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Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
Ah! all the cats and kittens in the world must have come. So
many! And they all thronged round her, and sat upon her shoulders,
and clung round her arms.
“All the cats in the world hate you,” said Topsy.
“We do! we do! we do!” mewed the cats. “She never cares what
becomes of poor cats and kittens.”
Then the cats tumbled over each other, and tumbled over Linda,
and crowded round her and upon her, until she was sitting under a
heap of cats, with only her face peeping out, and Topsy was
crouching in front, looking fiercely at her.
“Now that you cannot stir,” said Topsy, “I am going to scratch
you.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Linda, and she gave such a start that all
the cats fell down upon the ground; and at that moment she opened
her eyes, and found herself in her bed, with her mother standing
beside her.
“What is the matter?” asked her mother, for she had heard
Linda scream.
“Oh! oh! oh!” sobbed Linda, “I have had such a horrid dream.”
“Well, it was only a dream. You are awake now, and I am with
you.”
“Every one in the world hates me, even the cats and the
carrots,” sobbed Linda, and bit by bit she told her mother all her
dream.
“It was such a horrid dream, and I was so frightened,” said
Linda, “I can’t think why it came.”
“I will tell you,” said her mother; “it came out of your own heart.
You had been thinking of the words I said to you, that every one
would dislike you but myself. I am glad that you have had this
dream, for it shows me that my words have sunk into my little girl’s
heart, and I hope now that she will try to improve.”
“I will try,” said Linda.
And she did try, and whenever she was inclined to do any selfish
act she thought of her wonderful dream, and said to herself, “I
should not wish all the world to be like the cats and the carrots.”
* * * * * *
“That’s a good story,” said Mary Frances to the Queen. “I shall
try to remember it.”
“It is a good story,” replied the Queen, smiling; “but we have
still better, as you shall hear.”
Here a page boy who sat on a stool at the foot of the Story
Lady began to fidget, as if to ask a question.
“Well, what is it, Roland?” asked the Story Lady.
“If you please, can’t we have a story about a boy?” answered
Roland.
“Yes,” said the Story Lady; “you shall have two stories—one
about a tiger, and the other about a page boy who killed a dragon.”
XV
THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL
NCE upon a time a Brahmin, who was walking along
the road, came upon an iron cage in which some men
had shut up a great Tiger.
As the Brahmin passed by, the Tiger called out:
“O brother Brahmin, brother Brahmin, have pity
on me, and let me out for only one minute! I am so thirsty I shall die
unless I can have a drink of water.”
“I am afraid,” said the Brahmin, “that if I let you out you will eat
me.”
“No, indeed,” said the Tiger. “As soon as I have had some water,
I will go back to my cage.”
Then the Brahmin was sorry for the thirsty beast, and opened
the cage door. Instantly the Tiger jumped out, and cried, “I will eat
you first and drink the water afterwards.”
“Do not be in such a hurry,” said the Brahmin. “Let us ask the
opinions of six, and, if they all say it is fair for you to kill me, then I
am willing to die.”
“Very well,” said the Tiger, “we will ask the first six living things
we meet.”
So they walked on till they came to a Banyan-tree, and the
Brahmin said, “Banyan-tree, Banyan-tree, hear and judge.”
“Let me hear,” said the Banyan-tree.
“This Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “begged me to let him out of his
cage to drink a little water and he promised not to hurt me. Now
that he is free, he wishes to eat me. Is it fair that he should do so?”
Then the Banyan-tree said: “Men come to rest in my cool shade.
When they have rested, they break my branches and scatter my
leaves. They are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”
“Tiger, Tiger,” said the Brahmin, “do not eat me yet. You said
that you would hear the judgment of six.”
“Very well,” said the Tiger, and they went on their way. Soon
they met a Camel.
“Camel, Camel,” cried the Brahmin, “hear and judge.”
“Let me hear,” said the Camel.
Then the Brahmin told his story.
“When I was young and strong and could work, my master took
good care of me,” said the Camel; “but now that I am old, he starves
me and beats me without mercy. Men are a cruel race. Let the Tiger
eat the man.”
The Tiger would have killed the Brahmin then and there, but he
said:
“Tiger, Tiger, do not eat me yet. You said that you would hear
the judgment of six.”
“Very well,” said the Tiger, and they went on their way. Soon
they saw an Ox lying near the road.
“Brother Ox, brother Ox,” cried the Brahmin, “hear and judge.”
“Let me hear,” said the Ox, and the Brahmin told his story.
“When I was young,” said the Ox, “my master was kind to me.
Now that I am too old to work he has left me here to die. Men are a
cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”
They next saw an Eagle flying through the air, and the Brahmin
cried:
“O Eagle, great Eagle, hear and judge.”
“Let me hear,” said the Eagle.
The Brahmin told his story, and the Eagle said:
“Whenever men see me, they try to shoot me; they climb the
rocks to my nest and steal away my little ones. Men are a cruel race.
Let the Tiger eat the man.”
Then the Tiger began to roar, but the Brahmin said, “Wait! we
have yet two to ask.”
Soon they saw an Alligator, and the Brahmin told his story. But
the Alligator said:
“Whenever I put my nose out of the water, men torment me.
They are a cruel race. Let the Tiger eat the man.”
The Brahmin was now in despair, but the Tiger was willing to
keep his word. And the sixth judge was a Jackal. Now the Jackal is a
miserable little beast whom no one likes, but he listened to the
Brahmin’s story.
“You must show me just where it was and how it happened,”
said the Jackal.
So they all went back to the cage.
“I was here,” said the Brahmin, standing in the road.
“And I was in the cage,” said the Tiger.
“Which way were you looking?” said the Jackal; “and show me
the side of the cage where you stood.”
“I was on this side,” said the Tiger, jumping into the cage.
“Oh, yes, I see,” said the Jackal. “And was the cage door shut?”
“Shut and bolted,” said the Brahmin.
“Then shut and bolt it,” said the Jackal.
When the Brahmin had done this, the Jackal said: “O wicked
and ungrateful Tiger, you would have killed the good Brahmin who
opened your cage door. Your cruelty shall be punished, for no one
will ever let you out again. Go your way, friend Brahmin, and go in
peace.”
* * * * * *
“Good for the jackal!” said Roland, clapping his hands. “Now for
the dragon!”
So the Story Lady went right on.
XVI
THE RED DRAGON
HERE lived in a marsh near a certain village, a red
dragon which terrorized all the people round about;
so the king of the country offered a great reward to
any one who would kill the frightful beast.
A great many knights of the king’s army went out
one after the other to slay it, and each came back
with a wonderful tale of how he had fought with the dragon; and,
after wounding it, had given up the fight only for fear of being slain
by the monster.
“Never mind; you will have better success next time,” the kind
king would say to each defeated knight. Then he would give him a
valuable gift as a reward for his brave effort.
There was among the king’s pages a little boy who was a great
butterfly hunter. The king’s librarian paid him a gold piece for every
new butterfly he found.
This page was a great favorite of the king, and often rode with
him on long journeys. One day when the king stopped in the
neighborhood in which the dragon lived, the page boy slipped off
with his net to hunt butterflies; and, in chasing a rare specimen, lost
his way and wandered into the very swamp where the dragon was
roaming about.
When the fierce old dragon saw the boy, he came rushing and
roaring at him in a great rage. The frightened boy looked around;
there were no trees to climb for safety, and he knew that if he ran
he could not escape, for run as he might, the dragon could run still
faster.
“Wow,” shrieked the Dragon
He had nothing with which to fight except his butterfly net. The
net was fastened to the end of a long stout stick, and the boy
decided to defend himself with this as best he could. When the
monster charged down upon him, bellowing fearfully, he raised his
stick and thrust it with all his might into the bulging side of the
beast.
“Wow!” shrieked the dragon; and with a puff it went up in the
air and burst, just as a balloon does when a hole is slashed in its
cover.
The fierce old dragon was nothing but skin and air!
When he was sure it was quite dead, the boy grasped the
empty dragon skin by its spiked tail, and dragged it back to the
castle and showed it to the king. He was the maddest king you ever
heard of when he saw the dead dragon lying there, and sent off at
once for the bold knights who had pretended to fight it so bravely.
“You old humbugs,” he cried. “There lies the red dragon you
bragged so much about fighting. It wasn’t a thing but skin and air. If
any one of you had so much as touched it with the point of a sword,
it would have gone to pieces, as it did when my brave page boy
struck it with his butterfly net.”
The cowardly knights had no word to say. So the king ordered
them to give the gifts they had received for fighting the dragon to
the page boy, who was then so rich that he was able to buy a castle
of his own. When he grew up, he was known as one of the bravest
knights of that country.
XVII
TWO POEMS
HE page was pretty brave,” said Roland. “When I was
little I used to be scared of the dark, and my mother
taught me a poem about being brave.”
“Oh, say it for us, please!” cried a girl near him.
The boy shook his head in refusal, but Mary
Frances gave him a smile and said, encouragingly, “Please, I want to
hear it.”
Then Roland rose, made a bow, and recited his poem:
If I Could Crow
Sometimes I waken up at night,
And cannot see a speck of light;
I snuggle down into my bed,
And pull the clothes in overhead.
I look and peer into the dark,
As something seems to whisper, “Hark!”
Then, with an awful sudden jump,
My heart begins to thump and thump.
Oh, my, I think I’ll be so brave,
And all my courage try to save;
Then, as I feel my courage go,
Our yellow rooster starts to crow.
Then I’m ashamed, and feel so small
To think that I’m not brave at all;
To know that in the black, black night,
Our rooster crows—no soul in sight.
He flaps his wings and crows for fair;
His voice sounds like he didn’t care—
Oh, well, what if I’m scared—I know
I’d be brave, too, if I could crow!
Just at this point the cat came bouncing into their midst.
“I have just time enough,” he said, breathlessly; “if you are
quite ready, I will begin.”
You should have heard the children shout!
“We are quite ready! Go on, Puss! Begin, please,” they cried.
So the cat made a bow, twirled his whiskers, and began:
The Twins[A]
There were two little kittens, a black and a gray,
And grandmother said, with a frown:
“It never will do to keep them both,
The black one we better drown.
“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,
“One kitten’s enough to keep;
Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing late,
And time you were fast asleep.”
The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet
Came little Bess from her nap;
The nurse said, “Go into mother’s room,
And look in grandmother’s lap.”
“Come here,” said grandmother, with a smile,
From the rocking-chair where she sat;
“God has sent you two little brothers;
Now what do you think of that?”
Bess looked at the babies a moment,
With their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandmother soberly said,
“Which one are you going to drown?”
[A]
Author unknown.
As soon as he had finished, he waltzed around three times,
turned a somersault, and bounded out of the circle as quickly as he
had appeared.
When the Story People had stopped laughing the Story King
rose and waved his hand and said:
“That will do for to-day; we must not tire our guest.”
“Oh, I am not tired,” said Mary Frances; “I could listen to such
stories forever.”
“Dear child, I believe you love stories as much as we do,” said
the Queen, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Well, you shall have a
delightful surprise to-morrow.”
While the stories were being told, Mary Frances had noticed a
little dried-up man, sitting at a table near the Story Lady, and writing
rapidly with an immense quill pen. Before him was a pile of white
paper and an inkwell. As she told the story he wrote it down,
keeping even pace with her words. Mary Frances had never seen
any one write so fast and she watched him, fascinated. Almost
without an effort his pen flew over the paper, and as the last word of
the story left the Story Lady’s lips his pen stopped. Then he folded
his papers neatly and laid them on the table.
As Mary Frances was passing out with the Story Lady, this little
man, much to her surprise, stepped up and handed her the papers
he had been writing.
“These,” said he, “are your copies of the stories you have just
heard.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she replied, hesitating to take
them.
“Yes, they are for you,” said the Story Lady. “This is the Ready
Writer; he will give you copies of all the stories you hear.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Mary Frances again to the Ready Writer.
“How fast you write! You must be the fastest writer in the world!”
The little man bowed and retired, evidently much pleased with
her praise of his skill.
XVIII
TINY’S ADVENTURES IN TINYTOWN
EFORE it grows dark, I have something to show you—
one of the most interesting sights on Story Island,”
said the Story Lady. “But we must hasten, because
darkness falls here very suddenly; it drops like a
curtain—all at once.”
Together they walked down the castle steps and
through the town. All was so strange to Mary Frances; the houses,
the streets—everything was so fairy-like or story-like, and yet so
familiar, that it seemed as if she had seen them all before.
“You live in Story Land, indeed,” said Mary Frances, gazing
eagerly about her.
“Yes,” returned the Story Lady, “we are not a very matter-of-fact
people.”
Soon they came to a beautiful park on the outskirts of the town.
“This is the Queen’s Garden,” said the Story Lady. “Here are
many of the trees, flowers and birds you read about in the story
books.”
“Oh! Oh!” cried Mary Frances, with delight, as she looked about
her.
Many of the wonders were strange, but here and there others
were familiar and she lingered to examine them.
“Not too long,” warned the Story Lady, smiling, “or darkness will
overtake us. Here is a surprise for you.”
They came to an enclosure, surrounded by a white picket-fence
about a foot high.
“What a tiny little town!” cried Mary Frances, looking down.
“Yes, that is what we call it—Tinytown.”
“Why, it’s just like the towns at home,” said Mary Frances,
looking closer. “There’s the school and the flag-staff, the public
square and the fountain, the church, the fire-house, the stores and
houses—just as they are at home! Oh, where did you get it?”
“We found it in your country,” replied the Story Lady; “and we
brought it here and set it up just as you see it and named it after
Tiny, the girl who discovered it—but it’s a long story.”
“Oh, won’t you tell me the story?”
“Yes; this evening.”
Mary Frances walked all around the fence and examined the
little town minutely. “To think of finding that on Story Island!” she
exclaimed. At the same time she felt a little pang of homesickness,
but said nothing about it.
“Now we must hasten home,” said the Story Lady.
As it was broad daylight, Mary Frances thought it rather strange
to hurry so, but just as they reached the castle, darkness fell and the
daylight went just as if some one had pressed a button and shut it
out.
That evening while they were resting comfortably in their
apartments, the Story Lady related Tiny’s Adventures in Tinytown
just as they are set down here.
Tiny Gets Lost
Tiny was out in the woods hunting chestnuts, when a bird flew
overhead, a bright-colored bird.
Tiny saw the bird twice before she was certain it was a flicker.
At first it seemed like a golden streak of yellow as it flew by, but
when it rested on a low bush, she felt sure there wasn’t any yellow
about it. Instead, it was bluish-gray and brown. On its head was the
most beautiful crescent of red. Its throat was a warm leaf-brown,
specked with polka-dots of black.
Just at Her Feet Lay the Tiniest Little Bit of a
Town
“Strange!” thought Tiny, tiptoeing nearer and nearer. “Oh, no,
it’s not strange at all. Why, it’s a flicker—a golden-winged
woodpecker. Its wings are lined with yellow. Of course it looked like
a yellow bird when flying overhead.”
“Wick—wick—wick—wick—follow—me.” The bird flew on a little
farther.
“I will catch up soon, birdie!” Tiny called, and hurried to the
branch where the bird was sitting.
“Wick—wick!” On and on it flew, Tiny following, when suddenly
it disappeared entirely, and there was Tiny miles out in the forest,
and not knowing the way back home at all. And not a single thing to
eat, either.
“My, now I am scared!—but I won’t cry! I’m nine years old, and
I won’t cry! I’ll look around and see if there isn’t something I can
think to do,” but a big tear blinded her eye.
“Where’s my handkerchief? Where ever did I put my
handkerchief?” She looked in her pocket. “But if I’m not going to cry,
what do I need it for?” she asked herself, and brushed away a big
drop with the back of her hand.
“Oh, oh, look!” Tiny laughed so that the woods echoed, and no
wonder she did—for just at her feet lay the tiniest little bit of a town
with real houses, no bigger than bird-houses; real people, too, not
much taller than pins; real street-lamps no bigger than pencils; real
carts no bigger than peanuts; real horses no bigger than katydids. In
the center of the town was a lovely little fountain. From the fountain,
walks led in four directions.
Houses and public buildings were along these walks; and
scattered on the green lawns were pretty flower-beds.
“Oh, what a lovely cottage!” cried Tiny, spying a beautiful little
house near the edge of the village.
“I’m going to pick it up! No, I’ll stoop down and look at it.
People may be inside. If I picked it up they might be hurt and
frightened.”
She leaned over and examined it closely, but was careful not to
step into the town.
The walls were covered with vines, and geraniums bloomed at
the windows. Charming white curtains hung on the sashes, showing
off the brilliant color of the geraniums.
Smoke was coming out of the chimney.
“My, the people who live in that cottage must be getting
supper!” The little girl spoke softly to herself. “It seems to me I can
smell it cooking. What tiny little bits of dishes they must use—
smaller than the littlest ones I own. Why, an acorn would be almost
large enough for a bath tub for the house.”
Tiny laughed gayly at the idea.
“I’ll wait here for a minute or two to see if anybody comes out
of the door,” she said, taking a seat on the twisted roots of a nearby
tree; but, although she waited patiently for several minutes, no one
appeared.
“How I wonder who lives in such a dear little home!” she
thought. “It must be fun to live in such a beautiful little house. My,
isn’t the whole town too sweet for anything! How I’d like to live
there!”
She put her toe on the gravel walk which led across the tiny
little town, and, in a second she was no longer a big girl; she was as
little as a pin herself, only, of course, not so thin as a pin, but just
the right size for the house.
Tiny is Put in the Lock-up
Tiny rubbed her tiny little eyes with her tiny little hand, and
looked about her in amazement. She was very near the cottage she
had so much admired. “I’d love to peep in the windows,” she
thought, “but it would be so rude. I guess I’ll walk over toward the
fountain.”
“Oh, here comes a hand-organ and a little monkey!” Tiny put
her hand in her pocket to find a penny, but all she found there were
three chestnuts, each no bigger than a period. “Poor little monkey!”
said Tiny as he came up to her, lifting his hat, “you must be tired. I
wonder if you’d like these nuts.”
The monkey smelled of the nuts, lifted his hat, looked at his
master, and nodding his thanks, began to eat them.
“He no tired,” said the Italian organ-grinder. “He work only two
hours a day.”
“Good!” said Tiny. “Does he play the rest of the day?”
“He play, play, play,” smiled the man, and passed down the
street.
“My,” thought Tiny, as she walked along, “I wish I had taken
some money with me this morning. If I had a nickel, I’d buy some
bananas from that banana-man’s fruit-stand. I certainly am hungry.”
“Want banan’s?” inquired the man as she stood looking at his
wares.
Tiny nodded. “I haven’t any money,” she said, trying to keep
from crying.
“Never mind,” smiled the man, “I had little girl once. She gone.
She die. I give banan’s you.” He handed her a half-dozen bananas no
bigger than pencil points.
“Oh, thank you,” said Tiny. “I’ll never forget how kind you are.”
But the man was on his way down the street before she
finished.
She felt much better after eating and stood for quite a while
watching the little fountain play and splash.
Away in the distance she heard a dog bark, and at the edge of
the village she saw a tiny newsboy and with him a tiny dog, no
bigger than a capital letter. Under his arm he carried tiny
newspapers no bigger than postage stamps.
“Not much news in such a tiny paper!” thought Tiny, watching
the fountain splash. “Some day I’ll buy one to see what it says.”
Suddenly she realized it was getting dark; people passed by her
and went into the houses. She felt very lonely and a little frightened.
“Oh, dear,” she thought, “I do wonder where I’ll sleep to-night? I
wonder if it’s against the law to sleep on the park benches?” She
went over and sat down on one. “I guess I’ll try sleeping here,
anyhow.”
She was just going to stretch out, when she saw a policeman
coming toward her just as fast as he could walk.
“Come, come!” he said. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you
around here before! What’s your name? Where do you live?”
“Please, Mr. Policeman”—Tiny tried to keep her voice from
shaking—“my name is Tiny and I’m lost.”
“Tiny! Tiny! Tiny what? What’s your other name?”
“They call me ‘Tiny girl’,” said Tiny.
“Tiny Girl!” grunted the policeman. “Girl! I’ve never heard of a
Mr. Girl or a Mrs. Girl around here! Oh, I know—I understand now—
you’ve run away from home—that’s what you’ve done!”
“Oh, no, sir,” began Tiny, but the policeman took her hand, and
walked toward the town hall.
“You’ll have to sleep over there to-night,” said he, pointing to
the building, “in care of the police matron; and in the morning we’ll
see what we can find out. Children that run away we always put in
the lock-up.”
They were inside the door now, and the policeman rapped three
times on the tiny table. Out came the police matron. Tiny thought
she looked rather severe.
“Matron,” said the policeman, “I found this little girl on one of
the park benches. She cannot tell me where she lives—she says
she’s lost and that her last name is Girl—Tiny Girl. You know there is
no family of the name of Girl in this whole town. Put her to sleep in
a bed and if anything turns up to-night to show who she is, I’ll let
you know. In the morning we’ll investigate. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Officer,” said the police matron.
“Come,” she said to Tiny, “let me wash you and comb your hair,
and give you some bread and milk. I’m certainly sorry such a little
girl should be a runaway. Your clothes show you have a careful
mother.”
“I didn’t run away,” sobbed Tiny; “I tell you I didn’t!”
“How did you come here, then?” asked the matron, stopping
combing her hair.
“I was a big, real girl,” said Tiny, “and—and I was walking in the
woods, with my mother’s permission, when a bird flew ahead of me
and he beckoned me to come on. I wandered and wandered and I
came to this place. I stepped on the walk, and—and—and—I—
melted into the tiny little thing I am—so there! How I wish I had my
mother——”
“Oh, what a story! What an awful story!” cried the police
matron. “Stop right away! We don’t allow children to tell lies here!”
“It’s not a story,” began Tiny, but the police matron dragged her
to a tiny bedroom, and undressed her and put her to bed.
“You will have your supper in bed,” said she, “then I’ll be sure of
where you are!” And she brought a bowl no bigger than a cherry-
stone full of bread and milk for Tiny’s supper.
At first Tiny couldn’t eat a mouthful, but she was really very
hungry, and finally she ate it all up.
“Mother will find me somehow,” she thought, as she slipped out
of bed and knelt to say her prayers.
Tiny is Adopted
The next morning Tiny was awakened by a knock at her door.
“Good morning,” smiled the police matron. “I have a delightful
surprise for you.”
“Good morning. What can it be?” cried Tiny. “Did my mother
——?”
“You’ve nearly guessed,” nodded the police matron, helping her
put on her shoes and stockings. “You’re going to have a mother, for
a dear old lady—Mrs. Bountiful—wants to adopt you.”
“To adopt me? Why, I thought all adopted children lived in
orphanages.”
“Oh, my, no!” exclaimed the police matron. “Children that run
away are often——”
“I didn’t run away!” Tiny stamped her tiny foot. “I tell you I
didn’t.”
“Come, come,” said the police matron, “you don’t want me to
tell your new friend that you have a bad temper and tell stories.”
Tiny certainly did not, and as she was now washed and dressed
she went down-stairs with the police matron.
“Here she is, madam,” said the police matron very politely as
she led Tiny to where the dearest bit of an old lady was sitting.
“Oh, you dear child!” exclaimed the tiny lady. “You’ve had no
breakfast, have you?”
“I just got up,” whispered Tiny, not liking to let her think that
the matron had been neglectful.
“Well, well,” smiled the little old lady, “we’ll soon see to that. I
have my automobile outside. Good-by, Mrs. Matron.” And taking Tiny
by the hand she went out.
“This is my son,” said the little old lady, as they walked up to the
car. “He can drive an automobile beautifully. Shake hands with Tiny,
Martin.”
“How do you do?”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Martin, lifting his tiny cap.
“Let us drive right home,” said his mother. “This dear little girl
hasn’t had any breakfast.” They climbed in, and away Martin drove,
down the street through the village park, past the fountain, over to
the edge of the village, up to—where do you think?—right up in
front of the cottage which Tiny had first seen in the little village.
“Oh, isn’t it a beau-ti-ful home!” she cried.
“How glad we are that you like it,” said the little lady. “Welcome
to Rose Cottage.”
“Walk—right—in—Welcome—to—Rose—Cottage,” cried a new
voice as they entered. It was a shrill, nasal voice.
Tiny looked around, but saw no one. “Look! I’m—right—here,”
cried the voice again.
The little lady laughed. “All right, Polly,” she called, and Tiny saw
in one corner of the room a pretty green-and-red-and-yellow poll-
parrot.
She wanted to go nearer and pet him, but his mistress hurried
her to the breakfast table.
“Let—us—take—a drive,” called out Polly presently.
“Why, yes, let us. Shall we go now, Martin?” asked Mrs.
Bountiful.
“Yes, Mother,” smiled the big boy.
“Take—us—all,” called Polly, “Take—us—all—don’t—forget—the
—monk.”
“Why,” asked Tiny, who had been very quiet, “what does he
mean?”
“He means,” laughed the little lady, “that we take Martin’s pet
monkey and Polly for a drive quite often—and they are both very
much spoiled.”
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Tiny. “Have you a monkey, too?”
Martin brought the monkey, and his mother took the parrot, and
they all got into the automobile.
“Where do we go first, Mother?” asked Martin.
“Will you excuse me, dear,” the little lady asked, “if I whisper? I
want to surprise you.”
Tiny nodded and smiled, as his mother leaned over to reach
Martin’s ear.
They drove along the park and over into the business part of
the village, up to the livery-stables and stopped.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the liveryman said.
“Bring him out,” nodded the little lady, and the man disappeared
into the stables.
Soon he led out the dearest little brown-and-white Shetland
pony—no bigger than a cricket.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Tiny. “I’d like to kiss him!”
The little old lady laughed delightedly.
“He’s yours,” she cried. “Get out and try to ride him.”
Martin helped her into the wee saddle, the liveryman gave her a
tiny whip and the pony cantered all the way down the street and
back again.
“Oh, I never thought I’d own a real live pony,” sighed Tiny,
patting the little thing’s neck. “It seems too good to be true.”
“Let us go down to the candy shop,” said Tiny’s fairy godmother.
The candy shop wasn’t far away and when they drew up
outside, Martin fastened the pony to the lamp-post. The little old
lady took Tiny into the shop.
“Here, dear,” she said, opening her purse, “are two dollars.
Spend them both. You can have all the candy and ice cream you
want.”
So Tiny ate five plates of ice cream and three boxes of candy.
“It was splendid,” she said to the little lady when they’d gotten
home. “I’d like to kiss you for all these lovely times.”
“I’m so glad, dear motherless child,” said the little lady with
tears in her eyes.
“But I’m not motherless—” began Tiny.
“There, there, we’ll forget about that,” interrupted her new
mother.
That night she tucked Tiny into bed quite early.
I must tell you about Tiny’s bedroom. All the woodwork and
furniture were white. On the floor was a rose-colored carpet, with a
border of pink and white roses and green leaves. At the windows
were white curtains with pink roses along each edge. On the little
white bureau was a tiny set of golden brushes and combs and boxes
and bottles, and in a gold vase on the dressing-table was a very
beautiful bouquet of tiny real roses.
Everything was so sweet that Tiny used up nearly every word of
praise she knew, and she fell asleep before the little lady had
finished tucking her in bed.
It must have been near midnight when Tiny was awakened very
suddenly by an awful pain.
She cried out loudly for her mother.
The little lady hastened to her room.
“You poor dear!” she cried. “Martin shall go immediately for
Doctor Curum.”
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