamma looked at us approvingly, I remember, when she came into the dining-room, where we were waiting before the girls and Clement had made their appearance. 'Good boys,' she said, smiling, 'that's how I like to see you. How neat you both look, and down first, too!' I felt rather a humbug, but I don't believe Peterkin did; he was so completely taken up with the thought of Margaret's escape, and so down-to-the-ground sure that he was doing a most necessary piece of business if she was to be saved from the witch's 'enchantering,' as he would call it. But as I was older, of course, the mixture of feelings in my mind _was_ a mixture, and I couldn't stand being altogether a humbug. So I said to mamma-- 'It's mostly that we want to go out as soon as ever we've had our dinner; you know you gave us leave to go?' 'Oh yes,' said she. 'Well, it's a very nice day, and you will take good care of Peterkin, won't you, Giles? Don't tire him. Are any of your schoolfel----' But at that moment a note was brought to her, which she had to send an answer to, and when she sat down at the table again, she was evidently still thinking of it, and forgot she had not finished her question, which I was very glad of. So we got off all right, though I had a feeling that Clement looked at us _rather_ curiously, as we left the dining-room. At the _very_ last moment, I did give the message I had thought about in my own mind, with James. Just for him to say that mamma and nobody was to be frightened if we _were_ rather late of coming back--_even_ if it should be after dark; that we should be all right. And then we ran off without giving James time to say anything, though he did open his mouth and begin to stutter out some objection. He was rather a donkey, but I knew that he was to be trusted, so I just laughed in his face. We were a little before the time at the corner of the square, but that was a good thing. It would never have done to keep _her_ waiting, Peterkin said. He always spoke of her as if she was a kind of queen. And he was right enough. All the same, my heart did beat in rather a funny way, thinking to myself what could or should we do if she didn't come? But we were not kept waiting long. In another minute or so, a little figure appeared round the corner, hastening towards us as fast as it could, but evidently a good deal bothered by a large parcel, which at the first glance looked nearly as big as itself. Of course it was Margaret. 'Oh,' she exclaimed, 'I am so glad you are here already. It's this package. I had no idea it would seem so heavy.' 'It's nothing,' said Peterkin, valiantly, taking it from her as he spoke. And it really wasn't very much--what had made it seem so conspicuous was that the contents were all wrapped up in her red shawl, and naturally it looked a queer bundle for a little girl like her to be carrying. She was not at all strong either, even for a little girl, and afterwards I was not surprised at this, for the illness she had spoken of as a bad cold had really been much worse than that. 'Let's hurry on,' she said, 'I shan't feel safe till we've got to the station,' for which I certainly thought she had good reason. I had meant to go by the front way, which was actually the shortest, but the scarlet bundle staggered me. Luckily I knew my way about the streets pretty well, so I chose rather less public ones. And before long, even though the package was not very heavy, Peterkin began to flag, so I had to help him a bit with it. But for that, there would have been nothing about us at all noticeable. Margaret was quite nicely and quietly dressed in dark-blue serge, something like Blanche and Elvira, and we just looked as if we were a little sister and two schoolboy brothers. 'Couldn't you have got something less stary to tie up your things in?' I asked her when we had got to some little distance from Rock Terrace, and were in a quiet street. She shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'it was the only thing. I have a nice black bag, as well as my trunks, of course, but the witch or nurse has hidden it away. I _couldn't_ find it. It's just as if they had thought I might be planning to run away. I _nearly_ took nurse's waterproof cape; she didn't take it to London to-day, because it is so fine and bright. But I didn't like to, after all. It won't matter once we are in the train, and at Hill Horton it will be a good thing, as my own nursey will see it some way off.' We were almost at the station by now, and I told Margaret so. 'All right,' she said. 'I have the money all ready. One for me to Hill Horton, and two for you to the Junction station,' and she began to pull out her purse. 'You needn't get it out just yet,' I said. 'We shall have quite a quarter of an hour to wait. If you give me your purse once we're inside, I will tell you exactly what I take out. How much is there in it?' 'A gold half-sovereign,' she replied, 'and a half-crown, and five sixpences, and seven pennies.' 'There won't be very much over,' I said, 'though we are all three under twelve; so halves will do, and returns for Pete and me. Second-class, I suppose?' 'Second-class!' repeated Margaret, with great scorn; 'of course not. I've never travelled anything but first in my life. I don't know what Gran would say, or nursey even, if she saw me getting out of a _second_-class carriage.' She made me feel a little cross, though she didn't mean it. _We_ often travelled second, and even third, if there were a lot of us and we could get a carriage to ourselves. But, after all, it was Margaret's own affair, and as she was to be alone from the Junction to Hill Horton, perhaps it was best. '_I_ don't want you to travel second, I'm sure,' I said, 'if only there's enough. I'd have brought some of my own, but unluckily I'm very short just now.' 'I've--'began Peterkin, but Margaret interrupted him. 'As if I'd let you pay anything!' she said indignantly. 'I'd rather travel third than _that_. You are only coming out of kindness to me.' After all, there was enough, even for first-class, leaving a shilling or so over. Hill Horton was not very far away. A train was standing ready to start, for the station was a terminus. I asked a guard standing about if it was the one for Hill Horton, and he answered yes, but we must change at the Junction, which I knew already. So we all got into a first-class carriage, and settled ourselves comfortably, feeling safe at last. 'I wish we were going all the way with you,' said Peterkin, with a sigh made up of satisfaction, as he wriggled his substantial little person into the arm-chair first-class seat, and of regret. 'I'll be all right,' said Margaret, 'once I am in the Hill Horton railway.' For some things I wished too that we were going all the way with her, but for others I couldn't help feeling that I should be very glad to be safe home again and the adventure well over. 'By the day after to-morrow,' I thought, 'there will be no more reason for worrying, if Margaret keeps her promise of writing to us.' I had made her promise this, and given her an envelope with our address on. For otherwise, you see, we should not have heard how she had got on, as no one but the parrot knew that she had ever seen us or spoken to us. Then the train moved slowly out of the station, and Margaret's eyes sparkled with triumph. And we felt the infection of her high spirits. After all, we were only children, and we laughed and joked about the witch, and the fright her new nurse would be in, and how the parrot would enjoy it all, of which we felt quite sure. We were very merry all the way to the Junction. It was only about a quarter-of-an-hour off, and just before we got there the guard looked at our tickets. 'Change at the Junction,' he said, when he caught sight of the 'Hill Horton,' on Margaret's. 'Of course, we know that, thank you,' she said, rather pertly perhaps, but it sounded so funny that Pete and I burst out laughing again. I suppose we were all really very excited, but the guard laughed too. 'How long will there be to wait for the Hill Horton train?' I had the sense to ask. 'Ten minutes, at least,' he replied, glancing at his watch, the way guards nearly always do. I was glad he did not say longer, for the sooner Peterkin and I caught a train home again, after seeing Margaret off, the better. And I knew there were sure to be several in the course of the afternoon. As soon as we stopped we got out--red bundle and all. I did not see our guard again, he was somewhere at the other end; but I got hold of another, not so good-natured, however, and rather in a hurry. 'Which is the train for Hill Horton? Is it in yet?' I asked. He must have thought, so I explained it to myself afterwards, that we had just come in to the station, and were at the beginning of our journey. 'Hill Horton,' I _thought_ he said, but, as you will see, my ears must have deceived me, 'all right. Any carriage to the front--further back are for----.' I did not clearly hear--I think it must have been 'Charing Cross,' but I did not care. All that concerned _us_ was 'Hill Horton.' 'Come along,' I called to the two others, who had got a little behind me, lugging the bundle between them, and I led the way, as the man had pointed out. It seemed a very long train, and as he had said 'to the front,' I thought it best to go pretty close up to the engine. There were two or three first-class carriages next to the guard's van, but they were all empty, and I had meant to look out for one with nice-looking people in it for Margaret to travel with. Farther back there were some ladies and children in some first-class, but I was afraid of putting her into a wrong carriage. 'I expect you will be alone all the way,' I said to her. 'I suppose there are not very many people going to Hill Horton.' 'Not first-class,' said Margaret. 'There are often lots of farmers and village people, I daresay. Nursey said it was very crowded on market days, but I don't know when it is market days. But it is rather funny, Giles, to be getting into the same train again!' 'No,' I replied, 'these carriages will be going to split off from the others that go on to London. The man said it would be all right for Hill Horton at the front. They often separate trains like that. I daresay we shall go a little way out of the station and come back again. You'll see. And he said--the _first_ man, I mean--that we should have at least ten minutes to wait, and we've scarcely been two, so we may as well get in with you for a few minutes.' 'Yes, do,' said Margaret, 'but don't put my package up in the netted place, for fear I couldn't get it down again myself. The trains never stop long at our station.' So we contented ourselves with leaving the red bundle on the seat beside her. It was lucky, I told her, that the carriage _wasn't_ full, otherwise it would have had to go up in the rack, where it wouldn't have been very firm. 'It is so fat,' said Peterkin, solemnly. 'Something like you,' I said, at which we all laughed again, as if it was something very witty. We were still feeling rather excited, I think, and rather proud--at least I was--of having, so far, got on so well. But before we had finished laughing, there came a startling surprise. The train suddenly began to move! We stared at each other. Then I remembered my own words a minute or two ago. 'It's all right,' I said, 'we'll back into the station again in a moment.' Margaret and Peterkin laughed again, but rather nervously. At least, Margaret's laugh was not quite hearty; though, as for Peterkin, I think he was secretly delighted. On we went--faster and faster, instead of slower. There was certainly no sign of 'backing.' I put my head out of the window. We were quite clear of the Junction by now, getting every instant more and more into the open country. At last I had to give in. 'We're off, I do believe,' I said. 'There's been some mistake about our waiting ten minutes. We're clear on the way to Hill Horton.' '_I'm_ very glad,' said Pete. 'I always wanted to come all the way.' 'But perhaps it needn't be all the way,' I said. 'Do you remember, Margaret, how many stations there are between the Junction and yours?' 'Three or four, I think,' she replied. 'Oh well, then,' I said, 'it won't matter. We can get out the first time we stop, and I daresay we shall soon get a train back again, and not be late home after all.' Margaret's face cleared. She was thoughtful enough not to want us to get into trouble through helping her. 'We shall be stopping soon, I think,' she said, 'for this seems a fast train.' But to me her words brought no satisfaction. For it did indeed seem a fast train, and a much more horrible idea than the one of our going all the way to Hill Horton suddenly sprang into my mind-- Were we in the Hill Horton train at all? CHAPTER IX IN A FOG I WAITED a minute or two before I said anything to the others. They went on laughing and joking, and I kept looking out of the window. At last I turned round, and then Margaret started a little. 'What's the matter, Giles?' she said. 'You're quite white and funny looking.' And Peterkin stared at me too. 'It's--'I began, and then I felt as if I really couldn't go on; but I had to. 'It's that I am dreadfully afraid,' I said, 'almost quite sure now, that we are in the wrong train. I've seen the names of two stations that we've passed without stopping already. Do you remember the names of any between the Junction and Hill Horton, Margaret?' She shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'but I know we never pass any without stopping; at least I think so. They are quite little stations, and I've never known the train go as fast as this till after the Junction, when we were in the London train. I've been to London several times with Gran, you see.' Then it suddenly struck her what I meant. 'Oh!' she exclaimed, with a little scream, 'is it _that_ you are afraid of, Giles? Do you think we are in the _London_ train? I did think it was funny that we were getting back into the same one, but you said that the man said that the carriages at the front were for Hill Horton?' 'Well, I _thought_ he did,' I replied, 'but--' one's mind works quickly when you are frightened sometimes--'he _might_ have said "Victoria," for the "tor" in "Victoria" and "Horton" sound rather alike.' 'But wouldn't he have said "London"?' asked Peterkin. 'No, I think they generally say the name of the station in London,' I explained. 'There are so many, you see.' Then we all, for a minute or two, gazed at each other without speaking. Margaret had got still paler than usual, and I fancied, or feared, I heard her choke down something in her throat. Peterkin, on the contrary, was as red as a turkey-cock, and his eyes were gleaming. I think it was all a part of the fairy-tale to him. 'What shall we do?' said Margaret, at last, and I was forced to answer, 'I don't know.' Bit by bit things began to take shape in my mind, and it was no good keeping them to myself. 'There'll be the extra money to pay for our tickets to London,' I said at last. 'How much will it be? Isn't there enough over?' asked Margaret quietly, and I could not help admiring her for it, as she took out her purse and gave it to me to count over what was left. There were only four or five shillings. I shook my head. 'I don't know how much it will be, but I'm quite sure there's not enough. You see, though we're only halves, it's first-class.' 'And what will they do to us if we can't pay,' she went on, growing still whiter. 'Could we--could we possibly be sent to prison?' 'Oh no, no. I don't think so,' I answered, though I was really not at all sure about it; I had so often seen notices stuck up on boards at railway stations about the punishments of passengers not paying properly, or trying to travel without tickets. 'But--I'm afraid they would be very horrid to us somehow--perhaps telegraph to papa or mamma.' 'Oh!' cried Margaret, growing now as red as she had been white, 'and that would mean my being shut up again at Rock Terrace--worse than before. I don't know _what_ the witch wouldn't do to me,' and she clasped her poor little hands in a sort of despair. Then Peterkin burst out-- 'I've got my gold half-pound with me,' he said, in rather a queer voice, as if he was proud of being able to help and yet half inclined to cry. 'Goodness!' I exclaimed, 'why on earth didn't you say so before?' 'I--I--wanted it for something else,' said he. 'I don't quite know why I brought it.' He dived into his pocket, and dug out a very grimy little purse, out of which, sure enough, he produced a half-sovereign. The relief of knowing that we should not get into trouble as far as our journey _to_ London was concerned, was such a blessing, that just for the moment I forgot all the rest of it. 'Anyway we can't be put in prison now,' said Margaret, and a little colour came into her face. 'Oh, Perkins, you _are_ a nice boy!' I did think her praising him was rather rough on _me_, for I had had bother enough, goodness knows, about the whole affair, even though I had made a stupid mistake. We whizzed on, for it was an express train, and for a little while we didn't speak. Peterkin was still looking rather upset about his money. He told me afterwards that he had been keeping it for his Christmas presents, especially one for Margaret, as we had never had a chance of getting her any flowers. But all that was put right in the end. After a bit Margaret said to me, in a half-frightened voice-- 'What shall we do when we get to London, Giles? Do you think perhaps the guard would help us to go back again to the Junction, when he sees it was a mistake? As we've got money to pay to London, he'd see we hadn't meant to cheat.' 'No,' I said, 'he wouldn't have time, and besides I don't think it'll be the same one. And if we said anything, he'd most likely make us give our names, or take us to some station-master or somebody, and then there'd be no chance of our keeping out of a lot of bother.' 'You mean,' said she, in a shaky voice, 'we should have to go all the way back, and I'd be sent to the witch again?' 'Something like it, I'm afraid,' I said. 'If I just explain that we got into the wrong train and pay up, they'll have no business to meddle with us.' 'But what are we to do, then?' she asked again. 'I don't know,' I replied. I'm afraid I was rather cross. I was so sick of it all, you see, and so fearfully bothered. Margaret at last began to cry. She tried to choke it down, but it was no use. I felt awfully sorry for her, but somehow the very feeling so bad made me crosser, and I did not try to comfort her up. Pete, on the contrary, tugged out his pocket-handkerchief, which was quite a decently clean one, and began wiping her eyes. This made her try again to stop crying. She pulled out her own handkerchief and said-- 'Dear little Perkins, you are so kind.' I glanced at them, not very amiably, I daresay. And I was on the point of saying that, instead of crying and petting each other, they'd better try to think what we should do, for I knew we must be getting near London by this time, when I saw something white on the floor of the carriage. I stooped to pick it up. It had dropped out of Margaret's pocket when she pulled out her handkerchief. It was an envelope, or what had been one, and for a moment I thought it was the one I had given her with our address on, to use when she wrote to us from Hill Horton, but _that_ one couldn't have got so dirty and torn-looking in the time. And when I looked at it more closely, I saw that it was jagged and nibbled in a queer way, and _then_ I saw that it had the name 'Wylie' on it, and an address in London. And when I looked still more closely, I saw that it had never been through the post or had a stamp on, and that it had a large blot in one corner. Evidently the person who had written on it had not liked to use it because of the blot, and the name on it was _Miss_, not _Mrs._ Wylie, '19 Enderby Street LONDON, S.W.' I turned it round and round without speaking for a moment or two. I couldn't make it out. Then I said-- 'What's this, Margaret? It must have dropped out of your pocket.' She stopped crying--well, really, I think she had stopped already, for whatever her faults were she wasn't a babyish child--to look at it. She seemed puzzled, and felt in her pocket again. 'No, of course it's not the envelope you gave me,' she said. 'I've got it safe, and--oh, I believe I know how this old one got into my pocket. I remember a day or two ago when I was trying if it would do to tie my handkerchief on to Polly's cage, he was nibbling some paper. He's very fond of nibbling paper, and it doesn't hurt him, for he doesn't eat it. But he would keep pecking at me when I was tying the handkerchief, and I was vexed with him, and so when he dropped this I picked it up and shook it at him, and told him he shouldn't have it again, and then I put it into my pocket. He was very tiresome that day, not a bit a fairy; he is like that sometimes.' 'But how did he come to have an envelope with "Miss Wylie" on?' I said. 'He doesn't live in Mrs. Wylie's house, but in the one between yours and hers, and this must have come from _her_.' 'I daresay she gave it him to play with, or her servant may have given it him,' said Margaret, 'You see he's sometimes at the end of the balcony nearest her, and sometimes at our end. I think his servants have put him more at our end since she's been away; perhaps they've heard me talking to him. Anyway, I'm sure this old envelope must have come out of his cage.' I did not speak for a moment. I was gazing at the address. 'Margaret,' I exclaimed, 'look at it.' She did so, and then stared up at me, with a puzzled expression in her eyes, still red with crying. 'I believe,' I went on, 'I believe this is going to help us.' Peterkin, who had been listening with all his ears, could contain himself no longer. 'And the parrot _must_ be a fairy after all,' he said, 'and he must have done it on purpose.' But Margaret did not seem to hear what he said, she was still gazing at me and wondering what I was going to say. 'Don't you see,' I went on, touching the envelope, 'this must be the house of some of Mrs. Wylie's relations? Very likely she's staying with them there, and anyway they'd tell us where she is, as we know she's still in London. She told us she was going to be there for a fortnight. And she's very kind. We would ask her to lend us money enough to go back to the Junction, and then we'd be all right. You have got your ticket for Hill Horton, and we have our returns for home.' 'Oh,' cried Margaret, 'how clever you are to have thought of it, Giles! But,' and the bright look went out of her face, 'you don't think she'd make me go back to the witch, do you? Are you sure she wouldn't?' 'I really don't think she would,' I said. 'I know she has often been sorry for you, for she knew you weren't at all happy. And we'd tell her more about it. She is awfully kind.' I meant what I said. Perhaps I saw it rather too favourably; the idea of finding a friend in London was such a comfort just then, that I felt as if everything else might be left for the time. I never thought about catching trains at the Junction or about its getting late and dark for Margaret to be travelling alone from there to Hill Horton, or anything, except just the hope--the tremendous hope--that we might find our kind old lady. [Illustration: HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID.--p. 145.] The train slackened, and very soon we pulled up. It wasn't the station yet, however, but the place where they stop to take tickets, just outside. I know it so well now, for we pass it ever so often on our way from and to school several times a year. But whenever we pass it, or stop at it, I think of that miserable day and all my fears. The man put his head in at the window. He was a stranger. 'Tickets, please,' he said. I was ready for him--tickets, Peterkin's half-sovereign, and all. I held out the tickets. 'There's been a mistake,' I began. 'I shall have to pay up,' and when he heard that, he opened the door and came in. He looked at the tickets. 'Returns--half-returns to the Junction,' he said, 'and a half to Hill Horton. How's this?' 'We got into the wrong train at the Junction,' I replied. 'In fact, we got back into the same one we had just got out of. I expect the guard thought I said "Victoria" when I said "Hill Horton," for he told us to go to the front.' 'And didn't he tell you, you were wrong when he looked at the tickets before you started?' the man asked, still holding our tickets in his hand and examining us rather queerly. I began to feel angry, but I didn't want to have any fuss, so instead of telling him to mind his own business, as I was ready to pay the difference, I answered again quite coolly-- 'No one looked at the tickets at the Junction. There were two or three empty carriages at the front: perhaps no one noticed us getting in.' I thought I heard the man murmur to himself something about 'rum go. Three kids by themselves, and first-class.' So, though I was getting angrier every moment, I just said-- 'I don't see that it matters. Here we are, anyway, and I'll pay if you'll tell me how much.' He counted up. 'Eight-and-six--no, eight-and-tenpence.' I held out the half-sovereign. He felt in his pocket and gave me back the change--a shilling and twopence, and walked off with the halves of Pete's and my return tickets and the half-sovereign. We all began to breathe more freely; but, as the train slowly moved again at last--we had been standing quite a quarter-of-an-hour--a new trouble started. 'It's very dark,' said Margaret, 'and it can't be late yet.' I looked out of the window. Yes, it was very dark. I put my head out. It felt awfully chilly too--a horrid sort of chilly feeling. But that wasn't the worst of it. 'It's a fog,' I said. 'The horridest kind--I can't see the lights almost close to us. It's getting worse every minute. I believe it'll be as dark as midnight when we get into the station. What luck, to be sure!' The other two seemed more excited than frightened. 'I've never seen a really bad fog,' said Margaret, as if she was rather pleased to have the chance. Pete said nothing. I expect he'd have had a fairy-tale all ready about a prince lost in a mist, if I'd given him an opening. But I was again rather taken aback. How were we to find our way to Enderby Street? I had meant to walk, you see, in spite of the red bundle! For I was afraid of being cheated by the cabman; and I was afraid too of running quite short of money, in case we _didn't_ find Mrs. Wylie, or that she had left, and that, if the worst came to the worst, I might have to go to a hotel with the two children, and telegraph to mamma to say where we were. Papa, unluckily, was not in London just then. He had gone away on business somewhere--I forget where--for a day or two, and besides, I was not at all sure of the exact address of his chambers, otherwise I might have telegraphed _there_. I only knew it was a long way from Victoria. Indeed, I don't think I thought about that at all at the time, though afterwards mamma said to me I might have done so, _had_ the worst come to the worst. CHAPTER X BERYL YES, the fog _was_ a fog, and no mistake. I don't think I have ever seen so bad a one since we came to live in London, or else it seemed to me terribly bad that day because I was not used to it, and because I was so anxious. I felt half provoked and yet in a way glad that Margaret and Peterkin were not at all frightened, but rather pleased. They followed me along the platform after we got out of the carriage, lugging the bundle between them. It was not really heavy, and I had to go first, as the station was pretty full in that part, in spite of the fog. The lamps were all lighted, but till you got within a few yards of one you scarcely saw it. I went on, staring about me for some one to ask advice from. At last, close to a book-stall, where several lights together made it a little clearer, I saw a railway man of some kind, standing, as if he was not in a hurry. 'Can you tell me where Enderby Street is, if you please?' I asked as civilly as I knew how. 'Enderby Street,' he repeated, in surprise. 'Of course; it's no distance off.' Wasn't I thankful? 'How far?' I said. 'Well--it depends upon which part of it you want. It's a long street. But if you're a stranger you'll never find your way in this fog. Better take a hansom.' 'Thank you,' I said. 'It's only a shilling, I suppose?' He glanced at me again; he had been turning away. By this time the two children were close beside me. He saw that we belonged to each other. 'A shilling for two--one-and-six for three,' he replied. 'Hansom or four-wheeler,' and then he moved off. Just then Margaret began to cough, and a new fear struck me. She looked very delicate, and she had had a bad cold. Supposing the fog made her very ill? I was glad the man had spoken of a four-wheeler. 'Stuff your handkerchief or something into your mouth,' I said, 'so as not to get the fog down your throat. I'm going to call a four-wheeler.' In some ways that dreadful day was not as bad as it might have been. There were scarcely any cabs about, but just then one stopped close to the end of the platform. 'Jump in,' I said, and before the driver had time to make any objection, for I know they do sometimes make a great favour of taking you anywhere in a fog, we were all inside. I heard him growling a little, but when I put my head out of the window again, and said '19 Enderby Street,' he smoothed down. We drove off, slowly enough, but that was to be expected. I pulled up both windows, for Margaret kept on coughing, in spite of having her handkerchief, and Peterkin's too, for all I knew, stuffed over her mouth and throat. They were both very quiet, but I _think_ they were rather enjoying themselves. I suppose my taking the lead, as I had had to, since our troubles began, and managing things, made them feel 'safe,' as children like to do, at the bottom of their hearts, however they start by talking big. It _was_ a horrid fog, but the lights made it not quite so bad outside, for the shops had got all their lamps on, and we could see them now and then. There was a lot of shouting going on, and yet every sound was muffled. There were not many carts or omnibuses or anything on wheels passing, and what there were, were moving slowly like ourselves. After a few minutes it got darker again; it must have been when we got into Enderby Street, I suppose, for there are no shops, or scarcely any, there. I've often and often passed along it since, but I never do without thinking of that evening, or afternoon, for it was really not yet four o'clock. And then we stopped. 'Nineteen, didn't you say?' asked the driver as I jumped out. 'Yes, nineteen,' I said. 'Stop here for a moment or two, till I see if we go in.' For it suddenly struck me that _if_ we had the awful bad luck not to find Mrs. Wylie, we had better keep the cab, to take us to some hotel, otherwise it might be almost impossible to get another. And then we should be out in the street, with Margaret and her bundle, and worse still, her cough. I made my way, more by feeling than seeing, up the steps, and fumbled till I found the bell. I had not actually told the others to stay in the cab, though I had taken care to keep the window shut when I got out, and I never dreamt but what they'd stay where they were till I had found out if Mrs. Wylie was there. But just as the door opened--the servant came in double-quick time luckily, the reason for which was explained--I heard a rustling behind me, and lo and behold, there they both were, and the terrible red bundle too, looking huger and queerer than ever, as the light from inside fell on it. We must have looked a funny lot, as the servant opened the door. She--it was a parlour-maid--did start a little, but I didn't give her time to speak, though I daresay she thought we were beggars, thanks to those silly children. 'Mrs. Wylie is staying here,' I said. I thought it best to speak decidedly. 'Is she at home?' I suppose my way of speaking made her see we were not beggars, and perhaps she caught sight of the four-wheeler, looming faintly through the fog, for she answered quite civilly. 'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms a little way from here, but she comes round most afternoons. I thought it was her when you rang, but I don't think she'll be coming now--not in this fog.' My heart had gone down like lead at the first words--'she is not,' but as the servant went on I got more hopeful again. 'Can you--' I began--I was going to have asked for Mrs. Wylie's address, but just then Margaret coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from her. 'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said sharply, and perhaps it was a good thing, to show that we _had_ a cab waiting for us. 'Please,' I went on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The fog makes her cough so.' The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door a little wider, but there was something doubtful in her manner, as if she was not quite sure if she was not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret forward, and not Margaret only! She was holding fast to her precious bundle, and Peterkin was holding fast to _his_ side of it, so they tumbled in together in a way that was enough to make the servant stare, and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but from where I was I could see into the hall quite well. It looked so nice and comfortable, compared with the horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall. The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as ours at home, but lots bigger than the Rock Terrace ones, of course. 'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said. 'I think the best thing we can do is to--' but I was interrupted again. A girl--a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean--came forward from the inner part of the hall. 'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are letting the fog get all over the house, and it is bitterly cold.' She was blinking her eyes a little as she spoke: either the light or the fog, or both, hurt them. Perhaps she had been sitting over the fire in a darkish room. 'Blinking her eyes' doesn't sound very pretty, but it was, I found afterwards, a sort of trick of hers, and somehow it suited her. _She_ was very pretty. I didn't often notice girls' looks, but I couldn't help noticing hers. Everything about her was pretty; her voice too, though she spoke a little crossly. She was rather tall, and her hair was wavy, almost as wavy as Elf's, and the colour of her dress, which was pinky-red, and everything about her, seemed to suit, and I just stood--we all did--staring at her. And as soon as she caught sight of us--I daresay we seemed quite a little crowd at the door--she stared too! Then she came forward quickly, her voice growing anxious, and almost frightened. 'What is the matter?' she exclaimed. 'Has there been an accident? Who are these--children?' Browner moved towards her. 'Indeed, Miss,' she began, but the girl stopped her. 'Shut the door first,' she said decidedly. 'No, no, come in, please,' this was to me; I suppose I seemed to hesitate, 'and tell me what you want, and who you are?' Her voice grew more hesitating as she went on, and it must have been very difficult to make out what sort of beings we were. Margaret's colourless face and dark eyes and hair, and the bright red of the bundle, at the first hasty glance, might almost have made you think of a little Italian wandering musician; but the moment I spoke I think the girl saw we were not that class. 'We are friends of Mrs. Wylie's--Mrs. Wylie who lives at Rock Terrace,' I said, 'and--and we've come to her because--oh! because we've got into a lot of trouble, and the fog's made it worse, and we don't know anybody else in London.' Then, all of a sudden--I'm almost ashamed to tell it, even though it's a good while ago now, and I really was scarcely more than a little boy myself--something seemed to get into my throat, and I felt as if in another moment it would turn into a sob. Margaret is awfully quick in some ways. She heard the choke in my voice and darted to me, leaving the bundle to Pete's tender mercies; so half of it dropped on to the floor and half stuck to him, as he stood there staring with his round blue eyes. Margaret stretched up and flung her arms round my neck. 'Giles, Giles,' she cried, 'don't, oh don't!' Then she burst out-- 'It's all my fault; at least it's all for me, and Giles and Perkins have been so good to me. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do?' and she began coughing again in a miserable way. I think it was partly that she was trying not to cry. Seeing her so unhappy, made me pull myself together. I was just going to explain things a little to the girl, when she spoke first. She looked very kind and sorry. 'I'll tell you what's the first thing to do,' she said, 'and that's to get this child out of the cold,' and she opened a door a little farther back in the hall, and got us all in, the maid following. It was a very nice, rather small dining-room; a bright fire was burning, and the girl turned on an electric lamp over the table. There were pretty ferns and things on it, ready for dinner, just like mamma has them at home. 'Now,' she began again, but there seemed nothing but interruptions, for just at that moment another door was heard to open, and as the one of the room where we were was not shut, we could hear some one calling-- 'Beryl, Beryl, is there anything the matter? Has your aunt come?' It was a man's voice--quite a kind one, but rather fussy. 'Wait a moment or two, I'll be back directly,' said the girl, and as she ran out of the room we heard her calling, 'I'm coming, daddy.' The parlour-maid drew back nearer the door, not seeming sure if she should leave us alone or not, and _we_ drew a little nearer the fire. So that we could talk without her hearing us. [Illustration: 'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.'--p. 159.] 'Isn't she a kind lady?' said Margaret, glancing up at me. 'I think she looks very kind. You don't think she'll send me back to the witch, do you, Giles?' 'Bother the witch,' I was on the point of saying, for I would have given anything by this time to be back in our homes again, witch or no witch. But I thought better of it. It wouldn't have been kind, with Margaret looking up at me, with tears in her big dark eyes, so white and anxious. 'I shouldn't think so,' I replied. 'She must be Mrs. Wylie's niece, and we'll go on to Mrs. Wylie, and she will tell us what to do.' The girl--perhaps I'd better call her 'Beryl' now. We always do, though she is no longer Beryl Wylie. Beryl was back almost at once. 'Now,' she began again, sitting down in an arm-chair by the fire, and drawing Margaret to her, 'tell me all about it. In the first place, who are you? What are your names?' 'Lesley,' I said. 'At least _ours_ is,' and I touched Peterkin. 'I'm Giles and he's Peterkin. We know Mrs. Wylie, and we live on the Marine Parade.' Beryl nodded. 'Yes,' she said, 'I've heard of you. And,' she touched Margaret gently, 'this small maiden? What is her name--she is not your sister?' 'No,' I replied. 'She is Margaret----' I stopped short. For the first time it struck me that I had never heard her last name! 'Margaret Fothergill,' she said quickly. 'I live next door but one to Mrs. Wylie, and next door to the parrot. Do you know the parrot in Rock Terrace?' Beryl nodded again. 'I have heard of him too,' she said. But suddenly a new idea--I should rather say the old one--struck Margaret again. Her voice changed, and she clasped her hands piteously. 'You won't, oh, you won't send me back to the witch? Say you won't.' 'What does she mean?' asked Beryl, turning to me, as if she thought Margaret was half out of her mind, though, all the same, she drew her still closer. 'She--we--' I began, and Peterkin opened his mouth too. But I suppose I must have glanced at the servant, for Beryl turned towards her, as if to tell her not to wait. Then she changed and said instead-- 'Bring tea in here, Browner, as quickly as you can. You can put it on the side table.' Browner went off at once; she seemed a very good-natured girl. And then, as quickly as I could, helped here and there by Margaret and by Peterkin (though to any one less 'understanding' than Beryl, his funny way of muddling up real and fancy would certainly not have 'helped'), I told our story. It was really wonderful how Beryl took it all in. When I stopped at last, almost out of breath, she nodded her head quietly. 'We won't talk it over just yet,' she said. 'The first thing to do is to see my auntie. You three stay here while I run round to her, and try to enjoy your tea. I shall not be long. It is very near.' The idea of tea did seem awfully tempting, but a new thought struck me. 'The cab!' I exclaimed, 'the four-wheeler! It's waiting all this time, and if we send it away, most likely we shan't be able to get another in the fog. There'll be such a lot to pay, too. Don't you think we'd better go with you in it to Mrs. Wylie, and perhaps she'd lend us money to go to the Junction by the first train? I don't think we should stay to have tea, thank you,' though, as I said it, a glance at Margaret's poor little white face made me wish I needn't say it. She was clinging to Beryl so by this time as if she felt safe. And Peterkin looked almost as piteous as she did. Beryl gently loosened Margaret's hold of her, and got up from the big leather arm-chair where she had been sitting. 'Never mind about the cab,' she said. 'I will go round in it to my aunt, and perhaps bring her back in it. I will settle with the man. I may be a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes away. So all you three have got to do in the meantime is to have a good tea, and trust me. And don't think about witches, or bad fairies, or anything disagreeable till you see me again,' she added, nodding to the two children. 'Browner, you will see that they have everything they want.' Browner smiled, and Beryl ran off, and in a minute or two we heard her come downstairs again, with her cloak and hat on, no doubt, and the front door shut, and I heard the cab drive away. Talking of fairies, I can't imagine anything more like the best of good ones than Beryl Wylie seemed to us that afternoon. Browner was very kind and sensible. For after she had poured out our tea, and handed us a plateful of bread-and-butter and another of little cakes, she left the room, showing us the bell, in case we wanted more milk or anything. And then--perhaps it may seem very thoughtless of us, but, as I have said before, even I, the eldest, wasn't very old--we really enjoyed ourselves! It was so jolly to feel warm and to have a good tea, and, above all, to know that we had found kind friends, who would tell us what to do. Margaret seemed perfectly happy, and to have got rid of all her fears of being sent back to the witch. And Peterkin, in those days, was never very surprised at anything, for nothing that could happen was as wonderful as the wonders of the fairy-land he lived in. So he was quite able to enjoy himself without any trying to do so. I do feel, however, rather ashamed of one bit of it all. You'd scarcely believe that it never came into my head to think that mamma might be frightened about us, even though the afternoon was getting on into evening, and the darkness outside made it seem later than it really was! I can't understand it of myself, considering that I had seen with my own eyes how frightened she had been the evening Peterkin got lost. I suppose my head had got tired and confused with all the fears and things it had been full of, but it is rather horrid to remember, all the same. CHAPTER XI DEAR MAMMA BERYL must have been away longer than she had expected, for when we heard the front bell ring and a minute later she hurried in, her first words were-- 'Did you think I was never coming back? I will explain to you what I have been doing.' When her eyes fell on us, however, her expression changed. She looked pleased, but a little surprised, as she took in that we had not been, by any means, sitting worrying ourselves, but quite the contrary. Margaret was actually in the middle of a laugh, which did not seem as if she was feeling very bad, even though it turned into a cough. Peterkin was placidly content, and I was--well, feeling considerably the better for the jolly good tea we had had. 'We've been awfully comfortable, thank you,' I said, getting up, 'and--will you please tell us what you think we'd better do? And--please--how much was the cab?' 'Never mind about that,' she said. 'Here is my aunt,' and then I heard a little rustle at the door, and in came Mrs. Wylie, who had been taking off her wraps in the hall, looking as neat and white-lacy and like herself as if she had never come within a hundred miles of a fog in her life. 'She _would_ come,' Beryl went on, smiling at the old lady as if she loved her very much. 'Auntie is always so kind.' I began to feel very ashamed of all the trouble we were giving, and I'm sure my face got very red. 'I'm so sorry,' I said, as Mrs. Wylie shook hands with us, 'I never thought of you coming out in the fog.' 'It will not hurt me,' she replied; 'but I feel rather anxious about this little person,' and she laid her hand on Margaret's shoulder, for just then Margaret coughed again. 'Oh,' I exclaimed, 'you don't think it will make her cough worse, do you?' and I felt horribly frightened. 'We'll wrap her up much more, and once we are clear of London, there won't be any fog. I daresay it's quite light still, in the country. It can't be late. But hadn't we better go at once? Will you be so very good as to lend us money to go back to the Junction? I know mamma will send it you at once.' All my fears seemed to awaken again as I hurried on, and the children's faces grew grave and anxious. Mrs. Wylie sat down quietly. 'My dear boy,' she said, 'there can be no question of any of you, Margaret especially, going back to-night. The fog is very bad, and it is very cold besides. My niece has told me the whole story, and----' 'I suppose you think we've all been dreadfully naughty,' I interrupted. 'I did not mean to be, and _they_ didn't,' glancing at the others. 'But of course I'm older, only----' Mrs. Wylie laid her hand on my arm. 'There will be a good deal to talk over,' she said, speaking still very quietly, but rather gravely. 'And I feel that your dear mamma is the right person to--to explain things--your mistakes, and all about it. I believe certainly you did not _mean_ to do wrong.' Her mention of mamma startled me into remembering at last how frightened she and all of them would be at home. 'Oh!' I exclaimed, 'if we stay away all night, what _will_ mamma do?' 'I was just going to tell you what we have done,' said Mrs. Wylie. 'That was what kept us--Beryl and me. We have telegraphed to your mamma. She will not be frightened now. Indeed, I hope she may have got the telegram in time to prevent her beginning to be anxious. And we also--' but here she stopped, for a glance at Margaret, as she told me afterwards, reminded her of Margaret's fears lest she should be sent back to Rock Terrace and Miss Bogle. And what she had been on the point of saying was, that they had also telegraphed to 'the witch.' 'It was awfully good of you,' I said, feeling more and more ashamed of the trouble we were causing. I would have given anything to go home that night, even if it had been to find papa and mamma more displeased with me than they had ever been in their life, and, as I was beginning to see, as they had a right to be. But in the face of all Mrs. Wylie and Beryl were doing, I could not possibly have gone against what they thought best. 'I shall also write to your mamma to-night,' Mrs. Wylie went on. 'There is plenty of time. It is not really as late as the fog makes it seem. And the first thing we now have to do,' for just then Margaret had another bad fit of coughing, 'is to put this child to bed. If you are not better in the morning, or rather if you are any worse, we must send for the doctor.' 'Oh, _please_ don't!' said Margaret, as soon as she could speak. 'It's only the fog got into my throat. It doesn't hurt me at all, as it did when I had that very bad cold at home. I don't like strange doctors, _please_, Mrs. Wylie. And to-morrow nursey can send for our own doctor at home at Hill Horton, if I'm not quite well. I may go home to my nursey quite early, mayn't I? And you will tell their mamma not to be vexed with them, won't you? They only wanted to help me.' She looked such a shrimp of a creature, with her tiny face, so pale too, that nobody could have found it in their heart to scold her. Mrs. Wylie just patted her hand and said something about putting it all right, but that she must go to bed now and have a good long sleep. And just then Beryl, who had left us with Mrs. Wylie, came back to say that everything was ready for Margaret upstairs, and then she walked her and the red bundle off--to put her to bed. I really think that by this time Margaret was so tired that she scarcely knew where she was: she did not make the least objection, but was as meek as a mouse. You would never have thought her the same child as the determined little 'ordering-about' sort of child I knew she could be, and I, rather suspected, generally _had_ been till she came under stricter management. When she was alone with us--with Peterkin and me--Mrs. Wylie spoke a little more about the whole affair. But not very much. She had evidently made up her mind to leave things in mamma's hands. And she did not at all explain any of the sort of mystery there seemed about Margaret. She rang the bell and told Browner to take us upstairs to the little room that had been got ready for us, and where we were to sleep, saying, that she herself was now going to write to mamma. '_And_ to Miss Bogle,' she added, 'though I thought it better not to say so to Margaret.' She looked at us rather curiously as she spoke; I think she most likely wanted to find out what we really believed about 'the witch.' Peterkin started, and grew very red. 'You won't let her go back there?' he exclaimed. 'I'm sure she'll run away again if you do.' It sounded rather rude, but Mrs. Wylie knew that he did not mean it for rudeness. She only looked at him gravely. 'I am very anxious to see how your little friend is to-morrow morning,' she replied. 'I earnestly hope she has not caught any serious cold.' The way she said it frightened me a little somehow, though we children often caught cold and didn't think much about it. But then we were all strong. None of us ever coughed the way Margaret used to about that time, except when we had hooping-cough, and it wasn't that that she had got, I knew. 'You don't think she is going to be badly ill?' I said, feeling as if it would be all my fault if she was. Mrs. Wylie only repeated that she hoped not. We couldn't do much in the way of dressing or tidying ourselves up, as we had nothing with us, not even a red bundle. We could only wash our faces and hands, which were _black_ with the fog, so having them clean was an improvement. And there was a very pretty brush and comb put out for us--Beryl's own. I think it was awfully good of her to lend us her nice things like that. I don't believe Blanchie would have done it, though I daresay mamma would. So we made ourselves as decent-looking as we could, and our collars didn't look as bad that evening as in the daylight the next morning. And then Beryl put her head in at the door and told us to come down to the drawing-room, where her father was. 'He is not able to go up and down stairs just now,' she said. 'His rheumatism is very bad. So he stays in the drawing-room, and we dine earlier than usual for his sake--at seven.' She went on talking, partly to make us more comfortable, for I knew we were both looking very shy. And just outside the drawing-room door she smiled and said, 'Don't be frightened of him, he is the kindest person in the world.' [Illustration: THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.--p. 173.] So he was, I am sure. He had white hair and a thin white face, and he was sitting in a big arm-chair, and he shook hands kindly, and didn't seem to mind our being there a bit. Of course, Beryl had explained it all to him, and it was easy to see that he was most awfully fond of her, and pleased with everything she did. All the same, I was very glad, though it sounds horrid, that he couldn't come downstairs. It didn't seem half so frightening with only Mrs. Wylie and Beryl. Peterkin got very sleepy before dinner was really over. I think he nodded once or twice at dessert, though he was very offended when I said so afterwards. I began to feel jolly tired too, and we were both very glad to go to bed. There was a fire in our room. 'Miss Wylie had ordered it because of the fog,' the servant said. Wasn't it kind of her? We couldn't help laughing at the things they had tried to find for us instead of proper night things--jackety sort of affairs, with lots of frills and fuss. I don't know if they belonged to mother Wylie or to Beryl. But we were too sleepy to mind, though next morning Pete was awfully offended when I said he looked like Red-Riding Hood's grandmother, as the frills had worked up all round his face, and he looked still queerer when he got out of bed, as his robe trailed on the floor, with his being so short. He did not wake as early as usual, but I did. And for a minute or two I _couldn't_ think where I was. And I didn't feel very happy when I did remember. The fog had gone, but it still looked gloomy, compared with home. Still I was glad it was clear, both because I wanted so to go home, and also because of Margaret's cold. I think that was what I first thought of. If only she didn't get ill, I thought I wouldn't mind how angry they were with me. As to Peterkin, I would stand up for him, if he needed it, though I didn't think he would. They'd be sure to remind me how much older I was, and pleasant things like that. And yet when I went over and over it in my own mind, I couldn't get it clear what else I could have done. There _are_ puzzles like that sometimes, and anyway it was better than if Margaret had run away alone, and perhaps got really lost. And, after all, as you will hear, I hadn't much blame to bear. The name of this chapter will show thanks to whom _that_ was. When we were dressed--and oh, how we longed for clean collars!--we made our way down to the dining-room. Beryl was there already, and I saw that she looked even prettier by daylight, such as it was than the evening before. She smiled kindly, and said she hoped we had managed to sleep well. 'Oh yes, thank you,' we said, 'but--' and we both looked round the room. 'How is Margaret?' 'None the worse, I am glad to say,' Beryl answered, and then I thought to myself I might have guessed it, by Beryl's bright face. 'I really think it was only the fog that made her cough so last night. She looks a very delicate little girl, however, and she speaks of having had a very bad cold not long ago, which may have been something worse than a cold. So I made her stay in bed for breakfast, till----' At that moment the parlour-maid brought in a telegram. Beryl opened it, and then handed it to me. It was from mamma. 'A thousand thanks for telegram and letter. Coming myself by earliest train possible.' 'It's very good of mamma,' I said, and in my heart I was glad she was coming before we--or I--saw papa. For though he is very kind too, he is not quite so 'understanding,' and a good deal sharper, especially with us boys. I suppose fathers need to be, and I suppose boys need it more than girls. 'Yes,' said Beryl, and though she had been so awfully jolly about the whole affair, I could tell by her tone that she was glad that some one belonging to us was coming to look after us all. 'It is very satisfactory. My aunt said she would come round early too. I think it will be quite safe for Margaret to get up now, so I will go and tell her she may. You will find some magazines and picture-papers in my little sitting-room, behind this room, if you can amuse yourselves there till auntie comes.' I stopped her a moment as she was leaving the room, to ask what I knew Peterkin was longing to hear. 'Mamma will take us home, of course,' I said, 'but what do you think will be done about Margaret?' 'They--' whom he meant by 'they' I don't know, and I don't think he knew himself--'they won't send her back to the witch, you don't think, do you?' he burst out, growing very red. Beryl hesitated. Then she said quietly-- 'No, I _don't_ think so,' and Peterkin gave a great sigh of relief. If she had answered that she _did_ think so, I believe he would have broken into a howl. I really do. It seemed rather a long time that we had to wait in Beryl's room before anything else happened. Peterkin said it felt a good deal like waiting at the dentist's, and I agreed with him. It was the looking at the picture-papers that put it into his head, I think. We heard the front-door bell ring several times, and once I was sure I caught Beryl's voice calling, 'Auntie, is it you?' but it must have been nearly twelve o'clock--breakfast had been a good deal later than at home--before the door of the room where we were, opened, and some one came in. I was standing staring out of the window, which looked into a very small sort of fernery or conservatory, and wishing Beryl had told me to water the plants, when I heard a voice behind me. 'Boys!' it said; 'Giles?' and turning round, I saw that it was mamma. I forgot all about being found fault with and everything else, and just flew to her, and so did poor old Pete, and then--I am almost ashamed to tell it, though perhaps I should not be--I broke out crying! Mamma put her arms round me. I don't know what she had been meaning to say to us, or to me, perhaps, in the way of blame, but it ended in her hugging me, and saying 'poor old Gilley.' She hugged Peterkin too, though he wasn't crying, and had no intention of it, _unless_ his beloved Margaret was to be sent back to Miss Bogle, and then, I have no doubt, he would have howled loudly enough. His whole mind was fixed on this point, and he had hardly patience even to be hugged, before he burst out with it. 'Mummy, mummy,' he said,'they're not going to send her back to the witch, are they?' Mamma understood. She knew Peterkin's little ways so well,--how he got his head full of a thing, and could take in nothing else,--and she saw that it was best to satisfy him at once if we were to have any peace. 'No,' she said. 'The little girl is not to go back to Miss Bogle.' Peterkin gave a great sigh of comfort. After all, he _had_ rescued his princess, I suppose he said to himself. _I_ thought it very extraordinary that mamma should be able to speak so decidedly about it, and I daresay she saw this, for she went on almost at once-- 'I have a good deal to explain. Some unexpected things happened yesterday and this morning. But for this, I should have come by an earlier train.' Here, I think, before I go on to say what these unexpected things were, is a good place for telling what mamma said to me afterwards, when we were by ourselves, about the whole affair, and my part in it. She quite allowed that I had not meant to do wrong or to be deceitful, or anything like that, and that I had been rather in a hole. But she made me see that, to start with, I should not have promised Margaret to keep it a secret, and she said she was sure that Margaret would have given in to our telling _her_--mamma, I mean--of her troubles, if I had spoken to her sensibly and seriously about it. And now that I know Margaret so well, I think so too. For she is particularly sensible for her age, especially since she has got her head clearer of fairy-tales and witches and enchantments and ogres and all the rest of it; and even then, there was a good deal of sense and reasonableness below her self-will and impatience. Now, I can go on with what mamma told us. The first she heard of it all was the telegram from Mrs. Wylie, for she had been out till rather late and found it lying on the hall-table when she came in, before she had even heard that Pete and I had not turned up at the nursery tea. That was what Beryl had hoped--that the news of our being all right would come before mamma had had a chance of being anxious. At first she was completely puzzled, but James, who was faithful to his promise, though rather stupid, helped to throw a little light on it by giving her my message. And then, as she was still standing in the hall, talking to him and trying to think what in the world had made us dream of going to London to Mrs. Wylie's, all by ourselves, there came a great ring at the bell, and when James opened, a startled-looking maid-servant's voice was heard asking for Mrs. Lesley. 'I am Mrs. Wylie's parlour-maid,' she said, 'and I offered to run round, for the old lady next door to us, Miss Bogle, to ask if Mrs. Lesley would have the charity--I was to say--to come to see her. The little young lady, Miss Fothergill, who lives with her, has been missing all the afternoon. Miss Bogle did not know it till an hour or two ago, as she always rests in her own room till four o'clock. But I was to say she would explain it all to Mrs. Lesley, if she could possibly come to see Miss Bogle at once.' Mamma had gone forward and heard this all herself, though the maid had begun by giving the message to James. And she said immediately that she would come. She still had her going-out things on, you see, so no time was lost. CHAPTER XII NO MYSTERY AFTER ALL WE listened with all our ears, you may be sure, to what mamma told us; she did so, very quickly. It takes me much longer to write it. 'And did you see Miss Bogle?' I asked. 'And what _is_ she like?' 'The witch herself,' said Peterkin, his eyes nearly starting out of his head. 'No, Peterkin,' said mamma, 'you are not to call her that any more. You must help me to explain to little Margaret, that Miss Bogle is a good old lady, who has meant nothing but kindness, though she made a great mistake in undertaking the charge of the child, for she is old and infirm and suffers sadly. Yes, of course, I saw her. She was terribly upset, the tears streaming down her poor face, though she had scarcely had time to be actually terrified about Margaret, thanks to Mrs. Wylie's telegram. She was afraid of the child having got cold, and she was altogether puzzled and miserable. And I was not able to explain very much myself, till I got Mrs. Wylie's _letter_ this morning, fully telling all. Still, I comforted her by saying I knew Mrs. Wylie was goodness itself, and would take every care of all the three of you for the night. Miss Bogle had not missed Margaret, as she always rests in the afternoon, till about four. And, strange to say, the servants had not missed her either. The nurse was away for the day, and I suppose that the others, not being used to think about the child, had not given a thought to her, though it seems strangely careless, till it got near her tea-time, and then they ran to Miss Bogle and startled her terribly. The first thing she did was to send in to the next-door house'--('The parrot's house?' interrupted Pete)--'and to Mrs. Wylie's,' mamma went on, 'where the parlour-maid knew that you boys and Margaret had made friends, and she offered to speak to Miss Bogle, thinking that perhaps you had all gone a walk together, and would soon be coming in. And _while_ she was telling Miss Bogle this, came the telegram, showing that indeed you had gone a walk, and more than a walk,'--here mamma turned away for a moment, and I _think_ it was to hide a smile that she could not help. I suppose to grown-up people there was a comical side to the story,--'together. And then the poor old lady sent for me.' 'And was that all that happened?' I asked. Mamma shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'While I was still talking to Miss Bogle, came another telegram, from the little girl's nurse, her present nurse, to say that her sister was so ill that she could not leave her, and that she was writing to explain. Poor Miss Bogle! Her cup of troubles did seem full; I felt very sorry for her, and I promised to go back to see her, first thing this morning, which I did, before starting to fetch you boys. The nurse's letter had come, saying she did not know _when_ she could return. And so--' mamma stopped for a moment--'it all ended--papa came back last night, so he was with me, and it was his idea first of all--in a way which I don't think you will be very sorry for,'--and again mamma smiled,--'in our settling that Margaret is to come home with _us_, and stay with us till there is time to hear from her grandfather, General Fothergill, what he wishes. How do you like the idea?' 'I'm awfully glad of it,' I said. And so I was. Not so much for the sake of having Margaret as a companion, as because it quite took away all responsibility and fears about her. For I felt sure she would never have settled down happily or contentedly in Miss Bogle's house. But as for Peterkin! You never saw anything like his delight. He took all the credit of it to himself, and was more certain than ever that the parrot was a fairy, Miss Bogle a witch, and himself a hero who had rescued a lovely princess. His eyes sparkled like--I don't know what to compare them to; and his cheeks got so red and fat that I thought they'd burst. And when I said quietly--I thought it a good thing to sober him down a bit, but I really meant it too--that I hoped Blanchie and Elf would like Margaret, he really looked as if he wanted to knock me down--ungrateful little donkey, after all I'd done and gone through for him and his princess! But mamma glanced at me, and I understood that she meant that it was better to say nothing much to him. He would grow out of his fancies by degrees. And she just said, quietly too, that she was sure the little girls would get on all right together, and that Blanche and Elvira would do all they could to make Margaret happy. 'And I am so thankful,' mamma went on, 'that the poor child is none the worse for her adventures, and able to travel back with us to-day. And I can never, never be grateful enough to Mrs. Wylie and her niece for their goodness to you. Miss Wylie is perfectly sweet.' Just as she said this the door opened and Beryl came in, leading Margaret with her. Mamma, of course, had already seen them upstairs, before she saw us. Margaret looked pale, naturally, paler than usual, I thought, and she never was rosy in those days, though she is now. But she seemed very happy and smiling, and she was not coughing at all. And another thing that pleased me, was that she came round and stood by mamma's chair, as if she already felt quite at home with her. Beryl drew a chair close to them and sat down. 'I was just saying,' said mamma, 'that we shall never be able to thank you enough, dear Miss Wylie, for your goodness to these three.' 'I am so glad, so _very_ glad,' said Beryl, in her nice hearty sort of way, 'to have been of use. It was really quite a pleasant excitement last night--when it all turned out well, and Margaret was clever enough not to get ill. But please don't call me Miss Wylie. You have known dear old auntie so long--and she counts me almost like her own child. Do call me "Beryl."' And from that time she has always been 'Beryl' to us all. They, the Wylies, made us stay to luncheon. It was just about time for it by this. We did not see Mr. Wylie again, though he sent polite messages to mamma, and was very kind about it all. And Mrs. Wylie came in to luncheon, and petted us all round, and said that we must _all_--Blanche and Elvira, and Clement too, if he wasn't too big, come to have tea with her, as soon as she got back to Rock Terrace. We thanked her, of course. At least Peterkin and I did, but I noticed that Margaret got rather red and did not say anything except 'thank you' very faintly. She was still half afraid of finding herself again where she had been so unhappy, and indeed it took a good while, and a good deal of quiet talking too, to get it _quite_ out of her head about Miss Bogle being a witch who was trying to 'enchanter' her, as her dear 'Perkins' (she calls him 'Perkins' to this day) would persist in saying. Mrs. Wylie noticed her manner too, I fancy. For she went on to say, with a funny sort of twinkle in her eyes-- 'There will be a great deal to tell the parrot. And I don't expect that he will feel quite happy in his mind about you, little Margaret, till he has seen you again. He will miss you sadly, I am afraid.' And at this, Margaret brightened up. 'Yes,' she said, 'I _must_ come to see dear Poll. But I may talk to him from your side of the balcony, mayn't I, Mrs. Wylie?' 'Certainly,' said the kind old lady, 'and you must introduce your new friends to him. Mrs. Lesley's little girls, I mean.' Margaret liked the idea of this, I could see. She is not at all shy, and she still is very fond of planning, or managing things, and people too, for that matter, though of course she is much more sensible now, and not so impatient and self-willed as she used to be. Still, on the whole, she gets on better with Peterkin than with any of us, though she is fond of us, I know, and so are we of her. But Peterkin is just a sort of slave to her, and does everything she asks, and I expect it will always be like that. What a different journey it was that day to the miserable one the day before! To _me_, at least; for though I wasn't feeling particularly happy, as I will explain, in some ways, the horrible responsibility about the others had gone. _They_ were as jolly as could be, but then I knew they hadn't felt half as bad as I had done. They sat in a corner, whispering, and I overheard that they were making plans for all sorts of things they would do while Margaret stayed with us. And Pete was telling her all about Blanche and Elf, especially about Elf, and about the lots of fairy story-books he had got, and how they three would act some of them together, till Margaret got quite pink with pleasure. I saw mamma looking at me now and then, as if she was wondering what I was thinking about. I _was_ thinking a good deal. There were some things I couldn't yet quite understand about it all--why there should have been a sort of mystery, and why Mrs. Wylie had pinched up her lips when we had asked her about Margaret the day we went to tea with her. And besides this, I was feeling, in a kind of a way, rather ashamed of being taken home like a baby, even though mamma--and all of them, I must say--had been so very good, not to make a regular row and fuss, after the fright we had given them, or had _nearly_ given them. But I didn't say anything more to mamma just then. For one thing, I saw that she was looking very tired, and no wonder, poor dear little mamma, when you think what a day of it she had had, and all the bother with the witch the night before, too. I never saw Miss Bogle, and I've never wanted to. I shall always consider that she was nearly as bad as if she _had_ been a witch, and it was no thanks to her that poor little Margaret didn't get really lost, or badly ill, or something of that kind. They were expecting us when we got home. Blanche and Elf were in the hall, looking rather excited and very shy. But there was not much fear of shyness with Margaret and Peterkin, as neither of them was ever troubled with such a thing. I left Pete to do the honours, so to say, helped by mamma, of course. They all went off together upstairs to show Margaret her room and the nursery, and to introduce her to nurse and all the rest of it, and I went into the schoolroom--a small sort of study behind the dining-room, and sat down by myself, feeling rather 'out of it' and 'flat,' and almost a little ashamed of myself and the whole affair somehow. And the fire was low and the room looked dull and chilly, and I began thinking how horrid it would be to go to school the next morning without having done my lessons properly, and not knowing what to say about having missed a day, without the excuse, or good reason, of having been ill. I had sat there some time, a quarter-of-an-hour or so, I daresay, when I heard the front-door bell ring. Then I heard James opening and the door shutting, and, a moment after, the door of the room where I was opened, and some one came in, and banged something down on to the table. By that I knew who it was. It was Clement, with his school-books. It was nearly dark by this time, and the room was not lighted up at all. So he did not see me at first, till I moved a little, which made him start. 'Good gracious!' he exclaimed, 'is that you, Gilley? What are you doing all alone in the dark? James told me you had all come--the kid from Rock Terrace too. By jove--' and he began to laugh a little to himself. It seemed a sort of last straw. I was tired and ashamed, and all wrong somehow. I did not speak till I was at the door, for I got up to leave the room at once. Then I said-- 'You needn't go at me like that. You might let me sit here if I want to. You don't suppose I've been enjoying myself these two days, do you?' He seemed to understand all about it at once. He caught hold of my arm and pulled me back again. 'Poor old Gilley!' he said. Then he took up the poker and gave a good banging to the coals. There was plenty on the fire, but it had got black for want of stirring up. In a moment or two there was a cheery blaze. Clement pushed me into a seat and sat down near me on the table, his legs dangling. I have not said very much about Clem in this story--if it's worth calling a story--except just at the beginning, for it has really been meant to be about Peterkin and his princess. But I can't finish it without a little more about him--Clem, I mean. Some day, possibly, I may write about him especially, about our real school-life and all he has been to me, and how tremendously lucky I always think it has been for me to have such a brother. He is just as good as gold, without any pretence about it, and jolly too. And I can never forget how kind he was that afternoon. 'Poor old Gilley!' he repeated. 'It must have been rather horrid for you--much worse than for those two young imps. Mamma told me all about it, as soon as she got the letter--she told me a good deal last night about what Miss Bogie, or whatever the old thing's name is, had told her.' I looked up at this. 'Yes?' I said. 'I don't understand it at all, yet. But, Clem, what shall I do about school to-morrow? I've no lessons ready or anything.' 'Is it that that you are worrying about?' he said. 'Partly, and----' 'Well, you can put _that_ out of your head. It's all right. Mamma told me what to say--that there'd been a mistake about the trains, and you'd had to stay the night in London. It wasn't necessary to say more, and you'll find it all right, I promise you.' I was very glad of this, and I said so, and thanked Clem. He sat still for a minute or two as if he was expecting me to speak. 'Well?' he said at last. 'Mamma's been very good, _very_ good about it altogether,' I said at last, 'and so has papa, by what she says. But still--' and then I hesitated. 'Well?' said Clement again. 'What? I don't see that there's much to be down in the mouth about.' 'It's just that--I feel rather a fool,' I said. 'Anybody would laugh so at the whole affair if they heard it. I daresay Blanche will think I've no more sense than Pete. She has a horrid superior way sometimes, you know.' 'You needn't bother about that, either,' said he. 'She and Elf have got their heads perfectly full of Margaret. I don't suppose Blanche will ever speak of your part of it, or think of it even. As long as papa and mamma are all right--and I'm sure they are--you may count it a case of all's well that ends well.' I did begin to feel rather cheered up. 'You're sure I'm not going to get a talking to, after all?' I said, still doubtfully. 'I saw mamma looking at me rather funnily in the train.' 'Did you, my boy?' said another voice, and glancing round, I saw mamma, who had come into the room so quietly that neither of us had heard her. She sat down beside us. And then it was that she explained to me what I had done wrong, and been foolish about. I have already told what she said, and I felt that it was all true and sensible. And she was so kind--not laughing at me a bit, even for having a little believed about the witch and all that--that I lost the horrid, mortified, ashamed feelings I had been having. Just then the nursery tea-bell rang. I got up--slowly--I still felt a little funny and uncomfortable about Blanche, and even nurse. You see nurse made such a pet of Peterkin that she never scarcely could see that he should be found fault with, and of course he was a very good little chap, though not exactly an angel without wings--and certainly rather a queer child, with all his fairy-tale fancies. But mamma put her hand on my arm. 'No,' she said. 'Clem and you are going to have tea in the drawing-room with me. The nursery party will be better left to itself to-day, and little Margaret is not accustomed to so many.' 'I don't believe anything would make her feel shy, though,' I said. 'She is just as funny in her way as Peterkin in his. And, mamma, there are some things I don't understand still. Is there any sort of mystery? Why did Mrs. Wylie leave off talking about Margaret, and you too, I think, all of a sudden? I'm sure it was Mrs. Wylie's way of pinching up her lips about her, that made Pete surer than ever about the enchantment and the parrot and the witch and everything.' Mamma smiled. 'No,' she said, 'there is no mystery at all. I will explain about it while we are having tea. It must be ready for us.' And she went into the drawing-room, Clement and I following her. It looked so nice and comfortable--I was jolly glad, I know, to be at home again! Then mamma told us--or me; I think Clem had heard it already--about Margaret. Her father and mother were in India, as I have said, have I not? And her grandfather was taking care of her. He was not a very old man, though he was a General. He had vineyards or something--yes, I am sure it was vineyards, in the south of France, and he had had to go, suddenly, to look after some business to do with them. And just when he was starting, Margaret got ill. It was the illness she had spoken of several times, which she called a very bad cold. But it was much worse than that, though she didn't know. Her grandfather put off going till she was getting better, and the doctors said she must have change of air. He couldn't take her with him, and he had to go, so the only thing he could think of was to ask old Miss Bogle, who had been Margaret's father's governess once--or General Fothergill's own governess when he was a little boy; I am not sure which--to take charge of her. He had forgotten how old, Miss Bogle was, and I think she must have forgotten it herself! She wasn't fit to look after a child, especially as Margaret's nurse had to leave just then. So you can pretty well understand how dull and lonely Margaret was. And General Fothergill was in such a fuss about her, and so terrified of her getting any other illness, that he forbade her making friends with any one out of Miss Bogle's house, unless he was asked about it, and wrote to give leave. And when Mrs. Wylie found out about her, she--or Miss Bogle--_did_ write to ask leave for her to know _us_, explaining how good and sensible mamma was about children every way. But till the leave came Mrs. Wylie and mamma settled that it was better to say nothing about it to us. And in this, _I_ think, they made a mistake. That was all. The leave _did_ come, while Margaret was with us. Of course, all that had happened was written to her grandfather, but she wasn't a bit scolded! Neither was her 'Perkins'; the big people only said that they must not be given so many fairy-stories to read. _I_ wasn't scolded either, though, so I should not complain. And several nice things came of it: the knowing Beryl Wylie, and the going to stay at General Fothergill's country house, and the having Margaret with us sometimes. I don't know what the parrot thought of it all. I believe he is still there, as clever and 'uncanny' as ever; at least so Mrs. Wylie said, the last time she came to see us. THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_ BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS. =By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.= =THE WOODPIGEONS AND MARY.= Illustrated by H. R. MILLAR. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. _Illustrated by_ =Alice B. Woodward=. _Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =THE HOUSE THAT GREW.= _Illustrated by_ HUGH THOMSON. _Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =THIS AND THAT: A Tale of Two Tinies.= _Illustrated by_ WALTER CRANE. _Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d. each._ =A CHRISTMAS POSY.= ="CARROTS," JUST A LITTLE BOY.= =A CHRISTMAS CHILD.= =CHRISTMAS-TREE LAND.= =THE CUCKOO CLOCK.= =FOUR WINDS FARM.= =GRANDMOTHER DEAR.= =ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY.= =LITTLE MISS PEGGY.= =THE RECTORY CHILDREN.= =ROSY.= =THE TAPESTRY ROOM.= =TELL ME A STORY.= =TWO LITTLE WAIFS.= ="US"; an Old-Fashioned Story.= =CHILDREN OF THE CASTLE.= _Illustrated by_ LESLIE BROOKE. _Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d. each._ =SHEILA'S MYSTERY.= =THE CARVED LIONS.= =MARY.= =MY NEW HOME.= =NURSE HEATHERDALE'S STORY.= =THE GIRLS AND I.= =THE ORIEL WINDOW.= =MISS MOUSE AND HER BOYS.= _Illustrated by_ ROSIE M. M. PITMAN. _Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =THE MAGIC NUTS.= _Also in Ornamental Binding._ _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d. each._ _Cloth elegant, gilt edges._ _3s. 6d. each._ ="CARROTS."= =A CHRISTMAS CHILD.= =GRANDMOTHER DEAR.= =THE CUCKOO CLOCK.= =THE TAPESTRY ROOM.= ="US."= =ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY.= MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON. BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS. =By LEWIS CARROLL.= =ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.= With 42 Illustrations by JOHN TENNIEL. Eighty-ninth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 6s. net. _People's Edition._ One Hundred and Twenty-second Thousand. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. =AVENTURES D'ALICE AU PAYS DES MERVEILLES.= Traduit de l'Anglais par HENRI BU�. Ouvrage Illustré de 42 Vignettes par JOHN TENNIEL. Crown 8vo. 6s. net. =LE AVVENTURE D'ALICE NEL PAESE DELLE MERAVIGLIE.= Tradotte dall' Inglese da T. PIETROC�LA-ROSSETTI. Con 42 Vignette di GIOVANNI TENNIEL. Crown 8vo. 6s. net. =ALICE'S ADVENTURES UNDER GROUND.= Being a facsimile of the original MS. book afterwards developed into "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." With 37 Illustrations by the Author. Fourth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 4s. net. =THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE.= With 50 Illustrations by JOHN TENNIEL. Sixty-third Thousand. Crown 8vo. 6s. net. _People's Edition._ Seventy-fifth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. =ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, AND THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE.= With 92 Illustrations by JOHN TENNIEL. _People's Edition._ Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. =THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK: An Agony in Eight Fits.= With 9 Illustrations by HENRY HOLIDAY. Twenty-third Thousand. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. =RHYME? AND REASON?= With 65 Illustrations by ARTHUR B. FROST, and 9 by HENRY HOLIDAY. Eighth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 6s. net. =SYLVIE AND BRUNO.= With 46 Illustrations by HARRY FURNISS. Seventeenth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. _People's Edition._ Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. =SYLVIE AND BRUNO=, Concluded. With Illustrations by HARRY FURNISS. Fifth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. _People's Edition._ Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. =SYMBOLIC LOGIC.= Part I. ELEMENTARY. Crown 8vo, limp cloth. 2s. net. Second Thousand. N.B.--_An Envelope, containing two blank diagrams (Biliteral and Triliteral) and nine counters (four red and five grey), can be had for 3d., by Post 4d._ MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 62, "little's girl" changed to "little girl's" (little girl's house) Page 81, "eagly" changed to "eagerly" (old Pete eagerly) Page 83, "get" changed to "got" (we got close) Page 121, italics removed from the word "the" (thankful I felt in the) 
42961	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 42961-h.htm or 42961-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42961/42961-h/42961-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42961/42961-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/housewithsixtycl00chil [Illustration: THE HOUSE WITH SIXTY CLOSETS BY FRANK SAMUEL CHILD WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. RANDOLPH BROWN] [Illustration: THE CHILDREN TAKE POSSESSION OF THE HOUSE. Page 13.] THE HOUSE WITH SIXTY CLOSETS A Christmas Story for Young Folks and Old Children by FRANK SAMUEL CHILD Author of "An Old New England Town" "The Colonial Parson of New England" "A Colonial Witch" "A Puritan Wooing" etc. With Illustrations by J. Randolph Brown Boston Lee and Shepard Publishers 1899 Copyright, 1899, by Lee and Shepard All rights reserved THE HOUSE WITH SIXTY CLOSETS To Frank and Bess and Arthur and Theodora and Grace and Ruth and Amy and the "Little Judge" and All Their Merry Friends ALL ABOUT IT A PAGE HOUSE, PEOPLE, THINGS 11 B THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT 15 C THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT 33 D THE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT 53 I PORTRAITS WALK AND TALK 57 II CLOSETS TALK AND WALK 85 III THE PROCESSION OF GOAT, DOG, CAT, BICYCLES, PORTRAITS, CLOSETS, RUTH, AND THE "LITTLE JUDGE" 113 IV THE PARTY WITH SUPPER FOR SEVENTEEN, AND TOASTS WITH A TOASTING-FORK 141 V STOCKINGS FILLED WITH MUSIC, RAINBOWS, SENSE, BACKBONE, SUNSETS, IMPULSES, GOLD SPOON, IDEALS, SUNSHINE, STAR, MANTLE, FLOWERS,--AND THE LIKE QUEER STUFF 185 E HAPPY DAY 215 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE THE CHILDREN TAKING POSSESSION OF THE HOUSE _Frontispiece._ INITIAL O 15 MRS. "JUDGE" PLANNING THE CLOSETS 19 MRS. "JUDGE'S" LIVING-ROOM 24 CANDLESTICK AND BIBLE 29 INITIAL I 33 NAILING FLAG TO CHIMNEY 41 THE CHILDREN TAKING A RIDE 44 INITIAL I 57 RUTH SEES FIGURES IN THE FIRE 59 STEPPING OUT OF THE FRAMES 61 SUSIE AND LITTLE JUDGE 67 ENTERING THE CLOCK 80 INITIAL T 85 PLAYING TAG 87 CHAMPAIGN COMPLAINING 93 THE CLOSETS TALK AND WALK 103 THE JUDGE SITTING ON THE COG-WHEEL 105 INITIAL I 113 BILLY EATING FUNERAL CLOTH AND WREATH 114 THE PROCESSION STARTS 121 BILLY, SATAN, AND TURK TAKING A RIDE 126 MRS. "JUDGE" AND MAN IN MOON 132 RETURNING FROM THE CHURCH 135 INITIAL W 141 THE WALK AROUND 163 THERE WAS THE GREATEST CONFUSION 180 INITIAL R 185 RUTH AND SATAN 186 THE ROOM WAS A BLAZE OF GLORY 187 THE ROOM STUDDED WITH TWINKLING, RADIANT STARS 211 A HOUSE, PEOPLE, THINGS _I will first describe the house._ _Then I will tell something about the people that live in it._ _After that I will speak of the very strange things which happened there the night before Christmas._ B THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT B. THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT. ONCE upon a time there lived a good Judge in an old New England town. People said the reason that he was so good was because his father was a minister. But he may have gotten his goodness from his mother. I don't know. Or he may have had it from his uncle who took him into his family and sent him to college. For the minister was poor, and like many of his brethren he had a big family; so his brother who was a rich lawyer and a statesman helped his nephew get his education. Now, this son of a minister and nephew of a great man studied law and became a Judge. He was liked by every one who knew him. People felt that he was an honest, noble man who had mastered all the law books, and showed more common sense than any other person in the State. So they made him Judge. This man who started poor and had to make his own way in the world earned a great deal of money. People came to him from all parts of the country, and sought his advice. They put into his hands the most important law cases. Only sometimes he would not have anything to do with the cases that he was asked to manage because he thought them wrong. As years went by he saved his money, and the time came when he was ready to build a house. The Judge had become the most honored and the best known man in the State. He had many friends among the great people of the land. He enjoyed company, and was a famous host. So it seemed well to him and his wife that they build a house which should be large enough to hold their friends, and fine enough to satisfy the taste of the society in which they moved. The Judge was not moved by pride or a wish to make a show. He wished to do the right thing. Everybody said that he ought to have the largest and the finest house in town. He was not only a lawyer and rich, but he was deacon in the church and the leading man in society. He was likewise a great scholar; and many people said that he was the most eloquent speaker of his State. Such a person must live in a generous way. So the Judge built this house. Now, when it came to drawing plans the wife had a good deal to say about it; for the house was to be her home just as much as his; and he always tried to do what he knew was for the pleasure of his wife. "I think," said she when they began to talk about building, "that it should have a great many closets." Had you been a friend of Mrs. "Judge" you would have seen why she said this. She was not only a woman who liked to have all her friends come to visit her, but she was also very liberal and kind. She was always doing some nice thing for people, and always giving presents. She was able to do this because she had the things to give away. I know men and women who would make a great many presents if they had the money to buy them--at least they say that they would. Such people like to tell how they would act if they had all the money that some neighbor has saved. They are great on giving away things that do not belong to them. Now, the Judge's wife was the best giver in town; and she gave to her friends, and the poor, and everybody that was in need, all sorts of things. But in order to do this she must buy the gifts that she scattered so freely; and when she bought things she wanted a place to keep them until the time came for her to give them away. This was why she spoke to the Judge about the closets. [Illustration] "Well, my dear," said the Judge (he was always kind and polite), "you may have just as many closets as you wish." So she began her plans of the house by drawing the closets. I don't know exactly how she managed to arrange it on paper. Very likely she said to herself, "I shall want thirty closets." And then she would divide the number into four parts and say, "Let me see, I suppose that four will be enough for the cellar. Then I shall need ten on the first floor, and twelve on the second floor, and six in the attic. That makes--why, that makes thirty-two. Dear me! I wonder if that will be enough?" And as she thinks over the various uses to which she will put her closets, and the many things she will store in them, she says, on the next day, "Well, I believe that I must have five or six more closets." So she starts her drawing by marking down thirty-eight closets. After she has settled it that the main floor shall have thirteen of them, she puts upon the paper some dots showing the size of each little room; then she draws the other rooms about them, and so she gets one story arranged. But no sooner does she begin the plans for the next floor, than she thinks of one or two more closets which she needs for the first, and so goes back to her work of yesterday, and does it all over again, making several changes. And so very likely the weeks are spent in making paper closets, and drawing the halls and parlors and bedrooms and other rooms about them, until she puts her plans by the side of the Judge's plans; then they get an architect; and then she asks for four more closets, which makes forty-four. After a time the men begin to build; and she sends for the builder, and tells him of course that she finds she will certainly need five more closets,--one in the cellar, two on the first story, and three on the second. He is a pleasant man; and the changes are made. But ere the house is half built other needs appear, and Mrs. "Judge" insists upon three new closets, which make fifty-two. And without doubt on the very week that the carpenters leave the handsome mansion, she asks them for several changes and three closets more. And will you believe it, they move into the new house, get nicely settled, and everything running in good order, when the generous housewife finds that the carpenter must come, for she still wishes five new closets, which added to the others make sixty. And so you have the house with sixty closets. It seems to me that I have made it clear how there came to be so many of these curious rooms and spaces in the Judge's house. At least you know all that I know about it; and I do not believe that ever another house was built in such a way. But I must tell you how the house was divided. A plan of each story will be the best means of fixing this in the mind; and then you can turn back to it whenever you lose your way in the house, and wish to get what are called "your bearings." We must begin at the bottom and work toward the top. The cellar was really three cellars,--a big one, a fair-sized one, and the wine cellar. There was a small closet in this deep, dark place where they kept certain kinds of liquor. The main cellar was divided lengthwise through the middle, and there were two closets for provisions on each side. The main floor had twenty-seven closets. For my own part, I think that woman is a remarkable person who can invent and arrange such a number of little nooks and rooms. But if this is a mark of genius, what shall we say when it comes to keeping track of all the closets and their contents? Why, I should be obliged to carry a plan of the whole house with me, and every few minutes I should pull it out and study it. The Judge's wife was a most wonderful woman. She built her closets, and then she filled them, and then she remembered all about them and their contents. Here is the plan of the first floor. A hall through the middle. On the left as you enter is the library. There was one closet connected with this room, and a door opened into it from the northeast corner. Back of the library was the dining-room. It had three closets connected with it; doors leading to them from three corners of the room. To the left of the dining-room you passed into a side entry. Three doors opened into three large closets. The kitchen adjoined the dining-room. There was one closet in it, and two closets out of it to the right, and these two latter had one closet and two closets respectively. [Illustration] On the right of the hall was the parlor. It had one closet. A large window reaching to the floor gave entrance to this room near the northeast corner. Back of the parlor was a long, dark closet which made a passage-way from the hall to the schoolroom. Back of this closet was a first-floor chamber with three closets. The third of these closets opened into the chamber from the north. It was formerly Mrs. "Judge's" store-room. Another large closet was connected with it, and these two large closets contained two small closets. To the east of this chamber was the schoolroom (formerly the Judge's library). This room had two closets in it, and two closets out of it. The room to the north of the schoolroom was the annex to the Judge's library, and it held his books bequeathed to the minister. It also held two closets. And now my first story is ended. The short hall on the second floor opens at the rear into a long, narrow hall. There are five chambers in this part of the house. The front room on the right as you look toward the street is the "Study," and it has two closets, one on each side of the big chimney. The two chambers back and to the left as you face the chimney are without a single closet; but the lack is made up when you pass to the other side of the house. The front chamber has two closets, one on each side of the chimney. As you pass into the one on the right (you face the chimney, remember) a door opens to the right and leads you into another large closet with a window in it. Going across this closet to the right another door opens into a big, dark closet; turning to the street and stepping back three paces you open a door into another closet; passing into this one (there is a small window in it) you open a door into the linen closet. Withdrawing from this series of small rooms, you get into the Betsey-Bartram room, and there you find on the south side two doors leading into two large closets. North of this room is another bedroom. One closet lies in the southeast corner, and one opens to you from the west side of the room. The thirteenth closet on this floor is at the end of the back hall, and the fourteenth is by the side of the chimney in the room above the down-stairs chamber. The attic was one big room with five closets scattered around the chimneys. They hung hams in the larger one. It was a fine place to smoke meat. There was always a greasy, smothered flavor to the air in that place. Now, if you have kept track of the closets you will see that we number only fifty-one. There had been three neat, retired little closets under the stairs in the first-floor hall. When the hall was enlarged these poor things were taken out. It was on this occasion that Samuel said: "See how rich we are; for we have closets to burn." And still there are six closets missing. Well, the closet with the skeleton in it is a mystery, and I do not like to speak of it. Three closets were found one day carefully tucked away in a corner of the attic. The other two missing ones have simply grown up and become big rooms with windows in them. They put on a good deal of style, and look down upon the other closets. What a lovely time the Judge's wife had in furnishing her new home. I have been reading the bills, yellow-stained and time-worn. She had a taste for handsome things. As the house was a colonial building, the grandest in that part of the country, she tried to get furniture that matched. There were mahogany chairs and tables, sofas and bedsteads, cabinets and stands. She paid $155 in gold for her gilt-framed looking-glass, which stood between the front windows in the parlor, and $125 for her Grecian sofa with cushions. There were twelve fancy-chairs and two arm-chairs. Her rocker cost $25. Then she had another little work-table, for which they paid $20.75. Her parlor carpet was made in England. The Judge had it made to order; so you may believe it was uncommonly fine. The curtains were yellow damask, lined with chintz. During the summer these curtains were stored away on long shelves in one of the closets, and lace curtains hung in their places. Every large room in the house had a fireplace, and the supply of andirons was enormous. Some of them cost $19 and $20. Then there were venetian blinds in the parlor; and on the centre table stood an astral bronzed lamp worth $18, and on the mantle, high silver candlesticks. A plated pair cost them $18, and the snuffers and tray $8 more. There were the best Brussels carpets, the most fashionable china and silver, the richest linen for the table,--a vast amount of things needed to make a house pleasant and comfortable. [Illustration] C. THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT. C. THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT. IT was on this wise that the present family came to live in the parsonage. The church had been without a pastor for several months, and the people were tired of hearing Tom, Dick, and Harry in the pulpit. But what was to be done? They had found no man that suited them. One minister was too young, and another too old. The first candidate had a very long neck, a sort of crane neck, and it made some of the ladies nervous. The last candidate was fat, and everybody said he must be lazy. Several were so anxious to come that the congregation turned against them. There was always some reason why each man was not liked. So it began to look as if they might never get another minister. The society finally asked the ladies their views upon the subject. It was one afternoon when the Dorcas Daughters were sewing for the poor. The president of the little band had been reading a missionary letter. "Well," she said, "I have heard so much about filling the pulpit that I am sick of it. I think it's about time that we filled the parsonage. Just see what kind of ministers we have had for the last thirty years. Two bachelors, and one married man without a chick or a child. I say that it's time for us to call a man to fill the parsonage." "Why, that's what I think!" remarked one of the mothers present. "It is a shame to have that great house given over to the rats and mice. And I know that not a minister has been in it for all these years that used more'n half or two-thirds of the room. But, dear me, it would take a pretty big family to fill the parsonage! Let me see; there are twenty-seven rooms and sixty closets, aren't there?" "So they say," replied the president. "I never counted them. But that would just suit some folks." "Where is that letter that you read us at the last meeting?" inquired one of the sisters. "How many children did that man say he had? I remember that we never sent another box like it to a home missionary in all the history of this church." "I've got the letter right here in my hand," said the president, "and I've had that man in mind for a week. He's got fifteen children,--eight of his own, and seven of his deceased sister. I shouldn't wonder if he was the very one we want." One of the younger women nodded. She was thinking of playmates for her boys and girls. "And then if they overflowed the house," continued the president, "there is the little building in the yard. They might start a cottage system. You know that is the way they do in schools these days. Divide up the young folks, and set them in small companies. The minister might do it; and if the family expanded we might build two or three extra cottages." "Now, Mrs. President," said one of the ladies, "I fear you are making fun. But I think that letter from the missionary with fifteen children in the family was the best we ever had. A man that could write such a letter must be very much of a man." "He is," replied the president. "I have looked him up in the Year Book, and I have written to the secretary of the Missionary Society. He's a very good man. Nobody has done better work in that frontier country." So the ladies said that they would ask the church to call this parson with the big family. When the meeting was held and everybody was talking, one gentleman arose, and told the people that the ladies had a candidate. His name being proposed, the president of the Dorcas Society explained how she felt, that they ought to have a man to fill the parsonage, and this man whom they named was the one to do it; therefore the meeting voted unanimously to call him. "I think we had better charter a train to bring them from the West," said one of the deacons. But it was finally decided to engage a car; so everything was arranged, and in four weeks they came. When the train stopped at the station, the church committee was on hand with three carryalls. It reminded one of an orphanage, or a company of Fresh-air children. But a hearty welcome was given; they were hurried into the carriages, and soon the whole family was in the parsonage. A nice dinner had been prepared by the ladies of the parish. After the travellers had washed and made some slight changes, they all sat down to the feast. It was a happy thing that the church and the Judge furnished the parsonage. This poor, large-hearted missionary brought nothing with him but books and children; his library was really a very fine one, and it had filled the small house in the West. His own family of children had been increased by the seven orphans left when his sister and her husband died. There was nothing for him to do but adopt them; so they had been packed into the little home until one was reminded of a box of sardines. But this sort of kindness was like the good man. He was ready to share the last crust with any one who needed it. "Why, what a big house it is!" exclaimed Grace. "Just see; I guess we could put the whole of our Western house right here in the parlor." And I think they could if they had only brought it along with them. When dinner was over the children scattered all through the mansion and the grounds. What a delightful sense of freedom and importance they had. Could it be possible that all these things belonged to them? Were the ten acres of lawn, garden, orchard, field, and pasture really for their use and pleasure? As parents and children wandered through the big rooms, and peered into the sixty closets, and looked out of the numerous windows, it seemed to them like a dream. And yet the dreamy sensation soon passed; for the parson and his wife, happening to look out of a front window, were struck with the expression of alarm, amusement, or interest shown by several people going along the street. It was caused by the way in which the family was showing its presence and possession. There were three children on the front piazza standing in a row gazing at the sea; four of the younger ones were climbing in and out of the windows on the second floor, running along the tin roof of the piazza; two boys had already climbed a tree looking for birds' nests; three children had hurried through the attic to the roof, and leaned against the big chimneys that towered over the house. With curious interest they were taking a general survey of the town and country, quite unconscious that their rashness attracted any attention. The other youngsters were having a frolic in the yard, walking along the top of the picket-fence, jumping from one gate-post to another, shouting with healthful lungs, and making the very welkin ring. Had a pack of wild Indians swooped down upon the house, they could not have made themselves more evident, or excited any greater concern in town. It was clear that the minister who was called to fill the parsonage answered the purpose. He filled it; and the contents were overflowing from doors and windows on to piazzas and roofs, or into yard and trees and street. What a waking up for the rats and mice it was! The mere racket and clatter were enough to drive them out of their holes. But what a shaking up for the old town! The house stood on the main street. It was an object of historic veneration. Everybody knew all about it, and had a sort of watch-care over it. Anything that went on in that house belonged to the whole neighborhood. So that it was not long before all the people were talking about the new arrivals. Men, women, and children felt an impulse to walk or ride by the parsonage on that eventful day. And it was a startling sight; for the minister's family seemed to think that the house really belonged to them, and they were to enjoy it just the way they pleased. This running all through the many rooms, and popping out of the many windows upon the piazza, and climbing up to the roof, and playing tag in the yard, and hunting for birds' nests, and walking on the tops of the pickets along the fence, was their way of enjoying the place. [Illustration] "Let's nail the flag to the chimney," shouted Harry, the third boy. They had carried the flag in hand all through their journey from the West. "Yes," shouted the other boys, who were wildly patriotic. "Come on! come on!" So they all came on except the youngest; and she finally came in the arms of her father, who followed the mother, who followed the children, to see what was doing in the attic or on the roof. And just at this time the most important man in the church and town drove by with his family. Do you wonder that this important man and his family gazed with surprise and alarm at the sight? There on the roof of the house was the whole family. Henry was nailing the flag to the tallest chimney. But when the children saw this kind man pass along the street (he was one of the committee that met them at the station, and it was his horses that had carried them to the parsonage), they waved their hands, and shook their handkerchiefs, and shouted "Hurrah! hurrah!" with such spirit that the gentleman must needs take off his hat, smile and bow, and turn to his family with some pleasing remark. There was no doubt in his mind or in the mind of the passer-by that the town was captured. The West had made a sudden onset; and the standard of victory now floated from the chimney of the Judge's mansion. The only thing for the natives to do was to submit and make the best of the situation. As I said, the good people of the parish furnished the parsonage. The carpets were down, and the chairs, tables, sofas, bedsteads, stands, book-cases, and other things, were put in their places. All the minister's wife had to do was to unpack her trunks, and divide up their contents among the closets. All the minister had to do was to unpack his boxes, and arrange his books in the study. So they were settled in a trice. Here is the picture of the children. You must know them in order to understand what happened in the house. Elizabeth was the oldest. She must have been seventeen or eighteen. She was ready for college. It was hard for the mother to get along without her, since she had brought up all the younger ones, and given her mother a chance to go round with her father in his work. Elizabeth was very mature, but she had all the frankness and cordiality of a typical Westerner. She seemed almost too free and easy in her manners for the slow East. But you couldn't help liking her. A little Western gush does good in the town. [Illustration] Samuel came next. He knew everything. He was ready for college too. He was slow, and not always just as agreeable as one would like to have him. It has been said that somebody stepped on his toes when he was a very little child, and that he still has spells of being angry about it. Samuel was a mechanic. He kept things in order,--machines, carts, clocks, and like objects,--when he hadn't any girls to tease; for he was an awful tease, and so was liked in a general way by all of them. His manner toward the younger members of the family was rather severe and overbearing. But what would you expect from a big boy who knows so much, and has such a host of children to live with? Helen was the third one. She was literary, and gave a great deal of time to books. She hated to darn stockings above all things, and would often read a story to the children, or write one for them, if she could get somebody to do her darning for her. I think she will make an author. The family hadn't been in the house one day before she said that the closets must be named. Her mother or the children would never be able to keep track of them, unless they were reduced to a system, and properly numbered like rooms in a hotel, or labelled like drugs in a store. Henry and Miriam were twins. They were just about as unlike as you could make them,--one light and the other dark; the first lean and the second fat; he quick and she slow. And so we might go through a long list of things, and find that one was opposite to the other. For this reason they got along well together and were very happy. Then came cousin George, who was fond of music and could sing like a lark; and Theodora, who was born to be a lady, and always took the part of Mrs. Rothschild or Mrs. Astor in their plays; and cousin Herbert, who will be a doctor, and who was so ingenious about getting into mischief that I think he will be able to invent enough bad doses to cure the very worst sicknesses; and cousin Ethel, the pink of propriety, who never got a spot on her dress, and always said, "Will you please give me this or that?" or "Thank you," when she took anything; and cousin Grace, the demure and quiet puss who had a wonderful faculty for stirring up the whole family, and yet freeing herself from trouble; and cousin Susie, who is always sweet and good-tempered, and loves everybody; and cousin William, the precocious (I mean very smart), who will be president of the United States; and cousin Nathaniel, who was said by his brothers and sisters and cousins to be "just too cute for anything," flying hither and thither like a humming-bird, never two minutes in one place except when his aunt got him into his nest at night. How many does that make? Let me count them up. Have I mentioned them all but Ruth? Ruth was seven years old. She could ask more questions in five minutes than any lawyer in cross-examining witnesses. And when she was tired of asking questions she would tease for more things in a second five minutes than any twenty children rolled into one. And not only would she ask the same question seventeen times at once, or tease for the same thing thirteen times without stopping, but she did it in just the same unvarying, shrill tone of voice; so that it was like the monotonous rasping of a saw, and had a tendency to drive a sensitive person out of his head. How many times did the older members of the family run from her as though she had a contagious disease, so that they might get relief from that endless asking and teasing? And yet she had many good traits, and was certainly very bright. If there had been some comfortable way of putting a muzzle upon talkative and tedious children, her parents would probably have done it; but they simply used all the powers of restraint that they had and let it go at that. Ruth was evidently cut out for a poet or a woman's rights speaker; for she was all the time getting up rhymes, or talking in a high key and impulsive way to such members of the family as would listen to her. When the baby came everybody said that he must be called "The Little Judge," in honor of the good man who gave the house to the church for the minister. No sooner was the family really settled than the children began to ask about this famous Judge. They had never lived in an old, historic house before, and they were interested. They knew how the Judge and his wife looked, for their portraits hung in the east parlor. What fine old people they must have been! If those oil paintings did them justice they were about as nice-looking as anybody that you see preserved in oil in the great galleries of the world. Whenever the children stood before the pictures, they asked questions: Who was the Judge? what did he do? how much of a family did he have? did he like children? when did he die? who attended the funeral? where was he buried? what became of his things? and a hundred other questions. So the minister began to read about the Judge and his work. And the more he read, the more he admired and loved. The enthusiasm which the minister showed in his attempts to learn all he could about the generous giver of the parsonage excited the curiosity of the children to such an extent that they begged their father and uncle to write a book about him. Helen herself talked about doing something of the kind. "I've found out more things in the life of the Judge," the minister would say; and then all the children gathered around him just after supper, as the fire burned gayly on the hearth in his study, and he would tell them some fresh incident, and add a few lines to his pen portrait of the man. So the months chased each other; and the Judge and his wife made not only the most common topic of conversation, but they became as real to the young people in the parsonage as the boys and girls they met on the street. I suppose it was because they thought and talked so much about them that the strange things which I am to relate happened (or didn't happen) in the house. They had not lived many weeks in the house before they got into all sorts of trouble about the closets. They kept losing something, or losing themselves, or losing the closets. "We'll number them," suggested Herbert. "No; let's name them," cried William. They had all met to talk the matter over; so it was decided to do both. When names run out they would fall back on numbers. "I feel like Adam when he named all the cattle and the fowls and the beasts," exclaimed Helen. "We'll hang a plan of the house on each floor, and then we can refer to it without running up-and down-stairs." This was Samuel's remark. He was always for saving steps. So names were suggested, plans were drawn, every closet was given its dues, and the atmosphere was thick with Champagne, Darkest Africa, Turpentine, Leghorn, Daisy, Pansy, Violet, Rose, Panama, China, Greece, Dublin, Clementine, Serpentine, Argentine, Morocco, and other appropriate names. D. THE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE HOUSE THAT THE JUDGE BUILT. I. PORTRAITS WALK AND TALK. I. PORTRAITS WALK AND TALK. IT was Christmas Eve. Excitement had reached fever heat. The children knew nothing about Christmas in the East; and their Western festivals had always been simple, for there was little money to use in buying gifts. But this year friends had remembered them, and they had also earned several dollars by various kinds of work; so that they were sure of many nice things. Had they not been buying presents for each other these ten days? and was not every closet in the house made the hiding-place for some treasure? The nervous strain on the parents was great. Such confusion and anxiety passed words. Was it possible ever to get the house and the family settled down to plain, every-day living again? It happened that the children had all met in the east parlor. This was the room where the pictures of the Judge and his wife adorned the wall. The two portraits hung on the right of the fireplace, you remember, just over the piano. A lamp was giving a faint light on the marble centre-table, and a cheerful wood fire was burning on the hearth. In front of the piano was the music stool. The children were all talking. The hum and buzz of their many voices filled the room. One said, "I wonder if Santa Claus will bring me a doll;" and another said, "There is no such person as Santa Claus;" and a third said, "I want a new sled;" and a fourth said, "Father promised me a book about birds;" and so the talk continued. But Ruth for once kept still. She was worn out with excitement. As she flung herself into a big arm-chair, she turned her head towards the fire, and began to see all sorts of funny creatures dancing in and out among the coals. Ruth was a poet, you remember, gifted with a wonderful imagination; and she could see more strange things, and tell more wild stories, than any other child in the family; and that is saying a great deal, for they all had a way of telling about things which they had heard and seen that constantly reminded their neighbors of Western largeness and exaggeration. [Illustration] As Ruth watched the queer creatures playing in the fire her eyes grew heavy; and then she turned her head away for a moment, and her eyes became fixed upon the pictures of the Judge and his wife. Did her head droop to one side, and did it fall softly upon the cushion against the arm, or did her eyes suddenly open wide with surprise, and did she gaze with startled look upon a strange scene before her? For both the Judge and his wife seemed to be moving; and they looked so natural and pleasant when they smiled and bowed, that Ruth said to herself, "Why, they must be alive." And the Judge reached out his hand from the canvas which held him, and took the hand of his wife, who had responded to his motion, and said, "My dear, wouldn't you like to step down and out for a little while?" [Illustration] "Yes, thank you," she replied; "I think it would rest me." And then he laid down the pen, which he holds in the picture, and stepped lightly upon the piano, still keeping her hand in his; and then he helped her down upon the piano, and then he stepped down to the music stool, and finally on the floor, and she followed. This was all done with the grace and dignity that marked the usual movements both of the Judge and his wife. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to step down and out. Ruth sprang toward them on the instant that they stood upon the floor. She rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming; and then as she saw them really before her, looking for all the world like natural folks, she greeted them with delight. "Why, how do you do?" she exclaimed. "I always thought you looked as if you would like to talk. That, I suppose, is why people say that your pictures are a 'speaking likeness.' But I never thought you'd get out of the pictures. How did you do it?" But the Judge and his wife were too much absorbed in the scene before them to reply immediately. The old room had changed since their day; they were noting the changes. And then this roomful of children took them by surprise. "My dear," said the Judge to his wife, "this is delightful." "Yes," continued Ruth, "they all belong to us. I heard the president of the Dorcas Society say that when the church called this minister they expected him to fill the parsonage just as much as the pulpit. And we did it." "Yes, this is delightful," repeated the Judge. "How many are there?" He said this to his wife, but Ruth answered. "Oh! there are only fifteen of us when we are by ourselves. There are a good many more when the neighbors' children come in; and then don't we have grand times!" "It almost takes my breath away." Mrs. "Judge" was speaking to her husband. "My dear, have you my fan in your pocket?" And the Judge felt in his pocket, but he didn't find any fan. "Why, it's Christmas! You don't want a fan," said Ruth, who was bound to take part in the conversation, and play the hostess on this wonderful occasion. And then the Judge and his wife stood stock-still, and gazed with increasing pleasure and interest upon the scene. Their descent from the picture had been so noiseless and unexpected that Ruth was the only one to observe it. But when this keen, talkative sister began to question the guests, the other children turned their heads, and they beheld the curious sight. There stood the Judge and his wife exactly as they appeared in the portraits. Only they had their legs on them, and the pictures didn't. But the children noticed even the smallest details of dress, and they were the very originals of the portraits. Suddenly the whole company stood up. "Why, it's just like a reception or a wedding," said Ruth. "I think they're all waiting to be introduced." And the children advanced one after another, or Ruth led the Judge and his wife to different parts of the room, and each brother and sister and cousin was properly presented. "How did you get out?" inquired Ruth a second time. Everybody in the room was now standing, and all eyes were looking for the next move in this strange parlor drama. "We just stepped out," replied the Judge, who seemed prepared at length to talk with Ruth or the other children. "But where did you keep your legs all the time?" When Ethel asked this question Mrs. "Judge" blushed. Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, pushed her way forward, and said, "S-s-s-s-h!" and Samuel said, with a nudge of the arm, "Keep still, can't you?" But you might as well tell the steaming teakettle to stop boiling as it sits upon a lively fire. "We are very glad to see you," interrupted Helen. She was a most hospitable girl, and she had read a great deal of history; although Henry knew more history than she did, and he had read everything about the Judge that he could lay his hands on. "We are very glad to see you, and should like to ask about the 'Hartford Convention,'" said Henry. "He's been talking about it for a month," continued Ruth. "I wish you'd tell him all about it, and then maybe he'd keep still. I don't care anything about it, neither do the other children. But Henry thinks he's very smart in such things ever since he got a prize in history." "Did you say these were all the children?" It was Mrs. "Judge" that now spoke. And as she made the inquiry Susie ran out of the parlor, and disappeared in the gloom of the hall. "Why, we forgot all about the baby!" exclaimed Ruth. "He's up-stairs asleep, I guess. Dear me, you must see the baby. He's the cutest little thing you ever saw." "Yes, we should like to see him, of course. We both like babies, good babies." [Illustration] "Babies that don't cry I suppose you mean," said Ruth. "Well, he doesn't cry much,--only when he's hungry, or a pin sticks into him, or he gets mad, or somebody lets him fall, or hits his head against the door or a chair." Here Ruth paused for breath. Then she exclaimed, "Why, of course, you must see the baby! Why, he is named for you!" This was said to the Judge with greatest excitement. And just as Ruth was saying it everybody turned toward the door, and there stood little Susie hugging the baby to her breast, his nightdress dragging on the floor, her short arms barely reaching around his plump body; both baby and Susie having their faces wreathed in smiles. Staggering under the burden this youngest sister pressed through the company with her precious armful; and as the Judge saw her approach he stepped forward, bent down above her, and took the little fellow into his arms, where he settled with a most contented and happy expression. It was a very pretty sight,--this stately old gentleman holding a beautiful baby on one arm, and reaching over to the lovely, dignified wife by his side with the other arm; for she had taken hold of his hand again after he had fixed the baby comfortably on his arm, and Ruth had stationed herself close by the Judge's wife on the other side, and taken possession of the lady's free hand. "And this is the baby, is it?" inquired Mrs. "Judge." "What a dear little boy he is! And what did you say you called him?" For the lady was either deaf or absorbed so that she did not hear all that Ruth had said about the baby's name. "Why, we call him after your husband. Didn't you hear me say so? He is the "Little Judge." Just see how he clings to his namesake. Is he the Judge's namesake or the Judge his namesake? I don't know which is which, only it's something about namesake, and he's named for the Judge." This latter talk on the part of Ruth was quite as much to herself as to the visitors. And all the time the Judge was gazing down into the infant's face with earnest, wistful look, seeming almost to forget that he was once more standing in the old east parlor. Yes, for a moment he had really forgotten where he did stand; for he was thinking of the many years ago when two other baby boys had been placed in his arms, and with what hope and tenderness he had handled the small, helpless pieces of humanity. "Don't you like the name?" interrupted Ruth. "We thought it would please you. What makes you look so solemn? Oh, I know!" Now, Ruth did not intend to be cruel. She was simply thoughtless like many other children. "You had a baby boy once, didn't you? Two of 'em, didn't you?" And then she saw that Mrs. "Judge" seemed to feel bad too, and that she let go the Judge's hand for a moment, and dashed away some tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings," said Ruth. "I didn't mean to. I was just thinking about your two baby boys. They would have been awful old if they had lived till now, wouldn't they? and we never should have lived in this house if they had lived, would we?" A hush had fallen on the company. Neither the Judge nor his wife made any reply. They were lost in thought, while the children watched them with breathless interest. "We didn't dare give him your full name," continued Ruth. "That's what Dr. Blank did to one of his baby boys, and it died. Mother was afraid if we called our baby after you, with the three long names, that it might kill him, so she said; so we dropped the middle one, and I think it much better, don't you?" "Dear little boy," said the Judge affectionately, as he looked down into his face again. "Dear little boy." And then the Judge bent down and kissed him, and the baby beamed with delight. It was almost like a baptism in church. "I thought maybe you were going to pray over him. That's the way father does, you know." But the Judge didn't seem to hear. "My dear," he said, turning to his wife and holding the baby toward her. She knew what he meant, for she likewise bent down over the little fellow and printed another kiss upon his sweet, upturned, dimpled face, and then another, and a third, while the Judge stood looking on with happy indulgence; and all the children noted every motion in this singular drama. "What did your boys die of?" asked Ruth, who did not wish to lose any time, since she had so many questions to ask, and she feared that her visitors might not stay as long as she wished them. "Ruth!" exclaimed Samuel, who had drawn near the young inquisitor, and felt it was time to stop her; "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" He said this in a low tone, thinking that the Judge and his wife might not hear. They were watching the baby with such eagerness that they had almost forgotten the rest of the company. "I think," remarked Mrs. "Judge," as she lifted her head from the baby and glanced around the room, "that it is very pleasant in the old house." "Oh, yes; we think so too." It was Ruth again speaking. The other members of the family had little chance to say anything. "Can't get in a word edgewise," whispered Henry to Helen. "What a perfect nuisance Ruth is!" "Wouldn't you like to go over the house?" Of course it was Ruth who asked the question. She was always taking people over the house. It might be Monday morning when everything was in dire confusion, and all the younger children still in bed, or it might be early evening after the baby and Susie had been playing in crib and bed, and things were assuming their wonted appearance of disorder. If the notion took her she was always ready to seize a caller by the hand, and lead him from cellar to garret. "I think I would like to look around a little," replied the lady. "I am wondering how many closets you have now in the house." "Oh, there is an awful lot!" exclaimed Ruth. "We have sixty," observed Elizabeth, who liked to be precise. "That's right, that's right," continued Mrs. "Judge." "I had that number put in. I was afraid you might have given away some of them." When she said this the children looked rather queer. Who ever heard of giving away closets? One might think they were flowers, or eggs, or peaches. "You used to give away a great deal, didn't you?" exclaimed Ruth. "But I don't see how you could give away closets." And now the whole company started on a tour of sight-seeing in the old house. Samuel and Elizabeth naturally took the lead, being the oldest and quite the lady and gentleman. The Judge with the baby on one arm and his wife leaning on the other followed. Ruth still clung to the right hand of Mrs. "Judge." Then the remaining children came in a dense crowd just behind them. "The parlor looks much as it did when we left it, except the furniture," said the lady. "Now let us see if they have kept the other rooms as well." They passed next into the hall. "Dear me! what is this?" exclaimed the Judge. "Where are we?" For it was not the old hall at all. That had been rather short and small. This was long, reaching through the house. "Why, what has become of my bedroom?" inquired the lady. "They have made it into this hall. And where are all the nice little closets under the stairs? You certainly have given them away. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I'm so sorry." "I guess you're tired," said Ruth. "It makes you nervous to walk much, doesn't it? Why, yes, I know, because they say you never went up-stairs for ever so many years. Oh, I know what we'll do! You can ride." All this time Mrs. "Judge" was looking about her in a dazed way, quite at sea in respect to her surroundings. For the hall had been completely changed until it appeared about as different as different could be. And the good lady was really shocked. "Do you see those things under the stairs? They are our bicycles." And the Judge and his wife gazed with perplexed faces in the direction indicated. There was a whole row of them. Seven, altogether,--full-grown, half-grown, or any size you might wish. It was like a carriage shop. "I think you might ride one all through the house down-stairs," said Ruth to the lady guest. "Then you wouldn't have to walk." And as the suggestion was made, Ruth's eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew flushed with excitement. What fun it would be to push the good woman on a bicycle from room to room, and show her the present arrangements of the beloved house. But Mrs. "Judge" was horrified. She clung very closely to her husband, as if she thought that she might have to perch upon one of the machines whether she wished it or not. Her breath came fast and short. Her cheeks grew hectic. "You don't mean to say that people ride those things!" she finally exclaimed when her first flurry of agitation was past. "Yes," replied Ruth delightedly; "we all ride 'em." "Not your father and mother,--the minister and the minister's wife?" "Why, yes, and the Episcopal minister too, and his wife." "Are you sure, Judge, that you didn't bring a fan with you?" The good woman seemed very faint, and she looked beseechingly toward her husband. "Here's one," shouted Susie, who ran to the cabinet and found a lovely piece of feather work, which scattered very fine feathers over your clothes and through the room on every motion you made with it. And as the Judge's wife waved it back and forth the feathers began to fly. "It looks like a snow-storm," whispered Herbert to Theodora. And soon the feather flakes adorned their garments and floated through the air, so that one was really reminded of a fresh fall of snow. It took the good lady a long time to get her breath. The hall closets were all gone; and in their places stood seven things called bicycles, upon which the minister, his wife, and the children were said to ride. It was awful. And Ruth was urging her to try one. Alas! the hall was too much for her self-possession. "Let us go into the west room," she said faintly. So they all came into what is now the family sitting-room and library. Here everything was strange. The door into the kitchen was covered with a high book-case filled with literature. The small cubby-hole through which dishes and food had been passed from dining-room to kitchen was now made into a door. But there was one familiar object before them. In the far corner stood the clock, grave and stalwart sentinel for the house. "My dear, do you see the clock?" It was the Judge speaking to his wife. He knew there must be many changes in the house. He accepted them very quietly; but he was glad to see this old familiar friend. He had expected to find it in the hall where it had always stood during his day; but he was just as glad to see it here in the old dining-room. That clock had been present on all the great occasions of life. It had marked the hours for every event connected with the history of the house. When the long line of famous men and women entertained by the Judge and his wife came to mind, it was to be recollected that the clock had seen them all, and winked and blinked at them morning, noon, and night, and sounded his warning notes in their ears, when it was time to rise or retire, or to eat, or to go to court, or to drive to town, or to start for church. It was like meeting a tried and beloved friend. Both the Judge and his wife were overjoyed. It might have been that some indifferent family had lived in the house, and thrown the clock out of doors or stored it in the attic. There are people so dull and unimaginative, people with so little sentiment, that they never care for keepsakes or heirlooms. They want everything fresh and new about them. Antiques are a perfect bore or nuisance. Happily the minister's family was not one of this kind. They all had a great deal of what is called historic sense. They liked old things; and the clock was their most sacred possession. How much they had talked about it, and dreamed about the scenes which had passed before it! While Ruth had invented more wild stories in connection with that one object than could be told in many a day. The other things in the room attracted little attention. The visitors made their slow and stately way across to the corner where the clock stood. As they looked up into its serene face, the object of their interest looked down upon them with a very knowing expression, seeming to recognize them on the instant, extending them a very hearty welcome; for the tick, tick was louder than ever before, the very frame of the huge thing began to tremble with suppressed excitement, and then eight long, loud strokes sounded through the entire house, as much as to say, "They've come," "How'd do?" "Glad t'see you," and other kind greetings. The children had all followed the Judge and his wife, and they were eagerly watching for the next movement on the part of the visitors. [Illustration] It made quite a striking picture,--the tall, solemn clock in the far corner of the room, the Judge and the baby on his arm, and the wife holding Ruth by the hand, standing in front of it; then the throng of alert and wondering children bringing up in the rear, for they all felt that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. In fact, the whole visit of these former inhabitants of the house was rather unusual, so that the children would naturally expect fresh marvels at any moment. It was clear that Mrs. "Judge" was getting tired; nobody had offered her a chair, and she had refused to get on a bicycle. Suddenly the door of the clock swung open. "I think you had better rest, my dear," said the Judge; "we'll step in here." And as he made the remark he put his foot into the clock and gave a lively spring, filling the small doorway. "Oh, please don't take the baby away!" screamed Ruth, as she saw them both disappearing. "Who'll nurse him? And mamma'll feel so bad." But it was all done so quickly that Ruth never finished her speech, for the Judge still held his wife's hand and helped her into the clock; then as Ruth held all the faster to the lady's hand, she was caught up too, they all went into the clock and the door shut upon them. The other children were struck dumb with amazement. "I always thought it looked like a coffin," exclaimed Samuel; "but I never expected to see four people buried alive in it." "I've wanted to hide in it a hundred times," said Helen, "but I never supposed"-- "Ten thousand times are hid in it," interrupted Henry. "Times out of mind," whispered Herbert. "Time, time," cried Samuel; and soon they indeed had a "time." II. CLOSETS TALK AND WALK. II. CLOSETS TALK AND WALK. THE first thing that the children who were left behind did was to examine the clock. They all made a rush for it, and pulled open the door. "Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the huge machine. They saw the pendulum swing back and forth. And that was all they did see. The Judge, his wife, Ruth, and the baby had disappeared. "I believe this house is bewitched, or we are!" exclaimed Helen. She had read about the strange things said and done in the old town more than two centuries ago, when witches rode through the air on broomsticks, and very lively times stirred up the people. "It was on this very spot, I've heard father say, that one of the witches lived." "Oh, pshaw!" cried Samuel, who knew everything; "there isn't any such thing as witchcraft. They've just stepped out for a moment, and they'll come back soon." "I think they've stepped in," replied Henry, who stood close to the clock when their visitors disappeared with Ruth and the baby. "Let's play 'tag' while we're waiting for them to come back." This was a good way to work off their nervousness; for they were all more or less nervous, either because they really thought that the witches might be upon them, or because they would have to answer to their parents for the absence of Ruth and the baby. [Illustration] "We'll start from the piano," said Samuel. It was Christmas Eve, you remember, and everything seemed rather uncommon and surprising. So they all jumped upon the piano,--thirteen of them altogether,--and it made the old instrument shiver and rattle, and try to shake them off. Then they started on the game of "tag." Samuel sprang from the piano to the cabinet, from the cabinet to the mantle, and from the mantle to the glass book-case in the corner; and they all jumped after him and each other. Then he swung himself over to the hall door, for his arms and his legs were simply prodigious. From the top of the door he leaped to the big picture frame between the front windows. How it swayed and creaked and screamed! So he dropped down upon a low book-case beneath, and balanced himself on the edges of a crystal loving-cup. But Henry and Herbert had started in the other direction from the piano, and they came face to face with Samuel on the loving-cup. Then this elder brother sprang over to the marble centre-table, and then across to the piano again, and upon the high set of book-shelves in the southwest corner of the room. Here he began to grab the books, and throw them at the other children as they came near him. Then they threw books back at him. And what a commotion there was! Children were passing and repassing with the speed of the wind. They were leaping from picture to picture, and mantle to table, and piano to book-case, and table to chairs, and cabinet to door; books were flying in every direction, the piano was groaning and shaking and scolding, and there was the din of many voices, shoutings, laughter, cries, boys' clothes and girls' clothes woven into a perfect mass of changing colors and shapes, the bang and rattle of moving furniture, and whatever you may be pleased to imagine. All this time the Judge, his wife, Ruth, and the baby sat composedly behind the face of the clock, and looked down delightedly upon the hilarious scene. There was a hole in the clock's face which served them for a window. Ruth had often observed it; and she had told her mother more than a few times that she was perfectly sure there must be a big room up there, and lots of people in it, for she had seen the flash of their eyes when they peeped down into the room and watched (wouldn't it be more proper to say clocked) the people. Ruth, of course, was right; for wasn't there a big room in the top of the clock? and didn't the Judge and his wife know all about it? It was there that they had gone to rest. The first thing they did was to put Mrs. "Judge" to bed. This they did with her shoes on. The next thing was to get the baby to sleep. So the Judge sat down in a rocking-chair, and began to sing to his little namesake; and when he got tired of singing the Judge whistled. The baby was just as good as he could be. He laughed, and cooed, and hit the old gentleman on the cheek with a tiny hand, and tried to pick his eyes out one by one, count all his teeth, and pull off his eyebrows, dig into his ears, and find what he did with his nose, and how he kept his cravat on. Meanwhile Ruth was looking down upon the children, and reporting their doings to her visitors. "I think it will do them good to have a little frolic," said the Judge. "Yes, let them play," replied Mrs. "Judge." "It makes me feel as if we were once more back in the old home, and had children to fill it and bring us joy." "But you wouldn't let your children play like that," said Ruth. "Why, I think they're going to break every thing to pieces. And what will the church committee say? They have charge of the house, you know." "Let's see what they are doing!" exclaimed the Judge. So he put the baby down by his wife while he looked through the eye of the clock. Just at that moment the children had all jumped upon the centre-table; and it was crowded with thirteen of them, and the lamp in the middle. There was a brief struggle, then the lamp went out, and the noise of a great fall and crash sounded through the room, after which darkness and silence prevailed. Something had evidently happened. "Don't you think we might visit the closets now?" inquired Ruth. The Judge turned to his wife to see what she answered. "I am too tired to go through them," she said. "But I should like to have them come to me." Now, this was quite an original idea; but it pleased Ruth. "Why, yes, I think they would like to come." Ruth was speaking with great animation. "We've named them, you know; and I think if I should call them by their names they'd all be glad to see you. Can you sit here by this hole in the clock?" "Oh, yes!" replied Mrs. "Judge." "That would be very nice. And the closets can all pass in front of us, and I can have a little talk with them." So Ruth looked down again into the room where the children had been playing, and saw that it was quite light and the children were all gone. At once she called the closets. "I've got a list of their names in my pocket," she explained to Mrs. "Judge." "We can't remember as you can. Even as it is, mother's all the time losing something in some of the closets, and she tries so hard to think where she puts things. She ought to carry a blank-book with her, and set everything down." The Judge's wife was rested now, so that she sat up and took her place before the hole in the clock. The baby was back again in the arms of his namesake. Then Ruth shouted out the names of the closets. "Champagne," she cried. This was the name of the wine-closet. It was a big black hole in the main cellar, just under the parlor. Very soon there was a heavy tread in the west parlor where the clock stood, and in swung Champagne. Although such a great closet he looked very thin and dismal. [Illustration] "Good-evening," said the Judge's wife. "How do you do?" replied Champagne; and there was a great deal of pain in his voice. "You don't seem happy," said Mrs. "Judge." "I'm thirsty;" and the closet's voice sounded as if a fever had parched it. "Poor folks live here now. They haven't put a bottle of wine into me in forty years. I'm drying up. I shall cave in one of these days." "That would be dreadful, wouldn't it?" exclaimed Ruth. "Would the house go down if the wine-cellar caved in?" "Hope so," answered Champagne testily. "Don't even keep wine for sick folk. Somebody did put a couple of bottles of something into me when the children had the measles, but somebody else came and stole it out of me. I thought I'd help bring the measles out, but they didn't give me a chance." "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. "Judge." "I'm sorry for you. But these are days of total abstinence, you know. You mustn't expect much wine. Don't they keep butter in you?" "No, they don't make any. And when they get some in the house it goes as fast as it comes. This family eats an awful sight of butter." "Well, I'll see what I can do for you, Champagne." "We can fill him up with water," whispered Ruth. "For the cistern leaks now, and father says the overflow all goes into the wine-cellar. I'll call 'Greece' next." Champagne stepped one side, and stood by the front door. "Greece, Greece." The name was spoken with shrill, positive tones; and Greece came hurrying down-stairs. This closet was in the attic. They smoked the hams in him, and they sometimes put bacon and dried beef up there. "How do you get along?" inquired Mrs. "Judge," as the closet shambled into the west room. "How'd' do, ma'am?" There was a strong smell of ham when Greece made his appearance. "I've mostly given up smoking these days. I'm a poor, ham-sick fellow. They are trying to starve me to death. I haven't had anything in me for months. They won't let me say anything. They shut me up all the time." "I think Greece smells bad, don't you?" said Ruth as she turned to her guest. And then Ruth put her thumb and forefinger up to her nose to keep out the bad odors that seemed to come up from poor Greece. "I'm going to call 'China.'" So Greece stepped one side without one kind word. "China, China, China." There was a very loud rattling of dishes, jingling of glasses, and much music, as the long closet between the kitchen and the dining-room stepped briskly before them. "I'm glad to see you," said the Judge's wife by way of greeting. She was a lover of fine ware, and the house had been filled with it. "I'm very glad to see you," replied China. "I am living a wretched life." "Dear me, don't talk like that!" exclaimed the good lady, much annoyed at all this mourning and fault-finding. "I guess you'd talk worse than that if you had been cut down, torn to pieces, burnt up, and boxed as I have been. Don't you see that there is hardly anything left of me? As likely as not to-morrow they'll set to work and do something else to me,--make me smaller yet, or drive me out of the house. I can't tell what a day will bring forth. And just look at the dishes. Did you ever see such a lot of nicked, broken, mismatched, cracked, blackened, ugly old ware as they keep on my shelves? It makes me sick. I wish you'd come back." All this time China had been talking in a most despondent tone, giving a fresh shake of discontent to the curious assortment of ware displayed on the shelves. It made the Judge's wife nervous. She didn't like it. Neither did Ruth. It was not what they expected. Such talk was hardly in keeping with Christmas Eve. "China, you just go right out-doors and wait in the cold," said Ruth. "I'm going to call 'Panama.' That, you know, is the closet that connects father's study right over this room with the bedroom behind it. Come, Panama," she cried. There was a great rustling of papers, and dust filled the room as Panama entered. "What does this mean?" inquired Mrs. "Judge," who began to sneeze and feel very thirsty. "Why, this is the closet where father keeps his sermons. I think they must rustle and make so much noise because they are dry." "Good-evening," said the lady in the clock as she bowed. "Good-evening," replied Panama. "It's a long time since we've seen you, Madam. Have you come back to stay?" And one could detect anxiety in the manner and speech. "Oh, no! We are here just for the evening. We thought it would be pleasant to step down and out for a little while. We were in the portraits on the east parlor wall, you remember. When the wind gets in the east we shall be obliged to go back." Then Panama began to cry; and as fast as he cried he drank up his tears. "I don't see what's got into the closets to make them talk so and act so!" exclaimed Ruth. "They just seem bent on being disagreeable to-night. And I thought we'd have such a nice time with them. They're a discontented and complaining lot. I'm going to call 'Leghorn.'" During this little talk the Judge's wife was lost in thought. Her chin had dropped down upon her breast, and a far-away look appeared in her eyes. "Leghorn, Leghorn, come here!" shouted Ruth. The children had given this name to the east-corner closet in Mrs. "Judge's" bedroom. She used to keep her bonnets there. One of them was a white, beautiful Leghorn, which cost more than twenty-five dollars. This closet was full of shelves, and it proved very useful to the minister's family. "Good-evening," said the lady. Leghorn looked up with surprise. He recognized her voice. "How do you do? When did you come? What's the news?" Leghorn spoke in a very familiar way; for he had always stayed close to the head of the bed in the room, and overheard all the conversation between the Judge and his wife. There was no better informed closet in the house than Leghorn. "You look quite cheerful," said the lady. "Yes'm," he replied; "I keep very busy, and have really more than I can 'tend to. You know, we have a perfect crowd of girls here in the house, and their hats just fill me up to the brim. Hear 'em fuss as I shake 'em." And as the folks in the clock listened they heard such a racket of straw and such a shrill chirping that they were quite startled. "Dear me, what is that queer noise?" inquired Mrs. "Judge." "Have you a flock of birds inside of you?" "Oh! I know what that is," explained Ruth. "I can hear it above the rustling of the straw. It's all the birds we have had on our hats. They are feeling so good. For we have joined the Audubon Society, and we can't wear any more birds. How they flutter and sing, don't they?" "You don't mean that you really wear whole birds on a hat or a bonnet, do you?" One could tell from the way she spoke that the visitor was horrified. "Why, yes; and you ought to see folks come to church with them. I've counted seventeen kinds of feathers and nine pieces of birds on the girls and ladies while father was preaching his sermon. We've had a bird-class here, you know, and I can tell a great deal about 'em. There was a blackbird and there was a bluebird; and one lady had a hawk's wing, and another a rooster's tail, and Elizabeth had the breast and beak of a scarlet tanager, and Helen wore heron's feathers, and mother had ostrich plumes; and you ought to see the beautiful plumage we took from a wild turkey sent us from the West; and we put it on Susie's hat, and it was just too lovely for anything. But we've all joined the Audubon Society now, and can't kill any more birds or wear many feathers." "I'd like to join too," interrupted Leghorn. "I'm sick of birds in me. They make such a noise, and keep me stirred up all the time, so I don't get good sleep. I'm very nervous, but I'm quite happy." "There, we've found one happy closet anyway," said Ruth. "You just sit down here and make yourself comfortable." "Darkest Africa next," shouted Ruth. This was another of the closets connected with the down-stairs bedroom. He came stumbling and grumbling along. "What do you want?" he said in a grumpy, disagreeable way. "You've kept me in the dark so long, I've lost the use of my windows." "Well, you needn't be so cross about it," answered Ruth. "Don't you see it's Mrs. 'Judge' that's come back to see you?" "What? what?" cried Darkest Africa, rubbing his eyes and speaking in his natural voice. "Where is she?" "Why, up here in the clock, of course. Haven't you any sense?" [Illustration] "Oh, such a life as we're living!" he said, turning toward the visitor. "You remember how you used to keep all your groceries in me, and how my shelves were heavy with every good thing,--tea, coffee, spices, fruits, and a thousand things. Well, now they've shut the blinds, and covered the windows, and turned me into a photograph-room. It's very nasty. Bad smells hang all about me. Stove-pipe, pans of dirty water, chemicals, and I don't know what, make me very unhappy. And the children run through your bedroom just as if it were a public street. Such goings on you never did see. I want to leave this world." "I'm ashamed of you to talk that way, Darkest Africa. You go out on the piazza, and wait in the cold, too, until I call you. Such talk makes Mrs. 'Judge' feel real bad." And this closet withdrew, still mumbling about his troubles. "I'm going to call three together now," said Ruth; "for the baby'll wake up before we get through, if I don't hurry." The Judge had really sung and whistled the baby to sleep; and there the good man sat on the edge of a cog-wheel, holding the little fellow in his arms. [Illustration] "Come, 'Pride,' 'Vanity,' and 'Ophir,'" screamed Ruth. One of these closets held the clothes of the older girls--that was Pride; Vanity was filled with the many dresses of the younger girls; and Ophir was the closet where the present family kept their small stock of valuables, like jewelry, silverware, and family heirlooms. These three closets came prancing down together, and they certainly felt good. It was Christmas Eve, and they knew it, for they were running over with all sorts of packages; their shelves were filled; their hooks were burdened with garments; the very floors were piled high with stuff. Mrs. "Judge" did not know them so well by night, for she hadn't visited them for many years before her going away. She bowed to them, and they bowed to her; but they kept their hands in their pockets. "Why don't you say something?" It was Ruth's remark to them as they stood in a row before the clock. "We're waiting for you to say something first," was the reply. "How do you feel?" This was by way of starting the conversation. "We feel jolly. Don't you?" Mrs. "Judge" smiled. This was pleasant to hear, and she was very cheerful. She could see thirty-seven or fifty dresses. There were all sizes, colors, materials, and patterns. Their brightness and variety fascinated her. "Look here, my dear," she said, turning to her husband. "I can't. I should wake the baby," and he smiled in a very happy, dignified way. "I'll call 'Morocco,' too," said Ruth. "There's plenty of room, and I like to see them together." "Morocco, Morocco." And then there was such clattering and pattering of shoes that it seemed as if the baby must wake up; for Morocco was the shoe closet, and there were so many pairs of old shoes in the place that it reminded one of a cobbler's shop. There were little shoes and big, slippers and rubber-boots, patent leathers and copper toes, high-heeled shoes and no-heeled shoes; there were blacking and brushes and shoe-strings and button-hooks and dirt. And as Morocco walked in, every shoe and boot and slipper and brush was in a most frolicsome mood, jumping hither and thither, knocking the sides of the closet, and raising a great dust. The Judge's wife looked from Pride to Vanity, then from Ophir to Morocco. As the clothes shook and rustled, as the silver and the old-fashioned jewelry jingled, as the foot-gear banged and rattled, Ruth began to sing and dance, and the lady nodded her head to keep time; and then the Judge caught the movement and beat time with his foot, and whistled an old tune; and then the baby woke up, clapped his hands, and cooed with delight. But time was passing very quickly, and there was a great deal to do before midnight came or the east wind arose. So Ruth hurried the closets along in their march before the guests. "'Valentine,' 'Argentine,' 'Serpentine,' 'Clementine,' and 'Turpentine,' come along with you," she shouted urgently. These were the five closets which belonged to the Judge's library. Valentine had nothing but broken furniture in him; Argentine was loaded down with old and useless silver (plated ware) and like stuff; Serpentine contained aged newspapers and magazines; Clementine was pretty well filled with a variety of dolls, and they played merrily as the closet came into the room, and stood first on one foot and then on the other; Turpentine brought a good deal of dust with him. He used to hold the Judge's private papers. They were dry as dust. The Judge was so interested in the baby that he paid no attention to the closets. "I'm going to call the closet with the skeleton in it," whispered Ruth. "We named him the 'Wandering Jew;' we've never seen him, you know. Somebody told us that the key was lost, and then the keyhole, and finally the closet itself, and it must be so; for where that closet was in your day there isn't anything now." During this remark Mrs. "Judge" looked very restless and sorrowful. "I just want to see what a skeleton in the closet is like. I've heard that every family has got one, but they keep them out of sight. Wandering Jew, Wandering Jew," whispered Ruth with suppressed excitement; and almost on the instant the lost closet walked into the room from nowhere. He was quite small; as he walked something rattled in him. The child shivered. Was it the skeleton? and would she see it? Then she remembered that the key and the keyhole were both lost. "What's in it?" whispered Ruth. And then she noticed for the first time that the lady was weeping. There was a strange silence. Mrs. "Judge" put her hands upon Ruth's head, and looking down pathetically into her eager eyes said gently, "I would rather not put any questions to the Wandering Jew, or try to make him say anything. Let him pass along out of my sight." And Ruth, who was quite awed by the grief of Mrs. "Judge," told the closet to hurry out of sight as soon as possible. So she never knew whether it was blasted hopes or withered love, or the ghost of a chance or the dry bones of scholarship, or something else that was locked in that strange little haunted room. And now the closets were hurried along as fast as Ruth could name them. But Mrs. "Judge" seemed to have lost her interest. The closet with a skeleton in it had thrown her off her balance. She had little or nothing to say to any of the others; and Ruth herself grew tired, so that she was very glad when they had all made their bows and said their short say, and something else might be done for the entertainment of her company. III. THE PROCESSION OF GOAT, DOG, CAT, BICYCLES, PORTRAITS, RUTH, AND THE "LITTLE JUDGE." III. THE PROCESSION OF GOAT, DOG, CAT, BICYCLES, CLOSETS, PORTRAITS, RUTH, AND THE "LITTLE JUDGE." "[Illustration: I] THINK it would be real nice for us to take a little ride about the town, don't you?" Ruth was speaking to the Judge and his wife. "Yes, I think I am rested enough to go a short way," was the lady's reply. "But what shall we do with the Judge and the baby?" "Why, take them along with us!" Ruth was always ingenious, and she had plans for every occasion. "I think we might take a ride in the closets." "What!" exclaimed Mrs. "Judge." "I am going to hitch up the closets and have a procession," exclaimed Ruth. "You leave it to me and it'll come out all right. I'll call the cat and the goat and 'Turk,' and tell them to get out the bicycles and fasten them to the closets, all in a row, and then they shall take us to ride." On any other occasion or under other circumstances this would have appeared a curious arrangement, but to-night it was quite in keeping with all that had happened. [Illustration] "Here Billy, Billy, Billy, Turk, Turk, come Kitty, come Kitty," cried Ruth; and the goat appeared on the minute, and with him Satan the black cat and with him "Turk," the bird-dog. "You must hitch up the bicycles, and hitch on the closets, and take us a-riding," ordered Ruth. Now, Billy was an obliging goat, although his taste was not of the best; for when one of the neighbors died, and crape and flowers were hung on the front door, he went over and climbed up to the interesting objects, and ate both the cloth and the wreath. He lacked taste, but he did enjoy running up and down the street. Satan, the black cat, was very fond of Ruth, and would do anything she told him when he didn't want to do anything else, and he knew what she was talking about. Turk was always on hand ready for a frolic. So Billy, Satan, and Turk got the bicycles fastened together; and then Ruth called out the names of the closets, beginning with the very smallest in the house. The goat and the cat took a spool of red cotton-thread, and tied all the closets in a row or a tow (just as you see boats in a row and a tow when a tug pulls them up the river). When all was ready, Billy and Satan and Turk took their places at the head of the procession, and stood waiting for their passengers. "I think we had better put the baby in the first closet," said Ruth. "That is the smallest, you know, and he will fit in like a bug in a rug." "What have you got to put around him?" inquired the lady. There had been a slight fall of snow in the evening, and then it had turned cold. "I'm afraid he will get chilly, you know." "Oh! I'll wrap him up in an envelope. Paper is very warm, I've heard. I'll just put him into the envelope, and then cut two holes for his eyes, and then seal him up like a letter." So the "Little Judge" was fixed. But it occurred to Mr. Judge at this point that his wife was not prepared for winter. She was a delicate person, and she wore the same clothes that she had on when her portrait was painted. The cap with frilled border was very pretty, but it was not warm. "My dear," said the Judge to his wife, "you are not properly clad for a ride." "I've got plenty of clothes and things in my pocket," said Ruth. "Now, here is a nice postage-stamp with a picture of the queen upon it. That will do for a bonnet. I'll stick it on tight." And she did. "Here is a lot of red crinkly paper that we use to make lamp-shades. I'll do her up like a bundle from the store. There, doesn't she look well?" And the child wound the bright paper all about the matronly form of Mrs. "Judge," and fastening it under her chin with a big safety pin, stood off and admired the brilliant result. "There won't any cold creep in through that red stuff," exclaimed Ruth. "Isn't she pretty?" But the Judge only smiled and looked interested. "Now you must be fixed," and Ruth turned toward the Judge. "I'll tie this handkerchief over your head, and use a piece of red thread for a muffler. And here is a nice white canton-flannel bag in my pocket that Herbert has used for his marbles. You jump into that, and I'll tie you up." "But how shall we get down into the closets?" The Judge seemed perplexed. "Fall down, of course," exclaimed the child. "And I'm going to wear mother's feather-bed. Then, if it 'thunders and lightens' I won't be afraid." So at length everything was ready, and they stood on the weight of the clock, and went down to the door which swung open into the west parlor; and then they tumbled out into the room, and made their way to the front piazza like boys engaged in a bag-race. And there before the house stood the procession of the closets. "What's become of the old portico?" asked the lady. "You must have made it into this long sitting-place." She glanced up and down the roomy piazza. "What color do you call this?" she asked, referring to the brown paint upon the house. "We always had it white." "This color doesn't show the dirt," said Ruth. "All the dust of the town flies this way, mother says." At that moment there was a rumbling, hissing, and flashing in the distance. The house shook and the sky brightened. Was it an earthquake, or what? "My dear," whispered Mrs. "Judge," "I feel a little timid. I think it's because I've been in the picture so long. I'm shaking all over. It seems to me as if something dreadful was going to happen. What is that awful noise; and I see strange flames of pale blue light shoot into the sky." "Oh, don't be scared!" said Ruth; "that's nothing but the trolley. See, there it comes!" Down the street towards them swept a thing of light, shaking the very earth beneath, and speeding past into the night like some meteor. It was several seconds before the lady was able to speak. "Child, what did you say it was?" and she trembled with fright. "Why, it's the trolley-car. We ride on it. It runs by electricity, the same as lightning." And Ruth popped her head in and out of the feather-bed as she replied, the feathers sticking to her hair and fluttering about her face in a most comical way. "I think we'd better start before another car comes, for Billy and Satan might run away. Sometimes they're afraid." "Yes, let us get right into our places," said the Judge, who was sorry to see his wife distressed. So the baby rolled into the little closet next to the seven bicycles, and Ruth jumped into the next one, and the Judge and his wife shuffled into the third. "I think we must make a real funny show," exclaimed Ruth, as she lifted her head out of the feathers again, and gave orders to Billy and Satan and Turk. [Illustration] "Get up there, boys!" she said to this remarkable team. And then they were all in motion,--the billy-goat and the black cat and the dog, the seven bicycles, the little closet with the baby in the blue envelope, the second closet with Ruth in a feather-bed, the third closet with the Judge in a white flannel-bag and a handkerchief over his head, and Mrs. "Judge," done up in red paper, wearing a postage stamp for a bonnet, followed by fifty-seven closets of all shapes, sizes, patterns, conditions. There was a banging of wood, a slamming of doors, a creaking of windows, a dancing of shoes, a rattling of dishes, a rustling of clothes (starched clothes), a fluttering of sermons, a pounding of pots and kettles and pans, a rolling about of fruit glasses and jelly jars and canned food, a falling of hams, and a rising of flour, and a decline in vegetables simply frightful. "This is a very fine road," observed the Judge. "It's just as smooth as a floor. What an improvement over the roads in our day!" "Yes," answered Ruth as she peered out from her feathers, "we are very proud of our roads. They are--what is it you call them? Adam, cadam, oh! I've got it now, macadam roads. They cost thousands of dollars. But we've some very good men in town, just the kind you are, I suppose, and they've given us miles and miles of it. You ought to see how we skim along the road now on a bicycle. It would fairly make your head swim." "My head does swim," whispered Mrs. "Judge." "It's so long since I took a ride in the fresh air, and I've staid such a time in the picture and become so stiff, that the motion makes me dizzy. I think we'd better stop for a few minutes." "What is this?" exclaimed the Judge. They had gone only to the corner of the Green. There was a very thin covering of fluffy snow on the ground. Suddenly the clouds broke away, and the moon flooded the scene with light. And there, standing distinct and stately against the black background, glistening and shimmering in the mild radiance, was the church. "Where is the old meeting-house?" and the Judge rubbed his eyes, and got the handkerchief loose upon his head; and Mrs. "Judge" in her agitation dislocated the postage-stamp that served for a bonnet so that she felt a cold draught in her left ear. "Why, Judge, we aren't here, are we? We must be somewhere else." Then Ruth uncovered her head, and let a few feathers fly back in the face of her guest and laughed merrily. "That's the new church. Our new stone church. Isn't it lovely? Did you ever see anything like it? Whoa, Billy and Satan and Turk! Wait a minute! We want to take a look at things." "You don't mean to say you have another meeting-house, do you? What's become of the old one?" "Oh! that was set on fire. You ought to've seen it burn. Father said it was the saddest, beautifulest sight he ever saw. It was like a church built of fire; and it blazed away,--walls, roof, floor, all glorious without and within, and then it was caught up into heaven, so father says. It made us think of Elijah going up in his flaming chariot. And then we built this stone church. Don't you like it? Why, of course you do; why, I heard father say that you wanted a stone church, and gave something for one." "Like it, child, of course we like it! And we did want a stone church, and we tried to get the folks to build one, but they thought they weren't rich enough. Like it! why this is one of the happiest moments of my life. What a striking building it is!" "Yes; and there is some of your money in it, for I've heard father say so. They got pay for the old church when it burned, and that went right into the new. And it was an English company that had to pay the insurance; and folks said it was no more than right that the English should pay it, for they burned down the one in 1779 when they burnt up the town, you know." "You know a great deal about history and things, don't you?" It was Mrs. "Judge" that made the pleasing remark. "Yes, I know many things. It's because I ask so many questions, I suppose. But mother says I lack 'capacity.' I don't know what she means; it's something dreadful, I suppose. Perhaps I'll make it up when I get big. Wouldn't you like to stop at the church and go inside? I've got a key right here in my pocket. Samuel and I carry keys to about everything." "I think we might take a little rest here," said the Judge. "Do you think the team will stand?" And his eyes twinkled curiously as he looked out upon Billy and Satan and Turk. [Illustration] "Oh, yes! they'll be all right. If they get tired of waiting they can take a short run on the bicycles. Go up there to the front door. 'Whoa!'" This was said to the team. When they came to a stop Ruth tumbled out first, then the Judge and his lady followed, scuffing along as best they could. They unlocked the door; and Ruth rolled back to the first closet, picked up the envelope with the baby in it, tucked him into the feather-bed by her side, and returned to the vestibule. They observed that the church was all lighted and warm. So Ruth slipped off the feather-bed, although a thousand feathers stuck to her, making the child appear like a new kind of overgrown fowl. The Judge took the baby on his arm, for he had also slipped out of Herbert's marble bag, and then Ruth led them through the building. Every part was explained,--the windows, the organ, the gaslights, the carved pillars, the glass screen, the chapel, the piano, the library, the parlor, the furnaces; everything was noted. "Why, how lovely it is to be warm in meeting," said Mrs. "Judge." "You know we used to have foot-stoves, or hot baked potatoes, or a piece of stone. That was all." "You don't mean to say that they gave you hot baked potatoes with butter in meeting, and that was the way you kept warm?" "Oh, we didn't eat them!" interrupted Mrs. "Judge." "We held them in our hands, or put them to our feet. But the little stoves were better. And then finally we had stoves, big stoves, in the meeting-house. I thought I should faint dead away when they first used them. It seemed to me so hot and stuffy in the room. And then I remember that my husband laughed at me when I drove home (I always had to ride, child; I wasn't able to walk so far for many years); for he said there hadn't been any fires kindled yet in the new stoves. But I got used to them after a time, and they were real comfortable. But I should certainly faint away to see the heat coming right up out of the floor, and think that underneath me was a raging fire." "Why that's the way we warm the parsonage," said Ruth. "Didn't you see the registers?" "Have you got one of those fires in the cellar?" asked Mrs. "Judge." "Dear me, Judge, I shall never feel safe again so long as we hang on the east parlor wall. Why, we shall be liable to burn up any moment. Think of having one of those awful things, full of fire, right under your feet. I'm so sorry that I know anything about it." "Oh, you'll get used to it! You have got used to it, haven't you? There has been a furnace in the parsonage ever so many years." They were all seated in the minister's pew in church at this time. The Judge was bowed in thought. "He looks as if he was going to pray," whispered Ruth, somewhat awe-struck by his expression and the stillness of the place as well as the solemnity of the occasion. But it was hard for her to keep from asking questions. "Did you see the man in the moon as we came into church?" she turned to Mrs. "Judge." "The man in the moon!" exclaimed the lady; "he's the very person that I want to speak to. I think it's years since I've seen him." "Well, he's out to-night in great style. It must be because it's Christmas Eve. Did you hang up your stocking when you were a little girl?" "Do what?" inquired the lady. "Hang up your stocking, to be sure, for Santa Claus to fill it with presents." The Judge's wife looked with astonishment upon the child by her side. It was impossible for her to imagine what was meant. "I never heard of such a thing," she replied. Then Ruth enlightened her. "You know that Jesus was born on the twenty-fifth of December?" "Yes, my child." "And you know God gave him to the world?" "Yes." "Well, don't you think it's nice for us to give things to each other on that day? and don't you believe that Santa Claus comes down the chimney and brings us lots of presents?" "Why, I never thought of it." And the dear old lady began to think a good deal about it. "We keep it right here in church too. We have a Christmas-tree, and sing carols, and all the children get presents and candy, and ever so many nice things; and everybody is just as happy as can be. Don't you think that is a nice way to remember the coming of Jesus and God's gift to all of us?" "Well! well! well! and so to-night is the very night, is it? Judge, did you know that our folks now keep Christmas in their churches and their homes? Do you think there is any sin in it?" He was startled out of his reverie by the question, and Ruth was obliged to explain to him what she had said to his wife. Then he thought upon it for a little time, and replied to Mrs. "Judge." It pleased him. He wished to see what it was like. "Why, I think, my dear, that it might be made a very happy, helpful festival. Why couldn't we have one over at the house to-night?" "We are going to have one there in the morning," exclaimed Ruth. "We all get up bright and early, and our stockings are filled, and there is a little tree, and candles, and oranges, and shiny balls, and beautiful things; and we dance around, and sing, and have oh! such a happy, happy time. I wish you would stay and see it." "My dear," the Judge was now speaking to his wife, "don't you think you could get up a little party for the children to-night? We can't stay until morning, you know. We must go back into the pictures. And the east wind may rise at any hour." [Illustration] "Judge, I'll step out a moment and speak with the man in the moon. He's out to-night, Ruth says, and perhaps we can arrange something. I'll be back very soon." So she walked down the aisle, and passed into the vestibule with all the liveliness of a young dame. "I think this must be the very spot where I used to sit in the meeting." The Judge was talking to himself as much as to Ruth. "I wonder what they did with the old box pew that belonged to me? How times have changed! But this is very rich and dignified, and satisfies me." As this was said he surveyed the chaste and elegant interior with approving eye. "I am glad to see it. But I wish it had been in my day. There are some ideas that I should like to have embodied in stone on this spot. Strange world this." And then he bowed his head in thought again. "I'm going to meet Mrs. 'Judge,'" said Ruth, "unless you will stand up and make a speech to me. Do you think you are as good and wise and great as people say? I've heard father tell how you could speak better'n any minister or lawyer in New England. Could you? Because I'd like to hear you if you could." The Judge blushed to hear such praise. "I'm out of practice," he replied. "I believe my voice has lost itself. It's very trying on the vocal organs to hang in a picture for a hundred years or so. But I will say a few words." Then the Judge walked up into the pulpit, made a very graceful bow, and began to recite psalms. His voice was remarkably rich and sympathetic. He put so much soul into the words that Ruth sat perfectly still, a thing she had never been known to do before in all her life. Had it not been for the floating about of feathers as she breathed, and drove them hither and thither, she would have appeared like one dead. When the Judge finished he came down from the pulpit, and Ruth was so overcome that she didn't say one word for as much as a minute and one half. Then the spell was broken. Mrs. "Judge" came hastily in, saying that she was ready to go, and the team had just returned from their run on the bicycles; then they all came out of church, and the organ played, and the bell rang, and the gas fixtures jingled, and when the company was fixed in their closets they continued on the ride. "Did you see the man in the moon?" inquired Ruth. "Oh, yes!" replied Mrs. "Judge"; "I've made all the arrangements; and when we get back the house will be ready, and we'll wake up the children, and it will be our first real Christmas party. I am going to invite only the closets and the children. I want to get the closets all filled up again for once; and then I want to see every one of you children so full of happiness that you'll run over and make other people happy too." [Illustration] As they were passing the Town Hall the Judge was again reminded of old times; for that was the very place where he had argued many of his cases, and won some of his greatest victories. "My dear," he said, "I could almost imagine we were set back to the War of 1812, and I was going over to the Court House to express my views to our citizens." "It looks as though they'd done something to the building," remarked the lady. "How they change everything these days!" And then they swung down Beach Lane, and came to the old cemetery. "Look at that!" exclaimed Ruth. "Isn't it fine?" She referred to the thick, solid, stone wall enclosing the grounds, and the beautiful lich-gate that stood over the entrance. "We're right up to the times here," continued the child. "The Daughters of the American Revolution and some of our ladies did that. We can sit on those stone seats hot summer days, and it's just as cool as cool can be. And it's such a nice place to play 'hide-and-seek' behind the grave-stones and the wall among the trees." "Now, this is what I love to see," observed the Judge. "This shows the true spirit of reverence. I am proud of these good Daughters. What did you say they were called? Daughters of the American Revolution? Why, they must all be dead by this time." "Oh, no!" explained Ruth; "these are their daughter's daughters, you know. And they have such good times. Why, mother is going to their meetings a good deal of the time. They talk about the Revolution and things, and wear flags and pins, and have refreshments and papers, and elect officers, and get up plays, and go to Washington, and keep inviting each other somewhere, and all the while say ever so much about Washington's Birthday and the Fourth of July and the Battle of Lexington. Why, we children know so much about history that it seems sometimes as if we'd lived all through the whole fight, and seen the town burned, and helped drive the British away. Don't you think we're smart?" "I shall have to be very careful how I talk about these things, or you will catch me in some mistake, I suppose." The Judge looked serious, but there was that funny twinkle in his eyes. "Suppose we now drive around the new cemetery, and see if everything is as trim and neat there. We'd like to look at our own graves, and see how things are." "Well, I think that's a very unpleasant way to spend Christmas Eve; and I'm sure that Billy and Satan and Turk will be afraid to go into that place, and so shall I; and you can't see much from the road; so let's drive up to Round Hill, and watch for Santa Claus." "Oh! just as you please," continued the Judge. "This is your circus, not mine." And he smiled indulgently upon Ruth. So they turned about on the Beach Road, and slipped up to Round Hill. While they were viewing the scenery, the man in the moon winked at Mrs. "Judge," as much as to say that the house was all ready, and it was time for the party to return. IV. THE PARTY WITH SUPPER FOR SEVENTEEN, AND TOASTS WITH A TOASTING-FORK. IV. THE PARTY WITH SUPPER FOR SEVENTEEN, AND TOASTS WITH A TOASTING-FORK. WHEN they returned to the parsonage, Billy unhitched himself and opened the front door. The Judge and his wife with Ruth and the baby hastened into the warm rooms as fast as the feather-bed, the white flannel bag, the blue envelope, and the red paper would permit them. "Why, what a change there is here!" exclaimed Ruth. "It must be exactly as you used to have it." "Yes," replied Mrs. "Judge"; "I told the man in the moon to make things look natural. This seems really like coming home. I feel very much as I did whenever I drove down to New York, and came back to the dear house. It is so nice to see these beautiful carpets again, and the same chairs and tables and sofas; the very damask curtains I made; my little sewing-stand; the clock right there in its place near my bedroom door; and there is the refrigerator. I always had it stand in my bedroom, you know. That made it very convenient. And I kept all the stores in"-- "Me," groaned Darkest Africa, who still remained in front of the house awaiting the orders of Ruth. "Yes, in you," continued Mrs. "Judge"; "and I expect to see you very happy again to-night. I never kept Christmas. We didn't approve of such things when I was a child." She was now talking to Ruth. "But if they have a Christmas-tree in the meeting-house, and the minister thinks it's all right, it must be so. I am really quite glad to get up a party to-night. I shall have it to think about when I go back into the picture. And that reminds me, child, that I want you to come into the parlor very often and speak to me. It's very very lonely staying there day and night, summer and winter, year in and year out. Why don't you ask the Judge and me to play church with you and the rest of the children some of the times when you come into the parlor?" "Why, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Ruth. "I'll do it the very next time (which will be Sunday, I suppose) that we have church again." By this time they had taken their wraps off and put them up. That is to say, Ruth got out of the feather-bed, and had Turk carry it up-stairs, while she took the handkerchief and the marble-bag off from the Judge, and the postage-stamp and the red crinkly paper off from Mrs. "Judge," and put these things in her pocket. Then they all went into the lady's chamber, and took the baby out of the envelope, laying him on the bed, and covering him with a soap-dish and a hair-brush to keep him warm, for he had gone to sleep. "Now we must get ready for the party," said Ruth, "and then I'll call the children and dress them. But, dear me! what will you and the Judge wear? We've got tired of seeing you in the same clothes all the time. Oh, I'll tell you! Let's play dress up just as we children do, and then I can fix you out in fine style." "Just as you say, child. It's your party, and you can do much as you please. And the truth is that I am pretty tired of wearing the same clothes all these many years. I don't think it makes so much difference to a man. But we women like to have something new once in a while, say once in fifty or seventy-five years." "Oh! won't it be fun?" cried Ruth. "We'll have 'Providence' come in here and show us what he's got in him. You know Providence is the big closet in the corner of the Betsey-Bartram room. Come here, Providence." This closet ambled into the bedroom, and Mrs. "Judge" took a silver candlestick with a wax candle in her hand, and stepped into the closet followed by the Judge and Ruth. What a medley of stuff they found! There were silks and satins of all colors and kinds. There was velvet and calico, lawn and broadcloth, furs and flowers, laces and linens, swallow-tail coats and fancy vests, a waterproof, a riding-habit, bicycle suits, pajamas, flags and bunting, forming an infinite assortment or mixture of everything under the sun in the shape of dry goods. "You don't keep an old-clothes exchange, do you, child?" asked the astonished visitor. "Oh, no! these are mother's treasures (that's what she calls them). We get 'em when her ship comes in. It always seems to come in the night. We children have watched for it ever since we lived West and could remember. But the first we know is that mother tells us some day how the ship has come in, and another cargo has been unloaded in Providence. Then we all make a rush and overhaul the cargo; one thing fits one child, and another thing fits another child, and what doesn't fit we make over, and then we appear in our new outfits. You ought to see us go into church a week or two after a fresh cargo of treasures has been distributed. It's great fun." During this talk Ruth was rummaging about in the trunks or on the shelves in search of something becoming to her guests. "I think the Judge ought to have something solemn on, don't you?" she said, addressing his wife. "Now, this long, black waterproof is the thing. And he can wear Samuel's bicycle stockings and shoes. Then, here's a broad purple ribbon for a necktie; and I'll put this ermine boa around his neck, for don't judges sometimes wear ermine? Doesn't he look cute?" She had helped him on with the things while Mrs. "Judge" stood by smiling her approval. "I think this green velvet waist and this red silk skirt will look well on you." Ruth was speaking to the lady. "Then I'll do your hair up with this white lace and these yellow flowers. It's so cold I think you had better wear mittens. I think you ought to have a train to your dress. I'll take some safety-pins, and fasten a few yards of this white satin on behind. Doesn't it look elegant? You must have a corsage bouquet." And she twisted up some dry grasses and pink roses, and pinned them to her belt. "And this white gauze veil will add to the effect." So it was spread over the lady's head, and fell in scant folds across her brow. "I shall get into this pink crape," Ruth continued, "slip these muffs up my ankles, and take this black fur cape and that lovely, lovely lavender bonnet. I'm going to wear white kid gloves, and have a train of that yellow satin. Will you, please, tie this bow of nile-green velvet about my neck? And I must have a veil too. This one with little red spots like the measles all over it will suit me, I guess. There, now, don't I look just too nice for anything?" Both the Judge and his wife bowed and smiled. "I'll put this black lace one side for the baby when he wakes up. We'll dress him up with that and some tissue paper I've got in my pocket. And now let's go and take a look at the house again." But their talking roused the baby; so they dressed him as Ruth had planned, winding the paper and lace about his body as though he were a mummy; and then they started for the parlor, the Judge carrying his namesake on one arm and supporting his wife on the other, with Ruth dragging on behind, clinging to the right hand of Mrs. "Judge." At the foot of the stairs Ruth proposed that she go and call all the children. For at this late hour they had gone to bed. But the visitors thought it better to wait. "We must ask a few questions and find out what the children want for Christmas," said Mrs. "Judge." So they passed into the parlor, and sat down on the Grecian sofa. A soft, gentle light fell from the astral lamp and the wax candles on the mantle-piece. The wood fire on the hearth, the heavy damask curtains at the windows, the rich mahogany furniture scattered about through the room, the handsome pictures upon the walls, gave the place a very inviting appearance. "Now, Ruth, we're going to put something in each child's stocking." Mrs. "Judge" was speaking. "It seems to me a foolish custom, but now that you all do it we will follow suit. Tell us what to get." "Father says there's a difference between what we want and what we need. We want a great many things, but we need only a few." "That's sound talk," observed the Judge. "Your father must be quite a man." "Oh!" was the reply, "he weighs almost a hundred and ninety pounds. I heard mother tell the teacher the other day that she thought I lacked capacity. I don't get along in school at all. There are so many things to do besides study that it takes all my time. I think mother would be pleased if you gave me something of the kind. That's what I need I suppose. But what I want is to know about everything. That's why I ask so many questions and tease to go all the time. I'm trying to find out things for myself. How should I learn how old a girl or a lady is if I didn't ask? And what's my tongue for if it isn't to use in talking?" "To be sure," replied Mrs. "Judge." "But I used my tongue for eating too, until I got into the picture. I think it's almost a hundred years since I had anything to eat." "Mercy! aren't you hungry?" exclaimed Ruth. "But you don't look thin, and you certainly don't grow old. I've heard folks say so when they looked at your picture. 'Why, how nice and fresh and lifelike they seem.' That's what our visitors say when we take them into the parlor to see the portraits. But, dear me, we shall never get through the list if I keep on talking. I can't help talking. I seem made for it. I've heard father say that several of his family were deaf, but none of 'em were ever dumb." The Judge and his wife appeared quite interested in this lively flow of speech on the part of the child, so they nodded their heads with encouragement, and Ruth continued. "Now, there's Helen, she's always talking about writing a book. I think she wants to write a book above all things. You might give her the book she is going to write. But what she really needs is curls. That straight black hair makes her look horrid. I wish you'd bring her a whole lot of curls. Isn't it queer that we can't have a baby with curls? We've had a regular cry over it more than once. Not a single curl in all the fifteen. Every hair of our heads as straight as a string. Don't you think you'd better write the things down as I tell them to you? But then you've got such an awful memory I suppose you can remember everything. Now, there's Samuel. You tell him two things and father says he's sure to forget three. Mother says if his memory was as good as his forgetery, he'd make something remarkable." "I think if you will lend me a piece of paper,--that red crinkly stuff that the baby has on,--and a stick of candy or a poker, I will write down the articles you mention." It was the Judge speaking. "Why don't you take the quill and the paper that you hold in the portrait, and use them?" inquired Ruth. "To be sure!" exclaimed the Judge. "What a bright girl you are!" "Father doesn't think so. I don't know how many times he's said to me when I've done something queer, 'Ruth, you don't seem to have any sense.' Susie said one day, 'Well, I'll give her my two cents.' And she did, and I spent it for candy. Father would be so pleased if you gave me some sense for a Christmas present, I know." The visitors smiled as the child prattled, and let her continue without interruption. "I know what Samuel wants. I know a lot of things he wants. Mother says he always wants to go home with the girls. But you couldn't call that a present, could you? Oh! I know one thing he wants very much. Whenever he tries to race with any of the boys, and he comes out a long way behind, he says he wants wind. Just put that down, please. But I think the thing he needs most of anything is courtesy. At least father keeps talking to him about it. If you would bring a big lot of it I'm sure we'd all be pleased. It must be something very nice, for father says something about it every day of his life." The Judge nodded his head, and wrote with his quill upon the sheet of paper. "Theodora is always wanting clothes. She's never had enough. I don't know how many times we've heard her say she had nothing to wear. And then father says she'd better go to bed. I wonder if she'll have all the clothes she wants in heaven?" Neither the Judge nor his lady ventured to answer. "What Theodora really needs, I think, is a gold spoon. Mother says she was certainly born with a gold spoon in her mouth; but the spoon has been lost, for I've never seen it, and it would be such a nice thing to give her one in its place. Or, maybe, you could bring her the very one she had when she was born. I should like to see what kind of a spoon it was." So the Judge put that down. "It's easy enough to tell what Ethel wants. She's always talking about it. She wants some _new_ clothes. She says she's sick to death of second-hand stuff. Mother's always having something made over for her or some of the younger girls. We've never seen anything real fresh and new. Father says we ought to be thankful to have clothes at all. I suppose we had. What Ethel needs is application. Her teacher says so, and so does everybody else. She doesn't stick to a thing." "Poor child," said the Judge. "She'll have a hard time, I fear. I'll see what we can do for her." "Now, Miriam hasn't any gumption, father says. I wonder what that is? I think that must be the thing she needs the most. She's such a chicken-hearted girl Samuel says. And that makes me think what it is Miriam always wants. She tells mother, I don't know how many times a day, that she wishes she'd have some spring chicken. You don't know how fond she is of 'em. But they're very high here, you know. And spring chickens enough to go around in such a family as ours would soon ruin us, mother says. But Ethel is so fond of them. How she wants 'em! Do you think you could fill her up for once?" "Why, spring chickens are not in my line of treasures, my child; but I might find something that would take the place of such fowls." "Henry says Elizabeth's a regular old goose. And Samuel calls Susie 'duckie.' I wonder if you couldn't help Grace. She needs balance, everybody says. I think she's smart enough, but she's a high-flyer. You never can tell what will happen next when she's around. Please bring some balance for a present. But what she wants is Frederick. He's the boy in the next block. I don't think it's right to think so much of boys unless they're your brothers. Elizabeth says her brothers are her bothers. And I think so too." Ruth looked very severe. The Judge simply continued his writing. "Do you think you could bring all of us a very great deal of sweetness of disposition? I've heard so much about that thing that I'm real tired of it; but I know it would please both father and mother, for they have talked about it ever since I can remember. I know a little baby girl down South who is so sweet they call her 'Sugar.' Samuel says if we named our children as they ought to be named, some of them would be called 'Vinegar.' But he's 'funning,' I guess. Mother says his bark is always worse than his bite. "Now, George needs heart. Samuel says George will never die of heart disease, because he hasn't any heart. He has a gun, and Elizabeth calls him Nimrod. He wants to go to war. But we're afraid he might get shot in the back. But he's a real good boy after all. I should hate to see him going around with a hole in his back." Just at this point the Judge coughed and looked queer. "Henry is crazy about music. He wants a violin, but mother says he needs an ear for music. I should like to know what he'd do with a third ear. Would you put it on the top of his head? And he wants to sing; but, dear me, father says he needs a voice. He has voice enough, _I_ think. You can hear him all over town. Did you write it down?" Ruth looked keenly at the Judge as his pen flew with the speed of a snail over the paper. "Yes, here it is in white and black." "Now, William is an awfully forward boy. He's so forward father says that he's growing round-shouldered. He wants to be President. That's ever since he went to the White House with mother. It was a very cold day, the day he went; and William had his mittens on, and mother couldn't get to him to take 'em off when he shook hands with the President. Neighbors say that what he needs is training. But they don't train now as they used to. Father says they used to train out here on the Green several times a year. I know the best thing you could bring William is a training. And Susie, she wants something she hasn't got. I don't think it makes any difference what it is. Mother says if she hasn't got it she wants it. And then she snivels when she doesn't get it. I heard some one say the other day that what she needed was a spanking. But I don't think that would be a very nice present, do you?" "Well, not for Christmas, anyway," whispered Mrs. "Judge." "There's Nathaniel, he always wants to go somewhere. Father says that if we lived in Beersheba Nathaniel would want to move into Dan, and when he got into Dan he'd be sure to start the next day for Beersheba. He needs a good deal of watching, mother says. Samuel, Elizabeth, Helen, Henry, and Miriam have all got watches; but you see we can't all have them at once. "Now, just look at Elizabeth. You'd think we all belonged to her, wouldn't you? She wants to _run_ everything. And then she runs so much that mother says she runs down. But father says she needs experience, and then everything will come out all right. If you could bring her that ripe experience that I've heard folks talk about, I think it would make father and mother feel real pleased. "Herbert needs backbone. I felt of his back the other day, and I didn't see but that he had just as much bone in it as the rest of the children, but father says not. Mother says you can twist him around your little finger. That would be a queer sight, wouldn't it? Herbert is always talking about a good time. That's the thing he wants. Could you bring something of that sort to him?" "Well, my child," answered the Judge, "I am thinking about bringing a good time to every one of you. It's such a pleasure to see the old house full of children that I should like to do anything in the world possible to make them happy." When this was said Mrs. "Judge" beamed an approval, and seemed very happy herself. "But you haven't told us what to give the baby." "Dear me, why that's the best of all! But everybody knows what the baby ought to have. I've been a-looking to see if you've brought it along with you. When folks come to see the baby they smile and trot him on the knee and kiss him, and then say, 'I'm so glad you named him for the Judge. He was a good, great man. May his mantle fall upon his namesake.' And then they kiss him again and go away. It's your mantle that we expect you to give the baby. But you didn't bring it with you, and I'm so sorry. And it isn't in the picture either. For I've looked there a great many times. I thought maybe it was left in the house, but we never hear anything about it. Now you're right here with the baby I thought if you only had it you might give it to him at once. Could you send it to him? It must be something very fine. Even father talks about it." A tear stole down the cheek of the Judge. It was chased by another and a third. He seemed deeply moved. For the Judge was human like the rest of folks, even if he did stay a hundred years in a picture. And who does not like to be remembered with such loving words and beautiful praises? Can one help feeling kindly and grateful? The Judge's voice choked with emotion as he replied to the noble sentiments of the child. It was very hard for him to express himself. "My little Ruth," he stooped and looked down into her face with wondrous and pathetic tenderness, "you have done me more good than all that I can do for you. These very words that you have just spoken are more precious to me than all the money in the world." "Why, you don't mean it, do you?" interrupted the child. "I was saying what everybody says. I don't know how many times I've heard father say that your memory was a--a--a benediction, that's the word. A very big word for such a little girl as I am; but, dear me! I've heard folks use it so many times about you that I can speak it all right. It must be something very good. Why, of course, that's what they call the end of church service. I think it's the very best part of going to meeting. I always feel so happy when they come to the benediction. I think everybody else does too. And now about the mantle. Will you send it to the baby?" "Why, Ruth, I think it must be pretty nearly worn out. Only what you say about it, and what you say others say, makes me think that perhaps it might be worth saving, so that I could give it to the baby if folks think best. I'll look it up and talk with my wife, and perhaps I'll give it to the dear little fellow. I wish it were a better mantle, however. I'd like to see him wear one more worthy than mine." "Don't you think it's time to call the children?" said Ruth. "Send Turk," replied the Judge, with that same funny twinkle in his eye. So Ruth took the dog, and ran up-stairs and down-stairs and in the lady's chamber, and wakened the children, telling them to hurry right down to the party. [Illustration] They didn't have time to dress much. The boys all put on their trousers and stockings and slippers, and then they wrapped around them whatever was most handy. Samuel wore his father's loud, red, double gown. Henry pulled on a canvas shooting-jacket. Herbert did himself up in a rose blanket. George had on an afghan. Nathaniel brought with him a crazy-quilt. William got into his mother's golf-cape. The girls were a little more particular. They put on all their clothes except dresses. Then they wound sheets about themselves, and tied their heads up in pillow-cases. When the boys tumbled down-stairs they looked like a lot of escaped lunatics. When the girls came pushing into the parlor they made one think of ghosts. The first thing was a walk around headed by Turk and the black cat. You couldn't fancy a more startling procession. Then they played games, and sang songs, and told riddles, and looked for a needle in a haystack, and turned the house upside down and inside out. The great event of the party was the supper. Mrs. "Judge" had told the man in the moon what she wished for the occasion, and while the children were rollicking in the east parlor the clock sounded out the alarm for the feast. The Judge carried his namesake on the left arm, while his wife leaned upon his right. Ruth still kept hold of the lady's hand. The rest of the company followed in a good deal of disorder, for they were all curious to see what sort of a supper would be given them. When they came into the west parlor or dining-room they saw a long table, but there was nothing on it. The children looked at each other and at the Judge and his wife in blank amazement. They expected to sit down to a table laden with all the goodies of the land. But there wasn't even a table-cloth before them. The Judge took the head of the table, and his wife sat at the foot with Ruth. The baby was put in a clothes-basket, and sat on my lady's work-table by the side of the Judge. The other children took the places that were most convenient to them. "Where's the feed?" exclaimed Ruth. "The what?" replied Mrs. "Judge" curiously. "Why, the things you were going to give us to eat." Just then "Dublin," the linen closet, came meandering into the room, made a bow, and emptied out a long, white, snowdrop tablecloth. "Why, it must be that we're to set the table ourselves," cried Ruth, as she started to undo the cloth and shove it along. "Here you give that to me, will you?" said Samuel, with a tone of authority any commanding officer in the army or navy might envy. Then he took one end of it, and Elizabeth the other, and they spread it carefully over the table. Just then China came rattling into the room with the dishes. It was easy enough for him to get into the room; but it was quite another thing for him to move gracefully about the table, for China, you remember, was thin, long, and rather narrow. But he managed to get to the Judge, and drop a plate before him and the baby; and then he twisted around like a snake, and got down to the end of the table, and dropped a plate before Mrs. "Judge." Then he went from one child to another, and banged down a plate before each one of them. After this was done, China stepped back and stood by the side of Dublin, near the wall. El Dorado came next. He brought the silver, and there was a fine display of it. Beautiful knives and forks and spoons for every person in the room, and ever so many little furnishings that helped to brighten the table. How these things rattled and jumped and rang as they were tumbled hither and thither into their rightful places. The children didn't have to move a hand or a finger to put them in order. Every knife, fork, spoon, salt-cellar, or other article seemed to know where to go, and got there in less time than one could say "Jack Robinson." Then the silver candlesticks from the mantle jumped over to the table, and took their places with a good deal of brightness and sprightliness. At this point the antique sideboard stepped close up to the table, and rolled seventeen very thin cut-glass goblets upon the board. They made a right merry sound as they jingled out their Christmas greetings. "Don't let the baby have a goblet!" shouted Ruth. "He'd bite a piece right out of it. That's what Elizabeth did when she was a baby, mother says. Isn't it a wonder she didn't die?" But everybody was watching this extraordinary way of setting the table, so that the child's remark fell unnoticed. There was a most lively and musical ringing of bells at this stage of the table setting. Turpentine came dancing into the room. Turpentine was the closet in the Judge's study that had been used to store the church-bells in. When the last wooden meeting-house had burned they took the old bell, which rang for the last time the sad alarm of fire on the memorable night, and they sent it away to be melted up and made into five hundred little bells. There were dinner-bells and tea-bells and call-bells and sleigh-bells and play-horse bells on lines, and I don't know how many other kinds. Nearly all of these had been sold, but thirty or forty remained in the closet. Turpentine came into the room playing with these, and rolled one down in front of each person at the table. "How would you like to have the dinner served, Ruth?" inquired Mrs. "Judge." "Oh, served of course," she replied. "Bells first course," shouted Samuel. The older children all snickered. "I think you ought to call Turpentine 'Bells-ze-bub!'" Samuel whispered to Helen. "See?" For by this time the children had all come to a familiar footing with their visitors, and they were expressing themselves with a good deal of freedom and having a right good time. The Refrigerator entered the room now, and tramping heavily over to Mrs. "Judge," swung open his door, and flung gracefully upon the table a big dish of half-shells. No sooner were they placed where they belonged than they began to roll about to the different plates, like a lot of marbles, only they seemed to know how to divide themselves up so that every one had a proper share. Then the Refrigerator dumped out another large dish of something fresh and green; and this stuff sailed along the table, as one sees seaweed float back and forth on the tide. "I know what it is. They grow down by the brook. Caresses. Aren't they nice and fresh?" "Third course, caresses," shouted Samuel. And then he bent over and kissed the girl next to his side; the Judge kissed the baby, Ruth kissed Mrs. "Judge," and the rest of the children kissed each other. "Awful sweet course!" exclaimed Henry. "Very much of it makes a fellow sick." This was followed by the entrance of the kitchen closet number one. A fine brass kettle popped out upon the table. There was a great rattling and clashing. Everybody tried to look into the bottom of it. "That's a pretty kettle of fish," said Samuel, who was the first to get a glance at the contents. And sure enough it was; for there were seventeen tin fishes, such as you see floating around after a magnet on some basin of water at Christmas time. "Look out for bones," cried Herbert. "What next?" And then Vanity came down-stairs, giggling and simpering, and passed something around. "Crimps," said Ruth, "hot and steaming, straight from the irons." A very strong odor of scorched hair pervaded the room. "Goodness me, what a treat!" exclaimed Henry. "Give 'em to the girls. They are fond of 'em." Kitchen closet number two came hurrying into the room. China rushed forward with bowls which he had borrowed from the bowling-alley; and each bowl was filled with bean porridge hot, bean porridge cold, bean porridge in the pot nine days old. "Here comes the spring chicken!" exclaimed Herbert, as the Refrigerator distributed one spring with chicken attached. "Do-nots for old-fashioned boys and girls," wheezed out Darkest Africa, as he pushed his way into the room. The company was getting pretty large, for all the closets had come. One stood behind each person at the table, and the other forty-three were pressing against each other, trying to see the table and hear the conversation, or do any little waiting upon the merry party. They were all busy eating, talking, drinking, having the best time in all the world. There was an abundance of everything. I don't know what all. But as the courses were brought on the Judge and his wife became a little restless. They felt that the east wind was rising. And when the clock struck twelve it was necessary for them to be back in the pictures, whether there was any east wind or not. So there was some confusion, considerable crowding, and a good deal of haste during the latter part of the feast. "I'm afraid the children will get dyspepsia, Judge," observed the cautious lady. "The children are eating too fast. The closets are bringing on too many things at a time." "Time and tide wait for no man," replied the Judge, who had caught the hilarity of the company, and was enjoying every moment of the fun. "I wish to see this board cleared up before we clear out." Now, Mrs. "Judge" was the least bit shocked at such undignified speech on the part of her husband. But she knew he didn't mean any harm. He was only entering into the spirit of the frolic. Yet she felt that he ought to set an example of sober conversation, so that they would remember him with the highest respect. The Judge, however, had a sense of humor that could not be held altogether in check. "I think we ought to have some toasts," said Samuel. "All in favor of the nomination say, 'Dickery, dickery dock, the mouse ran up the clock, the clock ran down, the mouse came down, dickery, dickery dock;' and Samuel rose to propose the first toast. Kitchen closet number three came forward, and put into his hand a nice, big toasting-fork. Flourishing this about his head, and hitting Henry on the right ear with it, Samuel lifted a goblet filled with hot air to his lips, and proposed the health of the Judge and his wife. The applause was overwhelming. The children clapped their hands, and lifted their voices on high. The dishes jumped like mad. The bells rang so that you couldn't hear yourself think. The closets creaked and groaned, and slammed their doors, and shook their shelves, until it seemed that they must fall in pieces. The Judge gathered his waterproof about him, pulled on his necktie for a moment, cleared his throat, and then responded. "Children and closets," he said. The children all rose and bowed, the closets all turned around twice and stood on one corner. "This is in some respects the greatest day of my life." "You mean night, don't you, Judge?" interrupted Samuel. "Oh! I beg pardon, night of my life. Correct, my son." He bowed good-naturedly to the critic. "We haven't stayed in those portraits on the east parlor wall for nothing all these years. We've been waiting for such a time as this. I think the east wind is rising, and soon we shall have to go back to our pictures; but I am glad to say that this is the sort of family that I always had in mind when I built this house. It's lonesome to live without children. This is a strange world. I have observed generally that the people who want children don't have them. And the people who have them don't always want them. And the people who know the most about bringing them up are the people who never had any, and never lived in a family of children when they were young. But I really believe that one never gets much out of this world except it comes to him through children. And now I hope that you will be such children that when you grow to be men and women we shall not be ashamed of you. My wife and I expect to stay in the portraits. We shall always be on the watch for you and sometimes in the clock. There isn't anything in the world that would give us such pleasure as to see you children grow and become the best men and women in all the nation. I suppose you have enough boys to make a foot-ball team, and enough girls to drain a common pocket-book and spread it all over your backs; but you are going to make something better than idlers and spendthrifts. Some of you will take to one thing, and some to another, but you will all take to the right. I expect to see you filling up the house with nice friends, going off to college, and bringing back good company and great honors. By and by you will all settle in life, and have homes of your own; but we shall keep at home here on the wall, and look for your frequent visits. Ruth has made me very happy. I'll tell you how. She has said some of the things to me that people have said to her about me,--kind things, sweet praises, words of happy remembrance. Now, I hope that you will live and love in such a true way that when you get into a picture and stay a hundred years, and then step down and out for a little while, people will say just as noble things about you. 'Tis sweet to be remembered. And I feel very anxious to do something for all you children. This is the first time we ever kept Christmas. We're going to make you some Christmas presents. But they shall be put in your stockings." "I'll hang up my hip boots," interrupted Samuel. "I'll hang up my golf stockings," exclaimed Henry. "I'll hang my trousers; and you, Elizabeth, can hang your bicycle bloomers." The Judge smiled, and waited a moment, and then continued. "These presents are different from the ordinary gifts you receive. You'll have plenty of candy and dolls and such things. We shall give you things that you can always keep and carry with you. And they will be worth more than money, in case you use them according to directions. And remember that we give them because we have learned to love you, even if we do live in pictures, and that we expect you will honor the house, the people, and the State." The Judge swallowed a tear. "We never had boys and girls to go out into the world to make their mark. Our two boys," and here the Judge's voice was feeble and trembling, and he stopped for a moment and wiped away two or three tears, "Our boys were sick, and after quite a good many years they went away forever. Children, I want you to fill their places, and more. I expect that you will go out into the world, and do so much good, and serve your country with such zeal and wisdom, that people will by and by come here to see the house, and say, 'This is where Samuel and Henry, George or Herbert, William, Nathaniel, or the "Little Judge" lived, and were brought up.' Or 'This was the childhood home of Elizabeth, Helen, Miriam, Theodora, Grace, Ruth, Ethel, or Susie. I wonder who slept in that room, and if this was the favorite window, and which one of the family planted this shrub or vine or tree, and what was the best-loved play nook,' and all sorts of questions. Don't you think it will be nice? And then my wife and I will say, or try to say, or make them understand in some way, that you belonged to us next to belonging to your parents, and that we guarded the house day and night, for you know that in the picture we are always awake; come into the east parlor at any hour of the twenty-four and we always have our eyes open, and we know everything that is going on. We'll make them understand that a part of the love and thanks they feel belongs to us, and we shall be so happy, and when we meet again we shall have so many things to tell each other. Now Ruth will see to the presents, for we are not educated up to a belief in Santa Claus. Ruth will"--Just at this point the clock began to strike twelve. Now, the Judge and his wife were the most polite, really the best-mannered people in all the world. But that striking of the clock seemed to knock all the manners out of them. The Judge sprang from the table quick as a flash, and in his haste turned the clothes-basket with the "Little Judge" in it bottom side up. Mrs. "Judge" jumped up as spry as a girl, and ran toward the Judge, who grabbed her by the hand, and pushed her hard against the closets in the way, and struggled to get into the hall. [Illustration] There was the greatest confusion imaginable in the house. The children were all hitting the dishes, scattering the silver, overturning the goblets, tumbling over the chairs. The closets all made a rush for the door, and jammed themselves so close together that Samuel and Henry had to raise the front windows, and jump out on the piazza, and climb in at the parlor windows, and the other children followed them pell-mell. There was the greatest noise you ever heard in a house. The clock sounded with terrific strikes. The front door-bell, the dinner-bell, and all the other bells rang an alarm. Things in the closets seemed breaking themselves to pieces or going into fits. The piano roared and shrieked like a hurricane. Every board and brick and nail and bit of glass, metal, or wood squeaked or rattled. The very carpets shook with dust and fear. And then, as the children caught a glimpse of the Judge and his wife back again in the portraits, the clock struck the twelfth stroke, the lights all went out, the children were back in bed, and silence reigned throughout the old mansion. V. STOCKINGS FILLED WITH MUSIC, RAINBOWS, SENSE, BACKBONE, SUNSETS, IMPULSES, GOLD SPOON, IDEALS, SUNSHINE, STAR, MANTLE, FLOWERS,--AND THE LIKE QUEER STUFF. V. STOCKINGS FILLED WITH MUSIC, RAINBOWS, SENSE, BACKBONE, SUNSETS, IMPULSES, GOLD SPOON, IDEALS, SUNSHINE, STAR, MANTLE, FLOWERS,--AND THE LIKE QUEER STUFF. RUTH was the only one left awake in the house. And it was very lonesome for her. But she had promised to distribute the presents. Mrs. "Judge" told her that the man in the moon would bring them at twelve o'clock, and that he would put them in Turpentine. Ruth didn't like to go into the Judge's old study, but that was where she would find Turpentine; so she ran and got the baby, who had red hair, and served the purpose of a light, and then she bravely went into the far away part of the parsonage. She took Satan, the cat, because his eyes were like coals of fire, and helped to drive away the darkness; and she had Turk for company's sake. The baby was soon astride his back, crowing like a good fellow. [Illustration] [Illustration] When they got into the old study the light shone right through the door that led into Turpentine. It frightened Ruth. She thought the house might be on fire. But the door swung open of itself; and she and the baby, Satan and Turk, all entered. The little room was a blaze of glory. She had to put her hands up to her eyes and shade them, because the light was so strong. It all came from a row of packages arranged on the shelves. And such a wonderful, mysterious, lovely sight you never saw. The packages were various shapes and sizes. They were all done up in nothing with greatest care, and each was tied with a narrow piece of something or other. Several packages had strings of blue sky around them, ending in curious bows. Three packages were tied with real little rainbows. They were beautiful objects. The rest of them had sunsets twisted about them, gorgeous colors streaming from them in all directions. Do you wonder that Ruth's eyes were dazzled? A singular thing about the packages was, that being done up in nothing, and bound with such tenuous and transparent stuff as blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows, one could see straight through these coverings and fastenings, and gaze upon the beautiful things within. Each present had a label of light above it. For instance, there were the shining letters, S,A,M,U,E,L, worked upon the background of darkness over the present for Samuel. The letters seemed to hover above the package just as you see light hover above children's heads in some pictures of the old masters. So it was very easy for Ruth to pick out the different gifts, and put them where they belonged. There were seventeen of them. One for each child, one for the minister, and one for his wife. "How nice to remember father and mother!" said Ruth to the dog, the cat, and the baby. "I never thought of that. Now, how shall I carry them?" For she felt that she would like to show them to the Judge and his wife. So she raised the window that connected this closet with the parlor, and taking each gift, carried it to the piano, and arranged the whole show where Mr. and Mrs. "Judge" might see it from the pictures. The baby, Turk, and Satan watched her while she made the change. The parlor was warm; and just as soon as she brought the marvellous presents into the room, every nook and cranny was a perfect splendor of brightness. "Dear me!" exclaimed the child, "I must go up-stairs and get some colored glasses or I shall lose my eyesight." She was gone and back again in one minute and thirteen seconds. The green goggles gave her a wise and aged appearance, and she seemed to feel the importance of the occasion. "Here are the presents, Judge." She was now addressing the pictures. "They are just too sweet for anything. How nice it is that I don't have to undo any of them, but can look right straight through their covers, and see what's in every package!" The Judge and his wife were both wide awake, taking in every word that Ruth spoke. "Now, what is this for Samuel? A flower, I do believe. He can wear it in his buttonhole. Oh, how sweet and beautiful it is! The house seems full of its sweetness. I love it." Ruth bent over to kiss the airy, fragile thing. "Why, here's a name under it, and a sentence. Did you write it Judge?" And the picture seemed to nod as much as to say "Yes." "Courtesy." "To be worn all one's waking hours. It will make the wearer welcome." The next package was shaped round like a ball. The bow on it was blue sky. "It looks to me like a--what is it you call it, when you look into a mirror? Oh! I've got it. It's a reflection. Now, that must be for Helen. Yes, I see her name in fine letters of flame above. H,E,L,E,N. You didn't send the curls, did you?" Ruth looked anxiously at Mrs. "Judge." "I suppose you thought that as Helen was going to write a book she needed reflection more than the curls." The third package was long. The thing within was long, and it looked like nothing that one had ever seen. "What can it be?" said Ruth to herself. As she took it and felt of it, she found that it was sensitive, yet quite firm. The object was pure white, not a spot or wrinkle on it. The floating label above the package spelled out the letters H,E,R,B,E,R,T. Ruth read the name. "That can't be backbone. It's too light for that. And yet how strong it is. How in the world can he ever get that inside of him where it belongs?" The fourth package was about seven inches in length, rather narrow, and larger at one end than the other. "I do believe it's a spoon," shouted Ruth. "It must be for Theodora. They've found her gold spoon, and sent it to her. And yet it doesn't look like gold. How funny! When I feel of it I don't feel of anything. It isn't so pretty as I thought it would be. It has a kind of dull look. But how much better one feels to hold it." Ruth had taken the curious object in her hand, and was putting it up to her lips, and going through various motions with it. "Here is some writing. The spoon is marked. What big letters they are! Theodora hasn't all those initials. C,O,N,T,E,N,T,M,E,N,T. Well, that beats me. But I suppose she'll know what it means." The child now picked up her own present. They all seemed so bright and wonderful that she had forgotten to choose her own first. Ruth's package had a great many sides to it. Every color imaginable appeared on the surface. It was tied with several little rainbows, and there were ever so many streamers and rosettes upon it. She saw her name above; and she saw some letters printed into the leaves of the flower, for it was a lovely, shining little blossom that was contained within her package. It seemed to her that all the colors of all the rainbows in the sky had been woven into this matchless posey. There were nine leaves to it, and each leaf was made up of half a dozen shades of one or another color. And then on each leaf there was distinctly seen a letter done in diamond embroidery; so that the light which shot forth from such delicate tracery was almost as bright as the sun. One leaf had S, a second E, a third N, a fourth T, a fifth I, a sixth M, a seventh E, an eighth N, and the ninth and last T. Ruth spelled it out carefully. S,E,N,T,--here she paused and thought a moment. "Why, to be sure!" she exclaimed; "it has a very sweet scent. I think it smells quite as good as Samuel's. But I told you, you remember" (she was now addressing the pictures), "that father said I needed sense. I'm afraid he'll say that one 'sent' isn't enough." Then she continued her spelling. "I, MENT. Well, now, isn't that queer? 'I meant.'" She repeated it several times. "I meant cent. Were you trying to correct me, Judge? When I said sense did I mean (what is it they call it), oh, singular, not plural? Everybody says I've got a great deal of imagination, but I lack (father says sense but that isn't what I mean now)--I lack."... And then Ruth looked at the flower again; and spelled the word, and spoke it aloud. "'SENTIMENT,' that's it. Sentiment. I know what it is. I shall certainly be a poet. They all say so. Thank you, dear Judge and Mrs. 'Judge.' I'm going to begin to-morrow and write poetry. I feel as if I could write some now. But I must go through the presents and put them in the children's stockings first." So Ruth put down her package of "Sentiment," and examined the other gifts. She took the one marked H,E,N,R,Y into her hands, and the room was filled with the most heavenly music. The package was the shape of a cylinder. It had a transparent cylinder within it. And this cylinder was written all over with strange characters, exactly as you see or feel on the cylinder of a graphophone. Only it didn't seem to be made of anything, and when Ruth took the object into her hands it was like holding a pinch of air. It appeared to run of its own accord. Ruth was enchanted with the melodies. They made her think of everything good "in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth." She was so happy that she cried. Every tear that she dropped went into the machine, and made the music all the sweeter. Then she read the words under the package. "Music in the soul;" and she felt as if it were really stealing into her, and as if it were impossible to keep it there, and she must let this music in the soul go in every direction. "Isn't this lovely!" she exclaimed. "I never dreamed music in the soul was so sweet. Why Henry'll be the happiest boy in all the world." Ruth then took into her hands a heart-shaped package. It was tied up with a sunset that was gorgeous with a great many shades of red. "I know what's inside that package without looking," she said. Although of course she had looked, and seen the form of the present, and noted the colors used in tying it up. "That's a heart; and it's for George. Isn't it cunning? Why, what a little thing it is? and it's soft. Will this make George soft-hearted and tender-hearted and good-hearted? I hope so. It's real nice of you to send it." The next present was for Elizabeth. It was circular shape, like a small hoop; some parts of it were light and some dark, some very beautiful and some almost ugly. Yet the darkest, ugliest spots upon it were illuminated and glorified by brilliant flashes of what looked like lightning playing around the hoop. When Ruth held the object this singular brightness would flame up into her face. It didn't hurt. It fascinated her. She felt like sitting down and watching every change. The words underneath the circle read, "Experience is the best teacher." She spelled it out, then her eyes beamed with delight. "It's the very thing that Elizabeth needs. I was afraid you couldn't give it to her. I have heard it was hard to pass on experience to other people. Now Elizabeth can run the house and mother can travel. That will be real jolly." "Here is something for Susie," cried Ruth, as she put down Elizabeth's package, and took up the next one. "It's a cup made of--of--of--why, isn't that queer?--made of wishes. This is the first time I ever really saw a wish. Now, Susie always teases for the wish-bone. And here's a cup made, not of wish-bones, but of wishes. I wonder if she can drink out of it. She's always telling how 'thursday' she is. We're sometimes afraid she'll drink the well dry. Why, the cup is full of something. It sparkles. 'A Draught of Bliss.' That's what it says under the cup. I know what that means. It means to feel as good as one can feel. Well, I'm glad she's going to have it. If the cup spills over we'll catch some of the drops. And if she feels good we'll all feel better." Thus wisely remarked the child to the pictures. The next package had a dream wrapped up in it. You never saw anything more curious. It was as light as a feather, as bright as a button, as sweet as a rose, as gay as a lark, as true as steel, as deep as the sea, as high as heaven, as wise as an owl, as you like it. It had all the hues of the rainbow. It was as odd as Dick's hatband. It went floating against the blue sky. It dipped down into several sunsets as you see swallows dip down or fly up when a storm is coming. It seemed well suited to Nathaniel, the humming-bird sort of a boy. And there were the letters in shotted light over against the gloom, N,A,T,H,A,N,I,E,L. "Dear little Nathaniel," said Ruth, as she handled the dream carefully, putting it back in its wrappings of nothing, and tying it up again with blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows all mixed together. "Won't he be surprised to see a real dream, and carry it all around town to show folks. And it's a good dream, a nice dream, I know. I can tell by touching it and feeling of it all over." The next package was a large one; and it was for Grace, although she was not one of the largest girls. It was shaped like a triangle, and when you took hold of it the thing seemed to stretch bigger and bigger. "What can it be, I wonder," mused Ruth. And then looking keenly through the nothing that covered it, she discovered that there were a great many little, charming, luminous objects packed into the package. They were different shapes and colors and sizes. But every one of them was pleasant to the touch, alluring to the eye, and melodious to the ear. Whether each one contained a music-box or not, it was impossible to say, but strains of angelic songs kept escaping. It reminded Ruth of Henry's "Music in the Soul." Underneath the triangular box she read these words: "A fine Assortment of Generous Impulses. Warranted Pure." The big words she skipped, except the two, generous impulses. She knew them at once, for she had heard her father say a great deal on that subject. "Judge, it's very good of you to send these dear, blessed things to Grace. I'm perfectly sure she'll divide up and give every one of us as many as we like. I should think there might be a hundred in the box. I'm a-going to climb right up here on the piano and kiss both of you." And she did; and she carried the generous impulses with her when she did it. When Ruth jumped down on the floor again she examined Miriam's package. It held a star, a real star. The man in the moon brought it down from the sky. "Isn't this wonderful beyond anything!" exclaimed the child. "How many times we've said 'Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are,' and now here you are." The little, shrewd, cunning fellow sparkled and glistened so that Ruth's eyes ached in spite of her green goggles. He seemed a very intelligent creature. He could almost talk. "I heard father say something about plucking the stars from heaven the other day, and then he repeated something about the stars growing cold. This star isn't cold, I know. And there's his name down at the bottom. 'A Star of Hope.' Hope so. Now Miriam will be proud enough. We shall see her going around with her star. I've heard about babies being born under some star or other. I see now how they could get under. Judge, will Miriam be a star herself now? Do you think she will star it? 'Star of Hope.' This beats me." Ethel's present was next. The package was so bright that it was impossible to tell the shape of it. From every direction the light rayed forth in dazzling brilliancy. "I'm sure it is a box of glory," cried Ruth. The writing underneath the shining, beautiful thing said "Sunshine." "Haven't we been singing 'Rise, Shine?' How lovely it will be to have Ethel go about the house scattering sunshine! What strange stuff it is!" As she said this Ruth took a handful of it out of the package and examined it very closely. "It keeps slipping out of the hands and dropping down to the floor or rising up to the wall. Dear me! how shall I get it back?" She chased it in ten ways at the same time. "But I can't catch it," she continued; "and see, there is quite as much of it left as there was in my hands and the box before it floated away. Oh! won't this be nice on rainy days? We can have the house filled with sunshine, even if it does rain, and the sky is black with clouds. I do think I never saw such elegant, wonderful presents in all my life, and I don't believe any other children in all this world ever got such things as we have for our Christmas." The next present was for William. As Ruth looked at it she seemed lost in thought. She was studying it out. There wasn't any shape to the thing. The package itself didn't have any shape. It was a beautiful mass of light. Yet the longer you looked at it, the more lovely, attractive, and real it appeared. Finally it did take a shape; and when you made up your mind that it was round or square or octagonal or irregular or something else, the shapeliness of the thing vanished. "I wonder if it's a thought?" the child said to herself. "I've often thought I'd like to see what a thought looks like. I hear so much about thought and thoughts, that I'm real curious. Father told mother the other day that I was a very thoughtful child. If I'm thought_ful_, seems to me I ought to see a good many or feel 'em." Then she looked down under the package, and read, "A Bundle of I,D,E,A,L,S." "Why, I don't see any bundle," she exclaimed. But that moment the mass of light changed into strands of willowy brightness, and she could see there was a neat little bundle of these shining threads. She took the bundle into her hands and pulled out one. This first strand was straight as an arrow, and there suddenly showed itself at the bottom of it a chain of letters. The strand of splendor, in fact, appeared to grow out of these letters. They were M,A,N,L,I,N,E,S,S. The letters were made in quaint forms, and they were indescribably beautiful. Ruth pulled out another strand from the bundle. This seemed larger and more solid than the first, and quite as precious. Letters soon formed into a chain at the lower end, and these were W,O,R,T,H. She pulled out the third strand. It seemed almost alive, being in constant motion. The chain of letters beneath it was as follows: S,E,R,V,I,C,E. A fourth strand had the letters H,O,N,O,R entwined about one end. And there were many other similar strands. Ruth had on her thinking-cap (made of nothing particular, and trimmed with everything in general) all the time that she was examining them. Of a sudden the word "Ideals" struck her. "I know now what these bright, lovely things are," she cried. "I've heard father preach about them, and he has told us children I think hundreds of times. He says we must all have them, and have the best too. Why didn't you think of it before? Judge, you're just as good as you can be." Ruth was talking to the pictures. "Father and mother will be very thankful that you have brought all these into the family. I know what an Ideal is. It's what you want to be, and try to be. Haven't I heard Samuel and Elizabeth and the older ones talk about high ideals?" As she spoke she shook the radiant little bundle, and saw all sorts of great, noble men and fine, lovely women spring right out of the brightness, taking form before her face and eyes. "I do declare that looks like William." She was gazing at one of the tiny, luminous faces that appeared against the shadows. "We shall all pop into the light like that, I expect. That must be what father calls attaining one's Ideal. Isn't it grand? Yes, there come the other children. One springs out of one Ideal, and another out of another. It's just like a fairy tale. But I never dreamed what curious things Ideals were. How rich we shall be?" Then Ruth gathered the Ideals together, and put them back where she found them. The next present was for her mother. It was resting on an air-cushion in a casket of love. It seemed to Ruth that the sun and moon and a good many stars had got into that package. It took more rainbows than you can shake a stick at to tie up the package securely, so that nothing could get to it. The present was a crown, and underneath were the words "A Mother's Jewels." There were fifteen of them, no two alike. The crown was a cloud with a silver lining. Ruth took it in her hands, and putting it on her head, felt the light running all down her head and over her face. It wasn't the least bit uncomfortable. But the top of the crown was the most wonderful. All the fifteen jewels studded it, so that, as one wore it, anybody standing by would almost think that the brightest lights in the heavens had been borrowed, and wrought into this head-dress. And each jewel had a name all about it, the letters being made of the very smallest stars that you can find out of doors. The child was too astonished and delighted to talk as she examined this gift. She put it back in its casket without one word. It took her breath away, so that she couldn't say anything. By the side of this package was one for her father. She was glad to turn to it, for it was not so splendid and marvellous that it dumfounded her. His package had a bottle in it. "I believe it's made of forget-me-nots," said Ruth. She took it into her hands, and found it was woven like basket work, a sort of wicker bottle. Only the stems of the plants were so intertwisted that the blossoms all came to the outside. But both stems and blossoms were perfectly transparent, so you could see straight through into the inside. "E,S,S,E,N,C,E of C,H,E,E,R,F,U,L,N,E,S,S. To be taken eternally." This was written beneath, and Ruth spelled the two big words slowly. "I know what that means," she continued. "The Judge is going to give father some more sense. For essence, of course, is only another kind of sense. Oh! I forgot the essence man. He brings us peppermint and vanilla and cologne. We season things, and make ourselves smell good. Now, that's what you've sent to father, isn't it? Essence of Cheerfulness. You want him to season things with cheerfulness, don't you, and make himself and all the rest of us fragrant? And he'll do it. He's always saying that we ought to be cheerful. But what kind of stuff is it?" and Ruth tipped up the bottle to taste of its contents. She smacked her lips and beamed with delight. "I do believe it's a spirit. Father says, you can't see spirit but you can feel it. I can't see anything but light in that bottle, but I can feel something all through me. I must dance a little, I feel so good. Oh, dear me! that's the way people sometimes act when they've drunk from bad bottles. But I can't help it." She caught her skirts in each hand, and airily waltzed up and down the room. "I must see if the mantle is here," she suddenly exclaimed. "How strange that I've just thought of it!" And then she stopped to look at the baby's present. "It can't be that the Judge's mantle would go into such a little package as that." So Ruth remarked as she took the tiny thing in hand. It was tied with the most brilliant sunset that eyes ever saw. The streamers attached to the bow were much bigger than the package itself. When Ruth undid it, and held the singular object before her eyes, it seemed to grow large and long. It was truly the Judge's mantle. As she shook it out, and let its folds drop down to the floor, the pictures fairly beamed with glory. "Silver threads among the gold," exclaimed the child, as the beauteous garment flashed its splendors into her eyes. For the warp was the pure gold of character, while the woof was the fine silver of influence. And they were woven into a fabric of surpassing richness. Then this matchless weaving was covered with fairest embroidery. Every color that imagination ever conceived appeared upon the garment. There was the white light of truth, the red of sacrifice, the purple of royalty, the greens of fresh life, the pink of propriety, the red that you see in a green blackberry, the blue of a minister's Monday, and true blue, auburn from a child's head, hazel from a child's eyes, black as thunder cloud, pale as death, the lemon of lemon ice, orange from orangeade, and a great many others. And these colors were worked into words, flowers of rhetoric, scenes indeed, pictures of love, kindness, wisdom, and peace. It was also adorned with quite a number of gems of poetry, and it had a pearl of great price to fasten it at the throat. The first thing which Ruth did was to try it on, but it dragged on the floor. It occurred to her that the baby must wait until he was grown up before it fitted him. Still, she tried it on the baby. No sooner did she wrap it around him than it seemed to shrink to his size. "Why, we can use it for a winter coat," she said. And the "Little Judge," who had fallen asleep before the fire, where he had crawled with Turk and the cat, cooed and laughed when the mantle was wrapped about him, seeming to feel that it was the very thing that would make him happy and comfortable. All the time that Ruth was handling the magic thing, it continued to throw off little points of light and countless mites of color, and these settled down on the furniture and carpet and the curtains and the walls and the ceiling, until the room was like a palace studded with twinkling, shifting, radiant stars; and every present on the piano was shining and scattering light, the air being filled with music, and Ruth was wild with delight and excitement. [Illustration] The next thing was to carry the gifts to the stockings where they belonged. Wherever she went, there was the brightness of noonday, so she never had a fear. Even the closet with the skeleton in it did not make her tremble. Beginning with father and mother, she visited every stocking, and put each gift in its proper place; then she carried the baby to bed, and left Turk and Satan snuggled up together in front of the fire; and then it seemed to her that she floated away in a sea of light; and then mounting upon the wings of the wind, she suddenly met the sand man who pushed her into the Land of Nod. The last that she remembered was blue sky, gems of poetry, rainbows, shooting stars, flowers of rhetoric, strains of music, sunsets, closets, stockings, Christmas cheer, sunshine, and a great many other things, all standing around the type-writer in her father's study, telling the machine what to say, and begging that everything might be set down in a book and live forever. E. HAPPY DAY. E. HAPPY DAY. NOW, when it grew toward morning Ruth awakened first, and what did she do but jump out of bed and feel of her stocking; the thing which she found was a book, and she knew without looking into it that the book told all about the Judge and the pictures, the house and the children, and the strange things that had happened on this eventful night. Later there was the sound of many voices, scores of "I wish you a merry Christmas," went flying through the air, carols burst upon the ear, and a whole host of happy, loving children shifted from one room to another, and finally gathered beneath the pictures of the Judge and his lady. Did the good man lift his hands in benediction? Did he beam with the joy of the Christ-life? The light was rather dim in the parlor, for it was early in the morning. But the children were constantly turning their eyes to the portraits. It seemed to them that new life throbbed within their souls, that grand purposes had been awakened, that charity and tenderness, the love of God and the love of one another, were moving to all kinds of well-doing. They felt as never before that they were living in the home of this great, good man, and that they must go forth into the world as his manly and womanly representatives. Peace not only filled the house, but it rested upon them. It was the most joyful day of all the years. Never a quarrel darkened a heart. Never a harsh word fell from any lips. Never a mean thought rose in their breasts. It was real Christmas cheer. And I believe that every child of them was made richer by the blessed presence (presents) of the Judge and his lady. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Repeated chapter titles were retained as some were laid out differently than at the chapter itself. Page 58, "Clause" changed to "Claus" (as Santa Claus) Page 71, "to" changed to "too" (think so too) Page 88, "bookcase" changed to "book-case" to match rest of usage in text (a low book-case beneath) Page 95, extraneous quotation mark removed before (I'll call 'Greece') Page 109, "surpressed" changed to "suppressed" (with suppressed excitement) Page 145, "everthing" changed to "everything" (everything under the sun) Page 152, single closing quotation mark changed to double (and use them?") Page 192, closing quotation mark added (it means.") Page 201, closing quotation mark added (is!" As she said this) 
30974	----	JIMBO MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LIMITED TORONTO JIMBO A FANTASY _By_ ALGERNON BLACKWOOD MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1930 COPYRIGHT _First Published_ 1909 _The Caravan Library_ 1930 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. "RABBITS" 7 II. MISS LAKE COMES--AND GOES 24 III. THE SHOCK 40 IV. ON THE EDGE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS 49 V. INTO THE EMPTY HOUSE 54 VI. HIS COMPANION IN PRISON 69 VII. THE SPELL OF THE EMPTY HOUSE 87 VIII. THE GALLERY OF ANCIENT MEMORIES 102 IX. THE MEANS OF ESCAPE 111 X. THE PLUNGE 131 XI. THE FIRST FLIGHT 142 XII. THE FOUR WINDS 153 XIII. PLEASURES OF FLIGHT 165 XIV. AN ADVENTURE 177 XV. THE CALL OF THE BODY 193 XVI. PREPARATION 204 XVII. OFF! 219 XVIII. HOME 232 JIMBO CHAPTER I "RABBITS" Jimbo's governess ought to have known better--but she didn't. If she had, Jimbo would never have met with the adventures that subsequently came to him. Thus, in a roundabout sort of way, the child ought to have been thankful to the governess; and perhaps, in a roundabout sort of way, he was. But that comes at the far end of the story, and is doubtful at best; and in the meanwhile the child had gone through his suffering, and the governess had in some measure expiated her fault; so that at this stage it is only necessary to note that the whole business began because the Empty House happened to be really an Empty House--not the one Jimbo's family lived in, but another of which more will be known in due course. Jimbo's father was a retired Colonel, who had married late in life, and now lived all the year round in the country; and Jimbo was the youngest child but one. The Colonel, lean in body as he was sincere in mind, an excellent soldier but a poor diplomatist, loved dogs, horses, guns and riding-whips. He also really understood them. His neighbours, had they been asked, would have called him hard-headed, and so far as a soft-hearted man may deserve the title, he probably was. He rode two horses a day to hounds with the best of them, and the stiffer the country the better he liked it. Besides his guns, dogs and horses, he was also very fond of his children. It was his hobby that he understood them far better than his wife did, or than any one else did, for that matter. The proper evolution of their differing temperaments had no difficulties for him. The delicate problems of child-nature, which defy solution by nine parents out of ten, ceased to exist the moment he spread out his muscular hand in a favourite omnipotent gesture and uttered some extraordinarily foolish generality in that thunderous, good-natured voice of his. The difficulty for himself vanished when he ended up with the words, "Leave that to me, my dear; believe me, I know best!" But for all else concerned, and especially for the child under discussion, this was when the difficulty really began. Since, however, the Colonel, after this chapter, mounts his best hunter and disappears over a high hedge into space so far as our story is concerned, any further delineation of his wholesome but very ordinary type is unnecessary. One winter's evening, not very long after Christmas, the Colonel made a discovery. It alarmed him a little; for it suggested to his cocksure mind that he did not understand _all_ his children as comprehensively as he imagined. Between five o'clock tea and dinner--that magic hour when lessons were over and the big house was full of shadows and mystery--there came a timid knock at the study door. "Come in," growled the soldier in his deepest voice, and a little girl's face, wreathed in tumbling brown hair, poked itself hesitatingly through the opening. The Colonel did not like being disturbed at this hour, and everybody in the house knew it; but the spell of Christmas holidays was still somehow in the air, and the customary order was not yet fully re-established. Moreover, when he saw who the intruder was, his growl modified itself into a sort of common sternness that yet was not cleverly enough simulated to deceive the really intuitive little person who now stood inside the room. "Well, Nixie, child, what do you want now?" "Please, father, will you--we wondered if----" A chorus of whispers issued from the other side of the door: "Go on, silly!" "Out with it!" "You promised you would, Nixie." "... if you would come and play Rabbits with us?" came the words in a desperate rush, with laughter not far behind. The big man with the fierce white moustaches glared over the top of his glasses at the intruders as if amazed beyond belief at the audacity of the request. "Rabbits!" he exclaimed, as though the mere word ought to have caused an instant explosion. "Rabbits!" "Oh, _please_ do." "Rabbits at this time of night!" he repeated. "I never heard of such a thing. Why, all good rabbits are asleep in their holes by now. And you ought to be in yours too by rights, I'm sure." "We don't sleep in holes, father," said the owner of the brown hair, who was acting as leader. "And there's still a nour before bedtime, _really_," added a voice in the rear. The big man slowly put his glasses down and looked at his watch. He looked very savage, but of course it was all pretence, and the children knew it. "If he was _really_ cross he'd pretend to be nice," they whispered to each other, with merciless perception. "Well--" he began. But he who hesitates, with children, is lost. The door flung open wide, and the troop poured into the room in a medley of long black legs, flying hair and outstretched hands. They surrounded the table, swarmed upon his big knees, shut his stupid old book, tried on his glasses, kissed him, and fell to discussing the game breathlessly all at once, as though it had already begun. This, of course, ended the battle, and the big man had to play the part of the Monster Rabbit in a wonderful game of his own invention. But when, at length, it was all over, and they were gathered panting round the fire of blazing logs in the hall, the Monster Rabbit--the only one with any breath at his command--looked up and spoke. "Where's Jimbo?" he asked. "Upstairs." "Why didn't he come and play too?" "He didn't want to." "Why? What's he doing?" Several answers were forthcoming. "Nothing in p'tickler." "Talking to the furniture when I last saw him." "Just thinking, as usual, or staring in the fire." None of the answers seemed to satisfy the Monster Rabbit, for when he kissed them a little later and said good-night, he gave orders, with a graver face, for Jimbo to be sent down to the study before he went to bed. Moreover, he called him "James," which was a sure sign of parental displeasure. "James, why didn't you come and play with your brothers and sisters just now?" asked the Colonel, as a dreamy-eyed boy of about eight, with a mop of dark hair and a wistful expression, came slowly forward into the room. "I was in the middle of making pictures." "Where--what--making pictures?" "In the fire." "James," said the Colonel in a serious tone, "don't you know that you are getting too old now for that sort of thing? If you dream so much, you'll fall asleep altogether some fine day, and never wake up again. Just think what that means!" The child smiled faintly and moved up confidingly between his father's knees, staring into his eyes without the least sign of fear. But he said nothing in reply. His thoughts were far away, and it seemed as if the effort to bring them back into the study and to a consideration of his father's words was almost beyond his power. "You must run about more," pursued the soldier, rubbing his big hands together briskly, "and join your brothers and sisters in their games. Lie about in the summer and dream a bit if you like, but now it's winter, you must be more active, and make your blood circulate healthily,--er--and all that sort of thing." The words were kindly spoken, but the voice and manner rather deliberate. Jimbo began to look a little troubled, as his father watched him. "Come now, little man," he said more gently, "what's the matter, eh?" He drew the boy close to him. "Tell me all about it, and what it is you're always thinking about so much." Jimbo brought back his mind with a tremendous effort, and said, "I don't like the winter. It's so dark and full of horrid things. It's all ice and shadows, so--so I go away and think of what I like, and other places----" "Nonsense!" interrupted his father briskly; "winter's a capital time for boys. What in the world d'ye mean, I wonder?" He lifted the child on to his knee and stroked his hair, as though he were patting the flank of a horse. Jimbo took no notice of the interruption or of the caress, but went on saying what he had to say, though with eyes a little more clouded. "Winter's like going into a long black tunnel, you see. It's downhill to Christmas, of course, and then uphill all the way to the summer holidays. But the uphill part's so slow that----" "Tut, tut!" laughed the Colonel in spite of himself; "you mustn't have such thoughts. Those are a baby's notions. They're silly, silly, silly." "Do you _really_ think so, father?" continued the boy, as if politeness demanded some recognition of his father's remarks, but otherwise anxious only to say what was in his mind. "You wouldn't think them silly if you really knew. But, of course, there's no one to tell you in the stable, so you _can't_ know. You've never seen the funny big people rushing past you and laughing through their long hair when the wind blows so loud. _I_ know several of them almost to speak to, but you hear only wind. And the other things with tiny legs that skate up and down the slippery moonbeams, without ever tumbling off--they aren't silly a bit, only they don't like dogs and noise. And I've seen the furniture"--he pronounced it furchinur--"dancing about in the day-nursery when it thought it was alone, and I've heard it talking at night. I know the big cupboard's voice quite well. It's just like a drum, only rougher...." The Colonel shook his head and frowned severely, staring hard at his son. But though their eyes met, the boy hardly saw him. Far away at the other end of the dark Tunnel of the Months he saw the white summer sunshine lying over gardens full of nodding flowers. Butterflies were flitting across meadows yellow with buttercups, and he saw the fascinating rings upon the lawn where the Fairy People held their dances in the moonlight; he heard the wind call to him as it ran on along by the hedgerows, and saw the gentle pressure of its swift feet upon the standing hay; streams were murmuring under shady trees; birds were singing; and there were echoes of sweeter music still that he could not understand, but loved all the more perhaps on that account.... "Yes," announced the Colonel later that evening to his wife, spreading his hands out as he spoke. "Yes, my dear, I _have_ made a discovery, and an alarming one. You know, I'm rarely at fault where the children are concerned--and I've noted all the symptoms with unusual care. James, my dear, is an imaginative boy." He paused to note the effect of his words, but seeing none, continued: "I regret to be obliged to say it, but it's a fact beyond dispute. His head is simply full of things, and he talked to me this evening about tunnels and slippery moonlight till I very nearly lost my temper altogether. Now, the boy will never make a man unless we take him in hand properly at once. We must get him a governess, or something, without delay. Just fancy, if he grew up into a poet or one of these--these----" In his distress the soldier could only think of horse-terms, which did not seem quite the right language. He stuck altogether, and kept repeating the favourite gesture with his open hand, staring at his wife over his glasses as he did so. But the mother never argued. "He's very young still," she observed quietly, "and, as you have always said, he's not a bit like other boys, remember." "Exactly what I say. Now that your eyes are opened to the actual state of affairs, I'm satisfied." "We'll get a sensible nursery-governess at once," added the mother. "A practical one?" "Yes, dear." "Hard-headed?" "Yes." "And well educated?" "Yes." "And--er--firm with children. She'll do for the lot, then." "If possible." "And a young woman who doesn't go in for poetry, and dreaming, and all that kind of flummery." "Of course, dear." "Capital. I felt sure you would agree with me," he went on. "It'd be no end of a pity if Jimbo grew up an ass. At present he hardly knows the difference between a roadster and a racer. He's going into the army, too," he added by way of climax, "and you know, my dear, the army would never stand _that_!" "Never," said the mother quietly, and the conversation came to an end. Meanwhile, the subject of these remarks was lying wide awake upstairs in the bed with the yellow iron railing round it. His elder brother was asleep in the opposite corner of the room, snoring peacefully. He could just see the brass knobs of the bedstead as the dying firelight quivered and shone on them. The walls and ceiling were draped in shadows that altered their shapes from time to time as the coals dropped softly into the grate. Gradually the fire sank, and the room darkened. A feeling of delight and awe stole into his heart. Jimbo loved these early hours of the night before sleep came. He felt no fear of the dark; its mystery thrilled his soul; but he liked the summer dark, with its soft, warm silences better than the chill winter shadows. Presently the firelight sprang up into a brief flame and then died away altogether with an odd little gulp. He knew the sound well; he often watched the fire out, and now, as he lay in bed waiting for he knew not what, the moonlight filtered in through the baize curtains and gradually gave to the room a wholly new character. Jimbo sat up in bed and listened. The house was very still. He slipped into his red dressing-gown and crept noiselessly over to the window. For a moment he paused by his brother's bed to make sure that he really was asleep; then, evidently satisfied, he drew aside a corner of the curtain and peered out. "Oh!" he said, drawing in his breath with delight, and again "oh!" It was difficult to understand why the sea of white moonlight that covered the lawn should fill him with such joy, and at the same time bring a lump into his throat. It made him feel as if he were swelling out into something very much greater than the actual limits of his little person. And the sensation was one of mingled pain and delight, too intense for him to feel for very long. The unhappiness passed gradually away, he always noticed, and the happiness merged after a while into a sort of dreamy ecstasy in which he neither thought nor wished much, but was conscious only of one single unmanageable yearning. The huge cedars on the lawn reared themselves up like giants in silver cloaks, and the horse-chestnut--the Umbrella Tree, as the children called it--loomed with motionless branches that were frosted and shining. Beyond it, in a blue mist of moonlight and distance, lay the kitchen-garden; he could just make out the line of the high wall where the fruit-trees grew. Immediately below him the gravel of the carriage drive sparkled with frost. The bars of the windows were cold to his hands, yet he stood there for a long time with his nose flattened against the pane and his bare feet on the cane chair. He felt both happy and sad; his heart longed dreadfully for something he had not got, something that seemed out of his reach because he could not name it. No one seemed to believe all the things he _knew_ in quite the same way as he did. His brothers and sisters played up to a certain point, and then put the things aside as if they had only been assumed for the time and were not real. To him they were always real. His father's words, too, that evening had sorely puzzled him when he came to think over them afterwards: "They're a baby's notions.... They're silly, silly, silly." Were these things real or were they not? And, as he pondered, yearning dumbly, as only these little souls can yearn, the wistfulness in his heart went out to meet the moonlight in the air. Together they wove a spell that seemed to summon before him a fairy of the night, who whispered an answer into his heart: "We are real so long as you believe in us. It is your imagination that makes us real and gives us life. Please, never, never stop believing." Jimbo was not quite sure that he understood the message, but he liked it all the same, and felt comforted. So long as they believed in one another, the rest did not matter very much after all. And when at last, shivering with cold, he crept back to bed, it was only to find through the Gates of Sleep a more direct way to the things he had been thinking about, and to wander for the rest of the night, unwatched and free, through the wonders of an Enchanted Land. Jimbo, as his father had said, was an imaginative child. Most children are--more or less; and he was "more," at least, "more" than his brothers and sisters. The Colonel thought he had made a penetrating discovery, but his wife had known it always. His head, indeed, was "full of things,"--things that, unless trained into a channel where they could be controlled and properly schooled, would certainly interfere with his success in a practical world, and be a source of mingled pain and joy to him all through life. To have trained these forces, ever bursting out towards creation, in his little soul,--to have explained, interpreted, and dealt fairly by them, would perhaps have been the best and wisest way; to have suppressed them altogether, cleaned them out by the process of substitution, this might have succeeded too in less measure; but to turn them into a veritable rout of horror by the common method of "frightening the nonsense out of the boy," this was surely the very worst way of dealing with such a case, and the most cruel. Yet, this was the method adopted by the Colonel in the robust good-nature of his heart, and the utter ignorance of his soul. So it came about that three months later, when May was melting into June, Miss Ethel Lake arrived upon the scene as a result of the Colonel's blundering good intentions. She brought with her a kind disposition, a supreme ignorance of unordinary children, a large store of self-confidence--and a corded yellow tin box. CHAPTER II MISS LAKE COMES--AND GOES The conversation took place suddenly one afternoon, and no one knew anything about it except the two who took part in it: the Colonel asked the governess to try and knock the nonsense out of Jimbo's head, and the governess promised eagerly to do her very best. It was her first "place"; and by "nonsense" they both understood imagination. True enough, Jimbo's mother had given her rather different instructions as to the treatment of the boy, but she mistook the soldier's bluster for authority, and deemed it best to obey him. This was her first mistake. In reality she was not devoid of imaginative insight; it was simply that her anxiety to prove a success permitted her better judgment to be overborne by the Colonel's boisterous manner. The wisdom of the mother was greater than that of her husband. For the safe development of that tender and imaginative little boy of hers, she had been at great pains to engage a girl--a clergyman's daughter--who possessed sufficient sympathy with the poetic and dreamy nature to be of real help to him; for true help, she knew, can only come from true understanding. And Miss Lake was a good girl. She was entirely well-meaning--which is the beginning of well-doing, and her principal weakness lay in her judgment, which led her to obey the Colonel too literally. "She seems most sensible," he declared to his wife. "Yes, dear." "And practical." "I think so." "And firm and--er--wise with children." "I hope so." "Just the sort for young Jimbo," added the Colonel with decision. "I trust so; she's a little young, perhaps." "Possibly, but one can't get everything," said her husband, in his horse-and-dog voice. "A year with her should clean out that fanciful brain of his, and prepare him for school with other boys. He'll be all right once he gets to school. My dear," he added, spreading out his right hand, fingers extended, "you've made a most wise selection. I congratulate you. I'm delighted." "I'm so glad." "Capital, I repeat, capital. You're a clever little woman. I knew you'd find the right party, once I showed you how the land lay." * * * * * The Empty House, that stood in its neglected garden not far from the Park gates, was built on a point of land that entered wedgewise into the Colonel's estate. Though something of an eyesore, therefore, he could do nothing with it. To the children it had always been an object of peculiar, though not unwholesome, mystery. None of them cared to pass it on a stormy day--the wind made such odd noises in its empty corridors and rooms--and they refused point-blank to go within hailing distance of it after dark. But in Jimbo's imagination it was especially haunted, and if he had ceased to reveal to the others what he _knew_ went on under its roof, it was only because they were unable to follow him, and were inclined to greet his extravagant recitals with "Now, Jimbo, you know _perfectly_ well you're only making up." The House had been empty for many years; but, to the children, it had been empty since the beginning of the world, since what they called the "_very_ beginning." They believed--well, each child believed according to his own mind and powers, but there was at least one belief they all held in common: for it was generally accepted as an article of faith that the Indians, encamped among the shrubberies on the back lawn, secretly buried their dead behind the crumbling walls of its weedy garden--the "dead" provided by the children's battles, be it understood. Wakeful ears in the night-nursery had heard strange sounds coming from that direction when the windows were open on hot summer nights; and the gardener, supreme authority on all that happened in the night (since they believed that he sat up to watch the vegetables and fruit-trees ripen, and never went to bed at all), was evidently of the same persuasion. When appealed to for an explanation of the mournful wind-voices, he knew what was expected of him, and rose manfully to the occasion. "It's either them Redskins aburyin' wot you killed of 'em yesterday," he declared, pointing towards the Empty House with a bit of broken flower-pot, "or else it's the ones you killed last week, and who was always astealin' of my strorbriz." He looked very wise as he said this, and his wand of office--a dirty trowel--which he held in his hand, gave him tremendous dignity. "That's just what _we_ thought, and of course if you say so too, that settles it," said Nixie. "It's more'n likely, missie, leastways from wot you describes, which it is a hempty house all the same, though I can't say as I've heard no sounds, not very distinct that is, myself." The gardener may have been anxious to hedge a bit, for fear of a scolding from headquarters, but his cryptic remarks pleased the children greatly, because it showed, they thought, that they knew more than the gardener did. Thus the Empty House remained an object of somewhat dreadful delight, lending a touch of wonderland to that part of the lane where it stood, and forming the background for many an enchanting story over the nursery fire in winter-time. It appealed vividly to their imaginations, especially to Jimbo's. Its dark windows, without blinds, were sometimes full of faces that retreated the moment they were looked at. That tangled ivy did not grow over the roof so thickly for nothing; and those high elms on the western side had not been planted years ago in a semicircle without a reason. Thus, at least, the children argued, not knowing exactly what they meant, nor caring much, so long as they proved to their own satisfaction that the place was properly haunted, and therefore worthy of their attention. It was natural they should lead Miss Lake in that direction on one of their first walks together, and it was natural, too, that she should at once discover from their manner that the place was of some importance to them. "What a queer-looking old house," she remarked, when they turned the corner of the lane and it came into view. "Almost a ruin, isn't it?" The children exchanged glances. A "ruin" did not seem the right sort of word at all; and, besides, was a little disrespectful. Also, they were not sure whether the new governess ought to be told everything so soon. She had not really won their confidence yet. After a slight pause--and a children's pause is the most eloquent imaginable--Nixie, being the eldest, said in a stiff little voice: "It's the Empty House, Miss Lake. _We_ know it very well indeed." "It looks empty," observed Miss Lake briskly. "But it's not a ruin, of course," added the child, with the cold dignity of chosen spokesman. "Oh!" said the governess, quite missing the point. She was talking lightly on the surface of things, wholly ignorant of the depths beneath her feet, intuition with her having always been sternly repressed. "It's a gamekeeper's cottage, or something like that, I suppose," she said. "Oh, no; it isn't a bit." "Doesn't it belong to your father, then?" "No. It's somebody else's, you see." "Then you can't have it pulled down?" "Rather not! Of course not!" exclaimed several indignant voices at once. Miss Lake perceived for the first time that it held more than ordinary importance in their mind. "Tell me about it," she said. "What is its history, and who used to live in it?" There came another pause. The children looked into each others' faces. They gazed at the blue sky overhead; then they stared at the dusty road at their feet. But no one volunteered an answer. Miss Lake, they felt, was approaching the subject in an offensive manner. "Why are you all so mysterious about it?" she went on. "It's only a tumble-down old place, and must be very draughty to live in, even for a gamekeeper." Silence. "Come, children, don't you hear me? I'm asking you a question." A couple of startled birds flew out of the ivy with a great whirring of wings. This was followed by a faint sound of rumbling, that seemed to come from the interior of the house. Outside all was still, and the hot sunshine lay over everything. The sound was repeated. The children looked at each other with large, expectant eyes. Something in the house was moving--was coming nearer. "Have you _all_ lost your tongues?" asked the governess impatiently. "But you see," Nixie said at length, "somebody _does_ live in it now." "And who is he?" "I didn't say it was a _man_." "Whoever it is--tell me about the person," persisted Miss Lake. "There's really nothing to tell," replied the child, without looking up. "Oh, but there must be something," declared the logical young governess, "or you wouldn't object so much to its being pulled down." Nixie looked puzzled, but Jimbo came to the rescue at once. "But _you_ wouldn't understand if we did tell you," he said, in a slow, respectful voice. His tone held a touch of that indescribable scorn heard sometimes in a child's tone--the utter contempt for the stupid grown-up creature. Miss Lake noticed, and felt annoyed. She recognised that she was not getting on well with the children, and it piqued her. She remembered the Colonel's words about "knocking the nonsense out" of James' head, and she saw that her first opportunity, in fact her first real test, was at hand. "And why, pray, should I not understand?" she asked, with some sharpness. "Is the mystery so _very_ great?" For some reason the duty of spokesman now devolved unmistakably upon Jimbo; and very seriously too, he accepted the task, standing with his feet firmly planted in the road and his hands in his trousers' pockets. "You see, Miss Lake," he began gravely, "we know such a lot of Things in there, that they might not like us to tell you about them. They don't know you yet. If they did it might be different. But--but--you see, it isn't." This was rather crushing to the aspiring educator, and the Colonel's instructions gained additional point in the light of the boy's explanation. "Fiddlesticks!" she laughed, "there's probably nothing at all in there, except rats and cobwebs. 'Things,' indeed!" "I knew you wouldn't understand," said Jimbo coolly, with no sign of being offended. "How could you?" He glanced at his sisters, gaining so much support from their enigmatical faces that he added, for their especial benefit, "How could she?" "The gard'ner said so too," chimed in a younger sister, with a vague notion that their precious Empty House was being robbed of its glory. "Yes; but, James, dear, I do understand perfectly," continued Miss Lake more gently, and wisely ignoring the reference to the authority of the kitchen-garden. "Only, you see, I cannot really encourage you in such nonsense----" "It isn't nonsense," interrupted Jimbo, with heat. "But, believe me, children, it _is_ nonsense. How do you know that there's anything inside? You've never been there!" "You can know perfectly well what's inside a thing without having gone there," replied Jimbo with scorn. "At least, _we_ can." Miss Lake changed her tack a little--fatally, as it appeared afterwards. "I know at any rate," she said with decision, "that there's nothing good in there. Whatever there may be is bad, thoroughly bad, and not fit for you to play with." The other children moved away, but Jimbo stood his ground. They were all angry, disappointed, sore hurt and offended. But Jimbo suddenly began to feel something else besides anger and vexation. It was a new point of view to him that the Empty House might contain bad things as well as good, or perhaps, only bad things. His imagination seized upon the point at once and set to work vigorously to develop it. This was his way with all such things, and he could not prevent it. "Bad Things?" he repeated, looking up at the governess. "You mean Things that could hurt?" "Yes, of course," she said, noting the effect of her words and thinking how pleased the Colonel would be later, when he heard it. "Things that might run out and catch you some day when you're passing here alone, and take you back a prisoner. Then you'd be a prisoner in the Empty House all your life. Think of that!" Miss Lake mistook the boy's silence as proof that she was taking the right line. She enlarged upon this view of the matter, now she was so successfully launched, and described the _Inmate of the House_ with such wealth of detail that she felt sure her listener would never have anything to do with the place again, and that she had "knocked out" this particular bit of "nonsense" for ever and a day. But to Jimbo it was a new and horrible idea that the Empty House, haunted hitherto only by rather jolly and wonderful Red Indians, contained a Monster who might take him prisoner, and the thought made him feel afraid. The mischief had, of course, been done, and the terror in his eyes was unmistakable, when the foolish governess saw her mistake. Retreat was impossible: the boy was shaking with fear; and not all Miss Lake's genuine sympathy, or Nixie's explanations and soothings, were able to relieve his mind of its new burden. Hitherto Jimbo's imagination had loved to dwell upon the pleasant side of things invisible; but now he had been severely frightened, and his imagination took a new turn. Not only the Empty House, but all his inner world, to which it was in some sense the key, underwent a distressing change. His sense of horror had been vividly aroused. The governess would willingly have corrected her mistake, but was, of course, powerless to do so. Bitterly she regretted her tactlessness and folly. But she could do nothing, and to add to her distress, she saw that Jimbo shrank from her in a way that could not long escape the watchful eye of the mother. But, if the boy shed tears of fear that night in his bed, it must in justice be told that she, for her part, cried bitterly in her own room, not that she had endangered her "place," but that she had done a cruel injury to a child, and that she was helpless to undo it. For she loved children, though she was quite unsuited to take care of them. Her just reward, however, came swiftly upon her. A few nights later, when Jimbo and Nixie were allowed to come down to dessert, the wind was heard to make a queer moaning sound in the ivy branches that hung over the dining-room windows. Jimbo heard it too. He held his breath for a minute; then he looked round the table in a frightened way, and the next minute gave a scream and burst into tears. He ran round and buried his face in his father's arms. After the tears came the truth. It was a bad thing for Miss Ethel Lake, this little sighing of the wind and the ivy leaves, for the Djin of terror she had thoughtlessly evoked swept into the room and introduced himself to the parents without her leave. "What new nonsense is this now?" growled the soldier, leaving his walnuts and lifting the boy on to his knee. "He shouldn't come down till he's a little older, and knows how to behave." "What's the matter, darling child?" asked the mother, drying his eyes tenderly. "I heard the bad Things crying in the Empty House." "The Empty House is a mile away from here!" snorted the Colonel. "Then it's come nearer," declared the frightened boy. "Who told you there were bad things in the Empty House?" asked the mother. "Yes, who told you, indeed, I should like to know!" demanded the Colonel. And then it all came out. The Colonel's wife was very quiet, but very determined. Miss Lake went back to the clerical family whence she had come, and the children knew her no more. "I'm glad," said Nixie, expressing the verdict of the nursery. "I thought she was awfully stupid." "She wasn't a real lake at all," declared another, "she was only a sort of puddle." Jimbo, however, said little, and the Colonel likewise held his peace. But the governess, whether she was a lake or only a puddle, left her mark behind her. The Empty House was no longer harmless. It had a new lease of life. It was tenanted by some one who could never have friendly relations with children. The weeds in the old garden took on fantastic shapes; figures hid behind the doors and crept about the passages; the rooks in the high elms became birds of ill-omen; the ivy bristled upon the walls, and the trivial explanations of the gardener were no longer satisfactory. Even in bright sunshine a Shadow lay crouching upon the broken roof. At any moment it might leap into life, and with immense striding legs chase the children down to the very Park gates. There was no need to enforce the decree that the Empty House was a forbidden land. The children of their own accord declared it out of bounds, and avoided it as carefully as if all the wild animals from the Zoo were roaming its gardens, hungry and unchained. CHAPTER III THE SHOCK One immediate result of Miss Lake's indiscretion was that the children preferred to play on the other side of the garden, the side farthest from the Empty House. A spiked railing here divided them from a field in which cows disported themselves, and as bulls also sometimes were admitted to the cows, the field was strictly out of bounds. In this spiked railing, not far from the great shrubberies where the Indians increased and multiplied, there was a swinging gate. The children swung on it whenever they could. They called it Express Trains, and the fact that it was forbidden only added to their pleasure. When opened at its widest it would swing them with a rush through the air, past the pillars with a click, out into the field, and then back again into the garden. It was bad for the hinges, and it was also bad for the garden, because it was frequently left open after these carnivals, and the cows got in and trod the flowers down. The children were not afraid of the cows, but they held the bull in great horror. And these trivial things have been mentioned here because of the part they played in Jimbo's subsequent adventures. It was only ten days or so after Miss Lake's sudden departure when Jimbo managed one evening to elude the vigilance of his lawful guardians, and wandered off unnoticed among the laburnums on the front lawn. From the laburnums he passed successfully to the first laurel shrubbery, and thence he executed a clever flank movement and entered the carriage drive in the rear. The rest was easy, and he soon found himself at the Lodge gate. For some moments he peered through the iron grating, and pondered on the seductiveness of the dusty road and of the ditch beyond. To his surprise he found, presently, that the gate was moving outwards; it was yielding to his weight. One thing leads easily to another sometimes, and the open gate led easily on to the seductive road. The result was that a minute later Jimbo was chasing butterflies along the green lane, and throwing stones into the water of the ditch. It was the evening of a hot summer's day, and the butterflies were still out in force. Jimbo's delight was intense. The joy of finding himself alone where he had no right to be put everything else out of his head, and for some time he wandered on, oblivious of all but the intoxicating sense of freedom and the difficulty of choosing between so many butterflies and such a magnificently dirty ditch. At first he yielded to the seductions of the ditch. He caught a big, sleepy beetle and put it on a violet leaf, and sent it sailing out to sea; and when it landed on the farther shore he found a still bigger leaf, and sent it forth on a voyage in another direction, with a cargo of daisy petals, and a hairy caterpillar for a bo'sun's mate. But, just as the vessel was getting under way, a butterfly of amazing brilliance floated past insolently under his very nose. Leaving the beetle and the caterpillar to navigate the currents as best they could, he at once gave chase. Cap in hand, he flew after the butterfly down the lane, and a dozen times when his cap was just upon it, it sailed away sideways without the least effort and escaped him. Then, suddenly, the lane took a familiar turning; the ditch stopped abruptly; the hedge on his right fell away altogether; the butterfly danced out of sight into a field, and Jimbo found himself face to face with the one thing in the whole world that could, at that time, fill him with abject terror--the Empty House. He came to a full stop in the middle of the road and stared up at the windows. He realised for the first time that he was alone, and that it was possible for brilliant sunshine, even on a cloudless day, to become somehow lustreless and dull. The walls showed a deep red in the sunset light. The house was still as the grave. His feet were rooted to the ground, and it seemed as if he could not move a single muscle; and as he stood there, the blood ebbing quickly from his heart, the words of the governess a few days before rushed back into his mind, and turned his fear into a dreadful, all-possessing horror. In another minute the battered door would slowly open and the horrible Inmate come out to seize him. Already there was a sound of something moving within, and as he gazed, fascinated with terror, a shuddering movement ran over the ivy leaves hanging down from the roof. Then they parted in the middle, and something--he could not in his agony see what--flew out with a whirring sound into his face, and then vanished over his shoulder towards the fields. Jimbo did not pause a single second to find out what it was, or to reflect that any ordinary thrush would have made just the same sound. The shock it gave to his heart immediately loosened the muscles of his little legs, and he ran for his very life. But before he actually began to run he gave one piercing scream for help, and the person he screamed to was the very person who was unwittingly the cause of his distress. It was as though he knew instinctively that the person who had created for him the terror of the Empty House, with its horrible Inmate, was also the person who could properly banish it, and undo the mischief before it was too late. He shrieked for help to the governess, Miss Ethel Lake. Of course, there was no answer but the noise of the air whistling in his ears as his feet flew over the road in a cloud of dust; there was no friendly butcher's cart, no baker's boy, or farmer with his dog and gun; the road was deserted. There was not even the beetle or the caterpillar; he was beyond reach of help. Jimbo ran for his life, but unfortunately he ran in the wrong direction. Instead of going the way he had come, where the Lodge gates were ready to receive him not a quarter of a mile away, he fled in the opposite direction. It so happened that the lane flanked the field where the cows lived; but cows were nothing compared to a Creature from the Empty House, and even bulls seemed friendly. The boy was over the five-barred gate in a twinkling and half-way across the field before he heard a heavy, thunderous sound behind him. Either the Thing had followed him into the field, or it was the bull. As he raced, he managed to throw a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, dark mass bearing down upon him at terrific speed. It must be the bull, he reflected--the bull grown to the size of an elephant. And it appeared to him to have two immense black wings that flapped at its sides and helped it forward, making a whirring noise like the arms of a great windmill. This sight added to his speed, but he could not last very much longer. Already his body ached all over, and the frantic effort to get breath nearly choked him. There, before him, not so very far away now, was the swinging gate. If only he could get there in time to scramble over into the garden, he would be safe. It seemed almost impossible, and behind him, meanwhile, the sound of the following creature came closer and closer; the ground seemed to tremble; he could almost feel the breath on his neck. The swinging gate was only twenty yards off; now ten; now only five. Now he had reached it--at last. He stretched out his hands to seize the top bar, and in another moment he would have been safe in the garden and within easy reach of the house. But, before he actually touched the iron rail, a sharp, stinging pain shot across his back;--he drew one final breath as he felt himself being lifted, lifted up into the air. The horns had caught him just behind the shoulders! There seemed to be no pain after the first shock. He rose high into the air, while the bushes and spiked railing he knew so well sank out of sight beneath him, dwindling curiously in size. At first he thought his head must bump against the sky, but suddenly he stopped rising, and the green earth rushed up as if it would strike him in the face. This meant he was sinking again. The gate and railing flew by underneath him, and the next second he fell with a crash upon the soft grass of the lawn--upon the other side. He had been tossed over the gate into the garden, and the bull could no longer reach him. Before he became wholly unconscious, a composite picture, vivid in its detail, engraved itself deeply, with exceeding swiftness, line by line, upon the waxen tablets of his mind. In this picture the thrush that had flown out of the ivy, the Empty House itself, and its horrible, pursuing Inmate were all somehow curiously mingled together with the black wings of the bull, and with his own sensation of rushing--flying headlong--through space, as he rose and fell in a curve from the creature's horns. And behind it he was conscious that the real author of it all was somewhere in the shadowy background, looking on as though to watch the result of her unfortunate mistake. Miss Lake, surely, was not very far away. He associated her with the horror of the Empty House as inevitably as taste and smell join together in the memory of a certain food; and the very last thought in his mind, as he sank away into the blackness of unconsciousness, was a sort of bitter surprise that the governess had not turned up to save him before it was actually too late. Moreover, a certain sense of disappointment mingled with the terror of the shock; for he was dimly aware that Miss Lake had not acted as worthily as she might have done, and had not played the game as well as might have been expected of her. And, somehow, it didn't all seem quite fair. CHAPTER IV ON THE EDGE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS Jimbo had fallen on his head. Inside that head lay the mass of highly sensitive matter called the brain, on which were recorded, of course, the impressions of everything that had yet come to him in life. A severe shock, such as he had just sustained, was bound to throw these impressions into confusion and disorder, jumbling them up into new and strange combinations, obliterating some, and exaggerating others. Jimbo himself was helpless in the matter; he could exercise no control over their antics until the doctors had once again reduced them to order; he would have to wander, lost and lonely, through the comparative chaos of disproportioned visions, generally known as the region of delirium, until the doctor, assisted by mother nature, restored him once more to normal consciousness. For a time everything was a blank, but presently he stirred uneasily in the grass, and the pictures graven on the tablets of his mind began to come back to him line by line. Yet, with certain changes: the bull, for instance, had so far vanished into the background of his thoughts that it had practically disappeared altogether, and he recalled nothing of it but the wings--the huge, flapping wings. Of the creature to whom the wings belonged he had no recollection beyond that it was very large, and that it was chasing him from the Empty House. The pain in his shoulders had also gone; but what remained with undiminished vividness were the sensations of flight without escape, the breathless race up into the sky, and the swift, tumbling drop again through the air on to the lawn. This impression of rushing through space--short though the actual distance had been--was the dominating memory. All else was apparently oblivion. He forgot where he came from, and he forgot what he had been doing. The events leading up to the catastrophe, indeed everything connected with his existence previously as "Master James," had entirely vanished; and the slate of memory had been wiped so clean that he had forgotten even his own name! Jimbo was lying, so to speak, on the edge of unconsciousness, and for a time it seemed uncertain whether he would cross the line into the region of delirium and dreams, or fall back again into his natural world. Terror, assisted by the horns of the black bull, had tossed him into the borderland. His last scream, however, had reached the ears of the ubiquitous gardener, and help was near at hand. He heard voices that seemed to come from beyond the stars, and was aware that shadowy forms were standing over him and talking in whispers. But it was all very unreal; one minute the voices sounded up in the sky, and the next in his very ears, while the figures moved about, sometimes bending over him, sometimes retreating and melting away like shadows on a shifting screen. Suddenly a blaze of light flashed upon him, and his eyes flew open; he tumbled back for a moment into his normal world. He wasn't on the grass at all, but was lying upon his own bed in the night nursery. His mother was bending over him with a very white face, and a tall man dressed in black stood beside her, holding some kind of shining instrument in his fingers. A little behind them he saw Nixie, shading a lamp with her hand. Then the white face came close over the pillow, and a voice full of tenderness whispered, "My darling boy, don't you know me? It's mother! No one will hurt you. Speak to me, if you can, dear." She stretched out her hands, and Jimbo knew her and made an effort to answer. But it seemed to him as if his whole body had suddenly become a solid mass of iron, and he could control no part of it; his lips and his hands both refused to move. Before he could make a sign that he had understood and was trying to reply, a fierce flame rushed between them and blinded him, his eyes closed, and he dropped back again into utter darkness. The walls flew asunder and the ceiling melted into air, while the bed sank away beneath him, down, down, down into an abyss of shadows. The lamp in Nixie's hands dwindled into a star, and his mother's anxious face became a tiny patch of white in the distance, blurred out of all semblance of a human countenance. For a time the man in black seemed to hover over the bed as it sank, as though he were trying to follow it down; but it, too, presently joined the general enveloping blackness and lost its outline. The pain had blotted out everything, and the return to consciousness had been only momentary. Not all the doctors in the world could have made things otherwise. Jimbo was off on his travels at last--travels in which the chief incidents were directly traceable to the causes and details of his accident: the terror of the Empty House, the pursuit of its Inmate, the pain of the bull's horns, and, above all, the flight through the air. For everything in his subsequent adventures found its inspiration in the events described, and a singular parallel ran ever between the Jimbo upon the bed in the night-nursery and the other emancipated Jimbo wandering in the regions of unconsciousness and delirium. CHAPTER V INTO THE EMPTY HOUSE The darkness lasted a long time without a break, and when it lifted all recollection of the bedroom scene had vanished. Jimbo found himself back again on the grass. The swinging gate was just in front of him, but he did not recognise it; no suggestion of "Express Trains" came back to him as his eyes rested without remembrance upon the bars where he had so often swung, in defiance of orders, with his brothers and sisters. Recollection of his home, family, and previous life he had absolutely none; or at least, it was buried so deeply in his inner consciousness that it amounted to the same thing, and he looked out upon the garden, the gate, and the field beyond as upon an entirely new piece of the world. The stars, he saw, were nearly all gone, and a very faint light was beginning to spread from the woods beyond the field. The eastern horizon was slowly brightening, and soon the night would be gone. Jimbo was glad of this. He began to be conscious of little thrills of expectation, for with the light surely help would also come. The light always brought relief, and he already felt that strange excitement that comes with the first signs of dawn. In the distance cocks were crowing, horses began to stamp in the barns not far away, and a hundred little stirrings of life ran over the surface of the earth as the light crept slowly up the sky and dropped down again upon the world with its message of coming day. Of course, help would come by the time the sun was really up, and it was partly this certainty, and partly because he was a little too dazed to realise the seriousness of the situation, that prevented his giving way to a fit of fear and weeping. Yet a feeling of vague terror lay only a little way below the surface, and when, a few moments later, he saw that he was no longer alone, and that an odd-looking figure was creeping towards him from the shrubberies, he sprang to his feet, prepared to run unless it at once showed the most friendly intentions. This figure seemed to have come from nowhere. Apparently it had risen out of the earth. It was too large to have been concealed by the low shrubberies; yet he had not been aware of its approach, and it had appeared without making any noise. Probably it was friendly, he felt, in spite of its curious shape and the stealthy way it had come. At least, he hoped so; and if he could only have told whether it was a man or an animal he would easily have made up his mind. But the uncertain light, and the way it crouched half-hidden behind the bushes, prevented this. So he stood, poised ready to run, and yet waiting, hoping, indeed expecting every minute a sign of friendliness and help. In this way the two faced each other silently for some time, until the feeling of terror gradually stole deeper into the boy's heart and began to rob him of full power over his muscles. He wondered if he would be able to run when the time came, and whether he could run fast enough. This was how it first showed itself, this suggestion of insidious fear. Would he be able to keep up the start he had? Would it chase him? Would it run like a man or like an animal, on four legs or on two? He wished he could see more clearly what it was. He still stood his ground pluckily, facing it and waiting, but the fear, once admitted to his mind, was gaining strength, and he began to feel cold and shivery. Then suddenly the tension came to an end. In two strides the figure came up close to his side, and the same second Jimbo was lifted off his feet and borne swiftly away across the field. He felt quite unable to offer the least resistance, and at the same time he felt a sense of relief that something had happened at last. He was still not sure that the figure was unkind; only its shape filled him with a feeling that was certainly the beginning of real horror. It was the shape of a man, he thought, but of a very large and ill-constructed man; for it certainly had moved on two legs and had caught him up in a pair of tremendously strong arms. But there was something else it had besides arms, for a kind of soft cloak hung all round it and wrapped the boy from head to foot, preventing him seeing his captor properly, and at the same time filling his body with a kind of warm drowsiness that mitigated his active fear and made him rather like the sensation of being carried along so easily and so fast. But was he being carried? The pace they were going was amazing, and he moved as easily as a sailing boat, and with the same swinging motion. Could it be some animal like a horse after all? Jimbo tried to see more, but found it impossible to free himself from the folds of the enveloping substance, and meanwhile they were swinging forward at what seemed a tremendous pace over fields and ditches, through hedges, and down long lanes. The odours of earth, and dew-drenched grass, and opening flowers came to him. He heard the birds singing, and felt the cool morning air sting his cheeks as they raced along. There was no jolting or jarring, and the figure seemed to cover the ground as lightly as though it hardly touched the earth. It was certainly not a dream, he was sure of that; but the longer they went on the drowsier he became, and the less he wondered whether the figure was going to help him or to do something dreadful to him. He was now thoroughly afraid, and yet, strange contradiction, he didn't care a bit. Let the figure do what it liked; it was only a sort of nightmare person after all, and might vanish as suddenly as it had arrived. For a long time they raced forward at this great speed, and then with a bump and a crash they stopped suddenly short, and Jimbo felt himself let down upon the solid earth. He tried to free himself at once from the folds of the clinging substance that enveloped him, but, before he could do so and see what his captor was really like, he heard a door slam and felt himself pushed along what seemed to be the hallways of a house. His eyes were clear now and he could see, but the darkness had come down again so thickly that all he could discover was that the figure was urging him along the floor of a large empty hall, and that they were in a dark and empty building. Jimbo tried hard to see his captor, but the figure, dim enough in the uncertain light, always managed to hide its face and keep itself bunched up in such a way that he could never see more than a great, dark mass of a body, from which long legs and arms shot out like telescopes, draped in a sort of clinging cloak. Now that the rapid motion through the air had ceased, the boy's drowsiness passed a little, and he began to shiver with fear and to feel that the tears could not be kept back much longer. Probably in another minute he would have started to run for his life, when a new sound caught his ears and made him listen intently, while a feeling of wonder and delight caught his heart, and made him momentarily forget the figure pushing him forward from behind. Was it the wind he heard? Or was it the voices of children all singing together very low? It was a gentle, sighing sound that rose and fell with mournful modulations and seemed to come from the very centre of the building; it held, too, a strange, far-away murmur, like the surge of a faint breeze moving in the tree-tops. It might be the wind playing round the walls of the building, or it might be children singing in hushed voices. One minute he thought it was outside the house, and the next he was certain it came from somewhere in the upper part of the building. He glanced up, and fancied for one moment that he saw in the darkness a crowd of little faces peering down at him over the banisters, and that as they disappeared he heard the sound of many little feet moving, and then a door hurriedly closing. But a push from the figure behind that nearly sent him sprawling at the foot of the stairs, prevented his hearing very clearly, and the light was far too dim to let him feel sure of what he had seen. They passed quickly along deserted corridors and through winding passages. No one seemed about. The interior of the house was chilly, and the keen air nipped. After going up several flights of stairs they stopped at last in front of a door, and before Jimbo had a moment to turn and dash downstairs again past the figure, as he had meant to do, he was pushed violently forward into a room. The door slammed after him, and he heard the heavy tread of the figure as it went down the staircase again into the bottom of the house. Then he saw that the room was full of light and of small moving beings. Curiosity and astonishment now for a moment took the place of fear, and Jimbo, with a thumping heart and clenched fists, stood and stared at the scene before him. He stiffened his little legs and leaned against the wall for support, but he felt full of fight in case anything happened, and with wide-open eyes he tried to take in the whole scene at once and be ready for whatever might come. But there seemed no immediate cause for alarm, and when he realised that the beings in the room were apparently children, and only children, his rather mixed sensations of astonishment and fear gave place to an emotion of overpowering shyness. He became exceedingly embarrassed, for he was surrounded by children of all ages and sizes, staring at him just as hard as he was staring at them. The children, he began to take in, were all dressed in black; they looked frightened and unhappy; their bodies were thin and their faces very white. There was something else about them he could not quite name, but it inspired him with the same sense of horror that he had felt in the arms of the Figure who had trapped him. For he now realised definitely that he had been trapped; and he also began to realise for the first time that, though he still had the body of a little boy, his way of thinking and judging was sometimes more like that of a grown-up person. The two alternated, and the result was an odd confusion; for sometimes he felt like a child and thought like a man, while at others he felt like a man and thought like a child. Something had gone wrong, very much wrong; and, as he watched this group of silent children facing him, he knew suddenly that what was just beginning to happen to him _had happened to them long, long ago_. For they looked as if they had been a long, long time in the world, yet their bodies had not kept pace with their minds. Something had happened to stop the growth of the body, while allowing the mind to go on developing. The bodies were not stunted or deformed; they were well-formed, nice little children's bodies, but the minds within them were grown-up, and the incongruity was distressing. All this he suddenly realised in a flash, intuitively, just as though it had been most elaborately explained to him; yet he could not have put the least part of it into words or have explained what he saw and felt to another. He saw that they had the hands and figures of children, the heads of children, the unlined faces and smooth foreheads of children, but their gestures, and something in their movements, belonged to grown-up people, and the expression of their eyes in meaning and intelligence was the expression of old people and not of children. And the expression in the eyes of every one of them he saw was the expression of terror and of pain. The effect was so singular that he seemed face to face with an entirely new order of creatures: a child's features with a man's eyes; a child's figure with a woman's movements; full-grown souls cramped and cribbed in absurdly inadequate bodies and little, puny frames; the old trying uncouthly to express itself in the young. The grown-up, old portion of him had been uppermost as he stared and received these impressions, but now suddenly it passed away, and he felt as a little boy again. He glanced quickly down at his own little body in the alpaca knickerbockers and sailor blouse, and then, with a sigh of relief, looked up again at the strange group facing him. So far, at any rate, he had not changed, and there was nothing yet to suggest that he was becoming like them in appearance at least. With his back against the door he faced the roomful of children who stood there motionless and staring; and as he looked, wild feelings rushed over him and made him tremble. Who was he? Where had he come from? Where in the world had he spent the other years of his life, the forgotten years? There seemed to be no one to whom he could go for comfort, no one to answer questions; and there was such a lot he wanted to ask. He seemed to be so much older, and to know so much more than he ought to have known, and yet to have forgotten so much that he ought not to have forgotten. His loss of memory, however, was of course only partial. He had forgotten his own identity, and all the people with whom he had so far in life had to do; yet at the same time he was dimly conscious that he had just left all these people, and that some day he would find them again. It was only the surface-layers of memory that had vanished, and these had not vanished for ever, but only sunk down a little below the horizon. Then, presently, the children began to range themselves in rows between him and the opposite wall, without once taking their horrible, intelligent eyes off him as they moved. He watched them with growing dread, but at last his curiosity became so strong that it overcame everything else, and in a voice that he meant to be very brave, but that sounded hardly above a whisper, he said: "Who are you? And what's been done to you?" The answer came at once in a whisper as low as his own, though he could not distinguish who spoke: "Listen and you shall know. You, too, are now one of us." Immediately the children began a slow, impish sort of dance before him, moving almost with silent feet over the boards, yet with a sedateness and formality that had none of the unconscious grace of children. And, as they danced, they sang, but in voices so low, that it was more like the mournful sighing of wind among branches than human voices. It was the sound he had already heard outside the building. "We are the children of the whispering night, Who live eternally in dreadful fright Of stories told us in the grey twilight By--_nurserymaids_! We are the children of a winter's day; Under our breath we chant this mournful lay; We dance with phantoms and with shadows play, And have no rest. We have no joy in any children's game, For happiness to us is but a name, Since Terror kissed us with his lips of flame In wicked jest. We hear the little voices in the wind Singing of freedom we may never find, Victims of fate so cruelly unkind, We are unblest. We hear the little footsteps in the rain Running to help us, though they run in vain, Tapping in hundreds on the window-pane In vain behest. We are the children of the whispering night, Who dwell unrescued in eternal fright Of stories told us in the dim twilight By--_nurserymaids_!" The plaintive song and the dance ceased together, and before Jimbo could find any words to clothe even one of the thoughts that crowded through his mind, he saw them moving towards a door he had not hitherto noticed on the other side of the room. A moment later they had opened it and passed out, sedate, mournful, unhurried; and the boy found that in some way he could not understand the light had gone with them, and he was standing with his back against the wall in almost total darkness. Once out of the room, no sound followed them, and he crossed over and tried the handle of the door. It was locked. Then he went back and tried the other door; that, too, was locked. He was shut in. There was no longer any doubt as to the Figure's intentions; he was a prisoner, trapped like an animal in a cage. The only thought in his mind just then was an intense desire for freedom. Whatever happened he must escape. He crossed the floor to the only window in the room; it was without blinds, and he looked out. But instantly he recoiled with a fresh and overpowering sense of helplessness, for it was three storeys from the ground, and down below in the shadows he saw a paved courtyard that rendered jumping utterly out of the question. He stood for a long time, fighting down the tears, and staring as if his heart would break at the field and trees beyond. A high wall enclosed the yard, but beyond that was freedom and open space. Feelings of loneliness and helplessness, terror and dismay overwhelmed him. His eyes burned and smarted, yet, strange to say, the tears now refused to come and bring him relief. He could only stand there with his elbows on the window-sill, and watch the outline of the trees and hedges grow clearer and clearer as the light drew across the sky, and the moment of sunrise came close. But when at last he turned back into the room, he saw that he was no longer alone. Crouching against the opposite wall there was a hooded figure steadily watching him. CHAPTER VI HIS COMPANION IN PRISON Shocks of terror, as they increase in number, apparently lessen in effect; the repeated calls made upon Jimbo's soul by the emotions of fear and astonishment had numbed it; otherwise the knowledge that he was locked in the room with this mysterious creature beyond all possibility of escape must have frightened him, as the saying is, out of his skin. As it was, however, he kept his head in a wonderful manner, and simply stared at the silent intruder as hard as ever he could stare. How in the world it got in was the principal thought in his mind, and after that: what in the world was it? The dawn must have come very swiftly, or else he had been staring longer than he knew, for just then the sun topped the edge of the world and the window-sill simultaneously, and sent a welcome ray of sunshine into the dingy room. It turned the grey light to silver, and fell full upon the huddled figure crouching against the opposite wall. Jimbo caught his breath, and stared harder than ever. It was a human figure, the figure, apparently, of a man, sitting crumpled up in a very uncomfortable sort of position on his haunches. It sat perfectly still. A black cloak, with loose sleeves, and a cowl or hood that completely concealed the face, covered it from head to foot. The material of the cloak could not have been very thick, for inside the hood he caught the gleam of eyes as they roamed about the room and followed his movements. But for this glitter of the moving eyes it might have been a figure carved in wood. Was it going to sit there for ever watching him? At first he was afraid it was going to speak; then he was afraid it wasn't. It might rise suddenly and come towards him; yet the thought that it would not move at all was worse still. In this way the two faced each other for several minutes until, just as the position was becoming simply unbearable, a low whisper ran round the room: "At last! Oh! I've found him at last!" Jimbo was not quite sure of the words, though it was certainly a human voice that had spoken; but, the suspense once broken, the boy could not stand it any longer, and with a rush of desperate courage he found his voice--a very husky one--and moved a step forward. "Who are you, please, and how _did_ you get in?" he ventured with a great effort. Then he fell back against the wall, amazed at his own daring, and waited with tightly-clenched fists for an answer. But he had not to wait very long, for almost immediately the figure rose awkwardly to its feet, and came over to where he stood. Its manner of moving may best be described as shuffling; and it stretched in front of it a long cloaked arm, on which the sleeve hung, he thought, like clothes on a washing line. He breathed hard, and waited. Like many other people with strong wills and sensitive nerves, Jimbo was both brave and a coward: he hoped nothing horrid was going to happen, but he was quite ready if it should. Yet, now that the actual moment had come, he had no particular fear, and when he felt the touch of the hand on his shoulder, the words sprang naturally to his lips with a little trembling laugh, more of wonder perhaps than anything else. "You do look a horrid ... _brute_," he was going to say, but at the last moment he changed it to "_thing_," for, with the true intuition of a child, he recognised that the creature inside the cloak was a kind creature and well disposed towards him. "But how did you get in?" he added, looking up bravely into the black visage, "because the doors are both locked on the outside, and I couldn't get out?" By way of reply the figure shuffled to one side, and, taking the hand from his shoulder, pointed silently to a trap-door in the floor behind him. As he looked, he saw it was being shut down stealthily by some one beneath. "Hush!" whispered the figure, almost inaudibly. "He's watching!" "Who's watching?" he cried, curiosity taking the place of every other emotion. "I want to see." He ran forward to the spot where the trap-door now lay flush with the floor, but, before he had gone two steps, the black arms shot out and caught him. He turned, struggling, and in the scuffle that followed the cloak shrouding the figure became disarranged; the hood dropped from the face, and he found himself looking straight into the eyes, not of a man, but of a woman! "It's you!" he cried, "YOU--!" A shock ran right through his body from his head to his feet, like a current of electricity, and he caught his breath as though he had been struck. For one brief instant the sinister face of some one who had terrified him in the past came back vividly to his mind, and he shrank away in terror. But it was only for an instant, the twentieth part of an instant. Immediately, before he could even remember the name, recognition passed into darkness and his memory shut down with a snap. He was staring into the face of an utter stranger, about whom he knew nothing and had no feelings particularly one way or another. "I thought I knew you," he gasped, "but I've forgotten you again--and I thought you were going to be a man, too." "Jimbo!" cried the other, and in her voice was such unmistakable tenderness and yearning that the boy knew at once beyond doubt that she was his friend, "Jimbo!" She knelt down on the floor beside him, so that her face was on a level with his, and then opened both her arms to him. But though Jimbo was glad to have found a friend who was going to help him, he felt no particular desire to be embraced, and he stood obstinately where he was with his back to the window. The morning sunshine fell upon her features and touched the thick coils of her hair with glory. It was not, strictly speaking, a pretty face, but the look of real human tenderness there was very welcome and comforting, and in the kind brown eyes there shone a strange light that was not merely the reflection of the sunlight. The boy felt his heart warm to her as he looked, but her expression puzzled him, and he would not accept the invitation of her arms. "Won't you come to me?" she said, her arms still outstretched. "I want to know who you are, and what I'm doing here," he said. "I feel so funny--so old and so young--and all mixed up. I can't make out who I am a bit. What's that funny name you call me?" "Jimbo is your name," she said softly. "Then what's _your_ name?" he asked quickly. "My name," she repeated slowly after a pause, "is not--as nice as yours. Besides, you need not know my name--you might dislike it." "But I must have something to call you," he persisted. "But if I told you, and you disliked the name, you might dislike _me_ too," she said, still hesitating. Jimbo saw the expression of sadness in her eyes, and it won his confidence though he hardly knew why. He came up closer to her and put his puzzled little face next to hers. "I like you very much already," he whispered, "and if your name is a horrid one I'll change it for you at once. Please tell me what it is." She drew the boy to her and gave him a little hug, and he did not resist. For a long time she did not answer. He felt vaguely that something of dreadful importance hung about this revelation of her name. He repeated his question, and at length she replied, speaking in a very low voice, and with her eyes fixed intently upon his face. "My name," she said, "is Ethel Lake." "Ethel Lake," he repeated after her. The words sounded somehow familiar to him; surely he had heard that name before. Were not the words associated with something in his past that had been unpleasant? A curious sinking sensation came over him as he heard them. His companion watched him intently while he repeated the words over to himself several times, as if to make sure he had got them right. There was a moment's hesitation as he slowly went over them once again. Then he turned to her, laughing. "I like your name, Ethel Lake," he said. "It's a nice name--Miss--Miss----" Again he hesitated, while a little warning tremor ran through his mind, and he wondered for an instant why he said "Miss." But it passed as suddenly as it had come, and he finished the sentence--"Miss Lake, I shall call you." He stared into her eyes as he said it. "Then you don't remember me at all?" she cried, with a sigh of intense relief. "You've quite forgotten?" "I never saw you before, did I? How can I remember you? I don't remember any of the things I've forgotten. Are you one of them?" For reply she caught him to her breast and kissed him. "You precious little boy!" she said. "I'm so glad, oh, so glad!" "But do you remember _me_?" he asked, sorely puzzled. "Who am I? Haven't I been born yet, or something funny like that?" "If you don't remember _me_," said the other, her face happy with smiles that had evidently come only just in time to prevent tears, "there's not much good telling you who _you_ are. But your name, if you really want to know, is----" She hesitated a moment. "Be quick, Eth--Miss Lake, or you'll forget it again." She laughed rather bitterly. "Oh, I never forget. I can't!" she said. "I wish I could. Your name is James Stone, and Jimbo is 'short' for James. Now you know." She might just as well have said Bill Sykes for all the boy knew or remembered. "What a silly name!" he laughed. "But it can't be my real name, or I should know it. I never heard it before." After a moment he added, "Am I an old man? I feel just like one. I suppose I'm grown up--grown up so fast that I've forgotten what came before----" "You're not grown up, dear, at least, not exactly----" She glanced down at his alpaca knickerbockers and brown stockings; and as he followed her eyes and saw the dirty buttoned-boots there came into his mind some dim memory of where he had last put them on, and of some one who had helped him. But it all passed like a swift meteor across the dark night of his forgetfulness and was lost in mist. "You mustn't judge by these silly clothes," he laughed. "I shall change them as soon as I get--as soon as I can find----" He stopped short. No words came. A feeling of utter loneliness and despair swept suddenly over him, drenching him from head to foot. He felt lost and friendless, naked, homeless, cold. He was ever on the brink of regaining a whole lot of knowledge and experience that he had known once long ago, ever so long ago, but it always kept just out of his reach. He glanced at Miss Lake, feeling that she was his only possible comfort in a terrible situation. She met his look and drew him tenderly towards her. "Now, listen to me," she said gently, "I've something to tell you--about myself." He was all attention in a minute. "I am a discharged governess," she began, holding her breath when once the words were out. "Discharged!" he repeated vaguely. "What's that? What for?" "For frightening a child. I told a little boy awful stories that weren't true. They terrified him so much that I was sent away. That's why I'm here now. It's my punishment. I am a prisoner here until I can find him--and help him to escape----" "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed quickly, as though remembering something. But it passed, and he looked up at her half-bored, half-politely. "Escape from what?" he asked. "From here. This is the Empty House I told the stories about; _and you are the little boy I frightened_. Now, at last, I've found you, and am going to save you." She paused, watching him with eyes that never left his face for an instant. Jimbo was delighted to hear he was going to be rescued, but he felt no interest at all in her story of having frightened a little boy, who was himself. He thought it was very nice of her to take so much trouble, and he told her so, and when he went up and kissed her and thanked her, he saw to his surprise that she was crying. For the life of him he could not understand why a discharged governess whom he met, apparently, for the first time in the Empty House, should weep over him and show him so much affection. But he could think of nothing to say, so he just waited till she had finished. "You see, if I can save you," she said between her sobs, "it will be all right again, and I shall be forgiven, and shall be able to escape with you. I want you to escape, so that you can get back to life again." "Oh, then I'm dead, am I?" "Not exactly dead," she said, drying her eyes with the corner of her black hood. "You've had a funny accident, you know. If your body gets all right, so that you can go back and live in it again, then you're not dead. But if it's so badly injured that you can't work in it any more, then you are dead, and will have to stay dead. You're still joined to the body in a fashion, you see." He stared and listened, not understanding much. It all bored him. She talked without explaining, he thought. An immense sponge had passed over the slate of the past and wiped it clean beyond recall. He was utterly perplexed. "How funny you are!" he said vaguely, thinking more of her tears than her explanations. "Water won't stay in a cracked bottle," she went on, "and you can't stay in a broken body. But they're trying to mend it now, and if we can escape in time you can be an ordinary, happy little boy in the world again." "Then are you dead, too?" he asked, "or nearly dead?" "I am out of my body, like you," she answered evasively, after a moment's pause. He was still looking at her in a dazed sort of way, when she suddenly sprang to her feet and let the hood drop back over her face. "Hush!" she whispered, "he's listening again." At the same moment a sound came from beneath the floor on the other side of the room, and Jimbo saw the trap-door being slowly raised above the level of the floor. "Your number is 102," said a voice that sounded like the rushing of a river. Instantly the trap-door dropped again, and he heard heavy steps rumbling away into the interior of the house. He looked at his companion and saw her terrified face as she lifted her hood. "He always blunders along like that," she whispered, bending her head on one side to listen. "He can't see properly in the daylight. He hates sunshine, and usually only goes out after dark." She was white and trembling. "Is that the person who brought me in here this morning at such a frightful pace?" he asked, bewildered. She nodded. "He wanted to get in before it was light, so that you couldn't see his face." "Is he such a fright?" asked the boy, beginning to share her evident feeling of horror. "He _is_ Fright!" she said in an awed whisper. "But never talk about him again unless you can't help it; he always knows when he's being talked about, and he likes it, because it gives him more power." Jimbo only stared at her without comprehending. Then his mind jumped to something else he wanted badly to have explained, and he asked her about his number, and why he was called No. 102. "Oh, that's easier," she said, "102 is your number among the Frightened Children; there are 101 of them, and you are the last arrival. Haven't you seen them yet? It is also the temperature of your broken little body lying on the bed in the night nursery at home," she added, though he hardly caught her words, so low were they spoken. Jimbo then described how the children had sung and danced to him, and went on to ask a hundred questions about them. But Miss Lake would give him very little information, and said he would not have very much to do with them. Most of them had been in the House for years and years--so long that they could probably never escape at all. "They are all frightened children," she said. "Little ones scared out of their wits by silly people who meant to amuse them with stories, or to frighten them into being well behaved--nursery-maids, elder sisters, and even governesses!" "And they can never escape?" "Not unless the people who frightened them come to their rescue and _run the risk of being caught themselves_." As she spoke there rose from the depths of the house the sound of muffled voices, children's voices singing faintly together; it rose and fell exactly like the wind, and with as little tune; it was weird and magical, but so utterly mournful that the boy felt the tears start to his eyes. It drifted away, too, just as the wind does over the tops of the trees, dying into the distance; and all became still again. "It's just like the wind," he said, "and I do love the wind. It makes me feel so sad and so happy. Why is it?" The governess did not answer. "How old am I _really_?" he went on. "How can I be so old and so ignorant? I've forgotten such an awful lot of knowledge." "The fact is--well, perhaps, you won't quite understand--but you're really two ages at once. Sometimes you feel as old as your body, and sometimes as old as your soul. You're still connected with your body; so you get the sensations of both mixed up." "Then is the body younger than the soul?" "The soul--that is yourself," she answered, "is, oh, so old, awfully old, as old as the stars, and older. But the body is no older than itself--of course, how could it be?" "Of course," repeated the boy, who was not listening to a word she said. "How could it be?" "But it doesn't matter how old you are or how young you feel, as long as you don't hate me for having frightened you," she said after a pause. "That's the chief thing." He was very, very puzzled. He could not help feeling it had been rather unkind of her to frighten him so badly that he had literally been frightened out of his skin; but he couldn't remember anything about it, and she was taking so much trouble to save him now that he quite forgave her. He nestled up against her, and said of course he liked her, and she stroked his curly head and mumbled a lot of things to herself that he couldn't understand a bit. But in spite of his new-found friend the feeling of over-mastering loneliness would suddenly rush over him. She might be a protector, but she was not a _real_ companion; and he knew that somewhere or other he had left a lot of other _real_ companions whom he now missed dreadfully. He longed more than he could say for freedom; he wanted to be able to come and go as he pleased; to play about in a garden somewhere as of old; to wander over soft green lawns among laburnums and sweet-smelling lilac trees, and to be up to all his old tricks and mischief--though he could not remember in detail what they were. In a word, he wanted to escape; his whole being yearned to escape and be free again; yet here he was a wretched prisoner in a room like a prison-cell, with a sort of monster for a keeper, and a troop of horrible frightened children somewhere else in the house to keep him company. And outside there was only a hard, narrow, paved courtyard with a high wall round it. Oh, it was too terrible to think of, and his heart sank down within him till he felt as if he could do nothing else but cry. "I shall save you in time," whispered the governess, as though she read his thoughts. "You must be patient, and do what I tell you, and I promise to get you out. Only be brave, and don't ask too many questions. We shall win in the end and escape." Suddenly he looked up, with quite a new expression in his face. "But I say, Miss Cake, I'm frightfully hungry. I've had nothing to eat since--I can't remember when, but ever so long ago." "You needn't call me Miss Cake, though," she laughed. "I suppose it's because I'm so hungry." "Then you'll call me Miss Lake when you're thirsty, perhaps," she said. "But, anyhow, I'll see what I can get you. Only, you must eat as little as possible. I want you to get very thin. What you feel is not really hunger--it's only a memory of hunger, and you'll soon get used to it." He stared at her with a very distressful little face as she crossed the room making this new announcement; and just as she disappeared through the trap-door, only her head being visible, she added with great emphasis, "The thinner you get the better; because the thinner you are the lighter you are, and the lighter you are the easier it will be to escape. Remember, the thinner the better--the lighter the better--and don't ask a lot of questions about it." With that the trap-door closed over her, and Jimbo was left alone with her last strange words ringing in his ears. CHAPTER VII THE SPELL OF THE EMPTY HOUSE It was not long before Jimbo realised that the House, and everything connected with it, spelt for him one message, and one only--a message of fear. From the first day of his imprisonment the forces of his whole being shaped themselves without further ado into one intense, single, concentrated desire to _escape_. Freedom, escape into the world beyond that terrible high wall, was his only object, and Miss Lake, the governess, as its symbol, was his only hope. He asked a lot of questions and listened to a lot of answers, but all he really cared about was how he was going to escape, and when. All her other explanations were tedious, and he only half-listened to them. His faith in her was absolute, his patience unbounded; she had come to save him, and he knew that before long she would accomplish her end. He felt a blind and perfect confidence. But, meanwhile, his fear of the House, and his horror for the secret Being who meant to keep him prisoner till at length he became one of the troop of Frightened Children, increased by leaps and bounds. Presently the trap-door creaked again, and the governess reappeared; in her hand was a small white jug and a soup plate. "Thin gruel and skim milk," she explained, pouring out a substance like paste into the soup plate, and handing him a big wooden spoon. But Jimbo's hunger had somehow vanished. "It wasn't real hunger," she told him, "but only a sort of memory of being hungry. They're trying to feed your broken body now in the night-nursery, and so you feel a sort of ghostly hunger here even though you're out of the body." "It's easily satisfied, at any rate," he said, looking at the paste in the soup plate. "No one actually eats or drinks here----" "But I'm solid," he said, "am I not?" "People always think they're solid everywhere," she laughed. "It's only a question of degree; solidity _here_ means a different thing to solidity _there_." "I can get thinner though, can't I?" he asked, thinking of her remark about escape being easier the lighter he grew. She assured him there would be no difficulty about that, and after replying evasively to a lot more questions, she gathered up the dishes and once more disappeared through the trap-door. Jimbo watched her going down the ladder into the black gulf below, and wondered greatly where she went to and what she did down there; but on these points the governess had refused to satisfy his curiosity, and every time she appeared or disappeared the atmosphere of mystery came and went with her. As he stared, wondering, a sound suddenly made itself heard behind him, and on turning quickly round he saw to his great surprise that the door into the passage was open. This was more than he could resist, and in another minute, with mingled feelings of dread and delight, he was out in the passage. When he was first brought to the house, two hours before, it had been too dark to see properly, but now the sun was high in the heavens, and the light still increasing. He crept cautiously to the head of the stairs and peered over into the well of the house. It was still too dark to make things out clearly; but, as he looked, he thought something moved among the shadows below, and for a moment his heart stood still with fear. A large grey face seemed to be staring up at him out of the gloom. He clutched the banisters and felt as if he hardly had strength enough in his legs to get back to the room he had just left; but almost immediately the terror passed, for he saw that the face resolved itself into the mingling of light and shadow, and the features, after all, were of his own creation. He went on slowly and stealthily down the staircase. It was certainly an empty house. There were no carpets; the passages were cold and draughty; the paper curled from the damp walls, leaving ugly discoloured patches about; cobwebs hung in many places from the ceiling, the windows were more or less broken, and all were coated so thickly with dirt that the rain had traced little furrows from top to bottom. Shadows hung about everywhere, and Jimbo thought every minute he saw moving figures; but the figures always resolved themselves into nothing when he looked closely. He began to wonder how far it was safe to go, and why the governess had arranged for the door to be opened--for he felt sure it was she who had done this, and that it was all right for him to come out. Fright, she had said, was never about in the daylight. But, at the same time, something warned him to be ready at a moment's notice to turn and dash up the stairs again to the room where he was at least comparatively safe. So he moved along very quietly and very cautiously. He passed many rooms with the doors open--all empty and silent; some of them had tables and chairs, but no sign of occupation; the grates were black and empty, the walls blank, the windows unshuttered. Everywhere was only silence and shadows; there was no sign of the frightened children, or of where they lived; no trace of another staircase leading to the region where the governess went when she disappeared down the ladder through the trap-door--only hushed, listening, cold silence, and shadows that seemed for ever shifting from place to place as he moved past them. This illusion of people peering at him from corners, and behind doors just ajar, was very strong; yet whenever he turned his head to face them, lo, they were gone, and the shadows rushed in to fill their places. The spell of the Empty House was weaving itself slowly and surely about his heart. Yet he went on pluckily, full of a dreadful curiosity, continuing his search, and at length, after passing through another gloomy passage, he was in the act of crossing the threshold of an open door leading out into the courtyard, when he stopped short and clutched the door-posts with both hands. Some one had laughed! He turned, trying to look in every direction at once, but there was no sign of any living being. Yet the sound was close beside him; he could still hear it ringing in his ears--a mocking sort of laugh, in a harsh, guttural voice. The blood froze in his veins, and he hardly knew which way to turn, when another voice sounded, and his terror disappeared as if by magic. It was Miss Lake's voice calling to him over the banisters at the top of the house, and its tone was so cheerful that all his courage came back in a twinkling. "Go out into the yard," she called, "and play in the sunshine. But don't stay too long." Jimbo answered "All right" in a rather feeble little voice, and went on down the passage and out into the yard. The June sunshine lay hot and still over the paved court, and he looked up into the blue sky overhead. As he looked at the high wall that closed it in on three sides, he realised more than ever that he was caught in a monstrous trap from which there could be no ordinary means of escape. He could never climb over such a wall even with a ladder. He walked out a little way and noticed the rank weeds growing in patches in the corners; decay and neglect left everywhere their dismal signs; the yard, in spite of the sunlight, seemed as gloomy and cheerless as the house itself. In one corner stood several little white upright stones, each about three feet high; there seemed to be some writing on them, and he was in the act of going nearer to inspect, when a window opened and he heard some one calling to him in a loud, excited whisper: "Hst! Come in, Jimbo, at once. Quick! Run for your life!" He glanced up, quaking with fear, and saw the governess leaning out of the open window. At another window, a little beyond her, he thought a number of white little faces pressed against the glass, but he had no time to look more closely, for something in Miss Lake's voice made him turn and run into the house and up the stairs as though Fright himself were close at his heels. He flew up the three flights, and found the governess coming out on the top landing to meet him. She caught him in her arms and dashed back into the room, as if there was not a moment to be lost, slamming the door behind her. "How in the world did you get out?" she gasped, breathless as himself almost, and pale with alarm. "Another second and He'd have had you----!" "I found the door open----" "He opened it on purpose," she whispered, looking quickly round the room. "He meant you to go out." "But you called to me to play in the yard," he said. "I heard you. So of course I thought it was safe." "No," she declared, "I never called to you. That wasn't my voice. That was one of his tricks. I only this minute found the door open and you gone. Oh, Jimbo, that was a narrow escape; you must never go out of this room till--till I tell you. And never believe any of these voices you hear--you'll hear lots of them, saying all sorts of things--but unless you _see_ me, don't believe it's my voice." Jimbo promised. He was very frightened; but she would not tell him any more, saying it would only make it more difficult to escape if he knew too much in advance. He told her about the laugh, and the gravestones, and the faces at the other window, but she would not tell him what he wanted to know, and at last he gave up asking. A very deep impression had been made on his mind, however, and he began to realise, more than he had hitherto done, the horror of his prison and the power of his dreadful keeper. But when he began to look about him again, he noticed that there was a new thing in the room. The governess had left him, and was bending over it. She was doing something very busily indeed. He asked her what it was. "I'm making your bed," she said. It was, indeed, a bed, and he felt as he looked at it that there was something very familiar and friendly about the yellow framework and the little brass knobs. "I brought it up just now," she explained. "But it's not for sleeping in. It's only for you to lie down on, and also partly to deceive Him." "Why not for sleeping?" "There's no sleeping at all here," she went on calmly. "Why not?" "You can't sleep out of your body," she laughed. "Why not?" he asked again. "Your body goes to sleep, but _you_ don't," she explained. "Oh, I see." His head was whirling. "And my body--my real body----" "Is lying asleep--unconscious they call it--in the night-nursery at home. It's sound asleep. That's why you're here. It can't wake up till you go back to it, and you can't go back to it till you escape--even if it's ready for you before then. The bed is only for you to rest on, for you can _rest_ though you can't _sleep_." Jimbo stared blankly at the governess for some minutes. He was debating something in his mind, something very important, and just then it was his Older Self, and not the child, that was uppermost. Apparently it was soon decided, for he walked sedately up to her and said very gravely, with her serious eyes fixed on his face, "Miss Lake, are you _really_ Miss Lake?" "Of course I am." "You're not a trick of His, like the voices, I mean?" "No, Jimbo, I am really Miss Lake, the discharged governess who frightened you." There was profound anxiety in every word. Jimbo waited a minute, still looking steadily into her eyes. Then he put out his hand cautiously and touched her. He rose a little on tiptoe to be on a level with her face, taking a fold of her cloak in each hand. The soul-knowledge was in his eyes just then, not the mere curiosity of the child. "And are you--_dead_?" he asked, sinking his voice to a whisper. For a moment the woman's eyes wavered. She turned white and tried to move away; but the boy seized her hand and peered more closely into her face. "I mean, if we escape and I get back into my body," he whispered, "will you get back into yours too?" The governess made no reply, and shifted uneasily on her feet. But the boy would not let her go. "Please answer," he urged, still in a whisper. "Jimbo, what funny questions you ask!" she said at last, in a husky voice, but trying to smile. "But I want to know," he said. "I must know. I believe you are giving up everything just to save me--_everything_; and I don't want to be saved unless you come too. Tell me!" The colour came back to her cheeks a little, and her eyes grew moist. Again she tried to slip past him, but he prevented her. "You must tell me," he urged; "I would rather stay here with you than escape back into my body and leave you behind." Jimbo knew it was his Older Self speaking--the freed spirit rather than the broken body--but he felt the strain was very great; he could not keep it up much longer; any minute he might slip back into the child again, and lose interest, and be unequal to the task he now saw so clearly before him. "Quick!" he cried in a louder voice. "Tell me! You are giving up everything to save me, aren't you? And if I escape you will be left alone----quick, answer me! Oh, be quick, I'm slipping back----" Already he felt his thoughts becoming confused again, as the spirit merged back into the child; in another minute the boy would usurp the older self. "You see," began the governess at length, speaking very gently and sadly, "I am bound to make amends whatever happens. I must atone----" But already he found it hard to follow. "Atone," he asked, "what does '_atone_' mean?" He moved back a step, and glanced about the room. The moment of concentration had passed without bearing fruit; his thoughts began to wander again like a child's. "Anyhow, we shall escape together when the chance comes, shan't we?" he said. "Yes, darling, we shall," she said in a broken voice. "And if you do what I tell you, it will come very soon, I hope." She drew him towards her and kissed him, and though he didn't respond very heartily, he felt he liked it, and was sure that she was good, and meant to do the best possible for him. Jimbo asked nothing more for some time; he turned to the bed where he found a mattress and a blanket, but no sheets, and sat down on the edge and waited. The governess was standing by the window looking out; her back was turned to him. He heard an occasional deep sigh come from her, but he was too busy now with his own sensations to trouble much about her. Looking past her he saw the sea of green leaves dancing lazily in the sunshine. Something seemed to beckon him from beyond the high wall, and he longed to go out and play in the shade of the elms and hawthorns; for the horror of the Empty House was closing in upon him steadily but surely, and he longed for escape into a bright, unhaunted atmosphere, more than anything else in the whole world. His thoughts ran on and on in this vein, till presently he noticed that the governess was moving about the room. She crossed over and tried first one door and then the other; both were fastened. Next she lifted the trap-door and peered down into the black hole below. That, too, apparently was satisfactory. Then she came over to the bedside on tiptoe. "Jimbo, I've got something very important to ask you," she began. "All right," he said, full of curiosity. "You must answer me very exactly. Everything depends on it." "I will." She took another long look round the room, and then, in a still lower whisper, bent over him, and asked: "Have you any pain?" "Where?" he asked, remembering to be exact. "Anywhere." He thought a moment. "None, thank you." "None at all--anywhere?" she insisted. "None at all--anywhere," he said with decision. She seemed disappointed. "Never mind; it's a little soon yet, perhaps," she said. "We must have patience. It will come in time." "But I don't want any pain," he said, rather ruefully. "You can't escape till it comes." "I don't understand a bit what you mean." He began to feel alarmed at the notion of escape and pain going together. "You'll understand later, though," she said soothingly, "and it won't hurt _very_ much. The sooner the pain comes, the sooner we can try to escape. Nowhere can there be escape without it." And with that she left him, disappearing without another word into the hole below the trap, and leaving him, disconsolate yet excited, alone in the room. CHAPTER VIII THE GALLERY OF ANCIENT MEMORIES With every one, of course, the measurement of time depends largely upon the state of the emotions, but in Jimbo's case it was curiously exaggerated. This may have been because he had no standard of memory by which to test the succession of minutes; but, whatever it was, the hours passed very quickly, and the evening shadows were already darkening the room when at length he got up from the mattress and went over to the window. Outside the high elms were growing dim; soon the stars would be out in the sky. The afternoon had passed away like magic, and the governess still left him alone; he could not quite understand why she went away for such long periods. The darkness came down very swiftly, and it was night almost before he knew it. Yet he felt no drowsiness, no desire to yawn and get under sheets and blankets; sleep was evidently out of the question, and the hours slipped away so rapidly that it made little difference whether he sat up all night or whether he slept. It was his first night in the Empty House, and he wondered how many more he would spend there before escape came. He stood at the window, peering out into the growing darkness and thinking long, long thoughts. Below him yawned the black gulf of the yard, and the outline of the enclosing wall was only just visible, but beyond the elms rose far into the sky, and he could hear the wind singing softly in their branches. The sound was very sweet; it suggested freedom, and the flight of birds, and all that was wild and unrestrained. The wind could never really be a prisoner; its voice sang of open spaces and unbounded distances, of flying clouds and mountains, of mighty woods and dancing waves; above all, of wings--free, swift, and unconquerable wings. But this rushing song of wind among the leaves made him feel too sad to listen long, and he lay down upon the bed again, still thinking, thinking. The house was utterly still. Not a thing stirred within its walls. He felt lonely, and began to long for the companionship of the governess; he would have called aloud for her to come only he was afraid to break the appalling silence. He wondered where she was all this time and how she spent the long, dark hours of the sleepless nights. Were all these things really true that she told him? Was he actually out of his body, and was his name really Jimbo? His thoughts kept groping backwards, ever seeking the other companions he had lost; but, like a piece of stretched elastic too short to reach its object, they always came back with a snap just when he seemed on the point of finding them. He wanted these companions very badly indeed, but the struggling of his memory was painful, and he could not keep the effort up for very long at one time. The effort once relaxed, however, his thoughts wandered freely where they would; and there rose before his mind's eye dim suggestions of memories far more distant--ghostly scenes and faces that passed before him in endless succession, but always faded away before he could properly seize and name them. This memory, so stubborn as regards quite recent events, began to play strange tricks with him. It carried him away into a Past so remote that he could not connect it with himself at all, and it was like dreaming of scenes and events that had happened to some one else; yet, all the time, he knew quite well those things had happened to him, and to none else. It was the memory of the soul asserting itself now that the clamour of the body was low. It was an underground river coming to the surface, for odd minutes, here and there, showing its waters to the stars just long enough to catch their ghostly reflections before it rolled away underground again. Yet, swift and transitory as they were, these glimpses brought in their train sensations that were too powerful ever to have troubled his child-mind in its present body. They stirred in him the strong emotions, the ecstasies, the terrors, the yearnings of a much more distant past; whispering to him, could he but have understood, of an infinitely deeper layer of memories and experiences which, now released from the burden of the immediate years, strove to awaken into life again. The soul in that little body covered with alpaca knickerbockers and a sailor blouse seemed suddenly to have access to a storehouse of knowledge that must have taken centuries, rather than a few short years, to acquire. It was all very queer. The feeling of tremendous age grew mysteriously over him. He realised that he had been wandering for ages. He had been to the stars and also to the deeps; he had roamed over strange mountains far away from cities or inhabited places of the earth, and had lived by streams whose waves were silvered by moonlight dropping softly through whispering palm branches.... Some of these ghostly memories brought him sensations of keenest happiness--icy, silver, radiant; others swept through his heart like a cold wave, leaving behind a feeling of unutterable woe, and a sense of loneliness that almost made him cry aloud. And there came Voices too--Voices that had slept so long in the inner kingdoms of silence that they failed to rouse in him the very slightest emotion of recognition.... Worn out at length with the surging of these strange hosts through him, he got up and went to the open window again. The night was very dark and warm, but the stars had disappeared, and there was the hush and the faint odour of coming rain in the air. He smelt leaves and the earth and the moist things of the ground, the wonderful perfume of the life of the soil. The wind had dropped; all was silent as the grave; the leaves of the elm trees were motionless; no bird or insect raised its voice; everything slept; he alone was watchful, awake. Leaning over the window-sill, his thoughts searched for the governess, and he wondered anew where she was spending the dark hours. She, too, he felt sure, was wakeful somewhere, watching with him, plotting their escape together, and always mindful of his safety.... His reverie was suddenly interrupted by the flight of an immense night-bird dropping through the air just above his head. He sprang back into the room with a startled cry, as it rushed past in the darkness with a great swishing of wings. The size of the creature filled him with awe; it was so close that the wind it made lifted the hair on his forehead, and he could almost feel the feathers brush his cheeks. He strained his eyes to try and follow it, but the shadows were too deep and he could see nothing; only in the distance, growing every moment fainter, he could hear the noise of big wings threshing the air. He waited a little, wondering if another bird would follow it, or if it would presently return to its perch on the roof; and then his thoughts passed on to uncertain memories of other big birds--hawks, owls, eagles--that he had seen somewhere in places now beyond the reach of distinct recollections.... Soon the light began to dawn in the east, and he made out the shape of the elm trees and the dreadful prison wall; and with the first real touch of morning light he heard a familiar creaking sound in the room behind him, and saw the black hood of the governess rising through the trap-door in the floor. "But you've left me alone all night!" he said at once reproachfully, as she kissed him. "On purpose," she answered. "He'd get suspicious if I stayed too much with you. It's different in the daytime, when he can't see properly." "Where's he been all night, then?" asked the boy. "Last night he was out most of the time--hunting----" "Hunting!" he repeated, with excitement. "Hunting what?" "Children--frightened children," she replied, lowering her voice. "That's how he found you." It was a horrible thought--Fright hunting for victims to bring to his dreadful prison--and Jimbo shivered as he heard it. "And how did you get on all this time?" she asked, hurriedly changing the subject. "I've been remembering, that is half-remembering, an awful lot of things, and feeling, oh, so old. I never want to remember anything again," he said wearily. "You'll forget quick enough when you get back into your body, and have only the body-memories," she said, with a sigh that he did not understand. "But, now tell me," she added, in a more serious voice, "have you had any pain yet?" He shook his head. She stepped up beside him. "None _there_?" she asked, touching him lightly just behind the shoulder blades. Jimbo jumped as if he had been shot, and uttered a piercing yell. "That hurts!" he screamed. "I'm so glad," cried the governess. "That's the pains coming at last." Her face was beaming. "Coming!" he echoed, "I think they've _come_. But if they hurt as much as that, I think I'd rather not escape," he added ruefully. "The pain won't last more than a minute," she said calmly. "You must be brave and stand it. There's no escape without pain--from anything." "If there's no other way," he said pluckily, "I'll try,--but----" "You see," she went on, rather absently, "at this very moment the doctor is probing the wounds in your back where the horns went in----" But he was not listening. Her explanations always made him want either to cry or to laugh. This time he laughed, and the governess joined him, while they sat on the edge of the bed together talking of many things. He did not understand all her explanations, but it comforted him to hear them. So long as somebody understood, no matter who, he felt it was all right. In this way several days and nights passed quickly away. The pains were apparently no nearer, but as Miss Lake showed no particular anxiety about their non-arrival, he waited patiently too, dreading the moment, yet also looking forward to it exceedingly. During the day the governess spent most of the time in the room with him; but at night, when he was alone, the darkness became enchanted, the room haunted, and he passed into the long, long Gallery of Ancient Memories. CHAPTER IX THE MEANS OF ESCAPE A week passed, and Jimbo began to wonder if the pains he so much dreaded, yet so eagerly longed for, were ever coming at all. The imprisonment was telling upon him, and he grew very thin, and consequently very light. The nights, though he spent them alone, were easily borne, for he was then intensely occupied, and the time passed swiftly; the moment it was dark he stepped into the Gallery of Memories, and in a little while passed into a new world of wonder and delight. But the daytime seemed always long. He stood for hours by the window watching the trees and the sky, and what he saw always set painful currents running through his blood--unsatisfied longings, yearnings, and immense desires he never could understand. The white clouds on their swift journeys took with them something from his heart every time he looked upon them; they melted into air and blue sky, and lo! that "something" came back to him charged with all the wild freedom and magic of open spaces, distance, and rushing winds. But the change was close at hand. One night, as he was standing by the open window listening to the drip of the rain, he felt a deadly weakness steal over him; the strength went out of his legs. First he turned hot, and then he turned cold; clammy perspiration broke out all over him, and it was all he could do to crawl across the room and throw himself on to the bed. But no sooner was he stretched out on the mattress than the feelings passed entirely, and left behind them an intoxicating sense of strength and lightness. His muscles became like steel springs; his bones were strong as iron and light as cork; a wonderful vigour had suddenly come into him, and he felt as if he had just stepped from a dungeon into fresh air. He was ready to face anything in the world. But, before he had time to realise the full enjoyment of these new sensations, a stinging, blinding pain shot suddenly through his right shoulder as if a red-hot iron had pierced to the very bone. He screamed out in agony; though, even while he screamed, the pain passed. Then the same thing happened in his other shoulder. It shot through his back with equal swiftness, and was gone, leaving him lying on the bed trembling with pain. But the instant it was gone the delightful sensations of strength and lightness returned, and he felt as if his whole body were charged with some new and potent force. The pains had come at last! Jimbo had no notion how they could possibly be connected with escape, but Miss Lake--his kind and faithful friend, Miss Lake--had said that no escape was possible without them; and had promised that they should be brief. And this was true, for the entire episode had not taken a minute of time. "ESCAPE, ESCAPE!"--the words rushed through him like a flame of fire. Out of this dreadful Empty House, into the open spaces; beyond the prison wall; out where the wind and the rain could touch him; where he could feel the grass beneath his feet, and could see the whole sky at once, instead of this narrow strip through the window. His thoughts flew to the stars and the clouds.... But a strange humming of voices interrupted his flight of imagination, and he saw that the room was suddenly full of moving figures. They were passing before him with silent footsteps, across the window from door to door. How they had come in, or how they went out, he never knew; but his heart stood still for an instant as he recognised the mournful figures of the Frightened Children filing before him in a slow procession. They were singing--though it sounded more like a chorus of whispering than actual singing--and as they moved past with the measured steps of their sorrowful dance, he caught the words of the song he had heard them sing when he first came into the house:-- "We hear the little voices in the wind Singing of freedom we may never find." Jimbo put his fingers into his ears, but still the sound came through. He heard the words almost as if they were inside himself--his own thoughts singing:-- "We hear the little footsteps in the rain Running to help us, though they run in vain, Tapping in hundreds on the window-pane." The horrible procession filed past and melted away near the door. They were gone as mysteriously as they had come, and almost before he realised it. He sprang from the bed and tried the doors; both were locked. How in the world had the children got in and out? The whispering voices rose again on the night air, and this time he was sure they came from outside. He ran to the open window and thrust his head out cautiously. Sure enough, the procession was moving slowly, still with the steps of that impish dance across the courtyard stones. He could just make out the slow waving arms, the thin bodies, and the white little faces as they passed on silent feet through the darkness, and again a fragment of the song rose to his ears as he watched, and filled him with an overpowering sadness:-- "We have no joy in any children's game, For happiness to us is but a name, Since Terror kissed us with his lips of flame." Then he noticed that the group was growing smaller. Already the numbers were less. Somewhere, over there in the dark corner of the yard, the children disappeared, though it was too dark to see precisely how or where. "We dance with phantoms, and with shadows play," rose to his ears. Suddenly he remembered the little white upright stones he had seen in that corner of the yard, and understood. One by one they vanished just behind those stones. Jimbo shivered, and drew his head in. He did not like those upright stones; they made him uncomfortable and afraid. Now, however, the last child had disappeared and the song had ceased. He realised what his fate would be if the escape were not successful; he would become one of this band of Frightened Children; dwelling somewhere behind the upright stones; a terrified shadow, waiting in vain to be rescued, waiting perhaps for ever and ever. The thought brought the tears to his eyes, but he somehow managed to choke them down. He knew it was the young portion of him only that felt afraid--the body; the older self could not feel fear, and had nothing to do with tears. He lay down again upon the hard mattress and waited; and soon afterwards the first crimson streaks of sunrise appeared behind the high elms, and rooks began to caw and shake their wings in the upper branches. A little later the governess came in. Before he could move out of the way--for he disliked being embraced--she had her arms round his neck, and was covering him with kisses. He saw tears in her eyes. "You darling Jimbo!" she cried, "they've come at last." "How do you know?" he asked, surprised at her knowledge and puzzled by her display of emotion. "I heard you scream to begin with. Besides, I've been watching." "Watching?" "Yes, and listening too, every night, every single night. You've hardly been a minute out of my sight," she added. "I think it's awfully good of you," he said doubtfully, "but----" A flood of questions followed--about the upright stones, the shadowy children, where she spent the night "watching him," and a hundred other things besides. But he got little satisfaction out of her. He never did when it was Jimbo, the child, that asked; and he remained Jimbo, the child, all that day. She only told him that all was going well. The pains had come; he had grown nice and thin, and light; the children had come into his room as a hint that he belonged to their band, and other things had happened about which she would tell him later. The crisis was close at hand. That was all he could get out of her. "It won't be long now," she said excitedly. "They'll come to-night, I expect." "What will come to-night?" he asked, with querulous wonder. "Wait and see!" was all the answer he got. "Wait and see!" She told him to lie quietly on the bed and to have patience. With asking questions, and thinking, and wondering, the day passed very quickly. With the lengthening shadows his excitement began to grow. Presently Miss Lake took her departure and went off to her unknown and mysterious abode; he watched her disappear through the floor with mingled feelings, wondering what would have happened before he saw her again. She gave him a long, last look as she sank away below the boards, but it was a look that brought him fresh courage, and her eyes were happy and smiling. Tingling already with expectancy he got into the bed and lay down, his brain alive with one word--ESCAPE. From where he lay he saw the stars in the narrow strip of sky; he heard the wind whispering in the branches; he even smelt the perfume of the fields and hedges--grass, flowers, dew, and the sweet earth--the odours of freedom. The governess had, for some reason she refused to explain, taken his blouse away with her. For a long time he puzzled over this, seeking reasons and finding none. But, while in the act of stroking his bare arms, the pains of the night before suddenly returned to both shoulders at once. Fire seemed to run down his back, splitting his bones apart, and then passed even more quickly than before, leaving him with the same wonderful sensations of lightness and strength. He felt inclined to shout and run and jump, and it was only the memory of the governess's earnest caution to "lie quietly" that prevented his new emotions passing into acts. With very great effort he lay still all night long; and it was only when the room at last began to get light again that he turned on his side, preparatory to getting up. But there was something new--something different! He rested on his elbow, waiting. Something had happened to him. Cautiously he sat on the edge of the bed, and stretched out one foot and touched the floor. Excitement ran through him like a wave. There was a great change, a tremendous change; for as he stepped out gingerly on to the floor _something followed him from the bed_. It clung to his back; it touched both shoulders at once; it stroked his ribs, and tickled the skin of his arms. Half frightened, he brought the other leg over, and stood boldly upright on both feet. But the weight still clung to his back. He looked over his shoulder. Yes! it was trailing after him from the bed; it was fan-shaped, and brilliant in colour. He put out a hand and touched it; it was soft and glossy; then he took it deliberately between his fingers; it was smooth as velvet, and had numerous tiny ribs running along it. Seizing it at last with all his courage, he pulled it forward in front of him for a better view, only to discover that it would not come out beyond a certain distance, and seemed to have got caught somehow between his shoulders--just where the pains had been. A second pull, more vigorous than the first, showed that it was not caught, but _fastened_ to his skin; it divided itself, moreover, into two portions, one half coming from each shoulder. "I do believe they're feathers!" he exclaimed, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Then, with a sudden flash of comprehension, he saw it all, and understood. They were, indeed, feathers; but they were something more than feathers merely. _They were wings!_ Jimbo caught his breath and stared in silence. He felt dazed. Then bit by bit the fragments of the weird mosaic fell into their proper places, and he began to understand. Escape was to be by flight. It filled him with such a whirlwind of delight and excitement that he could scarcely keep from screaming aloud. Lost in wonder, he took a step forward, and watched with bulging eyes how the wings followed him, their tips trailing along the floor. They were a beautiful deep red, and hung down close and warm beside his body; glossy, sleek, magical. And when, later, the sun burst into the room and turned their colour into living flame, he could not resist the temptation to kiss them. He seized them, and rubbed their soft surfaces over his face. Such colours he had never seen before, and he wanted to be sure that they really belonged to him and were intended for actual use. Slowly, without using his hands, he raised them into the air. The effort was a perfectly easy muscular effort from the shoulders that came naturally, though he did not quite understand how he accomplished it. The wings rose in a fine, graceful sweep, curving over his head till the tips of the feathers met, touching the walls as they rose, and almost reaching to the ceiling. He gave a howl of delight, for this sight was more than he could manage without some outlet for his pent-up emotion; and at the same moment the trap-door shot open, and the governess came into the room with such a bang and a clatter that Jimbo knew at once her excitement was as great as his own. In her hands she carried the blouse she had taken away the night before. She held it out to him without a word. Her eyes were shining like electric lamps. In less than a second he had slipped his wings through the neatly-made slits, but before he could practise them again, Miss Lake rushed over to him, her face radiant with happiness. "Jimbo! My darling Jimbo!" she cried--and then stopped short, apparently unable to express her emotion. The next instant he was enveloped, wings and all, in a warm confusion of kisses, congratulations and folds of hood. When they became disentangled again the governess went down on her knees and made a careful examination; she pulled the wings out to their full extent and found that they stretched about four feet and a half from tip to tip. "They _are_ beauties!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, "and full grown and strong. I'm not surprised they took so long coming." "Long!" he echoed, "I thought they came awfully quickly." "Not half so quickly as they'll go," she interrupted; adding, when she saw his expression of dismay, "I mean, you'll fly like the wind with them." Jimbo was simply breathless with excitement. He wanted to jump out of the window and escape at once. The blue sky and the sunshine and the white flying clouds sent him an irresistible invitation. He could not wait a minute longer. "Quick," he cried, "I can't wait! They may go again. Show me how to use them. Oh! do show me." "I'll show you everything in time," she answered. There was something in her voice that made him pause in his excitement. He looked at her in silence for some minutes. "But how are _you_ going to escape?" he asked at length. "You haven't got"----he stopped short. The governess stepped back a few paces from him. She threw back the hood from her face. Then she lifted the long black cloak that hung like a cassock almost to her ankles and had always enveloped her hitherto. Jimbo stared. Falling from her shoulders, and folding over her hips, he saw long red feathers clinging to her; and when he dashed forward to touch them with his hands, he found they were just as sleek and smooth and glossy as his own. "And you never told me all this time?" he gasped. "It was safer not," she said. "You'd have been stroking and feeling your shoulders the whole time, and the wings might never have come at all." She spread out her wings as she spoke to their full extent; they were nearly six feet across, and the deep crimson on the under side was so exquisite, gleaming in the sunlight, that Jimbo ran in and nestled beneath the feathers, tickling his cheeks with the fluffy surface and running his fingers with childish delight along the slender red quills. "You precious child," she said, tenderly folding her wings round him and kissing the top of his head. "Always remember that I really love you; no matter what happens, remember that, and I'll save you." "And we shall escape together?" he asked, submitting for once to the caresses with a good grace. "We shall escape from the Empty House together," she replied evasively. "How far we can go after that depends--on you." "On me?" "If you love me enough--as I love you, Jimbo--we can never separate again, because love ties us together for ever. Only," she added, "it must be mutual." "I love you very much," he said, puzzled a little. "Of course I do." "If you've really forgiven me for being the cause of your coming here," she said, "we can always be together, but----" "I don't remember, but I've forgiven you--that _other you_--long ago," he said simply. "If you hadn't brought me here, I should never have met you." "That's not real forgiveness--quite," she sighed, half to herself. But Jimbo could not follow this sort of conversation for long; he was too anxious to try his wings for one thing. "Is it _very_ difficult to use them?" he asked. "Try," she said. He stood in the centre of the floor and raised them again and again. They swept up easily, meeting over his head, and the air whistled musically through them. Evidently, they had their proper muscles, for it was no great effort, and when he folded them again by his side they fell into natural curves over his arms as if they had been there all his life. The sound of the feathers threshing the air filled him with delight and made him think of the big night-bird that had flown past the window during the night. He told the governess about it, and she burst out laughing. "I was that big bird!" she said. "You!" "I perched on the roof every night to watch over you. I flew down that time because I was afraid you were trying to climb out of the window." This was indeed a proof of devotion, and Jimbo felt that he could never doubt her again; and when she went on to tell him about his wings and how to use them he listened with his very best attention and tried hard to learn and understand. "The great difficulty is that you can't practise properly," she explained. "There's no room in here, and yet you can't get out till you _fly_ out. It's the first swoop that decides all. You have to drop straight out of this window, and if you use the wings properly they will carry you in a single swoop over the wall and right up into the sky." "But if I miss----?" "You can't miss," she said with decision, "but, if you did, you would be a prisoner here for ever. HE would catch you in the yard and tear your wings off. It is just as well that you should know this at once." Jimbo shuddered as he heard her. "When can we try?" he asked anxiously. "Very soon now. The muscles must harden first, and that takes a little time. You must practise flapping your wings until you can do it easily four hundred times a minute. When you can do that it will be time for the first start. You must keep your head steady and not get giddy; the novelty of the motion--the ground rushing up into your face and the whistling of the wind--are apt to confuse at first, but it soon passes, and you must have confidence. I can only help you up to a certain point; the rest depends on you." "And the first jump?" "You'll have to make that by yourself," she said; "but you'll do it all right. You're very light, and won't go too near the ground. You see, we're like bats, and cannot rise from the earth. We can only fly by dropping from a height, and that's what makes the first plunge rather trying. But you won't fall," she added, "and remember, I shall always be within reach." "You're awfully kind to me," said Jimbo, feeling his little soul more than ever invaded by the force of her unselfish care. "I promise you I'll do my best." He climbed on to her knee and stared into her anxious face. "Then you are beginning to love me a little, aren't you?" she asked softly, putting her arms round him. "Yes," he said decidedly. "I love you very much already." Four hundred times a minute sounded a very great deal of wing-flapping; but Jimbo practised eagerly, and though at first he could only manage about twice a second, or one hundred and twenty times a minute, he found this increased very soon to a great deal more, and before long he was able to do the full four hundred, though only for a few minutes at a time. He stuck to it pluckily, getting stronger every day. The governess encouraged him as much as possible, but there was very little room for her while he was at work, and he found the best way to practise was at night when she was out of the way. She told him that a large bird moved its wings about four times a second, two up-strokes and two down-strokes; but a small bird like a partridge moved its wings so rapidly it was impossible for the eye to distinguish or count the strokes. A middle course of four hundred suited his own case best, and he bent all his energies to acquire it. He also learned that the convex outside curve of wings allowed the wind to escape over them, while the under side, being concave, held every breath. Thus the upward stroke did not simply counterbalance the downward and keep him stationary. Moreover, she showed him how the feathers underlapped each other so that the downward stroke pressed them closely together to hold the wind, whereas in the upward stroke they opened and separated, letting the air slip easily through them, thus offering less resistance to the atmosphere. By the end of a week Jimbo had practised so hard that he could keep himself off the floor in mid-air for half an hour at a time, and even then without feeling any great fatigue. His excitement became intense; and, meanwhile, in his body on the nursery bed, though he did not know it, the fever was reaching its crisis. He could think of nothing else but the joys of flying, and what the first, awful plunge would be like, and when Miss Lake came up to him one afternoon and whispered something in his ear, he was so wildly happy that he hugged her for several minutes without the slightest coaxing. "It's bright and clear," she explained, "and Fright will not come after us, for he fears the light, and can only fly on dark and gloomy nights." "So we can start----?" he stammered joyfully. "To-night," she answered, "for our first practice-flight." CHAPTER X THE PLUNGE To enter the world of wings is to enter a new state of existence. The apparent loss of weight; the ability to attain full speed in a few seconds, and to stop suddenly in a headlong rush without fear of collapse; the power to steer instantly in any direction by merely changing the angle of the body; the altered and enormous view of the green world below--looking down upon forests, seas and clouds; the easy voluptuous rhythm of rising and falling in long, swinging undulations; and a hundred other things that simply defy description and can be appreciated only by actual experience, these are some of the delights of the new world of wings and flying. And the fearful joy of very high speed, especially when the exhilaration of escape is added to it, means a condition little short of real ecstasy. Yet Jimbo's first flight, the governess had been careful to tell him, could not be the flight of final escape; for, even if the wings proved equal to a prolonged effort, escape was impossible until there was somewhere safe to escape to. So it was understood that the practice flights might be long, or might be short; the important thing, meanwhile, was to learn to fly as well as possible. For skilled flying is very different to mere headlong rushing, and both courage and perseverance are necessary to acquire it. With rare common sense Miss Lake had said very little about the possibility of failure. Having warned him about the importance of not falling, she had then stopped, and the power of suggestion had been allowed to work only in the right direction of certain success. While the boy knew that the first plunge from the window would be a moment fraught with the highest danger, his mind only recognised the mere off-chance of falling and being caught. He felt confidence in himself, and by so much, therefore, were the chances of disaster lessened. For the rest of the afternoon Jimbo saw nothing of his faithful companion; he spent the time practising and resting, and when weary of everything else, he went to the window and indulged in thrilling calculations about the exact height from the ground. A drop of three storeys into a paved courtyard with a monster waiting to catch him, and a high wall too close to allow a proper swing, was an alarming matter from any point of view. Fortunately, his mind dwelt more on the delight of prospective flight and freedom than on the chances of being caught. The yard lay hot and naked in the afternoon glare and the enclosing wall had never looked more formidable; but from his lofty perch Jimbo could see beyond into soft hayfields and smiling meadows, yellow with cowslips and buttercups. Everything that flew he watched with absorbing interest: swift blackbirds, whistling as they went, and crows, their wings purple in the sunshine. The song of the larks, invisible in the sea of blue air sent a thrill of happiness through him--he, too, might soon know something of that glad music--and even the stately flight of the butterflies, which occasionally ventured over into the yard, stirred anticipations in him of joys to come. The day waned slowly. The butterflies vanished; the rooks sailed homewards through the sunset; the wind dropped away, and the shadows of the high elms lengthened gradually and fell across the window. The mysterious hour of the dusk, when the standard of reality changes and other worlds come close and listen, began to work its subtle spell upon his soul. Imperceptibly the shadows deepened as the veil of night drew silently across the sky. A gentle breathing filled the air; trees and fields were composing themselves to sleep; stars were peeping; wings were being folded. But the boy's wings, trembling with life to the very tips of their long feathers, these were not being folded. Charged with excitement, like himself, they were gathering all their forces for the supreme effort of their first journey out into the open spaces where they might touch the secret sources of their own magical life. For a long, long time he waited; but at last the trap-door lifted and Miss Lake appeared above the floor. The moment she stood in the room he noticed that her wings came through two little slits in her gown and folded down close to the body. They almost touched the ground. "Hush!" she whispered, holding up a warning finger. She came over on tiptoe and they began to talk in low whispers. "He's on the watch; we must speak very quietly. We couldn't have a better night for it. The wind's in the south and the moon won't be up till we're well on our way." Now that the actual moment was so near the boy felt something of fear steal over him. The night seemed so vast and terrible all of a sudden--like an immense black ocean with no friendly islands where they could fold their wings and rest. "Don't waste your strength thinking," whispered the governess. "When the time comes, act quickly, that's all!" She went over to the window and peered out cautiously, after a while beckoning the child to join her. "He is there," she murmured in his ear. Jimbo could only make out an indistinct shadowy object crouching under the wall, and he was not even positive of that. "Does he know we're going?" he asked in an awed whisper. "He's there on the chance," she muttered, drawing back into the room. "When there's a possibility of any one getting frightened he's bound to be lurking about somewhere near. That's Fright all over. But he can't hurt you," she added, "because you're not going to get frightened. Besides, he can only fly when it's dark; and to-night we shall have the moon." "I'm not afraid," declared the boy in spite of a rather fluttering heart. "Are you ready?" was all she said. At last, then, the moment had come. It was actually beside him, waiting, full of mystery and wonder, with alarm not far behind. The sun was buried below the horizon of the world, and the dusk had deepened into night. Stars were shining overhead; the leaves were motionless; not a breath stirred; the earth was silent and waiting. "Yes, I'm ready," he whispered, almost inaudibly. "Then listen," she said, "and I'll tell you exactly what to do: Jump upwards from the window ledge as high as you can, and the moment you begin to drop, open your wings and strike with all your might. You'll rise at once. The thing to remember is to _rise as quickly as possible_, because the wall prevents a long, easy, sweeping rise; and, whatever happens, you must clear that wall!" "I shan't touch the ground then?" asked a faint little voice. "Of course not! You'll get near it, but the moment you use your wings you'll stop sinking, and rise up, up, up, ever so quickly." "And where to?" "To me. You'll see me waiting for you above the trees. Steering will come naturally; it's quite easy." Jimbo was already shaking with excitement. He could not help it. And he knew, in spite of all Miss Lake's care, that Fright was waiting in the yard to catch him if he fell, or sank too near the ground. "I'll go first," added the governess, "and the moment you see that I've cleared the wall you must jump after me. Only do not keep me waiting!" The girl stood for a minute in silence, arranging her wings. Her fingers were trembling a little. Suddenly she drew the boy to her and kissed him passionately. "Be brave!" she whispered, looking searchingly into his eyes, "and strike hard--you can't possibly fail." In another minute she was climbing out of the window. For one second he saw her standing on the narrow ledge with black space at her feet; the next, without even a cry, she sprang out into the darkness, and was gone. Jimbo caught his breath and ran up to see. She dropped like a stone, turning over sideways in the air, and then at once her wings opened on both sides and she righted. The darkness swallowed her up for a moment so that he could not see clearly, and only heard the threshing of the huge feathers; but it was easy to tell from the sound that she was rising. Then suddenly a black form cleared the wall and rose swiftly in a magnificent sweep into the sky, and he saw her outlined darkly against the stars above the high elm tree. She was safe. Now it was his turn. "Act quickly! Don't think!" rang in his ears. If only he could do it all as quickly as she had done it. But insidious fear had been working all the time below the surface, and his refusal to recognise it could not prevent it weakening his muscles and checking his power of decision. Fortunately something of his Older Self came to the rescue. The emotions of fear, excitement, and intense anticipation combined to call up the powers of his deeper being: the boy trembled horribly, but the old, experienced part of him sang with joy. Cautiously he began to climb out on to the window-sill; first one foot and then the other hung over the edge. He sat there, staring down into black space beneath. For a minute he hesitated; despair rushed over him in a wave; he could never take that awful jump into emptiness and darkness. It was impossible. Better be a prisoner for ever than risk so fearful a plunge. He felt cold, weak, frightened, and made a half-movement back into the room. The wings caught somehow between his legs and nearly flung him headlong into the yard. "Jimbo! I'm waiting for you!" came at that moment in a faint cry from the stars, and the sound gave him just the impetus he needed before it was too late. He could not disappoint her--his faithful friend. Such a thing was impossible. He stood upright on the ledge, his hands clutching the window-sash behind, balancing as best he could. He clenched his fists, drew a deep, long breath, and jumped upwards and forwards into the air. Up rushed the darkness with a shriek; the air whistled in his ears; he dropped at fearful speed into nothingness. At first everything was forgotten--wings, instructions, warnings, and all. He even forgot to open his wings at all, and in another second he would have been dashed upon the hard paving-stones of the courtyard where his great enemy lay waiting to seize him. But just in the nick of time he remembered, and the long hours of practice bore fruit. Out flew the great red wings in a tremendous sweep on both sides of him, and he began to strike with every atom of strength he possessed. He had dropped to within six feet of the ground; but at once the strokes began to tell, and oh, magical sensation! he felt himself rising easily, lightly, swiftly. A very slight effort of those big wings would have been sufficient to lift him out of danger, but in his terror and excitement he quite miscalculated their power, and in a single moment he was far out of reach of the dangerous yard and anything it contained. But the mad rush of it all made his head swim; he felt dizzy and confused, and, instead of clearing the wall, he landed on the top of it and clung to the crumbling coping with hands and feet, panting and breathless. The dizziness was only momentary, however. In less than a minute he was on his feet and in the act of taking his second leap into space. This time it came more easily. He dropped, and the field swung up to meet him. Soon the powerful strokes of his wings drove him at great speed upwards, and he bounded ever higher towards the stars. Overhead, the governess hovered like an immense bird, and as he rose up he caught the sound of her wings beating the air, while far beneath him, he heard with a shudder a voice like the rushing of a great river. It made him increase his pace, and in another minute he found himself among the little whirlwinds that raced about from the beating of Miss Lake's great wings. "Well done!" cried the delighted governess. "Safe at last! Now we can fly to our heart's content!" Jimbo flew up alongside, and together they dashed forward into the night. CHAPTER XI THE FIRST FLIGHT There was not much talking at first. The stress of conflicting emotions was so fierce that the words choked themselves in his throat, and the desire for utterance found its only vent in hard breathing. The intoxication of rapid motion carried him away headlong in more senses than one. At first he felt as if he never would be able to keep up; then it seemed as if he never would get down again. For with wings it is almost easier to rise than to fall, and a first flight is, before anything else, a series of vivid and audacious surprises. For a long time Jimbo was so dizzy with excitement and the novelty of the sensation that he forgot his deliverer altogether. And what a flight it was! Instead of the steady race of the carrier pigeon, or of the rooks homeward bound at evening, it was the see-saw motion of the wren's swinging journey across the lawn; only heavier, faster, and with more terrific impetus. Up and down, each time with a rise and fall of twenty feet, he careered, whistling through the summer night; at the drop of each curve, so low that the scents of dewy grass rose into his face; at the crest of it, so high that the trees and hedges often became mere blots upon the dark surface of the earth. The fields rushed by beneath him; the white roads flashed past like streaks of snow. Sometimes he shot across sheets of water and felt the cooler air strike his cheeks; sometimes over sheltered meadows, where the sunshine had slept all day and the air was still soft and warm; on and on, as easily as rain dropping from the sky, or wind rushing earthwards from between the clouds. Everything flew past him at an astonishing rate--everything but the bright stars that gazed calmly down overhead; and when he looked up and saw their steadfastness it helped to keep within bounds the fine alarm of this first excursion into the great vault of the sky. "Gently, child!" gasped Miss Lake behind him. "We shall never keep it up at this rate." "Oh! but it's so wonderful," he cried, drawing in the air loudly between his teeth, and shaking his wings rapidly like a hawk before it drops. The pace slackened a little and the girl drew up alongside. For some time they flew forward together in silence. They had been skirting the edge of a wood, when suddenly the trees fell away and Jimbo gave a scream and rose fifty feet into the air with a single bound. Straight in front of him loomed an immense, glaring disc that seemed to swim suddenly up into the sky above the trees. It hung there before his eyes and dazzled him. "It's only the moon," cried Miss Lake from below. Jimbo dropped through the air to her side again with a gasp. "I thought it was a big hole in the sky with fire rushing through," he explained breathlessly. The boy stared, full of wonder and delight, at the huge flaming circle that seemed to fill half the heavens in front of him. "Look out!" cried the governess, seizing his hand. Whish! whew! whirr! A large bird whipped past them like some winged imp of darkness, vanishing among the trees far below. There would certainly have been a collision but for the girl's energetic interference. "You must be on the look-out for these night-birds," she said. "They fly so unexpectedly, and, of course, they don't see us properly. Telegraph wires and church steeples are bad too, but then we shan't fly over cities much. Keep a good height, it's safer." They altered their course a little, flying at a different angle, so that the moon no longer dazzled them. Steering came quite easily by turning the body, and Jimbo still led the way, the governess following heavily and with a mighty business of wings and flapping. It was something to remember, the glory of that first journey through the air. Sixty miles an hour, and scarcely an effort! Skimming the long ridges of the hills and rushing through the pure air of mountain tops; threading the star-beams; bathing themselves from head to foot in an ocean of cool, clean wind; swimming on the waves of viewless currents--currents warmed only by the magic of the stars, and kissed by the burning lips of flying meteors. Far below them the moonlight touched the fields with silver and the murmur of the world rose faintly to their ears, trembling, as it were, with the inarticulate dreams of millions. Everywhere about them thrilled and sang the unspeakable power of the night. The mystery of its great heart seemed laid bare before them. It was like a wonder-journey in some Eastern fairy tale. Sometimes they passed through zones of sweeter air, perfumed with the scents of hay and wild flowers; at others, the fresh, damp odour of ploughed fields rose up to them; or, again, they went spinning over leagues of forest where the tree-tops stretched beneath them like the surface of a wide, green sea, sleeping in the moonlight. And, when they crossed open water, the stars shone reflected in their faces; and all the while the wings, whirring and purring softly through the darkness, made pleasant music in their ears. "I'm tired," declared Jimbo presently. "Then we'll go down and rest," said his breathless companion with obvious relief. She showed him how to spread his wings, sloping them towards the ground at an angle that enabled him to shoot rapidly downwards, at the same time regulating his speed by the least upward tilt. It was a glorious motion, without effort or difficulty, though the pace made it hard to keep the eyes open, and breathing became almost impossible. They dropped to within ten feet of the ground and then shot forward again. But, while the boy was watching his companion's movements, and paying too little attention to his own, there rose suddenly before him out of the ground a huge, bulky form of something--and crash--he flew headlong into it. Fortunately it was only a haystack; but the speed at which he was going lodged his head several inches under the thatch, whence he projected horizontally into space, feet, arms, and wings gyrating furiously. The governess, however, soon released him with much laughter, and they dropped down into the fallen hay upon the ground with no worse result than a shaking. "Oh, what a lark!" he cried, shaking the hay out of his feathers, and rubbing his head rather ruefully. "Except that larks are hardly night-birds," she laughed, helping him. They settled with folded wings in the shadow of the haystack; and the big moon, peeping over the edge at them, must have surely wondered to see such a funny couple, in such a place, and at such an hour. "Mushrooms!" suddenly cried the governess, springing to her feet. "There must be lots in this field. I'll go and pick some while you rest a bit." Off she went, trapesing over the field in the moonlight, her wings folded behind her, her body bent a little forward as she searched, and in ten minutes she came back with her hands full. That was undoubtedly the time to enjoy mushrooms at their best, with the dew still on their tight little jackets, and the sweet odour of the earth caught under their umbrellas. Soon they were all eaten, and Jimbo was lying back on a pile of hay, his shoulders against the wall of the stack, and his wings gathered round him like a warm cloak of feathers. He felt cosy and dozy, full of mushrooms inside and covered with hay and feathers outside. The governess had once told him that a sort of open-air sleep sometimes came after a long flight. It was, of course, not a real sleep, but a state in which everything about oneself is forgotten; no dreams, no movement, no falling asleep and waking up in the ordinary sense, but a condition of deep repose in which recuperation is very great. Jimbo would have been greatly interested, no doubt, to know that his real body on the bed had also just been receiving nourishment, and was now passing into a quieter and less feverish condition. The parallel always held true between himself and his body in the nursery, but he could not know anything about this, and only supposed that it was this open-air sleep that he felt gently stealing over him. It brought at first strange thoughts that carried him far away to other woods and other fields. While Miss Lake sat beside him eating her mushrooms, his mind was drawn off to some other little folk. But it was always stopped just short of them. He never could quite see their faces. Yet his thoughts continued their search, groping in the darkness; he felt sure he ought to be sharing his adventures with these other little persons, whoever they were; they ought to have been sitting beside him at that very moment, eating mushrooms, combing their wings, comparing the length of their feathers, and snuggling with him into the warm hay. But they obstinately hovered just outside his memory, and refused to come in and surrender themselves. He could not remember who they were, and his yearnings went unsatisfied up to the stars, as yearnings generally do, while his thoughts returned weary from their search and he yielded to the seductions of the soothing open-air sleep. The moon, meanwhile, rose higher and higher, drawing a silver veil over the stars. Upon the field the dews of midnight fell silently. A faint mist rose from the ground and covered the flowers in their dim seclusion under the hedgerows. The hours slipped away swiftly. "Come on, Jimbo, boy!" cried the governess at length. "The moon's below the hills, and we must be off!" The boy turned and stared sleepily at her from his nest in the hay. "We've got miles to go. Remember the speed we came at!" she explained, getting up and arranging her wings. Jimbo got up slowly and shook himself. "I've been miles away," he said dreamily, "miles and miles. But I'm ready to start at once." They looked about for a raised place to jump from. A ladder stood against the other side of the haystack. The governess climbed up it and Jimbo followed her drowsily. Hand in hand they sprang into the air from the edge of the thatched roof, and their wings spread out like sails to catch the wind. It smote their faces pleasantly as they plunged downwards and forwards, and the exhilarating rush of cool air banished from the boy's head the last vestige of the open-air sleep. "We must keep up a good pace," cried the governess, taking a stream and the hedge beyond in a single sweep. "There's a light in the east already." As she spoke a dog howled in a farmyard beneath them, and she shot upwards as though lifted by a sudden gust of wind. "We're too low," she shouted from above. "That dog felt us near. Come up higher. It's easier flying, and we've got a long way to go." Jimbo followed her up till they were several hundred feet above the earth and the keen air stung their cheeks. Then she led him still higher, till the meadows looked like the squares on a chess-board and the trees were like little toy shrubs. Here they rushed along at a tremendous speed, too fast to speak, their wings churning the air into little whirlwinds and eddies as they passed, whizzing, whistling, tearing through space. The fields, however, were still dim in the shadows that precede the dawn, and the stars only just beginning to fade, when they saw the dark outline of the Empty House below them, and began carefully to descend. Soon they topped the high elms, startling the rooks into noisy cawing, and then, skimming the wall, sailed stealthily on outspread wings across the yard. Cautiously dropping down to the level of the window, they crawled over the sill into the dark little room, and folded their wings. CHAPTER XII THE FOUR WINDS The governess left the boy to his own reflections almost immediately. He spent the hours thinking and resting; going over again in his mind every incident of the great flight and wondering when the real, final escape would come, and what it would be like. Thus, between the two states of excitement he forgot for a while that he was still a prisoner, and the spell of horror was lifted temporarily from his heart. The day passed quickly, and when Miss Lake appeared in the evening, she announced that there could be no flying again that night, and that she wished instead to give him important instruction for the future. There were rules, and signs, and times which he must learn carefully. The time might come when he would have to fly alone, and he must be prepared for everything. "And the first thing I have to tell you," she said, exactly as though it was a schoolroom, "is: _Never fly over the sea._ Our kind of wings quickly absorb the finer particles of water and get clogged and heavy over the sea. You finally cannot resist the drawing power of the water, and you will be dragged down and drowned. So be very careful! When you are flying high it is often difficult to know where the land ends and the sea begins, especially on moonless nights. But you can always be certain of one thing: if there are no sounds below you--hoofs, voices, wheels, wind in trees--you are over the sea." "Yes," said the child, listening with great attention. "And what else?" "The next thing is: _Don't fly too high._ Though we fly like birds, remember we are not birds, and we can fly where they can't. We can fly in the ether----" "Where's that?" he interrupted, half afraid of the sound. She stooped and kissed him, laughing at his fear. "There is nothing to be frightened about," she explained. "The air gets lighter and lighter as you go higher, till at last it stops altogether. Then there's only ether left. Birds can't fly in ether because it's too thin. We can, because----" "Is that why it was good for me to get lighter and thinner?" he interrupted again in a puzzled voice. "Partly, yes." "And what happens in the ether, please?" It still frightened him a little. "Nothing--except that if you fly too high you reach a point where the earth ceases to hold you, and you dash off into space. Weight leaves you then, and the wings move without effort. Faster and faster you rush upwards, till you lose all control of your movements, and then----" Miss Lake hesitated a moment. "And then----?" asked the fascinated child. "You may never come down again," she said slowly. "You may be sucked into anything that happens to come your way--a comet, or a shooting star, or the moon." "I should like a shooting star best," observed the boy, deeply interested. "The moon frightens me, I think. It looks so dreadfully clean." "You won't like any of them when the time comes," she laughed. "No one ever gets out again who once gets in. But you'll never be caught that way after what I've told you," she added, with decision. "I shall never want to fly as high as that, I'm sure," said Jimbo. "And now, please, what comes next?" The next thing, she went on to explain, was the _weather_, which, to all flying creatures, was of the utmost importance. Before starting for a flight he must always carefully consider the state of the sky, and the direction in which he wished to go. For this purpose he must master the meaning and character of the Four Winds and be able to recognise them in a moment. "Once you know these," she said, "you cannot possibly go wrong. To make it easier, I've put each Wind into a little simple rhyme, for you." "I'm listening," he said eagerly. "The North Wind is one of the worst and most dangerous, because it blows so much faster than you think. It's taken you ten miles before you think you've gone two. In starting with a North Wind, always fly _against_ it; then it will bring you home easily. If you fly _with_ it, you may be swept so far that the day will catch you before you can get home; and then you're as good as lost. Even birds fly warily when this wind is about. It has no lulls or resting-places in it; it blows steadily on and on, and conquers everything it comes against--everything except the mountains." "And its rhyme?" asked Jimbo, all ears. "It will show you the joy of the birds, my child, You shall know their terrible bliss; It will teach you to hide, when the night is wild, From the storm's too passionate kiss. For the Wind of the North Is a volleying forth That will lift you with springs In the heart of your wings, And may sweep you away To the edge of the day. So, beware of the Wind of the North, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the North!" "I think I like him all the same," said Jimbo. "But I'll remember always to fly against him." "The East Wind is worse still, for it hurts," continued the governess. "It stings and cuts. It's like the breath of an ice-creature; it brings hail and sleet and cold rain that beat down wings and blind the eyes. Like the North Wind, too, it is dreadfully swift and full of little whirlwinds, and may easily carry you into the light of day that would prove your destruction. Avoid it always; no hiding-place is safe from it. This is the rhyme: "It will teach you the secrets the eagles know Of the tempests' and whirlwinds' birth; And the magical weaving of rain and snow As they fall from the sky to the earth. But an Easterly wind Is for ever unkind; It will torture and twist you And never assist you, But will drive you with might To the verge of the night. So, beware of the Wind of the East, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the East." "The West Wind is really a very nice and jolly wind in itself," she went on, "but it's dangerous for a special reason: _it will carry you out to sea_. The Empty House is only a few miles from the coast, and a strong West Wind would take you there almost before you had time to get down to earth again. And there's no use struggling against a really steady West Wind, for it's simply tireless. Luckily, it rarely blows at night, but goes down with the sun. Often, too, it blows hard to the coast, and then drops suddenly, leaving you among the fogs and mists of the sea." "Rather a nice, exciting sort of wind though," remarked Jimbo, waiting for the rhyme. "So, at last, you shall know from their lightest breath To which heaven each wind belongs; And shall master their meaning for life or death By the shout of their splendid songs. Yet the Wind of the West Is a wind unblest; It is lifted and kissed By the spirits of mist; It will clasp you and flee To the wastes of the sea. So, beware of the Wind of the West, my child, Fly not with the Wind of the West!" "A jolly wind," observed Jimbo again. "But that doesn't leave much over to fly with," he added sadly. "They all seem dangerous or cruel." "Yes," she laughed, "and so they are till you can master them--then they're kind, only one that's really always safe and kind is the Wind of the South. It's a sweet, gentle wind, beloved of all that flies, and you can't possibly mistake it. You can tell it at once by the murmuring way it stirs the grasses and the tops of the trees. Its taste is soft and sweet in the mouth like wine, and there's always a faint perfume about it like gardens in summer. It is the joy of this wind that makes all flying things sing. With a South Wind you can go anywhere and no harm can come to you." "Dear old South Wind," cried Jimbo, rubbing his hands with delight. "I hope it will blow soon." "Its rhyme is very easy, too, though you will always be able to tell it without that," she added. "For this is the favourite Wind of all, Beloved of the stars and night; In the rustle of leaves you shall hear it call To the passionate joys of flight. It will carry you forth in its wonderful hair To the far-away courts of the sky, And the breath of its lips is a murmuring prayer For the safety of all who fly. For the Wind of the South Is like wine in the mouth, With its whispering showers And perfume of flowers, When it falls like a sigh From the heart of the sky." "Oh!" interrupted Jimbo, rubbing his hands, "that _is_ nice. That's _my_ wind!" "It will bear you aloft With a pressure so soft That you hardly shall guess Whose the gentle caress." "Hooray!" he cried again. "It's the kindest of weathers For our red feathers, And blows open the way To the Gardens of Play. So, fly out with the Wind of the South, my child, With the wonderful Wind of the South." "Oh, I love the South Wind already," he shouted, clapping his hands again. "I hope it will blow very, _very_ soon." "It may be rising even now," answered the governess, leading him to the window. But, as they gazed at the summer landscape lying in the fading light of the sunset, all was still and resting. The air was hushed, the leaves motionless. There was no call just then to flight from among the tree-tops, and he went back into the room disappointed. "But why can't we escape at once?" he asked again, after he had given his promise to remember all she had told him, and to be extra careful if he ever went out flying alone. "Jimbo, dear, I've told you before, it's because your body isn't ready for you yet," she answered patiently. "There's hardly any circulation in it, and if you forced your way back now the shock might stop your heart beating altogether. Then you'd be really dead, and escape would be impossible." The boy sat on the edge of the bed staring intently at her while she spoke. Something clutched at his heart. He felt his Older Self, with its greater knowledge, rising up out of the depths within him. The child struggled with the old soul for possession. "Have _you_ got any circulation?" he asked abruptly at length. "I mean, has _your_ heart stopped beating?" But the smile called up by his words froze on her lips. She crossed to the window and stood with her back to the fading light, avoiding his eyes. "My case, Jimbo, is a little different from yours," she said presently. "The important thing is to make certain about your escape. Never mind about me." "But escape without you is nothing," he said, the Older Self now wholly in possession. "I simply wouldn't go. I'd rather stay here--with you." The governess made no reply, but she turned her back to the room and leaned out of the window. Jimbo fancied he heard a sob. He felt a great big heart swelling up within his little body, and he crossed over beside her. For some minutes they stood there in silence, watching the stars that were already shining faintly in the sky. "Whatever happens," he said, nestling against her, "I shan't go from here without you. Remember that!" He was going to say a lot more, but somehow or other, when she stooped over to kiss his head--he hardly came up to her shoulder--it all ran suddenly out of his mind, and the little child dropped back into possession again. The tide of his thoughts that seemed about to rise, fast and furious, sank away completely, leaving his mind a clean-washed slate without a single image; and presently, without any more words, the governess left him and went through the trap-door into the silence and mystery of the house below. Several hours later, about the middle of the night, there came over him a most disagreeable sensation of nausea and dizziness. The ground rose and fell beneath his feet, the walls swam about sideways, and the ceiling slid off into the air. It only lasted a few minutes, however, and Jimbo knew from what she had told him that it was the Flying Sickness which always followed the first long flight. But, about the same time, another little body, lying in a night-nursery bed, was being convulsed with a similar attack; and the sickness of the little prisoner in the Empty House had its parallel, strangely enough, in the half-tenanted body miles away in a different world. CHAPTER XIII PLEASURES OF FLIGHT Since the night when Jimbo had nearly fallen into the yard and risked capture, Fright, the horrible owner of the house, had kept himself well out of the way, and had allowed himself to be neither seen nor heard. But the boy was not foolish enough to fall into the other trap, and imagine, therefore, that He did not know what was going on. Jimbo felt quite sure that He was only waiting his chance; and the governess's avoidance of the subject tended to confirm this supposition. "He's disappeared somewhere and taken the children with him," she declared when he questioned her. "And now you know almost as much as I do." "But not quite!" he laughed mischievously. "Enough, though," she replied. "We want all our energy for escape when it comes. Don't bother about anything else for the moment." During the day, when he was alone, his thoughts and fancies often terrified him; but at night, when he was rushing through the heavens, the intense delight of flying drove all minor emotions out of his consciousness, and he even forgot his one great desire--to escape. One night, however, something happened that brought it back more keenly than ever. He had been out flying alone, but had not gone far when he noticed that an easterly wind had begun to rise and was blowing steadily behind him. With the recent instructions fresh in his head, he thought it wiser to turn homewards rather than fight his way back later against a really strong wind from this quarter. Flying low along the surface of the fields so as to avoid its full force, he suddenly rose up with a good sweep and settled on the top of the wall enclosing the yard. The moonlight lay bright over everything. His approach had been very quiet. He was just about to sail across to the window when something caught his eye, and he hesitated a moment, and stared. Something was moving at the other end of the courtyard. It seemed to him that the moonlight suddenly grew pale and ghastly; the night air turned chilly; shivers began to run up and down his back. He folded his wings and watched. At the end of the yard he saw several figures moving busily to and fro in the shadow of the wall. They were very small; but close beside them all the time stood a much larger figure which seemed to be directing their movements. There was no need to look twice; it was impossible to mistake these terrible little people and their hideous overseer. Horror rushed over the boy, and a wild scream was out in the night before he could possibly prevent it. At the same moment a cloud passed over the face of the moon and the yard was shrouded in darkness. A minute later the cloud passed off; but while it was still too dark to see clearly, Jimbo was conscious of a rushing, whispering sound in the air, and something went past him at a tremendous pace into the sky. The wind stirred his hair as it passed, and a moment later he heard voices far away in the distance--up in the sky or within the house he could not tell--singing mournfully the song he now knew so well:-- We dance with phantoms and with shadows play. But when he looked down at the yard he saw that it was deserted, and the corner by the little upright stones lay in the clear moonlight, empty of figures, large or small. Shivering with fright, he flew across to the window ledge, and almost tumbled into the arms of the governess who was standing close inside. "What's the matter, child?" she asked in a voice that trembled a little. And, still shuddering, he told her how he thought he had seen the children working by the gravestones. All her efforts to calm him at first failed, but after a bit she drew his thoughts to pleasanter things, and he was not so certain after all that he had not been deceived by the cunning of the moonlight and the shadows. A long interval passed, and no further sign was given by the owner of the house or his band of frightened children. Jimbo soon lost himself again in the delights of flying and the joy of his increasing powers. Most of all he enjoyed the quiet, starlit nights before the moon was up; for the moon dazzled the eyes in the rarefied air where they flew, whereas the stars gave just enough light to steer by without making it uncomfortable. Moreover, the moon often filled him with a kind of faint terror, as of death; he could never gaze at her white face for long without feeling that something entered his heart with those silver rays--something that boded him no good. He never spoke of this to the governess; indeed, he only recognised it himself when the moon was near the full; but it lay always in the depths of his being, and he felt dimly that it would have to be reckoned with before he could really escape for good. He took no liberties when the moon was at the full. He loved to hover--for he had learned by this time that most difficult of all flying feats; to hold the body vertical and whirr the wings without rising or advancing--he loved to hover on windless nights over ponds and rivers and see the stars reflected in their still pools. Indeed, sometimes he hovered till he dropped, and only saved himself from a wetting by sweeping up in a tremendous curve along the surface of the water, and thus up into the branches of the trees where the governess sat waiting for him. And then, after a little rest, they would launch forth again and fly over fields and woods, sometimes even as far as the hills that ran down the coast of the sea itself. They usually flew at a height of about a thousand feet, and the earth passed beneath them like a great streaked shadow. But as soon as the moon was up the whole country turned into a fairyland of wonder. Her light touched the woods with a softened magic, and the fields and hedges became frosted most delicately. Beneath a thin transparency of mist the water shone with a silvery brilliance that always enabled them to distinguish it from the land at any height; while the farms and country houses were swathed in tender grey shadows through which the trees and chimneys pierced in slender lines of black. It was wonderful to watch the shadows everywhere spinning their blue veil of distance that lent even to the commonest objects something of enchantment and mystery. Those were wonderful journeys they made together into the pathways of the silent night, along the unknown courses, into that hushed centre where they could almost hear the beatings of her great heart--like winged thoughts searching the huge vault, till the boy ached with the sensations of speed and distance, and the old yellow moon seemed to stagger across the sky. Sometimes they rose very high into freezing air, so high that the earth became a dull shadow specked with light. They saw the trains running in all directions with thin threads of smoke shining in the glare of the open fire-boxes. But they seemed very tiny trains indeed, and stirred in him no recollections of the semi-annual visits to London town when he went to the dentist, and lunched with the dreaded grandmother or the stiff and fashionable aunts. And when they came down again from these perilous heights, the scents of the earth rose to meet them, the perfume of woods and fields, and the smells of the open country. There was, too, the delight, the curious delight of windy nights, when the wind smote and buffeted them, knocking them suddenly sideways, whistling through their feathers as if it wanted to tear them from their sockets; rushing furiously up underneath their wings with repeated blows; turning them round, and backwards and forwards, washing them from head to foot in a tempestuous sea of rapid and unexpected motion. It was, of course, far easier to fly with a wind than without one. The difficulty with a violent wind was to get down--not to keep up. The gusts drove up against the under-surfaces of their wings and kept them afloat, so that by merely spreading them like sails they could sweep and circle without a single stroke. Jimbo soon learned to manoeuvre so that he could turn the strength of a great wind to his own purposes, and revel in its boisterous waves and currents like a strong swimmer in a rough sea. And to listen to the wind as it swept backwards and forwards over the surface of the earth below was another pleasure; for everything it touched gave out a definite note. He soon got to know the long sad cry from the willows, and the little whispering in the tops of the poplar trees; the crisp, silvery rattle of the birches, and the deep roar from oaks and beech woods. The sound of a forest was like the shouting of the sea. But far more lovely, when they descended a little, and the wind was more gentle, were the low pipings among the reeds and the little wayward murmurs under the hedgerows. The pine trees, however, drew them most, with their weird voices, now far away, now near, rising upwards with a wind of sighs. There was a grove of these trees that trooped down to the waters of a little lake in the hills, and to this spot they often flew when the wind was low and the music likely, therefore, to be to their taste. For, even when there was no perceptible wind, these trees seemed always full of mysterious, mournful whisperings; their branches held soft music that never quite died away, even when all other trees were silent and motionless. Besides these special expeditions, they flew everywhere and anywhere. They visited the birds in their nests in lofty trees, and exchanged the time of night with wise-eyed owls staring out upon them from the ivy. They hovered up the face of great cliffs, and passed the hawks asleep on perilous ledges; skimmed over lonely marshes, frightening the water-birds paddling in and out among the reeds. They followed the windings of streams, singing among the meadows, and flew along the wet sands as they watched the moon rise out of the sea. These flights were unadulterated pleasure, and Jimbo thought he could never have enough of them. He soon began to notice, too, that the trees emanated something that affected his own condition. When he sat in their branches this was very noticeable. Currents of force passed from them into himself. And even when he flew over their crests he was aware that some woods exhaled vigorous, life-giving forces, while others tired and depleted him. Nothing was visible actually, but fine waves seemed to beat up against his eyes and thoughts, making him stronger or weaker, happy or melancholy, full of hope and courage, or listless and indifferent. These emanations of the trees--this giving-forth of their own personal forces--were, of course, very varied in strength and character. Oaks and pines were the best combination, he found, before the stress of a long flight, the former giving him steadiness, and the latter steely endurance and the power to steer in sinuous, swift curves, without taking thought or trouble. Other trees gave other powers. All gave something. It was impossible to sit among their branches without absorbing some of the subtle and exhilarating tree-life. He soon learned how to gather it all into himself, and turn it to account in his own being. "Sit quietly," the governess said. "Let the forces creep in and stir about. Do nothing yourself. Give them time to become part of yourself and mix properly with your own currents. Effort on your part prevents this, and you weaken them without gaining anything yourself." Jimbo made all sorts of experiments with trees and rocks and water and fields, learning gradually the different qualities of force they gave forth, and how to use them for himself. Nothing, he found, was really dead. And sometimes he got himself into strange difficulties in the beginning of his attempts to master and absorb these nature-forces. "Remember," the governess warned him more than once, when he was inclined to play tricks, "they are in quite a different world to ours. You cannot take liberties with them. Even a sympathetic soul like yourself only touches the fringe of their world. You exchange surface-messages with them, nothing more. Some trees have terrible forces just below the surface. They could extinguish you altogether--absorb you into themselves. Others are naturally hostile. Some are mere tricksters. Others are shifty and treacherous, like the hollies, that move about too much. The oak and the pine and the elm are friendly, and you can always trust them absolutely. But there are others----!" She held up a warning finger, and Jimbo's eyes nearly dropped out of his head. "No," she added, in reply to his questions, "you can't learn all this at once. Perhaps----" She hesitated a little. "Perhaps, if you don't escape, we should have time for all manner of adventures among the trees and other things--but then, we _are_ going to escape, so there's no good wasting time over _that_!" CHAPTER XIV AN ADVENTURE But Miss Lake did not always accompany him on these excursions into the night; sometimes he took long flights by himself, and she rather encouraged him in this, saying it would give him confidence in case he ever lost her and was obliged to find his way about alone. "But I couldn't get really lost," he said once to her. "I know the winds perfectly now and the country round for miles, and I never go out in fog----" "But these are only practice flights," she replied. "The flight of escape is a very different matter. I want you to learn all you possibly can so as to be prepared for anything." Jimbo felt vaguely uncomfortable when she talked like this. "But you'll be with me in the Escape Flight--the final one of all," he said; "and nothing ever goes wrong when you're with me." "I should like to be always with you," she answered tenderly, "but it's well to be prepared for anything, just the same." And more than this the boy could never get out of her. On one of these lonely flights, however, he made the unpleasant discovery that he was being followed. At first he only imagined there was somebody after him because of the curious vibrations of the very rarefied air in which he flew. Every time his flight slackened and the noise of his own wings grew less, there reached him from some other corner of the sky a sound like the vibrations of large wings beating the air. It seemed behind, and generally below him, but the swishing of his own feathers made it difficult to hear with distinctness, or to be certain of the direction. Evidently it was a long way off; but now and again, when he took a spurt and then sailed silently for several minutes on outstretched wings, the beating of distant, following feathers seemed unmistakably clear, and he raced on again at full speed more than terrified. Other times, however, when he tried to listen, there was no trace of this other flyer, and then his fear would disappear, and he would persuade himself that it had been imagination. So much on these flights he knew to be imagination--the sentences, voices, and laughter, for instance, that filled the air and sounded so real, yet were actually caused by the wind rushing past his ears, the rhythm of the wing-beats, and the tips of the feathers occasionally rubbing against the sides of his body. But at last one night the suspicion that he was followed became a certainty. He was flying far up in the sky, passing over some big city, when the sound rose to his ears, and he paused, sailing on stretched wings, to listen. Looking down into the immense space below, he saw, plainly outlined against the luminous patch above the city, the form of a large flying creature moving by with rapid strokes. The pulsations of its great wings made the air tremble so that he both heard and felt them. It may have been that the vapours of the city distorted the thing, just as the earth's atmosphere magnifies the rising or setting of the moon; but, even so, it was easy to see that it was something a good deal larger than himself, and with a much more powerful flight. Fortunately, it did not seem this time to be actually on his trail, for it swept by at a great pace, and was soon lost in the darkness far ahead. Perhaps it was only searching for him, and his great height had proved his safety. But in any case he was exceedingly terrified, and at once turned round, pointed his head for the earth, and shot downwards in the direction of the Empty House as fast as ever he could. But when he spoke to the governess she made light of it, and told him there was nothing to be afraid of. It might have been a flock of hurrying night-birds, she said, or an owl distorted by the city's light, or even his own reflection magnified in water. Anyhow, she felt sure it was not chasing him, and he need pay no attention to it. Jimbo felt reassured, but not quite satisfied. He knew a flying monster when he saw one; and it was only when he had been for many more flights alone, without its reappearance, that his confidence was fully restored, and he began to forget about it. Certainly these lonely flights were very much to his taste. His Older Self, with its dim hauntings of a great memory somewhere behind him, took possession then, and he was able to commune with nature in a way that the presence of the governess made impossible. With her his Older Self rarely showed itself above the surface for long; he was always the child. But, when alone, Nature became alive; he drew force from the trees and flowers, and felt that they all shared a common life together. Had he been imprisoned by some wizard of old in a tree-form, knowing of the sunset and the dawn only by the sweet messages that rustled in his branches, the wind could hardly have spoken to him with a more intimate meaning; or the life of the fields, eternally patient, have touched him more nearly with their joys and sorrows. It seemed almost as if, from his leafy cell, he had gazed before this into the shining pools with which the summer rains jewelled the meadows, sending his soul in a stream of unsatisfied yearning up to the stars. It all came back dimly when he heard the wind among the leaves, and carried him off to the woods and fields of an existence far antedating this one---- And on gentle nights, when the wind itself was half asleep and dreaming, the pine trees drew him most of all, for theirs was the song he loved above all others. He would fly round and round the little grove by the mountain lake, listening for hours together to their sighing voices. But the governess was never told of this, whatever she may have guessed; for it seemed to him a joy too deep for words, the pains and sweetness being mingled too mysteriously for him ever to express in awkward sentences. Moreover, it all passed away and was forgotten the moment the child took possession and usurped the older memory. One night, when the moon was high and the air was cool and fragrant after the heat of the day, Jimbo felt a strong desire to get off by himself for a long flight. He was full of energy, and the space-craving cried to be satisfied. For several days he had been content with slow, stupid expeditions with the governess. "I'm off alone to-night," he cried, balancing on the window ledge, "but I'll be back before dawn. Good-bye!" She kissed him, as she always did now, and with her good-bye ringing in his ears, he dropped from the window and rose rapidly over the elms and away from earth. This night, for some reason, the stars and the moon seemed to draw him, and with tireless wings he mounted up, up, up, to a height he had never reached before. The intoxication of the strong night air rose into his brain and he dashed forward ever faster, with a mad delight, into the endless space before him. Mile upon mile lay behind him as he rushed onwards, always pointing a little on the upward slope, drunk with speed. The earth faded away to a dark expanse of shadow beneath him, and he no longer was conscious of the deep murmur that usually flowed steadily upwards from its surface. He had often before risen out of reach of the earth noises, but never so far that this dull reverberating sound, combined of all the voices of the world merged together, failed to make itself heard. To-night, however, he heard nothing. The stars above his head changed from yellow to diamond white, and the cold air stung his cheeks and brought the water to his eyes. But at length the governess's warning, as he explored these forbidden regions, came back to him, and in a series of gigantic bounds that took his breath away completely, he dropped nearer to the earth again and kept on at a much lower level. The hours passed and the position of the moon began to alter noticeably. Some of the constellations that were overhead when he started were now dipping below the horizon. Never before had he ventured so far from home, and he began to realise that he had been flying much longer than he knew or intended. The speed had been terrific. The change came imperceptibly. With the discovery that his wings were not moving quite so easily as before, he became suddenly aware that this had really been the case for some little time. He was flying with greater effort, and for a long time this effort had been increasing gradually before he actually recognised the fact. Although no longer pointing towards the earth he seemed to be sinking. It became increasingly difficult to fly upwards. His wings did not seem to fail or weaken, nor was he conscious of feeling tired; but something was ever persuading him to fly lower, almost as if a million tiny threads were coaxing him downwards, drawing him gradually nearer to the world again. Whatever it was, the earth had come much closer to him in the last hour, and its familiar voices were pleasant to hear after the boundless heights he had just left. But for some reason his speed grew insensibly less and less. His wings moved apparently as fast as before, but it was harder to keep up. In spite of himself he kept sinking. The sensation was quite new, and he could not understand it. It almost seemed as though he were being _pulled_ downwards. Jimbo began to feel uneasy. He had not lost his bearings, but he was a very long way from home, and quite beyond reach of the help he was so accustomed to. With a great effort he mounted several hundred feet into the air, and tried hard to stay there. For a short time he succeeded, but he soon felt himself sinking gradually downwards again. The force drawing him was a constant force without rise or fall; and with a deadly feeling of fear the boy began to realise that he would soon have to yield to it altogether. His heart beat faster and his thoughts turned to the friend who was then far away, but who alone could save him. She, at least, could have explained it and told him what best to do. But the governess was beyond his reach. This problem he must face alone. Something, however, had to be done quickly, and Jimbo, acting more as the man than as the boy, turned and flew hurriedly forward in another direction. He hoped this might somehow counteract the force that still drew him downwards; and for a time it apparently did so, and he flew level. But the strain increased every minute, and he looked down with something of a shudder as he realised that before very long he would be obliged to yield to this deadly force--and drop! It was then for the first time he noticed a change had come over the surface of the earth below. Instead of the patchwork of field and wood and road, he saw a vast cloud stretching out, white and smooth in the moonlight. The world was hidden beneath a snowy fog, dense and impenetrable. It was no longer even possible to tell in what direction he was flying, for there was nothing to steer by. This was a new and unexpected complication, and the boy could not understand how the change had come about so quickly; the last time he had glanced down for indications to steer by, everything had been clear and easily visible. It was very beautiful, this carpet of white mist with the silver moon shining upon it, but it thrilled him now with an unpleasant sense of dread. And, still more unpleasant, was a new sound which suddenly broke in upon the stillness and turned his blood into ice. He was certain that he heard wings behind him. He was being followed, and this meant that it was impossible to turn and fly back. There was nothing now to do but fly forwards and hope to distance the huge wings; but if he was being followed by the powerful flyer he had seen a few nights before, the boy knew that he stood little chance of success, and he only did it because it seemed the one thing possible. The cloud was dense and chill as he entered it; its moisture clung to his wings and made them heavy; his muscles seemed to stiffen, and motion became more and more difficult. The wings behind him meanwhile came closer. He was flying along the surface of the mist now, his body and wings hidden, and his head just above the level. He could see along its white, even top. If he sank a few more inches it would be impossible to see at all, or even to judge where he was going. Soon it rose level with his lips, and at the same time he noticed a new smell in the air, faint at first, but growing every moment stronger. It was a fresh, sweet odour, yet it somehow added to his alarm, and stirred in him new centres of uneasiness. He tried vainly to increase his speed and distance the wings which continued to gain so steadily upon him from behind. The cloud, apparently, was not everywhere of the same density, for here and there he saw the tops of green hills below him as he flew. But he could not understand why each green hill seemed to have a little lake on its summit--a little lake in which the reflected moon stared straight up into his face. Nor could he quite make out what the sounds were which rose to his ears through the muffling of the cloud--sounds of tumultuous rushing, hissing, and tumbling. They were continuous, these sounds, and once or twice he thought he heard with them a deep, thunderous roar that almost made his heart stop beating as he listened. Was he, perhaps, over a range of high mountains, and was this the sound of the tumbling torrents? Then, suddenly, it came to him with a shock that the ordinary sounds of the earth had wholly ceased. Jimbo felt his head beginning to whirl. He grew weaker every minute; less able to offer resistance to the remorseless forces that were sucking him down. Now the mist had closed over his head, and he could no longer see the moonlight. He turned again, shaking with terror, and drove forward headlong through the clinging vapour. A sensation of choking rose in his throat; he was tired out, ready to drop with exhaustion. The wings of the following creature were now so close that he thought every minute he would be seized from behind and plunged into the abyss to his death. It was just then that he made the awful discovery that the world below him was not stationary: the _green hills were moving_. They were sweeping past with a rushing, thundering sound in regular procession; and their huge sides were streaked with white. The reflection of the moon leaped up into his face as each hill rolled hissing and gurgling by, and he knew at last with a shock of unutterable horror that it was THE SEA! He was flying over the sea, and the waters were drawing him down. The immense, green waves that rolled along through the sea fog, carrying the moon's face on their crests, foaming and gurgling as they went, were already leaping up to seize him by the feet and drag him into their depths. He dropped several feet deeper into the mist, and towards the sea, terror-stricken and blinded. Then, turning frantically, not knowing what else to do, he struck out, with his last strength, for the upper surface and the moonlight. But as he did so, turning his face towards the sky he saw a dark form hovering just above him, covering his retreat with huge outstretched wings. It was too late; he was hemmed in on all sides. At that moment a huge, rolling wave, bigger than all the rest, swept past and wet him to the knees. His heart failed him. The next wave would cover him. Already it was rushing towards him with foaming crest. He was in its shadow; he heard its thunder. Darkness rushed over him--he saw the vast sides streaked with grey and white--when suddenly, the owner of the wings plucked him in the back, mid-way between the shoulders, and lifted him bodily out of the fog, so that the wave swept by without even wetting his feet. The next minute he saw a dim, white sheet of silvery mist at his feet, and found himself far above it in the sweet, clean moonlight; and when he turned, almost dead with terror, to look upon his captor, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of--the governess. The sense of relief was so great that Jimbo simply closed his wings, and hung, a dead weight, in the air. "Use your wings!" cried the governess sharply; and, still holding him, while he began to flap feebly, she turned and flew in the direction of the land. "You!" he gasped at last. "It was you following me!" "Of course it was me! I never let you out of my sight. I've always followed you--every time you've been out alone." Jimbo was still conscious of the drawing power of the sea, but he felt that his companion was too strong for it. After fifteen minutes of fierce flight he heard the sounds of earth again, and knew that they were safe. Then the governess loosened her hold, and they flew along side by side in the direction of home. "I won't scold you, Jimbo," she said presently, "for you've suffered enough already." She was the first to break the silence, and her voice trembled a little. "But remember, the sea draws you down, just as surely as the moon draws you up. Nothing would please Him better than to see you destroyed by one or the other." Jimbo said nothing. But, when once they were safe inside the room again, he went up and cried his eyes out on her arm, while she folded him in to her heart as if he were the only thing in the whole world she had to love. CHAPTER XV THE CALL OF THE BODY One night, towards the end of the practice flights, a strange thing happened, which showed that the time for the final flight of escape was drawing near. They had been out for several hours flying through a rainstorm, the thousand little drops of which stung their faces like tiny gun-shot. About two in the morning the wind shifted and drove the clouds away as by magic; the stars came out, at first like the eyes of children still dim with crying, but later with a clear brilliance that filled Jimbo and the governess with keen pleasure. The air was washed and perfumed; the night luminous, alive, singing. All its tenderness and passion entered their hearts and filled them with the wonder of its glory. "Come down, Jimbo," said the governess, "and we'll lie in the trees and smell the air after the rain." "Yes," added the boy, whose Older Self had been whispering mysterious things to him, "and watch the stars and hear them singing." He led the way to some beech trees that lined a secluded lane, and settled himself comfortably in the top branches of the largest, while the governess soon found a resting-place beside him. It was a deserted spot, far from human habitation. Here and there through the foliage they could see little pools of rain-water reflecting the sky. The group of trees swung in the wind, dreaming great woodland dreams, and overhead the stars looked like a thousand orchards in the sky, filling the air with the radiance of their blossoms. "How brilliant they are to-night," said the governess, after watching the boy attentively for some minutes as they lay side by side in the great forked branch. "I never saw the constellations so clear." "But they have so little shape," he answered dreamily; "if we wore lights when we flew about we should make much better constellations than they do." "The Big and Little Child instead of the Big and Little Bear," she laughed, still watching him. "I'm slipping away----" he began, and then stopped suddenly. He saw the expression of his companion's eyes, which were looking him through and through with the most poignant love and yearning mingled in their gaze, and something clutched at his heart that he could not understand. "----not slipping out of the tree," he went on vaguely, "but slipping into some new place or condition. I don't understand it. Am I--going off somewhere--where you can't follow? I thought suddenly--I was losing you." The governess smiled at him sadly and said nothing. She stroked his wings and then raised them to her lips and kissed them. Jimbo watched her, and folded his other wing across into her hands; he felt unhappy, and his heart began to swell within him; but he didn't know what to say, and the Older Self began slowly to fade away again. "But the stars," he went on, "have they got things they send out too--forces, I mean, like the trees? Do they send out something that makes us feel sad, or happy, or strong, or weak?" She did not answer for some time; she lay watching his face and fondling his smooth red wings; and, presently, when she did begin to explain, Jimbo found that the child in him was then paramount again, and he could not quite follow what she said. He tried to answer properly and seem interested, but her words were very long and hard to understand, and after a time he thought she was talking to herself more than to him, and he gave up all serious effort to follow. Then he became aware that her voice had changed. The words seemed to drop down upon him from a great height. He imagined she was standing on one of those far stars he had been asking about, and was shouting at him through an immense tube of sky and darkness. The words pricked his ears like needle-points, only he no longer heard them as words, but as tiny explosions of sound, meaningless and distant. Swift flashes of light began to dance before his eyes, and suddenly from underneath the tree, a wind rose up and rushed, laughing, across his face. Darkness in a mass dropped over his eyes, and he sank backwards somewhere into another corner of space altogether. The governess, meanwhile, lay quite still, watching the limp form in the branches beside her and still holding the tips of his red wings. Presently tears stole into her eyes, and began to run down her cheeks. One deep sigh after another escaped from her lips; but the little boy, or the old soul, who was the cause of all her emotion, apparently was far away and knew nothing of it. For a long time she lay in silence, and then leaned a little nearer to him, so as to see his full face. The eyes were wide open and staring, but they were looking at nothing she could see, for the consciousness cannot be in two places at the same time, and Jimbo just then was off on a little journey of his own, a journey that was but preliminary to the great final one of all. "Jimbo," whispered the girl between her tears and sighs, "Jimbo! Where have you gone to? Tell me, are they getting ready for you at last, and am I to lose you after all? Is this the only way I can save you--by losing you?" There was no answer, no sign of movement; and the governess hid her face in her hands and cried quietly to herself, while her tears dropped down through the branches of the tree and fell into the rain-pools beneath. For Jimbo's state of oblivion in the tree was in reality a momentary return to consciousness in his body on the bed, and the repaired mechanism of the brain and muscles had summoned him back on a sort of trial visit. He remembered nothing of it afterwards, any more than one remembers the experiences of deep sleep; but the fact was that, with the descent of the darkness upon him in the branches, he had opened his eyes once again on the scene in the night-nursery bedroom where his body lay. He saw figures standing round the bed and about the room; his mother with the same white face as before, was still bending over the bed asking him if he knew her; a tall man in a long black coat moved noiselessly to and fro; and he saw a shaded lamp on a table a little to the right of the bed. Nothing seemed to have changed very much, though there had probably been time enough since he last opened his eyes for the black-coated doctor to have gone and come again for a second visit. He held an instrument in his hands that shone brightly in the lamplight. Jimbo saw this plainly and wondered what it was. He felt as if he were just waking out of a nice, deep sleep--dreamless and undisturbed. The Empty House, the Governess, Fright and the Children had all vanished from his memory, and he knew no more about wings and feathers than he did about the science of meteorology. But the bedroom scene was a mere glimpse after all; his eyes were already beginning to close again. First they shut out the figure of the doctor; then the bed-curtains; and then the nurse moved her arm, making the whole scene quiver for an instant, like some huge jelly-shape, before it dipped into profound darkness and disappeared altogether. His mother's voice ran off into a thin trickle of sound, miles and miles away, and the light from the lamp followed him with its glare for less than half a second. All had vanished. "Jimbo, dear, where have you been? Can you remember anything?" asked the soft voice beside him, as he looked first at the stars overhead, and then from the tracery of branches and leaves beneath him to the great sea of tree-tops and open country all round. But he could tell her nothing; he seemed dreamy and absent-minded, lying and staring at her as if he hardly knew who she was or what she was saying. His mind was still hovering near the border-line of the two states of consciousness, like the region between sleeping and waking, where both worlds seem unreal and wholly wonderful. He could not answer her questions, but he evidently caught some reflex of her emotions, for he leaned towards her across the branches, and said he was happy and never wanted to leave her. Then he crawled to the end of the big bough and sprang out into the air with a shout of delight. He was the child again--the flying child, wild with the excitement of tearing through the night air at fifty miles an hour. The governess soon followed him and they flew home together, taking a long turn by the sea and past the great chalk cliffs, where the sea sang loud beneath them. These lapses became with time more frequent, as well as of longer duration; and with them the boy noticed that the longing to escape became once again intense. He wanted _to get home_, wherever home was; he experienced a sort of nostalgia for the body, though he could not remember where that body lay. But when he asked the governess what this feeling meant, she only mystified him by her answers, saying that every one, in the body or out of it, felt a deep longing for their final _home_, though they might not have the least idea where it lay, or even to be able to recognise, much less to label, their longing. His normal feelings, too, were slowly returning to him. The Older Self became more and more submerged. As he approached the state of ordinary, superficial consciousness, the characteristics of that state reflected themselves more and more in his thoughts and feelings. His memory still remained a complete blank; but he somehow felt that the things, places, and people he wanted to remember, had moved much nearer to him than before. Every day brought them more within his reach. "All these forgotten things will come back to me soon, I know," he said one day to the governess, "and then I'll tell you all about them." "Perhaps you'll remember me too then," she answered, a shadow passing across her face. Jimbo clapped his hands with delight. "Oh," he cried, "I should like to remember you, because that would make you a sort of two-people governess, and I should love you twice as much." But with the gradual return to former conditions the feelings of age and experience grew dim and indefinite, his knowledge lessened, becoming obscure and confused, showing itself only in vague impressions and impulses, until at last it became quite the exception for the child-consciousness to be broken through by flashes of intuition and inspiration from the more deeply hidden memories. For one thing, the deep horror of the Empty House and its owner now returned to him with full force. Fear settled down again over the room, and lurked in the shadows over the yard. A vivid dread seized him of the _other door_ in the room--the door through which the Frightened Children had disappeared, but which had never opened since. It gradually became for him a personality in the room, a staring, silent, listening thing, always watching, always waiting. One day it would open and he would be caught! In a dozen ways like this the horror of the house entered his heart and made him long for escape with all the force of his being. But the governess, too, seemed changing; she was becoming more vague and more mysterious. Her face was always sad now, and her eyes wistful; her manner became restless and uneasy, and in many little ways the child could not fail to notice that her mind was intent upon other things. He begged her to name the day for the final flight, but she always seemed to have some good excuse for putting it off. "I feel frightened when you don't tell me what's going on," he said to her. "It's the preparations for the last flight," she answered, "the flight of escape. He'll try to prevent us going together so that you should get lost. But it's better you shouldn't know too much," she added. "Trust me and have patience." "Oh, that's what you're so afraid of," he said, "_separation_!" He was very proud indeed of the long word, and said it over several times to himself. And the governess, looking out of the window at the fading sunlight, repeated to herself more than to him the word he was so proud of. "Yes, that's what I'm so afraid of--separation; but if it means your salvation----" and her sentence remained unfinished as her eyes wandered far above the tops of the trees into the shadows of the sky. And Jimbo, drawn by the sadness of her voice, turned towards the window and noticed to his utter amazement that he could _see right through her_. He could see the branches of the trees _beyond_ her body. But the next instant she turned and was no longer transparent, and before the boy could say a word, she crossed the floor and disappeared from the room. CHAPTER XVI PREPARATION Now that he was preparing to leave it, Jimbo began to realise more fully how things in this world of delirium--so the governess sometimes called it--were all terribly out of order and confused. So long as he was wholly in it and of it, everything had seemed all right; but, as he approached his normal condition again, the disorder became more and more apparent. And the next few hours brought it home with startling clearness, and increased to fever heat the desire for final escape. It was not so much a nonsense-world--it was too alarming for that--as a world of nightmare, wherein everything was distorted. Events in it were all out of proportion; effects no longer sprang from adequate causes; things happened in a dislocated sort of way, and there was no sequence in the order of their happening. Tiny occurrences filled him with disproportionate, inconceivable horror; and great events, on the other hand, passed him scathless. The spirit of disorder--monstrous, uncouth, terrifying--reigned supreme; and Jimbo's whole desire, though inarticulate, was to escape back into order and harmony again. In contrast to all this dreadful uncertainty, the conduct of the governess stood out alone as the one thing he could count upon: she was sure and unfailing; he felt absolute confidence in her plans for his safety, and when he thought of her his mind was at rest. Come what might, she would always be there in time to help. The adventure over the sea had proved that; but, childlike, he thought chiefly of his own safety, and had ceased to care very much whether she escaped with him or not. It was the older Jimbo that preferred captivity to escape without her, whereas every minute now he was sinking deeper into the normal child state in which the intuitive flashes from the buried soul became more and more rare. Meanwhile, there was preparation going on, secret and mysterious. He could feel it. Some one else besides the governess was making plans, and the boy began to dread the moment of escape almost as much as he desired it. The alternative appalled him--to live for ever in the horror of this house, bounded by the narrow yard, watched by Fright listening ever at his elbow, and visited by the horrible Frightened Children. Even the governess herself began to inspire him with something akin to fear, as her personality grew more and more mysterious. He thought of her as she stood by the window, with the branches of the tree visible through her body, and the thought filled him with a dreadful and haunting distress. But this was only when she was absent; the moment she came into the room, and he looked into her kind eyes, the old feeling of security returned, and he felt safe and happy. Once, during the day, she came up to see him, and this time with final instructions. Jimbo listened with rapt attention. "To-night, or to-morrow night we start," she said in a quiet voice. "You must wait till you hear me calling----" "But sha'n't we start together?" he interrupted. "Not exactly," she replied. "I'm doing everything possible to put him off the scent, but it's not easy, for once Fright knows you he's always on the watch. Even if he can't prevent your escape, he'll try to send you home to your body with such a shock that you'll be only 'half there' for the rest of your life." Jimbo did not quite understand what she meant by this, and returned at once to the main point. "Then the moment you call I'm to start?" "Yes. I shall be outside somewhere. It depends on the wind and weather a little, but probably I shall be hovering above the trees. You must dash out of the window and join me the moment you hear me call. Clear the wall without sinking into the yard, and mind he doesn't tear your wings off as you fly by." "What will happen, though, if I don't find you?" he asked. "You might get lost. If he succeeds in getting me out of the way first, you're sure to get lost----" "But I've had long flights without getting lost," he objected. "Nothing to this one," she replied. "It will be tremendous. You see, Jimbo, it's not only distance; it's change of condition as well." "I don't mind what it is so long as we escape together," he said, puzzled by her words. He kept his eyes fixed on her face. It seemed to him she was changing even as he looked at her. A sort of veil lifted from her features. He fancied he could see the shape of the door through her body. "Oh, please, Miss Lake----" he began in a frightened voice, taking a step towards her. "What is the matter? You look so different!" "Nothing, dearest boy, is the matter," she replied faintly. "I feel sad at the thought of your--of our going, that's all. But that's nothing," she added more briskly, "and remember, I've told you exactly what to do; so you can't make any mistake. Now good-bye for the present." There was a smile on her face that he had never seen there before, and an expression of tenderness and love that he could not fail to understand. But even as he looked she seemed to fade away into a delicate, thin shadow as she moved slowly towards the trap-door. Jimbo stretched out his arms to touch her, for the moment of dread had passed, and he wanted to kiss her. "No!" she cried sharply. "Don't touch me, child; don't touch me!" But he was already close beside her, and in another second would have had his arms round her, when his foot stumbled over something, and he fell forward into her with his full weight. Instead of saving himself against her body, however, he fell _clean through her_! Nothing stopped him; there was no resistance; he met nothing more solid than air, and fell full length upon the floor. Before he could recover from his surprise and pick himself up, something touched him on the lips, and he heard a voice that was faint as a whisper saying, "Good-bye, darling child, and bless you." The next moment he was on his feet again and the room was empty. The governess had gone through the trap-door, and he was alone. It was all very strange and confusing, and he could not understand what was happening to her. He never for a moment realised that the change was in himself, and that as the tie between himself and his body became closer, the things of this other world he had been living in for so long must fade gradually away into shadows and emptiness. But Jimbo was a brave boy; there was nothing of the coward in him, though his sensitive temperament made him sometimes hesitate where an ordinary child with less imagination would have acted promptly. The desire to cry he thrust down and repressed, fighting his depression by the thought that within a few hours the voice might sound that should call him to the excitement of the last flight--and freedom. The rest of the daylight slipped away very quickly, and the room was full of shadows almost before he knew it. Then came the darkness. Outside, the wind rose and fell fitfully, booming in the chimney with hollow music, and sighing round the walls of the house. A few stars peeped between the branches of the elms, but masses of cloud hid most of the sky, and the air felt heavy with coming rain. He lay down on the bed and waited. At the least sound he started, thinking it might be the call from the governess. But the few sounds he did hear always resolved themselves into the moaning of the wind, and no voice came. With his eyes on the open window, trying to pierce the gloom and find the stars, he lay motionless for hours, while the night wore on and the shadows deepened. And during those long hours of darkness and silence he was conscious that a change was going on within him. Name it he could not, but somehow it made him feel that living people like himself were standing near, trying to speak, beckoning, anxious to bring him back into their own particular world. The darkness was so great that he could see only the square outline of the open window, but he felt sure that any sudden flash of light would have revealed a group of persons round his bed with arms outstretched, trying to reach him. The emotion they roused in him was not fear, for he felt sure they were kind, and eager only to help him; and the more he realised their presence, the less he thought about the governess who had been doing so much to make his escape possible. Then, too, voices began to sound somewhere in the air, but he could not tell whether they were actually in the room, or outside in the night, or only within himself--in his own head:--strange, faint voices, whispering, laughing, shouting, crying; fragments of stories, rhymes, riddles, odd names of people and places jostled one another with varying degrees of clearness, now loud, now soft, till he wondered what it all meant, and longed for the light to come. But besides all this, something else, too, was abroad that night--something he could not name or even think about without shaking with terror down at the very roots of his being. And when he thought of this, his heart called loudly for the governess, and the people hidden in the shadows of the room seemed quite useless and unable to help. Thus he hovered between the two worlds and the two memories, phantoms and realities shifting and changing places every few minutes. A little light would have saved him much suffering. If only the moon were up! Moonlight would have made all the difference. Even a moon half hidden and misty would have put the shadows farther away from him. "Dear old misty moon!" he cried half aloud to himself upon the bed, "why aren't you here to-night? My last night!" Misty Moon, Misty Moon! The words kept ringing in his head. Misty Moon, Misty Moon! They swam round in his blood in an odd, tumultuous rhythm. Every time the current of blood passed through his brain in the course of its circulation it brought the words with it, altered a little, and singing like a voice. Like a voice! Suddenly he made the discovery that it actually _was_ a voice--and not his own. It was no longer the blood singing in his veins, it was some one singing outside the window. The sound began faintly and far away, up above the trees; then it came gradually nearer, only to die away again almost to a whisper. If it was not the voice of the governess, he could only say it was a very good imitation of it. The words forming out of the empty air rose and fell with the wind, and, taking his thoughts, flung them in a stream through the dark sky towards the hidden, misty moon: "O misty moon, Dear, misty moon, The nights are long without thee; The shadows creep Across my sleep, And fold their wings about me!" And another silvery voice, that might have been the voice of a star, took it up faintly, evidently from a much greater distance: "O misty moon, Sweet, misty moon, The stars are dim behind thee; And, lo, thy beams Spin through my dreams And weave a veil to blind me!" The sound of this beautiful voice so delighted Jimbo that he sprang from his bed and rushed to the window, hoping that he might be able to hear it more clearly. But, before he got half-way across the room, he stopped short, trembling with terror. Underneath his very feet, in the depths of the house, he heard the awful voice he dreaded more than anything else. It roared out the lines with a sound like the rushing of a great river: "O misty moon, Pale misty moon, Thy songs are nightly driven, Eternally, From sky to sky, O'er the old, grey Hills of Heaven!" And after the verse Jimbo heard a great peal of laughter that seemed to shake the walls of the house, and rooted his feet to the floor. It rolled away with thundering echoes into the very bowels of the earth. He just managed to crawl back to his mattress and lie down, when another voice took up the song, but this time in accents so tender, that the child felt something within him melt into tears of joy, and he was on the verge of recognising, for the first time since his accident, the voice of his mother: "O misty moon, Shy, misty moon, Whence comes the blush that trembles In sweet disgrace O'er half thy face When Night her stars assembles?" But his memory, of course, failed him just as he seemed about to grasp it, and he was left wondering why the sound of that one voice had brought him a moment of radiant happiness in the midst of so much horror and pain. Meanwhile the answering voices went on, each time different, and in new directions. But the next verse somehow brought back to him all the terror he had felt in his flight over the sea, when the sound of the hissing waters had reached his ears through the carpet of fog: "O misty moon, Persuasive moon, Earth's tides are ever rising; By the awful grace Of thy weird white face Leap the seas to thy enticing!" Then followed the voice that had started the horrid song. This time he was sure it was not Miss Lake's voice, but only a very clever imitation of it. Moreover, it again ended in a shriek of laughter that froze his blood: "O misty moon, Deceiving moon, Thy silvery glance brings sadness; Who flies to thee, From land or sea, Shall end--his--days--in--MADNESS!" Other voices began to laugh and sing, but Jimbo stopped his ears, for he simply could not bear any more. He felt certain, too, that these strange words to the moon had all been part of a trap--a device to draw him to the window. He shuddered to think how nearly he had fallen into it, and determined to lie on the bed and wait till he heard his companion calling, and knew beyond all doubt that it was she. But the night passed away and the dawn came, and no voice had called him forth to the last flight. Hitherto, in all his experiences, there had been only one absolute certainty: the appearance of the governess with the morning light. But this time sunrise came and the clouds cleared away, and the sweet smells of field and air stole into the little room, yet without any sign of the governess. The hours passed, and she did not come, till finally he realised that she was not coming at all, and he would have to spend the whole day alone. Something had happened to prevent her, or else it was all part of her mysterious "plan." He did not know, and all he could do was to wait, and wonder, and hope. All day long he lay and waited, and all day long he was alone. The trap-door never once moved; the courtyard remained empty and deserted; there was no sound on the landing or on the stairs; no wind stirred the leaves outside, and the hot sun poured down out of a cloudless sky. He stood by the open window for hours watching the motionless branches. Everything seemed dead; not even a bird crossed his field of vision. The loneliness, the awful silence, and above all, the dread of the approaching night, were sometimes more than he seemed able to bear; and he wanted to put his head out of the window and scream, or lie down on the bed and cry his heart out. But he yielded to neither impulse; he kept a brave heart, knowing that this would be his last night in prison, and that in a few hours' time he would hear his name called out of the sky, and would dash through the window to liberty and the last wild flight. This thought gave him courage, and he kept all his energy for the great effort. Gradually, once more, the sunlight faded, and the darkness began to creep over the land. Never before had the shadows under the elms looked so fantastic, nor the bushes in the field beyond assumed such sinister shapes. The Empty House was being gradually invested; the enemy was masquerading already under cover of these very shadows. Very soon, he felt, the attack would begin, and he must be ready to act. The night came down at last with a strange suddenness, and with it the warning of the governess came back to him; he thought quakingly of the stricken children who had been caught and deprived of their wings; and then he pulled out his long red feathers and tried their strength, and gained thus fresh confidence in their power to save him when the time came. CHAPTER XVII OFF! With the full darkness a whole army of horrors crept nearer. He felt sure of this, though he could actually see nothing. The house was surrounded, the courtyard crowded. Outside, on the stairs, in the other rooms, even on the roof itself, waited dreadful things ready to catch him, to tear off his wings, to make him prisoner for ever and ever. The possibility that something had happened to the governess now became a probability. Imperceptibly the change was wrought; he could not say how or when exactly; but he now felt almost certain that the effort to keep her out of the way had succeeded. If this were true, the boy's only hope lay in his wings, and he pulled them out to their full length and kissed them passionately, speaking to the strong red feathers as if they were living little persons. "You must save me! You will save me, won't you?" he cried in his anguish. And every time he did this and looked at them he gained fresh hope and courage. The problem _where he was to fly to_ had not yet insisted on a solution, though it lay always at the back of his mind; for the final flight of escape without a guide had never been even a possibility before. Lying there alone in the darkness, waiting for the sound of the voice so longed-for, he found his thoughts turning again to the moon, and the strange words of the song that had puzzled him the night before. What in the world did it all mean? Why all this about the moon? Why was it a cruel moon, and why should it attract and persuade and entice him? He felt sure, the more he thought of it, that this had all been a device to draw him to the window--and perhaps even farther. The darkness began to terrify him; he dreaded more and more the waiting, listening things that it concealed. Oh, when would the governess call to him? When would he be able to dash through the open window and join her in the sky? He thought of the sunlight that had flooded the yard all day--so bright it seemed to have come from a sun fresh made and shining for the first time. He thought of the exquisite flowers that grew in the fields just beyond the high wall, and the night smells of the earth reached him through the window, wafted in upon a wind heavy with secrets of woods and fields. They all came from a Land of Magic that after to-night might be for ever beyond his reach, and they went straight to his heart and immediately turned something solid there into tears. But the tears did not find their natural expression, and Jimbo lay there fighting with his pain, keeping all his strength for the one great effort, and waiting for the voice that at any minute now might sound above the tree-tops. But the hours passed and the voice did not come. How he loathed the room and everything in it. The ceiling stretched like a white, staring countenance above him; the walls watched and listened; and even the mantelpiece grew into the semblance of a creature with drawn-up shoulders bending over him. The whole room, indeed, seemed to his frightened soul to run into the shape of a monstrous person whose arms were outstretched in all directions to prevent his escape. His hands never left his wings now. He stroked and fondled them, arranging the feathers smoothly and speaking to them under his breath just as though they were living things. To him they were indeed alive, and he knew when the time came they would not fail him. The fierce passion for the open spaces took possession of his soul, and his whole being began to cry out for freedom, rushing wind, the stars, and a pathless sky. Slowly the power of the great, open Night entered his heart, bringing with it a courage that enabled him to keep the terrors of the House at a distance. So far, the boy's strength had been equal to the task, but a moment was approaching when the tension would be too great to bear, and the long pent-up force would rush forth into an act. Jimbo realised this quite clearly; though he could not exactly express it in words, he felt that his real hope of escape lay in the success of that act. Meanwhile, with more than a child's wisdom, he stored up every particle of strength he had for the great moment when it should come. A light wind had risen soon after sunset, but as the night wore on it began to fail, dropping away into little silences that grew each time longer. In the heart of one of these spells of silence Jimbo presently noticed a new sound--a sound that he recognised. Far away at first, but growing in distinctness with every dropping of the wind, this new sound rose from the interior of the house below and came gradually upon him. It was voices faintly singing, and the tread of stealthy footsteps. Nearer and nearer came the sound, till at length they reached the door, and there passed into the room a wave of fine, gentle sound that woke no echo and scarcely seemed to stir the air into vibration at all. The door had opened, and a number of voices were singing softly under their breath. And after the sounds, creeping slowly like some timid animal, there came into the room a small black figure just visible in the faint starlight. It peered round the edge of the door, hesitated a moment, and then advanced with an odd rhythmical sort of motion. And after the first figure came a second, and after the second a third; and then several entered together, till a whole group of them stood on the floor between Jimbo and the open window. Then he recognised the Frightened Children and his heart sank. Even they, he saw, were arrayed against him, and took it for granted that he already belonged to them. Oh, why did not the governess come for him? Why was there no voice in the sky? He glanced with longing towards the heavens, and as the children moved past, he was almost certain that he saw the stars _through_ their bodies too. Slowly they shuffled across the floor till they formed a semicircle round the bed; and then they began a silent, impish dance that made the flesh creep. Their thin forms were dressed in black gowns like shrouds, and as they moved through the steps of the bizarre measure he saw that their legs were little more than mere skin and bone. Their faces--what he could see of them when he dared to open his eyes--were pale as ashes, and their beady little eyes shone like the facets of cut stones, flashing in all directions. And while they danced in and out amongst each other, never breaking the semicircle round the bed, they sang a low, mournful song that sounded like the wind whispering through a leafless wood. And the words stirred in him that vague yet terrible fear known to all children who have been frightened and made to feel afraid of the dark. Evidently his sensations were being merged very rapidly now into those of the little boy in the night-nursery bed. "There is Someone in the Nursery Whom we never saw before; --Why hangs the moon so red?-- And he came not by the passage, Or the window, or the door; --Why hangs the moon so red?-- And he stands there in the darkness, In the centre of the floor. --See, where the moon hangs red!-- Someone's hiding in the passage Where the door begins to swing; --Why drive the clouds so fast?-- In the corner by the staircase There's a dreadful waiting thing: --Why drive the clouds so fast?-- Past the curtain creeps a monster With a black and fluttering wing; --See, where the clouds drive fast!-- In the chilly dusk of evening; In the hush before the dawn; --Why drips the rain so cold?-- In the twilight of the garden, In the mist upon the lawn, --Why drips the rain so cold?-- Faces stare, and mouth upon us, Faces white and weird and drawn; --See, how the rain drips cold!-- Close beside us in the night-time, Waiting for us in the gloom, --O! Why sings the wind so shrill?-- In the shadows by the cupboard, In the corners of the room, --O! Why sings the wind so shrill?-- From the corridors and landings Voices call us to our doom. --O! how the wind sings shrill!"-- By this time the dreadful dancers had come much closer to him, shifting stealthily nearer to the bed under cover of their dancing, and always _between him and the window_. Suddenly their intention flashed upon him; they meant to prevent his escape! With a tremendous effort he sprang from the bed. As he did so a dozen pairs of thin, shadowy arms shot out towards him as though to seize his wings; but with an agility born of fright he dodged them, and ran swiftly into the corner by the mantelpiece. Standing with his back against the wall he faced the children, and strove to call out for help to the governess; but this time there was an entirely new difficulty in the way, for he found to his utter dismay that his voice refused to make itself heard. His mouth was dry and his tongue would hardly stir. Not a sound issued from his lips, but the children instantly moved forwards and hemmed him in between them and the wall; and to reach the window he would have to break through this semicircle of whispering, shadowy forms. Above their heads he could see the stars shining, and any moment he might hear Miss Lake's voice calling to him to come out. His heart rose with passionate longing within him, and he gathered his wings tightly about him ready for the final dash. It would take more than the Frightened Children to hold him prisoner when once he heard that voice, or even without it! Whether they were astonished at his boldness, or merely waiting their opportunity later, he could not tell; but anyhow they kept their distance for a time and made no further attempt to seize his feathers. Whispering together under their breath, sometimes singing their mournful, sighing songs, sometimes sinking their voices to a confused murmur, they moved in and out amongst each other with soundless feet like the shadows of branches swaying in the wind. Then, suddenly, they moved closer and stretched out their arms towards him, their bodies swaying rhythmically together, while their combined voices, raised just above a whisper, sang to him-- "Dare you fly out to-night, When the Moon is so strong? Though the stars are so bright, There is death in their song; You're a hostage to Fright, And to us you belong! Dare you fly out alone Through the shadows that wave, When the course is unknown And there's no one to save? You are bone of our bone, And for ever His slave!" And, following these words, came from somewhere in the air that voice like the thunder of a river. Jimbo knew only too well to whom it belonged as he listened to the rhyme of the West Wind-- "For the Wind of the West Is a wind unblest, And its dangerous breath Will entice you to death! Fly not with the Wind of the West, O child, With the terrible Wind of the West!" But the boy knew perfectly well that these efforts to stop him were all part of a trap. They were lying to him. It was not the Wind of the West at all; _it was the South Wind_! That at least he knew by the odours that were wafted in through the window. Again he tried to call to the governess, but his tongue lay stiff in his mouth and no sound came. Meanwhile the children began to draw closer, hemming him in. They moved almost imperceptibly, but he saw plainly that the circle was growing smaller and smaller. His legs began to tremble, and he felt that soon he would collapse and drop at their feet, for his strength was failing and the power to act and move was slowly leaving him. The little shadowy figures were almost touching him, when suddenly a new sound broke the stillness and set every nerve tingling in his body. Something was shuffling along the landing. He heard it outside, pushing against the door. The handle turned with a rattle, and a moment later the door slowly opened. For a second Jimbo's breath failed him, and he nearly fell in a heap upon the floor. Round the edge of the door he saw a dim huge figure come crawling into the room--creeping along the floor--and trailing behind it a pair of immense black wings that stretched along the boards. For one brief second he stared, horror-stricken, and wondering what it was. But before the whole length of the creature was in, he knew. It was Fright himself! _And he was making steadily for the window!_ The shock instantly galvanised the boy into a state of activity again. He recovered the use of all his muscles and all his faculties. His voice, released by terror, rang out in a wild shriek for help to the governess, and he dashed forward across the room in a mad rush for the window. Unless he could reach it before the other, he would be a prisoner for the rest of his life. It was now or never. The instant he moved, the children came straight at him with hands outstretched to stop him; but he passed through them as if they were smoke, and with almost a single bound sprang upon the narrow window-sill. To do this he had to clear the head and shoulders of the creature on the floor, and though he accomplished it successfully, he felt himself clutched from behind. For a second he balanced doubtfully on the window ledge. He felt himself being pulled back into the room, and he combined all his forces into one tremendous effort to rush forward. There was a ripping, tearing sound as he sprang into the air with a yell of mingled terror and exultation. His prompt action and the fierce impetus had saved him. He was free. But in the awful hand that seized him he had left behind the end feathers of his right wing. A few inches more and it would have been not merely the feathers, but the entire wing itself. He dropped to within three feet of the stones in the yard, and then, borne aloft by the kind, rushing Wind of the South, he rose in a tremendous sweep far over the tops of the high elms and out into the heart of the night. Only there was no governess's voice to guide him; and behind him, a little lower down, a black pursuing figure with huge wings flapped heavily as it followed with laborious flight through the darkness. CHAPTER XVIII HOME But it was the sound of something crashing heavily through the top branches of the elms that made the boy realise he was actually being followed; and all his efforts became concentrated into the desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the horror of the Empty House. He heard the noise of big wings far beneath him, and his one idea was to out-distance his pursuer and then come down again to earth and rest his wings in the branches of a tree till he could devise some plan how to find the governess. So at first he raced at full speed through the air, taking no thought of direction. When he looked down, all he could see was that something vague and shadowy, shaking out a pair of enormous wings between him and the earth, move along with him. Its path was parallel with his own, but apparently it made no effort to rise up to his higher level. It thundered along far beneath him, and instinctively he raised his head and steered more and more upwards and away from the world. The gap at the end of his right wing where the feathers had been torn out seemed to make no difference in his power of flight or steering, and he went tearing through the night at a pace he had never dared to try before, and at a height he had never yet reached in any of the practice flights. He soared higher even than he knew; and perhaps this was fortunate, for the friction of the lower atmosphere might have heated him to the point of igniting, and some watcher at one of earth's windows might have suddenly seen a brilliant little meteor flash through the night and vanish into dust. At first the joy of escape was the only idea his mind seemed able to grasp; he revelled in a passionate sense of freedom, and all his energies poured themselves into one concentrated effort to fly faster, faster, faster. But after a time, when the pursuer had been apparently outflown, and he realised that escape was an accomplished fact, he began to search for the governess, calling to her, rising and falling, darting in all directions, and then hovering on outstretched wings to try and catch some sound of a friendly voice. But no answer came, either from the stars that crowded the vault above, or from the dark surface of the world below; only silence answered his cries, and his voice was swallowed up and lost in the immensity of space almost the moment it left his lips. Presently he began to realise to what an appalling distance he had risen above the world, and with anxious eyes he tried to pierce the gaping emptiness beneath him and on all sides. But this vast sea of air had nothing to reveal. The stars shone like pinholes of gold pricked in a deep black curtain; and the moon, now rising slowly, spread a veil of silver between him and the upper regions. There was not a cloud anywhere and the winds were all asleep. He was alone in space. Yet, as the swishing of his feathers slackened and the roar in his ears died away, he heard in the short pause the ominous beating of great wings somewhere in the depths beneath him, and knew that the great pursuer was still on his track. The glare of the moon now made it impossible to distinguish anything properly, and in these huge spaces, with nothing to guide the eye, it was difficult to know exactly from what direction the sound came. He was only sure of one thing--that it was far below him, and that for the present it did not seem to come much nearer. The cry for help that kept rising to his lips he suppressed, for it would only have served to guide his pursuer; and, moreover, a cry--a little thin, despairing cry--was instantly lost in these great heavens. It was less than a drop in an ocean. On and on he flew, always pointing away from the earth, and trying hard to think where he would find safety. Would this awful creature hunt him all night long into the daylight, or would he be forced back into the Empty House in sheer exhaustion? The thought gave him new impetus, and with powerful strokes he dashed onwards and upwards through the wilderness of space in which the only pathways were the little golden tracks of the starbeams. The governess would turn up somewhere; he was positive of that. She had never failed him yet. So, alone and breathless, he pursued his flight, and the higher he went the more the tremendous vault opened up into inconceivable and untold distances. His speed kept increasing; he thought he had never found flying so easy before; and the thunder of the following wings that held persistently on his track made it dangerous for him to slacken up for more than a minute here and there. The earth became a dark blot beneath him, while the moon, rising higher and higher, grew weirdly bright and close. How black the sky was; how piercing the points of starlight; how stimulating the strong, new odours of these lofty regions! He realised with a thrill of genuine awe that he had flown over the very edge of the world, and the moment the thought entered his mind it was flung back at him by a voice that seemed close to his ear one moment, and the next was miles away in the space overhead. Light thoughts, born of the stars and the moon and of his great speed, danced before his mind in fanciful array. Once he laughed aloud at them, but once only. The sound of his voice in these echoless spaces made him afraid. The speed, too, affected his vision, for at one moment thin clouds stretched across his face, and the next he was whirling through perfectly clear air again with no vestige of a cloud in sight. The same reason doubtless explained the sudden presence of sheets of light in the air that reflected the moonlight like particles of glittering ice, and then suddenly disappeared again. The terrific speed would explain a good many things, but certainly it was curious how creatures formed out of the hollow darkness, like foam before a steamer's bows, and moved noiselessly away on either side to join the army of dim life that crowded everywhere and watched his passage. For, in front and on both sides, there gathered a vast assembly of silent forms more than shadows, less than bodily shapes, that opened up a pathway as he rushed through them, and then immediately closed up their ranks again when he had passed. The air seemed packed with living creatures. Space was filled with them. They surrounded him on all sides. Yet his passage through them was like the passage of a hand through smoke; it was easy to make a pathway, but the pathway left no traces behind it. More smoke rushed in and filled the void. He could never see these things properly, face to face; they always kept just out of the line of vision, like shadows that follow a lonely walker in a wood and vanish the moment he turns to look at them over his shoulder. But ever by his side, with a steady, effortless motion, he knew they kept up with him--strange inhabitants of the airless heights, immense and misty-winged, with veiled, flaming eyes and silent feathers. He was not afraid of them; for they were neither friendly nor hostile; they were simply the beings of another world, alien and unknown. But what puzzled him more was that the light and the darkness seemed separate things, each distinctly visible. After each stroke of his wings he _saw the darkness_ sift downwards past him through the air like dust. It floated all round him in thinnest diaphanous texture--visible, not because the moonlight made it so, but because in its inmost soul it was itself luminous. It rose and fell in eddies, swirling wreaths, and undulations; inwoven with starbeams, as with golden thread, it clothed him about in circles of some magical primordial substance. Even the stars, looking down upon him from terrifying heights, seemed now draped, now undraped, as if by the sweeping of enormous wings that stirred these sheets of visible darkness into a vast system of circulation through the heavens. Everything in these oceans of upper space apparently made use of wings, or the idea of wings. Perhaps even the great earth itself, rolling from star to star, was moved by the power of gigantic, invisible wings!... Jimbo realised he had entered a forbidden region. He began to feel afraid. But the only possible expression of his fear, and its only possible relief, lay in his own wings--and he used them with redoubled energy. He dashed forward so fast that his face begun to burn, and he kept turning his head in every direction for a sign of the governess, or for some indication of where he could _escape to_. In the pauses of the wild flight he heard the thunder of the following wings below. They were still on his trail, and it seemed that they were gaining on him. He took a new angle, realising that his only chance was to fly high; and the new course took him perpendicularly away from the earth and straight towards the moon. Later, when he had out-distanced the other creature, he would drop down again to safer levels. Yet the hours passed and it never overtook him. A measured distance was steadily kept up between them as though with calculated purpose. Curious distant voices shouted from time to time all manner of sentences and rhymes in his ears, but he could neither understand nor remember them. More and more the awful stillness of the vast regions that lie between the world and the moon appalled him. Then, suddenly, a new sound reached him that at first he could not in the least understand. It reached him, however, not through the ears, but by a steady trembling of the whole surface of his body. It set him in vibration all over, and for some time he had no idea what it meant. The trembling ran deeper and deeper into his body, till at last a single, powerful, regular vibration took complete possession of his whole being, and he felt as though he was being wrapped round and absorbed by this vast and gigantic sound. He had always thought that the voice of Fright, like the roar of a river, was the loudest and deepest sound he had ever heard. Even that set his soul a-trembling. But this new, tremendous, rolling-ocean of a voice came not that way, and could not be compared to it. The voice of the other was a mere tickling of the ear compared to this awful crashing of seas and mountains and falling worlds. It must break him to pieces, he felt. Suddenly he knew what it was,--and for a second his wings failed him:--he had reached such a height that he could hear the roar of the world as it thundered along its journey through space! That was the meaning of this voice of majesty that set him all a-trembling. And before long he would probably hear, too, the voices of the planets, and the singing of the great moon. The governess had warned him about this. At the first sound of these awful voices she told him to turn instantly and drop back to the earth as fast as ever he could drop. Jimbo turned instinctively and began to fall. But, before he had dropped half a mile, he met once again the ascending sound of the wings that had followed him from the Empty House. It was no good flying straight into destruction. He summoned all his courage and turned once more towards the stars. Anything was better than being caught and held for ever by Fright, and with a wild cry for help that fell dead in the empty spaces, he renewed his unending flight towards the stars. But, meanwhile, the pursuer had distinctly gained. Appalled by the mighty thunder of the stars' voices above, and by the prospect of immediate capture if he turned back, Jimbo flew blindly on towards the moon, regardless of consequences. And below him the Pursuer came closer and closer. The strokes of its wings were no longer mere distant thuds that he heard when he paused in his own flight to listen; they were the audible swishing of feathers. It was near enough for that. Jimbo could never properly see what was following him. A shadow between him and the earth was all he could distinguish, but in the centre of that shadow there seemed to burn two glowing eyes. Two brilliant lights flashed whenever he looked down, like the lamps of a revolving lighthouse. But other things he saw, too, when he looked down, and once the earth rose close to his face so that he could have touched it with his hands. The same instant it dropped away again with a rush of whirlwinds, and became a distant shadow miles and miles below him. But before it went, he had time to see the Empty House standing within its gloomy yard, and the horror of it gave him fresh impetus. Another time when the world raced up close to his eyes he saw a scene of a different kind that stirred a passionately deep yearning within him--a house overgrown with ivy and standing among trees and gardens, with laburnums and lilacs flowering on smooth green lawns, and a clean gravel drive leading down to a big pair of iron gates. Oh, it all seemed so familiar! Perhaps in another minute the well-known figures would have appeared and spoken to him. Already he heard their voices behind the bushes. But, just before they appeared, the earth dropped back with a roar of a thousand winds, and Jimbo saw instead the shadow of the Pursuer mounting, mounting, mounting towards him. Up he shot again with terror in his heart, and all trembling with the thunder of the great star-voices above. He felt like a leaf in a hurricane, "lost, dizzy, shelterless." Voices, too, now began to be heard more frequently. They dropped upon him out of the reaches of this endless void; and with them sometimes came forms that shot past him with amazing swiftness, racing into the empty Beyond as though sucked into a vast vacuum. The very stars seemed to move. He became part of some much larger movement in which he was engulfed and merged. He could no longer think of himself as Jimbo. When he uttered his own name he saw merely a mass of wind and colour through which the great pulses of space and the planets beat tumultuously, lapping him round with the currents of a terrific motion that seemed to swallow up his own little personality entirely, while giving him something infinitely greater.... But surely these small voices, shrill and trumpet-like, did not come from the stars! these deep whispers that ran round the immense vault overhead and sounded almost familiarly in his ears-- "Give it him the moment he wakes." "Bring the ice-bag ... quick!" "Put the hot bottle to his feet IMMEDIATELY!" The voices shrieked all round him, turning suddenly into soft whispers that died away somewhere among his feathers. The soles of his feet began to glow, and he felt a gigantic hand laid upon his throat and head. Almost it seemed as if he were lying somewhere on his back, and people were bending over him, shouting and whispering. "Why hangs the moon so red?" cried a voice that was instantly drowned in a chorus of unintelligible whispering. "The black cow must be killed," whispered some one deep within the sky. "Why drips the rain so cold?" yelled one of the hideous children close behind him. And a third called with a distant laughter from behind a star-- "Why sings the wind so shrill?" "QUIET!" roared an appalling voice below, as if all the rivers of the world had suddenly turned loose into the sky. "QUIET!" Instantly a star, that had been hovering for some time on the edge of a fantastic dance, dropped down close in front of his face. It had a glaring disc, with mouth and eyes. An icy hand seemed laid on his head, and the star rushed back into its place in the sky, leaving a trail of red flame behind it. A little voice seemed to go with it, growing fainter and fainter in the distance-- "We dance with phantoms and with shadows play." But, regardless of everything, Jimbo flew onwards and upwards, terrified and helpless though he was. His thoughts turned without ceasing to the governess, and he felt sure that she would yet turn up in time to save him from being caught by the Fright that pursued, or lost among the fearful spaces that lay beyond the stars. For a long time, however, his wings had been growing more and more tired, and the prospect of being destroyed from sheer exhaustion now presented itself to the boy vaguely as a possible alternative--vaguely only, because he was no longer able to think, properly speaking, and things came to him more by way of dull feeling than anything else. It was all the more with something of a positive shock, therefore, that he realised the change. For a change had come. He was now sudden by conscious of an influx of new power--greater than anything he had ever known before in any of his flights. His wings now suddenly worked as if by magic. Never had the motion been so easy, and it became every minute easier and easier. He simply flashed along without apparent effort. An immense driving power had entered into him. He realised that he could fly for ever without getting tired. His pace increased tenfold-- increased alarmingly. The possibility of exhaustion vanished utterly. Jimbo knew now that something was wrong. This new driving power was something wholly outside himself. His wings were working far too easily. Then, suddenly, he understood: _His wings were not working at all!_ He was not being driven forward from behind; he was being drawn forward from in front. He saw it all in a flash: Miss Lake's warning long ago about the danger of flying too high; the last song of the Frightened Children, "Dare you fly out alone through the shadows that wave, when the course is unknown and there's no one to save?" the strange words sung to him about the "relentless misty moon," and the object of the dreadful Pursuer in steadily forcing him upwards and away from the earth. It all flashed across his poor little dazed mind. He understood at last. He had soared too high and had entered the sphere of the moon's attraction. "The moon is too strong, and there's death in the stars!" a voice bellowed below him like the roar of a falling mountain, shaking the sky. The child flew screaming on. There was nothing else he could do. But hardly had the roar died away when another voice was heard, a tender voice, a whispering, sympathetic voice, though from what part of the sky it came he could not tell-- "Arrange the pillows for his little head." But below him the wings of the Pursuer were mounting closer and closer. He could almost feel the mighty wind from their feathers, and hear the rush of the great body between them. It was impossible to slacken his speed even had he wished; no strength on earth could have resisted that terrible power drawing upwards towards the moon. Instinctively, however, he realised that he would rather have gone forwards than backwards. He never could have faced capture by that dreadful creature behind. All the efforts of the past weeks to escape from Fright, the owner of the Empty House, now acted upon him with a cumulative effect, and added to the suction of the moon-life. He shot forward at a pace that increased with every second. At the back of his mind, too, lay some kind of faint perception that the governess would, after all, be there to help him. She had always turned up before when he was in danger, and she would not fail him now. But this was a mere ghost of a thought that brought little comfort, and merely added its quota of force to the speed that whipped him on, ever faster, into the huge white moon-world in front. For this, then, he had escaped from the horror of the Empty House! To be sucked up into the moon, the "relentless, misty moon"--to be drawn into its cruel, silver web, and destroyed. The Song to the Misty Moon outside the window came back in snatches and added to his terror; only it seemed now weeks ago since he had heard it. Something of its real meaning, too, filtered down into his heart, and he trembled anew to think that the moon could be a great, vast, moving Being, alive and with a purpose.... But why, oh, why did they keep shouting these horrid snatches of the song through the sky? Trapped! Trapped! The word haunted him through the night: Thy songs are nightly driven, From sky to sky, Eternally, O'er the old, grey hills of heaven! _Caught!_ Caught at last! The moon's prisoner, a captive in her airless caves; alone on her dead white plains; searching for ever in vain for the governess; wandering alone and terrified. By the awful grace Of thy weird white face. The thought crazed him, and he struggled like a bird caught in a net. But he might as well have struggled to push the worlds out of their courses. The power against him was the power of the universe in which he was nothing but a little, lost, whirling atom. It was all of no avail, and the moon did not even smile at his feeble efforts. He was too light to revolve round her, too impalpable to create his own orbit; he had not even the consistency of a comet; he had reached the point of stagnation, as it were--the dead level--the neutral zone where the attractions of the earth and moon meet and counterbalance one another--where bodies have no weight and existence no meaning. Now the moon was close upon him; he could see nothing else. There lay the vast, shining sea of light in front of him. Behind, the roar of the following creature grew fainter and fainter, as he outdistanced it in the awful swiftness of the huge drop down upon the moon mountains. Already he was close enough to its surface to hear nothing of its great singing but a deep, confused murmur. And, as the distance increased, he realised that the change in his own condition increased. He felt as if he were flying off into a million tiny particles--breaking up under the effects of the deadly speed and the action of the new moon-forces. Immense, invisible arms, half-silver and half-shadow, grew out of the white disc and drew him downwards upon her surface. He was being merged into the life of the moon. There was a pause. For a moment his wings stopped dead. Their vain fluttering was all but over.... Hark! Was that a voice borne on the wings of some lost wind? Why should his heart beat so tumultuously all at once? He turned and stared into the ocean of black air overhead till it turned him dizzy. A violent trembling ran through his tired being from head to foot. He had heard a voice--a voice that he knew and loved--a voice of help and deliverance. It rang in shrill syllables up the empty spaces, and it reached new centres of force within him that touched his last store of courage and strength. "Jimbo, hold on!" it cried, like a faint, thin, pricking current of sound almost unable to reach him through the seas of distance. "I'm coming; hold on a little longer!" It was the governess. She was true to the end. Jimbo felt his heart swell within him. She was mounting, mounting behind him with incredible swiftness. The sound of his own name in these terrible regions recalled to him some degree of concentration, and he strove hard to fight against the drawing power that was seeking his destruction. He struggled frantically with his wings. But between him and the governess there was still the power of Fright to be overcome--the very Power she had long ago invoked. It was following him still, preventing his turning back, and driving him ever forward to his death. Again the voice sounded in the night; and this time it was closer. He could not quite distinguish the words. They buzzed oddly in his ears ... other voices mingled with them ... the hideous children began to shriek somewhere underneath him ... wings with eyes among their burning feathers flashed past him. His own wings folded close over his little body, drooping like dead things. His eyes closed, and he turned on his side. A huge face that was one-half the governess and the other half the head gardener at home, thrust itself close against his own, and blew upon his eyelids till he opened them. Already he was falling, sinking, tumbling headlong through a space that offered no resistance. "Jimbo!" shrieked a voice that instantly died away into a wail behind him. He opened his eyes once more--for it was that loved voice again--but the glare from the moon so dazzled him that he could only fancy he saw the figure of the governess, not a hundred feet away, struggling and floundering in the clutch of a black creature that beat the air with enormous wings all round her. He saw her hair streaming out into the night, and one wing seemed to hang broken and useless at her side. He was turning over and over, like a piece of wood in the waves of the sea, and the governess, caught by Fright, the monster of her own creation, drifted away from his consciousness as a dream melts away in the light of the morning.... From the gleaming mountains and treeless plains below Jimbo thought there rose a hollow roar like the mocking laughter of an immense multitude of people, shaking with mirth. The Moon had got him at last, and her laughter ran through the heavens like a wave. Revolving upon his own little axis so swiftly that he neither saw nor heard anything more, he dropped straight down upon the great satellite. The light of the moon flamed up into his eyes and dazzled him. But what in the world was this? How could the moon dwindle so suddenly to the size of a mere lamp flame? How could the whole expanse of the heavens shrink in an instant to the limits of a little, cramped room? In a single second, before he had time to realise that he felt surprise, the entire memory of his recent experiences vanished from his mind. The past became an utter blank. Like a wreath of smoke everything melted away as if it had never been at all. The functions of the brain resumed their normal course. The delirium of the past few hours was over. Jimbo was lying at home on his bed in the night-nursery, and his mother was bending over him. At the foot of the bed stood the doctor in black. The nurse held a lamp, only half shaded by her hand, as she approached the bedside. This lamp was the moon of his delirium--only he had quite forgotten now that there had ever been any moon at all. The little thermometer, thrust into his teeth among the stars, was still in his mouth. A hot-water bottle made his feet glow and burn. And from the walls of the sick-room came as it were the echoes of recently-uttered sentences: "Take his temperature! Give him the medicine the moment he wakes! Put the hot bottle to his feet.... Fetch the ice-bag.... Quick!" "Where am I, mother?" he asked in a whisper. "You're in bed, darling, and must keep quite quiet. You'll soon be all right again. It was the old black cow that tossed you. The gardener found you by the swinging gate and carried you in.... You've been unconscious!" "How long have I been uncon----?" Jimbo could not manage the whole word. "About three hours, darling." Then he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when he woke long after it was early morning, and there was no one in the room but the old family nurse, who sat watching beside the bed. Something--some dim memory--that had stirred his brain in sleep, immediately rushed to his lips in the form of an inconsequent question. But before he could even frame the sentence, the thought that prompted it had slipped back into the deeper consciousness he had just left behind with the trance of deep sleep. But the old nurse, watching every movement, waiting upon the child's very breath, had caught the question, and she answered soothingly in a whisper-- "Oh, Miss Lake died a few days after she left here," she said in a very low voice. "But don't think about her any more, dearie! She'll never frighten children again with her silly stories." "_DIED!_" Jimbo sat up in bed and stared into the shadows behind her, as though his eyes saw something she could not see. But his voice seemed almost to belong to some one else. "She was really dead all the time, then," he said below his breath. Then the child fell back without another word, and dropped off into the sleep which was the first step to final recovery. THE END PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. [Transcriber's Note: The following corrections were made: p. 52: removed paragraph break after comma (whispered, "My darling boy,) p. 87: acccomplish to accomplish (she would accomplish) p. 96: removed paragraph break after comma (and said very gravely, with her serious eyes fixed on his face, "Miss Lake,) p. 123: achoed to echoed ("Long!" he echoed,) p. 181: existance to existence (an existence far antedating) p. 197: conciousness to consciousness (the consciousness cannot) p. 204: so to no (no sequence in the order) Minor punctuation errors and missing spaces between words have been corrected without note. An oe-ligature in the word manoeuvre has been replaced with "oe" in the plain text versions. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have not been corrected.] 
26430	----	+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | | | The children's letters on page 108 have been reproduced in | | this text as diagrams. | +------------------------------------------------------------+ ESSAY ON THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION BY TH. RIBOT TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY ALBERT H. N. BARON FELLOW IN CLARK UNIVERSITY LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., LTD. 1906 COPYRIGHT BY THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO. CHICAGO, U. S. A. 1906 _All rights reserved._ TO THE MEMORY OF MY TEACHER AND FRIEND, Arthur Allin, Ph. D., PROFESSOR OF PSYCHOLOGY AND EDUCATION, UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO, WHO FIRST INTERESTED ME IN THE PROBLEMS OF PSYCHOLOGY, THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, WITH REVERENCE AND GRATITUDE, BY THE TRANSLATOR. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. The name of Th. Ribot has been for many years well known in America, and his works have gained wide popularity. The present translation of one of his more recent works is an attempt to render available in English what has been received as a classic exposition of a subject that is often discussed, but rarely with any attempt to understand its true nature. It is quite generally recognized that psychology has remained in the semi-mythological, semi-scholastic period longer than most attempts at scientific formulization. For a long time it has been the "spook science" _per se_, and the imagination, now analyzed by M. Ribot in such a masterly manner, has been one of the most persistent, apparently real, though very indefinite, of psychological spooks. Whereas people have been accustomed to speak of the imagination as an entity _sui generis_, as a lofty something found only in long-haired, wild-eyed "geniuses," constituting indeed the center of a cult, our author, Prometheus-like, has brought it down from the heavens, and has clearly shown that _imagination is a function of mind common to all men in some degree_, and that it is shown in as highly developed form in commercial leaders and practical inventors as in the most bizarre of romantic idealists. The only difference is that the manifestation is not the same. That this view is not entirely original with M. Ribot is not to his discredit--indeed, he does not claim any originality. We find the view clearly expressed elsewhere, certainly as early as Aristotle, that the greatest artist is he who actually embodies his vision and will in permanent form, preferably in social institutions. This idea is so clearly enunciated in the present monograph, which the author modestly styles an essay, that when the end of the book is reached but little remains of the great imagination-ghost, save the one great mystery underlying all facts of mind. That the present rendering falls far below the lucid French of the original, the translator is well aware; he trusts, however, that the indulgent reader will take into account the good intent as offsetting in part, at least, the numerous shortcomings of this version. I wish here to express my obligation to those friends who encouraged me in the congenial task of translation. A. H. N. B. AUTHOR'S PREFACE Contemporary psychology has studied the purely reproductive imagination with great eagerness and success. The works on the different image-groups--visual, auditory, tactile, motor--are known to everyone, and form a collection of inquiries solidly based on subjective and objective observation, on pathological facts and laboratory experiments. The study of the creative or constructive imagination, on the other hand, has been almost entirely neglected. It would be easy to show that the best, most complete, and most recent treatises on psychology devote to it scarcely a page or two; often, indeed, do not even mention it. A few articles, a few brief, scarce monographs, make up the sum of the past twenty-five years' work on the subject. The subject does not, however, at all deserve this indifferent or contemptuous attitude. Its importance is unquestionable, and even though the study of the creative imagination has hitherto remained almost inaccessible to experimentation strictly so-called, there are yet other objective processes that permit of our approaching it with some likelihood of success, and of continuing the work of former psychologists, but with methods better adapted to the requirements of contemporary thought. The present work is offered to the reader as an essay or first attempt only. It is not our intention here to undertake a complete monograph that would require a thick volume, but only to seek the underlying conditions of the creative imagination, showing that it has its beginning and principal source in the natural tendency of images to become objectified (or, more simply, in the motor elements inherent in the image), and then following it in its development under its manifold forms, whatever they may be. For I cannot but maintain that, at present, the psychology of the imagination is concerned almost wholly with its part in esthetic creation and in the sciences. We scarcely get beyond that; its other manifestations have been occasionally mentioned--never investigated. Yet invention in the fine arts and in the sciences is only a special case, and possibly not the principal one. We hope to show that in practical life, in mechanical, military, industrial, and commercial inventions, in religious, social, and political institutions, the human mind has expended and made permanent as much imagination as in all other fields. The constructive imagination is a faculty that in the course of ages has undergone a reduction--or at least, some profound changes. So, for reasons indicated later on, the mythic activity has been taken in this work as the central point of our topic, as the primitive and typical form out of which the greater number of the others have arisen. The creative power is there shown entirely unconfined, freed from all hindrance, careless of the possible and the impossible; in a pure state, unadulterated by the opposing influence of imitation, of ratiocination, of the knowledge of natural laws and their uniformity. In the first or analytical part, we shall try to resolve the constructive imagination into its constitutive factors, and study each of them singly. The second or genetic part will follow the imagination in its development as a whole from the dimmest to the most complex forms. Finally, the third or concrete part, will be no longer devoted to the imagination, but to imaginative beings, to the principal types of imagination that observation shows us. May, 1900. ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE Translator's Preface v Author's Preface vii INTRODUCTION. THE MOTOR NATURE OF THE CONSTRUCTIVE IMAGINATION. Transition from the reproductive to the creative imagination.--Do all representations contain motor elements?--Unusual effects produced by images: vesication, stigmata; their conditions; their meaning for our subject.--The imagination is, on the intellectual side, equivalent to will. Proof: Identity of development; subjective, personal character of both; teleologic character; analogy between the abortive forms of the imagination and abulias. 3 FIRST PART. ANALYSIS OF THE IMAGINATION. CHAPTER I. THE INTELLECTUAL FACTOR. Dissociation, preparatory work.--Dissociation in complete, incomplete and schematic images.--Dissociation in series. Its principal causes: internal or subjective, external or objective.--Association: its rôle reduced to a single question, the formation of new combinations.--The principal intellectual factor is thinking by analogy. Why it is an almost inexhaustible source of creation. Its mechanism. Its processes reducible to two, viz.: personification, transformation. 15 CHAPTER II. THE EMOTIONAL FACTOR. The great importance of this element.--All forms of the creative imagination imply affective elements. Proofs: All affective conditions may influence the imagination. Proofs: Association of ideas on an emotional basis; new combinations under ordinary and extraordinary forms.--Association by contrast.--The motor element in tendencies.--There is no creative instinct; invention has not _a_ source, but _sources_, and always arises from a need.--The work of the imagination reduced to two great classes, themselves reducible to special needs.--Reasons for the prejudice in favor of a creative instinct. 31 CHAPTER III. THE UNCONSCIOUS FACTOR. Various views of the "inspired state." Its essential characteristics; suddenness, impersonality.--Its relations to unconscious activity.--Resemblances to hypermnesia, the initial state of alcoholic intoxication and somnambulism on waking.--Disagreements concerning the ultimate nature of unconsciousness: two hypotheses.--The "inspired state" is not a cause, but an index.--Associations in unconscious form.--Mediate or latent association: recent experiments and discussions on this subject.--"Constellation" the result of a summation of predominant tendencies. Its mechanism. 50 CHAPTER IV. THE ORGANIC CONDITIONS OF THE IMAGINATION. Anatomical conditions: various hypotheses. Obscurity of the question. Flechsig's theory.--Physiological conditions: are they cause, effect, or accompaniment? Chief factor: change in cerebral and local circulation.--Attempts at experimentation.--The oddities of inventors brought under two heads: the explicable and inexplicable. They are helpers of inspiration.--Is there any analogy between physical and psychic creation? A philosophical hypothesis on the subject.--Limitation of the question. Impossibility of an exact answer. 65 CHAPTER V. THE PRINCIPLE OF UNITY. Importance of the unifying principle. It is a fixed idea or a fixed emotion.--Their equivalence.--Distinction between the synthetic principle and the ideal, which is the principle of unity in motion: the ideal is a construction in images, merely outlined.--The principal forms of the unifying principles: unstable, organic or middle, extreme or semi-morbid.--Obsession of the inventor and the sick: insufficiency of a purely psychological criterion. 79 SECOND PART. THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. CHAPTER I. IMAGINATION IN ANIMALS. Difficulties of the subject.--The degree of imagination in animals.--Does creative synthesis exist in them? Affirmation and denials.--The special form of animal imagination is motor, and shows itself through play: its numerous varieties.--Why the animal imagination must be above all motor: lack of intellectual development.--Comparison with young children, in whom the motor system predominates: the rôles of movements in infantile insanity. 93 CHAPTER II. IMAGINATION IN THE CHILD. Division of its development into four principal periods.--Transition from passive to creative imagination: perception and illusion.--Animating everything: analysis of the elements constituting this moment: the rôle of belief.--Creation in play: period of imitation, attempts at invention.--Fanciful invention. 103 CHAPTER III. PRIMITIVE MAN AND THE CREATION OF MYTHS. The golden age of the creative imagination.--Myths: hypotheses as to the origin: the myth is the psycho-physical objectification of man in the phenomena that he perceives. The rôle of imagination.--How myths are formed. The moment of creation: two operations--animating everything, qualifying everything. Romantic invention lacking in peoples without imagination. The rôle of analogy and of association through "constellation."--The evolution of myths: ascension, acme, decline.--The explanatory myths undergo a radical transformation: the work of depersonification of the myth. Survivals.--The non-explanatory myths suffer a partial transformation: Literature is a fallen and rationalized mythology.--Popular imagination and legends: the legend is to the myth what illusion is to hallucination.--Unconscious processes that the imagination employs in order to create legends: fusion, idealization. 118 CHAPTER IV. THE HIGHER FORMS OF INVENTION. Is a psychology of great inventors possible? Pathological and physiological theories of genius.--General characters of great inventors. Precocity: chronological order of the development of the creative power. Psychological reasons for this order. Why the creator commences by imitating.--Necessity or fatalism of vocation.--The representative character of great creators. Discussion as to the origin of this character--is it in the individual or in the environment?--Mechanism of creation. Two principal processes--complete, abridged. Their three phases; their resemblances and differences.--The rôle of chance in invention: it supposes the meeting of two factors--one internal, the other external.--Chance is an occasion for, not an agent of, creation. 140 CHAPTER V. LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. Is the creative imagination, in its evolution, subject to any law?--It passes through two stages separated by a critical phase.--Period of autonomy; critical period; period of definite constitution. Two cases: decay or transformation through logical form, through deviation.--Subsidiary law of increasing complexity.--Historical verification. 167 THIRD PART. THE PRINCIPAL TYPES OF IMAGINATION. PRELIMINARY. The need of a concrete study.--The varieties of the creative imagination, analogous to the varieties of character. 179 CHAPTER I. THE PLASTIC IMAGINATION. It makes use of clear images, well determined in space, and of associations of objective relations.--Its external character.--Inferiority of the affective element.--Its principal manifestations: in the arts dealing with form; in poetry (transformation of sonorous into visual images); in myths with clear outline; in mechanical invention.--The dry and rational imagination its elements. 184 CHAPTER II. THE DIFFLUENT IMAGINATION. It makes use of vague images linked according to the least rigorous modes of association. Emotional abstractions; their nature.--Its characteristic of inwardness.--Its principal manifestations: revery, the romantic spirit, the chimerical spirit; myths and religious conceptions, literature and the fine arts (the symbolists), the class of the marvelous and fantastic.--Varieties of the diffluent imagination: first, numerical imagination; its nature; two principal forms, cosmogonic and scientific conceptions; second, musical imagination, the type of the affective imagination. Its characteristics; it does not develop save after an interval of time.--Natural transposition of events in musicians.--Antagonism between true musical imagination and plastic imagination. Inquiry and facts on the subject.--Two great types of imagination. 195 CHAPTER III. MYSTIC IMAGINATION. Its elements; its special characteristics.--Thinking symbolically.--Nature of this symbolism.--The mystic changes concrete images into symbolic images.--Their obscurity; whence it arises.--Extraordinary abuse of analogy.--Mystic labor on letters, numbers, etc.--Nature and extent of the belief accompanying this form of imagination: it is unconditional and permanent.--The mystic conception of the world a general symbolism.--Mystic imagination in religion and in metaphysics. 221 CHAPTER IV. THE SCIENTIFIC IMAGINATION. It is distinguishable into genera and species.--The need for monographs that have not yet appeared.--The imagination in growing sciences--belief is at its maximum; in the organized sciences--the negative rôle of method.--The conjectural phase; proof of its importance.--Abortive and dethroned hypotheses.--The imagination in the processes of verification.--The metaphysician's imagination arises from the same need as the scientist's.--Metaphysics is a rationalized myth.--Three moments.--Imaginative and rationalist. 236 CHAPTER V. THE PRACTICAL AND MECHANICAL IMAGINATION. Indetermination of this imaginative form.--Inferior forms: the industrious, the unstable, the eccentric. Why people of lively imagination are changeable.--Superstitious beliefs. Origin of this form of imagination--its mental mechanism and its elements.--The higher form--mechanical imagination.--Man has expended at least as much imagination there as in esthetic creation.--Why the contrary view prevails.--Resemblances between these two forms of imagination.--Identity of development. Detail observation--four phases.--General characters. This form, at its best, supposes inspiration; periods of preparation, of maturity, and of decline.--Special characters: invention occurs in layers. Principal steps of its development.--It depends strictly on physical conditions.--A phase of pure imagination--mechanical romances. Examples.--Identical nature of the imagination of the mechanic and that of the artist. 256 CHAPTER VI. THE COMMERCIAL IMAGINATION. Its internal and external conditions.--Two classes of creators--the cautious, the daring.--The initial moment of invention.--The importance of the intuitive mind.--Hypotheses in regard to its psychologic nature.--Its development: the creation of increasingly more simple processes of substitution.--Characters in common with the forms of creation already studied.--Characters peculiar to it--the combining imagination of the tactician; it is a form of war.--Creative intoxication.--Exclusive use of schematic representations.--Remarks on the various types of images.--The creators of great financial systems.--Brief remarks on the military imagination. 281 CHAPTER VII. THE UTOPIAN IMAGINATION. Successive appearances of ideal conceptions.--Creators in ethics and in the social realm.--Chimerical forms. Social novelists.--Ch. Fourrier, type of the great imaginer.--Practical invention--the collective ideal.--Imaginative regression. 299 CONCLUSION. I. _The foundations of the creative imagination._ Why man is able to create: two principal conditions.--"Creative spontaneity," which resolves itself into needs, tendencies, desires.--Every imaginative creation has a motor origin.--The spontaneous revival of images.--The creative imagination reduced to three forms: outlined, fixed, objectified. Their peculiar characteristics. 313 II. _The imaginative type._ A view of the imaginative life in all its stages.--Reduction to a psychologic law.--Four stages characterized: 1, by the _quantity_ of images; 2, by their _quantity and intensity_; 3, by quantity, intensity and duration; 4, by the complete and permanent systematization of the imaginary life.--Summary. 320 APPENDICES. OBSERVATIONS AND DOCUMENTS. A. The various forms of inspiration. 335 B. On the nature of the unconscious factor. Two categories--static unconscious, dynamic unconscious.--Theories as to the nature of the unconscious.--Objections, criticisms. 338 C. Cosmic and human imagination. 346 D. Evidence in regard to musical imagination. 350 E. The imaginative type and association of ideas. 353 INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION THE MOTOR NATURE OF THE CONSTRUCTIVE IMAGINATION I It has been often repeated that one of the principal conquests of contemporary psychology is the fact that it has firmly established the place and importance of movements; that it has especially through observation and experiment shown the representation of a movement to be a movement begun, a movement in the nascent state. Yet those who have most strenuously insisted on this proposition have hardly gone beyond the realm of the passive imagination; they have clung to facts of pure reproduction. My aim is to extend their formula, and to show that it explains, in large measure at least, the origin of the creative imagination. Let us follow step by step the passage from reproduction pure and simple to the creative stage, showing therein the persistence and preponderance of the motor element in proportion as we rise from mere repetition to invention. First of all, do all representations include motor elements? Yes, I say, because every perception presupposes movements to some extent, and representations are the remnants of past perceptions. Certain it is that, without our examining the question in detail, this statement holds good for the great majority of cases. So far as visual and tactile images are concerned there is no possible doubt as to the importance of the motor elements that enter into their composition. The eye is very poorly endowed with movements for its office as a higher sense-organ; but if we take into account its intimate connection with the vocal organs, so rich in capacity for motor combinations, we note a kind of compensation. Smell and taste, secondary in human psychology, rise to a very high rank indeed among many animals, and the olfactory apparatus thus obtains with them a complexity of movements proportionate to its importance, and one that at times approaches that of sight. There yet remains the group of internal sensations that might cause discussion. Setting aside the fact that the vague impressions bound up with chemical changes within the tissues are scarcely factors in representation, we find that the sensations resulting from changes in respiration, circulation, and digestion are not lacking in motor elements. The mere fact that, in some persons, vomiting, hiccoughs, micturition, etc., can be caused by perceptions of sight or of hearing proves that representations of this character have a tendency to become translated into acts. Without emphasizing the matter we may, then, say that this thesis rests on a weighty mass of facts; that the motor element of the image tends to cause it to lose its purely "inner" character, to objectify it, to externalize it, to project it outside of ourselves. It should, however, be noted that what has just been said does not take us beyond the reproductive imagination--beyond memory. All these revived images are _repetitions_; but the creative imagination requires something _new_--this is its peculiar and essential mark. In order to grasp the transition from reproduction to production, from repetition to creation, it is necessary to consider other, more rare, and more extraordinary facts, found only among some favored beings. These facts, known for a long time, surrounded with some mystery, and attributed in a vague manner "to the power of the imagination," have been studied in our own day with much more system and exactness. For our purpose we need to recall only a few of them. Many instances have been reported of tingling or of pains that may appear in different parts of the body solely through the effect of the imagination. Certain people can increase or inhibit the beating of their hearts at will, i.e., by means of an intense and persistent representation. The renowned physiologist, E. F. Weber, possessed this power, and has described the mechanism of the phenomenon. Still more remarkable are the cases of vesication produced in hypnotized subjects by means of suggestion. Finally, let us recall the persistent story of the stigmatized individuals, who, from the thirteenth century down to our own day, have been quite numerous and present some interesting varieties--some having only the mark of the crucifix, others of the scourging, or of the crown of thorns.[1] Let us add the profound changes of the organism, results of the suggestive therapeutics of contemporaries; the wonderful effects of the "faith cure," i.e., the miracles of all religions in all times and in all places; and this brief list will suffice to recall certain creative activities of the human imagination that we have a tendency to forget. It is proper to add that the image acts not altogether in a positive manner. Sometimes it has an inhibitory power. A vivid representation of a movement arrested is the beginning of the stoppage of that movement; it may even end in complete arrest of the movement. Such are the cases of "paralysis by ideas" first described by Reynolds, and later by Charcot and his school under the name of "psychic paralysis." The patient's inward conviction that he cannot move a limb renders him powerless for any movement, and he recovers his motor power only when the morbid representation has disappeared. These and similar facts suggest a few remarks. First, that we have here creation in the strict sense of the word, though it be limited to the organism. What appears is _new_. Though one may strictly maintain that from our own experience we have a knowledge of formication, rapid and slow beating of the heart, even though we may not be able ordinarily to produce them at will, this position is absolutely untenable when we consider cases of vesication, stigmata, and other alleged miraculous phenomena: _these are without precedent in the life of the individual_. Second, in order that these unusual states may occur, there are required additional elements in the producing mechanism. At bottom this mechanism is very obscure. To invoke "the power of the imagination" is merely to substitute a word where an explanation is needed. Fortunately, we do not need to penetrate into the inmost part of this mystery. It is enough for us to make sure of the facts, to prove that they have a representation as the starting point, and to show that the representation by itself is not enough. What more then is needed? Let us note first of all that these occurrences are rare. It is not within the power of everybody to acquire stigmata or to become cured of a paralysis pronounced incurable. This happens only to those having an ardent faith, a strong desire _that it shall come to pass_. This is an indispensable psychic condition. What is concerned in such a case is not a single state, but a double one: an image followed by a particular emotional state (desire, aversion, etc.). In other words, there are two conditions: In the first are concerned the motor elements included in the image, the remains of previous perceptions; in the second, there are concerned the foregoing, _plus_ affective states, tendencies that sum up the individual's energy. It is the latter fact that explains their power. To conclude: This group of facts shows us the existence, beyond images, of another factor, instinctive or emotional in form, which we shall have to study later and which will lead us to the ultimate source of the creative imagination. I fear that the distance between the facts here given and the creative imagination proper will seem to the reader very great indeed. And why so? First, because the creative activity here has as its only material the organism, and is not separated from the creator. Then, too, because these facts are extremely simple, and the creative imagination, in the ordinary sense, is extremely complex; here there is one operating cause, a single representation more or less complex, while in imaginative creation we have several co-operating images with combinations, coördination, arrangement, grouping. But it must not be forgotten that our present aim is simply to find _a transition stage_[2] between reproduction and production; to show the common origin of the two forms of imagination--the purely representative faculty and the faculty of creating by means of the intermediation of images;--and to show at the same time the work of separation, of severance between the two. II Since the chief aim of this study is to prove that the basis of invention must be sought in motor manifestations, I shall not hesitate to dwell on it, and I take the subject up again under another, clearer, more precise, and more psychological form, in putting the following question: Which one among the various modes of mind-activity offers the closest analogy to the creative imagination? I unhesitatingly answer, _voluntary activity_: Imagination, in the intellectual order, is the equivalent of will in the realm of movements. Let us justify this comparison by some proof. 1. Likeness of development in the two instances. Growth of voluntary control is progressive, slow, crossed and checked. The individual has to become master of his muscles and by their agency extend his sway over other things. Reflexes, instinctive movements, and movements expressive of emotion constitute the primary material of voluntary movements. The will has no movements of its own as an inheritance: it must coördinate and associate, since it separates in order to form new associations. It reigns by right of conquest, not by right of birth. In like manner, the creative imagination does not rise completely armed. Its raw materials are images, which here correspond to muscular movements. It goes through a period of trial. It always is, at the start (for reasons indicated later on), an imitation; it attains its complex forms only through a process of growth. 2. But this first comparison does not go to the bottom of the matter; there are yet deeper analogies. First, the completely subjective character of both instances. The imagination is subjective, personal, anthropocentric; its movement is from within outwards toward an objectification. The understanding, i.e., the intellect in the restricted sense, has opposite characteristics--it is objective, impersonal, receives from outside. For the creative imagination the inner world is the regulator; there is a preponderance of the inner over the outer. For the understanding, the outside world is the regulator; there is a preponderance of the outer over the inner. The world of my imagination is _my_ world as opposed to the world of my understanding, which is the world of all my fellow creatures. On the other hand, as regards the will, we might repeat exactly, word for word, what we have just said of the imagination. This is unnecessary. Back of both, then, we have our true cause, whatever may be our opinion concerning the ultimate nature of causation and of will. 3. Both imagination and will have a teleological character, and act only with a view toward an end, being thus the opposite of the understanding, which, as such, limits itself to proof. We are always wanting something, be it worthless or important. We are always inventing for an end--whether in the case of a Napoleon imagining a plan of campaign, or a cook making up a new dish. In both instances there is now a simple end attained by immediate means, now a complex and distant goal presupposing subordinate ends which are means in relation to the final end. In both cases there is a _vis a tergo_ designated by the vague term "spontaneity," which we shall attempt to make clear later, and a _vis a fronte_, an attracting movement. 4. Added to this analogy as regards their nature, there are other, secondary likenesses between the abortive forms of the creative imagination and the impotent forms of the will. In its normal and complete form will culminates in an act; but with wavering characters and sufferers from abulia deliberation never ends, or the resolution remains inert, incapable of realization, of asserting itself in practice. The creative imagination also, in its complete form, has a tendency to become objectified, to assert itself in a work that shall exist not only for the creator but for everybody. On the contrary, with dreamers pure and simple, the imagination remains a vaguely sketched inner affair; it is not embodied in any esthetic or practical invention. Revery is the equivalent of weak desires; dreamers are the abulics of the creative imagination. It is unnecessary to add that the similarity established here between the will and the imagination is only partial and has as its aim only to bring to light the rôle of the motor elements. Surely no one will confuse two aspects of our psychic life that are so distinct, and it would be foolish to delay in order to enumerate the differences. The characteristic of novelty should by itself suffice, since it is the special and indispensable mark of invention, and for volition is only accessory: The extraction of a tooth requires of the patient as much effort the second time as the first, although it is no longer a novelty. After these preliminary remarks we must go on to the analysis of the creative imagination, in order to understand its nature in so far as that is accessible with our existing means. It is, indeed, a tertiary formation in mental life, if we assume a primary layer (sensations and simple emotions), and a secondary (images and their associations, certain elementary logical operations, etc.). Being composite, it may be decomposed into its constituent elements, which we shall study under these three headings, viz., the intellectual factor, the affective or emotional factor, and the unconscious factor. But that is not enough; the analysis should be completed by a synthesis. All imaginative creation, great or small, is organic, requires a unifying principle: there is then also a synthetic factor, which it will be necessary to determine. FOOTNOTES: [1] A. Maury, in his book _L'Astronomie et la Magie_, enumerates fifty cases. [2] There are still others, as we shall see later on. PART ONE ANALYSIS OF THE IMAGINATION CHAPTER I THE INTELLECTUAL FACTOR. I Considered under its intellectual aspect, that is, in so far as it borrows its elements from the understanding, the imagination presupposes two fundamental operations--the one, negative and preparatory, dissociation; the other, positive and constitutive, association. Dissociation is the "abstraction" of the older psychologists, who well understood its importance for the subject with which we are now concerned. Nevertheless, the term "dissociation" seems to me preferable, because it is more comprehensive. It designates a genus of which the other is a species. It is a spontaneous operation and of a more radical nature than the other. Abstraction, strictly so-called, acts only on isolated states of consciousness; dissociation acts, further, on series of states of consciousness, which it sorts out, breaks up, dissolves, and through this preparatory work makes suitable for entering into new combinations. Perception is a synthetic process, but dissociation (or abstraction) is already present in embryo in perception, just because the latter is a complex state. Everyone perceives after an individual fashion, according to his constitution and the impression of the moment. A painter, a sportsman, a dealer, and an uninterested spectator do not see a given horse in the same manner: the qualities that interest one are unnoticed by another.[3] The image being a simplification of sensory data, and its nature dependent on that of previous perceptions, it is inevitable that the work of dissociation should go on in it. But this is far too mild a statement. Observation and experiment show us that in the majority of cases the process grows wonderfully. In order to follow the progressive development of this dissolution, we may roughly differentiate images into three categories--complete, incomplete, and schematic--and study them in order. The group of images here termed _complete_ comprises first, objects repeatedly presented in daily experience--my wife's face, my inkstand, the sound of a church bell or of a neighboring clock, etc. In this class are also included the images of things that we have perceived but a few times, but which, for additional reasons, have remained clean-cut in our memory. Are these images complete, in the strict sense of the word? They cannot be; and the contrary belief is a delusion of consciousness that, however, disappears when one confronts it with the reality. The mental image can contain all the qualities of an object in even less degree than the perception; the image is the result of selection, varying with every case. The painter Fromentin, who was proud that he found after two or three years "an exact recollection" of things he had barely noticed on a journey, makes elsewhere, however, the following confession: "My memory of things, although very faithful, has never the certainty admissible as documentary evidence. The weaker it grows, the more is it changed in becoming the property of my memory and the more valuable is it for the work that I intend for it. In proportion as the exact form becomes altered, another form, partly real, partly imaginary, which I believe preferable, takes its place." Note that the person speaking thus is a painter endowed with an unusual visual memory; but recent investigations have shown that among men generally the so-called complete and exact images undergo change and warping. One sees the truth of this statement when, after a lapse of some time, one is placed in the presence of the original object, so that comparison between the real object and its image becomes possible.[4] Let us note that in this group _the image always corresponds to certain individual objects_; it is not the same with the other two groups. The group of _incomplete_ images, according to the testimony of consciousness itself, comes from two distinct sources--first, from perceptions insufficiently or ill-fixed; and again, from impressions of like objects which, when too often repeated, end by becoming confused. The latter case has been well described by Taine. A man, says he, who, having gone through an avenue of poplars wants to picture a poplar; or, having looked into a poultry-yard, wishes to call up a picture of a hen, experiences a difficulty--his different memories rise up. The experiment becomes a cause of effacement; the images canceling one another decline to a state of imperceptible tendencies which their likeness and unlikeness prevent from predominating. Images become blunted by their collision just as do bodies by friction.[5] This group leads us to that of _schematic_ images, or those entirely without mark--the indefinite image of a rosebush, of a pin, of a cigarette, etc. This is the greatest degree of impoverishment; the image, deprived little by little of its own characteristics, is nothing more than a shadow. It has become that transitional form between image and pure concept that we now term "generic image," or one that at least resembles the latter. The image, then, is subject to an unending process of change, of suppression and addition, of dissociation and corrosion. This means that it is not a dead thing; it is not at all like a photographic plate with which one may reproduce copies indefinitely. Being dependent on the state of the brain, the image undergoes change like all living substance,--it is subject to gains and losses, especially losses. But each of the foregoing three classes has its use for the inventor. They serve as material for different kinds of imagination--in their concrete form, for the mechanic and the artist; in their schematic form, for the scientist and for others. Thus far we have seen only a part of the work of dissociation and, taking it all in all, the smallest part. We have, seemingly, considered images as isolated facts, as psychic atoms; but that is a purely theoretic position. Images are not solitary in actual life; they form part of a chain, or rather of a woof or net, since, by reason of their manifold relations they may radiate in all directions, through all the senses. Dissociation, then, works also upon _series_, cuts them up, mangles them, breaks them, and reduces them to ruins. The ideal law of the recurrence of images is that known since Hamilton's time under the name of "law of redintegration,"[6] which consists in the passing from a part to the whole, each element tending to reproduce the complete state, each member of a series the whole of that series. If this law existed alone, invention would be forever forbidden to us; we could not emerge from repetition; we should be condemned to monotony. But there is an opposite power that frees us--it is dissociation. It is very strange that, while psychologists have for so long a time studied the laws of association, no one has investigated whether the inverse process, dissociation, also has not laws of its own. We can not here attempt such a task, which would be outside of our province; it will suffice to indicate in passing two general conditions determining the association of series. First, there are the internal or subjective causes. The revived image of a face, a monument, a landscape, an occurrence, is, most often, only partial. It depends on various conditions that revive the essential part and drop the minor details, and this "essential" which survives dissociation depends on subjective causes, the principal ones of which are at first practical, utilitarian reasons. It is the tendency already mentioned to ignore what is of no value, to exclude that from consciousness. Helmholtz has shown that in the act of seeing, various details remain unnoticed because they are immaterial in the concerns of life; and there are many other like instances. Then, too, emotional reasons governing the attention orientate it exclusively in one direction--these will be studied in the course of this work. Lastly, there are logical or intellectual reasons, if we understand by this term the law of mental inertia or the law of least resistance by means of which the mind tends toward the simplification and lightening of its labor. Secondly, there are external or objective causes which are variations in experience. When two or more qualities or events are given as constantly associated in experience we do not dissociate them. The uniformity of nature's laws is the great opponent of dissociation. Many truths (for example, the existence of the antipodes) are established with difficulty, because it is necessary to break up closely knit associations. The oriental king whom Sully mentions, who had never seen ice, refused to credit the existence of solid water. A total impression, the elements of which had never been given us separately in experience, would be unanalyzable. If all cold objects were moist, and all moist objects cold; if all liquids were transparent and all non-liquids opaque, we should find it difficult to distinguish cold from moisture and liquidity from transparency. On his part, James adds further that what has been associated sometimes with one thing and sometimes with another tends to become dissociated from both. This might be called a law of association by concomitant variations.[7] In order to thoroughly comprehend the absolute necessity for dissociation, let us note that total redintegration is _per se_ a hindrance to creation. Examples are given of people who can easily remember twenty or thirty pages of a book, but if they want a particular passage they are unable to pick it out--they must begin at the beginning and continue down to the required place. Excessive ease of retention thus becomes a serious inconvenience. Besides these rare cases, we know that ignorant people, those intellectually limited, give the same invariable story of every occurrence, in which all the parts--the important and the accessory, the useful and the useless--are on a dead level. They omit no detail, they cannot select. Minds of this kind are inapt at invention. In short, we may say that there are two kinds of memory: one is completely systematized, e.g., habits, routine, poetry or prose learned by heart, faultless musical rendering, etc. The acquisition forms a compact whole and cannot enter into new combinations. The other is not systematized; it is composed of small, more or less coherent groups. This kind of memory is plastic and capable of becoming combined in new ways. We have enumerated the spontaneous, natural causes of association, omitting the voluntary and artificial causes, which are but their imitations. As a result of these various causes, images are taken to pieces, shattered, broken up, but made all the readier as materials for the inventor. This is a process analogous to that which, in geologic time, produces new strata through the wearing away of old rocks. II Association is one of the big questions of psychology; but as it does not especially concern our subject, it will be discussed in strict proportion to its use here. Nothing is easier than limiting ourselves. Our task is reducible to a very clear and very brief question: What are the forms of association that give rise to new combinations and under what influences do they arise? All other forms of association, those that are only repetitions, should be eliminated. Consequently, this subject can not be treated in one single effort; it must be studied, in turn, in its relations to our three factors--intellectual, emotional, unconscious. It is generally admitted that the expression "association of ideas" is faulty.[8] It is not comprehensive enough, association being active also in psychic states other than ideas. It seems indicative rather of mere juxtaposition, whereas associated states modify one another by the very fact of their being connected. But, as it has been confirmed by long usage, it would be difficult to eliminate the phrase. On the other hand, psychologists are not at all agreed as regards the determination of the principal laws or forms of association. Without taking sides in the debate, I adopt the most generally accepted classification, the one most suitable for our subject--the one that reduces everything to the two fundamental laws of contiguity and resemblance. In recent years various attempts have been made to reduce these two laws to one, some reducing resemblance to contiguity; others, contiguity to resemblance. Putting aside the ground of this discussion, which seems to me very useless, and which perhaps is due to excessive zeal for unity, we must nevertheless recognize that this discussion is not without interest for the study of the creative imagination, because it has well shown that each of the two fundamental laws has a characteristic mechanism. Association by contiguity (or continuity), which Wundt calls external, is simple and homogeneous. It reproduces the order and connection of things; it reduces itself to habits contracted by our nervous system. Is association by resemblance, which Wundt calls internal, strictly speaking, an elementary law? Many doubt it. Without entering into the long and frequently confused discussions to which this subject has given rise, we may sum up their results as follows: In so-called association by resemblance it is necessary to distinguish three moments--(a) That of the presentation; a state _A_ is given in perception or association-by-contiguity, and forms the starting point. (b) That of the work of assimilation; _A_ is recognized as more or less like a state _a_ previously experienced. (c) As a consequence of the coëxistence of _A_ and _a_ in consciousness, they can later be recalled reciprocally, although the two original occurrences _A_ and _a_ have previously never existed together, and sometimes, indeed, may not possibly have existed together. It is evident that the crucial moment is the second, and that it consists of an act of active assimilation. Thus James maintains that "it is a relation that the mind perceives after the fact, just as it may perceive the relations of superiority, of distance, of causality, of container and content, of substance and accident, or of contrast between an object, and some second object which the associative machinery calls up."[9] Association by resemblance presupposes a joint labor of association and dissociation--it is an active form. Consequently it is the principal source of the material of the creative imagination, as the sequel of this work will sufficiently show. After this rather long but necessary preface, we come to the intellectual factor rightly so termed, which we have been little by little approaching. The essential, fundamental element of the creative imagination in the intellectual sphere is the capacity of thinking by analogy; that is, by partial and often accidental resemblance. By analogy we mean an imperfect kind of resemblance: like is a genus of which analogue is a species. Let us examine in some detail the mechanism of this mode of thought in order that we may understand how analogy is, by its very nature, an almost inexhaustible instrument of creation. 1. Analogy may be based solely on the _number of attributes compared_. Let _a b c d e f_ and _r s t u d v_ be two beings or objects, each letter representing symbolically one of the constitutive attributes. It is evident that the analogy between the two is very weak, since there is only one common element, _d_. If the number of the elements common to both increases, the analogy will grow in the same proportion. But the agreement represented above is not infrequent among minds unused to a somewhat severe discipline. A child sees in the moon and stars a mother surrounded by her daughters. The aborigines of Australia called a book "mussel," merely because it opens and shuts like the valves of a shellfish.[10] 2. Analogy may have for its basis the _quality_ or _value_ of the compound attributes. It rests on a variable element, which oscillates from the essential to the accidental, from the reality to the appearance. To the layman, the likeness between cetacians and fishes are great; to the scientist, slight. Here, again, numerous agreements are possible, provided one take no account either of their solidity or their frailty. 3. Lastly, in minds without power, there occurs a semi-unconscious operation that we may call a transfer through the omission of the middle term. There is analogy between _a b c d e_ and _g h a i f_ through the common letter _a_; between _g h a i f_ and _x y f z q_ through the common letter _f_; and finally an analogy becomes established between _a b c d e_ and _x y f z q_ for no other reason than that of their common analogy with _g h a i f_. In the realm of the affective states, transfers of this sort are not at all rare. Analogy, an unstable process, undulating and multiform, gives rise to the most unforeseen and novel groupings. Through its pliability, which is almost unlimited, it produces in equal measure absurd comparisons and very original inventions. After these remarks on the mechanism of thinking by analogy, let us glance at the processes it employs in its creative work. The problem is, apparently, inextricable. Analogies are so numerous, so various, so arbitrary, that we may despair of finding any regularity whatever in creative work. Despite this it seems, however, reducible to two principal types or processes, which are personification, and transformation or metamorphosis. Personification is the earlier process. It is radical, always identical with itself, but transitory. It goes out from ourselves toward other things. It consists in attributing life to everything, in supposing in everything that shows signs of life--and even in inanimate objects--desires, passions, and acts of will analogous to ours, acting like ourselves in view of definite ends. This state of mind is incomprehensible to an adult civilized man; but it must be admitted, since there are facts without number that show its existence. We do not need to cite them--they are too well known. They fill the works of ethnologists, of travelers in savage lands, of books of mythology. Besides, all of us, at the commencement of our lives, during our earliest childhood, have passed through this inevitable stage of universal animism. Works on child-psychology abound in observations that leave no possible room for doubt on this point. The child endows everything with life, and he does so the more in proportion as he is more imaginative. But this stage, which among civilized people lasts only a brief period, remains in the primitive man a permanent disposition and one that is always active. This process of personification is the perennial fount whence have gushed the greater number of myths, an enormous mass of superstitions, and a large number of esthetic productions. To sum up in a word, all things that have been invented _ex analogia hominis_. Transformation or metamorphosis is a general, permanent process under many forms, proceeding not from the thinking subject towards objects, but from one object to another, from one thing to another. It consists of a transfer through partial resemblance. This operation rests on two fundamental bases--depending at one time on vague resemblances (a cloud becomes a mountain, or a mountain a fantastic animal; the sound of the wind a plaintive cry, etc.), or again, on a resemblance with a predominating emotional element: A perception provokes a feeling, and becomes the mark, sign, or plastic form thereof (the lion represents courage; the cat, artifice; the cypress, sorrow; and so on). All this, doubtless, is erroneous or arbitrary; but the function of the imagination is to invent, not to perceive. All know that this process creates metaphors, allegories, symbols; it should not, however, be believed on that account that it remains restricted to the realm of art or of the development of language. We meet it every moment in practical life, in mechanical, industrial, commercial, and scientific invention, and we shall, later, give a large number of examples in support of this statement. Let us note, briefly, that analogy, as an imperfect form of resemblance--as was said above, if we assume among the objects compared a totality of likenesses and differences in varying proportions--necessarily allows all degrees. At one end of the scale, the comparison is made between valueless or exaggerated likenesses. At the other end, analogy is restricted to exact resemblance; it approaches cognition, strictly so called; for example, in mechanical and scientific invention. Hence it is not at all surprising that the imagination is often a substitute for, and as Goethe expressed it, "a forerunner of," reason. Between the creative imagination and rational investigation there is a community of nature--both presuppose the ability of seizing upon likenesses. On the other hand, the predominance of the exact process establishes from the outset a difference between "thinkers" and imaginative dreamers ("visionaries").[11] FOOTNOTES: [3] Cf. the well-known aphorism, "_Apperception ist alles_." (Tr.) [4] See especially J. Philippe, "La déformation et les transformations des images" in _Revue Philosophique_, May and November, 1897. Although these investigations had in view only visual representations, it is not at all doubtful that the results hold good for others, especially those of hearing (voice, song, harmony). [5] _On Intelligence_, Vol. I, Bk. ii, Chap. 2. [6] In his recent history of the theories of the imagination, _La psicologia dell' immaginazione, nella storia filosofia_ (Rome, 1898) Ambrosi shows that this law is found already formulated in the _Psychologia Empirica_ of Christian Wolff [d. 1754]: "_Perceptio præterita integra recurrit cujus præsens continet partem._" [7] Sully, _Human Mind_, I, p. 365; James, _Psychology_, I, p. 502. [8] For a good criticism of the term, consult Titchener, _Outlines of Psychology_ (New York, 1896), p. 190. [9] For the discussions on the reduction to a unity, a detailed bibliography will be found in Jodl, _Lehrbuch der Psychologie_ (Stuttgart, 1896), p. 490. On the comparison of the two laws, James, _op. cit._, I, 590; Sully, _op. cit._, I, 331 ff; Höffding, _Psychologie_, 213 ff. (Eng. ed. _Outlines of Psychology_, pp. 152 ff.). [10] Note here a characteristically naïve working of the primitive intellect in explaining the unknown in terms of the known. Cf. Part II, Chap. iii, below. (Tr.) [11] It is yet, and will probably long remain, an open question whether we can draw any clear distinction between the two kinds of mind here discussed. The author is careful to base his distinction on the "predominance" of the "rational" or of the "imaginative" process. So-called "thinkers," who _do_ nothing, can not, certainly, be ranked with the persons of great intellectual attainment through whose efforts the progress of the world is made; on the other hand, the author seeks to make _results_ or accomplishments the crucial test of true imagination (see Introduction). As regards the relative value or rank of the two bents of mind there has ever been, and probably forever will be, great difference of opinion. Even in this intensely "practical" age there is an undercurrent of feeling that the narrowly "practical" individual is not the final ideal, and the innermost conviction of many is the same as that of the poet who declares that "a dreamer lives forever, but a thinker dies in a day." (Tr.) CHAPTER II THE EMOTIONAL FACTOR. The influence of emotional states on the working of the imagination is a matter of current observation. But it has been studied chiefly by moralists, who most often have criticised or condemned it as an endless cause of mistakes. The point of view of the psychologist is altogether different. He does not need at all to investigate whether emotions and passions give rise to mental phantoms--which is an indisputable fact--but _why_ and _how_ they arise. For, the emotional factor yields in importance to no other; it is the ferment without which no creation is possible. Let us study it in its principal forms, although we may not be able at this moment to exhaust the topic. I It is necessary to show at the outset that the influence of the emotional life is unlimited, that it penetrates the entire field of invention with no restriction whatever; that this is not a gratuitous assertion, but is, on the contrary, strictly justified by facts, and that we are right in maintaining the following two propositions: 1. _All forms of the creative imagination imply elements of feeling._ This statement has been challenged by authoritative psychologists, who hold that "emotion is added to imagination in its esthetic aspect, not in its mechanical and intellectual form." This is an error of fact resulting from the confusion, or from the imperfect analysis, of two distinct cases. In the case of non-esthetic creation, the rôle of the emotional life is simple; in esthetic creation, the rôle of emotional element is double. Let us consider invention, first, in its most general form. The emotional element is the primal, original factor; for all invention presupposes a want, a craving, a tendency, an unsatisfied impulse, often even a state of gestation full of discomfort. Moreover, it is concomitant, that is, under its form of pleasure or of pain, of hope, of spite, of anger, etc., it accompanies all the phases or turns of creation. The creator may, haphazard, go through the most diverse forms of exaltation and depression; may feel in turn the dejection of repulse and the joy of success; finally the satisfaction of being freed from a heavy burden. I challenge anyone to produce a solitary example of invention wrought out _in abstracto_, and free from any factors of feeling. Human nature does not allow such a miracle. Now, let us take up the special case of esthetic creation, and of forms approaching thereto. Here again we find the original emotional element as at first motor, then attached to various aspects of creation, as an accompaniment. But, _in addition, affective states become material for the creative activity_. It is a well-known fact, almost a rule, that the poet, the novelist, the dramatist, and the musician--often, indeed, even the sculptor and the painter--experience the thoughts and feeling of their characters, become identified with them. There are, then, in this second instance, two currents of feeling--the one, constituting emotion as material for art, the other, drawing out creative activity and developing along with it. The difference between the two cases that we have distinguished consists in this and nothing more than this. The existence of an emotion-content belonging to esthetic production changes in no way the psychologic mechanism of invention generally. Its absence in other forms of imagination does not at all prevent the necessary existence of affective elements everywhere and always. 2. _All emotional dispositions whatever may influence the creative imagination._ Here, again, I find opponents, notably Oelzelt-Newin, in his short and substantial monograph on the imagination.[12] Adopting the twofold division of emotions as sthenic and asthenic, or exciting and depressing, he attributes to the first the exclusive privilege of influencing creative activity; but though the author limits his study exclusively to the esthetic imagination, his thesis, even understood thus, is untenable. The facts contradict it completely, and it is easy to demonstrate that all forms of emotion, without exception, act as leaven for imagination. No one will deny that fear is the type of asthenic manifestations. Yet is it not the mother of phantoms, of numberless superstitions, of altogether irrational and chimerical religious practices? Anger, in its exalted, violent form, is rather an agent of destruction, which seems to contradict my thesis; but let us pass over the storm, which is always of short duration, and we find in its place milder intellectualized forms, which are various modifications of primitive fury, passing from the acute to the chronic state: envy, jealousy, enmity, premeditated vengeance, and so forth. Are not these dispositions of the mind fertile in artifices, stratagems, inventions of all kinds? To keep even to esthetic creation, is it necessary to recall the saying _facit indignatio versum_? It is not necessary to demonstrate the fecundity of joy. As for love, everyone knows that its work consists of creating an imaginary being, which is substituted for the beloved object; then, when the passion has vanished, the disenchanted lover finds himself face to face with the bare reality. Sorrow rightly belongs in the category of depressing emotions, and yet, it has as great influence on invention as any other emotion. Do we not know that melancholy and even profound sorrow has furnished poets, musicians, painters, and sculptors with their most beautiful inspirations? Is there not an art frankly and deliberately pessimistic? And this influence is not at all limited to esthetic creation. Dare we hold that hypochondria and insanity following upon the delirium of persecution are devoid of imagination? Their morbid character is, on the contrary, the well whence strange inventions incessantly bubble. Lastly, that complex emotion termed "self-feeling," which reduces itself finally to the pleasure of asserting our power and of feeling its expansion, or to the pitiable feeling of our shackled, enfeebled power, leads us directly to the motor elements that are the fundamental conditions of invention. Above all, in this personal feeling, there is the satisfaction of being a causal factor, i.e., a creator, and every creator has a consciousness of his superiority over non-creators. However petty his invention, it confers upon him a superiority over those who have invented nothing. Although we have been surfeited with the repeated statement that the characteristic mark of esthetic creation is "being disinterested," it must be recognized, as Groos has so truly remarked,[13] that the artist does not create out of the simple pleasure of creating, but in order that he may behold a mastery over other minds.[14] Production is the natural extension of "self-feeling," and the accompanying pleasure is the pleasure of conquest. Thus, on condition that we extend "imagination" to its full sense, without limiting it unduly to esthetics, there is, among the many forms of the emotional life, not one that may not stimulate invention. It remains to see this emotional factor at work,--to note how it can give rise to new combinations; and this brings us to the association of ideas. II We have said above that the ideal and theoretic law of the recurrence of images is that of "total redintegration," as e.g., recalling all the incidents of a long voyage in chronological order, with neither additions nor omissions. But this formula expresses what ought to be, not what actually occurs. It supposes man reduced to a state of pure intelligence, and sheltered from all disturbing influences. It suits the completely systematized forms of memory, hardened into routine and habit; but, outside of these cases, it remains an abstract concept. To this law of ideal value, there is opposed the real and practical law that actually obtains in the revival of images. It is rightly styled the "law of interest" or the affective law, and may be stated thus: In every past event the interesting parts alone revive, or with more intensity than the others. "Interesting" here means _what affects us in some way under a pleasing or painful form_. Let us note that the importance of this fact has been pointed out not by the associationists (a fact especially worth remembering) but by less systematic writers, strangers to that school,--Coleridge, Shadworth Hodgson, and before them, Schopenhauer. William James calls it the "ordinary or mixed association."[15] The "law of interest" doubtless is less exact than the intellectual laws of contiguity and resemblance. Nevertheless, it seems to penetrate all the more in later reasoning. If, indeed, in the problem of association we distinguish these three things--facts, laws, causes--the practical law brings us near to causes. Whatever the truth may be in this matter, the emotional factor brings about new combinations by several processes. There are the ordinary, simple cases, with a natural, emotional foundation, depending on momentary dispositions. They exist because of the fact that representations that have been accompanied by the same emotional state tend later to become associated: the emotional resemblance reunites and links disparate images. This differs from association by contiguity, which is a repetition of experience, and from association by resemblance in the intellectual sense. The states of consciousness become combined, not because they have been previously given together, not because we perceive the agreement of resemblance between them, but because they have a common _emotional_ note. Joy, sorrow, love, hatred, admiration, ennui, pride, fatigue, etc., may become a center of attraction that groups images or events having otherwise no rational relations between them, but having the same emotional stamp,--joyous, melancholy, erotic, etc. This form of association is very frequent in dreams and reveries, i.e., in a state of mind in which the imagination enjoys complete freedom and works haphazard. We easily see that this influence, active or latent, of the emotional factor, must cause entirely unexpected grouping to arise, and offers an almost unlimited field for novel combinations, the number of images having a common emotional factor being very great. There are unusual and remarkable cases with an exceptional emotional base. Of such is "colored hearing." We know that several hypotheses have been offered in regard to the origin of this phenomenon. Embryologically, it would seem to be the result of an incomplete separation between the sense of sight and that of hearing, and the survival, it is said, from a distant period of humanity, when this state must have been the rule; anatomically, the result of supposed anastamoses between the cerebral centers for visual and auditory sensations; physiologically, the result of nervous irradiation; psychologically, the result of association. This latter hypothesis seems to account for the greater number of instances, if not for all; but, as Flournoy has observed, it is a matter of "affective" imagination. Two sensations absolutely unlike (for instance, the color blue and the sound _i_) may resemble one another through the equal retentive quality that they possess in the organism of some favored individuals, and this emotional factor becomes a bond of association. Observe that this hypothesis explains also the much more unusual cases of "colored" smell, taste, and pain; that is, an abnormal association between given colors and tastes, smells, or pains. Although we meet them only as exceptional cases, these modes of association are susceptible to analysis, and seem clear, almost self-evident, if we compare them with other, subtle, refined, barely perceptible cases, the origin of which is a subject for supposition, for guessing rather than for clear comprehension. It is, moreover, a sort of imagination belonging to very few people: certain artists and some eccentric or unbalanced minds, scarcely ever found outside the esthetic or practical life. I wish to speak of the forms of invention that permit only fantastic conceptions, of a strangeness pushed to the extreme (Hoffman, Poe, Baudelaire, Goya, Wiertz, etc.), or surprising, extraordinary thoughts, known of no other men (the symbolists and decadents that flourish at the present time in various countries of Europe and America, who believe, rightly or wrongly, that they are preparing the esthetics of the future). It must be here admitted that there exists an altogether special manner of _feeling_, dependent on temperament at first, which many cultivate and refine as though it were a precious rarity. There lies the true source of their invention. Doubtless, to assert this pertinently, it would be necessary to establish the direct relations between their physical and psychical constitution and that of their work; to note even the particular states at the moment of the creative act. To me at least, it seems evident that the novelty, the strangeness of combinations, through its deep subjective character, indicates an emotional rather than an intellectual origin. Let us merely add that these abnormal manifestations of the creative imagination belong to the province of pathology rather than to that of psychology. Association by contrast is, from its very nature, vague, arbitrary, indeterminate. It rests, in truth, on an essentially subjective and fleeting conception, that of contrariety, which it is almost impossible to delimit scientifically; for, most often, contraries exist only by and for us. We know that this form of association is not primary and irreducible. It is brought down by some to contiguity, by most others to resemblance. These two views do not seem to me irreconcilable. In association by contrast we may distinguish two layers,--the one, superficial, consists of contiguity: all of us have in memory associated couples, such as large-small, rich-poor, high-low, right-left, etc., which result from repetition and habit; the other, deep, is resemblance; _contrast exists only where a common measure between two terms is possible_. As Wundt remarks, a wedding may be compared to a burial (the union and separation of a couple), but not to a toothache. There is contrast between two colors, contrast between sounds, but not between a sound and a color, at least in that there may not be a common basis to which we may relate them, as in the previously given instances of "colored" sound. In association by contrast, there are conscious elements opposed to one another, and below, an unconscious element, resemblance,--not clearly and logically perceived, but felt--that evokes and relates the conscious elements. Whether this explanation be right or not, let us remark that association by contrast could not be left out, because its mechanism, full of unforeseen possibilities, lends itself easily to novel relations. Otherwise, I do not at all claim that it is entirely dependent upon the emotional factor. But, as Höffding observes,[16] the special property of the emotional life is moving among contraries; it is altogether determined by the great opposition between pleasure and pain. Thus, the effects of contrasts are much stronger than in the realm of sensation. This form of association predominates in esthetic and mythic creation, that is to say, in creation of the free fancy; it becomes dimmed in the precise forms of practical, mechanical, and scientific invention. III Hitherto we have considered the emotional factor under a single aspect only--the purely emotional--that which is manifested in consciousness under an agreeable or disagreeable or mixed form. But thoughts, feelings, and emotions include elements that are deeper--motor, i.e., impulsive or inhibitory--which we may neglect the less since it is in movements that we seek the origin of the creative imagination. This motor element is what current speech and often even psychological treatises designate under the terms "creative instinct," "inventive instinct;" what we express in another form when we say that creators are guided by instinct and "are pushed like animals toward the accomplishment of certain acts." If I mistake not, this indicates that the "creative instinct" exists in all men to some extent--feeble in some, perceptible in others, brilliant in the great inventors. For I do not hesitate to maintain that the creative instinct, taken in this strict meaning, compared to animal instinct, is a mere figure of speech, an "entity" regarded as a reality, an abstraction. There are needs, appetites, tendencies, desires, common to all men, which, in a given individual at a given moment can result in a creative act; but there is no special psychic manifestation that may be the "creative instinct." What, indeed, could it be? Every instinct has its own particular end:--hunger, thirst, sex, the specific instincts of the bee, ant, beaver, consist of a group of movements adapted for a determinate end that is always the same. Now, what would be a creative instinct _in general_ which, by hypothesis, could produce in turn an opera, a machine, a metaphysical theory, a system of finance, a plan of military campaign, and so forth? It is a pure fancy. Inventive genius has not _a_ source, but _sources_. Let us consider from our present viewpoint the human duality, the _homo duplex_: Suppose man reduced to a state of pure intelligence, that is, capable of perceiving, remembering, associating, dissociating, reasoning, and nothing else. All creative activity is then impossible, because there is nothing to solicit it. Suppose, again, man reduced to organic manifestations; he is then no more than a bundle of wants, appetites, instincts,--that is, of motor activities, blind forces that, lacking a sufficient cerebral organ, will produce nothing. The coöperation of both these factors is indispensable: without the first, nothing begins; without the second, nothing results. I hold that it is in needs that we must seek for the primary cause of all inventions; it is evident that the motor element alone is insufficient. If the needs are strong, energetic, they may determine a production, or, if the intellectual factor is insufficient, may spoil it. Many want to make discoveries but discover nothing. A want so common as hunger or thirst suggests to one some ingenious method of satisfying it; another remains entirely destitute. In short, in order that a creative act occur, there is required, first, a need; then, that it arouse a combination of images; and lastly, that it objectify and _realize_ itself in an appropriate form. We shall try later (in the Conclusion) to answer the question, _Why_ is one imaginative? In passing, let us put the opposite question, Why is one _not_ imaginative? One may possess in the mind an inexhaustible treasure of facts and images and yet produce nothing: great travelers, for example, who have seen and heard much, and who draw from their experiences only a few colorless anecdotes; men who were partakers in great political events or military movements, who leave behind only a few dry and chilly memoirs; prodigies of reading, living encyclopedias, who remain crushed under the load of their erudition. On the other hand, there are people who easily move and act, but are limited, lacking images and ideas. Their intellectual poverty condemns them to unproductiveness; nevertheless, being nearer than the others to the imaginative type, they bring forth childish or chimerical productions. So that we may answer the question asked above: The non-imaginative person is such from lack of materials or through the absence of resourcefulness. Without contenting ourselves with these theoretical remarks, let us rapidly show that it is thus that these things actually happen. All the work of the creative imagination may be classed under two great heads--esthetic inventions and practical inventions; on the one hand, what man has brought to pass in the domain of art, and on the other hand, all else. Though this division may appear strange, and unjustifiable, it has reason for its being, as we shall see hereafter. Let us consider first the class of non-esthetic creations. Very different in nature, all the products of this group coincide at one point:--they are of practical utility, they are born of a vital need, of one of the conditions of man's existence. There are first the inventions "practical" in the narrow sense--all that pertains to food, clothing, defense, housing, etc. Every one of these special needs has stimulated inventions adapted to a special end. Inventions in the social and political order answer to the conditions of collective existence; they arise from the necessity of maintaining the coherence of the social aggregate and of defending it against inimical groups. The work of the imagination whence have arisen the myths, religious conceptions, and the first attempts at a scientific explanation may seem at first disinterested and foreign to practical life. This is an erroneous supposition. Man, face to face with the higher powers of nature, the mystery of which he does not penetrate, has a _need_ of acting upon it; he tries to conciliate them, even to turn them to his service by magic rites and operations. _His_ curiosity is not at all theoretic; he does not aim to know for the sake of knowing, but in order to act upon the outside world and to draw profit therefrom. To the numerous questions that necessity puts to him his imagination alone responds, because his reason is shifting and his scientific knowledge _nil_. Here, then, invention again results from urgent needs. Indeed, in the course of the nineteenth century and on account of growing civilization all these creations reach a second moment when their origin is hidden. Most of our mechanical, industrial and commercial inventions are not stimulated by the immediate necessity of living, by an urgent need; it is not a question of existence but of better existence. The same holds true of social and political inventions which arise from the increasing complexity and the new requirements of the aggregates forming great states. Lastly, it is certain that primitive curiosity has partially lost its utilitarian character in order to become, in some men at least, the taste for pure research--theoretical, speculative, disinterested. But all this in no way affects our thesis, for it is a well-known elementary psychological law that upon primitive wants are grafted acquired wants fully as imperative. The primitive need is modified, metamorphosed, adapted; there remains of it, nonetheless, the fundamental activity toward creation. Let us now consider the class of esthetic creations. According to the generally accepted theory which is too well known for me to stop to explain it, art has its beginning in a superfluous, bounding activity, useless as regards the preservation of the individual, which is shown first in the form of play. Then, through transformation and complication, play becomes primitive art, dancing, music, and poetry at the same time, closely united in an apparently indissoluble unity. Although the theory of the absolute inutility of art has met some strong criticism, let us accept it for the present. Aside from the true or false character of inutility, the psychological mechanism remains the same here as in the preceding cases; we shall only say that in place of a vital need it is a need of _luxury_ acting, but it acts only because it is in man. Nevertheless, the inutility of play is far from proven biologically. Groos, in his two excellent works on the subject,[17] has maintained with much power the opposite view. According to him the theory of Schiller and Spencer, based on the expenditure of superfluous activity and the opposite theory of Lazarus, who reduces play to a relaxation--that is, a recuperation of strength--are but partial explanations. Play has a positive use. In man there exist a great number of instincts that are not yet developed at birth. An incomplete being, he must have education of his capacities, and this is obtained through play, _which is the exercise of the natural tendencies of human activities_. In man and in the higher animals plays are a preparation, a prelude to the active functions of life. _There is no instinct of play in general, but there are special instincts that are manifested under the forms of play._ If we admit this explanation, which does not lack potency, the work of the esthetic imagination itself would be reduced to a biological necessity, and there would be no reason for making a separate category of it. Whichever view we may adopt, it still remains established that any invention is reducible, directly or indirectly, to a particular, determinate need, and that to allow man a special instinct, the definite specific character of which should be stimulation to creative activity, is a fantastic notion. Whence, then, comes this persistent and in some respects seductive idea that creation is an instinctive result? Because a happy invention has characteristics that evidently relate it to instinctive activity in the strict sense of the word. First, precocity, of which we shall later give numerous examples, and which resembles the innateness of instinct. Again, orientation in a single direction: the inventor is, so to speak, polarized; he is the slave of music, of mechanics, of mathematics; often inapt at everything outside his own particular sphere. We know the witticism of Madame du Deffant on Vaucanson, who was so awkward, so insignificant when he ventured outside of mechanics. "One should say that this man had manufactured himself." Finally, the ease with which invention often (not always) manifests itself makes it resemble the work of a pre-established mechanism. But these and similar characteristics may be lacking. They are necessary for instinct, not for invention. There are great creators who have been neither precocious nor confined in a narrow field, and who have given birth to their inventions painfully, laboriously. Between the mechanism of instinct and that of imaginative creation there are frequently great analogies but not identity of nature. Every tendency of our organization, useful or hurtful, may become the beginning of a creative act. Every invention arises from a particular need of human nature, acting within its own sphere and for its own special end. If now it should be asked why the creative imagination directs itself preferably in one line rather than in another--toward poetry or physics, trade or mechanics, geometry or painting, strategy or music, etc.--we have nothing in answer. It is a result of the individual organization, the secret of which we do not possess. In ordinary life we meet people visibly borne along toward love or good cheer, toward ambition, riches or good works; we say that they are "so built," that such is their character. At bottom the two questions are identical, and current psychology is not in a position to solve them. FOOTNOTES: [12] _Ueber Phantasievorstellungen_, Graz, 1889, p. 48. [13] _Die Spiele der Thiere_, Jena, 1896. The subject has been very well treated by this author, pp. 294-301. [14] The "disinterested" view is found widely advocated or hinted at in literature. Cf. Goethe's "Der Sänger" (Tr.). [15] _Psychology_, I, 571 ff. [16] Höffding, _Psychologie_, p. 219; _Eng. trans._, p. 161. [17] Groos, _Die Spiele der Thiere_, 1896, and _Die Spiele der Menschen_, 1899 (Eng. trans., Appletons, New York, 1898, 1901). CHAPTER III THE UNCONSCIOUS FACTOR I By this term I designate principally, not exclusively, what ordinary speech calls "inspiration." In spite of its mysterious and semi-mythological appearance, the term indicates a positive fact, one that is ill-understood in a deep sense, like all that is near the roots of creation. This concept has its history, and if it is permissible to apply a very general formula to a particular case we may say that it has developed according to the law of the three states assumed by the positivists. In the beginning, inspiration is literally ascribed to the gods--among the Greeks to Apollo and the Muses, and in like manner under various polytheistic religions. Later, the gods become supernatural spirits, angels, saints, etc. In one way or another it is always regarded as external and superior to man. In the beginnings of all inventions--agriculture, navigation, medicine, commerce, legislation, fine arts--there is a belief in revelation; the human mind considers itself incapable of having discovered all that. Creation has arisen, we do not know how, in a total ignorance of the processes. Later on these higher beings become empty formulas, mere survivals; there remain only the poets to invoke their aid, through the force of tradition, without believing in them. But side by side with these formal survivals there remains a mysterious ground which is translated by vague expressions and metaphors, such as "enthusiasm," "poetic frenzy," "possession by a spirit," "being overcome," "having the devil inside one," "the spirit whispers as it lists," etc. Here we have come out of the supernatural without, however, attempting a positive (i.e., a scientific) explanation. Lastly, in the third stage, we try to sound this unknown. Psychology sees in it a special manifestation of the mind, a particular, semi-conscious, semi-unconscious state which we must now study. At first sight, and considered in its negative aspect, inspiration presents a very definite character. It does not depend on the individual will. As in the case of sleep or digestion, we may try to call it forth, encourage it, maintain it; but not always with success. Inventors, great and small, never cease to complain over the periods of unproductiveness which they undergo in spite of themselves. The wiser among them watch for the moment; the others attempt to fight against their evil fate and to create despite nature. Considered in its positive aspect, inspiration has two essential marks--suddenness and impersonality. (a) It makes a sudden eruption into consciousness, but one presupposing a latent, frequently long, labor. It has its analogues among other well-known psychic states; for example, a passion that is forgotten, which, after a long period of incubation, reveals itself through an act; or, better, a sudden resolve after endless deliberation which did not seem able to come to a head. Again, there may be absence of effort and of appearance of preparation. Beethoven would strike haphazard the keys of a piano or would listen to the songs of birds. "With Chopin," says George Sand, "creation was spontaneous, miraculous; he wrought without foreseeing. It would come complete, sudden, sublime." One might pile up like facts in abundance. Sometimes, indeed, inspiration bursts forth in deep sleep and awakens the sleeper, and lest we may suppose this suddenness to be especially characteristic of artists we see it in all forms of invention. "You feel a little electric shock striking you in the head, seizing your heart at the same time--that is the moment of genius" (Buffon). "In the course of my life I have had some happy thoughts," says Du Bois Reymond, "and I have often noted that they would come to me involuntarily, and when I was not thinking of the subject." Claude Bernard has voiced the same thought more than once. (b) Impersonality is a deeper character than the preceding. It reveals a power superior to the conscious individual, strange to him although acting through him: a state which many inventors have expressed in the words, "I counted for nothing in that." The best means of recognizing it would be to write down some observations taken from the inspired individuals themselves. We do not lack them, and some have the virtue of good observation.[18] But that would lead us too far afield. Let us only remark that this unconscious impulse acts variously according to the individual. Some submit to it painfully, striving against it just like the ancient pythoness at the time of giving her oracle. Others, especially in religious inspiration, submit themselves entirely with pleasure or else sustain it passively. Still others of a more analytic turn have noted the concentration of all their faculties and capacities on a single point. But whatever characteristics it takes on, remaining impersonal at bottom and unable to appear in a fully conscious individual, we must admit, unless we wish to give it a supernatural origin, that inspiration is derived from the unconscious activity of the mind. In order to make sure of its nature it would then be necessary to make sure first of the nature of the unconscious, which is one of the enigmas of psychology. I put aside all the discussions on the subject as tiresome and useless for our present aim. Indeed, they reduce themselves to these two principal propositions: for some the unconscious is a purely physiological activity, a "cerebration"; for others it is a gradual diminution of consciousness which exists without being bound to me--i.e., to the principal consciousness. Both these are full of difficulties and present almost insurmountable objections.[19] Let us take the "unconscious" as a fact and let us limit ourselves to clearing it up, relating inspiration to mental states that have been judged worthy of explaining it. 1. Hypermnesia, or exaltation of memory, in spite of what has been said about it, teaches us nothing in regard to the nature of inspiration or of invention in general. It is produced in hypnotism, mania, the excited period of "circular insanity," at the beginning of general paralysis, and especially under the form known as "the gift of tongues" in religious epidemics. We find, it is true, some observations (among others one by Regis of an illiterate newspaper vender composing pieces of poetry of his own), indicating that a heightened memory sometimes accompanies a certain tendency toward invention. But hypermnesia, pure and simple, consists of an extraordinary flood of memories totally lacking that essential mark of creation--new combinations. It even appears that in the two instances there is rather an antagonism since heightened memory comes near to the ideal law of total redintegration, which is, as we know, a hindrance to invention. They are alike only with respect to the great mass of separable materials, but where the principle of unity is wanting there can be no creation. 2. Inspiration has often been likened to the state of excitement preceding intoxication. It is a well-known fact that many inventors have sought it in wine, alcoholic liquors, toxic substances like hashish, opium, ether, etc. It is unnecessary to mention names. The abundance of ideas, the rapidity of their flow, the eccentric spurts and caprices, novel ideas, strengthening of the vital and emotional tone, that brief state of bounding fancy of which novelists have given such good descriptions, make evident to the least observing that under the influence of intoxication the imagination works to a much greater extent than ordinarily. Yet how pale that is compared to the action of the intellectual poisons above mentioned, especially hashish. The "artificial paradise" of DeQuincy, Moreau de Tours, Théophile Gautier, Baudelaire and others have made known to all an enormous expansion of the imagination launched into a giddy course without limits of time and space. Strictly, these are facts representing only a stimulated, artificial, temporary inspiration. They do not take us into its true nature; at the most they may teach us concerning some of their physiological conditions. It is not even an inspiration in the strict sense, but rather a beginning, an embryo, an outline, analogous to the creations produced in dreams which are found very incoherent when we awake. One of the essential conditions of creation, a principal element--the directing principle that organizes and unifies--is lacking. Under the influence of alcoholic drinks and of poisonous intoxicants attention and will always fall into exhaustion. 3. With greater reason it has been sought to explain inspiration by comparison with certain forms of somnambulism, and it has been said that "it is only the lowest degree of the latter state, somnambulism in a waking state. In inspiration it is as though a strange personality were speaking to the author; in somnambulism it is the stranger himself who talks or holds the pen, who speaks or writes--in a word, does the work."[20] It would thus be the modified form of a state that is the culmination of subconscious activity and a state of double personality. As this last explanatory expression is wonderfully abused, and is called upon to serve in all conditions, preciseness is indispensable. The inspired individual is like an awakened dreamer--he lives in his dream. (Of this we might cite seemingly authentic examples: Shelly, Alfieri, etc.) Psychologically, this means that there is in him a double inversion of the normal state. To begin with, consciousness monopolized by the number and intensity of its images is closed to the influences of the outside world, or else receives them only to make them enter the web of its dream. The internal life annihilates the external, which is just the opposite of ordinary life. Further, the unconscious or subconscious activity passes to the first plane, plays the first part, while preserving its impersonal character. This much allowed, if we would go further, we are thrown into increasing difficulties. The existence of an unconscious working is beyond doubt; facts in profusion could be given in support of this obscure elaboration which enters consciousness only when all is done. But what is the nature of this work? Is it purely physiological? Is it psychological? We come to two opposing theses. Theoretically, we may say that everything goes on in the realm of the unconscious just as in consciousness, _only without a message to me_; that in clear consciousness the work may be followed up step by step, while in unconsciousness it proceeds likewise, but unknown to us. It is evident that all this is purely hypothetical. Inspiration resembles a cipher dispatch which the unconscious activity transmits to the conscious process, which translates it. Must we admit that in the deep levels of the unconscious there are formed only fragmentary combinations and that they reach complete systematization only in clear consciousness, or, rather, is the creative labor identical in both cases? It is difficult to decide. It seems to be accepted that genius, or at least richness, in invention depends on the subliminal imagination,[21] not on the other, which is superficial in nature and soon exhausted. The one is spontaneous, true; the other, artificial, feigned. "Inspiration" signifies unconscious imagination, and is only a special case of it. Conscious imagination is a kind of perfected state. To sum up, inspiration is the result of an underhand process existing in men, in some to a very great degree. The nature of this work being unknown, we can conclude nothing as to the ultimate nature of inspiration. On the other hand, we may in a positive manner fix the value of the phenomenon in invention, all the more as we are inclined to over-value it. We should, indeed, note that inspiration is not a cause but an effect--more exactly, a moment, a crisis, a critical stage; it is an _index_. It marks either the end of an unconscious elaboration which may have been very short or very long, or else the beginning of a conscious elaboration which will be very short or very long (this is seen especially in cases of creation suggested by chance). On the one hand, it never has an absolute beginning; on the other hand, it never delivers a finished work; the history of inventions sufficiently proves this. Furthermore, one may pass beyond it; many creations long in preparation seem without a crisis, strictly so called; such as Newton's law of attraction, Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper," and the "Mona Lisa." Finally, many have felt themselves really inspired without producing anything of value.[22] II What has been said up to this point does not exhaust the study of the unconscious factor as a source of new combinations. Its rôle can be studied under a simpler and more limited form. For this purpose we need to return for the last time to association of ideas. The final reason for association (outside of contiguity, in part at least) must be sought in the temperament, character, individuality of the subject, often even in the _moment_; that is, in a passing influence, hardly perceptible because it is unconscious or subconscious. These momentary dispositions in latent form can excite novel relations in two ways--through mediate association and through a special mode of grouping which has recently received the name "constellation." 1. Mediate association has been well known since the time of Hamilton, who was the first to determine its nature and to give a personal example that has become classic. Loch Lomond recalled to him the Prussian system of education because, when visiting the lake, he had met a Prussian officer who conversed with him on the subject. His general formula is this: _A_ recalls _C_, although there is between them neither contiguity nor resemblance, but because a middle term, _B_, which does not enter consciousness, serves as a transition between _A_ and _C_. This mode of association seemed universally accepted when, latterly, it has been attacked by Münsterberg and others. People have had recourse to experimentation, which has given results only in slight agreement.[23] For my own part, I count myself among those contemporaries who admit mediate association, and they are the greater number. Scripture, who has made a special study of the subject, and who has been able to note all the intermediate conditions between almost clear consciousness and the unconscious, considers the existence of mediate association as proven. In order to pronounce as an illusion a fact that is met with so often in daily experience, and one that has been studied by so many excellent observers, there is required more than experimental investigations (the conditions of which are often artificial and unnatural), some of which, moreover, conclude for the affirmative. This form of association is produced, like the others, now by contiguity, now by resemblance. The example given by Hamilton belongs to the first type. In the experiments by Scripture are found some of the second type--e.g., a red light recalled, through the vague memory of a flash of strontium light, a scene of an opera. It is clear that by its very nature mediate association can give rise to novel combinations. Contiguity itself, which is usually only repetition, becomes the source of unforeseen relations, thanks to the elimination of the middle term. Nothing, moreover, proves that there may not sometimes be several latent intermediate terms. It is possible that _A_ should call up _D_ through the medium of _b_ and _c_, which remain below the threshold of consciousness. It seems even impossible not to admit this in the hypothesis of the subconscious, where we see only the two end links of the chain, without being able to allow a break of continuity between them. 2. In his determination of the regulating causes of association of ideas, Ziehen designates one of these under the name of "constellation," which has been adopted by some writers. This may be enunciated thus: The recall of an image, or of a group of images, is in some cases the result of a sum of predominant tendencies. An idea may become the starting point of a host of associations. The word "Rome" can call up a hundred. Why is one called up rather than another, and at such a moment rather than at another? There are some associations based on contiguity and on resemblance which one may foresee, but how about the rest? Here is an idea _A_; it is the center of a network; it can radiate in all directions--_B, C, D, E, F, etc._ Why does it call up now _B_, later _F_? It is because every image is comparable to a force, which may pass from the latent to the active condition, and in this process may be reinforced or checked by other images. There are simultaneous and inhibitory tendencies. _B_ is in a state of tension and _C_ is not; or it may be that _D_ exerts an arresting influence on _C_. Consequently _C_ cannot prevail. But an hour later conditions have changed and victory rests with _C_. This phenomenon rests on a physiological basis: the existence of several currents diffusing themselves through the brain and the possibility of receiving simultaneous excitations.[24] A few examples will make plainer this phenomenon of reinforcement, in consequence of which an association prevails. Wahle reports that the Gothic _Hôtel de Ville_, near his house, had never suggested to him the idea of the Doges' Palace at Venice, in spite of certain architectural likenesses, until a certain day when this idea broke upon him with much clearness. He then recalled that two hours before he had observed a lady wearing a beautiful brooch in the form of a gondola. Sully rightly remarks that it is much easier to recall the words of a foreign language when we return from the country where it is spoken than when we have lived a long time in our own, because the tendency toward recollection is reinforced by the recent experience of the words heard, spoken, read, and a whole array of latent dispositions that work in the same direction. In my opinion we would find the finest examples of "constellation," regarded as a creative element, in studying the formation and development of myths. Everywhere and always man has had for material scarcely anything save natural phenomena--the sky, land, water, stars, storms, wind, seasons, life, death, etc. On each of these themes he builds thousands of explanatory stories, which vary from the grandly imposing to the laughably childish. Every myth is the work of a human group which has worked according to the tendencies of its special genius under the influence of various stages of intellectual culture. No process is richer in resources, of freer turn, or more apt to give what every inventor promises--the novel and unexpected. To sum up: The initial element, external or internal, excites associations that one cannot always foresee, because of the numerous orientations possible; an analogous case to that which occurs in the realm of the will when there are present reasons for and against, acting and not acting, one direction or another, now or later--when the final resolution cannot be predicted, and often depends on imperceptible causes. In conclusion, I anticipate a possible question: "Does the unconscious factor differ in nature from the two others (intellectual and emotional)?" The answer depends on the hypothesis that one holds as to the nature of the unconscious itself. According to one view it would be especially physiological, consequently different; according to another, the difference can exist only _in the processes_: unconscious elaboration is reducible to intellectual or emotional processes the preparatory work of which is slighted, and which enters consciousness ready made. Consequently, the unconscious factor would be a special form of the other two rather than a distinct element in invention. FOOTNOTES: [18] Several of them will be found in Appendix A at the end of this work. [19] On this subject see Appendix B. [20] Dr. Chabaneix, _Le subconscient sur les artistes, les savants, et les écrivains_, Paris, 1897, p. 87. [21] The recent case, studied with so much ability by M. Flournoy in his book, "_Des Indes à la planète Mars_" (1900), is an example of the subliminal creative imagination, and of the work it is capable of doing by itself. [22] We shall return to this point in another part of this work. See Part II, chapter iv. [23] Thus Howe (_American Journal of Psychology_, vi, 239 ff.), has published some investigations in the negative. One series of 557 experiments gave him eight apparently mediate associations; after examination, he reduced them to a single one, which seemed to him doubtful. Another series of 961 experiments gives 72 cases, for which he offers an explanation other than mediate association. On the other hand, Aschaffenburg admits them to the extent of four per cent.; the association-time is longer than for average associations (_Psychologische Arbeiten_, I and II). Consult especially Scripture, _The New Psychology_, chapter xiii, with experiments in support of his conclusion. [24] Ziehen, _Leitfaden der physiologischen Psychologie_, 4th edition, 1898, pp. 164, 174. Also, Sully, _Human Mind_, I, 343. CHAPTER IV THE ORGANIC CONDITIONS OF THE IMAGINATION Whatever opinion we may hold concerning the nature of the unconscious, since that form of activity is related more than any other to the physiological conditions of the mental life, the present time is suitable for an exposition of the hypotheses that it is permissible to express concerning the organic bases of the imagination. What we may regard as positive, or even as probable, is very little. I First, the anatomical conditions. Is there a "seat" of the imagination? Such is the form of the question asked for the last twenty years. In that period of extreme and closely bounded localization men strained themselves to bind down every psychic manifestation to a strictly determined point of the brain. Today the problem presents itself no longer in this simple way. As at present we incline toward scattered localization, functional rather than properly anatomical, and as we often understand by "center" the synergic action of several centers differently grouped according to the individual case, our question becomes equivalent to: "Are there certain portions of the brain having an exclusive or preponderating part in the working of the creative imagination?" Even in this form the question is hardly acceptable. Indeed, the imagination is not a primary and relatively simple function like that of visual, auditory and other sensations. We have seen that it is a state of tertiary formation and very complex. There is required, then, (1) that the elements constituting imagination be determined in a rigorous manner, but the foregoing analysis makes no pretense of being definitive; (2) that each of these constitutive elements may be strictly related to its anatomic conditions. It is evident that we are far from possessing the secret of such a mechanism. An attempt has been made to put the question in a more precise and limited form by studying the brains of men distinguished in different lines. But this method, in avoiding the difficulty, answers our question indirectly only. Most often great inventors possess qualities besides imagination indispensable for success (Napoleon, James Watt, etc.). How draw a dividing line so as to assign to the imagination only its rightful share? In addition, the anatomical determination is beset with difficulties. A method flourishing very greatly about the middle of the nineteenth century consisted of weighing carefully a large number of brains and drawing various conclusions as to intellectual superiority or inferiority from a comparison of the weights. We find on this point numerous documents in the special works published during the period mentioned. But this method of weights has given rise to so many surprises and difficulties in the way of explanation that it has been quite necessary to give it up, since we see in it only another element of the problem. Nowadays we attribute the greatest importance to the morphology of the brain, to its histological structure, the marked development of certain regions, the determination not only of centers but of connections and associations between centers. On this last point contemporary anatomists have given themselves up to eager researches, and, although the cerebral architecture is not conceived by all in the same way, it is proper for psychology to note that all with their "centers" or "associational system" try to translate into their own language the complex conditions of mental life. Since we must choose from among these various anatomical views let us accept that of Flechsig, one of the most renowned and one having also the advantage of putting directly the problem of the organic conditions of the imagination. We know that Flechsig relies on the embryological method--that is, on the development--in the order of time, of nerves and centers. For him there exist on the one hand sensitive regions (sensory-motor), occupying about a third of the cortical surface; on the other hand, association-centers, occupying the remaining part. So far as the sensory centers are concerned, development occurs in the following order: Organic sensations (middle of cerebral cortex), smell (base of the brain and part of the frontal lobes), sight (occipital lobe), hearing (first temporal). Whence it results that in a definite part of the brain the body comes to proper consciousness of its impulses, wants, appetites, pains, movements, etc., and that this part develops first--"knowledge of the body precedes that of the outside world." In what concerns the associational centers, Flechsig supposes three regions: The great posterior center (parieto-occipito-temporal); another, much smaller, anterior or frontal; and a middle center, the smallest of all (the Island of Reil). Comparative anatomy proves that the associational centers are more important than those of sensation. Among the lower mammals they develop as we go up the scale: "That which makes the psychic man may be said to be the centers of association that he possesses." In the new-born child the sensitive centers are isolated, and, in the absence of connections between them, the unity of the self cannot be manifested; there is a plurality of consciousness. This much admitted, let us return to our special question, which Flechsig asks in these words: "On what does genius rest? Is it based on a special structure in the brain, or rather on special irritability? that is, according to our present notions, on chemical factors? We may hold the first opinion with all possible force. Genius is always united to a special structure, to a particular organization of the brain." All parts of this organ do not have the same value. It has been long admitted that the frontal part may serve as a measure of intellectual capacity; but we must allow, contrariwise, that there are other regions, "principally a center located under the protuberance at the top of the head, which is very much developed in all men of genius whose brains have been studied down to our day. In Beethoven, and probably also in Bach, the enormous development of this part of the brain is striking. In great scientists like Gauss the centers of the posterior region of the brain and those of the frontal region are strongly developed. The scientific genius thus shows proportions of brain-structure other than the artistic genius."[25] There would then be, according to our author, a preponderance of the frontal and parietal regions--the former obtain especially among artists; the latter among scientists. Already, twenty years before Flechsig, Rüdinger had noted the extraordinary development of the parietal convolutions in eminent men after a study of eighteen brains. All the convolutions and fissures were so developed, said he, that the parieto-occipital region had an altogether peculiar character. By way of summary we must bear in mind that, as regards anatomical conditions, even when depending on the best of sources, we can at present give only fragmentary, incomplete, hypothetical views. Let us now go on to the physiology. II We might have rightly asked whether the physiological states existing along with the working of the creative imagination are the cause, effect, or merely the accompaniment of this activity. Probably all the three conditions are met with. First, concomitance is an accomplished fact, and we may consider it as an organic manifestation parallel to that of the mind. Again, the employment of artificial means to excite and maintain the effervescence of the imagination assigns a causal or antecedent position to the physiologic conditions. Lastly, the psychic activity may be initial and productive of changes in the organism, or, if these already exist, may augment and prolong them. The most instructive instances are those indicated by very clear manifestations and profound modifications of the bodily condition. Such are the moments of inspiration or simply those of warmth from work which arise in the form of sudden impulses. The general fact of most importance consists of changes in the blood circulation. Increase of intellectual activity means an increase of work in the cortical cells, dependent on a congested, sometimes a temporarily anæmic state. Hyperæmia seems rather the rule, but we also know that slight anæmia increases cortical excitability. "Weak, contracted pulse; pale, chilly skin; overheated head; brilliant, sunken, roving eyes," such is the classic, frequently quoted description of the physiological state during creative labor. There are numerous inventors who, of their own accord, have noted these changes--irregular pulse, in the case of Lagrange; congestion of the head, in Beethoven, who made use of cold douches to relieve it, etc. This elevation of the vital tone, this nervous tension, translates itself also into motor form through movements analogous to reflexes, without special end, mechanically repeated and always the same in the same man--e.g., movement of the feet, hands, fingers; whittling the table or the arms of a chair (as in the case of Napoleon when he was elaborating a plan of campaign), etc. It is a safety-valve for the excessive flow of nervous impulse, and it is admitted that this method of expenditure is not useless for preserving the understanding in all its clearness. In a word, increase of the cerebral circulation is the formula covering the majority of observations on this subject. Does experimentation, strictly so called, teach us anything on this point? Numerous and well-known physiological researches, especially those of Mosso, show that all intellectual, and, most of all, emotional, work, produces cerebral congestion; that the brain-volume increases, and the volume of the peripheral organs diminishes. But that tells us nothing particularly about the imagination, which is but a special case under the rule. Latterly, indeed, it has been proposed to study inventors by an objective method through the examination of their several circulatory, respiratory, digestive apparatus; their general and special sensibility; the modes of their memory and forms of association, their intellectual processes, etc. But up to this time no conclusion has been drawn from these individual descriptions that would allow any generalization. Besides, has an experiment, in the strict sense of the word, ever been made at the "psychological moment"? I know of none. Would it be possible? Let us admit that by some happy chance the experimenter, using all his means of investigation, can have the subject under his hand at the exact moment of inspiration--of the sudden, fertile, brief creative impulse--would not the experiment itself be a disturbing cause, so that the result would be _ipso facto_ vitiated, or at least unconvincing? There still remains a mass of facts deserving summary notice--the oddities of inventors. Were we to collect only those that may be regarded as authentic we could make a thick volume. Despite their anecdotal character these evidences do not seem to be unworthy of some regard. It is impossible to enter here upon an enumeration that would be endless. After having collected for my own information a large number of these strange peculiarities, it seems to me that they are reducible to two categories: (1) Those inexplicable freaks dependent on the individual constitution, and more often probably also on experiences in life the memory of which has been lost. Schiller, for example, kept rotten apples in his work desk. (2) The others, more numerous, are easy to explain. They are physiological means consciously or unconsciously chosen to aid creative work; they are auxiliary helpers of the imagination. The most frequent method consists of artificially increasing the flow of blood to the brain. Rousseau would think bare-headed in full sunshine; Bossuet would work in a cold room with his head wrapped in furs; others would immerse their feet in ice-cold water (Grétry, Schiller). Very numerous are those who think "horizontally"--that is, lying stretched out and often flattened under their blankets (Milton, Descartes, Leibniz, Rossini, etc.) Some require motor excitation; they work only when walking,[26] or else prepare for work by physical exercise (Mozart). For variety's sake, let us note those who must have the noise of the streets, crowds, talk, festivities, in order to invent. For others there must be external pomp and a personal part in the scene (Machiavelli, Buffon). Guido Reni would paint only when dressed in magnificent style, his pupils crowded about him and attending to his wants in respectful silence. On the opposite side are those requiring retirement, silence, contemplation, even shadowy darkness, like Lamennais. In this class we find especially scientists and thinkers--Tycho-Brahé, who for twenty-one years scarcely left his observatory; Leibniz, who could remain for three days almost motionless in an armchair. But most methods are too artificial or too strong not to become quickly noxious. Every one knows what they are--abuse of wine, alcoholic liquors, narcotics, tobacco, coffee, etc., prolonged periods of wakefulness, less for increasing the time for work than to cause a state of hyperesthesia and a morbid sensibility (Goncourt). Summing up: The organic bases of the creative imagination, if there are any specially its own, remain to be determined. For in all that has been said we have been concerned only with some conditions of the general working of the mind--assimilation as well as invention. The eccentricities of inventors studied carefully and in a detailed manner would finally, perhaps, be most instructive material, because it would allow us to penetrate into their inmost individuality. Thus, the physiology of the imagination quickly becomes pathology. I shall not dwell on this, having purposely eliminated the morbid side of our subject. It will, however, be necessary to return thereto, touching upon it in another part of this essay. III There remains a problem, so obscure and enigmatic that I scarcely venture to approach it, in the analogy that most languages--the spontaneous expression of a common thought--establish between physiologic and psychic creation. Is it only a superficial likeness, a hasty judgment, a metaphor, or does it rest on some positive basis? Generally, the various manifestations of mental activity have as their precursor an unconscious form from which they arise. The sensitiveness belonging to living substance, known by the names heliotropism, chemotropism, etc., is like a sketch of sensation and of the reactions following it; organic memory is the basis and the obliterated form of conscious memory. Reflexes introduce voluntary activity; appetitions and hidden tendencies are the forerunners of effective psychology. Instinct, on several sides, is like an unconscious and specific trial of reason. Has the creative power of the human mind also analogous antecedents, a physiological equivalent? One metaphysician, Froschammer, who has elevated the creative imagination to the rank of primary world-principle, asserts this positively. For him there is an objective or cosmic imagination working in nature, producing the innumerable varieties of vegetable and animal forms; transformed into subjective imagination it becomes in the human brain the source of a new form of creation. "The very same principle causes the living forms to appear--a sort of objective image--and the subjective images, a kind of living form."[27] However ingenious and attractive this philosophical theory may be, it is evidently of no positive value for psychology. Let us stick to experience. Physiology teaches that generation is a "prolonged nutrition," a surplus, as we see so plainly in the lower forms of agamous generation (budding, division). The creative imagination likewise presupposes a superabundance of psychic life that might otherwise spend itself in another way. Generation in the physical order is a spontaneous, natural tendency, although it may be stimulated, successfully or otherwise, by artificial means. We can say as much of the other. This list of resemblances it would be easy to prolong. But all this is insufficient for the establishment of a thorough identity between the two cases and the solution of the question. It is possible to limit it, to put it into more precise language. Is there a connection between the development of the generative function and that of the imagination? Even in this form the question scarcely permits any but vague answers. In favor of a connection we may allege: (1) The well-known influence of puberty on the imagination of both sexes, expressing itself in day-dreams, in aspirations toward an unattainable ideal,[28] in the genius for invention that love bestows upon the least favored. Let us recall also the mental troubles, the psychoses designated by the name hebephrenia. With adolescence coincides the first flowering of the fancy which, having emerged from its swaddling-clothes of childhood, is not yet sophisticated and rationalized. It is not a matter of indifference for the general thesis of the present work to note that this development of the imagination depends wholly on the first effervescence of the emotional life. That "influence of the feelings on the imagination" and of "the imagination on the feelings" of which the moralists and the older psychologists speak so often is a vague formula for expressing this fact--that the motor element included in the images is reinforced. (2) _Per contra_, the weakening of the generative power and of the constructive imagination coincide in old age, which is, in a word, a decay of nutrition, a progressive atrophy. It is proper not to omit the influence of castration. According to the theory of Brown-Séquard, it produces an abatement of the nutritive functions through the suppression of an internal stimulus; and, although its relations to the imagination have not been especially studied, it is not rash to admit that it is an arresting cause. However, the foregoing merely establishes, between the functions compared, a concomitance in the general course of their evolution and in their critical periods; it is insufficient for a conclusion. There would be needed clear, authentic and sufficiently numerous observations proving that individuals bereft of imagination of the creative type have acquired it suddenly through the sole fact of their sexual influences, and, inversely, that brilliant imaginations have faded under the contrary conditions. We find some of these evidences in Cabanis,[29] Moreau de Tours and various alienists; they would seem to be in favor of the affirmative, but some seem to me not sure enough, others not explicit enough. Despite my investigations on this point, and inquiry of competent persons, I do not venture to draw a definite conclusion. I leave the question open; it will perhaps tempt another more fortunate investigator. FOOTNOTES: [25] Flechsig, _Gehirn und Seele_, 1896. [26] Is it possible that this would explain the fact of Aristotle lecturing to his pupils while walking about, thus giving the name "peripatetic" to his school and system? (Tr.) [27] _Die Phantasie als Grundprincip der Weltprocesses_, München, 1877. For other details on the subject, see Appendix C. [28] A passage from Chateaubriand (cited by Paulhan, _Rev. Philos._, March, 1898, p. 237) is a typical description of the situation: "The warmth of my (adolescent) imagination, my shyness, and solitude, caused me, instead of casting myself on something without, to fall back upon myself. Wanting a real object, I evoked through the power of my desires, a phantom, which thenceforth never left me; I made a woman, composed of all the women that I had already seen. That charming idea followed me everywhere, though invisible; I conversed with her as with a real being; she would change according to my frenzy. Pygmalion was less enamored of his statue." [29] Cabanis, _Rapports du Physique et du Moral_, édition Peisse, pp. 248-249, an anecdote that he relates after Buffon. Analogous, but less clear, facts may also be found in Moreau de Tours' _Psychologie morbide_. CHAPTER V THE PRINCIPLE OF UNITY The psychological nature of the imagination would be very imperfectly known were we limited to the foregoing analytical study. Indeed, all creation whatever, great or small, shows an organic character; it implies a unifying, synthetic principle. Every one of the three factors--intellectual, emotional, unconscious--works not as an isolated fact on its own account; they have no worth save through their union, and no signification save through their common bearing. This principle of unity, which all invention demands and requires, is at one time intellectual in nature, i.e., as a fixed idea; at another time emotional, i.e., as a fixed emotion or passion. These terms--fixed idea, fixed emotion--are somewhat absolute and require restrictions and reservations, which will be made in what follows. The distinction between the two is not at all absolute. Every fixed idea is supported and maintained by a need, a tendency, a desire; i.e., by an affective element. For it is idle fancy to believe in the _persistence_ of an idea which, by hypothesis, would be a purely intellectual state, cold and dry. The principle of unity in this form naturally predominates in certain kinds of creation: in the practical imagination wherein the end is clear, where images are direct substitutes for things, where invention is subjected to strict conditions under penalty of visible and palpable check; in the scientific and metaphysical imagination, which works with concepts and is subject to the laws of rational logic. Every fixed emotion should realize itself in an idea or image that gives it body and systematizes it, without which it remains diffuse; and all affective states can take on this permanent form which makes a unified principle of them. The simple emotions (fear, love, joy, sorrow, etc.), the complex or derived emotions (religious, esthetic, intellectual ideas) may equally monopolize consciousness in their own interests. We thus see that these two terms--fixed idea, fixed emotion--are almost equivalent, for they both imply inseparable elements, and serve only to indicate the preponderance of one or the other element. This principle of unity, center of attraction and support of all the working of the creative imagination--that is, a subjective principle tending to become objectified--is the ideal. In the complete sense of the word--not restrained merely to esthetic creation or made synonymous with perfection as in ethics--the ideal is a construction in images that should become a reality. If we liken imaginative creation to physiological generation, the ideal is the ovum awaiting fertilization in order to begin its development. We could, to be more exact, make a distinction between the synthetic principle and the ideal conception which is a higher form of it. The fixation of an end and the discovery of appropriate means are the necessary and sufficient conditions for all invention. A creation, whatever it be, that looks only to present success, can satisfy itself with a unifying principle that renders it viable and organized, but we can look higher than the merely necessary and sufficient. The ideal is the principle of unity in motion in its historic evolution; like all development, it advances or recedes according to the times. Nothing is less justified than the conception of a fixed archetype (an undisguised survival of the Platonic Ideas), illuminating the inventor, who reproduces it as best he can. The ideal is a nonentity; it arises in the inventor and through him; its life is a _becoming_. Psychologically, it is a construction in images belonging to the merely sketched or outlined type.[30] It results from a double activity, negative and positive, or dissociation and association, the first cause and origin of which is found in a _will that it shall be so_; it is the motor tendency of images in the nascent state engendering the ideal. The inventor cuts out, suppresses, sifts, according to his temperament, character, taste, prejudices, sympathies and antipathies--in short, his _interest_. In this separation, already studied, let us note one important particular. "We know nothing of the complex psychic production that may simply be the sum of component elements and in which they would remain with their own characters, with no modification. The nature of the components disappears in order to give birth to a novel phenomenon that has its own and particular features. The construction of the ideal is not a mere grouping of past experiences; in its totality it has its own individual characteristics, among which we no more see the composing lines than we see the components, oxygen and hydrogen, in water. In no scientific or artistic production, says Wundt, does the whole appear as made up of its parts, like a mosaic."[31] In other words, it is a case of mental chemistry. The exactness of this expression, which is due, I believe, to J. Stuart Mill, has been questioned. Still it answers to positive facts; for example, in perception, to the phenomena of contrast and their analogues; juxtaposition or rapid succession of two different colors, two different sounds, of tactile, olfactory, gustatory impressions different in quality, produces a particular state of consciousness, similar to a combination. Harmony or discord does not, indeed, exist in each separate sound, but only in the relations and sequence of sounds--it is a _tertium quid_. We have heretofore, in the discussion of association of ideas, very frequently represented the states of consciousness as fixed elements that approach one another, cohere, separate, come together anew, but always unalterable, like atoms. It is not so at all. Consciousness, says Titchener, resembles a fresco in which the transition between colors is made through all kinds of intermediate stages of light and shade.... The idea of a pen or of an inkwell is not a stable thing clearly pictured like the pen or inkwell itself. More than any one else, William James has insisted on this point in his theory of "fringes" of states of consciousness. Outside of the given instances we could find many others among the various manifestations of the mental life. It is not, then, at all chimerical to assume in psychology an equivalent of chemical combination. In a complex state there is, in addition to the component elements, the result of their reciprocal influences, of their varying relations. Too often we forget this resultant. At bottom the ideal is an individual concept. If objection is offered that an ideal common to a large mass of men is a fact of common experience (e.g., idealists and realists in the fine arts, and even more so religious, moral, social and political concepts, etc.), the answer is easy: There are families of minds. They have a common ideal because, in certain matters, they have the same way of feeling and thinking. It is not a transcendental idea that unites them; but this result occurs because from their common aspirations the collective ideal becomes disengaged; it is, in scholastic terminology, a _universale post rem_. The ideal conception is the first moment of the creative act, which is not yet battling with the conditions of the actual. It is only the internal vision of an individual mind that has not yet been projected externally with a form and body. We know how the passage from the internal to the external life has given rise among inventors to deceptions and complaints. Such was the imaginative construction that could not, unchanged, enter into its mould and become a reality. Let us now examine the various forms of this coagulating[32] principle in advancing from the lowest to the highest, from the unity vaguely anticipated to the absolute and tyrannical masterful unity. Following a method that seems to me best adapted for these ill-explained questions I shall single out only the principal forms, which I have reduced to three--the unstable, the organic or middle, and the extreme or semi-morbid unity. (1) The unstable form has its starting point directly and immediately in the reproductive imagination without creation. It assembles its elements somewhat by chance and stitches together the bits of our life; it ends only in beginnings, in attempts. The unity-principle is a momentary disposition, vacillating and changing without cessation according to the external impressions or modifications of our vital conditions and of our humor. By way of example let us recall the state of the day-dreamer building castles in the air; the delirious constructions of the insane, the inventions of the child following all the fluctuations of chance, of its caprice; the half-coherent dreams that seem to the dreamer to contain a creative germ. In consequence of the extreme frailty of the synthetic principle the creative imagination does not succeed in accomplishing its task and remains in a condition intermediate between simple association of ideas and creation proper. (2) The organic or middle form may be given as the type of the unifying power. Ultimately it reduces itself to attention and presupposes nothing more, because, thanks to the process of "localization," which is the essential mark of attention, it makes itself a center of attraction, grouping about the leading idea the images, associations, judgments, tendencies and voluntary efforts. "Inspiration," the poet Grillparzer used to say, "is a concentration of all the forces and capacities upon a single point which, for the time being, should represent the world rather than enclose it. The reinforcement of the state of the mind comes from the fact that its several powers, instead of spreading themselves over the whole world, are contained within the bounds of a single object, touch one another, reciprocally help and reinforce each other."[33] What the poet here maintains as regards esthetics only is applicable to all the _organic_ forms of creation--that is to those ruled by an immanent logic, and, like them, resembling works of Nature. In order to leave no doubt as to the identity of attention and imaginative synthesis, and in order to show that it is normally the true unifying principle, we offer the following remarks: Attention is at times spontaneous, natural, without effort, simply dependent on the interest that a thing excites in us--lasting as long as it holds us in subjection, then ceasing entirely. Again, it is voluntary, artificial, an imitation of the other, precarious and intermittent, maintained with effort--in a word, laborious. The same is true of the imagination. The moment of inspiration is ruled by a perfect and spontaneous unity; its impersonality approaches that of the forces of Nature. Then appears the personal moment, the detailed working and long, painful, intermittent resumptions, the miserable turns of which so many inventors have described. The analogy between the two cases seems to me incontestable. Next let us note that psychologists always adduce the same examples when they wish to illustrate on the one hand, the processes of the persistent, tenacious attention, and, on the other hand, the developmental labor without which creative work does not come to pass: "Genius is only long patience," the saying of Newton; "always thinking of it," and like expressions of d'Alembert, Helmholtz and others, because in the one case as in the other the fundamental condition is the existence of a fixed, ever-active idea, notwithstanding its relaxations and its incessant disappearances into the unconscious with return to consciousness. (3) The extreme form, which from its nature is semi-morbid, becomes in its highest degree plainly pathological; the unifying principle changes to a condition of obsession. The normal state of our mind is a plurality of states of consciousness (polyideism). Through association there is a radiation in every direction. In this totality of coexisting images no one long occupies first place; it is driven away by others, which are displaced in turn by still others emerging from the penumbra. On the contrary, in attention (relative monoideism) a single image retains first place for a long time and tends to have the same importance again. Finally, in a condition of obsession (absolute monoideism) the fixed idea defies all rivalry and rules despotically. Many inventors have suffered painfully this tyranny and have vainly struggled to break it. The fixed idea, once settled, does not permit anything to dislodge it save for the moment and with much pain. Even then it is displaced only apparently, for it persists in the unconscious life where it has thrust its deep roots. At this stage the unifying principle, although it can act as a stimulus for creation, is no longer normal. Consequently, a natural question arises: Wherein is there a difference between the obsession of the inventor and the obsession of the insane, who most generally destroys in place of creating? The nature of fixed ideas has greatly occupied contemporary alienists. For other reasons and in their own way they, too, have been led to divide obsession into two classes, the intellectual and emotional, according as the idea or the affective state predominates. Then they have been led to ask: Which of these two elements is the primitive one? For some it is the idea. For others, and it seems that these are the more numerous, the affective state is in general the primary fact; the obsession always rests on a basis of morbid emotion and in a retention of impressions.[34] But whatever opinion we may hold on this point, the difficulty of establishing a dividing line between the two forms of obsession above mentioned remains the same. Are there characters peculiar to each one? It has been said: "The physiologically fixed idea is normally longed for, often sought, in all cases accepted, and it does not break the unity of the self." It does not impose itself fatally on consciousness; the individual knows the value thereof, knows where it leads him, and adapts his conduct to its requirements. For example, Christopher Columbus. The pathological fixed idea is "parasitic," automatic, discordant, irresistible. Obsession is only a special case of psychic disintegration, a kind of doubling of consciousness. The individual becomes a person "possessed," whose self has been confiscated for the sake of the fixed idea, and whose submission to his situation is wrought with pain. In spite of this parallel the distinguishing criterion between the two is very vague, because from the sane to the delirious idea the transitions are very numerous. We are obliged to recognize "that with certain workers--who are rather taken up with the elaboration of their work, and not masters directing it, quitting it, and resuming it at their pleasure--an artistic, scientific, or mechanical conception succeeds in haunting the mind, imposing itself upon it even to the extent of causing suffering." In reality, pure psychology is unable to discover a positive difference between obsession leading to creative work and the other forms, because in both cases the mental mechanism is, at bottom, the same. The criterion must be sought elsewhere. For that we must go out of the internal world and proceed objectively. We must judge the fixed idea not in itself but by its effects. What does it produce in the practical, esthetic, scientific, moral, social, religious field? It is of value according to its fruits. If objection be made to this change of front we may, in order to stick to a strictly psychological point of view, state that it is certain that as soon as it passes beyond a middle point, which it is difficult to determine, the fixed idea profoundly troubles the mechanism of the mind. In imaginative persons this is not rare, which partly explains why the pathological theory of genius (of which we shall speak later) has been able to rally so many to its support and to allege so many facts in its favor. FOOTNOTES: [30] For the distinction between this form of imagination and the two others (fixed, objectified), I refer the reader to the Conclusion of this work, where the subject will be treated in detail. [31] Colozza, _L'immaginazione nella Scienza_, Rome, 1900, pp. 111 ff. [32] This unifying, organizing, creative principle is so active in certain minds that, placed face to face with any work whatever--novel, picture, monument, scientific or philosophic theory, financial or political institution--while believing that they are merely considering it, they spontaneously remake it. This characteristic of their psychology distinguishes them from mere critics. [33] Oelzelt-Newin, _op. cit._, p. 49. [34] Pitres et Régis, _Séméiologie des obsessions et des idées fixes_, 1878. Séglas, _Leçons cliniques sur les maladies mentales_, 1895. Raymond et Janet, _Névroses et idées fixes_, 1898. SECOND PART THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. CHAPTER I IMAGINATION IN ANIMALS Up to this point the imagination has been treated analytically only. This process alone would give us but a very imperfect idea of its essentially concrete and lively nature were we to stop here. So this part continues the subject in another shape. I shall attempt to follow the imagination in its ascending development from the lowest to the most complex forms, from the animal to the human infant, to primitive man, thence to the highest modes of invention. It will thus be exhibited in the inexhaustible variety of its manifestations which the abstract and simplifying process of analysis does not permit us to suspect. I I shall not dwell at length on the imagination of animals, not only because the question is much involved but also because it is hardly liable to a positive solution. Even eliminating mere anecdotes and doubtful observations, there is no lack of verified and authentic material, but it still remains to interpret them. As soon as we begin to conjecture we know how difficult it is to divest ourselves of all anthropomorphism. The question has been formulated, even if not treated, with much system by Romanes in his _Mental Evolution in Animals_.[35] Taking "imagination" in its broadest sense, he recognizes four stages: 1. Provoked revival of images. For example, the sight of an orange reminds one of its taste. This is a low form of memory, resting on association by contiguity. It is met with very far down in the animal scale, and the author furnishes abundant proof of it. 2. Spontaneous revival. An object present calls up an absent object. This is a higher form of memory, frequent in ants, bees, wasps, etc., which fact explains the mistrustful sagacity of wild animals. At night, the distant baying of a hound stops the fox in his course, because all the dangers he has undergone are represented in his mind. These two stages do not go beyond memory pure and simple, i.e., reproductive imagination. The other two constitute the higher imagination. 3. The capacity of associating absent images, without suggestion derived from without, through an internal working of the mind. It is the lower and primitive form of the creative imagination, which may be called a passive synthesis. In order to establish its existence, Romanes reminds us that dreams have been proven in dogs, horses, and a large number of birds; that certain animals, especially in anger, seem to be subject to delusions and pursued by phantoms; and lastly, that in some there is produced a condition resembling nostalgia, expressing itself in a violent desire to return to former haunts, or in a wasting away resulting from the absence of accustomed persons and things. All these facts, especially the latter, can hardly be explained without a vivid recollection of the images of previous life. 4. The highest stage consists of intentionally reuniting images in order to make novel combinations from them. This may be called an active synthesis, and is the true creative imagination. Is this sometimes found in the animal kingdom? Romanes very clearly replies, no; and not without offering a plausible reason. For creation, says he, there must first be capacity for abstraction, and, without speech, abstraction is very weak. One of the conditions for creative imagination is thus wanting in the higher animals. We here come to one of those critical moments, so frequent in animal psychology, when one asks, Is this character exclusively human, or is it found in embryo in lower forms? Thus it has been possible to support a theory opposing that of Romanes. Certain animals, says Oelzelt-Newin, fulfill all the conditions necessary for creative imagination--subtle senses, good memory, and appropriate emotional states.[36] This assertion is perhaps true, but it is purely dialectic. It is equivalent to saying that the thing is possible; it does not establish it as a fact. Besides, is it very certain that all the conditions for creative imagination are present here, since we have just shown that there is lack of abstraction? The author, who voluntarily limits his study to birds and the construction of their nests, maintains, against Wallace and others, that nest-building requires "the mysterious synthesis of representations." We might with equal reason bring the instances of other building animals (bees, wasps, white ants, the common ants, beavers, etc.). It is not unreasonable to attribute to them an anticipated representation of their architecture. Shall we say that it is "instinctive," consequently unconscious? At least, may we not group under this head, changes and adaptations to new conditions which these animals succeed in applying to the typical plans of their construction? Observations and even systematic experiments (like those of Huber, Forel, _et al._) show that, reduced to the alternative of the impossibility of building or the modification of their habits, certain animals modify them. Judging from this, how refuse them invention altogether? This contradicts in no way the very just reservation of Romanes. It is sufficient to remark that abstraction or dissociation has stages, that the simplest are accessible to the animal intelligence. If, in the absence of words, the logic of concepts is forbidden it, there yet remains the logic of images,[37] which is sufficient for slight innovations. In a word, animals can invent according to the extent that they can dissociate. In our opinion, if we may with any truthfulness attribute a creative power to animals, we must seek it elsewhere. Generally speaking, we attribute only a mediocre importance to a manifestation that might very well be the proper form of animal fancy. It is purely motor, and expresses itself through the various kinds of play. Although play may be as old as mankind, its psychology dates only from the nineteenth century. We have already seen that there are three theories concerning its nature--it is "expenditure of superfluous activity," "a mending, restoring of strength, a recuperation," "an apprenticeship, a preliminary exercise for the active functions of life and for the development of our natural gifts."[38] The last position, due to Groos, does not rule out the other two; it holds the first valid for the young, the second for adults; but it comprehends both in a more general explanation. Let us leave this doctrinal question in order to call attention to the variety and richness of form of play in the animal world. In this respect the aforementioned book of Groos is a rich mine of evidence to which I would refer the reader. I limit myself to summing up his classification. He distinguishes nine classes of play, viz.: (1) Those that are at bottom experimental, consisting of trials at hazard without immediate end, often giving the animal a certain knowledge of the properties of the external world. This is the introduction to an experimental physics, optics, and mechanics for the brood of animals. (2) Movements or changes of place executed of their own accord--a very general fact as is proven by the incessant movements of butterflies, flies, birds, and even fishes, which often appear to play in the water rather than to seek prey; the mad running of horses, dogs, etc., in free space. (3) Mimicry of hunting, i.e., playing with a living or dead prey: the dog and cat following moving objects, a ball, feather, etc. (4) Mimic battles, teasing and fighting without anger. (5) Architectural art, revealing itself especially in the building of nests: certain birds ornament them with shining objects (stones, bits of glass), by a kind of anticipation of the esthetic feeling. (6) Doll-play is universal in mankind, whether civilized or savage. Groos believes he has found its equivalent in certain animals. (7) Imitation through pleasure, so familiar in monkeys (grimaces); singing-birds which counterfeit the voices of a large number of beasts. (8) Curiosity, which is the only mental play one meets in animals--the dog watching, from a wall or window, what is going on in the street. (9) Love-plays, "which differ from the others in that they are not mere exercises, but have in view a real object." They have been well-known since Darwin's time, he attributing to them an esthetic value which has been denied by Wallace, Tylor, Lloyd Morgan, Wallaschek, and Groos. Let us recapitulate in thought the immense quantity of motor expressions included in these nine categories and let us note that they have the following characters in common: They are grouped in combinations that are often new and unforeseen; they are not a repetition of daily life, acts necessary for self-preservation. At one time the movements are combined simultaneously (exhibition of beautiful colors), again (and most often) successively (amorous parades, fights, flight, dancing, emission of noises, sounds or songs); but, under one form or another, there is _creation_, _invention_. Here, the imagination acts in its purely motor character; it consists of a small number of images that become translated into actions, and serve as a center for their grouping; perhaps even the image itself is hardly conscious, so that all is limited to a spontaneous production and a collection of motor phenomena. It will doubtless be said that this form of imagination belongs to a very shallow, poor psychology. It cannot be otherwise. It is necessary that imaginative production be found reduced to its simplest expression in animals, and the motor form must be its special characteristic mark. It cannot have any others for the following reasons: incapacity for the work that necessarily precedes abstraction or dissociation, breaking into bits the data of experience, making them raw material for the future construction; lack of images, and especially fewness of possible combinations of images. This last point is proven alike from the data of animal psychology and of comparative anatomy. We know that the nervous elements in the brain serving as connections between sensory regions--whether one conceive of them as centers (Flechsig), or as bundles of commisural fibers (Meynert, Wernicke)--are hardly outlined in the lower mammalia and attain only a mediocre development in the higher forms. By way of corroboration of the foregoing, let us compare the higher animals with young children: this comparison is not based on a few far-fetched analogies, but in a thorough resemblance in nature. Man, during the first years of his life, has a brain but slightly differentiated, especially as regards connections, a very poor supply of images, a very weak capacity for abstraction. His intellectual development is much inferior to that of reflex, instinctive, impulsive, and imitative movements. In consequence of this predominance of the motor system, the simple and imperfect images, in children as in animals, tend to be immediately changed into movements. Even most of their inventions in play are greatly inferior to those enumerated above under nine distinct heads. A serious argument in favor of the prevalence of imagination of the motor type in the child is furnished by the principal part taken by movements in infantile insanity: a remark made by many alienists. The first stage of this madness, they say, is found in the convulsions that are not merely a physical ailment, but "a muscular delirium." The disturbance of the automatic and instinctive functions of the child is so often associated with muscular disturbances that at this age the mental disorders correspond to the motor ganglionic centers situated below those parts that later assume the labor of analysis and of imagination. The disturbances are in the primary centers of organization and according to the symptoms lack those analytic or constructive qualities, those ideal forms, that we find in adult insanity. If we descend to the lowest stage of human life--to the baby--we see that insanity consists almost entirely of the activity of a muscular group acting on external objects. The insane baby bites, kicks, and these symptoms are the external measure of the degree of its madness.[39] Has not chorea itself been called a muscular insanity? Doubtless, there likewise exists in the child a sensorial madness (illusions, hallucinations); but by reason of its feeble intellectual development the delirium causes a disorder of movements rather than of images; its insane imagination is above all a motor insanity. To hold that the creative imagination belonging to animals consists of new combinations of movements is certainly an hypothesis. Nevertheless, I do not believe that it is merely a mental form without foundation, if we take into account the foregoing facts. I consider it rather as a point in favor of the motor theory of invention. It is a singular instance in which the original form of creation is shown bare. If we wanted to discover it, it would be necessary to seek it where it is reduced to the greatest simplicity--in the animal world. FOOTNOTES: [35] Chapter X. [36] _Op. cit._, Appendix. [37] For a more detailed study of this subject, the reader is referred to the author's _Evolution of General Ideas_ (English trans., Open Court Publishing Co., Chicago), chapter I, section I. [38] A rather extended study of the subject by H. A. Carr will be found in the _Investigations of the Department of Psychology and Education of the University of Colorado_, vol. I, Number 2, 1902. The late Professor Arthur Allin devoted much time to the investigation of play. See his brief article entitled "Play" in the _University of Colorado Studies_, vol. I, 1902, pp. 58-73. (Tr.) [39] Hack Tuke, "Insanity of Children," in _Dictionary of Psychological Medicine_. CHAPTER II THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION IN THE CHILD At what age, in what form, under what conditions does the creative imagination make its appearance? It is impossible to answer this question, which, moreover, has no justification. For the creative imagination develops little by little out of pure reproduction by an evolutionary process, not by sudden eruption. Nevertheless, its evolution is very slow on account of causes both organic and psychological. We could not dwell long on the organic causes without falling into tiresome repetitions. The new-born infant is a spinal being, with an unformed diffluent brain, composed largely of water. Reflex life itself is not complete in him, and the cortico-motor system only hinted at; the sensory centers are undifferentiated, the associational systems remain isolated for a long time after birth. We have given above Flechsig's observation on this point. The psychological causes reduce themselves to the necessity for a consolidation of the primary and secondary operations of the mind, without which the creative imagination cannot take form. To be precise, we might distinguish, as does Baldwin, four epochs in the mental development of the child: (1) affective (rudimentary sensory processes, pleasures and pains, simple motor adaptations); (2) and (3) objective, in which the author establishes two grades, (a) appearance of special senses, of memory, instincts primarily defensive, and imitation; (b) complex memory, complicated movements, offensive activities, rudimentary will; (4) subjective or final (conscious thought, constitutive will, ideal emotions). If we accept this scheme as approximately correct, the _moment_ of imagination must be assigned to the third period (the second stage of the objective epoch) which fulfills all the sufficient and necessary conditions for its origination and for its rise above pure reproduction. Whatever the propitious age may be, the study of the child-imagination is not without difficulties. In order to enter into the child-mind, we must become like a child; as it is, we are limited to an interpretation of it in terms of the adult, with much false interpretation possible, agreeing too much or too little with the facts. Furthermore, the children studied live and grow up in a civilized environment. The result is that the development of their imagination is rarely unhampered and complete; for as soon as their fancy passes the middle level, the rationalizing education of parents and teachers is eager to master and control it. In truth it gives its full measure and reveals itself in the fulness of growth only among primitive peoples. With us it is checked in its flight by an antagonistic power, which treats it as a harbinger of insanity. Finally, children are not equally well-suited for this study; we must make a distinction between the imaginative and non-imaginative, and the latter should be eliminated. When we have thus chosen suitable subjects, observation shows from the start sufficiently distinct varieties, different orientations of the imagination depending on intellectual causes, such as the predominance of visual or acoustic or tactile-motor images making for mechanical invention; or dependent on emotional causes, that is, of character, according as the latter is timid, joyous, exuberant, retired, healthy, sickly, etc. If we now attempt to follow the development of the child-imagination, we may distinguish four principal stages, without assigning them, otherwise, a rigorous chronological order. 1. The first stage consists of the passage from passive to creative imagination. Its history would be long were we to include all the hybrid forms that are made up partly of memories, partly of new groupings, being at the same time repetition and construction. Even in the adult, they are very frequent. I know a person who is always afraid of being smothered, and for this reason urgently asks that in his coffin his shirt be not tight at the neck: this odd prepossession of the mind belongs neither to memory nor to imagination. This particular case illustrates in a very clear form the nature of the first flights of the mind attempting to exercise its imaginative powers. Without enumerating other facts of this kind, it is more desirable to follow the imagination's development, limiting ourselves to two forms of the psychic life--perception and illusion. The necessary presence of the image in these two forms has been so often proven by contemporary psychology that a few words to recall this to mind will be sufficient. There seems to be a radical difference between perception, which seizes reality, and imagination. Nevertheless, it is generally admitted that in order to rise above sensation to perception, there must be a synthesis of images. To put it more simply, two elements are required--one, coming from without, the physiological stimulus acting on the nerves and the sensory centers, which becomes translated in consciousness through the vague state that goes by the name "sensation"; the other, coming from within, adds to the sensations present appropriate images, remnants of former experiences. So that perception requires an apprenticeship; we must feel, then imperfectly perceive, in order to finally perceive well. The sensory datum is only a fraction of the total fact; and in the operation we call "perceiving," that is, apprehending an object directly, a part only of the object is represented. This, however, does not go beyond reproductive imagination. The decisive step is taken in illusion. We know that illusion has as a basis and support a modification of the external senses which are metamorphosed, amplified by an immediate construction of the mind: a branch of a tree becomes a serpent, a distant noise seems the music of an orchestra. Illusion has as broad a field as perception, since there is no perception but may undergo this erroneous transformation, and it is produced by the same mechanism, but with interchange of the two terms. In perception, the chief element is the sensory, and the representative element is secondary; in illusion, we have just the opposite condition: what one takes as perceived is merely imagined--the imagination assumes the principal rôle. Illusion is the type of the transitional forms, of the mixed cases, that consist of constructions made up of memories, without being, in the strict sense, creations. 2. The creative imagination asserts itself with its peculiar characteristics only in the second stage, in the form of animism or the attributing of life to everything. This turn of the mind is already known to us, though mentioned only incidentally. As the state of the child's mind at that period resembles that which in primitive man creates myths, we shall return to it in the next chapter. Works on psychology abound in facts demonstrating that this primitive tendency to attribute life and even personality to everything is a necessary phase that the mind must undergo--long or short in duration, rich or poor in inventions, according to the level of the child's imagination. His attitude towards his dolls is the common example of this state, and also the best example, because it is universal, being found in all countries without exception, among all races of men. It is needless to pile up facts on an uncontroverted point.[40] Two will suffice; I choose them on account of their extravagance, which shows that at this particular moment animism, in certain minds, can dare anything. "One little fellow, aged one year eight months, conceived a special fondness for the letter W, addressing it thus: 'Dear old boy W.' Another little boy well on in his fourth year, when tracing a letter L, happened to slip, so that the horizontal limb formed an angle, thus: | | +---+ | He instantly saw the resemblance to the sedentary human form, and said: 'Oh, he's sitting down.' Similarly, when he made an F turn the wrong way and then put the correct form to the left, thus, +--- ---+ | | +-- --+ | | he exclaimed, 'They're talking together!'" One of Sully's correspondents says: "I had the habit of attributing intelligence not only to all living creatures ... but even to stones and manufactured articles. I used to feel how dull it must be for the pebbles in the causeway to lie still and only see what was round about. When I walked out with a basket for putting flowers in, I used sometimes to pick up a pebble or two and carry them out to have a change." Let us stop a moment in order to try to determine the nature of this strange mental state, all the more as we shall meet it again in primitive man, and since it presents the creative imagination at its beginning. a. The first element is a fixed idea, or rather, an image, or group of images, that takes possession of consciousness to the exclusion of everything else:--it is the analogue of the state of suggestion in the hypnotized subject, with this sole difference--that the suggestion does not come from without, from another, but from the child itself--it is auto-suggestion. The stick that the child holds between his legs becomes for him an imaginary steed. The poverty of his mental development makes all the easier this contraction of the field of his consciousness, which assures the supremacy of the image. b. This has as its basis a reality that it includes. This is an important detail to note, because this reality, however tiny, gives objectivity to the imaginary creation and incorporates it with the external world. The mechanism is like that which produces illusion, but with a stable character excluding correction. The child transforms a bit of wood or paper into another self, because he perceives only the phantom he has created; that is, the images, not the material exciting them, haunt his brain. c. Lastly, this creative power investing the image with all its attributes of real existence is derived from a fundamental fact--the state of belief, i.e., adherence of the mind founded on purely subjective conditions. It does not come within my province to treat incidentally such a large question. Neglected by the older physiology, whose faculty-method inclined it toward this omission, belief or faith has recently become the object of numerous studies.[41] I necessarily limit myself to remarking that but for this psychic state, the nature of the imagination is totally incomprehensible. The peculiarity of the imagination is the production of a reality of human origin, and it succeeds therein only because of the faith accompanying the image. Representation and belief are not completely separated; it is the nature of the image to appear at first as a real object. This psychological truth, though proven through observation, has made itself acceptable only with great difficulty. It has had to struggle on the one hand against the prejudices of common-sense for which imagination is synonymous with sham and vain appearance and opposed to the real as non-being to being; on the other hand, against a doctrine of the logicians who maintain that the idea is at first merely conceived with no affirmation of existence or non-existence (_apprehensio simplex_). This position, legitimate in logic, which is an abstract science, is altogether unacceptable in psychology, a concrete science. The psychological viewpoint giving the true nature of the image has prevailed little by little. Spinoza already asserts "that representations considered by themselves contain no errors," and he "denies that it is possible to perceive [represent] without affirming." More explicitly, Hume assigns belief to our subjective dispositions: Belief does not depend on the nature of the idea, but on the manner in which we conceive it. Existence is not a quality added to it by us; it is founded on habit and is irresistible. The difference between fiction and belief consists of a feeling added to the latter but not to the former. Dugald Stewart treats the question purely as a psychologist following the experimental method. He enumerates very many facts whence he concludes that imagination is always accompanied by an act of belief, but for which fact the more vivid the image, the less one would believe it; but just the contrary happens--the strong representation commands persuasion like sensation itself. Finally, Taine treats the subject methodically, by studying the nature of the image and its primitive character of hallucination.[42] At present, I think, there is no psychologist who does not regard as proven that the image, when it enters consciousness, has two moments. During the first, it is objective, appearing as a full and complete reality; during the second, which is definitive, it is deprived of its objectivity, reduced to a completely internal event, through the effect of other states of consciousness which oppose and finally annihilate its objective character. There is an affirmation, then negation; impulse, then inhibition. Faith, being only a mode of existence, an attitude of the mind, owes its creative and vivifying power to general dispositions of our constitution. Besides the intellectual element which is its content, its material--the thing affirmed or denied--there are tendencies and other affective factors (desire, fear, love, etc.) giving the image its intensity, and assuring it success in the struggle against other states of consciousness. There are active faculties that we sometimes designate by the name "will," understanding by the term, as James says, not only deliberate volition, but all the factors of belief (hope, fear, passions, prejudices, sectarian feeling, and so forth),[43] and this has justly given rise to the truthful saying that the test of belief is action.[44] This explains how in love, religion, in the moral life, in politics, and elsewhere, belief can withstand the logical assaults of the rationalizing intelligence--its power is found everywhere. It lasts as long as the mind waits and consents; but, as soon as these affective and active dispositions disappear in life's experience, faith falls with them, leaving in its place a formless content, an empty and dead representation. After this, is it necessary to remark that belief depends peculiarly on the motor elements of our organization and not on the intellectual? As there is no imagination without belief, nor belief without imagination, we return by another route to the thesis supported in the first part of this essay, that creative activity depends on the motor nature of images. Insofar as concerns the special case of the child, the first of the two moments (the affirming) that the image undergoes in consciousness is all in all for him, the second (the rectifying) is nothing: there is hypertrophy of one, atrophy of the other. For the adult the contrary is true--in many cases, indeed, in consequence of experience and habit, the first moment, wherein the image should be affirmed as a reality, is only virtual, is literally atrophied. We must, however, remark that this applies only partially to the ignorant and even less to the savage. We might, nevertheless, ask ourselves if the child's belief in his phantoms is complete, entire, absolute, unreserved. Is the stick that he bestrides perfectly identified with a horse? Was Sully's child, that showed its doll a series of engravings to choose from, completely deceived? It seems that we must rather admit an intermittence, an alteration between affirmation and negation. On the one hand, the skeptical attitude of those who laugh at it displeases the child, who is like a devout believer whose faith is being broken down. On the other hand, doubt must indeed arise in him from time to time, for without this, rectification could never occur--one belief opposes the other or drives it away. This second work proceeds little by little, but then, under this form, imagination retreats. 3. The third stage is that of play, which, in chronological order, coincides with the one just preceding. As a form of creation it is already known to us, but in passing from animals to children, it grows in complexity and becomes intellectualized. It is no longer a simple combination of images. Play serves two ends--for experimenting: as such it is an introduction to knowledge, gives certain vague notions concerning the nature of things; for creating: this is its principal function. The human child, like the animal, expends itself in movements, forms associations new to it, simulates defence, flight, attack; but the child soon passes beyond this lower stage, in order to construct by means of images (ideally). He begins by imitating: this is a physiological necessity, reasons for which we shall give later (see chapter iv. _infra_). He constructs houses, boats, gives himself up to large plans; but he imitates most in his own person and acts, making himself in turn soldier, sailor, robber, merchant, coachman, etc. To the period of imitation succeed more serious attempts--he acts with a "spirit of mastery," he is possessed by his idea which he tends to realize. The personal character of creation is shown in that he is really interested only in a work that emanates from himself and of which he feels himself the cause. B. Perez relates that he wanted to give a lesson to his nephew, aged three and a half years, whose inventions seemed to him very poor. Perez scratched in the sand a trench resembling a river, planted little branches on both banks, and had water flow through it; put a bridge across, and launched boats. At each new act the child would remain cool, his admiration would always have to be waited for. Out of patience, he remarked shortly that "this isn't at all entertaining." The author adds: "I believed it useless to persist, and I trampled under foot, laughing at myself, my awkward attempt at a childish construction."[45] "I had already read it in many a book, but this time I had learned from experience that the free initiative of children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make for them. In addition, this experience and others like it have taught me that their creative force is much weaker than has been said." 4. At the fourth stage appears romantic invention, which requires a more refined culture, being a purely internal, wholly imaginative (i.e., cast in images) creation. It begins at about three or four years of age. We know the taste of imaginative children for stories and legends, which they have repeated to them until surfeited: in this respect they resemble semi-civilized people, who listen greedily to rhapsodies for hours at a time, experiencing all the emotions appropriate to the incidents of the tale. This is the prelude to creation, a semi-passive, semi-active state, an apprentice period, which will permit them to create in their own turn. Thus the first attempts are made with reminiscences, and imitated rather than created. Of this we find numerous examples in the special works. A child of three and a half saw a lame man going along a road, and exclaimed: "Look at that poor ole man, mamma, he has dot [got] a bad leg." Then the romance begins: He was on a high horse; he fell on a rock, struck his poor leg; he will have to get some powder to heal it, etc. Sometimes the invention is less realistic. A child of three often longed to live like a fish in the water, or like a star in the sky. Another, aged five years nine months, having found a hollow rock, invented a fairy story: the hole was a beautiful hall inhabited by brilliant mysterious personages, etc.[46] This form of imagination is not as common as the others. It belongs to those whom nature has well endowed. It forecasts a development of mind above the average. It may even be the sign of an inborn vocation and indicate in what direction the creative activity will be orientated. Let us briefly recall the creative rôle of the imagination in language, through the intervening of a factor already studied--thinking by analogy, an abundant source of often picturesque metaphors. A child called the cork of a bottle "door;" a small coin was called by a little American a "baby dollar;" another, seeing the dew on the grass, said, "The grass is crying." The extension of the meaning of words has been studied by Taine, Darwin, Preyer, and others. They have shown that its psychological mechanism depends sometimes on the perception of resemblance, again on association by contiguity, processes that appear and intermingle in an unforeseen manner. Thus, a child applies the word "mambro" at first to his nurse, then to a sewing machine that she uses, then by analogy to an organ that he sees on the street adorned with a monkey, then to his toys representing animals.[47] We have elsewhere given more similar cases, where we perceive the fundamental difference between thought by imagery and rational thought. To conclude: At this period the imagination is the master-faculty and the highest form of intellectual development. It works in two directions, one principal--it creates plays, invents romances, and extends language; the other secondary--it contains a germ of thought and ventures a fanciful explanation of the world which can not yet be conceived according to abstract notions and laws. FOOTNOTES: [40] One will find a large number of examples in Sully's work, _Studies of Childhood_, Chapter ii, entitled "The Age of Imagination." Most of the observations given in the present chapter have been borrowed from this author. [41] Apropos of this subject compare especially the recent studies by William James, _Varieties of Religious Experience_. (Tr.) [42] Spinoza, _Ethics_, II, 49, _Scholium_; Hume, _Human Understanding_, Part III, Section VII ff.; Dugald Stewart, _Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind_, Vol. I, Ch. III; Taine, _On Intelligence_, Part II. [43] James, _The Will to Believe and Other Essays_, p. 10. [44] Payot, _De la croyance_, 139 ff. [45] B. Perez, _Les trois premières années de l'enfant_, p. 323. [46] Sully, _op. cit._, pp. 59-61. Compayré, _L'évolution intellectuelle et morale de l'enfant_, p. 145. (Some time ago the writer was riding on a train, when the engine, for some reason or other, began to slow up, jerking, puffing, almost groaning, until it finally came to a full stop. The groaning continued. A little girl of about three called to her mother, "Too-too sick, too-too sick," and when finally the train started on again, the child was overjoyed that "too-too" was well again. (Tr.)) [47] Sully, _op. cit._, p. 164. CHAPTER III PRIMITIVE MAN AND THE CREATION OF MYTHS We come now to a unique period in the history of the development of the imagination--its golden age. In primitive man, still confined in savagery or just starting toward civilization, it reaches its full bloom in the creation of myths; and we are rightly astonished that psychologists, obstinately attached to esthetics, have neglected such an important form of activity, one so rich in information concerning the creative imagination. Where, indeed, find more favorable conditions for knowing it? Man, prior to civilization, is a purely imaginative being; that is, the imagination marks the summit of his intellectual development. He does not go beyond this stage, but it is no longer an enigma as in animals, nor a transitory phase as in the civilized child who rapidly advances to the age of reason; it is a fixed state, permanent and lasting throughout life.[48] It is there revealed to us in its entire spontaneity: it has free rein; it can create without imitation or tradition; it is not imprisoned in any conventional form; it is sovereign. As primitive man has knowledge neither of nature nor of its laws, he does not hesitate to embody the most senseless imaginings flitting through his brain. The world is not, for him, a totality of phenomena subject to laws, and nothing limits or hinders him. This working of the pure imagination, left to itself and unadulterated by the intrusion and tyranny of rational elements, becomes translated into one form--the creation of myths; an anonymous, unconscious work, which, as long as its rule lasts, is sufficient in every way, comprehends everything--religion, poetry, history, science, philosophy, law. Myths have the advantage of being the incarnation of pure imagination, and, moreover, they permit psychologists to study them objectively. Thanks to the labors of the nineteenth century, they offer an almost inexhaustible content. While past ages forgot, misunderstood, disfigured, and often despised myths as aberrations of the human mind, as unworthy of an hour's attention, it is no longer necessary in our time to show their interest and importance, even for psychology, which, however, has not as yet drawn all the benefit possible from them. But before commencing the psychological study of the genesis and formation of myths considered as an objective emanation of the creative imagination, we must briefly summarize the hypotheses at present offered for their origin. We find two principal ones--the one, etymological, genealogical, or linguistic; the other, ethno-psychological, or anthropological.[49] The first, whose principal though not sole champion is Max Müller, holds that myths are the result of a disease of language--words become things, "nomina numina." This transformation is the effect of two principal linguistic causes--(a) Polynomy; several words for one thing. Thus the sun is designated by more than twenty names in the Vedas; Apollo, Phaethon, Hercules are three personifications of the sun; _Varouna_ (night) and _Yama_ (death) express at first the same conception, and have become two distinct deities. In short, every word tends to become an entity having its attributes and its legends. (b) Homonomy, a single word for several things. The same adjective, "shining," refers to the sun, a fountain, spring, etc. This is another source of confusion. Let us also add metaphors taken literally, plays upon words, wrong construction, etc. The opponents of this doctrine maintain that in the formation of myths, words represent scarcely five per cent. Whatever may be the worth of this assertion, the purely philological explanation remains without value for psychology: it is neither true nor false--it does not solve the question; it merely avoids it. The word is only an occasion, a vehicle; without the working of the mind exciting it, nothing would change. Moreover, Max Müller himself has recently recognized this.[50] The anthropological theory, much more general than the foregoing, penetrates further to psychological origins--it leads us to the first advances of the human mind. It regards the myth not as an accident of primitive life, but as a natural function, a mode of activity proper to man during a certain period of his development. Later, the mythic creations seem absurd, often immoral, because they are survivals of a distant epoch, cherished and consecrated through tradition, habits, and respect for antiquity. According to the definition that seems to me best adapted for psychology, the myth is "the psychological objectification of man in all the phenomena that he can perceive."[51] It is a humanization of nature according to processes peculiar to the imagination. Are these two views irreconcilable? It does not seem so to me, provided we accept the first as only a partial explanation. In any event, both schools agree on one point important for us--that the material for myths is furnished by the observation of natural phenomena, including the great events of human life: birth, sickness, death, etc. This is the objective factor. The creation of myths has its explanation in the nature of human imagination--this is the subjective factor. We can not deny that most works on mythology have a very decided tendency to give the greater importance to the first factor; in which respect they need a little psychology. The periodic returns of the dawn, the sun, the moon and stars, winds and storms, have their effect also, we may suppose, on monkeys, elephants, and other animals supposedly the most intelligent. Have they inspired myths? Just the opposite: "the surprising monotony of the ideas that the various races have made final causes of phenomena, of the origin and destiny of man, whence it results that the numberless myths are reduced to a very small number of types,"[52] shows that it is the human imagination that takes the principal part and that it is on the whole perhaps not so rich as we are pleased to say--that it is even very poor, compared to the fecundity of nature. Let us now study the psychology of this creative activity, reducing it to these two questions: How are myths formed? What line does their evolution follow? I The psychology of the origin of the myth, of the work that causes its rise, may theoretically, and for the sake of facilitating analysis, be regarded as two principal moments--that of creation proper, and that of romantic invention. a. The moment of creation presupposes two inseparable operations which, however, we have to describe separately. The first consists of attributing life to all things, the second of assigning qualities to all things. Animating everything, that is attributing life and action to everything, representing everything to one's self as living and acting--even mountains, rocks, and other objects (seemingly) incapable of movement. Of this inborn and irresistible tendency there are so many facts in proof that an enumeration is needless: it is the rule. The evidence gathered by ethnologists, mythologists, and travelers fills large volumes. This state of mind does not particularly belong to long-past ages. It is still in existence, it is contemporary, and if we would see it with our own eyes it is not at all necessary to plunge into virgin countries, for there are frequent reversions even in civilized lands. On the whole, says Tylor, it must be regarded as conceded that to the lower races of humanity the sun and stars, the trees and rivers, the winds and clouds, become animated creatures living like men and beasts, fulfilling their special function in creation--or rather that what the human eye can reach is only the instrument or the matter of which some gigantic being, like a man, hidden behind the visible things, makes use. The grounds on which such ideas are based cannot be regarded as less than a poetic fancy or an ill-understood metaphor; they depend on a vast philosophy of nature, certainly rude and primitive, but coherent and serious. The second operation of the mind, inseparable, as we have said, from the first, attributes to these imaginary beings various qualities, but all important to man. They are good or bad, useful or hurtful, weak or powerful, kind or cruel. One remains stupefied before the swarming of these numberless genii whom no natural phenomenon, no act of life, no form of sickness escapes, and these beliefs remain unbroken even among the tribes that are in contact with old civilizations.[53] Primitive man lives and moves among the ceaseless phantoms of his own imagination.[54] Lastly, the psychological mechanism of the creative moment is very simple. It depends on a single factor previously studied--thinking by analogy. It is a matter first of all--and this is important--of conceiving beings analogous to ourselves, cast in our mould, cut after our pattern; that is, feeling and acting; then qualifying them and determining them according to the attributes of our own nature. But the logic of images, very different from that of reason, concludes an objective resemblance; it regards as alike, what seem alike; it attributes to an internal linking of images, the validity of an objective connection between things. Whence arises the discord between the imagined world and the world of reality. "Analogies that for us are only fancies were for the man of past ages real" (Tylor). b. In the genesis of myths, the second moment is that of fanciful invention. Entities take form; they have a history and adventures: they become the stuff for a romance. People of poor and dry imagination do not reach the second period. Thus, the religion of the Romans peopled the universe with an innumerable quantity of genii. No object, no act, no detail, but had its own presiding genius. There was one for germinating grain, for sprouting grain, for grain in flower, for blighted grain; for the door, its hinges, its lock, etc. There was a myriad of misty, formless entities. This is animism arrested at its first stage; abstraction has killed imagination. Who created those legends and tales of adventure constituting the subject-matter of mythology? Probably inspired individuals, priests or prophets. They came perhaps from dreams, hallucinations, insane attacks--they are derived from several sources. Whatever their origin, they are the work of imaginative minds _par excellence_ (we shall study them later) who, confronted with any event whatever, must, because of their nature, construct a romance. Besides analogy, this imaginative creation has as its principal source the associational form already described under the name "constellation." We know that it is based on the fact that, in certain cases, the arousing of an image-group is the result of a tendency prevailing at a given instant over several that are possible. This operation has already been expounded theoretically with individual examples in support.[55] But in order to gauge its importance, we must see it act in large masses. Myths allow us to do this. Ordinarily they have been studied in their historical development according to their geographical distribution or ethnic character. If we proceed otherwise, if we consider only their content--i.e., the very few themes upon which the human imagination has labored, such as celestial phenomena, terrestrial disturbances, floods, the origin of the universe, of man, etc.--we are surprised at the wonderful richness of variety. What diversity in the solar myths, or those of creation, of fire, of water! These variations are due to multiple causes, which have orientated the imagination now in one direction, now in another. Let us mention the principal ones: Racial characteristics--whether the imagination is clear or mobile, poor or exuberant; the manner of living--totally savage, or on a level of civilization; the physical environment--external nature cannot be reflected in the brain of a Hindoo in the same way as in that of a Scandinavian; and lastly, that assemblage of considerable and unexpected causes grouped under the term "chance." The variable combinations of these different factors, with the predominance of one or the other, explain the multiplicity of the imaginative conceptions of the world, in contrast to the unity and simplicity of scientific conceptions. II The form of imagination now occupying our attention by reason of its non-individual, anonymous, collective character, attains a long development that we may follow in its successive phases of ascent, climax, and decline. To begin with, is it necessarily inherent in the human mind? Are there races or groups of men totally devoid of myths? which is a slightly different question from that usually asked, "Are there tribes totally devoid of religious thoughts?" Although it is very doubtful that there are such now, it is probable that there were in the beginning, when man had scarcely left the brute level--at least if we agree with Vignoli[56] that we already find in the higher animals embryonic forms of animism. In any event, mythic creation appears early. We can infer this from the signs of puerility of certain legends. Savages who could not know themselves--the Iroquois, the Australian aborigines, the natives of the Andaman Islands--believed that the earth was at first sterile and dry, all the water having been swallowed by a gigantic frog or toad which was compelled, by queer stratagems, to regurgitate it. These are little children's imaginings. Among the Hindoos the same myth takes the form of an alluring epic--the dragon watching over the celestial waters, of which he has taken possession, is wounded by Indra after a heroic battle, and restores them to the earth. Cosmogonies, Lang remarks, furnish a good example of the development of myths; it is possible to mark out stages and rounds according to the degree of culture and intelligence. The natives of Oceania believe that the world was created and organized by spiders, grasshoppers, and various birds. More advanced peoples regard powerful animals as gods in disguise (such are certain Mexican divinities). Later, all trace of animal worship disappears, and the character of the myth is purely anthropomorphic.[57] Kühn, in a special work, has shown how the successive stages of social evolution express themselves in the successive stages of mythology--myths of cannibals, of hunters, of herders, land-tillers, sailors. Speaking of pure savagery, Max Müller[58] admits at least two periods--pan-Aryan and Indo-Iranian--prior to the Vedic period. In the course of this slow evolution the work of the imagination passes little by little from infancy, becomes more and more complex, subtle and refined. In the Aryan race, the Vedic epoch, despite its sacerdotal ritualism, is considered as the period _par excellence_ of mythic efflorescence. "The myth," says Taine, "is not here (in the Vedas) a disguise, but an expression; no language is more true and more supple: it permits a glimpse of, or rather causes us to discern, the forms of mist, the movements of the air, change of seasons, all the accidents of sky, fire, storm: external nature has never found a mode of thought so graceful and flexible for reflecting itself thereby in all the inexhaustible variety of her appearances. However changeable nature may be, the imagination is equally so."[59] It animates everything--not only fire in general, _Agni_, but also the seven forms of flame, the wood that lights it, the ten fingers of the sacrificing priest, the prayer itself, and even the railing surrounding the altar. This is one example among many others. The partisans of the linguistic theory have been able to maintain that at this moment every word is a myth, because every word is a name designating a quality or an act, transformed by the imagination into substance. Max Müller has translated a page of Hesiod, substituting the analytic, abstract, rational language of our time for the image-making names. Immediately, all the mythical material vanishes. Thus, "Selene kisses the sleeping Endymion" becomes the dry formula, "It is night." The most skilled linguists often declare themselves unable to change the pliant tongue of the imaginative age into our algebraic idioms.[60] Thought by imagery cannot remain itself and at the same time take on a rational dress. The mental state that marks the zenith of the free development of the imagination, is at present met with only in mystics and in some poets. Language has, however, preserved numerous vestiges of it in current expressions, the mythic signification of which has been lost--the sun rises, the sea is treacherous, the wind is mad, the earth is thirsty, etc. To this triumphant period there succeeds among the races that have made progress in evolution, i.e., that have been able to rise above the age of (pure) imagination, the period of waning, of regression, of decline. In order to understand it and perceive the how and why of it, let us first note that myths are reducible to two great categories: a. The explicative myths, arising from utility, from the necessity of knowing. _These undergo a radical transformation._ b. The non-explicative myths, resulting from a need of luxury, from a pure desire to create: these undergo only a _partial_ transformation. Let us follow them in the accomplishment of their destinies. a. The myths of the first class, answering the various needs of knowing in order afterwards to act, are much the more numerous.... Is primitive man by nature curious? The question has been variously answered; thus, Tylor says yes; Spencer, no.[61] The affirmative and negative answers are not, perhaps, irreconcilable, if we take account of the differences in races. Taking it generally, it is hard to believe that he is not curious--he holds his life at that price. He is in the presence of the universe just as we are when confronted with an unknown animal or fruit. Is it useful or hurtful? He has all the more need for a conception of the world since he feels himself dependent on everything. While our subordination as regards nature is limited by the knowledge of her laws, he is on account of his animism in a position similar to ours before an assembly of persons whom we have to approach or avoid, conciliate or yield to. It is necessary that he be _practically_ curious--that is indispensable for his preservation. There has been alleged the indifference of primitive man to the complicated engines of civilization (a steamboat, a watch, etc.). This shows, not lack of curiosity, but absence of intelligence or interest for what he does not consider immediately useful for his needs. His conception of the world is a product of the imagination, because no other is possible for him. The problem is imperatively set, he solves it as best he can; the myth is a response to a host of theoretical and practical needs. For him, the imaginative explanation takes the place of the rational explanation which is yet unborn, and which for great reasons can not arise--first, because the poverty of his experience, limited to a small circle, engenders a multitude of erroneous associations, which remain unbroken in the absence of other experiences to contradict and shatter them; secondly, because of the extreme weakness of his logic and especially of his conception of causality, which most often reduces itself to a _post hoc, ergo propter hoc_. Whence we have the thorough subjectivity of his interpretation of the world.[62] In short, primitive man makes without exception or reserve, and in terms of images, what science makes provisionally, with reserves, and by means of concepts--namely, hypotheses. Thus, the explicative myths are as we see, an epitome of a practical philosophy, proportioned to the requirements of the man of the earliest, or slightly-cultured ages. Then comes the period of critical transformation: a slow, progressive substitution of a rational conception of the world for the imaginative conception. It results from a work of _depersonification_ of the myth, which little by little loses its subjective, anthropomorphic character in order to become all the more objective, without ever succeeding therein completely. This transformation occurs thanks to two principal supports: methodical and prolonged observation of phenomena, which suggests the objective notion of stability and law, opposed to the caprices of animism (example: the work of the ancient astronomers of the Orient); the growing power of reflection and of logical rigor, at least in well-endowed races. It does not concern the subject in hand to trace here the fortunes of the old battle whereby the imagination, assailed by a rival power, loses little by little its position and preponderance in the interpretation of the world. A few remarks will suffice. To begin with, the myth is transformed into philosophic speculation, but without total disappearance, as is seen in the mystic speculations of the Pythagoreans, in the cosmology of Empedocles, ruled by two human-like antitheses, Love and Hate. Even to Thales, an observing, positive spirit that calculates eclipses, the world is full of _daemons_, remains of primitive animism.[63] In Plato, even leaving out his theory of Ideas, the employment of myth is not merely a playful mannerism, but a real survival. This work of elimination, begun by the philosophers, is more firmly established in the first attempts of pure science (the Alexandrian mathematicians; naturalists like Aristotle; certain Greek physicians). Nevertheless, we know how imaginary concepts remained alive in physics, chemistry, biology, down to the sixteenth century; we know the bitter struggle that the two following centuries witnessed against occult qualities and loose methods. Even in our day, Stallo has been able to propose to write a treatise "On Myth in Science." Without speaking at this time of the hypotheses admitted as such and on account of their usefulness, there yet remain in the sciences many latent signs of primitive anthropomorphism. At the beginning of the nineteenth century people believed in several "properties of matter" that we now regard as merely modes of energy. But this latter notion, an expression of permanence underneath the various manifestations of nature, is for science only an abstract, symbolical formula: if we attempt to embody it, to make it concrete and representable, then, whether we will or no, it resolves itself into the feeling of muscular effort, that is, takes on a human character. To produce no other examples, we see that so far as concerns the last term of this slow regression, the imagination is not yet completely annulled, although it may have had to recede incessantly before a more solid and better armed rival. b. In addition to the explanatory myths, there are those having no claim to be in this class, although they have perhaps been originally suggested by some phenomenon of animate or inanimate nature. They are much less numerous than the others, since they do not answer multiple necessities of life. Such are the epic or heroic stories, popular tales, romances (which are found as early as ancient Egypt): it is the first appearance of that form of esthetic activity destined later to become literature. Here, the mythic activity suffers only a superficial metamorphosis--the essence is not changed. Literature is mythology transformed and adapted to the variable conditions of civilization. If this statement appear doubtful or disrespectful, we should note the following. Historically, from myths wherein there figure at first only divine personages, there arise the epics of the Hindoos, Greeks, Scandinavians, etc., in which the gods and heroes are confounded, live in the same world, on a level. Little by little the divine character is rubbed out; the myth approaches the ordinary conditions of human life, until it becomes the romantic novel, and finally the realistic story. Psychologically, the imaginative work that has at first created the gods and superior beings before whom man bows because he has unconsciously produced them, becomes more and more humanized as it becomes conscious; but it cannot cease being a projection of the feelings, ideas, and nature of man into the fictitious beings upon whom the belief of their creator and of his hearers confers an illusory and fleeting existence. The gods have become puppets whose master man feels himself, and whom he treats as he likes. Throughout the manifold techniques, esthetics, documentary collections, reproductions of the social life, the creative activity of the earliest time remains at bottom unchanged. Literature is a decadent and rationalized mythology. III Does the mythic activity of ancient times still exist among civilized peoples, unmodified as in literary creation, but in its pure form, as a non-individual, collective, anonymous, unconscious, work? Yes; as the popular imagination, when creating legends. In passing from natural phenomena to historic events and persons, the constructive imagination takes a slightly different position which we may characterize thus: legend is to myth what illusion is to hallucination. The psychological mechanism is the same in both cases. Illusion and legend are partial imaginations, hallucination and myth are total imaginations. Illusion may vary in all shades between exact perception and hallucination; legend can run all the way from exact history to pure myth. The difference between illusion and hallucination is sometimes imperceptible; the same is sometimes true of legend and myth. Sensory illusion is produced by an addition of images changing perception; legend is also produced by an addition of images changing the historic personage or event. The only difference, then, is in the material used; in one case, a datum of sense, a natural phenomenon; in the other, a fact of history, a human event. The psychological genesis of legends being thus established in general, what, according to the facts, are the unconscious processes that the imagination employs for creating them? We may distinguish two principal ones. The first process is a fusion or combination. The myth precedes the fact; the historical personage or event enters into the mould of a pre-existing myth. "It is necessary that the mythic form be fashioned before one may pour into it, in a more or less fluid state, the historic metal." Imagination had created a solar mythology long before it could be incarnated by the Greeks in Hercules and his exploits. "There was historically a Roland, perhaps even an Arthur, but the greater part of the great deeds that the poetry of the Middle Ages attributes to them had been accomplished long before by mythological heroes whose very names had been forgotten."[64] At one time the man is completely hidden by the myth and becomes absolutely legendary; again, he assumes only an aureole that transfigures him. This is exactly what occurs in the simpler phenomenon of sensory illusion: now the real (the perception) is swamped by the images, is transformed, and the objective element reduced to almost nothing; at another time, the objective element remains master, but with numerous deformations. The second process is idealization, which can act conjointly with the other. Popular imagination incarnates in a real man its ideal of heroism, of loyalty, of love, of piety, or of cowardice, cruelty, wickedness, and other abnormalities. The process is more complex. It presupposes in addition to mythic creation a labor of abstraction, through which a dominating characteristic of the historic personage is chosen and everything else is suppressed, cast into oblivion: the ideal becomes a center of attraction about which is formed the legend, the romantic tale. Compare the Alexander, the Charlemagne, the Cid of the Middle Age traditions to the character of history. Even much nearer to us, this process of extreme simplification--which the law of mental inertia or of least effort is sufficient to explain--always persists: Lucretia Borgia remains the type of debauchery, Henry IV of good fellowship, etc. The protests of historians and the documentary evidence that they produce avail nothing: the work of the imagination resists everything. To conclude: We have just passed over a period of mental evolution wherein the creative imagination reigns exclusively, explains everything, is sufficient for everything. It has been said that the imagination is "a temporary derangement." It seems so to us, although it is often an effort toward wisdom, i.e., toward the comprehension of things. It would be more correct to say, with Tylor, that it represents a state intermediate between that of a man of our time, prosaic and well-to-do, and that of a furious madman, or of a man in the delirium of fever. FOOTNOTES: [48] Primitive man has been defined as "he for whom sensuous data and images surpass in importance rational concepts." From this standpoint, many contemporary poets, novelists, and artists would be primitive. The mental state of the human individual is not enough for such a determination; we must also take account of the (comparative) simplicity of the social environment. [49] Let us mention the euhemeristic theory of Herbert Spencer, taken up recently by Grant Allen (_The Evolution of the Idea of God_, 1897), who brings down all religious and mythic concepts from a single origin--the worship of the dead. [50] "When I tried to briefly characterize mythology in its inner nature, I called it a disease of language rather than a disease of thought. The expression was strange but intentionally so, meant to arouse attention and to provoke opposition. For me, language and thought are inseparable." _Nouvelles études de Mythologie_, p. 51. [51] Vignoli, _Mito e Scienza_, p. 27. [52] Marillier, Preface to the French translation of Andrew Lang's _Myth, Ritual, and Religion_. [53] On this point consult a work very rich in information, W. Crooke's book, _Popular Religion and Folk-lore of Northern India_, 1897. [54] "The Indian traversing the Montaña never feels himself alone. Legions of beings accompany him. All of the nature to whom he owes his soul speaks to him through the noise of the wind, in the roaring of the waterfall. The insect like the bird--everything, even to the bending twig wet with dew--for him has language, distinct personality. The forest is alive in its depths, has caprices, periods of anger; it avoids the thicket under the tread of the huntsman, or again presses him more closely, drags him into infected swamps, into closed bogs, where miserable goblins exhaust all their witchcraft upon him, drink his blood by attaching their lips to the wounds made by briers. The Indian knows all that; he knows those dread genii by name." Monnier, _Des Andes au Para_, p. 300. [55] See Part I, Chapter IV. [56] _Op. cit._, pp. 23-24. [57] Lang, _op. cit._, I, 162, and _passim_. [58] Max Müller, _op cit._, p. 12. [59] _Nouveaux Essais_, p. 320. [60] See Lang, _Myth, Ritual and Religion_, I, p. 234, a passage from the _Rig-Veda_, with four very different translations by Max Müller, Wilson, Benfrey, and Langlois. [61] On curiosity as the beginning of knowledge, compare the position held by Plato. (Tr.) [62] On this general subject consult the interesting though somewhat general article by Professor John Dewey, "The Interpretation of the Savage Mind," in the _Psychological Review_, May, 1903. The author justly criticises the current description of savages in negative terms, and contends that there is general misunderstanding of the true nature of the savage and of his activities. (Tr.) [63] It is now well accepted that Thales cannot be regarded as propounding a materialistic theory when he declares that everything is derived from water; for with him, "water" stands not merely for the substance that we call chemically "H2O," but for the "spirit that is in water" as well--the water-spirit is the _Grundprincip_. (Tr.) [64] Max Müller, _op. cit._, 39, 47-48, 59-60. CHAPTER IV THE HIGHER FORMS OF INVENTION We now pass from primitive to civilized man, from collective to individual creation, the characters of which it remains for us to study as we find them in great inventors who exhibit them on a large scale. Fortunately, we may dismiss the treatment of the oft-discussed, never-solved problem of the psychological nature of genius. As we have already noted, there enter into its composition factors other than the creative imagination, although the latter is not the least among them. Besides, great men being exceptions, anomalies, or as the current expression has it, "spontaneous variations," we may ask _in limine_ whether their psychology is explicable by means of simple formulæ, as with the average man, or whether even monographs teach us no more concerning their nature than general theories that are never applicable to all cases. Taking genius, then, as synonymous with great inventor, accepting it _de facto_ historically and psychologically, our task is limited to the attempt to separate characters that seem, from observation and experiment, to belong to it as peculiarly its own. Putting aside vague dissertations and dithyrambics in favor of theories with a scientific tendency as to the nature of genius, we meet first the one attributing to it a pathological origin. Hinted at in antiquity (Aristotle, Seneca, etc.), suggested in the oft-expressed comparison between inspiration and insanity, it has reached, as we know--through timid, reserved, and partial statements (Lélut)--its complete expression in the famous formula of Moreau de Tours, "Genius is a neurosis." Neuropathy was for him the exaggeration of vital properties and consequently the most favorable condition for the hatching of works of genius. Later, Lombroso, in a book teeming with doubtful or manifestly false evidence, finding his predecessor's theory too vague, attempts to give it more precision by substituting for neurosis in general a specific neurosis--larvated epilepsy. Alienists, far from eagerly accepting this view, have set themselves to combat it and to maintain that Lombroso has compromised everything in wanting to make the term too precise. There are several possible hypotheses, they say: either the neuropathic state is the direct, immediate cause of which the higher faculties of genius are effects; or, the intellectual superiority, through the excessive labor and excitation it involves, causes neuropathic disturbances; or, there is no relation of cause and effect between genius and neurosis, but mere coëxistence, since there are found very mediocre neuropaths, and men above the average without a neurotic blemish; or, the two states--the one psychic, the other physiological--are both effects, resulting from organic conditions that produce according to circumstances genius, insanity, and divers nervous troubles. Every one of these hypotheses can allege facts in its favor. We must, however, recognize that in most men of genius are found so many peculiarities, physical eccentricities and disorders of all kinds that the pathologic theory retains much probability. There remain for consideration the sane geniuses who, despite many efforts and subtleties, have not yet been successfully brought under the foregoing formula, and who have made possible the enunciation of another theory. Recently, Nordau, rejecting the theory of his master Lombroso, has maintained that it is just as reasonable to say that "genius is a neurosis" as that "athleticism is a cardiopathy" because many athletes are affected with heart disease. For him, "the essential elements of genius are judgment and will." Following this definition, he establishes the following hierarchy of men of genius: At the highest rung of the ladder are those in whom judgment and will are equally powerful; men of action who make world-history (Alexander, Cromwell, Napoleon)--these are masters of men. On the second level are found the geniuses of judgment, with no hyper-development of will--these are masters of matter (Pasteur, Helmholtz, Röntgen). On the third step are geniuses of judgment without energetic will--thinkers and philosophers. What then shall we do with the emotional geniuses--the poets and artists? Theirs is not genius in the strict sense, "because it creates nothing new and exercises no influence on phenomena." Without discussing the value of this classification, without examining whether it is even possible,--since there is no common measure between Alexander, Pasteur, Shakespeare, and Spinoza,--and whether, on the other hand, common opinion is not right in putting on the same level the great creators, whoever they be, solely because they are far above the average, this remark is absolutely necessary: In the definition above cited the creative faculty _par excellence_--imagination--necessary to all inventors, is entirely left out. We can, however, derive some benefit from this arbitrary division. Although it is impossible to admit that "emotional geniuses" create nothing new and have no influence on society, they do form a special group. Creative work requires of them a nervous excitability and a predominance of affective states that rapidly become morbid. In this way they have provided the pathological theory with most of its facts. It would perhaps be necessary to recognize distinctions between the various forms of invention. They require very different organic and psychic conditions in order that some may profit by morbid dispositions that are far from useful to others. This point should deserve a special study never made hitherto. I We shall reduce to three the characters ordinarily met in most great inventors. No one of them is without exception. 1. _Precocity_, which is reducible to innateness. The natural bent becomes manifest as soon as circumstances allow--it is the sign of the true vocation. The story is the same in all cases: at one moment the flash occurs; but this is not as frequent as is supposed. False vocations abound. If we deduct those attracted through imitation, environmental influence, exhortations and advice, chance, the attraction of immediate gain, aversion to a career imposed from without which they shun and adoption of an opposite one, will there remain many natural and irresistible vocations? We have seen above that[65] the passage from reproductive to constructive imagination takes place toward the end of the third year. According to some authors, this initial period should be followed by a depression about the fifth year; thenceforward the upward progress is continuous. But the creative faculty, from its nature and content, develops in a very clear, chronological order. Music, plastic arts, poetry, mechanical invention, scientific imagination--such is the usual order of appearance. In music, with the exception of a few child-prodigies, we hardly find personal creation before the age of twelve or thirteen. As examples of precocity may be cited: Mozart, at the age of three; Mendelssohn, five; Haydn, four; Handel, twelve; Weber, twelve; Schubert, eleven; Cherubini, thirteen; and many others. Those late in developing--Beethoven, Wagner, etc.--are fewer by far.[66] In the plastic arts, vocation and creative aptitude are shown perceptibly later, on the average about the fourteenth year: Giotto, at ten; Van Dyck, ten; Raphael, eight; Guerchin, eight; Greuze, eight; Michaelangelo, thirteen; Albrecht Dürer, fifteen; Bernini, twelve; Rubens and Jordaens being also precocious. In poetry we find no work having any individual character before sixteen. Chatterton died at that age, perhaps the only example of so young a poet leaving any reputation. Schiller and Byron also began at sixteen. Besides this, we know that the talent for versification, at least as imitation, is very early in developing. In mechanical arts children have early a remarkable capacity for understanding and imitating. At nine, Poncelet bought a watch that was out of order in order to study it, then took it apart and put it together correctly. Arago tells that at the same age Fresnel was called by his comrades a "man of genius," because he had determined by correct experiments "the length and caliber of children's elder-wood toy cannon giving the longest range; also, which green or dry woods used in the manufacture of bows have most strength and lasting power." In general, the average of mechanical invention is later, and scarcely comes earlier than that of scientific discovery. The form of abstract imagination requisite for invention in the sciences has no great personal value before the twentieth year: there are a goodly number, however, who have given proof of it before that age--Pascal, Newton, Leibniz, Gauss, Auguste Comte, etc. Almost all are mathematicians. These chronological variations result not from chance, but from psychological conditions necessary for the development of each form of imagination. We know that the acquisition of musical sounds is prior to speech: many children can repeat a scale correctly before they are able to talk. On the other hand, as dissolution follows evolution in inverse order,[67] aphasic patients lacking the most common words, can nevertheless sing. Sound-images are thus organized before all others, and the creative power when acting in this direction finds very early material for its use. For the plastic arts a longer apprenticeship is necessary for the education of the senses and movements. To acquire manual dexterity one must become skilled in observing form, combinations of lines and colors, and apt at reproducing them. Poetry and first attempts at novel-writing presuppose some experience of the passions of human life and a certain reflection of which the child is incapable. Invention in the mechanic arts, as in the plastic arts, requires the education of the senses and movements; and, further, calculation, rational combination of means, rigorous adaptation to practical necessities. Lastly, scientific imagination is nothing without a high development of the capacity for abstraction, which is a matter of slow growth. Mathematicians are the most precocious because their material is the most simple; they have no need, as in the case of the experimental sciences, of an extended knowledge of facts, which is acquired only with time. At this period of its development the imagination is in large part imitation. We must explain this paradox. The creator begins by imitating: this is such a well-known fact that it is needless to give proof of it, and it is subject to few exceptions. The most original mind is, at first, consciously or unconsciously somebody's disciple. It is necessarily so. Nature gives only one thing, "the creative instinct;" that is, the need of producing in a determined line. This internal factor alone is insufficient. Aside from the fact that the imagination at first has at its disposal only a very limited material, it lacks technique, the processes indispensable for realizing itself. As long as the creator has not found the suitable form into which to cast his creation he must indeed borrow it from another; his ideas must suffer the necessity of a provisional shelter. This explains how it is that later the inventor, reaching full consciousness of himself, in order to complete mastery of his methods, often breaks with his models, and burns what he at first adorned. II A second character consists of the necessity, the fatality of creation. Great inventors feel that they have a task to accomplish; they feel that they are charged with a mission. On this point we have a large number of testimonials and avowals. In the darkest days of his life Beethoven, haunted by the thought of suicide, wrote, "Art alone has kept me back. It seemed to me that I could not leave the world before producing all that I felt within me." Ordinarily, inventors are apt in only one line; even when they have a certain versatility, they remain bound to their own peculiar manner--they have their mark--like Michaelangelo; or, if they attempt to change it, if they try to be unfaithful as respects their vocation, they fall much below themselves. This characteristic of irresistible impulsion which makes the genius create not because he wants to, but because he must do it, has often been likened to instinct. This very widespread view has been examined before (Part I, Chapter ii). We have seen that there is no creative instinct in general, but _particular_ tendencies, orientated in a definite direction, which in most respects resemble instinct. It is contrary to experience and logic to admit that the creative genius follows any path whatever at his choice--a proposition that Weismann, in his horror of inheritance of acquired characters (which are a kind of innateness) is not afraid to support. That is true only of the man of talent, a matter of education and circumstances. The distinction between these two orders of creators--the great and the ordinary--has been made too often to need repetition, although it is proper to recognize that it is not always easy in practice, that there are names that cause us to hesitate, which we class somewhat at hazard. Yet genius remains, as Schopenhauer used to say, _monstrum per excessum_; excessive development in one direction. Hypertrophy of a special aptitude often makes genius fall, as far as the others are concerned, below the average level. Even those exceptional men who have given proof of multiple aptitudes, such as Vinci, Michaelangelo, Goethe, etc., always have a predominating tendency which, in common opinion, sums them up. III A third characteristic is the clearly defined _individuality_ of the great creator. He is the man of his work; he has done this or that: that is his mark. He is "representative." There is no other opinion as to this; what is a subject of discussion is the _origin_, not the nature of this individuality. The Darwinian theory as to the all-powerful action of environment has led to the question whether the representative character of great inventors comes from themselves, and from them alone, or must not rather be sought in the unconscious influence of the race and epoch of which they are at a given instant only brighter sparks. This debate goes beyond the bounds of our subject. To decide whether social changes are due mostly to the accumulated influences of some individuals and their initiative, or to the environment, to circumstances, to hereditary transmission, is not a problem for psychology to solve. We can not, however, totally avoid this discussion, for it touches the very springs of creation. Is the inventive genius the highest degree of personality or a synthesis of masses?--the result of himself or of others?--the expression of an individual activity or of a collective activity? In short, should we look for his representative character within him or without? Both these alternatives have authoritative supporters. For Schopenhauer, Carlyle (_Hero-worship_), Nietzsche, _et al._, the great man is an autonomous product, a being without a peer, a demigod, "_Uebermensch_." He can be explained neither by heredity, nor by environment. For others (Taine, Spencer, Grant, Allen, _et al._), the important factor is seen in the race and external conditions. Goethe held that a whole family line is summarized some day in a single one of its members, and a whole people in one or several men. For him, Louis XIV and Voltaire are respectively the French king and writer _par excellence_. "The alleged great men," says Tolstoi, "are only the labels of history, they give their names to events."[68] Each party explains the same facts according to its own principle and in its own peculiar way. The great historic epochs are rich in great men (the Greek republics of the fourth century B. C., the Roman Republic, the Renaissance, French Revolution, etc.). Why? Because, say some, periods put into ferment by the deep working of the masses make this blossoming possible. Because, say the others, this flowering modifies profoundly the social and intellectual condition of the masses and raises their level. For the former the ferment is deep down; for the latter it is on top. Without presuming to solve this vexed question, I lean toward the view of individualism pure and simple. It seems to me very difficult to admit that the great creator is only the result of his environment. Since this influence acts on many others, it is very necessary that, in great men, there should be in addition a personal factor. Besides, in opposition to the exclusively environmental theory we may bring the well-known fact that most innovators and inventors at first arouse opposition. We know the invariable sentence on everything novel--it is "false" or "bad;" then it is adopted with the statement that it had been known for a long time. In the hypothesis of collective invention, it seems that the mass of people should applaud inventors, recognizing itself in them, seeing its confused thought take form and body: but most often the contrary happens. The misoneism of crowds seems to me one of the strongest arguments in favor of the individual character of invention. We can doubtless distinguish two cases--in the first, the creator sums up and clearly translates the aspirations of his _milieu_; in the second, he is in opposition to it because he goes beyond it. How many innovators have been disappointed because they came before their time! But this distinction does not reach to the bottom of the question, and is not at all sufficient as an answer. Let us leave this problem, which, on account of its complexity, we can hardly solve through peremptory reasoning, and let us try to examine _objectively_ the relation between creation and environment in order that we may see to what extent the creative imagination, without losing its individual character--which is impossible--depends on the intellectual and social surrounding. If, with the American psychologists,[69] we term the disposition for innovating a "spontaneous variation"--a Darwinian term explaining nothing, but convenient--we may enunciate the following law: _The tendency toward spontaneous variation (invention) is always in inverse ratio to the simplicity of the environment._ The savage environment is in its nature very simple, consequently homogeneous. The lower races show a much smaller degree of differentiation than the higher; in them, as Jastrow says, physical and psychic maturity is more precocious, and as the period just before the adult age is the plastic period _per se_, this diminishes the chances of a departure from the common type. Thus comparison between whites and blacks, between primitive and civilized peoples, shows that, for equal populations, there is an enormous disproportion as to the number of innovators. The barbarian environment is much more complex and heterogeneous: it contains all the rudiments of civilized life. Consequently, it favors more individual variations and is richer in superior men. But these variations are rarely produced outside of a very restricted field--political, military, religious. So it seems impossible to agree with Joly[70] that neither primitive nor barbarian peoples produce superior minds, "unless," as he says, "by this name we mean those that simply surpass their congeners." But is there a criterion other than that? I see none. Greatness is altogether a relative idea; and would not our great creators seem, to beings better endowed than we, very small? The civilized environment, requiring division of labor and consequently a constantly growing complexity of heterogeneous elements, is an open door for all vocations. Doubtless, the social spirit always retains something of that tendency toward stagnation that is the rule in lower social orders; it is more favorable to tradition than to innovation. But the inevitable necessity of a warm competition between individuals and peoples is a natural antidote for that natural inertia; it favors useful variations. Moreover, civilization means evolution; consequently the conditions under which the imagination is active change with the times. Let us suppose, Weismann justly says, that in the Samoan Islands there were born a child having the singular and extraordinary genius of Mozart. What could he accomplish? At the most, extend the gamut of three or four tones to seven, and create a few more complex melodies; but he would be as unable to compose symphonies as Archimedes would have been to invent an electric dynamo. How many creators have been wrecked because the conditions necessary for their inventions were lacking? Roger Bacon foresaw several of our great discoveries; Cardan, the differential calculus; Van Helmont, chemistry; and it has been possible to write a book on the forerunners of Darwin.[71] We talk so much of the free flight of imagination, of the all-comprehensive power of the creator, that we forget the sociological conditions--not to mention others--on which they are every moment dependent. In this respect, no invention is personal in the strict sense; there always remains in it a little of that anonymous collaboration the highest expression of which, as we have seen, is the mythic activity. By way of summary, and whatever be the causes, we may say that there is a universal tendency in all living matter toward variation, whether we consider vegetables, animals, or the physical and mental man. The need of innovating is only a special case, rare in the lower races, frequent in the higher. This tendency toward variation is fundamental or superficial: As fundamental, it corresponds to genius, and survives through processes analogous to natural selection, i.e., by its own power. As superficial, it corresponds to talent, survives and prospers chiefly through the help of circumstances and environment. Here, the orientation comes from without, not from within. According as the spirit of the time inclines rather to poetry or painting, or music, or scientific research, or industry, or military art, minds of the second order are dragged into the current--showing that a goodly part of their power is in the aptness, not for invention, but for _imitation_. IV The determination of the characters belonging to the inventive genius has necessitated some seemingly irrelevant remarks on the action of the environment. Let us return to invention, strictly so-called. For inventing there is always required a natural aptitude, sometimes, a happy chance. The natural disposition should be accepted as a fact. Why does a man create? Because he is capable of forming new combinations of ideas. However naïve this answer may be, there is no other. The only thing possible, is the determination of the conditions necessary and sufficient for producing novel combinations: this has been done in the first part of this book, and there is no occasion for going over it again. But there is another aspect in creative work to be considered--its psychological _mechanism_, and the form of its development. Every normal person creates little or much. He may, in his ignorance, invent what has been already done a thousand times. Even if this is not a creation as regards the species, it is none the less such for the individual. It is wrong to say, as has been said, that an invention "is a new and important idea." _Novelty_ only is essential--that is the psychological mark: importance and utility are accessory, merely social marks. Invention is thus unduly limited when we attribute it to great inventors only. At this moment, however, we are concerned only with these, and in them the mechanism of invention is easier to study. We have already seen how false is the theory that holds that there is always a sudden stroke of inspiration, followed by a period of rapid or slow execution. On the contrary, observation reveals many processes that apparently differ less in the _content_ of invention than according to individual temperament. I distinguish two general processes of which the rest are variations. In all creation, great or small, there is a directing idea, an "ideal"--understanding the word not in its transcendental sense, but merely as synonymous with end or goal--or more simply, a problem to solve. The _locus_ of the idea, of the given problem, is not the same in the two processes. In the one I term "complete" the ideal is at the beginning: in the "abridged" it is in the middle. There are also other differences which the following tables will make more clear: _First Process_ (_complete_). 1st phase 2nd phase 3d phase IDEA INVENTION, VERIFICATION, (commencement) or or Special incubation DISCOVERY APPLICATION of more or less (end) duration The idea excites attention and takes a fixed character. The period of brooding begins. For Newton it lasted seventeen years, and at the time of definitely establishing his discovery by calculation he was so overcome with emotion that he had to assign to another the task of completing it. The mathematician Hamilton tells us that his method of quaternians burst upon him one day, completely finished, while he was near a bridge in Dublin. "In that moment I had the result of fifteen years' labor." Darwin gathers material during his voyages, spends a long time observing plants and animals, then through the chance reading of Malthus' book, hits upon and formulates his theory. In literary and artistic creation similar examples are frequent.[72] The second phase is only an instant, but essential--the moment of discovery, when the creator exclaims his "Eureka!"[73] With it, the work is virtually or really ended. _Second Process_ (_abridged_). 1st phase 2nd phase 3rd phase General preparation IDEA (commencement) CONSTRUCTIVE (unconscious) INSPIRATION and ERUPTION DEVELOPING period. This is the process in intuitive minds. Such seems to have been the case of Mozart, Poe, etc. Without attempting what would be a tedious enumeration of examples, we may say that this form of creation comprises two classes--those coming to maturity through an internal impulse, a sudden stroke of inspiration, and those who are suddenly illumined by chance. The two processes differ superficially rather than essentially. Let us briefly compare them. With some, the first phase is long and fully conscious; in others it seems negligible, equal to zero--there is nothing of it because there exists a natural or acquired tendency toward equilibrium. "For a long time," says Schumann, "I had the habit of racking my brain, and now I scarcely need to scratch my forehead. Everything runs naturally."[74] The second phase is almost the same in both cases: it is only an instant, but it is essential--it is the moment of imaginative synthesis. Lastly, the third phase is very short for some, because the main labor is already done, and there remains only the finishing touch or the verification. It is long for others, because they must pass from the perceived idea to complete realization, and because the preparatory work is faulty; so that for these the second creative process is shortened in appearance only. Such seem to me the two principal forms of the mechanism of creation. These are genera; they include species and varieties that a patient and minute study of the processes peculiar to various inventors would reveal to us. We must bear in mind that this work makes no claim of being a monograph on invention, but merely a sketch.[75] The two processes above described seem to correspond on the whole to the oft-made distinction between the intuitive or spontaneous, and the combining or reflective imagination. The intuitive, essentially synthetic form, is found principally in the purely imaginative types, children and savages. The mind proceeds from the whole to details. The generative idea resembles those concepts which, in the sciences, are of wide range because they condense a generalization rich in consequences. The subject is at first comprehended as a whole; development is organic, and we may compare it to the embryological process that causes a living being to arise from the fertilized ovum, analogous to an immanent logic. As a type of this creative form there has often been given a letter wherein Mozart explains his mode of conception. Recently (and that is why I do not reprint it here) it has been suspected of being apocryphal. I regret this--it was worthy of being authentic. According to Goethe, Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ could have been created only through an intuitive process, etc. The combining, discursive imagination proceeds from details to the vaguely-perceived unity. It starts from a fragment that serves as a matrix, and becomes completed little by little. An adventure, an anecdote, a scene, a rapid glance, a detail, suggests a literary or artistic creation; but the organic form does not appear in a trice. In science, Kepler furnishes a good example of this combining imagination. It is known that he devoted a part of his life trying strange hypotheses, until the day when, having discovered the elliptical orbit of Mars, all his former work took shape and became an organized system. Did we want to make use once more of an embryological comparison, it would be necessary to look for it in the strange conceptions of ancient cosmogonies: they believed that from an earthly slime arose parts of bodies and separate organs which through a mysterious attraction and happy chance ended by sticking together, and forming living bodies.[76] It is an accepted view that of these two modes, one, the abridged or intuitive process, is superior to the other. I confess to having held this prejudice. On examination, I find it doubtful, even false. There is a _difference_, not any "higher" and "lower." First of all, both these forms of creation are necessary. The intuitive process can suffice for an invention of short duration: a rhyme, a story, a profile, a _motif_, an ornamental stroke, a little mechanical contrivance, etc. But as soon as the work requires time and development the discursive process becomes absolutely necessary: with many inventors one easily perceives the change from one form to the other. We have seen that in the case of Chopin, "creation was spontaneous, miraculous," coming complete and sudden. But George Sand adds: "The crisis over, then commenced the most heartrending labor at which I have ever been present," and she pictures him to us agonized, for days and weeks, running after the bits of lost inspiration. Goethe, likewise, in a letter to Humboldt regarding his Faust, which occupied him for sixty years, full of interruptions and gaps: "The difficulty has been to get through strength of will what is really to be gotten only by a spontaneous act of nature." Zola, according to his biographer, Toulouse, "imagines a novel, always starting out with a general idea that dominates the work; then, from induction to induction, he draws out of it the characters and all the story." To sum up: Pure intuition and pure combination are exceptional; ordinarily, it is a mixed process in which one of the two elements prevails and permits its qualification. If we note, in addition, that it would be easy to group under these two headings names of the first rank, we shall conclude that the difference is altogether in the _mechanism_, not in the _nature_ of creation, and is consequently accessory; and that this difference is reducible to natural dispositions, which we may contrast as follows: Ready-witted minds, Logically-developing excelling in conception, minds, excelling in making the whole almost elaboration. out of one piece. Work primarily unconscious. Patience the preponderating rôle. Work primarily conscious. Actions quick. Actions slow. V "Were we to raise monuments to inventors in the arts and sciences, there would be fewer statues to men than to children, animals, and especially _fortune_." In this wise expressed himself one of the sage thinkers of the eighteenth century, Turgot. The importance of the last factor has been much exaggerated. Chance may be taken in two senses--one general, the other narrow. (1) In its broad meaning, chance depends on entirely internal, purely psychic circumstances. We know that one of the best conditions for inventing is abundance of material, accumulated experience, knowledge--which augment the chances of original association of ideas. It has even been possible to maintain that the nature of memory implies the capacity of creating in a special direction. The revelations of inventors or of their biographers leave no doubt as to the necessity of a large number of sketches, trials, preliminary drawings, no matter whether it is a matter of industry, commerce, a machine, a poem, an opera, a picture, a building, a plan of campaign, etc. "Genius for discovery," says Jevons, depends on the number of notions and chance thoughts coming to the inventor's mind. To be fertile in hypotheses--that is the first requirement for finding something new. The inventor's brain must be full of forms, of melodies, of mechanical agents, of commercial combinations, of figures, etc., according to the nature of his work. "But it is very rare that the ideas we find are exactly those we were seeking. In order to find, _we must think along other lines_."[77] Nothing is more true. So much for chance within: it is indisputable, whatever may have been said of it, but it depends finally on individuality--from it arises the non-anticipated synthesis of ideas. The abundance of memory-ideas, we know, is not a sufficient condition for creation; it is not even a necessary condition. It has been remarked that a relative ignorance is sometimes useful for invention: it favors assurance. There are inventions, especially scientific and industrial, that could not have been made had the inventors been arrested by the ruling and presumably invincible dogmas. The inventor was all the more free the more he was unaware of them. Then, as it was quite necessary to bow before the accomplished fact, theory was broadened to include the new discovery and explain it. (2) Chance, in the narrow sense, is a fortunate occurrence stimulating invention: but to attribute to it the greater part, is a partial, erroneous view. Here, what we call chance, is the meeting and convergence of _two_ factors--one internal (individual genius), the other, external (the fortuitous occurrence). It is impossible to determine all that invention owes to chance in this sense. In primitive humanity its influence must have been enormous: the use of fire, the manufacture of weapons, of utensils, the casting of metals: all that came about through accidents as simple as, for example, a tree falling across a stream suggesting the first idea of a bridge. In historic times--and to keep merely to the modern period--the collection of authentic facts would fill a large volume. Who does not know of Newton's apple, Galileo's lamp, Galvani's frog? Huygens declared that, were it not for an unforeseen combination of circumstances, the invention of the telescope would require "a superhuman genius;" it is known that we owe it to children who were playing with pieces of glass in an optician's shop. Schönbein discovered ozone, thanks to the phosphorous odor of air traversed by electric sparks. The discoveries of Grimaldi and of Fresnel in regard to interferences, those of Faraday, of Arago, of Foucault, of Fraunhofer, of Kirchoff, and of hundreds of others owed something to "fortune." It is said that the sight of a crab suggested to Watt the idea of an ingenious machine. To chance, also, many poets, novelists, dramatists, and artists have owed the best part of their inspirations: literature and the arts abound in fictitious characters whose real originals are known. So much for the external, fortuitous factor; its rôle is clear. That of the internal factor is less so. It is not at all apparent to the ordinary mind, escaping the unreflecting. Yet it is extremely important. The same fortuitous event passes by millions of men without exciting anything. How many of Pisa's inhabitants had seen the lamp of their cathedral before Galileo! He does not necessarily find who wants to find. The happy chance comes only to those worthy of it. In order to profit thereby, one must first possess the spirit of observation, wide-awake attention, that isolates and fixates the accident; then, if it is a matter of scientific or practical inventions, the penetration that seizes upon relations and finds unforeseen resemblances; if it concerns esthetic productions, the imagination that constructs, organizes, gives life. Without repeating an evident truism, although it is often misunderstood, we ought to end by remarking that _chance is an occasion for, not an agent of, creation_. FOOTNOTES: [65] See above, Chapter II. [66] Some of these and the following figures are borrowed from Oelzelt-Newin, _op. cit._, pp. 70 ff. [67] Compare the well-known theory of Dr. Hughlings-Jackson. (Tr.) [68] For an elaborate and interesting discussion of this subject, see Tolstoi's _Physiology of War_. As showing the later trend of thought on this general theme, see the excellent summary by Professor Seligman, _The Economic Interpretation of History_. (Tr.) [69] William James, _The Will to Believe and other Essays_, pp. 218 ff.; Jastrow, _Psych. Rev._, May, 1898, p. 307; J. Royce, _ibid._, March, 1898; Baldwin, _Social and Ethical Interpretations_, etc. [70] Joly, _Psychologie des grands hommes_. [71] Osborn, _From the Greeks to Darwin_. [72] Such, according to Binet and Passy, seem to be the cases of the Goncourts, Pailleron, etc. See "Psychologie des auteurs dramatiques," in _L'année psychologique_, I, 96. [73] Compare the striking instance of this moment as given by Froebel, in his _Autobiography_, in connection with his idea of the Kindergarten. (Tr.) [74] Quoted by Arréat, _Mémoire et Imagination_, p. 118. (Paris, F. Alcan.) [75] Paulhan ("De l'invention," _Rev. Philos._, December, 1898, pp. 590 ff.) distinguishes three kinds of development in invention: (1) Spontaneous or reasoned--the directing idea persists to the end; (2) transformation, which comprises several contradictory evolutions succeeding and replacing one another in consequence of impressions and feelings; (3) deviation, which is a composite of the two preceding forms. [76] Cf. the well-known doctrine of Empedocles. (Tr.) [77] P. Souriau, _Théorie de l'invention_, pp. 6-7. CHAPTER V LAW OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE IMAGINATION Is imagination, so often called "a capricious faculty," subject to some law? The question thus asked is too simple, and we must make it more precise. As the direct cause of invention, great or small, the imagination acts without assignable determination; in this sense it is what is known as "spontaneity"--a vague term, which we have attempted to make clear. Its appearance is irreducible to any law; it results from the often fortuitous convergence of various factors previously studied. Leaving aside the moment of origin, does the inventive power, considered in its individual and specific development, seem to follow any law, or, if this term appear too ambitious, does it present, in the course of its evolution, any perceptible regularity? Observation separates out an empirical law; that is, extracts directly an abridged formula that is only a condensation of facts. We may enunciate it thus: The creative imagination in its complete development passes through two periods separated by a critical phase: a period of autonomy or efflorescence, a critical moment, a period of definitive constitution presenting several aspects. This formula, being only a summary of experience, should be justified and explained by the latter. For this purpose we can borrow facts from two distinct sources: (a) individual development, which is the safest, clearest, and easiest to observe; (b) the development of the species, or historical development, according to the accepted principle that phylogenesis and ontogenesis follow the same general line. I _First Period._ We are already acquainted with it: it is the imaginative age. In normal man, it begins at about the age of three, and embraces infancy, adolescence, youth: sometimes a longer, sometimes a shorter period. Play, romantic invention, mythic and fantastic conceptions of the world sum it up first; after that, in most, imagination is dependent on the influence of the passions, and especially sexual love. For a long time it remains without any rational element. Nevertheless, little by little, the latter wins a place. Reflection--including under the term the working of the intelligence--begins very late, grows slowly, and the proportion as it asserts itself, gains an influence over the imaginative activity and tends to reduce it. This growing antagonism is represented in the following figure. The curve IM is that of the imagination during this first period. It rises at first very slowly, then attains a rapid ascent and keeps at a height that marks its greatest attainment in this earliest form. The dotted line RX represents the rational development that begins later, advances much more slowly, but progressively, and reaches at X the level of the imaginative curve. The two intellectual forms are present like two rivals. The position MX on the ordinate marks the beginning of the second period. [Illustration] _Second Period._ This is a critical period of indeterminate length, in any case, always much briefer than the other two. This critical moment can be characterized only by its causes and results. Its causes are, in the physiological sphere, the formation of an organism and a fully developed brain; in the psychologic order, the antagonism between the pure subjectivity of the imagination and the objectivity of ratiocinative processes; in other words, between mental instability and stability. As for the results, they appear only in the third period, the resultant of this obscure, metamorphic stage. _Third Period._ It is definite: in some way or another and in some degree the imagination has become rationalized, but this change is not reducible to a single formula. (1) The creative imagination falls, as is indicated in the figure, where the imagination curve MN´ descends rapidly toward the line of abcissas without ever reaching it. This is the most general case; only truly imaginative minds are exceptions. One falls little by little into the prose of practical life--such is the downfall of love which is treated as a phantom, the burial of the dreams of youth, etc. This is a regression, not an end; for the creative imagination disappears completely in no man; it only becomes accessory. (2) It keeps up but becomes transformed; it adapts itself to the conditions of rational thought; it is no longer pure imagination, but becomes a mixed form--the fact is indicated in the diagram by the union of the two lines, MN, the imagination, and XO, the rational. This is the case with truly imaginative beings, in whom inventive power long remains young and fresh. This period of preservation, of definitive constitution with rational transformation, presents several varieties. First, and simplest, _transformation into logical form_. The creative power manifested in the first stage remains true to itself, and always follows the same trend. Such are the precocious inventors, those whose vocation appeared early and never changed direction. Invention loses its childish or juvenile character in becoming virile; there are no other changes. Compare Schiller's _Robbers_, written in his teens, with his _Wallenstein_, dating from his fortieth year; or the vague sketches of the adolescent James Watt with his inventions as a man. Another case is the _metamorphosis_ or _deviation_ of creative power. We know what numbers of men who have left a great name in science, politics, mechanical or industrial invention started out with mediocre efforts in music, painting, and especially poetry, the drama, and fiction. The imaginative impulse did not discover its true direction at the outset; it imitated while trying to invent. What has been said above concerning the chronological development of the imagination would be tiresome repetition. The need of creating followed from the first the line of least resistance, where it found certain materials ready to hand. But in order to arrive to full consciousness of itself it needed more time, more knowledge, more accumulated experience. We might here ask whether the contrary case is also met with; i.e., where the imagination, in this third period, would return to the inclinations of the first period. This regressive metamorphosis--for I cannot style it otherwise--is rare but not without examples. Ordinarily the creative imagination, when it has passed its adult stage, becomes attenuated by slow atrophy without undergoing serious change of form. Nevertheless, I am able to cite the case of a well-known scholar who began with a taste for art, especially plastic art, went over rapidly to literature, devoted his life to biologic studies, in which he gained a very deserved reputation; then, in turn, became totally disgusted with scientific research, came back to literature and finally to the arts, which have entirely monopolized him. Finally--for there are very many forms--in some the imagination, though strong, scarcely passes beyond the first stage, always retains its youthful, almost childish form, hardly modified by a minimum of rationality. Let us note that it is not a question here of the characteristic ingenuousness of some inventors, which has caused them to be called "grown-up children," but of the candor and inherent simplicity of the imagination itself. This exceptional form is hardly reconcilable except with esthetic creation. Let us add the mystic imagination. It could furnish examples, less in its religious conceptions, which are without control, than in its reveries of a scientific turn. Contemporary mystics have invented adaptations of the world that take us back to the mythology of early times. This prolonged childhood of the imagination, which is, in a word, an anomaly, produces curiosities rather than lasting works. At this third period in the development of the imagination appears a second, subsidiary law, that of _increasing complexity_; it follows a progressive line from the simple to the complex. Indeed, it is not, strictly speaking, a law of the imagination but of the rational development exerting an influence on it by a counter-action. It is a law of the mind that _knows_, not of one that _imagines_. It is needless to show that theoretical and practical intelligence develops as an increasing complex. But from the time that the mind distinguishes clearly between the possible and the impossible, between the fancied and the real--which is a capacity wanting in primitive man--as soon as man has formed rational habits and has undergone experience the impress of which is ineffaceable, the creative imagination is subject, _nolens volens_, to new conditions; it is no longer absolute mistress of itself, it has lost the assurance of its infancy, and is under the rules of logical thought, which draws it along in its train. Aside from the exceptions given above--and even they are partial exceptions only--creative power depends on the ability to understand, which imposes upon it its form and developmental law. In literature and in the arts comparison between the simplicity of primitive creations and the complexity of advanced civilizations has become commonplace. In the practical, technical, scientific and social worlds the higher up we go the more we have to know in order to create, and in default of this condition we merely repeat when we think we are inventing. II Historically considered, in the species, the development of the imagination follows the same line of progress as in the individual. We will not repeat it; it would be mere reiteration in a vaguer form of what we have just said. A few brief notes will suffice. Vico--whose name deserves to be mentioned here because he was the first to see the good that we can get from myths for the study of the imagination--divided the course of humanity into three successive ages: divine or theocratic, heroic or fabulous, human or historic, after which the cycle begins over again. Although this too hypothetic conception is now forgotten, it is sufficient for our purposes. What, indeed, are those first two stages that have everywhere and always been the harbingers and preparers of civilization, if not the triumphant period of the imagination? It has produced myths, religions, legends, epics and martial narratives, and imposing monuments erected in honor of gods and heroes. Many nations whose evolution has been incomplete have not gone beyond this stage. Let us now consider this question under a more definite, more limited, better known form--the history of intellectual development in Europe since the fall of the Roman Empire. It shows very distinctly our three periods. No one will question the preponderance of the imagination during the middle Ages: intensity of religious feeling, ceaselessly repeated epidemics of superstition; the institution of chivalry, with all its accessories; heroic poetry, chivalric romances; courts of love, efflorescence of Gothic art, the beginning of modern music, etc. On the other hand, the _quantity_ of imagination applied during this epoch to practical, industrial, commercial invention is very small. Their scientific culture, buried in Latin jargon, is made up partly of antique traditions, partly of fancies; what the ten centuries added to positive science is almost _nil_. Our figure, with its two curves, one imaginative, the other rational, thus applies just as well to historical development as to individual development during this first period. No more will anyone question that the Renaissance is a critical moment, a transition period, and a transformation analogous to that which we have noted in the individual, when there rises, opposed to imagination, a rival power. Finally, it will be admitted without dissent that during the modern period social imagination has become partly decayed, partly rationalized, under the influence of two principal factors--one scientific, the other economic. On the one hand the development of science, on the other hand the great maritime discoveries, by stimulating industrial and commercial inventions, have given the imagination a new field of activity. There have arisen points of attraction that have drawn it into other paths, have imposed upon it other forms of creation that have often been neglected or misunderstood and that we shall study in the Third Part. THIRD PART THE PRINCIPAL TYPES OF IMAGINATION PRELIMINARY After having studied the creative imagination in its constitutive elements and in its development we purpose, in this last part, describing its principal forms. This will be neither analytic nor genetic but concrete. The reader need not fear wearisome repetition; our subject is sufficiently complex to permit a third treatment without reiteration. The expression "creative imagination," like all general terms, is an abbreviation and an abstraction. There is no "imagination in general," but only _men who imagine_, and who do so in different ways; the reality is in them. The diversities in creation, however numerous, should be reducible to types that are _varieties_ of imagination, and the determination of these varieties is analogous to that of character as related to will. Indeed, when we have settled upon the physiological and psychological conditions of voluntary activity we have only done a work in _general_ psychology. Men being variously constituted, their modes of action bear the stamp of their individuality; in each one there is a personal factor that, whatever its ultimate nature, puts its mark on the will and makes it energetic or weak, rapid or slow, stable or unstable, continuous or intermittent. The same is true of the creative imagination. We cannot know it completely without a study of its varieties, without a special psychology, toward which the following chapters are an attempt. How are we to determine these varieties? Many will be inclined to think that the method is indicated in advance. Have not psychologists distinguished, according as one or another of image-groups preponderates, visual, auditory, motor and mixed types? Is not the way clear and is it not well enough to go in this direction? However natural this solution may appear, it is illusory and can lead to naught. It rests on the equivocal use of the word "imagination," which at one time means mere reproduction of images, and at another time creative activity, and which, consequently, keeps up the erroneous notion that in the creative imagination images, the raw materials, are the essential part. The materials, no doubt, are not a negligible element, but by themselves they cannot reveal to us the species and varieties that have their origin in an anterior and superior tendency of mind. We shall see in the sequel that the very nature of constructive imagination may express itself indifferently in sounds, words, colors, lines, and even numbers. The method that should allege to settle the various orientations of creative activity according to the nature of images would no more go to the bottom of the matter than would a classification of architecture according to the materials employed (as rock, brick, iron, wood, etc.) with no regard for differences of style. This method aside, since the determination must be made according to the individuality of the architect, what method shall we follow? The matter is even more perplexing than the study of character. Although various authors have treated the latter subject (we have attempted it elsewhere), no one of the proposed classifications has been universally accepted. Nevertheless, despite their differences, they coincide in several points, because these have the advantage of resting on a common basis--the large manifestations of human nature, feeling, doing, thinking. In our subject I find nothing like this and I seek in vain for a point of support. Classifications are made according to the essential dominating attributes; but, as regards the varieties of the creative imagination, what are they? We may, indeed, as was said above, distinguish two great classes--the intuitive and the combining. From another point of view we may distinguish invention of free range (esthetic, religious, mystic) from invention more or less restricted (mechanical, scientific, commercial, military, political, social). But these two divisions are too general, leading to nothing. A true classification should be in touch with facts, and this one soars too high. Leaving, then, to others, more skilled or more fortunate, the task of a rational and systematic determination, if it be possible, we shall try merely to distinguish and describe the principal forms, such as experience gives them to us, emphasizing those that have been neglected or misinterpreted. What follows is thus neither a classification nor even a complete enumeration. We shall study at first two general forms of the creative imagination--the plastic and the diffluent--and later, special forms, determined by their content and subject. * * * * * Wundt, in a little-noticed passage of his _Physiological Psychology_, has undertaken to determine the composition of the "principal forms of talent," which he reduces to four: The first element is imagination. It may be intuitive, "that is, conferring on representations a clearness of sense-perception," or combining; "then it operates on multiple combinations of images." A very marked development in both directions at the same time is uncommon; the author assigns reasons for this. The second element is understanding (_Verstand_). It may be inductive--i.e., inclining toward the collection of facts in order to draw generalizations from them--or deductive, taking general concepts and laws to trace their consequences. If the intuitive imagination is joined to the inductive spirit we have the talent for observation of the naturalist, the psychologist, the pedagogue, the man of affairs. If the intuitive imagination is combined with the deductive spirit we have the analytical talent of the systematic naturalist, of the geometrician. In Linnaeus and Cuvier the intuitive element predominates; in Gauss, the analytical element. The combining imagination joined to the inductive spirit constitutes "the talent for invention strictly so-called," in industry, in the technique of science; it gives the artist and the poet the power of composing their works. The combining imagination plus the deductive spirit gives the speculative talent of the mathematician and philosopher; deduction predominates in the former, imagination in the latter.[78] FOOTNOTES: [78] Wundt, _Physiologische Psychologie_, 4th German edition, Vol. II, pp. 490-95. CHAPTER I THE PLASTIC IMAGINATION I By "plastic imagination" I understand that which has for its special characters clearness and precision of form; more explicitly those forms whose materials are clear images (whatever be their nature), approaching perception, giving the impression of reality; in which, too, there predominate _associations with objective relations_, determinable with precision. The plastic mark, therefore, is in the images, and in the modes of association of images. In somewhat rough terms, requiring modifications which the reader himself can make, it is the imagination that materializes. Between perception--a very complex synthesis of qualities, attributes and relations--and conception--which is only the consciousness of a quality, quantity, or relation, often of only a single word accompanied by vague outlines and a latent, potential knowledge; between concrete and abstract, the image occupies an intermediate position and can run from one pole to another, now full of reality, now almost as poor and pale as a concept. The representation here styled plastic descends towards its point of origin; it is an external imagination, arising from sensation rather than from feeling and needing to become objective. Thus its general characters are easy of determination. First and foremost, it makes use of visual images; then of motor images; lastly, in practical invention, of tactile images. In a word, the three groups of images present to a great extent the character of externality and objectivity. The clearness of form of these three groups proceeds from their origin, because they arise from sensation well determined in space--sight, movement, touch. Plastic imagination depends most on spatial conditions. We shall see that its opposite, diffluent imagination, is that which depends least upon that factor, or is most free from it. Among these naturally objective elements the plastic imagination chooses the most objective, which fact gives its creations an air of reality and life. The second characteristic is inferiority of the affective element; it appears only intermittently and is entirely blotted out before sensory impression. This form of the creative imagination, coming especially from sensation, aims especially at sensation. Thus it is rather superficial, greatly devoid of that internal mark that comes from feeling. But if it chance that both sensory and affective elements are equal in power; if there is at the same time intense vision adequate to reality, and profound emotion, violent shock, then there arise extraordinary imaginative personages, like Shakespeare, Carlyle, Michelet. It is needless to describe this form of imagination, excellent pen-pictures of which have been given by the critics;[79] let us merely note that its psychology reduces itself to an alternately ascending and descending movement between the two limiting points of perception and idea. The ascending process assigns to inanimate objects life, desires and feelings. Thus Michelet: "The great streams of the Netherlands, _tired_ with their very long course, _perish_ as though from _weariness_ in the _unfeeling_ ocean."[80] Elsewhere, the great folio begets the octavo, "which becomes the parent of the small volume, of booklets, of ephemeral pamphlets, invisible spirits flying in the night, creating under the very eyes of tyrants the circulation of liberty." The descending process materializes abstractions, gives them body, makes them flesh and bone; the Middle Ages become "a poor child, torn from the bowels of Christianity, born amidst tears, grown up in prayer and revery, in anguish of heart, dying without achieving anything." In this dazzle of images there is a momentary return to primitive animism. II In order to more fully understand the plastic imagination, let us take up its principal manifestations. 1. First, the arts dealing with form, where its necessity is evident. The sculptor, painter, architect, must have visual and tactile-motor images; it is the material in which their creations are wrapped up. Even leaving out the striking acts requiring such a sure and tenacious external vision (portraits executed from memory, exact remembrance of faces at the end of twenty years, as in the case of Gavarni, etc.[81]), and limiting ourselves merely to the usual, the plastic arts demand an observant imagination. For the majority of men the concrete image of a face, a form, a color, usually remains vague and fleeting; "red, blue, black, white, tree, animal, head, mouth, arm, etc., are scarcely more than words, symbols expressing a rough synthesis. For the painter, on the other hand, images have a very high precision of details, and what he sees beneath the words or in real objects are analyzed facts, positive elements of perception and movement."[82] The rôle of tactile-motor images is not insignificant. There has often been cited the instance of sculptors who, becoming blind, have nevertheless been able to fashion busts of close resemblance to the original. This is memory of touch and of the muscular sense, entirely equivalent to the visual memory of the portrait painters mentioned above. Practical knowledge of design and modeling--i.e., of contour and relief--though resulting from natural or acquired disposition, depends on cerebral conditions, the development of definite sensory-motor regions and their connections; and on psychological conditions--the acquisition and organization of appropriate images. "We learn to paint and carve," wrote a contemporary painter, "as we do sewing, embroidery, sawing, filing and turning." In short, like all manual labor requiring associated and combined acts. 2. Another form of plastic imagination uses words as means for evoking vivid and clear impressions of sight, touch, movement; it is the poetic or literary form. Of it we find in Victor Hugo a finished type. As all know, we need only open his works at hazard to find a stream of glittering images. But what is their nature? His recent biographers, guided by contemporary psychology, have well shown that they always paint scenes or movements. It is unnecessary to give proofs. Some facts have a broader range and throw light upon his psychology. Thus we are told that "he never dictates or rhymes from memory and composes only in writing, for he believes that writing has its own features, and he wants to _see the words_. Théophile Gautier, who knows and understands him so well, says: 'I also believe that in the sentence we need most of all an _ocular_ rhythm. A book is made to be read, not to be spoken aloud.'" It is added that "Victor Hugo never spoke his verses but wrote them out and would often illustrate them on the margin, as if he needed to fixate the image in order to find the appropriate word."[83] After visual representations come those of movement: the steeple _pierces_ the horizon, the mountain _rends_ the cloud, the mountain _raises himself_ and looks about, "the cold caverns open their mouths _drowsily_," the wind lashes the rock into tears with the waterfall, the thorn is an enraged plant, and so on indefinitely. A more curious fact is the transposition of sonorous sensations or images of sound, and like them without form or figure, into visual and motor images: "The _ruffles_ of sound that the fifer cuts out; the flute _goes up_ to alto like a frail capital on a column." This thoroughly plastic imagination remains identical with itself while reducing everything spontaneously, unconsciously, to spatial terms. In literature this altogether foreign mode of creative activity has found its most complete expression among the _Parnassiens_ and their congeners, whose creed is summed up in the formula, faultless form and impassiveness. Théophile Gautier claims that "a poet, no matter what may be said of him, is a _workman_; it is not necessary that he have more intelligence than a laborer and have knowledge of a state other than his own, without which he does badly. I regard as perfectly absurd the mania that people have of hoisting them (the poets) up onto an ideal pedestal; _nothing is less ideal than a poet_. For him words have in themselves and outside the meaning they express, their own beauty and value, just like precious stones not yet cut and mounted in bracelets, necklaces and rings; they charm the understanding that looks at them and takes them from the finger to the little pile where they are put aside for future use." If this statement, whether sincere or not, is taken literally, I see no longer any difference, save as regards the materials employed, between the imagination of poets and the imagination active in the mechanical arts. For the usefulness of the one and the "uselessness" of the other is a characteristic foreign to invention itself. 3. In the teeming mass of myths and religious conceptions that the nineteenth century has gathered with so much care we could establish various classifications--according to race, content, intellectual level; and, in a more artificial manner but one suitable for our subject, according to the degree of precision or fluidity. Neglecting intermediate forms, we may, indeed, divide them into two groups; some are clear in outline, are consistent, relatively logical, resembling a definite historical relation; others are vague, multiform, incoherent, contradictory; their characters change into one another, the tales are mixed and are imperceptible in the whole. The former types are the work of the plastic imagination. Such are, if we eliminate oriental influences, most of the myths belonging to Greece when, on emerging from the earliest period, they attained their definite constitution. It has been held that the plastic character of these religious conceptions is an effect of esthetic development: statues, bas-reliefs, poetry, and even painting, have made definite the attributes of the gods and their history. Without denying this influence we must nevertheless understand that it is only auxiliary. To those who would challenge this opinion let us recall that the Hindoos have had gigantic poems, have covered their temples with numberless sculptures, and yet their fluid mythology is the opposite of the Greek. Among the peoples who have incarnated their divinities in no statue, in no human or animal form, we find the Germans and the Celts. But the mythology of the former is clear, well kept within large lines; that of the latter is fleeting and inconsistent--the despair of scholars.[84] It is, then, certain that myths of the plastic kind are the fruits of an innate quality of mind, of a mode of feeling and of translating, at a given moment in its history, the preponderating characters of a race; in short, of a form of imagination and ultimately of a special cerebral structure. 4. The most complete manifestation of the plastic imagination is met with in mechanical invention and what is allied thereto, in consequence of the need of very exact representations of qualities and relations. But this is a specialized form, and, as its importance has been too often misunderstood, it deserves a separate study. (See Chapter V, _infra_.) III Such are the principal traits of this type of imagination: clearness of outline, both of the whole and of the details. It is not identical with the form called realistic--it is more comprehensive; it is a genus of which "realism" is a species. Moreover, the latter expression being reserved by custom for esthetic creation, I purposely digress in order to dwell on this point: that the esthetic imagination has no essential character belonging exclusively to it, and that it differs from other forms (scientific, mechanical, etc.) only in its materials and in its end, not in its primary nature. On the whole, the plastic imagination could be summed up in the expression, _clearness in complexity_. It always preserves the mark of its original source--i.e., in the creator and those disposed to enjoy and understand him it tends to approach the clearness of perception. Would it be improper to consider as a variety of the genus a mode of representation that could be expressed as _clearness in simplicity_? It is the dry and rational imagination. Without depreciating it we may say that it is rather a condition of imaginative poverty. We hold with Fouillée that the average Frenchman furnishes a good example of it. "The Frenchman," says he, "does not usually have a very strong imagination. His internal vision has neither the hallucinative intensity nor the exuberant fancy of the German and Anglo-Saxon mind; it is an intellectual and distant view rather than a sensitive resurrection or an immediate contact with, and possession of, the things themselves. Inclined to deduce and construct, our intellect excels less in representing to itself real things than in discovering relations between possible or necessary things. In other words, it is a logical and combining imagination that takes pleasure in what has been termed the abstract view of life. The Chateaubriands, Hugos, Flauberts, Zolas, are exceptional with us. We reason more than we imagine."[85] Its psychological constitution is reducible to two elements: slightly concrete images, _schemas_ approaching general ideas; for their association, relations predominantly rational, more the products of the logic of the intellect than of the logic of the feelings. It lacks the sudden, violent shock of emotion that gives brilliancy to images, making them arise and grouping them in unforeseen combinations. It is a form of invention and construction that is more the work of reason than of imagination proper. Consequently, is it not paradoxical to relate it to plastic imagination, as species to genus? It would be idle to enter upon a discussion of the subject here without attempting a classification; let us merely note the likenesses and differences. Both are above all objective--the first, because it is sensory; the other, because it is rational. Both make use of analogous modes of association, dependent more on the nature of things than on the personal impression of the subject. Opposition exists only on one point: the former is made up of vivid images that approach perception; the latter is made up of internal images bordering upon concepts. Rational imagination is plastic imagination desiccated and simplified. FOOTNOTES: [79] Thus Taine says of Carlyle: "He cannot stick to simple expression; at every step he drops into figures, gives body to every idea, must touch forms. We see that he is possessed and haunted by glittering or saddening visions; in him every thought is an explosion; a flood of seething passion reaches the boiling-point in his brain, which overflows, and the torrent of images runs over the banks and rushes with all its mud and all its splendor. He cannot reason, he must paint." Despite the vigor of this sketch, the perusal of ten pages of _Sartor Resartus_ or of the _French Revolution_ teaches more in regard to the nature of this imagination than all the commentaries. [80] For a point of view in criticism that has seemed correct to many on this matter, compare the well-known chapter on the "Pathetic Fallacy" by Ruskin, in his _Modern Painters_. (Tr.) [81] Arréat (_Psychologie du peintre_, pp. 62 ff.) gives a large number of examples of this. [82] _Ibid._, p. 115. [83] For further details on this point, consult Mabilleau, _Victor Hugo_, 2nd part, chaps. II, III, IV.--Renouvier, in the book devoted to the poet, asserts that "on account of his aptitude for representing to himself the details of a figure, order and position in space, beyond any present sensation," Victor Hugo could have become a mathematician of the highest order. [84] As bearing out the position of the author, we may also call attention to the fact that while the Hebrew race has had very slight development in the plastic arts, yet its mythology has always taken a very definite form, even when dealing with the vaguest and most abstract subjects. (Tr.) [85] Fouillée, _Psychologie du peuple français_, p. 185. CHAPTER II THE DIFFLUENT IMAGINATION I The diffluent imagination is another general form, but one that is completely opposed to the foregoing. It consists of vaguely-outlined, indistinct images that are evoked and joined according to the least rigorous modes of association. It presents, then, two things for our consideration--the nature of the images and of their associations. (1) It employs neither the clear-cut, concrete, reality-penetrated images of the plastic imagination, nor the semi-schematic representations of the rational imagination, but those midway in that ascending and descending scale extending from perception to conception. This determination, however, is insufficient, and we can make it more precise. Analysis, indeed, discovers a certain class of ill-understood images, which I call emotional abstractions, and which are the proper material for the diffluent imagination. These images are reduced to certain qualities or attributes of things, taking the place of the whole, and chosen from among the others for various reasons, the origin of which is affective. We shall comprehend their nature better through the following comparison: Intellectual or rational abstraction results from the choice of a fundamental, or at least principal, character, which becomes the substitute for all the rest that is omitted. Thus, extension, resistance, or impenetrability, come to represent, through simplification and abbreviation, what we call "matter." Emotional abstraction, on the other hand, results from the permanent or temporary predominance of an emotional state. Some aspect of a thing, essential or not, comes into relief, solely because it is in direct relation to the disposition of our sensibility, with no other preoccupation; a quality, an attribute is spontaneously, arbitrarily selected because it impresses us at the given instant--in the final analysis, because it somehow pleases or displeases us. The images of this class have an "impressionist" mark. They are abstractions in the strict sense--i.e., extracts from and simplifications of the sensory data. They act less through a direct influence than by evoking, suggesting, whispering; they permit a glance, a passing glimpse: we may justly call them crepuscular or twilight ideas. (2) As for the forms of association, the relations linking these images, they do not depend so much on the order and connections of things as on the changing dispositions of the mind. They have a very marked subjective character. Some depend on the intellectual factor; the most usual are based on chance, on distant and vacillating analogies--further down, even on assonance and alliteration. Others depend on the affective factor and are ruled by the disposition of the moment: association by contrast, especially those alike in emotional basis, which have been previously studied. (First Part, Chapter II.) Thus the diffluent imagination is, trait for trait, the opposite of the plastic imagination. It has a general character of inwardness because it arises less from sensation than from feeling, often from a simple and fugitive impression. Its creations have not the organic character of the other, lacking a stable center of attraction; but they act by diffusion and inclusion. II By its very nature it is _de jure_, if not _de facto_, excluded from certain territories--if it ventures therein it produces only abortions. This is true of the practical sphere, which permits neither vague images nor approximate constructions; and of the scientific world, where the imagination may be used only to create a theory or invent processes of discovery (experiments, schemes of reasoning). Even with these exceptions there is still left for it a very wide range. Let us rapidly pass over some very frequent, very well-known manifestations of the diffluent imagination--those obliterated forms in which it does not reach complete development and cannot give the full measure of its power. (1) Revery and related states. This is perhaps the purest specimen of the kind, but it remains embryonic. (2) The romantic turn of mind. This is seen in those who, confronted by any event whatever or an unknown person, make up, spontaneously, involuntarily, in spite of themselves, a story out of whole cloth. I shall later give examples of it according to the written testimony of several people.[86] In whatever concerns themselves or others they create an imagined world, which they substitute for the real. (3) The fantastic mind. Here we come away from the vague forms; the diffluent imagination becomes substantial and asserts itself through its permanence. At bottom this fantastic form is the romantic spirit tending toward objectification. The invention, which was at first only a thoroughly internal construction and recognized as such, aspires to become external, to become realized, and when it ventures into a world other than its own, one requiring the rigorous conditions of the practical imagination, it is wrecked, or succeeds only through chance, and that very rarely. To this class belong those inventors, known to everyone, who are fertile in methods of enriching themselves or their country by means of agricultural, mining, industrial or commercial enterprises; the makers of the utopias of finance, politics, society, etc. It is a form of imagination unnaturally oriented toward the practical.[87] (4) The list increases with myths and religious conceptions; the imagination in its diffuse form here finds itself on its own ground. Depending on linguistics, it has recently been maintained that, among the Aryans at least, the imagination created at first only momentary gods (_Augenblicksgötter_).[88] Every time that primitive man, in the presence of a phenomenon, experienced a perceptible emotion, he translated it by a name, the manifestation of what was imagined the divine part in the emotion felt. "Every religious emotion gives rise to a new name--i.e., a new divinity. But the religious imagination is never identical with itself; though produced by the same phenomenon, it translates itself, at two different moments, by two different words." As a consequence, "during the early periods of the human race, religious names must have been applied not to _classes_ of beings or events but to _individual_ beings or events. Before worshipping the comet or the fig-tree, men must have worshiped each one of the comets they beheld crossing the sky, every one of the fig-trees that their eyes saw." Later, with advancing capacity for generalization, these "instantaneous" divinities would be condensed into more consistent gods. If this hypothesis, which has aroused many criticisms, be sound--if this state were met with--it would be the ideal type of imaginative instability in the religious order. Nearer to us, authentic evidence shows that certain peoples, at given stages of their history, have created such vague, fluid myths, that we cannot succeed in delimiting them. Every god can change himself into another, different, or even opposite, one. The Semitic religions might furnish examples of this. There has been established the identity of Istar, Astarte, Tanit, Baalath, Derketo, Mylitta, Aschera, and still others. But it is in the early religion of the Hindoos that we perceive best this kaleidoscopic process applied to divine beings. In the vedic hymns not only are the clouds now serpents, now cows and later fortresses (the retreats of dark Asuras), but we see Agni (fire) becoming Kama (desire or love), and Indra becoming Varuna, and so on. "We cannot imagine," says Taine, "such a great clearness. The myth here is not a disguise, but an expression; no language is more true and more supple. It permits a glimpse of, or rather, it causes us to discern the forms of clouds, movements of the air, changes of seasons, all the happenings of sky, fire, storm: external nature has never met a mind so impressionable and pliant in which to mirror itself in all the inexhaustible variety of its appearances. However changeable nature may be, this imagination corresponds to it. It has no fixed gods; they are changeable like the things themselves; they blend one into another. Everyone of them is in turn the supreme deity; no one of them is a distinct personality; everyone is only a moment of nature, able, according to the apperception of the moment, to include its neighbor or be included by it. In this fashion they swarm and teem. Every moment of nature and every apperceptive moment may furnish one of them."[89] Let us, indeed, note that, for the worshiper, the god to whom he addresses himself and while he is praying, is always the greatest and most powerful. The assignment of attributes passes suddenly from one to the other, regardless of contradiction. In this versatility some writers believe they have discovered a vague pantheistic conception. Nothing is more questionable, fundamentally, than this interpretation. It is more in harmony with the psychology of these naïve minds to assume simply an extreme state of "impressionism," explicable by the logic of feeling. Thus, there is a complete antithesis between the imagination that has created the clear-cut and definite polytheism of the Greeks and that whence have issued those fluctuating divinities that allow the presentation of the future doctrine of _Mâya_, of universal illusion--another more refined form of the diffluent imagination. Finally, let us note that the Hellenic imagination realized its gods through anthropomorphism--they are the ideal forms of human attributes[90]--majesty, beauty, power, wisdom, etc. The Hindoo imagination proceeds through symbolism: its divinities have several heads, several arms, several legs, to symbolize limitless intelligence, power, etc.; or better still, animal forms, as e.g., Ganesa, the god of wisdom, with the head of the elephant, reputed the wisest of animals. (5) It would be easy to show by the history of literature and the fine arts that the vague forms have been preferred according to peoples, times, and places. Let us limit ourselves to a single contemporary example that is complete and systematically created--the art of the "symbolists." It is not here a question of criticism, of praise, or even of appreciation, but merely of a consideration of it as a psychological fact likely to instruct us in regard to the nature of the diffluent imagination. This form of art despises the clear and exact representation of the outer world: it replaces it by a sort of music that aspires to express the changing and fleeting inwardness of the human soul. It is the school of the subject "who wants to know only mental states." To that end, it makes use of a natural or artificial lack of precision: everything floats in a dream, men as well as things, often without mark in time and space. Something happens, one knows not where or when; it belongs to no country, is of no period in time: it is _the_ forest, _the_ traveler, _the_ city, _the_ knight, _the_ wood; less frequently, even _He_, _She_, _It_. In short, all the vague and unstable characters of the pure, content-less affective state. This process of "suggestion" sometimes succeeds, sometimes fails. The word is the sign _par excellence_. As, according to the symbolists, it should give us emotions rather than representations, it is necessary that it lose, partially, its intellectual function and undergo a new adaptation. A principal process consists of employing usual words and changing their ordinary acceptation, or rather, associating them in such a way that they lose their precise meaning, and appear vague and mysterious: these are the words "written in the depths." The writers do not name--they leave it for us to infer. "They banish commonplaces through lack of precision, and leave to things only the power of moving." A rose is not described by the particular sensations that it causes, but by the general condition that it excites. Another method is the employment of new words or words that have fallen into disuse. Ordinary words retain, in spite of everything, somewhat of their customary meaning, associations and thoughts condensed in them through long habit; words forgotten during four or five centuries escape this condition--they are coins without fixed value. Lastly, a still more radical method is the attempt to give to words an exclusively emotional valuation. Unconsciously or as the result of reflection some symbolists have come to this extreme trial, which the logic of events imposed upon them. Ordinarily, thought expresses itself in words; feeling, in gestures, cries, interjections, change of tone: it finds its complete and classic expression in music. The symbolists want to transfer the rôle of sound to words, to make of them the instrument for translating and suggesting emotion through sound alone: words have to act not as signs but as sounds: they are "musical notes in the service of an impassioned psychology." All this, indeed, concerns only imagination expressing itself in words; but we know that the symbolic school has applied itself to the plastic arts, to treat them in its own way. The difference, however, is in the vesture that the esthetic ideal assumes. The pre-Raphaelites have attempted, by effacing forms, outlines, semblances, colors, "to cause things to appear as mere sources of emotion," in a word, to _paint_ emotions. To sum up--In this form of the diffluent imagination the emotional factor exercises supreme authority. May the type of imagination, the chief manifestations of which we have just enumerated, be considered as identical with the idealistic imagination? This question is similar to that asked in the preceding chapter, and permits the same answer. In idealistic art, doubtless, the material element furnished in perception (form, color, touch, effort) is minimized, subtilized, sublimated, refined, so as to approach as nearly as possible to a purely internal state. By the nature of its favorite images, by its preference for vague associations and uncertain relations, it presents all the characteristics of diffluent imagination; but the latter covers a much broader field: it is the genus of which the other is a species. Thus, it would be erroneous to regard the fantastic imagination as idealistic; it has no claim to the term: on the contrary, it believes itself adapted for practical work and acts in that direction. In addition, it must be recognized that were we to make a complete review of all the forms of esthetic creation, we should frequently be embarrassed to classify them, because there are among them, as in the case of characters, mixed or composite forms. Here, for example, are two kinds seemingly belonging to the diffluent imagination which, however, do not permit it to completely include them. (a) The "wonder" class (fairy-tales, the Thousand and One Nights, romances of chivalry, Ariosto's poem, etc.) is a survival of the mythic epoch, when the imagination is given free play without control or check; whereas, in the course of centuries, art--and especially literary creation--becomes, as we have already said, a decadent and rationalized mythology. This form of invention consists neither of idealizing the external world, nor reproducing it with the minuteness of realism, but _remaking_ the universe to suit oneself, without taking into account natural laws, and despising the impossible: it is a liberated realism. Often, in an environment of pure fancy, where only caprice reigns, the characters appear clear, well-fashioned, living. The "wonder" class belongs, then, to the vague as well as to the plastic imagination; more or less to one or to the other, according to the temperament of the creator. (b) The fantastic class develops under the same conditions. Its chiefs (Hoffmann, Poe, _et al._) are classed by critics as realists. They are such by virtue of their vision, intensified to hallucination, the precision in details, the rigorous logic of characters and events: they rationalize the improbable.[91] On the other hand, the environment is strange, shrouded in mystery: men and things move in an unreal atmosphere, where one feels rather than perceives. It is thus proper to remark that this class easily glides into the deeply sad, the horrible, terrifying, nightmare-producing, "satanic literature;" Goya's paintings of robbers and thieves being garroted; Wiertz, a genius bizarre to the point of extravagance, who paints only suicides or the heads of guillotined criminals. Religious conceptions could also furnish a fine lot of examples: Dante's _Inferno_, the twenty-eight hells of Buddhism, which are perhaps the masterpieces of this class, etc. But all this belongs to another division of our subject, one that I have expressly eliminated from this essay--the pathology of the creative imagination. III There yet remains for us to study two important varieties that I connect with the diffluent imagination. NUMERICAL IMAGINATION Under this head I designate the imagination that takes pleasure in the unlimited--in infinity of time and space--under the form of number. It seems at first that these two terms--imagination and number--must be mutually exclusive. Every number is precise, rigorously determined, since we can always reduce it to a relation with unity; it owes nothing to fancy. But the _series_ of numbers is unlimited in two directions: starting from any term in the series, we may go on ever increasingly or ever decreasingly. The working of the mind gives rise to a possible infinity that is limitless: it thus traces a route for the movement of the imagination. The number, or rather the series of numbers, is less an object than a vehicle. This form of imagination is produced in two principal ways--in religious conceptions and cosmogonies, and in science. (1) Numerical imagination has nowhere been more exuberant than among the peoples of the Orient. They have played with number with magnificent audacity and prodigality. Chaldean cosmogony relates that _Oannes_, the Fish-god, devoted 259,200 years to the education of mankind, then came a period of 432,000 years taken up with the reigns of mythical personages, and at the end of these 691,000 years, the deluge renewed the face of the earth. The Egyptians, also, were liberal with millions of years, and in the face of the brief and limited chronology of the Greeks (another kind of imagination) were wont to exclaim, "You, O Greeks, you are only children!" But the Hindoos have done better than all that. They have invented enormous units to serve as basis and content for their numerical fancies: the _Koti_, equivalent to ten millions; the _Kalpa_ (or the age of the world between two destructions), 4,328,000,000 years. Each _Kalpa_ is merely one of 365 days of divine life: I leave to the reader, if he is so inclined, the work of calculating this appalling number. The Djanas divide time into two periods, one ascending, the other descending: each is of fabulous duration, 2,000,000,000,000,000 oceans of years; each ocean being itself equivalent to 1,000,000,000,000,000 years. "If there were a lofty rock, sixteen miles in each dimension, and one touched it once in a hundred years with a bit of the finest Benares linen, it would be reduced to the size of a wango-stone before a fourth of one of these _Kalpas_ had rolled by." In the sacred books of Buddhism, poor, dry, colorless, as they ordinarily are, imagination in its numerical forms is triumphant. The _Lalitavistara_ is full of nomenclatures and enumerations of fatiguing monotony: Buddha is seated on a rock shaded by 100,000 parasols, surrounded by minor gods forming an assemblage of 68,000 _Kotis_ (i.e., 680,000,000 persons), and--this surpasses all the rest--"he had experienced many vicissitudes during 10,100,000,000 _Kalpas_." This makes one dizzy. (2) Numerical imagination in the sciences does not take on these delirious forms; it has the advantage of resting on an objective basis: it is the substitute of an unrepresentable reality. Scientific culture, which people often accuse of stifling imagination, on the contrary opens to it a field much vaster than esthetics. Astronomy delights in infinitudes of time and space: it sees worlds arise, burn at first with the feeble light of a nebular mass, glow like suns, become chilled, covered with spots, and then become condensed. Geology follows the development of our earth through upheavals and cataclysms: it foresees a distant future when our globe, deprived of the atmospheric vapors that protect it, will perish of cold. The hypotheses of physics and chemistry in regard to atoms and molecules are not less reckless than the speculations of the Hindoo imagination. "Physicists have determined the volume of a molecule, and referring to the numbers that they give, we find that a cube, a millimeter each way (scarcely the volume of a silkworm's egg), would contain a number of molecules at least equal to the cube of 10,000,000--i.e., unity followed by twenty-one zeros. One scientist has calculated that if one had to count them and could separate in thought a million per second, it would take more than 250,000,000 years: the being who commenced the task at the time that our solar system could have been no more than a formless nebula, would not yet have reached the end."[92] Biology, with its protoplasmic elements, its plastids, gemmules, hypotheses on hereditary transmission by means of infinitesimal subdivisions; the theory of evolution, which speaks off-hand of periods of a hundred thousand years; and many other scientific theses that I omit, offer fine material for the numerical imagination. More than one scientist has even made use of this form of imagination for the pleasure of developing a purely fanciful notion. Thus Von Baer, supposing that we might perceive the portions of duration in another way, imagines the changes that would result therefrom in our outlook on nature: "Suppose we were able, within the length of a second, to note 10,000 events distinctly, instead of barely 10, as now; if our life were then destined to hold the same number of impressions, it might be 1,000 times as short. We should live less than a month, and personally know nothing of the change of seasons. If born in winter, we should believe in summer as we now believe in the heats of the Carboniferous era. The motions of organic beings would be so slow to our senses as to be inferred, not seen. The sun would stand still in the sky, the moon be almost free from change, and so on. But now reverse the hypothesis and suppose a being to get only one 1,000th part of the sensations that we get in a given time, and consequently to live 1,000 times as long. Winters and summers will be to him like quarters of an hour. Mushrooms and the swifter-growing plants will shoot into being so rapidly as to appear instantaneous creations; annual shrubs will rise and fall from the earth like restlessly boiling water springs; the motions of animals will be as invisible as are to us the movements of bullets and cannonballs; the sun will scour through the sky like a meteor, leaving a fiery trail behind him, etc."[93] The psychologic conditions of this variety of the creative imagination are, then, these: Absence of limitation in time and space, whence the possibility of an endless movement in all directions, and the possibility of filling either with a myriad of dimly-perceived events. These events not being susceptible of clear representation as to their nature and quantity, escaping even a schematic representation, the imagination makes its constructions with substitutes that are, in this case, numbers. IV MUSICAL IMAGINATION Musical imagination deserves a separate monograph. As the task requires, in addition to psychological capacity, a profound knowledge of musical history and technique, it cannot be undertaken here. I purpose only one thing, namely, to show that it has its own individual mark--that it is the type of affective imagination. I have elsewhere[94] attempted to prove that, contrary to the general opinion of psychologists, there exists, in many men at least, an affective memory; that is, a memory of emotions strictly so called, and not merely of the intellectual conditions that caused and accompanied them. I hold that there exists also a form of the creative imagination that is purely emotional--the contents of which are wholly made up of states of mind, dispositions, wants, aspirations, feelings, and emotions of all kinds, and that it is the characteristic of the composer of genius, of the born musician. The musician sees in the world what concerns him. "He carries in his head a coherent system of tone-images, in which every element has its place and value; he perceives delicate differences of sound, of _timbre_; he succeeds, through exercise, in penetrating into their most varied combinations, and the knowledge of harmonious relations is for him what design and the knowledge of color are for the painter: intervals and harmony, rhythm and tone-qualities are, as it were, standards to which he relates his present perceptions and which he causes to enter into the marvelous constructions of his fancy."[95] These sound-elements and their combinations are the words of a special language that is very clear for some, impenetrable for others. People have spoken to a tiresome extent of the vagueness of musical expression; some have been pleased to hold that every one may interpret it in his own way. We must surely recognize that emotional language does not possess the precision of intellectual language; but in music it is the same as in any other idiom: there are those who do not understand at all; those who half understand and consequently always give wrong renderings; and those who understand well--and in this last category there are grades as varying as the aptitude for perceiving the delicate and subtle shades of speech.[96] The materials necessary for this form of imaginative construction are gathered slowly. Many centuries passed between the early ages when man's voice and the simple instruments imitating it translated simple emotions, to the period when the efforts of antiquity and of the middle ages finally furnished the musical imagination with the means of expressing itself completely, and allowed complex and difficult constructions in sound. The development of music--slow and belated as compared to the other arts--has perhaps been due, in part at least, to the fact that the affective imagination, its chief province (imitative, descriptive, picturesque music being only an episode and accessory), being made up, contrary to sensorial imagination, of tenuous, subtle, fugitive states, has been long in seeking its methods of analysis and of expression. However it be, Bach and the contrapuntists, by their treatment in an independent manner of the different voices constituting harmony, have opened a new path. Henceforth melody will be able to develop and give rise to the richest combinations. We shall be able to associate various melodies, sing them at the same time, or in alternation, assign them to various instruments, vary indefinitely the pitch of singing and concerted voices. The boundless realm of musical combinations is open; it has been worth while to take the trouble to invent. Modern polyphony with its power of expressing at the same time different, even opposing, feelings is a marvelous instrument for a form of imagination which, alien to the forms clear-cut in space, moves only in time. What furnishes us the best entrance into the psychology of this form of imagination is the natural transposition operative in musicians. It consists in this: An external or internal impression, any occurrence whatever, even a metaphysical idea, undergoes change of a certain kind, which the following examples will make better understood than any amount of commentary. Beethoven said of Klopstock's _Messiah_, "always _maestoso_, written in _D flat major_." In his fourth symphony he expressed musically the destiny of Napoleon; in the ninth symphony he tries to give a proof of the existence of God. By the side of a dead friend, in a room draped in black, he improvises the _adagio_ of the sonata in _C sharp minor_. The biographers of Mendelssohn relate analogous instances of transposition under musical form. During a storm that almost engulfed George Sand, Chopin, alone in the house, under the influence of his agony, and half unconsciously, composed one of his _Préludes_. The case of Schumann is perhaps the most curious of all: "From the age of eight, he would amuse himself with sketching what might be called musical portraits, drawing by means of various turns of song and varied rhythms the shades of character, and even the physical peculiarities, of his young comrades. He sometimes succeeded in making such striking resemblances that all would recognize, with no further designation, the figure indicated by the skillful fingers that genius was already guiding." He said later: "I feel myself affected by all that goes on in the world--men, politics, literature; I reflect on all that in my own way and it issues outwards in the form of music. That is why many of my compositions are so hard to understand: they relate to events of distant interest, though important; but everything remarkable that is furnished me by the period I must express musically." Let us recall again that Weber interpreted in one of the finest scenes of his _Freyschütz_ (the bullet-casting scene) "a landscape that he had seen near the falls of Geroldsau, at the hour when the moon's rays cause the basin in which the water rushes and boils to glisten like silver."[97] In short, the events go into the composer's brain, mix there, and come out changed into a musical structure. The plastic imagination furnishes us a counter-proof: it transposes inversely. The musical impression traverses the brain, sets it in turmoil, but comes out transformed into visual images. We have already cited examples from Victor Hugo (ch. I); Goethe, we know, had poor musical gifts. After having the young Mendelssohn render an overture from Bach, he exclaimed, "How pompous and grand that is! It seems to me like a procession of grand personages, in gala attire, descending the steps of a gigantic staircase." We might generalize the question and ask whether or no there exists a natural antagonism between true musical imagination and plastic imagination. An answer in the affirmative seems scarcely liable to be challenged. I had undertaken an investigation which, at the outset, made for a different goal. It happens that it answered clearly enough the question propounded above: the conclusion has arisen of itself, unsought; which fact saves me from any charge of a preconceived opinion. The question asked orally of a large number of people was this: "Does hearing or even remembering a bit of _symphonic_ music excite visual images in you and of what kind are they?" For self evident reasons dramatic music was expressly excluded: the appearance of the theater, stage, and scenery impose on the observer visual perceptions that have a tendency to be repeated later in the form of memories. The result of observation and of the collected answers are summed up as follows: Those who possess great musical culture and--this is by far more important--taste or passion for music, generally have no visual images. If these arise, it is only momentarily, and by chance. I give a few of the answers: "I see absolutely nothing; I am occupied altogether with the pleasure of the music: I live entirely in a world of sound. In accordance with my knowledge of harmony, I analyze the harmonies but not for long. I follow the development of the phrasing." "I see nothing: I am given up wholly to my impressions. I believe that the chief effect of music is to heighten in everyone the predominating feelings." Those who possess little musical culture, and especially those having little taste for music, have very clear visual representations. It must nevertheless be admitted that it is very hard to investigate these people. Because of their anti-musical natures, they avoid concerts, or at the most, resign themselves to sit through an opera. However, since the nature and quality of the music does not matter here, we may quote: "Hearing a Barbary organ in the street, I picture the instrument to myself. I see the man turning the crank. If military music sounds from afar, I _see_ a regiment marching." An excellent pianist plays for a friend Beethoven's sonata in C sharp minor, putting into its execution all the pathos of which he is capable. The other sees in it "the tumult and excitement of a fair." Here the musical rendering is misinterpreted through misapprehension. I have several times noted this--in people familiar with design or painting, music calls up pictures and various scenes; one of these persons says that he is "besieged by visual images." Here the hearing of music evidently acts as excitant.[98] In a word, insofar as it is permissible in psychology to make use of general formulas--and with the proviso that they apply to most, not to all cases--we may say that during the working of the musical imagination the appearance of visual images is the exception; that when this form of imagination is weak, the appearance of images is the rule. Furthermore, this result of observation is altogether in accord with logic. There is an irreducible antithesis between affective imagination, the characteristic of which is interiority, and visual imagination, basically objective. Intellectual language--speech--is an arrangement of words that stand for objects, qualities, relations, extracts of things: in order to be understood they must call up in consciousness the corresponding images. Emotional language--music--is an appropriate ordering of successive or simultaneous sounds, of melodies and harmonies that are signs of affective states: in order to be understood, they must call up in consciousness the corresponding affective modifications. But, in the non-musically inclined, the evocative power is small--sonorous combinations excite only superficial and unstable internal states. The exterior excitation, that of the sounds, follows the line of least resistance, and acting according to the psychic nature of the individual, tends to arouse objective images, pictures, visual representations, well or ill adapted. To sum up: In contrast to sensorial imagination, which has its origin without, affective imagination begins within. The _stuff_ of its creation is found in the mental states enumerated above, and in their innumerable combinations, which it expresses and fixes in language peculiar to itself, of which it has been able to make wonderful use. Taking it altogether, the only great division possible between the different types of imagination is perhaps reducible to this: To speak more exactly, there are exterior and interior imaginations. These two chapters have given a sketch of them. There now remains for us to study the less general forms of the creative power. FOOTNOTES: [86] See Appendix E. [87] Let us cite merely the case of Balzac who, says one of his biographers, "was always odd." He buys a property, in order to start a dairy there with "the best cows in the world," from which he expects to receive a net income of 3,000 francs. In addition, high-grade vegetable gardens, same income; vineyard, with Malaga plants, which should bring about 2,000 fr. He has the commune of Sèvres deed over to him a walnut tree, worth annually 2,000 francs to him, because all the townspeople dump their rubbish there. And so on, until at the end of four years he sees himself obliged to sell his domain for 3,000 francs, after spending on it thrice that sum. [88] Usener, _Götternamen_, 1896. [89] _Nouveaux Essais de critique_, p. 320. [90] Or, as it has been expressed, "human qualities raised to their highest power." (Tr.) [91] The same statement holds good as regards the "Temptations of Saint Anthony" and other analogous subjects that have often attracted painters. [92] R. Dubois, _Leçons de physiologie générale et comparée_, p. 286. [93] Von Baer, in James, _Psychology_, I, 639. [94] _Psychology of the Emotions_, Part I, Chapter IX. [95] Arréat, _Mémoire et Imagination_, p. 118. [96] Mendelssohn wrote to an author who composed verses for his _Lieder_: "Music is more definite than speech, and to want to explain it by means of words is to make the meaning obscure. I do not think that words suffice for that end, and were I persuaded to the contrary, I would not compose music. There are people who accuse music of being ambiguous, who allege that words are always understood: for me it is just the other way; words seem to me vague, ambiguous, unintelligible, if we compare them to the true music that fills the soul with a thousand things better than words. What the music that I like expresses to me seems to me too _definite_, rather than too indefinite, for anyone to be able to match words to it." [97] Oelzelt-Newin, _op. cit._, pp. 22-23. For analogous facts from contemporary musicians, see Paulhan, _Rev. Phil._, 1898, pp. 234-35. [98] For the sake of brevity and clearness I do not give here the observations and evidence. They will be found at the end of this work, as Appendix D. Under the title "An experimental test of musical expressiveness," Gilman, in _American Journal of Psychology_, vol. IV, No. 4, and vol. V, No. 1 (1892-3), has studied from another point of view the effect of music on various listeners. Eleven selections were given; I note that three or four at the most excited visual images--ten (perhaps eleven), emotional states. More recently, the _Psychological Review_ (September, 1898, pp. 463 ff.) has published a personal observation of Macdougal in which sight-images accompany the hearing of music only exceptionally and under special conditions. The author characterizes himself as a "poor visualizer;" he declares that music arouses in him only very rarely visual representations; "even then they are fragmentary, consisting of simple forms without bond between them, appearing on a dark background, remaining visible for a moment or two, and soon disappearing." But, having gone to the concert fatigued and jaded, he sees nothing during the first number: the visions begin during the _andante_ of the second, and accompany "in profusion" the rendering of the third. (See Appendix D.) May we not assume that the state of fatigue, by lowering the vital tone, which is the basis of the emotional life, likewise diminishes the tendency of affective dispositions to arise again under the form of memory? On the other hand, sensory images remain without opposition and come to the front; at least, unless they are reënforced by a state of semi-morbid excitation. CHAPTER III. THE MYSTIC IMAGINATION Mystic imagination deserves a place of honor, as it is the most complete and most daring of purely theoretic invention. Related to diffluent imagination, especially in the latter's affective form, it has its own special characters, which we shall try to separate out. Mysticism rests essentially on two modes of mental life--feeling, which we need not study; and imagination, which, in the present instance, represents the intellectual factor. Whether the part of consciousness that this state of mind requires and permits be imaginative in nature and nothing else it is easy to find out. Indeed, the mystic considers the data of sense as vain appearances, or at the most as signs revealing and frequently laying bare the world of reality. He therefore finds no solid support in perception. On the other hand, he scorns reasoned thought, looking upon it as a cripple, halting half-way. He makes neither deductions nor inductions, and does not draw conclusions after the method of scientific hypotheses. The conclusion, then, is that he imagines, i.e., that he realizes a construction in images that is for him knowledge of the world; and he never proceeds, and does not proceed here, save _ex analogia hominis_. I The root of the mystic imagination consists of a tendency to incarnate the ideal in the sensible, to discover a hidden "idea" in every material phenomenon or occurrence, to suppose in things a supranatural principle that reveals itself to whoever may penetrate to it. Its fundamental character, from which the others are derived, is thus a way of thinking _symbolically_; but the algebraist also thinks by means of symbols, yet is not on that account a mystic. The nature of this symbolism must, then, be determined. In doing so, let us note first of all that our images--understanding the word "image" in its broadest sense--may be divided into two distinct groups: (1) _Concrete_ images, earliest to be received, being representations of greatest power, residues of our perceptions, with which they have a direct and immediate relation. (2) _Symbolic_ images, or signs, of secondary acquirement, being representations of lesser power, having only indirect and mediate relations with things. Let us make the differences between the two clear by a few simple examples. Concrete images are: In the visual sphere, the recollection of faces, monuments, landscapes, etc.; in the auditory sphere, the remembrance of the sounds of the sea, wind, the human voice, a melody, etc.; in the motor sphere, the tossings one feels when resting after having been at sea, the illusions of those who have had limbs amputated, etc. Symbolic images are: In the visual order, written words, ideographic signs, etc.; in the auditory order, spoken words or verbal images; in the motor order, significant gestures, and even better, the finger-language of deaf-mutes. Psychologically, these two groups are not identical in nature. Concrete images result from a persistence of perceptions and draw from the latter all their validity; symbolic images result from a mental synthesis, from an association of perception and image, or of image and image. If they have not the same origin, no more do they disappear in the same way, as is proven by very numerous examples of aphasia. The originality of mystic imagination is found in this fact: It transforms concrete images into symbolic images, and uses them as such. It extends this process even to perceptions, so that all manifestations of nature or of human art take on a value as signs or symbols. We shall later find numerous examples of this. Its mode of expression is necessarily synthetic. In itself, and because of the materials that it makes use of, it differs from the affective imagination previously described; it also differs from sensuous imagination, which makes use of forms, movements, colors, as having a value of their own; and from the imagination developing in the functions of words, through an analytic process. It has thus a rather special mark. Other characters are related to this one of symbolism, or else are derived from it, viz.: (1) An external character: the manner of writing and of speaking, the mode of expression, whatever it is. "The dominant style among mystics," says von Hartmann, "is metaphorical in the extreme--now flat and ordinary, more often turgid and emphatic. Excess of imagination betrays itself there, ordinarily, in the thought and in the form in which that is rendered.... A sign of mysticism which it has been believed may often be taken as an essential sign, is obscurity and unintelligibility of language. We find it in almost all those who have written."[99] We might add that even in the plastic arts, symbolists and "_décadents_" have attempted, as far as possible, methods that merely indicate and suggest or hint instead of giving real, definite objects: which fact makes them inaccessible to the greater number of people. This characteristic of obscurity is due to two causes. First, mystical imagination is guided by the logic of feeling, which is purely subjective, full of leaps, jerks, and gaps. Again, it makes use of the language of images, especially visual images--a language whose ideal is vagueness, just as the ideal of verbal language is precision. All this can be summed up in a phrase--the subjective character inherent in the symbol. While seeming to speak like everyone else, the mystic uses a personal idiom: things becoming symbols at the pleasure of his fancy, he does not use signs that have a fixed and universally admitted value. It is not surprising if we do not understand him. (2) An extraordinary abuse of analogy and comparison in their various forms (allegory, parable, etc.)--a natural consequence of a mode of thinking that proceeds by means of symbols, not concepts. It has been said, and rightly, that "the only force that makes the vast field of mysticism fruitful is analogy."[100] Bossuet, a great opponent of mystics, had already remarked: "One of the characteristics of these authors is the pushing of allegories to the extreme limit." With warm imagination, having at their disposal overexcited senses, they are lavish of changes of expressions and figures, hoping thereby to explain the world's mysteries. We know to what inventive labors the Vedas, the Bible, the Koran, and other sacred books have given rise. The distinction between literal and figurative sense, which is boundlessly arbitrary, has given commentators a freedom to imagine equal to that of the myth-creators. All this is yet very reasonable; but the imagination left to itself stops at no extravagance. After having strained the meaning of expressions, the imaginative mind exercises itself on words and letters. Thus, the cabalists would take the first or the last letters of the words composing a verse, and would form with them a new word which was to reveal the hidden meaning. Again, they would substitute for the letters composing words the numbers that these letters represent in the Hebrew numerical system and form the strangest combinations with them. In the _Zohar_, all the letters of the alphabet come before God, each one begging to be chosen as the creative element of the universe. Let us also bring to mind numerical mysticism, different from numerical imagination heretofore studied. Here, number is no longer the means that mind employs in order to soar in time and space; it becomes a symbol and material for fanciful construction. Hence arise those "sacred numbers" teeming in the old oriental religions:--3, symbol of the trinity; 4, symbol of the cosmic elements; 7, representing the moon and the planets, etc.[101] Besides these fantastic meanings, there are more complicated inventions--calculating, from the letters of one's name, the years of life of a sick person, the auspices of a marriage, etc. The Pythagorean philosophy, as Zeller has shown, is the systematic form of this mathematical mysticism, for which numbers are not symbols of quantitative relations, but the very essence of things. This exaggerated symbolism, which makes the works of mystics so fragile, and which permits the mind to feed only on glimpses, has nevertheless an undeniable source of energy in its enchanting capacity to suggest. Without doubt suggestion exists also in art, but much more weakly, for reasons that we shall indicate. (3) Another characteristic of mystic imagination is the nature and the great degree of belief accompanying it. We already know[102] that when an image enters consciousness, even in the form of a recollection, of a purely passive reproduction, it appears at first, and for a moment, just as real as a percept. Much more so, in the case of imaginative constructions. But this illusion has degrees, and with mystics it attains its maximum. In the scientific and practical world, the work of the imagination is accompanied by only a conditional and provisional belief. The construction in images must justify its existence, in the case of the scientist, by explaining; and in the case of the man of affairs, by being embodied in an invention that is useful and answers its purpose. In the esthetic field, creation is accompanied by a momentary belief. Fancy, remarks Groos, is necessarily joined to appearance. Its special character does not consist merely in freedom in images; what distinguishes it from association and from memory is this--that what is merely representative is taken for the reality. The creative artist has a conscious illusion (_bewusste Selbsttäuschung_): _the esthetic pleasure is an oscillation between the appearance and the reality_.[103] Mystic imagination presupposes an unconditioned and permanent belief. Mystics are believers in the true sense--they have faith. This character is peculiar to them, and has its origin in the intensity of the affective state that excites and supports this form of invention. Intuition becomes an object of knowledge only when clothed in images. There has been much dispute as to the objective value of those symbolic forms that are the working material of the mystic imagination. This contest does not concern us here; but we may make the positive statement that the constructive imagination has never obtained such a frequently hallucinatory form as in the mystics. Visions, touch-illusions, external voices, inner and "wordless" voices, which we now regard as psycho-motor hallucinations--all that we meet every moment in their works, until they become commonplace. But as to the nature of these psychic states there are only two solutions possible--one, naturalistic, that we shall indicate; the other, supernatural, which most theologians hold, and which regards these phenomena as valid and true revelation. In either case, the mystic imagination seems to us naturally tending toward objectification. It tends outwardly, by a spontaneous movement that places it on the same level as reality. Whichever conclusion we adopt, no imaginative type has the same great gift of energy and permanence in belief. II Mystic imagination, working along the lines peculiar to it, produces cosmological, religious, and metaphysical constructions, a summary exposition of which will help us understand its true nature. (1) The all-embracing cosmological form is the conception of the world by a purely imaginative being. It is rare, abnormal, and is nowadays met with only in a few artists, dreamers, or morbidly esthetic persons, as a kind of survival and temporary form. Thus, Victor Hugo sees in each letter of the alphabet the pictured imitation of one of the objects essential to human knowledge: "_A_ is the head, the gable, the cross-beam, the arch, _arx_; _D_ is the back, _dos_; _E_ is the basement, the console, etc., so that man's house and its architecture, man's body and its structure, and then justice, music, the church, war, harvesting, geometry, mountains, etc.--all that is comprised in the alphabet through the mystic virtue of form."[104] Even more radical is Gérard de Nerval (who, moreover, was frequently subject to hallucinations): "At certain times everything takes on for me a new aspect--secret voices come out of plant, tree, animals, from the humblest insects, to caution and encourage me. Formless and lifeless objects have mysterious turns the meaning of which I understand." To others, contemporaries, "the real world is a fairy land." The middle ages--a period of lively imagination and slight rational culture--overflowed in this direction. "Many thought that on this earth everything is a sign, a figure, and that the visible is worth nothing except insofar as it covers up the invisible." Plants, animals--there is nothing that does not become subject for interpretation; all the members of the body are emblems; the head is Christ, the hairs are the saints, the legs are the apostles, the eye is contemplation, etc. There are extant special books in which all that is seriously explained. Who does not know the symbolism of the cathedrals, and the vagaries to which it has given rise? The towers are prayer, the columns the apostles, the stones and the mortar the assembly of the faithful; the windows are the organs of sense, the buttresses and abutments are the divine assistance; and so on to the minutest detail. In our day of intense intellectual development, it is not given to many to return sincerely to a mental condition that recalls that of the earliest times. Even if we come near it, we still find a difference. Primitive man puts life, consciousness, activity, into everything; symbolism does likewise, but it does not believe in an autonomous, distinct, particular soul inherent in each thing. The absence of abstraction and generalization, characteristic of humanity in its early beginnings, when it peoples the world with myriads of animate beings, has disappeared. Every source of activity revealed by symbols appears as a fragmentary manifestation; it descends from a single primary, personal or impersonal, spring. At the root of this imaginative construction there is always either theism or pantheism. (2) Mystical imagination has often and erroneously been identified with religious imagination. Although it may be held that every religion, no matter how dull and poor, presupposes a latent mysticism, because it supposes an Unknown beyond the reach of sense, there are religions very slightly mystical in fact--those of savages, strictly utilitarian; among barbarians, the martial cults of the Germans and the Aztecs; among civilized races, Rome and Greece.[105] However, even though the mystic imagination is not confined to the bounds of religious thought, history shows us that there it attains its completest expansion. To be brief, and to keep strictly within our subject, let us note that in the completely developed great religions there has arisen opposition between the rationalists and the imaginative expounders, between the dogmatists and the mystics. The former, rational architects, build by means of abstract ideas, logical relations and methods, by deduction and induction; the others, imaginative builders, care little for this learned magnificence--they excel in vivid creations because the moving energy with them is in their feelings, "in their hearts;" because they speak a language made up of concrete images, and consequently their wholly symbolic speech is at the same time an original construction. The mystic imagination is a transformation of the mythic imagination, the myth changing into symbols. It cannot escape the necessity of this. On the other hand, the affective states cannot longer remain vague, diffuse, purely internal; they must become fixed in time and space, and condensed into images forming a personality, legend, event, or rite. Thus, Buddha represents the tendencies towards pity and resignation, summing up the aspirations for final rest. On the other hand, abstract ideas, pure concepts, being repugnant to the mystic's nature, it is also necessary that they take on images through which they may be seen--e.g., the relations between God and man, in the various forms of communion; the idea of divine protection in incarnations, mediators, etc. But the images made use of are not dry and colorless like words that by long use have lost all direct representative value and are merely marks or tags. Being symbolic, i.e., concrete, they are, as we have seen, direct substitutes for reality, and they differ as much from words as sketching and drawing differ from our alphabetical signs, which are, however, their derivatives or abbreviations. It must, however, be noted that if "the mystic fact is a naïve effort to apprehend the absolute, a mode of symbolic, not dialectic, thinking, that lives on symbols and finds in them the only fitting expression,"[106] it seems that this imaginative phase has been to some minds only an internal form, for they have attempted to go beyond it through ecstacy, aspiring to grasp the ultimate principle as a pure unity, without image and without form,[107] which metaphysical realism hopes to attain by other methods and by a different route. However interesting they may be for psychology, these attempts, luring one on further and further, by their seeming or real elimination of every symbolic element, become foreign to our subject, and we cannot consider them at greater length here. (3) "History shows that philosophy has done nothing but transform ideas of mystic production, substituting for the form of images and undemonstrated statements the form of assertions of a rational system."[108] This declaration of a metaphysician saves us from dwelling on the subject long. When we seek the difference between religious and metaphysical or philosophical symbolism, we find it in the nature of the constitutive elements. Turned in the direction of religion, mystic symbolism presupposes two principal elements--imagination and feeling; turned in a metaphysical direction, it presupposes imagination and a very small rational element. This substitution involves appreciable deviation from the primitive type. The construction is of greater logical regularity. Besides, and this is the important characteristic, the subject-matter--though still resembling symbolic images--tends to become concepts: such are vivified abstractions, allegorical beings, hereditary entities of spirits and of gods. In short, metaphysical mysticism is a transition-form towards metaphysical rationalism, although these two tendencies have always been inimical in the history of philosophy, just as in the history of religion. In this imaginative plan of the world we may recognize stages according to the increasing weakness of the systems, depending on the number and quality of the hypotheses. For example, the progression is apparent between Plotinus and the frenzied creations of the Gnostics and the Cabalists. With the latter, we come into a world of unbridled fancy which, in place of human romances, invents cosmic romances. Here appear the allegorical beings mentioned above, half concept, half symbol; the ten Sephiros of the Cabala, immutable forms of being; the _syzygies_ or couples of Gnosticism--soul and reflection, depth and silence, reason and life, inspiration and truth, etc.; the absolute manifesting itself by the unfolding of fifty-two attributes, each unfolding comprising seven _eons_, corresponding to the 364 days of the year, etc. It would be wearisome to follow these extravagant thoughts, which, though the learned may treat them with some respect, have for the psychologist only the interest of pathologic evidence. Moreover, this form of mystic imagination presents too little that is new for us to speak of it without repeating ourselves. To conclude: The mystic imagination, in its alluring freedom, its variety, and its richness, is second to no form, not even to esthetic invention, which, according to common prejudice, is the type _par excellence_. Following the most venturesome methods of analogy, it has constructed conceptions of the world made up almost wholly of feelings and images--symbolic architectures. FOOTNOTES: [99] _Philosophy of the Unconscious_, I, part 2, ch. IX. [100] J. Darmesteter, in Récéjac, _Essai sur les fondements de la connaissance mystique_, p. 124. [101] In such notions may perhaps be best found the genesis of the present superstitions in regard to "lucky" and "unlucky" numbers, like the number 13, which have such persistence. (Tr.) [102] See Part Two, chapter II. [103] Groos, _Die Spiele der Thiere_, pp. 308-312. [104] Mabilleau, _op. cit._, p. 132. [105] If we leave out oriental influences and the Mysteries, which, according to Aristotle, were not dogmatic teaching, but a show, an assemblage of symbols, acting by evocation, or suggestion, following the special mode of mystic imagination that we already know. [106] Récéjac, _op. cit._, pp. 139 ff. [107] One at once calls to mind Plotinus, whose highest philosophy is a kind of indescribable ecstacy. (Tr.) [108] Hartmann, _op. cit._, vol. I, part 2, chapter IX. CHAPTER IV THE SCIENTIFIC IMAGINATION It is quite generally recognized that imagination is indispensable in all sciences; that without it we could only copy, repeat, imitate; that it is a stimulus driving us onward and launching us into the unknown. If there does exist a very widespread prejudice to the contrary--if many hold that scientific culture throttles imagination--we must look for the explanation of this view first, in the equivocation, pointed out several times, that makes the essence of the creative imagination consist of images, which are here most often replaced by abstractions or extracts of things--whence it results that the created work does not have the living forms of religion, of art, or even of mechanical invention; and then, in the rational requirements regulating the development of the creative faculty--it may not wander at will. In either case its end is determined, and in order to exist, i.e., in order to be accepted, the invention must become subject to preëstablished rules. This variety of imagination being, after the esthetic form, the one that psychologists have best described, we may therefore be brief. A complete study of the subject, however, remains yet to be made. Indeed, we may remark that there is no "scientific imagination" in general, that its form must vary according to the nature of the science, and that, consequently, it really resolves itself into a certain number of genera and even of species. Whence arises the need of monographs, each one of which should be the work of a competent man. No one will question that mathematicians have a way of thinking all their own; but even this is too general. The arithmetician, the algebraist, and more generally the analyst, in whom invention obtains in the most abstract form of discontinuous functions--symbols and their relations--cannot imagine like the geometrician. One may well speak of the ideal figures of geometry--the empirical origin of which is no longer anywhere contested--but we cannot escape from representing them as somehow in space. Does anyone think that Monge, the creator of descriptive geometry, who by his work has aided builders, architects, mechanics, stone cutters in their labors, could have the same type of imagination as the mathematician who has been given up all his life to the theory of number? Here, then, are at least two well-marked varieties, to say nothing of mixed forms. The physicist's imagination is necessarily more concrete; since he is incessantly obliged to refer to the data of sense or to that totality of visual, tactile, motor, acoustic, thermic, etc., representations that we term the "properties of matter." Our eye, says Tyndall, cannot see sound waves contract and dilate, but we construct them in thought--i.e., by means of visual images. The same remarks are true of chemists. The founders of the atomic theory certainly _saw_ atoms, and pictured them in the mind's eye, and their arrangement in compound bodies. The complexity of the imagination increases still more in the geologist, the botanist, the zoologist; it approaches more and more, with its increasing details, to the level of perception. The physician, in whom science becomes also an art, has need of visual representations of the exterior and interior, microscopic and macroscopic, of the various forms of diseased conditions; auditory representations (auscultation); tactile representations (touch, reverberation, etc.); and let us also add that we are not speaking merely of diagnosis of diseases, which is a matter of reproductive imagination, but of the discovery of a new pathologic "entity," proven and made certain from the symptoms. Lastly, if we do not hesitate to give a very broad extension to the term "scientific," and apply it also to invention in social matters, we shall see that the latter is still more exacting, for one must represent to oneself not only the elements of the past and of the present, but in addition construct a picture of the future according to probable inductions and deductions. It might be objected that the foregoing enumeration proves a great variety in the _content_ of creative imagination but not in the imagination itself, and that nothing has proven that, under all these various aspects, there does not exist a so-called scientific imagination, that always remains identical. This position is untenable. For we have seen above[109] that there exists no creative instinct in general, no one mere indeterminate "creative power," but only wants that, in certain cases, excite novel combinations of images. The nature of the separable materials, then, is a factor of the first importance; it is determining, and indicates to the mind the direction in which it is turned, and all treason in this regard is paid for by aborted construction, by painful labor for some petty result. Invention, separated from what gives it body and soul, is nothing but a pure abstraction. The monographs called for above would, then, be a not unneeded work. It is only from them collectively that the rôle of the imagination in the sciences could be completely shown, and we might by abstraction separate out the characters common to all varieties--the essential marks of this imaginative type. Mathematics aside, all the sciences dealing with facts--from astronomy to sociology--suppose three moments, namely, observation, conjecture, verification. The first depends on external and internal sense, the second on the creative imagination, the third on rational operations, although the imagination is not entirely barred from it. In order to study its influence on scientific development, we shall study it (a) in the sciences in process of formation; (b) in the established sciences; (c) in the processes of verification. II It has often been said that the perfection of a science is measured by the amount of mathematics it requires; we might say, conversely, that its lack of completeness is measured by the amount of imagination that it includes. It is a psychological necessity. Where the human mind cannot explain or prove, there it invents; preferring a semblance of knowledge to its total absence.[110] Imagination fulfills the function of a substitute; it furnishes a subjective, conjectural solution in place of an objective, rational explanation. This substitution has degrees: (1) The sway of the imagination is almost complete in the pseudo-sciences (alchemy, astrology, magic, occultism, etc.), which it would be more proper to call embryonic sciences, for they were the beginnings of more exact disciplines and their fancies have not been without use. In the history of science, this is the golden age of the creative imagination, corresponding to the myth-making period already studied. (2) The semi-sciences, incompletely proved (certain portions of biology, psychology, sociology, etc.), although they show a regression of imaginative explanation repulsed by the hitherto absent or insufficient experimentation, nevertheless abound in hypotheses, that succeed, contradict, destroy one another. It is a commonplace truism that does not need to be dwelt on--they furnish _ad libitum_ examples of what has been rightly termed scientific mythology. Aside from the quantity of imagination expended, often without great profit, there is another character to be noted--the nature of the belief that accompanies imaginative creation. We have already seen repeatedly that the intensity of the imaginary conception is in direct ratio to the accompanying belief, or rather, that the two phenomena are really one--merely the two aspects of one and the same state of consciousness. But faith--i.e., the adherence of the mind to an undemonstrated assertion--is here at its maximum. There are in the sciences hypotheses that are not believed in, that are preserved for their didactic usefulness, because they furnish a simple and convenient method of explanation. Thus the "properties of matter" (heat, electricity, magnetism, etc.), regarded by physicists as distinct qualities even in the first half of the last century; the "two electric fluids;" cohesion, affinity, etc., in chemistry--these are some of the convenient and admitted expressions to which, however, we attach no explanatory value. There is also to be mentioned the hypothesis held as an approximation of reality--this is the truly scientific position. It is accompanied by a provisional and ever-revocable belief. This is admitted, in principle at least, by all scientists, and has been put into practice by many of them. Lastly, there is the hypothesis regarded as the truth itself--one that is accompanied by a complete, absolute, belief. But daily observation and history show us that in the realm of embryonic and ill-proven sciences this disposition is more flourishing than anywhere else. _The less proof there is, the more we believe._ This attitude, however wrong from the standpoint of the logician, seems to the psychologist natural. The mind clings tenaciously to the hypothesis because the latter is its own creation, or, because in adopting it, it seems to the mind that it should have itself discovered the hypothesis, so much does the latter harmonize with its inner states. Let us take the hypothesis of evolution, for example: we need not mention its high philosophical bearing, and the immense influence that it exerts on almost all forms of human thought. Nevertheless, it still remains an hypothesis; but for many it is an indisputable and inviolable dogma, raised far above all controversy. They accept it with the uncompromising fervor of believers: a new proof of the underlying connection between imagination and belief--they increase and decrease _pari passu_. III Should we assign as belonging solely to the imagination every invention or discovery--in a word, whatever is new--in the well-organized sciences that form a body of solid, constantly-broadening doctrine? It is a hard question. That which raises scientific knowledge above popular knowledge is the use of an experimental method and rigorous reasoning processes; but, is not induction and deduction going from the known to the unknown? Without desiring to depreciate the method and its value, it must nevertheless be admitted that it is preventive, not inventive. It resembles, says Condillac, the parapets of a bridge, which do not help the traveler to walk, but keep him from falling over. It is of value especially as a habit of mind. People have wisely discoursed on the "methods" of invention. There are none; but for which fact we could manufacture inventors just as we make mechanics and watchmakers. It is the imagination that invents, that provides the rational faculties with their materials, with the position, and even the solution of their problems. Reasoning is only a means for control and proof; it transforms the work of the imagination into acceptable, logical results. If one has not imagined beforehand, the logical method is aimless and useless, for we cannot reason concerning the completely unknown. Even when a problem seems to advance towards solution wholly through the reason, the imagination ceaselessly intervenes in the form of a succession of groupings, trials, guesses, and possibilities that it proposes. The function of method is to determine its value, to accept or reject it.[111] Let us show by a few examples that conjecture, the work of the combining imagination, is at the root of the most diverse scientific inventions.[112] Every mathematical invention is at first only an hypothesis that must be demonstrated, i.e., must be brought under previously established general principles: prior to the decisive moment of rational verification it is only a thing imagined. "In a conversation concerning the place of imagination in scientific work," says Liebig, "a great French mathematician expressed the opinion to me that the greater part of mathematical truth is acquired not through deduction, but through the imagination. He might have said 'all the mathematical truths,' without being wrong." We know that Pascal discovered the thirty-second proposition of Euclid all by himself. It is true that it has been concluded, wrongly perhaps, that he had also discovered all the earlier ones, the order followed by the Greek geometrician not being necessary, and not excluding other arrangements. However it be, reasoning alone was not enough for that discovery. "Many people," says Naville, "of whom I am one, might have thought hard all their lives without finding out the thirty-two propositions of Euclid." This fact alone shows clearly the difference between invention and demonstration, imagination and reason. In the sciences dealing with facts, all the best-established experimental truths have passed through a conjectural stage. History permits no doubt on this point. What makes it appear otherwise is the fact that for centuries there has gradually come to be formed a body of solid belief, making a whole, stored away in classic treatises from which we learn from childhood, and in which they seem to be arranged of themselves. We are not told of the series of checks and failures through which[113] they have passed. Innumerable are the inventions that remained for a long time in a state of conjecture, matters of pure imagination, because various circumstances did not permit them to take shape, to be demonstrated and verified. Thus, in the thirteenth century, Roger Bacon had a very clear idea of a construction on rails similar to our railroads; of optical instruments that would permit, as does the telescope, to see very far, and to discover the invisible. It is even claimed that he must have foreseen the phenomena of interferences, the demonstration of which had to be awaited ten centuries. On the other hand, there are guesses that have met success without much delay, but in which the imaginative phase--that of the invention preceding all demonstration--is easy to locate. We know that Tycho-Brahé, lacking inventive genius but rich in capacity for exact observation, met Kepler, an adventurous spirit: together, the two made a complete scientist. We have seen how Kepler, guided by a preconceived notion of the "harmony of the spheres," after many trials and corrections, ended by discovering his laws. Copernicus recognized expressly that his theory was suggested to him by an hypothesis of Pythagoras--that of a revolution of the earth about a central fire, assumed to be in a fixed position. Newton imagined his hypothesis of gravitation from the year 1666 on, then abandoned it, the result of his calculations disagreeing with observation; finally he took it up again after a lapse of a few years, having obtained from Paris the new measure of the terrestrial meridian that permitted him to prove his guess. In relating his discoveries, Lavoisier is lavish in expressions that leave no doubt as to their originally conjectural character. "He _suspects_ that the air of the atmosphere is not a simple thing, but is composed of two very different substances." "He _presumes_ that the permanent alkalies (potash, soda) and the earths (lime, magnesia) should not be considered simple substances." And he adds: "What I present here is at the most no more than a mere _conjecture_." We have mentioned above the case of Darwin. Besides, the history of scientific discoveries is full of facts of this sort. The passage from the imaginative to the rational phase may be slow or sudden. "For eight months," says Kepler, "I have seen a first glimmer; for three months, daylight; for the last week I see the sunlight of the most wonderful contemplation." On the other hand, Haüy drops a bit of crystallized calcium spar, and, looking at one of the broken prisms, cries out, "All is found!" and immediately verifies his quick intuition in regard to the true nature of crystallization. We have already indicated[114] the psychological reasons for these differences. Underneath all the reasoning, inductions, deductions, calculations, demonstrations, methods, and logical apparatus of every sort, there is something animating them that is not understood, that is the work of that complex operation--the constructive imagination. To conclude: The hypothesis is a creation of the mind, invested with a provisional reality that may, after verification, become permanent. False hypotheses are characterized as imaginary, by which designation is meant that they have not become freed from the first state. But for psychology they are different neither in their origin nor in their nature from those scientific hypotheses that, subjected to the power of reason or of experiment, have come out victorious. Besides, in addition to abortive hypotheses, there are dethroned ones. What theory was more clinging, more fascinating in its applications, than that of phlogiston? Kant[115] praised it as one of the greatest discoveries of the eighteenth century. The development of the sciences is replete with these downfalls. They are psychological regressions: the invention, considered for a time as adequate to reality, decays, returns to the imaginative phase whence it seems to have emerged, and remains pure imagination. IV Imagination is not absent from the third stage of scientific research, in demonstration and experimentation, but here we must be brief, (1) because it passes to a minor place, yielding its rank to other modes of investigation, and (2) because this study would have to become doubly employed with the practical and mechanical imagination, which will occupy our attention later. The imagination is here only an auxiliary, a useful instrument, serving: (1) In the sciences of reasoning, to discover ingenious methods of demonstration, stratagems for avoiding or overcoming difficulties. (2) In the experimental sciences for inventing methods of research or of control--whence its analogy, above mentioned, to the practical imagination. Furthermore, the reciprocal influence of these two forms of imagination is a matter of common observation: a scientific discovery permits the invention of new instruments; the invention of new instruments makes possible experiments that are increasingly more complicated and delicate. One remark further: This constructive imagination at the third stage is the only one met with in many scientists. They lack genius for invention, but discover details, additions, corrections, improvements. A recent author distinguishes (a) those who have created the hypothesis, prepared the experiments, and imagined the appropriate apparatus; (b) those who have imagined the hypothesis and the experiment, but use means already invented; and (c) those who, having found the hypothesis made and demonstrated, have thought out a new method of verification.[116] The scientific imagination becomes poorer as we follow it down this scale, which, however, bears no relation to exactness of reasoning and firmness of method. Neglecting species and varieties, we may reduce the fundamental characters of the scientific imagination to the following: For its material, it has concepts, the degree of abstraction of which varies with the nature of the science. It employs only those associational forms that have an objective basis, although its mission is to form new combinations, "the discoveries consisting of the relation of ideas, capable of being united, which hitherto have been isolated."[117] (Laplace.) All association with an affective basis is strictly excluded. It aims toward objectivity: in its conjectural construction it attempts to reproduce the order and connection of things. Whence its natural affinity for realistic art, which is midway between fiction and reality. It is unifying, and so just the opposite of the esthetic imagination, which is rather developmental. It puts forward the master idea (Claude Bernard's _idée directrice_), a center of attraction and impulse that enlivens the entire work. The principle of unity, without which no creation succeeds, is nowhere more visible than in the scientific imagination. Even when illusory, it is useful. Pasteur, scrupulous scientist that he was, did not hesitate to say: "The experimenter's illusions are a part of his power: they are the preconceived ideas serving as guides for him." V It does not seem to me wrong to regard the imagination of the metaphysician as a variety of the scientific imagination. Both arise from one and the same requirement. Several times before this we have emphasized this point--that the various forms of imagination are not the work of an alleged "creative instinct," but that each particular one has arisen from a special need. The scientific imagination has for its prime motive the need of _partial_ knowledge or explanation; the metaphysical imagination has for its prime motive the need of a _total_ or complete explanation. The latter is no longer an endeavor on a restricted group of phenomena, but a conjecture as to the totality of things, as aspiration toward completely unified knowledge, a need of final explanation that, for certain minds, is just as imperious as any other need. This necessity is expressed by the creation of a cosmic or human hypothesis constructed after the type and methods of scientific hypotheses, but radically subjective in its origin--only apparently objective. _It is a rationalized myth._ The three moments requisite for the constitution of a science are found here, but in a modified form: reflection replaces observation, the choice of the hypothesis becomes all-important, and its application to everything corresponds to scientific proof. (1) The first moment or preparatory stage, does not belong to our subject. It requires, however, a word in passing. In all science, whether well or ill established, firm or weak, we start from facts derived from observation or experiment. Here, facts are replaced by general ideas. The terminus of every science is, then, the starting-point of philosophical speculation:--metaphysics begins where each separate science ends; and the limits of the latter are theories, hypotheses. These hypotheses become working material for metaphysics which, consequently, is an hypothesis built on hypotheses, a conjecture grafted on conjecture, a work of imagination superimposed on works of imagination. Its principal source, then, is imagination, to which reflection applies itself. Metaphysicians, indeed, hold that the object of their researches, far from being symbolic and abstract, as in science, or fictitious and imaginary, as in art, is the very essence of things,--absolute reality. Unfortunately, they have never proven that it suffices to seek in order to find, and to wish in order to get. (2) The second stage is critical. It is concerned with finding the principle that rules and explains everything. In the invention of his theory the metaphysician gives his measure, and permits us to value his imaginative power. But the hypothesis, which in science is always provisional and revocable, is here the supreme reality, the fixed position, the _inconcussum quid_. The choice of the principle depends on several causes: The chief of these is the creator's individuality. Every metaphysician has a point of view, a personal way of contemplating and interpreting the totality of things, a belief that tends to recruit adherents. Secondary causes are: the influence of earlier systems, the sum of acquired knowledge, the social _milieu_, the variable predominance of religions, sciences, morality, esthetic culture. Without troubling ourselves with classifications, otherwise very numerous, into which we may group systems (idealism, materialism, monism, etc.) we shall, for our purpose, divide metaphysicians into the imaginative and rational, according as the imagination is superior to the reason or the reason rules the imagination. The differences between these two types of mind, already clearly shown in the choice of the hypothesis, are proven in its development. (3) The fundamental principle, indeed, must come out of its state of involution and justify its universal validity by explaining everything. This is the third moment, when the scientific process of verification is replaced by a process of construction. All imaginative metaphysics have a dynamic basis, e.g., the Platonic _Ideas_, Leibniz' _Monadology_, the _Nature-philosophy_ of Schelling, Schopenhauer's _Will_, and Hartmann's _Unconscious_, the mystics, the systems that assume a world-soul, etc. Semi-abstract, semi-poetic constructions, they are permeated with imagination not only in the general conception, but also in the numberless details of its application. Such are the "fulgurations" of Leibniz, those very rich digressions of Schopenhauer, etc. They have the fascination of a work of art as much as that of science, and this is no longer questioned by metaphysicians themselves;[118] they are living things. Rational metaphysics, on the other hand, have a chilly aspect, which brings them nearer the abstract sciences. Such are most of the mechanical conceptions, the Hegelian _Dialectic_, Spinoza's construction _more geometrico_, the _Summa_ of the Middle Ages. These are buildings of concepts solidly cemented together with logical relations. But art is not wholly absent; it is seen in the systematic concatenation, in the beautiful ordering, in the symmetry of division, in the skill with which the generative principle is constantly brought in, in showing it ever-present, explaining everything. It has been possible to compare these systems with the architecture of the Gothic cathedrals, in which the dominant idea is incessantly repeated in the numberless details of the construction, and in the branching multiplicity of ornamentation. Further, whatever view we adopt as to its ultimate value, it must be recognized that the imagination of the great metaphysicians, by the originality and fearlessness of its conceptions, by its skill in perfecting all parts of its work, is inferior to no other form. It is equal to the highest, if it does not indeed surpass them. FOOTNOTES: [109] See Part I, chapter II. [110] Cf. the Preface to Kant's _Critique of Pure Reason_. "Our reason ... is always troubled with questions which cannot be ignored, because they spring from the very nature of reason, and which cannot be answered, because they transcend the powers of human reason." (Tr.) [111] In the rare _Notes_ that he has left, James Watt writes that one afternoon he had gone out for a stroll on the Green at Glasgow, and his thoughts were absorbed with the experiments in which he was busied, trying to prevent the cooling of the cylinder. The thought then came to him that steam, being an elastic fluid, should expand and be precipitated in a space formerly void; and having made a vacuum in a separate vessel and opened communication between the steam of the cylinder and the vacant space, we see what should follow. Thus, having imagined the masterpiece of his discovery, he enumerates the processes that, employed in turn, allowed him to perfect it. [112] For further information we refer to the _Logique de l'hypothèse_, by E. Naville, from which are borrowed most of the facts here given. [113] This much-criticised defect has been only partially overcome in our methods of education through "object" lessons, and, if we may call them so, evolutionary methods, showing to the child "wie es eigentlich gewesen." Cf. J. Dewey, "_The School and Society_." (Tr.) [114] See above, Part Two, chapter IV. [115] Preface to the _Critique of Pure Reason_. [116] Colozza, _L'immaginazione nella Scienza_ (Paravia, 1900), pp. 89 ff. In this author will be found abundant details respecting famous discoveries or experiments--those of Galileo, Franklin, Grimaldi, etc. [117] Here is an example in confirmation, taken from Duclaux's book on Pasteur: Herschel established a relation between the crystalline structure of quartz and the rotatory power of the substance; later on, Biot established it for sugar, tartaric acid, etc.--i.e., for substances in solution, whence he concluded that the rotatory power is due to the form of the molecule itself, not to the arrangement of the molecules in relation to one another. Pasteur discovered a relation between molecular dyssymmetry and hemiedry, and the study of hemiedry in crystals led him logically to that of fermentation and spontaneous generation. [118] On this point cf. Fouillée, _L'Avenir de la Metaphysique_, pp. 79 ff. CHAPTER V THE PRACTICAL AND MECHANICAL IMAGINATION The study of the practical imagination is not without difficulties. First of all, it has not hitherto attracted psychologists, so that we enter the field at random, and wander unguided in an unexplored region. But the principal obstacle is in the lack of determination of this form of imagination, and in the absence of boundary lines. Where does it begin, and where does it end? Penetrating all our life even in its least details, it is likely to lead us astray through the diversity, often insignificant, of its manifestations. To convince ourselves of this fact, let us take a man regarded as least imaginative:--subtract the moments when his consciousness is busied with perceptions, memories, emotions, logical thought and action--all the rest of his mental life must be put down to the credit of the imagination. Even thus limited, this function is not a negligible quantity:--it includes the plans and constructions for the future, and all the dreams of escaping from the present; and there is no man but makes such. This had to be mentioned on account of its very triteness, because it is often forgotten, and consequently the field of the creative imagination is unduly restricted, being limited little by little to exceptional cases. It must, however, be recognized that these small facts teach us little. Consequently, following our adopted procedure, dwelling longest on the clearer and more evident cases in which the work of creating appears distinctly, we shall rapidly pass over the lower forms of the practical imagination, in order to dwell on the higher form--technical or mechanical imagination. I If we take an ordinary imaginative person,--understanding by this expression, one whom his nature singles out for no special invention--we see that he excels in the small inventions, adapted for a moment, for a detail, for the petty needs constantly arising in human life. It is a fruitful, ingenious, industrious mind, one that knows how to "take hold of things." The active, enterprising American, capable of passing from one occupation to another according to circumstances, opportunity, or imagined profits, furnishes a good example. If we descend from this form of sane imagination toward the morbid forms, we meet first the unstable--knights of industry, hunters of adventure, inventors frequently of questionable means, people hungry for change, always imagining what they haven't, trying in turn all professions, becoming workmen, soldiers, sailors, merchants, etc., not from expediency, but from natural instability. Further down are found the acknowledged "freaks" at the brink of insanity, who are but the extreme form of the unstable, and who, after having wasted haphazard much useless imagination, end in an insane asylum or worse still. Let us consider these three groups together. Let us eliminate the intellectual and moral qualities characteristic of each group, which establish notable differences between them, and let us consider only their inventive capacity as applied to practical life. One character common to all is mobility--the tendency to change. It is a matter of current observation that men of lively imagination are changeable. Common opinion, which is also the opinion of moralists and of most psychologists, attributes this mobility, this instability, to the imagination. This, in my opinion, is just upside down. _It is not because they have an active imagination that they are changeable, but it is because they are changeable that their imagination is active._ We thus return to the _motor_ basis of all creative work. Each new or merely modified disposition becomes a center of attraction and pull. Doubtless the inner push is a necessary condition, but it is not sufficient. If there were not within them a sufficient number of concrete, abstract, or semi-abstract representations, susceptible of various combinations, nothing would happen; but the origin of invention and of its frequent or constant changes of direction lies in the emotional and motor constitution, not in the quantity or quality of representations. I shall not dwell longer on a subject already treated,[119] but it was proper to show, in passing, that common opinion starts from an erroneous conception of the primary conditions of invention--whether great or small, speculative or practical. In the immense empire of the practical imagination, superstitious beliefs form a goodly province. What is superstition? By what positive signs do we recognize it? An exact definition and a sure criterion are impossible. It is a flitting notion that depends on the times, places, and nature of minds. Has it not often been said that the religion of one is superstition to another, and _vice versâ_? This, too, is only a single instance from among many others; for the common opinion that restricts superstition within the bounds of religious faith is an incomplete view. There are peculiar beliefs, foreign to every dogma and every religious feeling, from which the most radical freethinker is not exempt; for example, the superstitions of gamblers. Indeed, at the bottom of all such beliefs, we always find the vague, semi-conscious notion of a mysterious power--destiny, fate, chance. Without taking the trouble to set arbitrary limits, let us take the facts as they are, without possible question, i.e., imaginary creations, subjective fancies, having reality only for those admitting them. Even a summary collection of past and present superstitions would fill a library. Aside from those having a frankly religious mark, others almost as numerous surround civil life, birth, marriage, death, appearance and healing of diseases, _dies fasti atque nefasti_, propitious or fateful words, auguries drawn from the meeting or acts of certain animals. The list would be endless.[120] All that can be attempted here is a determination of the principal condition of that state of mind, the psychology of which is in the last analysis very simple. We shall thus answer in an indirect and incomplete manner the question of criterion. First, since we hold that the origin of all imaginative creation is a need, a desire, a tendency, where then is the origin of that inexhaustible fount of fancies? _In the instinct for individual preservation_, orientated in the direction of the future. Man seeks to divine future events, and by various means to act on the order of things to modify it for his own advantage or to appease his evil fate. As for the mental mechanism that, set in motion by this desire, produces the vain images of the superstitious, it implies: (1) A deep idea of causality, reduced to a _post hoc, ergo propter hoc_. Herodotus says of the Egyptian priests: "They have discovered more prodigies and presages than any other people, because, when some extraordinary thing appears, they note it as well as all the events following it, so that if a similar prodigy appears anew, they expect to see the same events reproduced." It is the hypothesis of an indissoluble association between two or more events, assumed without verification, without criticism. This manner of thinking depends on the weakness of the logical faculties or on the excessive influence of the feelings. (2) The abuse of reasoning by analogy. This great artisan of the imagination is satisfied with likenesses so vague and agreements so strange, that it dares everything. Resemblance is no longer a quality of things imposed on the mind, but an hypothesis of the mind imposed on things. Astrology groups into "constellations" stars that are billions of miles apart, believes that it discovers there an animal shape, human or any other, and deduces therefrom alleged "influences." This star is reddish (Mars), sign of blood; this other is of a pure, brilliant silvery light (Venus) or livid (Saturn), and acts in a different way. We know what clever structures of conjectures and prognoses have been built on these foundations. Need we mention the Middle Age practice of charms, which even in our day still has adherents among cultured people? The physicians of the time of Charles II, says Lang, gave their patients "mummy powder" (pulverized mummies) because the mummies, having lasted a long time, must prolong life.[121] Gold in solution has been esteemed as a medicine--gold, being a perfect substance, should produce perfect health. In order to get rid of a disease nothing is more frequent among primitive men than to picture the sick person on wood or on the ground, and to strike the injured part with an arrow or knife, in order to annihilate the sickening principle. (3) Finally, there is the magic influence ascribed to certain words. It is the triumph of the theory of _nomina numina_; we need not return to it. But the working of the mind on words, erecting them into entities, conferring life and power on them--in a word, the activity that creates myths and is the final basis of all constructive imagination--appears also here.[122] II Up to this point we have considered the practical imagination only in its somewhat petty aspect in small inventions or as semi-morbid in superstitious fancies. We now come to its higher form, mechanical invention. This subject has not been studied by psychologists. Not that they have misunderstood its rôle, which is, after all, very evident; but they limit themselves to speak of it cursorily, without emphasizing it. In order to appreciate its importance, I see no other way than to put ourselves face to face with the works that it has produced, to question the history of discovery and useful arts, to profit by the disclosures of inventors and their biographers. Of a work of this kind, which would be very long because the materials are scattered, we can give here only a rough sketch, merely to take therefrom what is of interest for psychology and what teaches us in regard to the characters peculiar to this type of imagination. The erroneous view that opposes imagination to the useful, and claims that they are mutually exclusive, is so widespread and so persistent, that we shall seem to many to be expressing a paradox when we say that if we could strike the balance of the imagination that man has spent and made permanent in esthetic life on the one hand, and in technical and mechanical invention on the other, the balance would be in favor of the latter. This assertion, however, will not seem paradoxical to those who have considered the question. Why, then, the view above mentioned? Why are people inclined to believe that our present subject, if not entirely foreign to the imagination, is only an impoverished form of it? I account for it by the following reasons: Esthetic imagination, when fully complete, is simply _fixed_, i.e., remains a fictitious matter recognized as such. It has a frankly subjective, personal character, arbitrary in its choice of means. A work of art--a poem, a novel, a drama, an opera, a picture, a statue--might have been otherwise than it is. It is possible to modify the general plan, to add or reduce an episode, to change an ending. The novelist who in the course of his work changes his characters; the dramatic author who, in deference to public sentiment, substitutes a happy _denoûement_ in place of a catastrophe, furnish naïve testimony of this freedom of imagination. Moreover, artistic creation, expressing itself in words, sounds, lines, forms, colors, is cast in a mould that allows it only a feeble "material" reality. The mechanical imagination is objective--it must be embodied, take on a form that gives it a place side by side with products of nature. It is arbitrary neither in its choice nor in its means; it is not a free creature having its end in itself. In order to succeed, it is subjected to rigorous physical conditions, to a determinism. It is at this cost that it becomes a reality, and as we instinctively establish an antithesis between the imaginary and the real, it seems that mechanical invention is outside the realm of the imagination. Moreover, it requires the constant intervention of calculation, of reasoning, and lastly, of a manual operation of supreme importance. We may say without exaggerating that the success of many mechanical creations depends on the skillful manipulation of materials. But this last moment, because it is decisive, should not make us forget its antecedents, especially the initial moment, which is, for psychology, similar to all other instances of invention, when the idea arises, tending to become objective. Otherwise, the differences here pointed out between the two forms of imagination--esthetic and mechanical--are but relative. The former is not independent of technical apprenticeship, often of long duration (e.g., in music, sculpture, painting). As for the latter, we should not exaggerate its determinism. Often the same end can be reached by different inventions--by means differently imagined, through different mental constructions; and it follows that, after all allowances are made, these differently realized imaginations are equally useful. The difference between the two types is found in the nature of the need or desire stimulating the invention, and secondly in the nature of the materials employed. Others have confounded two distinct things--liberty of imagination, which belongs rather to esthetic creation, and quality and power of imagination, which may be identical in both cases. I have questioned certain inventors very skillful in mechanics, addressing myself to those, preferably, whom I knew to be strangers to any preconceived psychological theory. Their replies agree, and prove that the birth and development of mechanical invention are very strictly like those found in other forms of constructive imagination. As an example, I cite the following statement of an engineer, which I render literally: "The so-called creative imagination surely proceeds in very different ways, according to temperament, aptitudes, and, in the same individual, following the mental disposition, the _milieu_. "We may, however, as far as regards mechanical inventions, distinguish four sufficiently clear phases--the germ, incubation, flowering, and completion. "By germ I mean the first idea coming to the mind to furnish a solution for a problem that the whole of one's observations, studies, and researches has put before one, or that, put by another, has struck one. "Then comes incubation, often very long and painful, or, again, even unconscious. Instinctively as well as voluntarily one brings to the solution of the problem all the materials that the eyes and ears can gather. "When this latent work is sufficiently complete, the idea suddenly bursts forth, it may be at the end of a voluntary tension of mind, or on the occasion of a chance remark, tearing the veil that hides the surmised image. "But this image always appears simple and clear. In order to get the ideal solution into practice, there is required a struggle against matter, and the bringing to an issue is the most thankless part of the inventor's work. "In order to give consistence and body to the idea caught sight of enthusiastically in an aureole, one must have patience, a perseverance through all trials. One must view on all sides the mechanical agencies that should serve to set the image together, until the latter has attained the simplicity that alone makes invention viable. In this work of bringing to a head, the same spirit of invention and imagination must be constantly drawn upon for the solution of all the details, and it is against this arduous requirement that the great majority of inventors rebel again and again. "This is then, I believe, how one may in a general way understand the genesis of an invention. It follows from this that here, as almost everywhere, the imagination acts through association of ideas. "Thanks to a profound acquaintance with known mechanical methods, the inventor succeeds, through association of ideas, in getting novel combinations producing new effects, towards the realization of which his mind has in advance been bent." But for a slightly explored subject, the foregoing remarks are not enough. It is necessary to determine more precisely the general and special characters of this form of imagination. _1. General Characters_ I term general characters those that the mechanical imagination possesses in common with the best known, least questioned forms of the constructive imagination. In order to be convinced that, so far as concerns these characters it does not differ from the rest, let us take, for the sake of comparison, esthetic imagination, since it is agreed, rightly or wrongly, that this is the model _par excellence_. We shall see that the essential psychological conditions coincide in the two instances. The mechanical imagination thus has like the other its ideal, i.e., a perfection conceived and put forward as capable, little by little, of being realized. The idea is at first hidden; it is, to use our correspondent's phrase, "the germ," the principle of unity, center of attraction, that suggests, excites, and groups appropriate associations of images, in which it is enwrapped and organized into a structure, an _ensemble_ of means converging toward a common end. It thus presupposes a dissociation of experience. The inventor undoes, decomposes, breaks up in thought, or makes of experience a tool, an instrument, a machine, an agency for building anew with the débris. The practical imagination is no more foreign to inspiration than the esthetic imagination. The history of useful inventions is full of men who suffered privations, persecution, ruin; who fought to the bitter end against relatives and friends--drawn by the need of creating, fascinated not by the hope of future gain but by the idea of an imposed mission, of a destiny they had to fulfill. What more have poets and artists done? The fixed and irresistible idea has led more than one to a foreseen death, as in the discovery of explosives, the first attempts at lightning conductors, aeronautics, and many others. Thus, from a true intuition, primitive civilizations have put on a level great poets and great inventors, erected into divinities or demi-gods historical or legendary personages in whom the genius of discovery is personified:--among the Hindoos, Vicavakarma; among the Greeks, Hephaestos, Prometheus, Triptolemus, Daedalus and Icarus. The Chinese, despite their dry imagination, have done the same; and we find the same condition in Egypt, Assyria, and everywhere. Moreover, the practical and mechanical arts have passed through a first period of no-change, during which the artisan, subjected to fixed rules and an undisputed tradition, considers himself an instrument of divine revelation.[123] Little by little he has emerged from that theological age, to enter the humanistic age, when, being fully conscious of being the author of his work, he labors freely, changes and modifies according to his own inspiration. Mechanical and industrial imagination, like esthetic imagination, has its preparatory period, its zenith and decline: the periods of the precursors, of the great inventors, and of mere perfectors. At first a venture is made, effort is wasted with small result,--the man has come too early or lacks clear vision; then a great imaginative mind arises, blossoms; after him the work passes into the hands of _dii minores_, pupils or imitators, who add, abridge, modify: such is the order. The many-times written history of the application of steam, from the time of the eolipile of Hero of Alexandria to the heroic period of Newcomen and Watt, and the improvements made since their time, is one proof of the statement. Another example:--the machine for measuring duration is at first a simple clepsydra; then there are added marks indicating the subdivisions of time, then a water gauge causes a hand to move around a dial, then two hands for the hours and minutes; then comes a great moment--by the use of weights the clepsydra becomes a clock, at first massive and cumbersome, later lightened, becoming capable, with Tycho-Brahé, of marking seconds; and then another moment--Huyghens invents the spiral spring to replace the weights, and the clock, simplified and lightened, becomes the watch. _2. Special Characters_ The special characteristics of the mechanical imagination being the marks belonging to this type, we shall study them at greater length. (I) There is first of all, at least in great inventors, an inborn quality,--that is, a natural disposition,--that does not originate in experience and owes the latter only its development. This quality is a bent in a practical, useful direction; a tendency to act, not in the realm of dreams or human feeling, not on individuals or social groups, not toward the attainment of theoretical knowledge of nature, but to become master over natural forces, to transform them and adapt them toward an end. Every mechanical invention arises from a need: from the strict necessity for individual preservation in the case of primitive man who wages war against the powers of nature; from the desire for well-being and the necessity for luxury in growing civilization; from the need of creating little engines, imitating instruments and machines, in the child. In a word, _every particular invention, great or small, arises from a particular need_; for, we repeat again, there is no creative instinct in general. A man distinguished for various inventions along practical lines, writes: "As far as my memory allows, I can state that in my case conception always results from a material or mental need.[124] It springs up suddenly. Thus, in 1887, a speech of Bismarck made me so angry that I immediately thought of arming my country with a repeating rifle. I had already made various applications to the ministry of war, when I learned that the Lebel system had just been adopted. My patriotism was fully satisfied, but I still have the design of the gun that I invented." This communication mentions two or three other inventions that arose under analogous circumstances, but have had a chance of being adopted. Among the requisite qualities I mention the natural and necessary preëminence of certain groups of sensations or images (visual, tactile, motor) that may be decisive in determining the direction of the inventor. (II) Mechanical invention grows by successive stratifications and additions, as in the sciences, but more completely. It is a fine verification of the "subsidiary law of growing complexity" previously discussed.[125] If we measure the distance traversed since the distant ages when man was naked and unarmed before nature to the present time of the reign of machinery, we are astonished at the amount of imagination produced and expended, often uselessly lavished, and we ask ourselves how such a work could have been misunderstood or so lightly appreciated. It does not pertain to our subject to make even a summary table of this long development. The reader can consult the special works which, unfortunately, are most often fragmentary and lack a general view. So we should feel grateful to a historian of the useful arts, L. Bourdeau, for having attempted to separate out the philosophy of the subject, and for having fastened it down in the following formulas:[126] (a) The exploitation of the powers of nature is made according to their degree of power. (b) The extension of working instruments has followed a logical evolution in the direction of growing complexity and perfection. Man, according to the observations of M. Bourdeau, has applied his creative activity to natural forces and has set them to work according to a regular order, viz.: (1) Human forces, the only ones available during the "state of nature" and the savage state. Before all else, man created weapons: the most circumscribed primitive races have invented engines for attack and defense--of wood, bone, stone, as they were able. Then the weapon became a tool by special adaptation:--the battle-club serves as a lever, the tomahawk as a hammer, the flint ax as a hatchet, etc. In this manner there is gradually formed an arsenal of instruments. "Inferior to most animals as regards certain work that would have to be done with the aid of our organic resources alone, we are superior to all as soon as we set our tools at work. If the rodents with their sharp teeth cut wood better than we can, we do it still better with the ax, the chisel, the saw. Some birds, with the help of a strong beak, by repeated blows, penetrate the trunk of a tree: but the auger, the gimlet, the wimble do the same work better and more quickly. The knife is superior to the carnivore's teeth for tearing meat; the hoe better than the mole's paw for digging earth, the trowel than the beaver's tail for beating and spreading mortar. The oar permits us to rival the fish's fin; the sail, the wing of the bird. The distaff and spindle allow our imitating the industry of insect spinners; etc. Man thus reproduces and sums up in his technical contrivances the scattered perfections of the animal world. He even succeeds in surpassing them, because, in the form of tools, he uses substances and combinations of effects that cannot figure as part of an organism."[127] It is scarcely likely that most of these inventions arose from a voluntary imitation of animals: but even supposing such an origin, there would still remain a fine place for personal creative work. Man has produced by conscious effort what life realizes by methods that escape us; so that the creative imagination in man is a _succedaneum_ of the generative powers of nature. (2) During the pastoral stage man brought animals under subjection and discipline. An animal is a machine, ready-made, that needs only to be trained to obedience; but this training has required and stimulated all sorts of inventions, from the harness with which to equip it, to the chariots, wagons, and roads with which and on which it moves. (3) Later, the natural motors--air and water--have furnished new material for human ingenuity, e.g., in navigation; wind- and water-mills, used at first to grind grain, then for a multitude of uses--sawing, milling, lifting hammers; etc. (4) Lastly, much later, come products of an already mature civilization, artificial motors, explosives,--powder and all its derivatives and substitutes--steam, which has made such great progress. If the reader please to represent to himself well the immense number of facts that we have just indicated in a few lines; if he please to note that every invention, great or small, before becoming a fixed and realized thing, was at first an imagination, a mere contrivance of the brain, an assembly of new combinations or new relations, he will be forced to admit that nowhere--not excepting even esthetic production--has man imagined to such a great extent. One of the reasons--though not the only one--that supports the contrary opinion is, that by the very law of their growing complexity, inventions are grafted one on another. In all the useful arts improvements have been so slow, and so gradually wrought, that each one of them passed unperceived, without leaving its author the credit for its discovery. The immense majority of inventions are anonymous--some great names alone survive. But, whether individual or collective, imagination remains imagination. In order that the plow, at first a simple piece of wood hardened by the fire and pushed along with the human hand, should become what it is to-day, through a long series of modifications described in the special works, who knows how many imaginations have labored! In the same way, the uncertain flame of a resinous branch guiding vaguely in the night leads us, through a long series of inventions, to gas and electric lighting. All objects, even the most ordinary and most common that now serve us in our everyday-life, are _condensed imagination_. (III) More than any other form, mechanical imagination depends strictly on physical conditions. It cannot rest content with combining images, it postulates material factors that impose themselves unyieldingly. Compared to it, the scientific imagination has much more freedom in the building of its hypotheses. In general, every great invention has been preceded by a period of abortive attempts. History shows that the so-called "initial moment" of a mechanical discovery, followed by its improvements, is the moment ending a series of unsuccessful trials: we thus skip a phase of pure imagination, of imaginative construction that has not been able to enter into the mold of an appropriate determinism. There must have existed innumerable inventions that we might term mechanical romances, which, however, we cannot refer to because they have left us no trace, not being born viable. Others are known as curiosities because they have blazed the path. We know that Otto de Guericke made four fruitless attempts before discovering his air-pump. The brothers Montgolfier were possessed with the desire to make "imitation clouds," like those they saw moving over the Alps. "In order to imitate nature," they at first enclosed water-vapor in a light, stout case, which fell on cooling. Then they tried hydrogen; then the production of a gas with electrical properties; and so on. Thus, after a succession of hypotheses and failures, they finally succeeded. From the end of the sixteenth century there was offered the possibility of communicating at a distance by means of electricity. "In a work published in 1624 the Jesuit, Father Leurechon, described an imaginary apparatus (by means of which, he said, people could converse at a distance) for the aid of lovers who, by the connection of their movements, would cause a needle to move about a dial on which would be written the letters of the alphabet; and the drawing accompanying the text is almost a picture of Breguet's telegraph." But the author considered it impossible "in the absence of lovers having such ability."[128] Mechanical inventions that fail correspond to erroneous or unverified scientific hypotheses. They do not emerge from the stage of pure imagination, but they are instructive to the psychologist because they give in bare form the initial work of the constructive imagination in the technical field. There still remain the requirements of reasoning, of calculation, of adaptation to the properties of matter. But, we repeat, this determinism has several possible forms--one can reach the same goal through different means. Besides, these determining conditions are not lacking in any type of imagination; there is only a difference as between lesser and greater. Every imaginative construction from the moment that it is little more than a group of fancies, a spectral image haunting a dreamer's brain, must take on a body, submit to external conditions on which it depends, and which materialize it somewhat. In this respect, architecture is an excellent example. It is classed among the fine arts; but it is subject to so many limitations that its process of invention strongly resembles technical and mechanical creations. Thus it has been possible to say that "Architecture is the least personal of all the arts." "Before being an art it is an industry in the sense that it has nearly always a useful end that is imposed on it and rules its manifestations. Whatever it builds--a temple, a theater, a palace--it must before all else subordinate its work to the end assigned to it in advance. This is not all:--it must take account of materials, climate, soil, location, habits--of all things that may require much skill, tact, calculation, which, however, do not interest art as such, and do not permit architecture to manifest its purely esthetic qualities."[129] Thus, at bottom, there is an identity of nature between the constructive imagination of the mechanic and that of the artist: the difference is only in the end, the means, and the conditions. The formula, _Ars homo additus naturae_, has been too often restricted to esthetics--it should comprehend everything artificial. Esthetes, doubtless, hold that their imagination has for them a loftier quality--a disputed question that psychology need not discuss; for it, the essential mechanism is the same in the two cases: a great mechanic is a poet in his own way, because he makes instruments imitating life. "Those constructions that at other times are the marvel of the ignorant crowd deserve the admiration of the reflecting:--Something of the power that has organized matter seems to have passed into combinations in which nature is imitated or surpassed. Our machines, so varied in form and in function, are the representatives of a new kingdom intermediate between senseless and animate forms, having the passivity of the former and the activity of the latter, and exploiting everything for our sake. They are counterfeits of animate beings, capable of giving inert substances a regular functioning. Their skeleton of iron, organs of steel, muscles of leather, soul of fire, panting or smoking breath, rhythm of movement--sometimes even the shrill or plaintive cries expressing effort or simulating pain:--all that contributes to give them a fantastic likeness to life--a specter and dream of inorganic life."[130] FOOTNOTES: [119] See above, Part One, chapter II. [120] For a complete and recent study of the question, see A. Lehmann, _Aberglaube und Zauberei von den ältesten Zeiten bis in die Gegenwart_, 1898. [121] Lang, _op. cit._, I, 96. There will be found many other facts of this kind. [122] If this book were not merely an essay, we should have had to study language as an instrument of the practical life in its relations to the creative imagination, especially the function of analogy, in the extension and transformation of the meanings of words. Works on linguistics are full of evidence on this point. One could do better still by attending exclusively to the vernacular, to slang, which shows us creative force in action. "Slang," says one philologist, "has the property of figuring, expressing, and picturing language.... With it, however low its origin, one could reconstruct a people or a society." Its principal, not only, means, are metaphor and allegory. It lends itself equally to methods that degrade or ennoble existing words, but with a very marked preference for the worse or degrading meanings. [123] Ample information on this point will be found in the work of Espinas, _Les Origines de la Technologie_. [124] The same correspondent, without my having asked him in regard to this, gives me the following details: "When about seven years old I saw a locomotive, its fire and smoke. My father's stove also made fire and smoke, but lacked wheels. If, then, I told my father, we put wheels under the stove, it would move like a locomotive. Later, when about thirteen, the sight of a steam threshing-machine suggested to me the idea of making a horseless wagon. I began a childish construction of one, which my father made me give up," etc. The tendency toward mechanical invention shows itself very early in some children--we gave examples of it before. Our inventor adds: "My imagination was strongest at about the age of 25 to 35 (I am now 45 years old). After that time it seems to me that the remainder of life is good only for producing less important conceptions, forming a natural consequence of the principal conceptions born of the period of youth." [125] See above, Part Two, chapter V. [126] L. Bourdeau, _Les Forces de l'Industrie_, Paris, 1884. This very substantial work, abounding in facts, conceived after a systematic plan, has aided us much in this study. [127] _Op. cit._, pp. 45-46. [128] Quoted by L. Bourdeau (_op. cit._, p. 354), who also mentions many other attempts: an anonymous Scot in 1753, Lesage of Geneva, 1780, Lhomond (France, 1787), Battencourt (Spain, 1787), Reiser, a German (1794), Salva (Madrid, 1796). The insufficient study of dynamic electricity did not permit them to succeed. [129] E. Veron, _L'Esthétique_, p. 315. [130] L. Bourdeau, _op. cit._, p. 233. CHAPTER VI THE COMMERCIAL IMAGINATION Taking the word "commercial" in its broadest signification, I understand by this expression all those forms of the constructive imagination that have for their chief aim the production and distribution of wealth, all inventions making for individual or collective enrichment. Even less studied than the form preceding, this imaginative manifestation reveals as much ingenuity as any other. The human mind is largely busied in that way. There are inventors of all kinds--the great among these equal those whom general opinion ranks as highest. Here, as elsewhere, the great body invent nothing, live according to tradition, in routine and imitation. Invention in the commercial or financial field is subject to various conditions with which we are not concerned: (1) External conditions:--Geographical, political, economic, social, etc., varying according to time, place, and people. Such is its external determinism--human and social here in place of cosmic, physical, as in mechanical invention. (2) Internal, psychological conditions, most of which are foreign to the primary and essential inventive act:--on one hand, foresight, calculation, strength of reasoning;--in a word, capacity for reflection; on the other hand, assurance, recklessness, soaring into the unknown--in a word, strong capacity for action. Whence arise, if we leave out the mixed forms, two principal types--the calculating, the venturesome. In the former the rational element is first. They are cautious, calculating, selfish exploiters, with no great moral or social preoccupations. In the latter, the active and emotional element predominates. They have a broader sweep. Of this sort were the merchant-sailors of Tyre, Carthage, and Greece; the merchant-travelers of the Middle Ages, the mercantile and gain-hungry explorers of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries; later, in a changed form, the organizers of great companies, the inventors of monopolies, American "trusts," etc. These are the great imaginative minds. Eliminating, then, from our subject, what is not the purely imaginative element in order to study it alone, I see only two points for us to treat, if we would avoid repetition--at the initial moment of invention, the intuitive act that is its germ; during the period of development and organization, the necessary and exclusive rôle of schematic images. I By "intuition" we generally understand a practical, immediate judgment that goes straight to the goal. Tact, wisdom, scent, divination, are synonymous or equivalent expressions. First let us note that intuition does not belong exclusively to this part of our subject, for it is found _in parvo_ throughout; but in commercial invention it is preponderating on account of the necessity of perceiving quickly and surely, and of grasping chances. "Genius for business," someone has said, "consists in making exact hypotheses regarding the fluctuations of values." To characterize the mental state is easy, if it is a matter merely of giving examples; very difficult, if one attempts to discover its mechanism. The physician who in a trice diagnoses a disease, who, on a higher level, groups symptoms in order to deduce a new disease from them, like Duchenne de Boulogne; the politician who knows human nature, the merchant who scents a good venture, etc., furnish examples of intuition. It does not depend on the degree of culture;--not to mention women, whose insight into practical matters is well known, there are ignorant people--peasants, even savages--who, in their limited sphere, are the equals of fine diplomats. But all these facts teach us nothing concerning its psychological nature. Intuition presupposes acquired experience of a special nature that gives the judgment its validity and turns it in a particular direction. Nevertheless, this accumulated knowledge of itself gives no evidence as to the future. Now, every intuition is an anticipation of the future, resulting from only two processes:--inductive or deductive reasoning, e.g., the chemist foreseeing a reaction; imagination, i.e., a representative construction. Which is the chief process here? Evidently the former, because it is not a matter of fancied hypothesis, but of adaptation of former experience to a new case. Intuition resembles logical operations much more than it does imaginative combinations. We may liken it to unconscious reasoning, if we are not afraid of the seeming contradiction of this expression which supposes a logical operation without consciousness of the middle term. Although questionable, it is perhaps to be preferred to other proposed explanations--such as automatism, habit, "instinct," "nervous connections." Carpenter, who as promoter of "unconscious cerebration," deserves to be consulted, likens this state to reflection. In ending, he reprints a letter that John Stuart Mill wrote to him on the subject, in which he says in substance that this capacity is found in persons who have experience and lean toward practical things, but attach little importance to theory.[131] Every intuition, then, becomes concrete as a judgment, equivalent to a conclusion. But what seems obscure and even mysterious in it is the fact that, from among many possible solutions, it finds at the first shot the proper one. In my opinion this difficulty arises largely from a partial comprehension of the problem. By "intuition" people mean only cases in which the divination is correct; they forget the other, far more numerous, cases that are failures. The act by which one reaches a conclusion is a special case of it. What constitutes the originality of the operation is not its accuracy, but its _rapidity_--the latter is the essential character, the former accessory. Further, it must be acknowledged that the gift of seeing correctly is an inborn quality, vouchsafed to one, denied to another:--people are born with it, just as they are born right-or left-handed: experience does not give it--only permits it to be put to use. As for knowing why the intuitive act now succeeds and at another time fails, that is a question that comes down to the natural distinction between accurate and erroneous minds, which we do not need to examine here. Without dwelling longer on this initial stage, let us return to the commercial imagination, and follow it in its development. II The human race passed through a pre-commercial age. The Australians, Fuegians, and their class seem to have had no idea whatever of exchange. This primitive period, which was long, corresponds to the age of the horde or large clan. Commercial invention, arising like the other forms from needs,--simple and indispensable at first, artificial and superfluous later,--could not arise in that dim period when the groups had almost their sole relations with one another as war. Nothing called it to arise. But at a higher stage the rudimentary form of commerce, exchange in kind or truck, appeared early and almost everywhere. Then this long, cumbersome, inconvenient method gave place to a more ingenious invention--the employment of "standard values," beings or material objects serving as a common measure for all the rest:--their choice varied with the time, place, and people--e.g., certain shells, salt, cocoa-seeds, cloth, straw-matting, cattle, slaves, etc.; but this innovation held all the remainder in the germ, for it was the first attempt at substitution. But during the earliest period of commercial evolution the chief effort at invention consisted of finding increasingly more simple methods in the mechanism of exchange. Thus, there succeeded to these disparate values, the precious metals, in the form of powder and ingots, subject to theft and the inconveniences of weighing. Then, money of fixed denomination, struck under the authority of a chief or of a social group. Finally, gold and silver are replaced by the letter of credit, the bank check, and the numerous forms of fiduciary money.[132] Every one of these forward steps is due to inventors. I say inventors, in the plural, because it is proven that every change in the means of exchange has been imagined several times, in several ages--though in the same way--on the surface of our earth. Summing up--the inventive labor of this period is reduced to creating increasingly more simple and more rapid methods of _substitution_ in the commercial mechanism. The appearance of commerce on a large scale has depended on the state of agriculture, industry, ways of communication, social and economic conditions and political extension. It came into being toward the end of the Roman Republic. After the interruption of the Middle Ages the activity is taken up again by the Italian cities, the Hanseatic League, etc.; in the fifteenth century with the great maritime discoveries; in the sixteenth century by the _Conquistadores_, hungering for adventure and wealth; later on, by the mixed expeditions, whose expenses are defrayed by merchants in common, and which are often accompanied by armed bands that fight for them; lastly comes the incorporation of great companies that have been wittily dubbed "_Conquistadores_ of the counting-house." We now come to the moment when commercial invention attains its complex form and must move great masses. Taken as a whole, its psychological mechanism is the same as that of any other creative work. In the first instance, the idea arises, from inspiration, from reflection, or by chance. Then comes a period of fermenting during which the inventor sketches his construction in images, represents to himself the material to be worked upon, the grouping of stockholders, the making up of a capital, the mechanism of buying and selling, etc. All this differs from the genesis of an esthetic or mechanical work only in the end, or in the nature of the images. In the second phase it is necessary to proceed to execution--a castle in the air must be made a solid structure. Then appear a thousand obstructions in the details that must be overcome. As everywhere else, minor inventions become grafted on the principal invention; the author lets us see the poverty or richness in resource of his mind. Finally, the work is triumphant, fails, or is only half-successful. Did it keep only to these general traits, commercial imagination would be merely the reiteration, with slight changes, of forms already studied; but it has characteristics all its own that must be distinguished. (1) It is a combining or tactical imagination. Heretofore, we have met nothing like it. This special mark is derived from the very nature of its determinism, which is very different from that limiting the scientific or mechanical imagination. Every commercial project, in order to emerge from the internal, purely imaginative phase, and become a reality, requires "coming to a head," very exact calculation of frequently numerous, divergent, even contrary elements. The American dealer speculating in grain is under the absolute necessity of being quickly and surely informed regarding the agricultural situation in all countries of the world that are rich in grain, that export or import; in regard to the probable chances of rain or drouth; the tariff duties of the various countries, etc. Lacking that, he buys and sells haphazard. Moreover, as he deals in enormous quantities, the least error means great losses, the smallest profit on a unit is of account, and is multiplied and increased into a noticeable gain. Besides that initial intuition that shows opportune business and moments, commercial imagination presupposes a well-studied, detailed campaign for attack and defense, a rapid and reliable glance at every moment of execution in order to incessantly modify this plan--it is a kind of war. All this totality of special conditions results from a general condition,--namely, competition, strife. We shall come back to this point at the end of the chapter. Let us follow to the end the working of this creative imagination. Like the other forms, this kind of invention arises from a need, a desire--that of the spreading of "self-feeling," of the expansion of the individual under the form of enrichment. But this tendency, and with it the resulting imaginative creation, can undergo changes. It is a well-known law of the emotional life that what is at first sought as a means may become an end and be desired for itself. A very sensual passion may at length undergo a sort of idealization; people study a science at first because it is useful, and later because of its fascination; and we may desire money in order to spend it, and later in order to hoard it. Here it is the same: the financial inventor is often possessed with a kind of intoxication--he no longer labors for lucre, but for art; he becomes, in his own way, an author of romance. His imagination, set at the beginning toward gain, now seeks only its complete expansion, the assertion and eruption of its creative power, the pleasure of inventing for invention's sake,[133] daring the extraordinary, the unheard-of--it is the victory of pure construction. The natural equilibrium between the three necessary elements of creation--mobility, combination of images, calculation--is destroyed. The rational element gives way, is obliterated, and the speculator is launched into adventure with the possibility of a dazzling success or astounding catastrophe. But let us note well that the primary and sole cause of this change is in the affective and motor element, in an hypertrophy of the lust for power, in an unmeasured and morbid want of expansion of self. Here, as everywhere, the source of invention is the emotional nature of the inventor. (2) A second special character of commercial imagination is the exclusive employment of schematic representations. Although this process is also met with in the sciences and especially in social inventions, the imaginative type that we are now considering has the privilege of using them without exception. This, then, is the proper moment for a description. By "schematic images" I mean those that are, by their very nature, intermediate between the concrete image and the pure concept, but approach more nearly the concept. We have already pointed out very different kinds of representations--concrete images, material pertaining to plastic and mechanical imagination; the emotional abstractions of the diffluent imagination; affective images, the type of which is found in musicians; symbolic images, familiar in mystics. It may seem improper to add another class to this list, but it is not a meaningless subtlety. Indeed, there are no images in general that, according to the ordinary conception, would be copies of reality. Even their separation into visual, auditory, motor, etc., is not sufficient, because it distinguishes them only with regard to their _origin_. There are other differences. We have seen that the image, like everything living, undergoes corrosions, damages, twisting, and transformation: whence it comes about that this remainder of former impressions varies according to its composition, i.e., in simplicity, complexity, grouping of its constitutive elements, etc., and takes on many aspects. On the other hand, as the difference between the chief types of creative imagination depends in part on the materials employed--on the nature of the images that serve in mental building--a precise determination of the nature of the images belonging to each type is not an idle operation. In order to clearly explain what we mean by schematic images, let us represent by a line, _PC_, the scale of images according to the degree of complexity, from the percept, _P_, to the concept, _C_. P------------X----G----S----C As far as I am aware, this determination of all the degrees has never been made. The work would be delicate; I do not regard it as impossible. I have no intention to undertake it, even as I do not pretend that I have given above the complete list of the various forms of images. If, then, we consider the foregoing figure merely as a means of representing the gradation to the eye, the image in moving, by hypothesis, from the moment of perception, _P_, is less and less in contact with reality, becomes simplified, impoverished, and loses some of its constitutive elements. At _X_ it crosses the middle threshold to approach nearer and nearer to the concept. At _G_ let us locate generic images, primitive forms of generalization, whose nature and process of becoming are well-known;[134] we should place farther along, at _S_, schematic images, which require a higher function of mind. Indeed, the generic image results from a spontaneous fusion of like or very analogous images--such as the vague representation of the oak, the horse, the negro, etc.; it belongs to only one class of objects. The schematic image results from a voluntary act; it is not limited to exact resemblances--it rises into abstraction; so it is scarcely accompanied by a fleeting representation of concrete objects--it is almost reduced to the word. At a higher level, it is freed from all sensuous elements or pictures, and is reduced, in the present instance, to the mere notion of value--it is not different from a pure concept. While the artist and the mechanic build with concrete images, the commercial imagination can act directly neither on things nor on their immediate representations, because from the time that it goes beyond the primitive age it requires a substitution of increasing generality; materials become values that are in turn reducible to symbols. Consequently, it proceeds as in the stating and solving of abstract problems in which, after having substituted for things and their relations figures and letters, calculation works with signs, and indirectly with things. Aside from the first moment of invention, the finding of the idea--an invariable psychological state--it must be recognized that in its development and detailed construction the commercial imagination is made up chiefly of calculations and combinations that hardly permit concrete images. If we admit, then,--and this is unquestionable--that these are the materials _par excellence_ of the creative imagination, we shall be disposed to hold that the imaginative type we are now studying is a kind of involution, a case of impoverishment--an unacceptable thesis as regards the invention itself, but strictly acceptable as regards the conditions that necessity imposes upon it. In closing, let us note that financial imagination does not always have as its goal the enriching of an individual or of a closely limited group of associates: it can aim higher, act on greater masses, address itself strenuously to a problem as complex as the reformation of the finances of a powerful state. All the civilized nations count in their history men who imagined a financial system and succeeded, with various fortunes, in making it prevail. The word "system," consecrated by usage, makes unnecessary any comment, and relates this form of imagination to that of scientists and philosophers. Every system rests on a master-conception, on an ideal, a center about which there is assembled the mental construction made up of imagination and calculation which, if circumstances permit, must take shape, must show that it can live. Let us call to mind the author of the first, or at least, of the most notorious of these "systems." Law claimed that he was applying "the methods of philosophy, the principles of Descartes, to social economy, abandoned hitherto to chance and empiricism." His ideal was the institution of _credit_ by the state. Commerce, said he, was during its first stage the exchange of merchandise in kind; in a second stage, exchange by means of another, more manageable, commodity or universal value, security equivalent to the object it represented; it must enter a third stage when exchange will be made by a purely conventional sign having no value of its own. Paper represents money, just as the latter represents goods, "with the difference that the paper is not security, but a simple promise, constituting credit." The state must do systematically what individuals have done instinctively; but it must also do what individuals cannot do--create currency by printing on the paper of exchange the seal of public authority. We know the history of the downfall of this system, the eulogies and criticisms it has received:--but because of the originality and boldness of his views, the inexhaustible fecundity of his lesser inventions, Law holds an undisputed place among the great imaginative minds. III We said above that commerce, in its higher manifestations, is a kind of war.[135] Here, then, would be the place to study the military imagination. The subject cannot be treated save by a man of the profession, so I shall limit myself to a few brief remarks based on personal information, or gleaned from authorities. Between the various types of imagination hitherto studied we have shown great differences as regards their external conditions. While the so-called forms of pure imagination, whence esthetic, mythic, religious, mystic creations arise, can realize themselves by submitting to material conditions that are simple and not very exacting, the others can become embodied only when they satisfy an _ensemble_ of numerous, inevitable, rigorously determined conditions; the goal is fixed, the materials are rigid, there is little choice of the appropriate means. If there be added to the inflexible laws of nature unforeseen human passions and determinations, as in political or social invention, or the offensive combination of opponents, as in commerce and war; then the imaginative construction is confronted with problems of constantly growing complexity. The most ingenious inventor cannot invent an object as a whole, letting his work develop through an immanent logic:--the early plan must be continually modified and readapted; and the difficulty arises not merely from the multiple elements of the problem to be solved, but from ceaseless changes in their positions. So one can advance only step by step, and go forward by calculations and strict examination of possibilities. Hence it results that underneath this thick covering of material and intellectual conditions (calculation, reasoning), spontaneity (the aptness for finding new combinations, "that art of inventing without which we hardly advance"[136]) reveals itself to few clear-sighted persons; but, in spite of everything, this creative power is everywhere, flowing like subterranean streams, a vivifying agency. These general remarks, although not applicable exclusively to the military imagination, find their justification in it, because of its extreme complexity. Let us rapidly enumerate, proceeding from without inwards, the enormous mass of representations that it has to move and combine in order to make its construction adequate to reality, able at a precise moment to cease being a dream:--(1) Arms, engines, instruments of destruction and supply, varying according to time, place, richness of the country, etc. (2) The equally variable human element--mercenaries, a national army; strong, tried troops or weak and new. (3) The general principles of war, acquired by the study of the masters. (4) More personal is the power of reflection, the habitual solving of tactical and strategic problems. "Battles," said Napoleon, "are thought out at length, and in order to be successful it is necessary that we think several times in regard to what may happen." All the foregoing should be headed "science." Advancing more and more within the secret psychology of the individual, we come to art, the characteristic work of pure imagination. (5) Let us note the exact, rapid intuition at the commencement of the opportune moments. (6) Lastly, the creative element, the conception, a natural gift bearing the hall-mark of each inventor. Thus "the Napoleonic esthetics was always derived from a single concept, based on a principle that may be summed up thus:--Strict economy wherever it can be done; expenditure without limit on the decisive point. This principle inspires the strategy of the master; it directs everything, especially his battle-tactics, in which it is synthetized and summed up."[137] Such, in analytical terms, appears the hidden spring that makes everything move, and it is to be attributed neither to experience nor to reasoning, nor to wise combinations, for it arises from the innermost depths of the inventor. "The principle exists in him in a latent state, i.e., in the depths of the unconscious, and unconsciously it is that he applies it, when the shock of the circumstances, of goal and means, causes to flash from his brain the spark stimulating the artistic solution _par excellence_, one that reaches the limits of human perfection."[138] FOOTNOTES: [131] Carpenter, _Mental Physiology_, chapter XI (end). [132] Historically, the evolution has not always proceeded strictly in this order, which, however, seems the most logical one. Negotiable drafts were known to the Assyrians and Carthaginians. For thousands of years Egypt used ingots, not real money, but it was acquainted with fiduciary money. In the new world, the Peruvians made use of the scale, the Aztecs were ignorant of its use, etc. For details, see Letourneau, _L'Évolution du commerce dans les diverses races humaines_, Paris, 1897, especially pp. 264, 330, 354, 384, etc. [133] This condition has been well-described by various novelists, among them Zola, in _Money_. [134] For further details on this point, we refer the reader to our _Evolution of General Ideas_ (chapter I). [135] A general, a former professor in the War College, told me that when he heard a great merchant tell of the quick and sure service of his commercial information, the conception of the whole, and the care in all the details of his operations, he could not keep from exclaiming, "Why, that is war!" [136] Leibniz. [137] General Bonnal, _Les Maîtres de la Guerre_, 1899, p. 137. "In him (Napoleon)," says the writer, "there was something of the poet, and one could explain all his acts by means of this singular complex, a medley of imagination, passion, and calculation. The dreams of an Ossian with the positive cast of mind of a mathematician and the passions of a Corsican--such were the heterogeneous elements that clashed in that powerful organization" (p. 151). [138] _Op. cit._, p. 6. CHAPTER VII THE UTOPIAN IMAGINATION[139] When the human mind creates, it can use only two classes of ideas as materials to embody its idea, viz.: (1) Natural phenomena, the forces of the organic and inorganic worlds. In its scientific form, seeking to explain, to know, it ends in the hypothesis, a disinterested creation. In its industrial aspect, aiming towards application and utilization, it ends in practical, interested inventions. (2) Human, i.e., psychic elements--instincts, passions, feelings, ideas, and actions. Esthetic creation is the disinterested form, social invention is the utilitarian form. Consequently, we may say that invention in science resembles invention in the fine arts, both being speculative; and that mechanical and industrial invention approaches social invention through a common tendency toward the practical. I shall not insist on this distinction, which, to be definite, rests only on partial characters; I merely wish to mention that invention, whose rôle in social, political and moral evolution is large, must, in order to be a success, adopt certain processes while neglecting others. This the Utopians do not do. The development of human societies depends on a multitude of factors, such as race, geographic and economic conditions, war, etc., which we need neither enumerate nor study. One only belongs to our topic--the successive appearance of idealistic conceptions that, like all other creations of mind, tend to realize themselves, the moral ideal consisting of new combinations arising from the predominance of one feeling, or from an unconscious elaboration (inspiration), or from analogy. At the beginning of civilizations we meet semi-historic, semi-legendary persons--Manu, Zoroaster, Moses, Confucius, etc., who were inventors or reformers in the social and moral spheres. That a part of the inventions attributed to them must be credited to predecessors or successors is probable; but the invention, no matter who is its author, remains none the less invention. We have said elsewhere, and may repeat, that the expression _inventor_ in morals may seem strange to some, because we are imbued with the notion of a knowledge of good and evil that is innate, universal, bestowed on all men and in all times. If we admit, on the other hand, as observation compels us to do, not a ready-made morality, but a morality in the making, it must be, indeed, the _creation_ of an individual or of a group. Everybody recognizes inventors in geometry, in music, in the plastic and mechanic arts; but there have also been men who, in their moral dispositions, were very superior to their contemporaries, and were promoters, initiators.[140] For reasons of which we are ignorant, analogous to those that produce a great poet or a great painter, there arise moral geniuses who feel strongly what others do not feel at all, just as does a great poet, in comparison with the crowd. But it is not enough that they feel: they must create, they must realize their ideal in a belief and in rules of conduct accepted by other men. All the founders of great religions were inventors of this kind. Whether the invention comes from themselves alone, or from a collectivity of which they are the sum and incarnation, matters little. In them moral invention has found its complete form; like all invention, it is organic. The legend relates that Buddha, possessed with the desire of finding the perfect road of salvation for himself and all other men, gives himself up, at first, to an extravagant asceticism. He perceives the uselessness of this and renounces it. For seven years he meditates, then he beholds the light. He comes into possession of knowledge of the means that give freedom from _Karma_ (the chain of causes and effects), and from the necessity of being born again. Soon he renounces the life of contemplation, and during fifty years of ceaseless wanderings preaches, makes converts, organizes his followers. Whether true or false historically, this tale is psychologically exact. A fixed and besetting idea, trial followed by failure, the decisive moment of _Eureka!_ then the inner revelation manifests itself outwardly, and through the labors of the master and his disciples becomes complete, imposes itself on millions of men. In what respect does this mode of creation differ from others, at least in the practical order? Thus, from the viewpoint of our present study, we may divide ethics into living and dead. Living ethics arise from needs and desires, stimulate an imaginative construction that becomes fixed in actions, habits and laws; they offer to men a concrete, positive ideal which, under various and often contrary aspects, is always happiness. The lifeless ethics, from which invention has withdrawn, arise from reflection upon, and the rational codification of, living ethics. Stored away in the writings of philosophers, they remain theoretical, speculative, without appreciable influence on the masses, mere material for dissertation and commentary. In proportion as we recede from distant origins the light grows, and invention in the social and moral order becomes manifest as the work of two principal categories of minds--the fantastic, the positive. The former, purely imaginative beings, visionaries, utopians, are closely related to poets and artists. The latter, practical creators or reformers, capable of organizing, belong to the family of inventors in the industrial-commercial-mechanical order. I The chimerical form of imagination, applied to the social sciences, is the one that, taking account neither of the external determinism nor of practical requirements, spreads out freely. Such are the creators of ideal republics, seeking for a lost or to-be-discovered-in-the-future golden age, constructing, as their fancy pleases, human societies in their large outlines and in their details. They are social novelists, who bear the same relation to sociologists that poets do to critics. Their dreams, subjected merely to the conditions of an inner logic, have lived only within themselves, an ideal life, without ever passing through the test of application. It is the creative imagination in its unconscious form, restrained to its first phase. Nothing is better known than their names and their works: The _Republic_ of Plato, Thomas More's _Utopia_, Campanella's _City of the Sun_, Harrington's _Oceana_, Fenelon's _Salente_, etc.[141] However idealistic they may be, one could easily show that all the materials of their ideal are taken from the surrounding reality, they bear the stamp of the _milieu_, be it Greek, English, Christian, etc., in which they lived, and it should not be forgotten that in the Utopians everything is not chimerical--some have been revealers, others have acted as stimuli or ferments. True to its mission, which is to make innovations, the constructive imagination is a spur that arouses; it hinders social routine and prevents stagnation. Among the creators of ideal societies there is one, almost contemporary, who would deserve a study of individual psychology--Ch. Fourier. If it is a question merely of fertility in pure construction, I doubt whether we could find one superior to him--he is equal to the highest, with the special characteristic of being at the same time exuberant to delirium and exact in details to the least minutiæ. He is such a fine type of the imaginative intellect that he deserves that we stop a moment. His cosmogony seems the work of an omnipotent demiurge fashioning the universe at will. His conception of the future world with its "counter-cast" creations, where the present ugliness and troubles of animal reign become changed into their opposites, where there will be "anti-lions," "anti-crocodiles," "anti-whales," etc., is one example of hundreds showing his inexhaustible richness in fantastic visions: the work of an imagination that is hot and overflowing, with no rational preoccupation. On the other hand, his psychogony, based on the idea of metempsychosis borrowed from the Orient, gives itself up to numerical vagaries. Assuming for every soul a periodical rebirth, he assigns it first a period of "ascending subversion," the first phase of which lasts five thousand years, the second thirty-six thousand; then comes a period of completion, 9,000 years; and then a period of "descending subversion," whose first stage is 27,000 years, and the second 4,000 years--a total of 81,000 years. This form of imagination is already known to us.[142] The principal part of his psychology, the theory of the emotions, questionable in many respects, is relatively rational. But in the construction of human society, the duality of his imagination--powerful and minute--reappears. We know his methodical organization: the _group_, composed of seven to nine persons; the _series_, comprising twenty-four to thirty-two groups; a _phalanx_ that includes eighteen groups, constituting the phalanstery; the small city, a general center of phalanges; the provincial city, the imperial capital, the universal metropolis. He has a passion for classification and ordering; "his phalanstery works like a clock." This rare imaginative type well deserved a few remarks, because of its mixture of apparent exactness and a natural, unconscious utopianism and extravagance. For, beneath all these pulsating inventions of precise, petty details, the foundation is none the less a purely speculative construction of the mind. Let us add an incredible abuse of analogy, that chief intellectual instrument of invention, of which only the reading of his books can give an idea.[143] Heinrich Heine said of Michelet, "He has a Hindoo imagination." The term would apply still better to Fourier, in whom coexist unchecked profusion of images and the taste for numerical accumulations. People have tried to explain this abundance of figures and calculation as a professional habit--he was for a long time a bookkeeper or cashier, always an excellent accountant. But this is taking the effect for cause. This dualism existed in the very nature of his mind, and he took advantage of it in his calling. The study of the numerical imagination[144] has shown how it is frequently met with among orientals, whose imaginative development is unquestioned, and we have seen why the idealistic imagination agrees so well with the indefinite series of numbers and makes use of it as a vehicle. II With practical inventors and reformers the ideal falls--not that they sacrifice it for their personal interests, but because they have a comprehension of possibilities. The imaginative construction must be corrected, narrowed, mutilated, if it is to enter into the narrow frame of the conditions of existence, until it becomes adapted and determined. This process has been described several times, and it is needless to repeat it here in other terms. Nevertheless, the ideal--understanding by this term the unifying principle that excites creative work and supports it in its development--undergoes metamorphosis and must be not only individual but collective; the creation does not realize itself save through a "communion of minds," by a co-operation of feelings and of wills; the work of one conscious individual must become the work of a social consciousness. That form of imagination, creating and organizing social groups, manifests itself in various degrees according to the tendency and power of creators. There are the founders of small societies, religious in form--the Essenes, the earliest Christian communities, the monastic orders of the Orient and Occident, the great Catholic or Mohammedan congregations, the semi-lay, semi-religious sects like the Moravian Brotherhood, the Shakers, Mormons, etc. Less complete because it does not cover the individual altogether in all the acts of life is the creation of secret associations, professional unions, learned societies, etc. The founder conceives an ideal of complete living or one limited to a given end, and puts it into practice, having for material men grouped of their free choice, or by coöptation. There is invention operating on great masses--social or political invention strictly so called--ordinarily not proposed but imposed, which, however, despite its coercive power, is subject to requirements even more numerous than mechanical, industrial, or commercial invention. It has to struggle against natural forces, but most of all against human forces--inherited habits, customs, traditions. It must make terms with dominant passions and ideas, finding its justification, like all other creation, only in success. Without entering into the details of this inevitable determination, which would require useless repetition, we may sum up the rôle of the constructive imagination in social matters by saying that it has undergone a regression--i.e., that its area of development has been little by little narrowed; not that inventive genius, reduced to pure construction in images, has suffered an eclipse, but on its part it has had to make increasingly greater room for experiment, rational elements, calculation, inductions and deductions that permit foresight--for practical necessities. If we omit the spontaneous, instinctive, semi-conscious invention of the earliest ages, that was sufficient for primitive societies, and keep to creations that were the result of reflection and of great pretension, we can roughly distinguish three successive periods: (1) A very long idealistic phase (Antiquity, Renaissance) when triumphed the pure imagination, and the play of the free fancy that spends itself in social novels. Between the creation of the mind and the life of contemporary society there was no relation; they were worlds apart, strangers to one another. The true Utopians scarcely troubled themselves to make applications. Plato and More--would they have wished to realize their dreams? (2) An intermediate phase, when an attempt is made to pass from the ideal to the practical, from pure speculation to social facts. Already, in the eighteenth century, some philosophers (Locke, Rousseau) drew up constitutions, at the request of interested persons. During this period, when the work of the imagination, instead of merely becoming fixed in books, tends to become objectified in acts, we find many failures and some successes. Let us recall the fruitless attempts of the "phalansteries" in France, in Algeria, Brazil, and in the United States. Robert Owen was more fortunate;[145] in four years he reformed New Larnak, after his ideal, and with varying fortune founded short-lived colonies. Saint-Simonism has not entirely died out; the primitive civilization after his ideal rapidly disappeared, but some of his theories have filtered into or have become incorporated with other doctrines. (3) A phase in which imaginative creation becomes subordinated to practical life: The conception of society ceases to be purely idealistic or constructed _a priori_ by deduction from a single principle; it recognizes the conditions of its environment, adapts itself to the necessities of its development. It is the passage from the absolutely autonomous state of the imagination to a period when it submits to the laws of a rational imperative. In other words, the transition from the esthetic to the scientific, and especially the practical, form. Socialism is a well-known and excellent example of this. Compare its former utopias, down to about the middle of the last century, with its contemporary forms, and without difficulty we can appreciate the amount of imaginative elements lost in favor of an at least equivalent quantity of rational elements and positive calculations. FOOTNOTES: [139] This title, as will be seen later, corresponds only in part to the contents of this chapter. [140] For facts in support, see the _Psychology of the Emotions_, Second Part, chapter VIII. [141] Our author does not mention Bacon's _New Atlantis_, one of the best specimens of its kind. "Wisest Verulam," active and distinguished in so many fields, is not amenable to rules, and is here found among "idealists," as elsewhere among the foremost empiricists and iconoclasts. (Tr.) [142] See above, Part III, chapter III. [143] We recommend to the reader the "Epilogue sur l'Analogie," in _Le Monde Industriel_, pp. 244 ff., where he will learn that the "goldfinch depicts the child born of poor parents; the pheasant represents the jealous husband; the cock is the symbol of the man of the world; the cabbage is the emblem of mysterious love," etc. There are several pages in this tone, with alleged reasons in support of the statements. [144] See above, chapter II. [145] For an excellent account of the principles of these movements, see Rae, _Contemporary Socialism_; for Owen's ideals, his _Autobiography_; and for an account of some of the trials, Bushee's "Communistic Societies in the United States," _Political Science Quarterly_, vol. XX, pp. 625 ff. (Tr.) CONCLUSION. CONCLUSION I THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION Why is the human mind able to create? In a certain sense this question may seem idle, childish, and even worse. We might just as well ask why does man have eyes and not an electric apparatus like the torpedo? Why does he perceive directly sounds but not the ultra-red and ultra-violet rays? Why does he perceive changes of odors but not magnetic changes? And so on _ad infinitum_. We will put the question in a very different manner: Being given the physical and mental constitution of man such as it is at present, how is the creative imagination a natural product of this constitution? Man is able to create for two principal reasons. The first, motor in nature, is found in the action of his needs, appetites, tendencies, desires. The second is the possibility of a spontaneous revival of images that become grouped in new combination. 1. We have already shown in detail[146] that the hypothesis of a "creative instinct," if the expression is used not as an abbreviated or metaphorical formula but in the strict sense, is a pure chimera, an empty entity. In studying the various types of imagination we have always been careful to note that every mode of creation may be reduced, as regards its beginnings, to a tendency, a want, a special, determinate desire. Let us recall for the last time these initial conditions of all invention--these desires, conscious or not, that excite it. The wants, tendencies, desires--it matters not which term we adopt--the whole of which constitutes the instinct of individual preservation, have been the generators of all inventions dealing with food-getting, housing, making of weapons, instruments, and machines. The need for individual and social expansion or extension has given rise to military, commercial, and industrial invention, and in its disinterested form, esthetic creation. As for the sexual instinct, its psychic fertility is in no way less than the physical--it is an inexhaustible source of imagination in everyday life as well as in art. The wants of man in contact with his fellows have engendered, through instinctive or reflective action, the numerous social and practical creations regulating human groups, and they are rough or complex, stable or unstable, just or unjust, kindly or harsh. The need of knowing and of explaining, well or ill, has created myths, religions, philosophical systems, scientific hypotheses. Every want, tendency or desire may, then, become creative, by itself or associated with others, and into these final elements it is that analysis must resolve "creative spontaneity." This vague expression corresponds to a _sum_, not to a special property.[147] Every invention, then, has a _motor_ origin; _the ultimate basis of the constructive imagination is motor_. 2. But needs and desires by themselves cannot create--they are only a stimulus and a spring. Whence arises the need of a second condition--the spontaneous revival of images. In many animals that are endowed only with memory the return of images is always provoked. Sensation from without or from within bring them into consciousness under the form, pure and simple, of former experience; whence we have reproduction, repetition without new associations. People of slight imagination and used to routine approach this mental condition. But, as a matter of fact, man from his second year on, and some higher animals, go beyond this stage--they are capable of spontaneous revival. By this term I mean that revival that comes about abruptly, without _apparent_ antecedents. We know that these act in a latent form, and consist of thinking by analogy, affective dispositions, unconscious elaboration. This sudden appearance excites other states which, grouped into new associations, contain the first elements of the creative act. Taken altogether, and however numerous its manifestations, the constructive imagination seems to me reducible to three forms, which I shall call _sketched_, _fixed_, _objectified_, according as it remains an internal fancy, or takes on a material but contingent and unstable form, or is subjected to the conditions of a rigorous internal or external determinism. (a) The _sketched_ form is primordial, original, the simplest of all; it is a nascent moment or first attempt. It appears first of all in dreaming--an embryonic, unstable and uncoördinated manifestation of the creative imagination--a transition-stage between passive reproduction and organized construction. A step higher is revery, whose flitting images, associated by chance, without personal intervention, are nevertheless vivid enough to exclude from consciousness every impression of the external world--so much so that the day-dreamer re-enters it only with a shock of surprise. More coherent are the imaginary constructions known as "castles in Spain"--the works of a wish considered unrealizable, fancies of love, ambition, power and wealth, the goal of which seems to be forever beyond our reach. Lastly, still higher, come all the plans for the future conceived vaguely and as barely possible--foreseeing the end of a sickness, of a business enterprise, of a political event, etc. This vague and "outline" imagination, penetrating our entire life, has its peculiar characters--the unifying principle is _nil_ or ephemeral, which fact always reduces it to the dream as a type; it does not externalize itself, does not change into acts, a consequence of its basically chimerical nature or of weakness of will, which reduces it to a strictly internal and individual existence. It is needless to say that this kind of imagination is a permanent and definite form with the dreamers living in a world of ceaselessly reappearing images, having no power to organize them, to change them into a work of art, a theory, or a useful invention. The "sketched" form is or remains an elementary, primitive, automatic form. Conformably to the general law ruling the development of mind--passage from indefinite to definite, from the incoherent to the coherent, from spontaneity to reflection, from the reflex to the voluntary period--the imagination comes out of its swaddling-clothes, is changed--through the intervention of a teleological act that assigns it an end; through the union of rational elements that subdue it for an adaptation. Then appear the other two forms. (b) The _fixed_ form comprises mythic and esthetic creations, philosophical and scientific hypotheses. While the "outline" imagination remains an internal phenomenon, existing only in and for a single individual, the fixed form is projected outwards, made something else. The former has no reality other than the momentary belief accompanying it; the latter exists by itself, for its creator and for others; the work is accepted, rejected, examined, criticised. Fiction rests on the same level as reality. Do not people discuss seriously the objective value of certain myths, and of metaphysical theories? the action of a novel or drama as though it were a matter of real events? the character of the _dramatis personae_ as though they were living flesh and blood? The fixed imagination moves in an elastic frame. The material elements circumscribing it and composing it have a certain fluidity; they are language, writing, musical sounds, colors, forms, lines. Furthermore, we know that its creations, in spite of the spontaneous adherence of the mind accepting them, are the work of a free will; they could have been otherwise--they preserve an indelible imprint of contingency and subjectivity. (c) This last mark is rubbed out without disappearing (for a thing imagined is always a personal thing) in the objectified form that comprises successful practical inventions--whether mechanical, industrial, commercial, military, social, or political. These have no longer an arbitrary, borrowed reality; they have their place in the totality of physical and social phenomena. They resemble creations of nature, subject like them to fixed conditions of existence and to a limited determinism. We shall not dwell longer on this last character, so often pointed out. In order the better to comprehend the distinction between the three forms of imagination let us borrow for a moment the terminology of spiritualism or of the common dualism--merely as a means of explaining the matter clearly. The "outline" imagination is a soul without a body, a pure spirit, without determination in space. The "fixed" imagination is a soul or spirit surrounded by an almost immaterial sheath, like angels or demons, genii, shadows, the "double" of savages, the _peresprit_ of spiritualists, etc. The _objectified_ imagination is soul and body, a complete organization after the pattern of living people; the ideal is incarnated, but it must undergo transformation, reductions and adaptations, in order that it may become practical--just as the soul, according to spiritualism, must bend to the necessities of the body, to be at the same time the servant of, and served by, the bodily organs. According to general opinion the great imaginers are found only in the first two classes, which is, in the strict sense of the word, true; in the full sense of the word false. As long as it remains "outline," or even "fixed," the constructive imagination can reign as supreme mistress. Objectified, it still rules, but shares its power with competitors; it avails nought without them, they can do nothing without it. What deceives us is the fact that we see it no longer in the open. Here the imaginative stroke resembles those powerful streams of water that must be imprisoned in a complicated network of canals and ramifications varying in shape and in diameter before bursting forth in multiple jets and in liquid architecture.[148] II THE IMAGINATIVE TYPE. Let us try now, by way of conclusion, to present to the reader a picture of the whole of the imaginative life in all its degrees. If we consider the human mind principally under its intellectual aspect--i.e., insofar as it knows and thinks, deducting its emotions and voluntary activity--the observation of individuals distinguishes some very clear varieties of mentality. First, those of a "positive" or realistic turn of mind, living chiefly on the external world, on what is perceived and what is immediately deducible therefrom--alien or inimical to vain fancy; some of them flat, limited, of the earth earthy; others, men of action, energetic but limited by real things. Second, abstract minds, "quintessence abstractors," with whom the internal life is dominant in the form of combinations of concepts. They have a schematic representation of the world, reduced to a hierarchy of general ideas, noted by symbols. Such are the pure mathematicians, the pure metaphysicians. If these two tendencies exist together, or, as happens, are grafted one on the other, without anything to counterbalance them, the abstract spirit attains its perfect form. Midway between these two groups are the imaginers in whom the internal life predominates in the form of combinations of images, which fact distinguishes them clearly from the abstractors. The former alone interest us, and we shall try to trace this imaginative type in its development from the normal or average stage to the moment when ever-growing exuberance leads us into pathology. The explanation of the various phases of this development is reducible to a well-known psychologic law--the natural antagonism between sensation and image, between phenomena of peripheral origin and phenomena of central origin; or, in a more general form, between the outer and inner life. I shall not dwell long on this point, which Taine has so admirably treated.[149] He has shown in detail how the image is a spontaneously arising sensation, one that is, however, aborted by the opposing shock of real sensation, which is its reducer, producing on it an arresting action and maintaining it in the condition of an internal, subjective fact. Thus, during the waking hours, the frequency and intensity of impressions from without press the images back to the second level; but during sleep, when the external world is as it were suppressed, their hallucinatory tendency is no longer kept in check, and the world of dreams is momentarily the reality. The psychology of the imaginer reduces itself to a progressively increasing interchange of rôles. Images become stronger and stronger states; perceptions, more and more feeble. In this movement opposite to nature I note four steps, each of which corresponds to particular conditions: (1) The quantity of images; (2) quantity and intensity; (3) quantity, intensity and duration; (4) complete systematization. (1) In the first place the predominance of imagination is marked only by the quantity of representations invading consciousness; they teem, break apart, become associated, combine easily and in various ways. All the imaginative persons who have given us their experiences either orally or in writing agree in regard to the extreme ease of the formation of associations, not in repeating past expedience, but in sketching little romances.[150] From among many examples I choose one. One of my correspondents writes that if at church, theatre, on a street, or in a railway station, his attention is attracted to a person--man or woman--he immediately makes up, from the appearance, carriage and attractiveness his or her present or past, manner of life, occupation--representing to himself the part of the city he or she must dwell in, the apartments, furniture, etc.--a construction most often erroneous; I have many proofs of it. Surely this disposition is normal; it departs from the average only by an excess of imagination that is replaced in others by an excessive tendency to observe, to analyze, or to criticise, reason, find fault. In order to take the decisive step and become abnormal one condition more is necessary--intensity of the representations. 2. Next, the interchange of place, indicated above, occurs. Weak states (images) become strong; strong states (perceptions) become weak. The impressions from without are powerless to fulfill their regular function of inhibition. We find the simplest example of this state in the exceptional persistence of certain dreams. Ordinarily, our nocturnal imaginings vanish as empty phantasmagorias at the inrush of the perceptions and habits of daily life--they seem like faraway phantoms, without objective value. But, in the struggle occurring, on waking, between images and perceptions, the latter are not always victorious. There are dreams--i.e., imaginary creations--that remain firm in face of reality, and for some time go along parallel with it. Taine was perhaps the first to see the importance of this fact. He reports that his relative, Dr. Baillarger, having dreamt that one of his friends had been appointed editor of a journal, announced the news seriously to several persons, and doubt arose in his mind only toward the end of the afternoon. Since then contemporary psychologists have gathered various observations of this kind.[151] The emotional persistence of certain dreams is known. So-and-so, one of our neighbors, plays in a dream an odious rôle; we may have a feeling of repulsion or spite toward him persisting throughout the day. But this triumph of the image, accidental and ephemeral in normal man, is frequent and stable in the imaginers of the second class. Many among them have asserted that this internal world is the only reality. Gérard de Nerval "had very early the conviction that the majority is mistaken, that the material universe in which it believes, because its eyes see it and its hands touch it, is nothing but phantoms and appearances. For him the invisible world, on the contrary, was the only one not chimerical." Likewise, Edgar Allan Poe: "The real things of the world would affect me like visions, and only so; while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became in turn not only the feeding ground of my daily existence but positively the sole and entire existence itself." Others describe their life as "a permanent dream." We could multiply examples. Aside from the poets and artists, the mystics would furnish copious examples. Let us take an exaggerated instance: This permanent dream is, indeed, only a part of their existence; it is above all active through its intensity; but, while it lasts, it absorbs them so completely that they enter the external world only with a sudden, violent and painful shock. (3) If the changing of images into strong states preponderating in consciousness is no longer an episode but a lasting disposition, then the imaginative life undergoes a partial systematization that approaches insanity. Everyone may be "absorbed" for a moment; the above-mentioned authors are so frequently. On a higher level this invading supremacy of the internal life becomes a habit. This third degree is but the second carried to excess. Some cases of double personality (those of Azam, Reynolds) are known in which the second state is at first embryonic and of short duration; then its appearances are repeated, its sphere becomes extended. Little by little it engrosses the greater part of life; it may even entirely supplant the earlier self. The growing working of the imagination is similar to this. Thanks to two causes acting in unison, temperament and habit, the imaginative and internal life tends to become systematized and to encroach more and more on the real, external life. In an account by Féré[152] one may follow step by step this work of systematization which we abridge here to its chief characteristics. The subject, M......, a man thirty-seven years old, had from childhood a decided taste for solitude. Seated in an out-of-the-way corner of the house or out of doors, "he commenced from that time on to build castles in Spain that little by little took on a considerable importance in his life. His constructions were at first ephemeral, replaced every day by new ones. They became progressively more consistent.... When he had well entered into his imaginary rôle, he often succeeded in continuing his musing in the presence of other people. At college, whole hours would be spent in this way; often he would see and hear nothing." Married, the head of a prosperous business house, he had some respite; then he returned to his former constructions. "They commenced by being, as before, not very durable or absorbing; but gradually they acquired more intensity and duration, and lastly became fixed in a definite form." "To sum up, here is what this ideal life, lasting almost from his fourth year, meant: M...... had built at Chaville, on the outskirts of the forest, an imaginary summer residence surrounded by a garden. By successive additions the pavilion became a château; the garden, a park; servants, horses, water-fixtures came to ornament the domain. The furnishings of the inside had been modified at the same time. A wife had come to give life to the picture; two children had been born. Nothing was wanting to this household, only the being true.... One day he was in his imaginary salon at Chaville, occupied in watching an upholsterer who was changing the arrangement of the tapestry. He was so absorbed in the matter that he did not notice a man coming toward him, and at the question, 'M......, if you please--?' he answered, without thinking, 'He is at Chaville.' This reply, given in public, aroused in him a real terror. 'I believe that I was foolish,' he said. Coming to himself, he declared that he was ready to do anything to get rid of his ideas." Here the imaginative type is at its maximum, at the brink of insanity without being over it. Associations and combinations of images form the entire content of consciousness, which remains impervious to impressions from without. Its world becomes _the_ world. The parasitic life undermines and corrodes the other in order to become established in its place--it grows, its parts adhere more closely, it forms a compact mass--the imaginary systematization is complete. (4) The fourth stage is an exaggeration of the foregoing. The _completely_ systematized and permanent imaginative life excludes the other. This is the extreme form, the beginning of insanity, which is outside our subject, from which pathology has been excluded. Imagination in the insane would deserve a special study, that would be lengthy, because there is no form of imagination that insanity has not adopted. In no period have insane creations been lacking in the practical, religious, or mystic life, in poetry, the fine arts, and in the sciences; in industrial, commercial, mechanical, military projects, and in plans for social and political reform. We should, then, be abundantly supplied with facts.[153] It would be difficult, for, if in ordinary life we are often perplexed to decide whether a man is sane or not, how much more then, when it is a question of an inventor, of an act of the creative faculty, i.e., of a venture into the unknown! How many innovators have been regarded as insane, or as at least unbalanced, visionary! We cannot even invoke success as a criterion. Many non-viable or abortive inventions have been fathered by very sane minds, and people regarded as insane have vindicated their imaginative constructions through success. Let us leave these difficulties of a subject that is not our own, in order to determine merely the psychological criterion belonging to the fourth stage. How may we rightly assert that a form of imaginative life is clearly pathologic? In my opinion, the answer must be sought in the nature and degree of belief accompanying the labor of creating. It is an axiom unchallenged by anyone--whether idealist or realist of any shade of belief--that nothing has existence for us save through the consciousness we have of it; but for realism--and experimental psychology is of necessity realistic--there are two distinct forms of existence. One, subjective, having no reality except in consciousness, for the one experiencing it, its reality being due only to belief, to that first affirmation of the mind so often described. The other, objective, existing in consciousness and outside of it, being real not only for me but for all those whose constitution is similar or analogous to mine. This much borne in mind, let us compare the last two degrees of the development of the imaginative life. For the imaginer of the third stage, the two forms of existence are not confounded. He distinguishes _two_ worlds, preferring one and making the best of the other, but believing in both. He is conscious of passing from one to the other. There is an alternation. The observation of Féré, although extreme, is a proof of this. At the fourth stage, in the insane, imaginative labor--the only kind with which we are concerned--is so systematized that the distinction between the two kinds of existence has disappeared. All the phantoms of his brain are invested with objective reality. Occurrences without, even the most extraordinary, do not reach one in this stage, or else are interpreted in accordance with the diseased fancy. There is no longer any alternation.[154] By way of summary we may say: The creative imagination consists of the property that images have of gathering in new combinations, through the effect of a spontaneity whose nature we have attempted to describe. It always tends to realize itself in degrees that vary from mere momentary belief to complete objectivity. Throughout its multiple manifestations, it remains identical with itself in its basic nature, in its constitutive elements. The diversity of its deeds depends on the end desired, the conditions required for its attainment, materials employed which, as we have seen, under the collective name "representations" are very unlike one another, not only as regards their sensuous origin (visual, auditory, tactile, etc.) but also as regards their psychologic nature (concrete, symbolic, affective, emotional-abstract images; generic and schematic images, concepts--each group itself having shades or degrees). This constructive activity, applying itself to everything and radiating in all directions, is in its early, typical form a mythic creation. It is an invincible need of man to reflect and reproduce his own nature in the world surrounding him. The first application of his mind is thinking by analogy, which vivifies everything after the human model and attempts to know everything according to arbitrary resemblances. Myth-making activity, which we have studied in the child and in primitive man, is the embryonic form whence arise by a slow evolution religious creations--gross or refined; esthetic development, which is a fallen, impoverished mythology; the fantastic conceptions of the world that may little by little become scientific conceptions, with, however, an irreducible residuum of hypotheses. Alongside of these creations, all bordering upon what we have called the fixed form, there are practical, objective creations. As for the latter, we could not trace them to the same mythic source except by dialectic subtleties which we renounce. The former arise from an internal efflorescence; the latter from urgent life-needs; they appear later and are a bifurcation of the early trunk: but the same sap flows in both branches. The constructive imagination penetrates every part of our life, whether individual or collective, speculative and practical, in all its forms--IT IS EVERYWHERE. FOOTNOTES: [146] See above, Part I, chapter II. [147] It is a postulate of contemporary physiology that all the neurones taken together cannot spontaneously, that is, of themselves, give rise to any movement--they receive from without, and expend their energy outwards. Nevertheless, between the two moments that, in reflex and instinctive actions, seem continuous, a third interposes, which, for the higher psychic acts, may be of long duration. Thus, reasonings in logical form and reflection regarding a decision to be made have a feeble tendency to become changed into acts; their motor effects are indirect, and at a long range. But this intermediate moment is _par excellence_ the moment for psychology. It is also the moment of the personal equation: every man receives, transforms, and restores outwards according to his own organization, temperament, idiosyncrasies, character--in a word, according to his personality, of which needs, tendencies, desires, are the direct and immediate expression. So we come back, by another route, to the same definition of spontaneity. [148] Besides these three principal forms, there are intermediate forms, transitions from one category to another, that are hard to classify: certain mythic creations are half-sketched, half-fixed; and we find religious and social and political conceptions, partly theoretic or fixed, partly practical or objective. [149] Taine, _On Intelligence_, Part I, Book II, ch. I. [150] See Appendix E. [151] Sante de Santis, _I Sogni_, chapter X; Dr. Tissié, _Les Rêves_, esp. p. 165, the case of a merchant who dreams of having paid a certain debt, and several weeks afterward meets his creditor, and maintains that they are even, giving way only to proof. [152] For the complete account, see his _Pathologie des émotions_, pp. 345-49. (Paris, F. Alcan.) [153] Dr. Max Simon, in an article on "Imagination in Insanity" (_Annales médico-psychologiques_, December, 1876), holds that every kind of mental disease has its own form of imagination that expresses itself in stories, compositions, sketches, decorations, dress, and symbolic attributes. The maniac invents complicated and improbable designs; the persecuted, symbolic designs, strange writings, bordering on the horrible; megalomaniacs look for the effect of everything they say and do; the general paralytic lives in grandeur and attributes capital importance to everything; lunatics love the naïve and childishly wonderful. There are also great imaginers who, having passed through a period of insanity, have strongly regretted it "as a state in which the soul, more exalted and more refined, perceives invisible relations and enjoys spectacles that escape the material eyes." Such was Gérard de Nerval. As for Charles Lamb, he would assert that he should be envied the days spent in an insane asylum. "Sometimes," he said in a letter to Coleridge, "I cast a longing glance backwards to the condition in which I found myself; for while it lasted I had many hours of pure happiness. Do not believe, Coleridge, that you have tasted the grandeur and all the transport of fancy if you have not been insane. Everything seems to me now insipid in comparison." Quoted by A. Barine, _Névrosés_, p. 326. [154] There has often been cited the instance of certain maniacs at Charenton, who, during the Franco-Prussian War, despite the stories that were told them, the papers that they read, and the shells bursting under the walls of the asylum, maintained that the war was only imagined, and that all was only a contrivance of their persecutors. APPENDICES APPENDIX A THE VARIOUS FORMS OF INSPIRATION[155] Among the descriptions of the inspired state found in various authors, I select only three, which are brief and have each a special character. I. Mystic inspiration, in a passive form, in Jacob Boehme (_Aurora_): "I declare before God that I do not myself know how the thing arises within me, without the participation of my will. I do not even know that which I must write. If I write, it is because the Spirit moves me and communicates to me a great, wonderful knowledge. Often I do not even know whether I dwell in spirit in this present world and whether it is I myself that have the fortune to possess a certain and solid knowledge." II. Feverish and painful inspiration in Alfred de Musset: "Invention annoys me and makes me tremble. Execution, always too slow for my wish, makes my heart beat awfully, and weeping, and keeping myself from crying aloud, I am delivered of an idea that is intoxicating me, but of which I am mortally ashamed and disgusted next morning. If I change it, it is worse, it deserts me--it is much better to forget it and wait for another; but this other comes to me so confused and misshapen that my poor being cannot contain it. It presses and tortures me, until it has taken realizable proportions, when comes the other pain, of bringing forth, a truly physical suffering that I cannot define. And that is how my life is spent when I let myself be dominated by this artistic monster in me. It is much better, then, that I should live as I have imagined living, that I go to all kinds of excess, and that I kill this never-dying worm that people like me modestly term their inspiration, but which I call, plainly, my weakness."[156] III. The poet Grillparzer[157] analyzes the condition, thus: "Inspiration, properly so called, is the concentration of all the faculties and aptitudes on a single point which, for the moment, should include the rest of the world less than represent it. The strengthening of the state of the soul comes from the fact that its various faculties, instead of being disseminated over the whole world, find themselves contained within the limits of a single object, touch one another, reciprocally upholding, reënforcing, completing themselves. Thanks to this isolation, the object emerges out of the average level of its _milieu_, is illumined all around and put in relief--it takes body, moves, lives. But to attain this is necessary the concentration of all the faculties. It is only when the art-work has been a world for the artist that it is also a world for others." FOOTNOTES: [155] See Part One, chapter III. [156] George Sand, _Elle et Lui_, I. [157] In Oelzelt-Newin, _op. cit._, p. 49. APPENDIX B ON THE NATURE OF THE UNCONSCIOUS FACTOR We have seen that in the question of the unconscious there must be recognized a positive part--facts, and an hypothetical part--theories.[158] Insofar as the facts are concerned, it would be well, I think, to establish two categories--(1) static unconscious, comprising habits, memory, and, in general, all that is organized knowledge. It is a state of preservation, of rest; very relatively, since representations suffer incessant corrosion and change. (2) Dynamic unconscious, which is a state of latent activity, of elaboration and incubation. We might give a multitude of proofs of this unconscious rumination. The well-known fact that an intellectual work gains by being interrupted; that in resuming it one often finds it cleared up, changed, even accomplished, was explained by some psychologists prior to Carpenter by "the resting of the mind." It would be just as valid to say that a traveler covers leagues by lying abed. The author just mentioned[159] has brought together many observations in which the solution of a mathematical, mechanical, commercial problem appeared suddenly after hours and days of vague, undefinable uneasiness, the cause of which is unknown, which, however, is only the result of an underlying cerebral working; for the trouble, sometimes rising to anguish, ceases as soon as the unawaited conclusion has entered consciousness. The men who think the most are not those who have the clearest and "most conscious" ideas, but those having at their disposal a rich fund of unconscious elaboration. On the other hand, shallow minds have a naturally poor unconscious fund, capable of but slight development; they give out immediately and rapidly all that they are able to give; they have no reserve. It is useless to allow them time for reflection or invention. They will not do better; they may do worse. As to the nature of the unconscious working, we find disagreement and darkness. One may doubtless maintain, theoretically, that in the inventor everything goes on in subconsciousness and in unconsciousness, just as in consciousness itself, with the exception that a message does not arrive as far as the self; that the labor that may be followed, in clear consciousness, in its progress and retreats, remains the same when it continues unknown to us. This is possible. Yet it must at least be recognized that consciousness is rigorously subject to the condition of time, the unconscious is not. This difference, not to mention others, is not negligible, and could well arouse other problems. The contemporary theories regarding the nature of the unconscious seem to me reducible to two principal positions--one psychological, the other physiological. 1. The physiological theory is simple and scarcely permits any variations. According to it, unconscious activity is simply cerebral; it is an "unconscious cerebration." The psychic factor, which ordinarily accompanies the activity of the nervous centers, is absent. Although I incline toward this hypothesis, I confess that it is full of difficulties. It has been proven through numerous experiments (Féré, Binet, Mosso, Janet, Newbold, etc.) that "unconscious sensations"[160] act, since they produce the same reactions as conscious sensations, and Mosso has been able to maintain that "the testimony of consciousness is less certain than that of the sphygmograph." But the particular instance of invention is very different; for it does not merely suppose the adaptation to an end which the physiological factor would suffice to explain; it implies a series of adaptations, corrections, rational operations, of which nervous activity alone furnishes us no example.[161] 2. The psychological theory is based on an equivocal use of the word consciousness. Consciousness has one definite mark--it is an internal event existing, not by itself, but for me and insofar as it is known by me. But the psychological theory of the unconscious assumes that if we descend from clear consciousness progressively to obscure consciousness, to the subconscious, to the unconscious that manifests itself only through its motor reactions, the first state thus successively impoverished, still remains, down to its final term, identical in its basis with consciousness. It is an hypothesis that nothing justifies. No difficulty arises when we bear in mind the legitimate distinction between consciousness of self and consciousness in general, the former entirely subjective, the latter in a way objective (the consciousness of a man captivated by an attractive scene; better yet, the fluid form of revery or of the awaking from syncope). We may admit that this evanescent consciousness, affective in nature, felt rather than perceived, is due to a lack of synthesis, of relations among the internal states, which remain isolated, unable to unite into a whole. The difficulty commences when we descend into the region of the subconscious, which allows stages whose obscurity increases in proportion as we move away from clear consciousness, "like a lake in which the action of light is always nearing extinction" (in double coexisting personalities, automatic writing, mediums, etc.). Here some postulate two currents of consciousness existing at the same time in one person without reciprocal connection. Others suppose a "field of consciousness" with a brilliant center and extending indefinitely toward the dim distance. Still others liken the phenomenon to the movement of waves, whose summit alone is lighted up. Indeed, the authors declare that with these comparisons and metaphors they make no pretense of explaining; but certainly they all reduce unconsciousness to consciousness, as a special to a general case, and what is that if not explaining? I do not intend to enumerate all the varieties of the psychological theory. The most systematic, that of Myers, accepted by Delboef and others, is full of a biological mysticism all its own. Here it is in substance: In every one of us there is a conscious self adapted to the needs of life, and potential selves constituting the subliminal consciousness. The latter, much broader in scope than personal consciousness, has dependent on it the entire vegetative life--circulation, trophic actions, etc. Ordinarily the conscious self is on the highest level, the subliminal consciousness on the second; but in certain extraordinary states (hypnosis, hysteria, divided consciousness, etc.) it is just the reverse. Here is the bold part of the hypothesis: Its authors suppose that the supremacy of the subliminal consciousness is a reversion, a return to the ancestral. In the higher animals and in primitive man, according to them, all trophic actions entered consciousness and were regulated by it. In the course of evolution this became organized; the higher consciousness has delegated to the subliminal consciousness the care of silently governing the vegetative life. But in case of mental disintegration there occurs a return to the primitive state. In this manner they explain burns through suggestion, stigmata, trophic changes of a miraculous appearance, etc. It is needless to dwell on this conception of the unconscious. It has been vehemently criticised, notably by Bramwell, who remarks that if certain faculties could little by little fall into the domain of subliminal consciousness because they were no longer necessary for the struggle for life, there are nevertheless faculties so essential to the well-being of the individual that we ask ourselves how they have been able to escape from the control of the will. If, for example, some lower type had the power of arresting pain, how could it lose it? At the foundation of the psychological theory in all its forms is the unexpressed hypothesis that consciousness may be likened to a quantity that forever decreases without reaching zero. This is a postulate that nothing justifies. The experiments of psychophysicists, without solving the question, would support rather the opposite view. We know that the "threshold of consciousness" or minimum perceptible quantity, appears and disappears suddenly; the excitation is not felt under a determinate limit. Likewise in regard to the "summit of perception" or maximum perceptible, any increase of excitation is no longer felt if above a determinate limit. Moreover, in order that an increase or diminution be felt between these two extreme limits, it is necessary that both have a constant relation--differential threshold--as is expressed in Weber's law. All these facts, and others that I omit, are not favorable to the thesis of growing or diminishing continuity of consciousness. It has even been maintained that consciousness "has an aversion for continuity." To sum up: The two rival theories are equally unable to penetrate into the inner nature of the unconscious factor. We have thus had to limit ourselves to taking it as a fact of experience and to assign it its place in the complex function that produces invention. The observations of Flournoy (in his book, mentioned above, Part I, chapter III) have a particular interest in relation to our subject. His medium, Helène S......--very unlike others, who are satisfied with forecasts of the future, disclosures of unknown past events, counsel, prognosis, evocation, etc., without creating anything, in the proper sense--is the author of three or four novels, one of which, at least, is invented out of whole cloth--revelations in regard to the planet Mars, its countries, inhabitants, dwellings, etc. Although the descriptions and pictures of Helène S. are found on comparison to be borrowed from our terrestrial globe, and transposed and changed, as Flournoy has well shown, it is certain that in this "Martian novel," to say nothing of the others, there is a richness of invention that is rare among mediums: the creative imagination in its subliminal (unconscious) form encloses the other in its éclat. We know how much the cases of mediums teach us in regard to the unconscious life of the mind. Here we are permitted, as an exceptional case, to penetrate into the dark laboratory of romantic invention, and we can appreciate the importance of the labor that is going on there. FOOTNOTES: [158] See Part I, Chapter III. [159] _Mental Physiology_, Book II, chapter 13. [160] This expression is put in quotation marks because in American and English usage "sensation" is defined in terms of consciousness, and such an expression as "unconscious sensation" is paradoxical, and would lead to futile discussion. (Tr.) [161] For the detailed criticism of unconscious cerebration, see Boris Sidis, _The Psychology of Suggestion: A research into the subconscious nature of Man and Society_, New York, Appletons, 1898, pp. 121-127. The author, who assumes the coëxistence of two selves--one waking, the other subwaking, and who attributes to the latter all weakness and vice (according to him the unconscious is incapable of rising above mere association by contiguity; it is "stupid," "uncritical," "credulous," "brutal," etc.) would be greatly puzzled to explain its rôle in creative activity. APPENDIX C COSMIC AND HUMAN IMAGINATION[162] For Froschammer, _Fancy_ is the original principle of things. In his philosophical theory it plays the same part as Hegel's _Idea_, Schopenhauer's _Will_, Hartmann's _Unconscious_, etc. It is, at first, objective--in the beginning the universal creative power is immanent in things, just as there is contained in the kernel the principle that shall give the plant its form and construct its organism; it spreads out into the myriads of vegetable and animal existences that have been succeeded or that still live on the surface of the Cosmos. The first organized beings must have been very simple; but little by little the objective imagination increases its energy by exercising it; it invents and realizes increasingly more complex images that attest the progress of its artistic genius. So Darwin was right in asserting that a slow evolution raises up organized beings towards fulness of life and beauty of form. Step by step, it succeeds in becoming conscious of itself in the mind of man--it becomes subjective. Generative power, at first diffused throughout the organism, becomes localized in the generative organs, and becomes established in sex. "The brain, in living beings, may form a pole opposed to the reproductive organs, especially when these beings are very high in the organic scale." Thus changed, the generative power has become capable of perceiving new relations, of bringing forth internal worlds. In nature and in man it is the same principle that causes living forms to appear--objective images in a way, and subjective images, a kind of living forms that arise and die in the mind.[163] This metaphysical theory, one of the many varieties of _mens agitat molem_, being, like every other, a personal conception, it is superfluous to discuss or criticise its evident anthropomorphism. But, since we are dealing with hypotheses, I venture to risk a comparison between embryological development in physiology, instinct in psychophysiology, and the creative imagination in psychology. These three phenomena are creations, i.e., a disposition of certain materials following a determinate type. In the first case, the ovum after fertilization is subject to a rigorously determined evolution whence arises such and such an individual with its specific and personal characters, its hereditary influences, etc. Every disturbing factor in this evolution produces deviations, monstrosities, and the creation does not attain the normal. Embryology can follow these changes step by step. There remains one obscure point in any event, and that is, the nature of what the ancients called the _nisus formativus_. In the case of instinct, the initial moment is an external or internal sensation, or rather, a representation--the image of a nest to be built, in the case of the bird; of a tunnel to be dug, for the ant; of a comb to be made, for the bee and the wasp; of a web to be spun, for the spider, etc. This initial state puts into action a mechanism determined by the nature of each species, and ends in creations of special kinds. However, variations of instinct, its adaptation to various conditions, show that the conditions of the determinism are less simple, that the creative activity is endowed with a certain plasticity. In the third case, creative imagination, the ideal, a sketched construction, is the equivalent of the ovum; but it is evident that the plasticity of the creative imagination is much greater than that of instinct. The imagination may radiate in several very different ways, and the plan of the invention, as we have seen,[164] may arise as a whole and develop regularly in an embryological manner, or else present itself in a fragmentary, partial form that becomes complete after a series of attractions. Perhaps an identical process, forming three stages--a lower, middle, and higher--is at the root of all three cases. But this is only a speculative hypothesis, foreign to psychology proper. FOOTNOTES: [162] See above, Part One, Chapter IV. [163] Those who, not having the courage to read the 575 pages of Froschammer's book, want more details, may profitably consult the excellent analysis that Séailles has given (_Rev. Philos._, March, 1878, pp. 198-220). See also Ambrosi, _Psicologia dell' immaginazione nella storia della filosofia_, pp. 472-498. [164] See above, Part II, chapter IV. APPENDIX D EVIDENCE IN REGARD TO MUSICAL IMAGINATION[165] The question asked above,[166] Does the experiencing of purely musical sounds evoke images, universally, and of what nature and under what conditions? seemed to me to enter a more general field--the affective imagination--which I intend to study elsewhere in a special work. For the time being I limit myself to observations and information that I have gathered, picking from them several that I give here for the sake of shedding light on the question. I give first the replies of musicians; then, those of non-musicians. 1. M. Lionel Dauriac writes me: "The question that you ask me is complex. I am not a 'visualizer;' I have infrequent hypnagogic hallucinations, and they are all of the auditory type. "... Symphonic music aroused in me no image of the visual type while I remained the amateur that you knew from 1876 to 1898. When that amateur began to reflect methodically on the art of his taste, he recognized in music a power of suggesting: "1. Sonorous, non-musical images--thunder, clock. Example, the overture of _William Tell_. "2. Psychic images--suggestion of a mental state--anger, love, religious feeling. "3. Visual images, whether following upon the psychic image or through the intermediation of a programme. "Under what condition, in a symphonic work, is the visual image, introduced by the psychic image, produced? In the event of a break in the melodic web (see my _Psychologie dans l'Opéra_, pp. 119-120). Here are given, without orderly arrangement, some of the ideas that have come to me: "Beethoven's _symphony in C major_ appears to me purely musical--it is of a sonorous design. The _symphony in D major_ (the second) suggests to me visual-motor images--I set a ballet to the first part and keep track altogether of the ballet that I picture. The _Heroic Symphony_ (aside from the funeral march, the meaning of which is indicated in the title) suggests to me images of a military character, ever since the time that I noticed that the fundamental theme of the first portion is based on notes of perfect harmony--trumpet-notes and, by association, military. The _finale_ of this symphony, which I consider superior to other parts, does not cause me to see anything. _Symphony in B flat major_--I see nothing there--this may be said without qualification. _Symphony in C minor_--it is dramatic, although the melodic web is never broken. The first part suggests the image, not of Fate knocking at the gate, as Beethoven said, but of a soul overcome with the crises of revolt, accompanied by a hope of victory. Visual images do not come except as brought by psychic images." F. G., a musician, always sees--that is the rule, notably in the _Pastoral_, and in the _Heroic Symphony_. In Bach's _Passion_ he beholds the scene of the mystic lamb. A composer writes me: "When I compose or play music of my own composition I behold dancing figures; I see an orchestra, an audience, etc. When I listen to or play music by another composer I do not see anything." This communication also mentions three other musicians who see nothing. 2. D......, so little of a musician that I had some trouble to make him understand the term "symphonic music," never goes to concerts. However, he went once, fifteen years ago, and there remains in his memory very clearly the principal phrase of a minuet (he hums it)--he cannot recall it without seeing people dancing a minuet. M. O. L...... has been kind enough to question in my behalf sixteen non-musical persons. Here are the results of his inquiry: Eight see curved lines. Three see images, figures springing in the air, fantastic designs. Two see the waves of the ocean. Three do not see anything. FOOTNOTES: [165] See Part Three, Chapter II. [166] _Ibid._, IV. APPENDIX E THE IMAGINATIVE TYPE AND ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS[167] I have questioned a very great number of imaginative persons, well known to me as such, and have chosen preferably those who, not making a profession of creating, let their fancy wander as it wills, without professional care. In all the mechanism is the same, differing scarcely more than temperament and degree of culture. Here are two examples. B......, forty-six years of age, is acquainted with a large part of Europe, North America, Oceania, Hindoostan, Indo-China, and North Africa, and has not passed through these countries on the run, but, because of his duties, resided there some time. It is worthy of remark, as will be seen from the following observation, that the remembrance of such various countries does not have first place in this brilliant, fanciful personage--which fact is an argument in favor of the very personal character of the creative imagination. "In a general way, imagination, very lively in me, functions by association of ideas. Memory or the outer world furnishes me some data. On this data there is not always, though there should be, imaginative work proper, and then things remain as they are, without end. "But when I meet a construction--it matters little whether ancient or in the course of erection--the formula, 'That ought to be fixed,' is one that rises mechanically to my mind in such a case; often it happens that I think aloud and say it, although alone. When going away from the architectural subject[168] under consideration, I make up infinite variations upon it, one after another. Sometimes the things start from a reflex...." After having noted his preference for the architecture of the Middle Ages, B...... adds (here he touches on the unconscious factor): "Were I to explain or attempt to explain how the Middle Ages have such an attraction for my mind, I should see therein an atavistic accumulation of religious feeling fixed in my family, on the female side no doubt, and of religiousness in ecclesiastical architecture--these touch. "Another example illustrating the rôle of association of ideas in the same matter. One Sunday night I left Noumea in the carriage of Dr. F...... who was going to visit a nunnery five leagues from there. At the moment of our arrival the doctor asked what time it was. 'Half-past two,' I said, looking at my watch. As we stopped in the convent court in front of the chapel I _heard_ the lusty conclusion of a psalm. 'They are singing vespers,' I remarked to the doctor. He commenced to laugh. 'What time are vespers sung in your town?' 'At half-past two,' I answered. I opened the chapel door in order to show the doctor that vespers had just been held: the chapel was vacant. As I stood there, somewhat non-plussed, the doctor remarked, 'Cerebral automatism.' "I may add here, _by association_ of ideas. The doctor had seen through me, and had with fine insight perceived _why_ I had _heard_ the end of the psalm. The incident made a great impression on me, all the more as ever since the age of eight my memory testifies to a like hallucination, but of sight in place of hearing. It was at L...... that on Good Friday they rang at the cathedral with all their might. It was the very moment before the bells remain silent for three days, and it is known that this silence, ordained in the liturgy, is explained to children by telling them that during these two days the bells have flown to Rome. Naturally I was treated to this little tale, and as they finished telling it, I _saw_ a bell flying at an angle that I could still describe. "But this transforming power of my imagination is not present in me to the same extent as regards all things. It is much more operative in relation to Romano-Gothic architecture, mystic literature, and sociological knowledge than in relation, for instance, to my memories of travels. When I see again, in the mind's eye, the Isle of Bourbon, Niagara, Tahiti, Calcutta, Melbourne, the Pyramids and the Sphinx, the graphic representation is intellectually perfect. The objects live again in all their external surroundings. I feel the _Khamsinn_, the desert wind that scorched me at the foot of Pompey's Column; I hear the sea breaking into foam on the barrier reef of Tahiti. But the image does not lead to evocation of related or parallel ideas. "When, on the other hand, I take a walk over the Comburg moor, the castle weighs upon me in all its massiveness; the recollections of the _Mémoires d'Outre-tombe_ besiege me like living pictures. I see, like Chateaubriand himself, the family of great famished lords in their feudal castle. With Chateaubriand I return in the twinkling of an eye to the Niagara that we have both seen. In the fall of the waters I find the deep and melancholy note that he himself found; and after that I think of that dark cathedral of Dol that evidently suggested to the author his _Génie du Christianisme_. "In literature, things are very unequally suggestive to me. Classic literature has only few paths outwards for me--Tacitus, Lucretius, Juvenal, Homer, and Saint-Simon excepted. I read the other authors of this class partly for themselves, without making a comparison. On the other hand, the reading of Dante, Shakespeare, St. Jerome's compact verses on the Hebrew, and Middle Age prose excites within me a whole world of ideas, like Wagner's music, _canto-fermo_, and Beethoven. Certain things form a link for me from one order of ideas to another. For example, Michaelangelo and the Bible, Rembrandt and Balzac, Puvis de Chavannes and the Merovingian narratives. "To sum up: There are in me certain _milieux_ especially favorable to imagination. When any circumstance brings me into one of them, it is rare that an imaginative network does not occur; and, if one is produced, association of ideas will perform the work. When I give myself up to serious work, I have to mistrust myself: and in this connection I shall surprise people when I say that in the class of ideas above indicated the subject exciting the most ideas in me is sociology." M......, sixty years of age, artistic temperament. Because of the necessities of life, he has followed a profession entirely opposite to his bent. He has given me his "confession" in the form of fragmentary notes made day by day. Many are _moral_ remarks on the subject of his imagination--I leave them out. I note especially the unconquerable tendency to make up little romances and some details in regard to visual representation, and a dislike for numbers. "It happens that I experience sharp regret when I see the photograph of a monument, e.g., the Pantheon, the proportions of which I have constructed according to the descriptions of the monument and the idea that I had of the life of the Greeks. The photograph mars my dream. "From the seen to the unknown. In the S. G. library. A slender young woman, smartly dressed--spotless black gloves--between her fingers a small pencil and a tiny note-book. What business has this affectation this morning in a classic and dull building, in a common environment of poor workmen? She is not a servant-maid, and not a teacher. Now for the solution of the unknown. I follow the woman to her family, into her home, and it is quite a task. "In the same library. I want to get an address from the _Almanach Bottin_. A young man, perhaps a student, has borrowed the ridiculous volume. Bent over it, his hands in his hair, he turns the leaves with the sage leisure of a scholar looking for a commentary. From the empty dictionary he often draws out a letter. He must have received this letter this morning from the country. His family advises him to apply to so-and-so. It is a question of money and employment. He must locate the people who, provincial ignorance said, are near him. And so goes the wandering imagination. "When I feel myself drawn to anyone, I prefer seeing images or portraits rather than the reality. That is how I avoid making unforeseen discoveries that would spoil my model. "If I make numerical calculations, in the absence of concrete factors, the imagination goes afield, and the figures group themselves mechanically, harkening to an inner voice that arranges them in order to get the sense. "There may be an imagination devoted to arithmetical calculations--forms, beings intrude, even the outline of the figure 3, for example; and then the addition or any other calculation is ruined. "I revert to the impossibility of making an addition without a swerve of imagination, because plastic figures are always ready before the calculator. The man of imagination is always constructing by means of plastic images.[169] Life possesses him, intoxicates him, so he never gets tired." THE END FOOTNOTES: [167] See Conclusion, II, above. [168] B...... is not an architect. [169] We see that the speaker is a visualizer. INDEX. Absent images, Association of, 94. Abstraction, 15; Late appearance of, 146. Abulics, 11. Activity, normal end of imagination, 11. Adaptation of means to end, 264. Advance plans in commerce, 288. Adventure, Eras of, 287. Affective states, Rôle of, 8. Alcoholic liquors, 74. Alembert, d', 87. Alexander, 138, 142, 143. Alfieri, 56. Allen, 150. Americans, change occupations, 257. Analogy, 299; Abuse of, 305; based on qualitative resemblance, 26; essential to creative imagination, 25; not trustworthy in science, 27; Rôle of, in primitive life, 125; Thinking by, 117. Anatomical conditions, 65. Anger, 34. Animal fancy, 97. Animals, Association fibers or centers, lacking in, 100; Discoveries of, 98; Imagination in, 93, 94; Usefulness of, to man, 274. Animism, 107, 189; of primitives, 123. Anticipations of later inventions, 277. Apollo, 50. Apperception, Importance of, 16. _Apprehensio simplex_, a logical figment, 110. Arago, 145. Aristotle, vi, 134, 141. Art, Indefiniteness of modern, 203; Realistic, 250; Various theories of, 46. Artificial motors, Use of, a late development, 275. Aryan race, 129. Association, 22, 23; Forms of, 196; Laws of, 23; of ideas, 59, 353; of ideas, Criticism of the term, 23; of ideas, Discovery depends on, 250; suggests cause, 261. Associational systems, 67. Astral influences, 261. Asyllogistic deduction, 283. Attention, 86. Australians, 285. Automatisms, 71. Azam, 325. Bach, 69, 214, 216. Bacon, Roger, 245, 303 n. Baillarger, Dr., 324. Baldwin, 104. Barter, 286. Baudelaire, 39, 55. Beethoven, 52, 71, 148, 218. Bernard, Claude, 52; _idée directrice_ of, 250. Binet, 340. Bipartite division of the brain, 67. Bismarck, 271. Blood circulation, Importance of, 70. Boehme, Jacob, 335. Bonnal, 298 n. Borgia, Lucretia, 139. Bossuet, 225. Boulogne, De, 283. Bourdeau, L., 272. Brain- development and abstraction, 100; regions, Development of, 67; weights, 66. Bramwell, 343. Breguet, 277. Brown-Séquard, 77. Buddha, Life of, 301. Buffon, 52, 73. Byron, 145. Cabalists, 234. Cabalistic mysticism, 226. Cabanis, 78. Campanella, 303. Carlyle, 150, 186. Carpenter, 284, 339. Carthage, 282. Categories of images, 16. Causality, Search for, 260. Charcot, 6. Charlemagne, 138. Chateaubriand, 76. Chatterton, 145. Cherubini, 145. Child, Adult misinterpretation of, 104; Creative imagination in the, 103 ff.; Exaggeration of his intelligence, 115; Oscillation of belief and doubt in the, 113; Stages of development, 105. Child-study, Difficulties of, 104. Chopin, 52, 215. Chorea, 101. Cid, The, 140. Classes of discoverers, 249. Classification, 181. Coleridge, 37. Colored hearing, 38. Columbus, Christopher, 89. Commerce, Combative element in, 295. Commercial imagination, Conditions of, 281; development due to increasing substitution, 287; development, Stages of, 285. Common factor in comparison, 40. Complementary scientists, 246. Complete images impossible, 16. Comte, 146. Condillac, 243. Confucius, 300. Confusion of impressions, 18. Conjecture, beginning of science, 245. Conscious imagination, a special case, 58. Constellation, 59, 126. Constitutions by philosophers, 309. Contiguity and resemblance, 24. Contrapuntists, 214. Contrast, Association by, 40. Cooperation, 309; of intellect and feeling, 43. Copernicus, 246. Counter-world, 304. Creation hindered by complete redintegration, 22; in physiological inhibition, 6; Motor basis of, 258; Physiological and imaginative, 76; versus repetition, 5. Creative imagination, a growth, 9; Composite character of, 12; conditioned by knowledge, 173; either esthetic or practical, 44; implies feeling, 32; Neglect of, by writers on psychology, vii; Reasons for, 313. Creative instinct, non-existent, 42. Crisis, not essential, 58. Critical stage of investigation, 252. Cromwell, 144. Cumulative inventions, 272. Curiosity, 99; of primitive man, 45, 131. Cuvier, 183. Daedalus, 269. Dante, 205. Darwin, 117, 346. Dauriac, 350. Deduction, Process of, 283. Deffant, Madame du, 48. Deities, Coalescence of, 200; Momentary, 199; Multiplicity of Roman, 125. Delboef, 342. DeQuincy, 55. Descartes, 73, 294. Determinism, Neglect of, by idealists, 303; of art, 278; of invention, 264. Dewey, John, 132 n. _Dialectic_, Hegelian, 254. Diffluent imagination, 196 ff. _Dii minores_, 269. Disinterestedness of the artist, 35. Dissociation, 15, 268; by concomitant variations, 21; of series, 19. Double personality, 325. Dreams, 38; Emotional persistence of, 324. Drugs, Effect of, 55; Use of, as excitants, 70. Dualism of Fourier, 306. Dürer, 145. Egypt, 135. Egyptian conception of causality, 260. Emotion, and sensation, 38; material for imagination, 33; presupposes unsatisfied needs, 32; Realization of, 80. Emotional abstraction, 196; factor, 31 ff. Empedocles, 136. Epic, Rise of the, 138. Essenes, 307. Esthetic imagination, contrasted to mechanical, 264; Fixity of, 264. Ethics, Living and dead, 302. Euclid, 244, 245. Eureka, Moment of, 247, 302. Evolution of commerce, Law's statement of, 294. Exact knowledge requisite in commerce, 289. Expansion of self, 314. Experience requisite for literary invention, 146. External factors, 21. Facts and general ideas, 252. Faith, 112; -cure, 6; highest in semi-science, 241; Rôle of, 7. Fancy, 346; in animals, 97; Source of, 260. Fear, 34. Fenelon, 303. Féré, 325, 340. Fiduciary money, 286. Fixed ideas, 88, 89. Flechsig, 67, 68, 100, 103. Flournoy, 38, 344. Forel, 96. Fouillée, 193. Fourier, 304. French, not strong in imagination, 193; Revolution, 151. Fresnel, 145. Fromentin, 17. Froschammer, 75, 346. Fuegians, 285. Gauss, 69, 183. Gautier, Théophile, 55, 189, 190. Gavarni, 187. Generic image, 18. Genius, and brain structure, 68; depends on subliminal imagination, 57; exceptional, 149; No common measure of, 143. Geniuses, of judgment, 142; of mastery over men, and matter, 142. Gilman, 219 n. Gnostics, 234. Goethe, 29, 149, 150, 216. Gold, Curative powers of, 261. Goncourt, 74. Goya, 39, 206. Greece, 282. Greek republics, 151. Grétry, 73. Grillparzer, 85, 336. Groos, 35, 47, 99, 227. Guericke, Otto de, 276. Habits, 22. Hamilton, 19, 58, 60. Handel, 145. Hanseatic League, 287. Harrington, 303. Hartmann, 254, 346. Haüy, 247. Haydn, 145. Hegel, 254, 346. Heine, 306. Hellenic imagination, anthropomorphic, 202. Helmholtz, 20, 87, 142. Henry IV, 139. Hephæstos, 269. Hercules, 137. Hero, 270. Herodotus, 260. Hesiod, 130. Hindoo imagination, symbolic, 202. Hindoos, 128. Hodgson, 35. Höffding, 41. Hoffman, 39, 206. _Homo duplex_, 43. Homonomy, 120. Howe, 60 n. Huber, 96. Hugo, Victor, 188, 189, 216, 229; Animism in, 189. Human force, beginning of invention, 273. Hume, 111. Huyghens, 270. Hyperæmia, 70. Hyperesthesia, Temporary, 74. Hypermnesia, 54. Hypothesis, 251; Progressive, 244. Icarus, 269. Idea and emotion, Equivalence of, 80. Ideal modified in practice, 306. Idealistic conceptions, 300. Idealization, Process of, 38. Illusion, 107; and legend, 137; Conscious, of mystic, 228. Illusions, valuable to scientist, 251. Image, Modification of, 18, 291. Images, 80; abbreviations of reality, 232; Categories of, 16; Concrete, 222; provoked, 188; sketched type, 81; Symbolic, 222; Visual, provoked by music, 217. Imagination, and abulia, 11; and foresight, 284; anthropocentric, 10; basis of the cosmic process, 75; Commercial, 281; complete in animals, 95; condensed in common objects, 276; Conditions of, 44; Development of, 167 ff.; Diffluent, 196 ff.; Esthetic, 264; fixed form, 318; in animals, 93; in experimentation, 248; in primitive man, 118; Mechanical and technical, 257; Motives of different sorts of, 251; Musical, 212 ff., 350; Mystic, 221 ff.; Mystical, different from religious, 231; not opposed to the useful, 263; Numerical, 207 ff.; Periods of development of, 144; Plastic, 184 ff.; Poetical, 267; Practical, 256 ff.; present in all activities, viii; Quality of, same in many lives, 265; Scientific, 236 ff.; sketched form, 316; substitute for reason, 29; Varieties of, 180. Imaginative type, 320. Imitation, through pleasure, 98. Imitative music, 214. Impersonality, 52, 86. Incomplete images, 18. Incubation, Periods of, 278. Individual variations, 179. Individuality of genius, 149. Inductive reasoning, 132. Infantile insanity, 101. Inhibition by representation, 6. Initial moment of discovery, 276. Inspiration, 50, 85; and intoxication, 55; Characteristic of, 57; characterized by suddenness and impersonality, 51; resembles somnambulism, 56; Subjective feeling of, untrustworthy, 59. Instinct, 75; answer to specific needs, 42; Creative, 313; Resemblance of invention to, 48. Intellectual factor, 15. Intuition, 282, 285. Introspectors, 321. Intentional combination of images, 95. Interest, a factor in creation, 82. Interesting, defined, 36. Invention arises to satisfy a need, 271; Higher forms of, 140 ff.; in morals, 300; in successive parts, 296; of monopolies, 282; Pain of, 51; Spontaneity of, 51; subjected to tradition, 269. Inventions, Amplifiers of, 270; largely anonymous, 275; Mechanical, neglected by psychologists, 263; Stratification of, 272. Inventors deified, 269; Oddities of, 72. James, William, 21, 25, 37, 83, 112. Janet, 340. Jealousy, stimulates imagination, 34. Jordæns, 145. Joy, 34. Kant, 248. Kepler, 246, 247. Klopstock, 215. Kühn, 129. Lagrange, 71. Lamennais, 73. Lang, 128, 261. Language, Origin of, 120. Laplace, 250. Larvated epilepsy, 141. Lavoisier, 246. Law, 294. Lazarus, 47. Leibniz, 73, 74, 146, 253, 296 n. Lélut, 141. Leurechon, 277. Liebig, 244. Linnæus, 183. Literal mysticism, 226. Localization, 65. Loch Lomond, 58. Locke, 309. Lombroso, 141, 142. Louis XIV, 150. Love, 34; and hate, 134. Love-plays, 99. Machiavelli, 73. Machines, counterfeits of human beings, 279. Man and animals, Specific quality of, 273. Manu, 300. Mastery, Spirit of, 114. Materials of imagination, 299. Maury, A., 6 n. Mechanic and poet, 279. Mechanical aptitude, 145. Mechanical imagination, Ideal of, 268. Mediate association, 59. Memory, Predominant tendencies in, 61; untrustworthy, 17. Men, Great, as makers of history, 150. Mendelssohn, 145, 213 n., 215, 216. Mental chemistry, 82. Merchant sailors, 282. Metamorphosis, 28; of deities, 129; Regressive, 171. Metaphysical speculation, 251; thought, Stages of, 252. Metaphysics, 252 ff. Methods of invention, 243. Meynert, 100. Michaelangelo, 145, 148, 149. Michelet, 186, 306. Middle Ages, predominantly imaginative, 174. Military invention, 295; Conditions of, 297. Mill, John Stuart, 82, 284. Milton, 73. Mimicry, 98. Mind, Varieties of, 320. Mission, Consciousness of, 148. Misunderstanding of the new, 151. Mobility of inventors, 258. Monadology, 253. Money, Invention of, 286; sought as an end, 289. Monge, 237. Moses, 300. More, 303, 309. Morgan, Lloyd, 99. Mormons, 307. Monoideism, 87. Montgolfier, 277. Moral geniuses, 301. Moravian brotherhood, 307. Mosso, 71, 340. Motor elements in all representation, 4; elements, Rôle of, 7; manifestation basis of creation, 9. Movements, Importance of, in imagination, 3. Mozart, 73, 145. Müller, Max, 120, 129, 130. Mummy powder, 261. Münsterberg, 60. Muses, 50. Music an emotional language, 220; Precocity in, 144. Musical imagination, 212, 350. Musset, Alfred de, 335. Myers, 342. Mystic imagination, 221 ff., 335. Mystics, Abuse of allegory, by, 225; Belief of, 227; Metaphorical style of, 224. Mysticism by suggestion, 229. Myth, defined, 123; Depersonification of, 133; in Plato, 134; in science, 134; Subjective and objective factors in, 122. Myths, Significance of, 119; Variations in, 127. Myth-making activity, viii, 331. Napoleon, 10, 66, 71, 142; his war practice, 298. Natural, and human phenomena, 299; law, Uniformity of, opposed to dissociation, 21; motors, Use of, 275. Naville, 245. Need of knowing, 314. Neglect of details in sensation, 20. Nerval, Gérard de, 229, 324. Nervous overflow, 71. New Larnak, 309. Newbold, 340. Newcomen, 270. Newton, 58, 87, 146. Nietzsche, 150. _Nomina Numina_, 120, 262. Nordau, 142. Numerical imagination, 207 ff.; mysticism, 226; series unlimited, 207. Objective study of inventors, 71. Oddities of inventors, 72. Oelzelt-Newin, 33, 95. Old age, Effect of, on imagination, 77. Organic conditions, 65. Orientation conditioned by individual organization, 48; Personal, 270. Owen, Robert, 309. Paradox of belief, 242. Paralysis by ideas, 6. Pascal, 146, 244. Pasteur, 142, 143, 251. Pathological view of genius, 141. Pathology and physiology, 74. Perception, 15; and conception, 184; and imagination, 106. Perez, B., 115. Persistence of ideas due to feeling, 79. Personification, 186; characteristic of aborigines and children, 27; source of myth, 28. Phalanges, Organization of society into, 305. Philippe, J., 17 n. Philosophy, a transformation of mystic ideas, 233. Phlogiston, 248. Physiological states, 70. Physiology and pathology, 74. Plastic art and mythology, 191; imagination, 184 f. Plato, 134, 303, 309. Platonic ideas, 81, 253. Play, 47, 97; Uses of, for man, 114. Plotinus, 234. Poe, 39, 206, 324. Poet, a workman, 190. Poetical imagination, general characters, 267; Inspiration in, 268; special characters, 270. Poetical invention, Stages of, 266. Polyideism, 87. Polynomy, 120. Poncelet, 143. Positive minds, 318. Powers of nature, Exploitation of 271. Practical imagination, Ubiquity of, 254. Practice, essential in motor creation, 186. Precocity, 144; in poetry, 145; of mathematicians, 147. Pre-Raphaelites, 204. Preyer, 117. Primitive man, 45; and myth, 118 ff. Principle of unity, 250. Progressive stages of imagination, 84. Prometheus, 269. Provoked revival, 94. Pseudo-science, 240. Psychic atoms, 19; paralysis, 6. Psychological regressions, 248. Puberty, Influence of, on imagination, 76. Pythagoras, 226, 246. Pythagoreans, 134. Qualities, Attribution of, to objects, 124. Raphael, 145. Rational Metaphysics, 234. Reason, Objectivity of, 10. Reciprocal working of scientific and practical discoveries, 249. Recuperative theory of play, 97. Redintegration, Law of, 19; Total, 36. Regis, 54. Religion, Universality of, 128. Renaissance, 151, 175. Reni, Guido, 73. Repetition versus creation, 5, 23. Representation and belief inseparable, 110. Representations, Interchange of, 323; Number of, 322. Revery, 38, 198, 316. Reymond, Du Bois, 52. Reynolds, 6, 325. Roland, 138. Roman Republic, 151. Romans, 125. Romanes, 94, 95, 96. Romantic invention, 115. Röntgen, 142. Rossini, 73. Rousseau, 309. Rubens, 145. Rüdinger, 69. Saint-Simonism, 309. Sand, George, 52, 215. Satanic literature, 206. Schelling, 253. Schematic images, 18, 291. Schiller, 47, 72, 73, 145. Schopenhauer, 37, 149, 150, 253, 346. Schubert, 145. Schumann, 215. Science, 45; Conjecture beginning of, 245; prescribes conditions and limits to imagination, 236; Three movements in growth of, 239. Scientific imagination, 236 ff. Scripture, 60. Self-feeling, 35. Semi-science, 240. Seneca, 141. Sensation changed in memory, 17. Sensorial insanity, 101. Sexual instinct, 314. Shakers, 307. Shakespeare, 143, 186. Shelly, 56. Social aims in finance, 294; invention, limited by the past, 308; wants, 314. Socialism, Utopian and scientific, 310. Societies for special ends, 307. Sorrow, 34. Special modes of scientific imagining, 237. Specific, not general imagination, 179. Spencer, 47, 131, 150. Spinoza, 110, 143, 254. Spirits, Belief in, 51. Spontaneity, 296. Spontaneous revival, 94, 315. Spontaneous variations, 140. Stages of passage from percept to concept, 292. Stallo, 134. State credit, Law's system of, 294. Stewart, Dugald, 111. Stigmata, etc., unprecedented in individual's experience, 7. Stigmatized individuals, 6. Subjective factors, 20. Subliminal imagination, 57. Sully, 21. _Summa_, 254. Summary, 330. Superstition and religion, 259. Symbolism of Hindoos, 202. Taine, 18, 111, 117, 129, 150, 200. Teleological character of will and imagination, 10. Thales, 134. Titchener, 83. Tolstoi, 151. Tools, 274. Tours, Moreau de, 55, 78, 141. Triptolemus, 269. Tropisms, 75. Tycho-Brahé, 73, 246, 270. Tylor, 99, 123, 125, 131, 139. Tyndall, 238. Tyre, 282. Unconscious, Nature of the, 339; physiological theory, 340, 341. Unconscious cerebration, 53; factor, 50 ff.; factor, not a distinct element in invention, 64. Units of exchange, 286. Unity, Principle of, 79. _Universale post rem_, 84. Utopias, based on author's _milieu_, 303. Utopian imagination, 299. Utopians, indifferent to realization, 309. Van Dyck, 145. Vaucanson, 48. Vedic epoch, 129. Vesication, 5, 7. Vicavakarma, 269. Vico, 174. Vignoli, 128. Vinci, Leonardo da, 58, 149. _Vis a fronte_ and _a tergo_, 11. Vocation, Change of, 172; Choice of, 144. Voltaire, 150. Voluntary activity analogous to creative imagination, 9. Von Baer, 210. Von Hartmann, 224. Wagner, 145. Wahle, 62. Wallace, 96, 99. Wallaschek, 99. Watch, Evolution of the, 270. Watt, James, 66, 244, 270. Wealth, desired from artistic motives, 290. Weber, E. F., 5, 145, 216. Weismann, 148. Wernicke, 100. Wiertz, 39, 206. Will, The broad meaning of, 112; a coordinating function, 9; Effect of, on physiological functioning, 5. Words, Rôle of, 96. Wundt, 24, 40, 182. Zeller, 226. Ziehen, 61, 62. Zoroaster, 300. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes: | | | | Page 23: Fn. 8: Phychology amended to Psychology | | Page 25: Missing footnote marker in original. Added | | footnote marker after James quote. | | Page 35: casual amended to causal | | Page 38: haphazard amended to haphazardly; grouping amended | | to groupings | | Page 39: subejct amended to subject | | Page 54: vender _sic_ | | Page 56: "Under the influence of alcoholic drinks and of | | poisonous intoxicants attention and will always fall into | | exhaustion." _sic_ Possibly the word "does" or similar | | is missing before "and," or "and" is superfluous. | | Page 55: subtances amended to substances | | Page 75: images amended to image | | Page 84: unisersale amended to universale | | Page 85: The following lines transposed: "which, for the | | time being, should represent the" and "all the forces and | | capacities upon a single point" | | Page 123: fill amended to fills | | Page 151: duplicate "the" removed ("the the deep working of | | the masses") | | Page 155: Section II amended to IV | | Page 163: Section III amended to V | | Page 193: Saxin amended to Saxon | | Page 200: everyone amended to every one | | Page 208: apalling amended to appalling | | Page 213: Missing footnote marker in original. Added | | footnotemarker after last paragraph on page. | | Page 226: caballists amended to cabalists | | Page 229: plant and tree amended to plants and trees | | Page 236: In Chapter IV, "The Scientific Imagination," there | | are sections II, III, IV and V, but no section I. | | Page 250: dyssymetry amended to dyssymmetry | | Page 280: Missing footnote marker in original. Added | | footnote marker after "... inorganic life." | | Page 286: Fn. 132: Evolution amended to Évolution | | Page 292: acording amended to according | | Page 294: managable amended to manageable | | Page 297: opoprtune amended to opportune | | Page 319: or amended to of ("the double of savages") | | Page 321: quintescence amended to quintessence | | Page 338: Footnote marker and number added to note on page. | | Footnote marker added at end of first paragraph. | | Page 348: quivalent amended to equivalent | | Page 351: l'Opera amended to l'Opéra | | Page 365: Lammennais amended to Lamennais | | Page 365: Michelangelo amended to Michaelangelo | | | | Part II, Chapter II: The chapter heading in the table of | | contents differs from that shown on page 102. Left as is. | | | | Accented letters, italicisation and the punctuation of | | abbreviations have been standardised. | | | | Where a word is spelt differently and there is an equal | | number of instances, the variant spellings have been left as | | is: Hephaestos/Hephæstos; Jordaens/Jordæns; | | Linnaeus/Linnæus. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+