 The Cock-a-tooken from Nine Unlikely Tales for Children. The Cock-a-tooken, or Great Aunt Willoughby. Matilda's ears were red and shiny. So were her cheeks. Her hands were red, too. This was because Pridmoore had washed her. It was not the usual washing, which makes you clean and comfortable, but the thorough good wash, which makes you burn and smart till you wish you could be like the poor little savages who do not know anything and run about bare in the sun, and only go into the water when they are hot. Matilda wished she could have been born in a savage tribe instead of at Brixton. Little savages, she said, don't have their ears washed thoroughly, and they don't have new dresses that are prickly in the insides, round their arms, and cut them round the neck, do they, Pridmoore? But Pridmoore only said stuff and nonsense, and then she said, don't wriggle so, child, for goodness' sake. Pridmoore was Matilda's nursemaid. Matilda sometimes found her trying. Matilda was quite right in believing that savage children do not wear frocks that hurt. It is also true that savage children are not overwashed, overbrushed, overcombed, gloved, booted, and hatted, and taken in an omnibus to stret them to see their great Aunt Willoughby. This was intended to be Matilda's fate. Her mother had arranged it. Pridmoore had prepared her for it. Matilda, knowing resistance to be vain, had submitted to it. But destiny had not been consulted, and destiny had plans of its own for Matilda. When the last button of Matilda's boots had been fastened, the button-hook always had a nasty temper, especially when it was hurried, and that day it bit a little piece of Matilda's leg quite spitefully. The wretched child was taken downstairs, and put on a chair in the hall to wait, while Pridmoore popped her own things on. I shan't be a minute," said Pridmoore. Matilda knew better. She seated herself to wait, and swung her legs miserably. She had been to her great Aunt Willoughby's before, and she knew exactly what to expect. She would be asked about her lessons, and how many marks she had, and whether she had been a good girl. I can't think why grown-up people don't see how impertinent these questions are. Suppose you were to answer, I'm top of my class, auntie, thank you, and I'm very good, and now, let's have a little talk about you. Aunt dear, how much money have you got, and have you been scolding the servants again, or have you tried to be good and patient, as a properly brought up aunt should be, eh, dear? Try this method with one of your aunts, next time she begins asking you questions, and write and tell me what she says. Matilda knew exactly what the Aunt Willoughby's questions would be, and she knew how, when they were answered, her aunt would give her a small biscuit with caraway seeds in it, and then tell her to go with Pridmoore, and have her hands and face washed again. Then she would be sent to walk in the garden. The garden had a gritty path, and geraniums, and calciolarias, and labilias in the beds. You might not pick anything. Matilda would be minced-feel at dinner, with three-cornered bits of toast round the dish, and a tapioca pudding. Then the long afternoon with a book, a bound volume of The Potterer's Saturday Night, nasty small-print, and all the stories about children who died young because they were too good for this world. Matilda wriggled wretchedly. If she had been a little less uncomfortable she would have cried, but her new frock was too tight and prickly to let her forget it for a moment, even in tears. When Pridmoore came down at last, she said, Fi, for shame, what a sulky face. And Matilda said, I'm not. Oh, yes you are, said Pridmoore, you know you are, you don't appreciate your blessings. I wish it was your Aunt Willoughby, said Matilda. Nasty spiteful little thing, said Pridmoore, and she shook Matilda. Then Matilda tried to slap Pridmoore, and the two went down the steps not at all pleased with each other. They went down a dull road to the dull omnibus, and Matilda was crying a little. Now Pridmoore was a very careful person, though cross. But even the most careful persons make mistakes sometimes, and she must have taken the wrong omnibus, or this story could never have happened, and where shall we all have been then? This shows you that even mistakes are sometimes valuable, so do not be hard on grown-up people if they are wrong sometimes. You know, after all, it hardly ever happens. It was a very bright green and gold omnibus, and inside the cushions were green and very soft. Matilda and her nursemaid had it all to themselves, and Matilda began to feel more comfortable, especially as she had wriggled till she had burst one of her shoulder seams, and got more room for herself inside her frock. So she said, I'm sorry I was cross, pretty dear. Pridmoore said, so you ought to be. But she never said she was sorry for being cross. But you must not expect grown-up people to say that. It was certainly the wrong omnibus, because instead of jolting slowly along dusty streets, it went quickly and smoothly down a green lane, with flowers in the hedges and green trees overhead. Matilda was so delighted that she sat quite still, a very rare thing with her. Pridmoore was reading a penny-story called The Vengeance of the Lady Constantia, so she did not notice anything. I don't care, I shan't tell her, said Matilda. She'd stop the bus as likely as not. At last the bus stopped of its own accord. Pridmoore put her story in her pocket and began to get out. Well on ever, she said, and got out very quickly, and ran round to where the horses were. They were white horses with green harness, and their tails were very long indeed. Hi, young man! said Pridmoore to the omnibus driver. You've brought us to the wrong place. This isn't Stretham Common, this isn't. The driver was the most beautiful omnibus driver you ever saw, and his clothes were like him in beauty. He had white silk stockings, and a ruffled silk shirt of white, and his coat and breeches were green and gold. So was the three-cornered hat which he lifted very politely when Pridmoore spoke to him. I fear, he said kindly, that you must have taken, by some unfortunate misunderstanding, the wrong omnibus. When does the next go back? The omnibus does not go back. It runs from Brixton here once a month, but it doesn't go back. But how does it get to Brixton again, to start again, I mean? asked Matilda. We start a new one every time, said the driver, raising his three-cornered hat once more. And what becomes of the old ones? Matilda asked. Ah! said the driver, smiling. That depends. One never knows beforehand, things change so nowadays. Good morning. Thank you so much for your patronage. No, on no account, madame. He waved away the eightpence which Pridmoore was trying to offer him for the fare from Brixton, and drove quickly off. When they looked around them, no, this was certainly not Stretham Common. The wrong omnibus had brought them to a strange village, the neatest, sweetest, reddest, greenest, cleanest, prettiest village in the wild. The houses were grouped round a village green, on which children, in pretty loose frocks or smocks, were playing happily. Not a tight armhole was to be seen, or even imagined in that happy spot. Matilda swelled herself out, and burst three hooks, and a bit more of the shoulder seam. The shops seemed a little queer, Matilda thought. The names somehow did not match the things that were to be sold. For instance, where it said, Elias Groves, Tinsmith, there were loaves and buns in a window, and the shop that had baker over the door was full of perambulators. The grocer and the wheelwright seemed to have changed names, or shops, or something. A miss-skimpling dressmaker, or milliner, had her shop window full of pork and sausage meat. What a funny nice place, said Matilda. I am glad we took the wrong omnibus. A little boy in a yellow smock had come up close to them. I beg your pardon, he said very politely, but all strangers had brought before the king at once. Please follow me. Well, of all the impudence, said Pridmore, strangers indeed, and who may you be, I should like to know. I, said the little boy, bowing very low, I am the prime minister. I know I do not look it, but appearance is arducetful. It is only for a short time I shall probably be myself again by to-morrow. Pridmore muttered something which the little boy did not hear. Matilda caught a few words. Smacked. Bed. Bread and water. Familiar words, all of them. If it is a game, said Matilda to the boy, I should like to play. He frowned. I advise you to come at once, he said, so sternly that even Pridmore was a little frightened. His majesty's palace is in this direction. He walked away, and Matilda made a sudden jump, dragged her hand out of Pridmore's, and ran after him. So Pridmore had to follow, still grumbling. The palace stood in a great green park, dotted with white-flowered Maybushes. It was not at all like an English palace, St. James's, or Buckingham Palace, for instance, because it was very beautiful and very clean. When they got in, they saw that the palace was hung with green silk. The footmen had green and gold liveries, and all the courtiers' clothes were the same colors. Matilda and Pridmore had to wait a few moments, while the king changed his scepter and put on a clean crown, and then they were shown into the audience chamber. The king came to meet them. It is kind of you to have come so far, he said. Of course you'll stay at the palace. He looked anxiously at Matilda. Are you quite comfortable, my dear? he asked doubtfully. Matilda was very truthful, for a girl. No, she said. My frock cuts me round the arms. Ah, said he, and you brought no luggage. Some of the princess's frocks, her old ones, perhaps. Yes, yes, this person, you're made, no doubt. A loud laugh rang suddenly through the hall. The king looked uneasily round, as though he expected something to happen. But nothing seemed likely to occur. Yes, said Matilda, Pridmore is—oh, dear! For before her eyes she saw an awful change taking place in Pridmore. In an instant all that was left of the original Pridmore were the boots and the hem of her skirt. The top part of her had changed into painted iron and glass, and even as Matilda looked the bit of skirt that was left got flat and hard and square. The two feet turned into four feet, and they were iron feet, and there was no more Pridmore. Oh, my poor child! said the king, your maid has turned into an automatic machine. It was too true. The maid had turned into a machine, such as those which you see in a railway station, greedy grasping things which take your pennies and give you next to nothing in chocolate and no change. But there was no chocolate to be seen through the glass of the machine that once had been Pridmore, only little rolls of paper. The king silently handed some pennies to Matilda. She dropped one into the machine and pulled out the little drawer. There was a scroll of paper. Matilda opened it and read, Don't be tiresome. She tried again. This time it was—if you don't give over, I'll tell your ma first thing when she comes home. The next was—go along with you, do, always worrying. So then, Matilda knew. Yes, said the king sadly. I fear there's no doubt about it. Your maid has turned into an automatic nagging machine. Never mind, my dear. She'll be all right tomorrow. I like her best like this, thank you, said Matilda quickly, and he didn't put in any more pennies, you see. Oh, we mustn't be unkind and neglectful, said the king gently, and he dropped in a penny. He got. You tiresome boy you, leave me be this minute. I can't help it, said the king wearily. You've no idea how suddenly things change here, it's because—but I'll tell you all about it at tea time. Go with nurse now, my dear, and see if any of the princesses' frocks will fit you. Then a nice, kind, cuddly nurse led Matilda away to the princess's apartments, and took off the stiff rock that hurt, and put on a green silk gown, as soft as birds' breasts, and Matilda kissed her for sheer joy at being so comfortable. And now, dearie, said the nurse, you'd like to see the princess, wouldn't you? Take care you don't hurt yourself with her, she's rather sharp. Matilda did not understand this then. Afterward she did. The nurse took her through many marble corridors and up and down many marble steps, and at last they came to a garden full of white roses, and in the middle of it, on a green satin-covered eyedown, as big as a feather-bed, sat the princess in a white gown. She got up when Matilda came towards her, and it was like seeing a yard and a half of white tape stand up on one end and bow—a yard and a half of broad white tape, of course, but what is considered broad for tape is very narrow indeed for princesses. How are you? said Matilda, who had been taught manners. Very slim indeed, thank you, said the princess, and she was. Her face was so white and thin that it looked as though it were made of an oyster-shell. Her hands were thin and white, and her fingers reminded Matilda of fish-bones. Her hair and eyes were black, and Matilda thought she might have been pretty if she had been fatter. When she shook hands with Matilda, her bony fingers hurt quite hard. The princess seemed pleased to see her visitor, and invited her to sit with her highness on the satin cushion. I have to be very careful, or I should break, said she. That's why the cushion is so soft, and I can't play many games for fear of accidents. Do you know any sitting-down games? The only thing Matilda could think of was Cat's Cradle, so they played that with the princess's green hair ribbon. Her fish-bony fingers were much cleverer than Matilda's little fat pink paws. Matilda looked about her between the games, and admired everything very much, and asked questions, of course. There was a very large bird chained to a perch in the middle of a very large cage. Indeed, the cage was so big that it took up all one side of the rose garden. The bird had a yellow crest like a cockatoo, and a very large bill like a toucan. If you do not know what a toucan is, you do not deserve ever to go to the zoological gardens again. What is that bird? asked Matilda. Oh! said the princess. That's my pet cockatoucan. He's very valuable. If he were to die or to be stolen, the Greenland would wither up and grow like Newcross or Islington. How horrible! said Matilda. I've never been to those places, of course, said the princess, shuddering, but I hope I know my geography. All of it? asked Matilda. Even the exports and imports, said the princess. Goodbye. I'm so thin I have to rest a good deal, or I should wear myself out. Nurse, take her away! So Nurse took her away to a wonderful room, where she amused herself until tea time, with all the kinds of toys that you see and want in the shop, when someone is buying you a box of bricks or a puzzle map, the kind of toys you never get, because they are so expensive. Matilda had tea with the king. He was full of true politeness, and treated Matilda exactly as though she had been grown up, so that she was extremely happy and behaved beautifully. The king told her all his troubles. You see, he began, what a pretty place my Greenland was once. It has points even now, but things aren't what they used to be. It's that bird, that cockatoo-ken. We don't kill it or give it away, and every time it laughs, something changes. Look at my prime minister. He was a six-foot man, and look at him now. I could lift him with one hand. And then you're poor maid. It's all that bad bird. Why does it laugh? asked Matilda. I can't think, said the king. I can't see anything to laugh at. Can't you give it lessons, or something nasty to make it miserable? I have. I do. I assure you, my dear child. The lessons that bird has to swallow would choke a professor. Does it eat anything else besides lessons? Christmas pudding. But there, what's the use of talking? That bird would laugh if it were fed on dog biscuits. His majesty sighed and passed the buttered toast. You can't possibly, he went on, have any idea of the kind of things that happen. That bird laughed one day at a cabinet council, and all my ministers turned into little boys in yellow socks, and we can't get any laws made till they come right again. It's not the hair-fold, and I must keep their situations open for them, of course, poor things. Of course, said Matilda. There was a dragon now, said the king. When he came, I offered the princess his hand, and half my kingdom to any one who would kill him. It's an offer that is always made, you know. Yes, said Matilda. Well, a really respectable young prince came along, and everyone turned out to see him fight the dragon. As much as nine pence each was paid for the front seats, I assure you. The trumpet sounded, and the dragon came hurrying up. A trumpet is like a dinner bell to a dragon, you know. And the prince drew his bright sword, and we all shouted, and then that wretched bird laughed, and the dragon turned into a pussycat, and the prince killed it before he could stop himself. The populace was furious. What happened then? asked Matilda. Well, I did what I could. I said, you shall marry the princess just the same. So I brought the prince home, and when we got there the cockatoo-kin had just been laughing again, and the princess had been turned into a very old German governess. The prince went home in a great hurry, and an awful temper. The princess was all right in a day or two. These are trying times, my dear. I am so sorry for you, said Matilda, going on with the preserved ginger. Well, you may be, said the miserable monarch, but if I were to try to tell you all that that bird has brought on my poor kingdom, I should keep you up till long past your proper bedtime. I don't mind, said Matilda kindly. Do you tell me some more? Why, the king went on, growing now more agitated. Why, at one titta from that revolting bird, the long row of ancestors on my palace wall, grew red-faced and vulgar, they began to drop their h's, and to assert that their name was Smith from Clapham Junction. How dreadful! And once, said the king in a whimper, it laughed so loudly that two Sundays came together, and next Thursday got lost, and went prowling away and hid itself on the other side of Christmas. And now, he said suddenly, it's bedtime. Must I go? asked Matilda. Yes, please, said the king. I tell all strangers this tragic story, because I always feel that perhaps some stranger might be clever enough to help me. You seem a very nice little girl. Do you think you are clever? It is very nice even to be asked if you are clever. Your aunt Willoughby knows well enough that you are not. But kings do say nice things. Matilda was very pleased. I don't think I am clever, she was saying quite honestly, when suddenly the sound of a horse laugh rang through the banqueting hall. Matilda put her hands to her head. Oh dear! she cried. I feel so different. Oh! wait a minute. Oh! whatever is it? Oh! Then she was silent for a moment. Then she looked at the king and said, I was wrong, Your Majesty. I am clever, and I know it is not good for me to sit up late. Good night. Thank you so much for your nice party. In the morning I think I shall be clever enough to help you, unless the bird laughs me back into the other kind of Matilda. But in the morning Matilda's head felt strangely clear. Only when she came down to breakfast full of plans for helping the king, she found that the cockatoo can must have laughed in a night, for the beautiful palace had turned into a butcher's shop, and the king, who was too wise to fight against fate, had tucked up his royal robes and was busy in the shop, weighing out six ounces of the best mutton chops for a child with a basket. I don't know how ever you can help me now, he said despairingly, as long as the palace stays like this, it's no use trying to go on with being a king, or anything. I can only try to be a good butcher. You shall keep the accounts, if you like, till that bird laughs me back into my palace again. So the king settled down to business, respected by all his subjects, who had all, since the coming of the cockatoo can, had their little ups and downs. And Matilda kept the books and wrote out the bills, and really they were both rather happy. Pridmore, disguised as the automatic machine, stood in the shop and attracted many customers. They used to bring their children and make the poor innocents put their pennies in, and then read Pridmore's good advice. Some parents are so harsh. And the princess sat in the back garden with the cockatoo can, and Matilda played with her every afternoon. But one day, as the king was driving to another kingdom, the king of that kingdom looked out of one of his palace windows, and laughed as the king went by, and shouted, Butcher! The butcher king did not mind this, because it was true, however rude. But when the other king called out, what prize cats meet? The king was very angry indeed, because the meat he sold was always of the best quality. When he told Matilda all about it, she said, Send the army to crush him! So the king sent his army, and the enemy were crushed. The bird laughed the king back into his throne, and laughed away the butcher's shop, just in time for his majesty to proclaim a general holiday, and to organise a magnificent reception for the army. Matilda now helped the king to manage everything. She wonderfully enjoyed the new delightful feeling of being clever, so that she felt it was indeed too bad, when the cockatoo can laugh, just as the reception was beautifully arranged. It laughed, and the general holiday was turned into an income tax. The magnificent reception changed itself to a royal reprimand, and the army itself suddenly became a discontented Sunday school treat, and had to be fed with buns, and brought home in breaks crying. Something must be done, said the king. Well, said Matilda, I've been thinking, if you will make me the princess's governess, I'll see what I can do. I'm quite clever enough. I must open parliament to do that, said the king. It's a constitutional change. So he hurried off down the road to open parliament. But the bird put its head on one side and laughed at him as he went by. He hurried on, but his beautiful crown grew large and brassy, and was set with cheap glass in the worst possible taste. His robe turned from velvet and ermine to flannelette and rabbit's fur. His scepter grew twenty feet long, and extremely awkward to carry. But he persevered, his royal blood was up. No bird, said he, shall keep me from my duty and my parliament. But when he got there, he was so agitated that he could not remember which was the right key to open parliament with, and in the end he hampered the lock, and so could not open parliament at all, and members of parliament went about making speeches in the roads to the great hindrance of the traffic. The poor king went home and burst into tears. Matilda, he said, this is too much. You have always been a comfort to me. You stood by me when I was a butcher. You kept the books. You booked the orders. You ordered the stock. If you really are clever enough, now is the time to help me. If you won't, I'll give up the business. I'll leave off being a king. I'll go and be a butcher in the Camberwell New Road, and I will get another little girl to keep my books, not you. This decided Matilda. She said, very well, Your Majesty, then give me leave to prowl at night. Perhaps I shall find out what makes the cockatoo can laugh. If I can do that, we can take care he never gets it, whatever it is. Ah, said the poor king, if you could only do that. When Matilda went to bed that night, she did not go to sleep. She lay and waited till all the palace was quiet, and then she crept softly, bussily, mousily to the garden, where the cockatoo can's cage was, and she hid behind a white rose bush, and looked and listened. Nothing happened till it was grey dawn, and then it was only the cockatoo can who woke up. But when the sun was round and red over the palace roof, something came creeping, creeping, bussily, mousily out of the palace, and it looked like a yard and a half of white tape creeping along, and it was the princess herself. She came quietly up to the cage and squeezed herself between the bars. They were very narrow bars, but a yard and a half of white tape can go through the bars of any birdcage I ever saw, and the princess went up to the cockatoo can, and tickled him under his wings till he laughed aloud. Then, quick as thought, the princess squeezed through the bars, and was back in her room before the bird had finished laughing. Matilda went back to bed. Next day all the sparrows had turned into cart horses, and the roads were impassable. That day when she went as usual to play with the princess, Matilda said to her suddenly, Princess, what makes you so thin? The princess caught Matilda's hand and pressed it with warmth. Matilda, she said simply, you have a noble heart. No one else has ever asked me that, though they tried to cure it. And I couldn't answer till I was asked, could I? It's a sad, a tragic tale, Matilda. I was once as fat as you are. I'm not so very fat, said Matilda indignantly. Well, said the princess impatiently, I was quite fat enough anyhow, and then I got thin. But how? Because they would not let me have my favourite pudding every day. What a shame, said Matilda, and what is your favourite pudding? Britain milk, of course, sprinkled with rose leaves and with pear drops in it. Of course, Matilda went at once to the king, and while she was on her way, the cockatoo can happened to laugh. When she reached the king, he was in no condition for ordering dinner, for he had turned into a villa residence, replete with every modern improvement. Matilda only recognised him as he stood sadly in the park, by the crown that stuck crookedly on one of the chimney-pots, and the border of Irmin along the garden path. So she ordered the princess's favourite pudding on her own responsibility, and the whole court had it every day for dinner, till there was no single courtier but loathed the very sight of bread and milk, and there was hardly one who would not have run a mile rather than me to pear-drop. Even Matilda herself got rather tired of it, though being clever she knew how good bread and milk was for her. But the princess got fatter and fatter, and rosier and rosier. Her thread-paper gowns had to be let out, and let out till there were no more turnings in left to be let out, and then she had to wear the old ones that Matilda had been wearing, and then to have new ones. And as she got fatter she got kinder, till Matilda grew quite fond of her, and the cockatoo-kin had not laughed for a month. When the princess was as fat as any princess ought to be, Matilda went to her one day, and threw her arms round her and kissed her. The princess kissed her back, and said, Very well, I am sorry then, but I didn't want to say so, but now I will, and the cockatoo-kin never laughs except when he's tickled. So there, he hates to laugh. And you won't do it again, said Matilda, will you? No, of course not, said the princess, very much surprised. Why should I? I was spiteful when I was thin, but now I'm fat again, I want everyone to be happy. But how can anyone be happy? asked Matilda severely, when everyone is turned into something they weren't meant to be. There's your dear father, he's a desirable villa. The prime minister was a little boy, and he got back again, and now he's turned into a comic opera. Half the palace housemaids are breakers, dashing themselves against the palace crockery. The navy to a man are changed to French poodles, and the army to German sausages. Your favourite nurse is now a flourishing steam laundry, and I, Elas, am too clever by half. Can't that horrible bird do anything to put us all right again? No, said the princess, dissolved in tears at this awful picture. He told me once himself, that when he laughed he could only change one or two things at once, and then as often as not it turned out to be something he didn't expect. The only way to make everything come right again would be—but it can't be done. If we could only make him laugh on the wrong side of his mouth, that's the secret, he told me so. But I don't know what it is, let alone being able to do it. Could you do it, Matilda? No, said Matilda, but let me whisper, he's listening. Pretty more could. She's often told me she'd do it to me, but she never has. Oh, princess, I've got an idea. The two were whispering so low, that the cockatoo can could not hear, though he tried his hardest. Matilda and the princess left him listening. Presently he heard a sound of wheels. Four men came into the rose garden, wheeling a great red thing and a barrow. They set it down in front of the cockatoo can, who danced on his perch with rage. Owl, he said. If only someone would make me laugh, that horrible thing would be the one to change, I know it would. It would change into something much horrorder than it is now. I feel it in all my feathers. The princess opened the cage door with the prime minister's key, which a tenor singer had found at the beginning of his music. It was also the key of the comic opera. She crept up behind the cockatoo can and tickled him under both wings. He fixed his baleful eye on the red automatic machine and laughed long and loud. He saw the red iron and glass change before his eyes into the form of Pridmore. Her cheeks were red with rage and her eyes shone like glass with fury. Nice manners, said she to the cockatoo can. What are you laughing at? I should like to know. I'll make you laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, my fine fellow. She sprang into the cage and then and there, before the astonished court, she shook that cockatoo can till he really and truly did laugh on the wrong side of his mouth. It was a terrible sight to witness, and the sound of that wrong-sided laughter was horrible to hear. But instantly all the things changed back as if by magic to what they had been before. The laundry became a nurse, the villa became a king, the other people were just what they had been before, and all Matilda's wonderful cleverness went out like the snuff of a candle. The cockatoo can himself fell in, too. One half of him became a common, ordinary, toucan, such as you must have seen a hundred times at the zoo, unless you were unworthy to visit that happy place. And the other half became a weather cock, which, as you know, is always changing, and makes the wind change, too. So he has not quite lost his old power. Only now he is in halves, any power he may have has to be used without laughing. The poor, broken cockatoo can, like King Yunohu in English history, has never since that sad day smiled again. The grateful king sent an escort of the whole army, now no longer dressed in sausage skins, but in uniforms of dazzling beauty, with drums and banners, to see Matilda and Pridmore home. But Matilda was very sleepy. She had been clever for so long that she was quite tired out. It is indeed a very fatiguing thing, as no doubt you know. And the soldiers must have been sleepy, too, for one by one the whole army disappeared, and by the time Pridmore and Matilda reached home there was only one left, and he was the policeman at the corner. The next day Matilda began to talk to Pridmore about the Greenland and the cockatoo can and the villa residence king. But Pridmore only said, pack of nonsense, hold your tongue, do. So Matilda naturally understood that Pridmore did not wish to be reminded of the time when she was an automatic nagging machine, and so, of course, like a kind and polite little girl, she let the subject drop. Matilda did not mention her adventures to the others at home, because she saw that they believed her to have spent the time with her great aunt Willoughby. And she knew if she had said that she had not been there, she would be sent at once, and she did not wish this. She has often tried to get Pridmore to take the wrong omnibus again, which is the only way she knows of getting to the Greenland, but only once has she been successful, and then the omnibus did not go to the Greenland at all, but to the Elephant and Castle. But no little girl ought to expect to go to the Greenland more than once in a lifetime. Many of us indeed are not even so fortunate as to go there once. End of The Cockatoocon Where You Want to Go To From Nine Unlikely Tales This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in a public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corey Samuel. Nine Unlikely Tales by Ena's Bit Where You Want to Go To Or The Bounceable Ball It is very hard when you have been accustomed to go to the seaside every summer ever since you were quite little, to be made to stay in London just because an aunt and an uncle choose to want to come and stay at your house to see the Royal Academy and go to the summer sales. Salim and Thomasina felt that it was very hard indeed, and aunt and uncle were not the nice kind either. If it had been Aunt Emma who dressed dolls and told fairy tales, or Uncle Reggie who took you to the Crystal Palace and gave you five bob at a time and never even asked what you spent it on, it would have been different. But it was Uncle Thomas and Aunt Salina. Aunt Salina was all beady and sat bolt upright and told you to mind what you were told and Salim had been named after her as near as they could get. And Uncle Thomas was the one Thomasina had been named after. He was deaf and he always told you what the moral of everything was and the housemaid said he was near. I know he is worse luck, said Thomasina. I mean this, explained the housemaid. He's none too free with his chink. Salim groaned. He never gave me but a shilling in his life, said he, and that turned out to be bad when I tried to change it at the ginger beer shop. The children could not understand why this aunt and uncle were allowed to interfere with everything as they did, and they quite made up their minds that when they were grown up they would never allow an aunt or an uncle to cross their door steps. They never thought, poor dear little things, that some day they would grow up to be aunts and uncles in their turn, or at least one of each. It was very hot in London that year. The pavement was like hot pie, and the asphalt was like hot pudding, and there was a curious wind that collected dust and straw and dirty paper, and then got tired of its collection and threw it away in respectable people's areas and front gardens. The blind in the nursery had never been fixed up since the day when the children took it down to make a drop-scene for a play they were going to write, and never did. So the hot afternoon sun came burning in through the window, and the children got hotter and hotter and crosser and crosser, till at last Salim slapped Tomasina's arms till she cried, and Tomasina kicked Salim's legs till he screamed. Then they sat down in different corners of the nursery and cried, and called each other names, and said they wished they were dead. This is very naughty indeed, as, of course, you know, but you must remember how hot it was. When they had called each other all the names they could think of, Tomasina said, suddenly, all right, silly, that was Salim's pet name, cheer up. It's too hot to cheer up, said Salim gloomily. We've been very naughty, said Tomasina, rubbing her eyes with a paint rag, but it's all heat. I heard Aunt Salina telling Mother the weather wore her nerves to fiddle strings. That just meant she was cross. Then it's not our fault, said Salim. People say, be good, and you'll be happy. Uncle Reggie says, be happy, and perhaps you'll be good. I could be good if I was happy. So could I, said Tomasina. What would make you happy? said a thick, wheezy voice from the toy cupboard, and out rolled the big green and red India rubber ball that Aunt Emma had sent them last week. They had not played with it much, because the garden was so hot and sunny, and when they wanted to play with it in the street, on the shady side, Aunt Salina had said it was not like respectable children, so they weren't allowed. Now the ball rolled out very slowly, and the bright light on its new paint seemed to make it wink at them. You will think that they were surprised to hear a ball speak, not at all. As you grow up, and more and more strange things happen to you, you will find that the more astonishing a thing is, the less it surprises you. I wonder why this is. Think it over and write and tell me what you think. Salim stood up and said hello, but that was only out of politeness. Tomasina answered the ball's question. We want to be at the seaside, and no aunts, and none of the things we don't like, and no uncles, of course, she said. Well, said the ball, if you think you could be good, why not set me bouncing? We're not allowed in here, said Tomasina, because of the crinkly ornaments people give me on my birthdays. Well, the street, then, said the ball, the nice shady side. It's not like respectable children, said Salim sadly. The ball laughed. If you have never heard an India rubber ball laugh, you won't understand. It's the sort of quicker, quicker, quicker, softer, softer, softer chuckle of a bounce that it gives when it's settling down when you're tired of bouncing it. The garden, then, it said. I don't mind if you'll go on talking, said Salim kindly. So they took the ball down into the garden, and began to bounce it in the sun, on the dry, yellowy grass of the lawn. Come on, said the ball, you do like me. What, said the children. Why, do like I do, bounce, said the ball. That's right, higher, higher, higher. For then and there, the two children had begun bouncing, as if their feet were India rubber balls. And you have no idea what a delicious sensation that gives you. Higher, higher, cried the green and red ball, bouncing excitedly. Now, follow me, higher, higher. And off it bounced, down the blackened gravel of the path, and the children bounced after it, shrieking with delight at the new feeling. They bounced over the wall, all three of them, and the children looked back just in time to see Uncle Thomas tapping at the window and saying, don't. You have not the least idea how glorious it is to feel full of bouncableness, so that instead of dragging one foot after the other, as you do when you feel tired or naughty, you bounce along, and every time your feet touch the ground, you bounce higher, and all without taking any trouble or tiring yourself. You have, perhaps, heard of the Greek gentleman who got new strength every time he fell down. His name was Anteus, and I believe he was an India rubber ball, green on one side where he touched the earth, and red on the other where he felt the sun. But enough of classical research. Thomasina and Salim bounced away, following the bounceable ball. They went over fences and walls, and through parched, dry gardens, and burning hot streets, they passed the region where fields of cabbages and rows of yellow brick cottages marked the division between London and the suburbs. They bounced through the suburbs, dusty and neat, with geraniums in the front gardens, and all the blinds pulled half-way down, and then the lampposts in the road got fewer and fewer, and the fields got greener, and the hedges thicker. It was real, true country, with lanes instead of roads, and down the lanes the green and red ball went bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and the children after it. Thomasina in her white starched frock, very prickly round the neck, and Salim in his everyday sailor suit, a little tight under the arms. His Sunday one was a size larger. No one seemed to notice them, but they noticed and pitted the children who were being taken for a walk in the gritty suburban roads. Where are we going? they asked the ball, and it answered with a sparkling green and red smile, to the most delightful place in the world. What's it called? asked Salim. It's called, where you want to go to? the ball answered, and on they went. It was a wonderful journey, up and down, looking through the hedges and over them, looking in at the doors of cottages, and then in at the top windows, up and down, bounce, bounce, bounce. And at last they came to the sea, and the bouncing ball said, here you are, now be good, for there's nothing here but the things that make people happy. And with that he curled himself up, like a ball in the shadow of a wet C.R.E.D. rock, and went to sleep, for he was tired out with his long journey. The children stopped bouncing, and looked about them. Oh, Tommy, said Salim. Oh, silly, said Thomasina, and well they might. In the place to which the ball had brought them, was all that your fancy can possibly paint, and a great deal more beside. The children feel exactly as you do, when you've had the long, hot, dirty train journey, and everyone has been so cross about the boxes, and the little brown portmanteau that was left behind at the junction. And then when you get to your lodgings, you were told that you may run down and have a look at the sea, if you're back by tea-time, and mother and nurse will unpack. Only Thomasina and her brother had not had a tiresome journey, and there were no nasty stuffy lodgings for them, and no tea with oily butter and a new pot of marmalade. There's silver sand, said she, miles of it. And rocks, said he, and cliffs, and caves in the cliffs, and how cool it is, said Thomasina. And yet it's nice and warm too, said Salim, and what shells, and seaweed, and the downs behind, and trees in distance. And here's a dog to go after sticks. Here, Rover, Rover! A big black dog answered at once to the name, because he was a retriever, and they are all called Rover. And spades, said the girl, and pails, said the boy. And what pretty sea-poppies, said the girl. And a basket, and grubbin' it, said the boy. So they sat down and had lunch. It was a lovely lunch. Lobsters and ice creams, strawberry and pineapple, and toffee and hot buttered toast and ginger beer. They ate and ate, and thought of the aunt and uncle at home, and the minced veal and sago pudding, and they were very happy indeed. Just as they were finishing their lunch, they saw a swirling, swishing, splashing commotion in the green sea a little way off, and they tore off their clothes and rushed into the water to see what it was. It was a seal. He was very kind and convenient. He showed them how to swim and dive. But won't it make us ill to bathe so soon after meals? Isn't it wrong? asked Thomasina. Not at all, said the seal. Nothing is wrong here, as long as you are good. Let me teach you water leapfrog, a most glorious game, so cool, yet so exciting. You try it. At last the seal said, I suppose you wear man clothes. They're very inconvenient. My two elders have just outgrown their coats, if you'll accept them. And it dived, and came up with two golden seal-skin coats over its arm, and the children put them on. Thank you very much, they said. You are kind. I am almost sure that it has never been your luck to wear a fur coat that fitted you like a skin, and that could not be spoiled with sand, or water, or jam, or bread and milk, or any of the things with which you mess up the nice new clothes your kind relations buy for you. But if you like, you may try to imagine how jolly the little coats were. Thomasina and Celine played all day on the beach, and when they were tired, they went into a cave and found supper, salmon and cucumber, and Welsh rabbit, and lemonade. And then they went to bed in a great heap of straw, and grass, and fern, and dead leaves, and all the delightful things you have often wished asleep in, only you have never been allowed to. In the morning there were plum pudding for breakfast, and roast duck and lemon jelly, and the day passed like a happy dream, only broken by surprising and delightful meals. The ball woke up and showed them how to play water polo, and they bounced him on the sand with shrieks of joy and pleasure. You know, a ball likes to be bounced by people he is fond of, it is like slapping a friend on the shoulder. There were no houses in where you want to go to, and no bathing machines or bands, no nursemaids or policemen, or aunts or uncles. You could do exactly what you liked as long as you were good. What will happen if we're naughty? Selim asked. The ball looked very grave, and answered, I must not tell you, and I very strongly advise you not to try to find out. We won't, indeed we won't, said they, and went off to play round us with the rabbits on the downs, who were friendly fellows and very keen on the game. On the third evening, Tomasina was rather silent, and the ball said, What's the matter, girl bouncer? Out with it! So she said, I was wondering how mother is, and whether she has one of her bad headaches. The ball said, Good little girl, come with me, and I'll show you something. He bounced away, and they followed him, and he flopped into a rocky pool, frightening the limpets and sea-enemies dreadfully, though he did not mean to. Now look, he called, from under the water, and the children looked, and the pool was like a looking-glass, only it was not their own faces they saw in it. They saw the drawing-room at home, and father and mother, who were both quite well, only they looked tired, and the aunt and uncle were there, and uncle Tomas was saying, What a blessing those children are away. Then they know where we are, said Celine to the ball. They think they know, said the ball, or you think they think they know. Anyway, they're happy enough. Good night! And he curled himself up like a ball in his favourite sleeping-place. The two children crept into their pleasant, soft, sweet nest of straw and leaves and fern and grass, and went to sleep. But Celine was vexed with Tomasina, because she had thought of mother before he had, and he said she had taken all the fern, and they went to sleep rather cross. They woke Crosser. So far they had both helped to make the bed every morning, but today neither wanted to. I don't see why I should make the beds, said he. It's a girl's work, not a boy's. I don't see why I should do it, said Tomasina. It's a servant's place, not a young lady's. And then a very strange and terrible thing happened. Quite suddenly, out of nothing, and out of nowhere, appeared a housemaid, large and stern, and very neat indeed, and she said, You are quite right, miss, it is my place to make the beds, and I am instructed to see that you are both in bed by seven. Think how dreadful this must have been to children who had been going to bed just when they felt inclined. They went out on to the beach. You see what comes of being naughty, said Tomasina, and Celine said, Oh, shut up, too. They cheered up towards dinner time. It was roast pigeons that day, and bread sauce, and whitebait, and syllabubs, and for the rest of the day they were as good as gold, and very polite to the ball. Celine told it all about the dreadful apparition of the housemaid, and it shook its head. I know you've never seen a ball do that, and very likely you never will, and said, My boutsable boy, you may be happy here for ever and ever, if you're contented and good. Otherwise, well, it's a quarter to seven, you've got to go. Oh! and sure enough they had to, and the housemaid put them to bed and washed them with yellow soap and some of it got in their eyes, and she lit a nightlight and sat with them till they went to sleep so that they couldn't talk and were ever so much longer getting to sleep than they would have been if she had not been there, and the beds were iron, with mattresses, and hot stuffy fluffy sheets, and many more new blankets than they wanted. The next day they got out as early as they could and played water football with a seal and a boutsable ball, and when dinner time came it was lobster and ices. But Thomasina was in a bad temper. She said, I wish it was dark. And before the words had left her lips it was cold mutton and rice pudding, and they had to sit up the table and eat it properly too, and the housemaid came round to see that they didn't leave any bits on the edges of their plates or talk with their mouths full. There were no more really nice meals after that, only the sort of things you get at home, but it is possible to be happy even without really nice meals, but you have to be very careful. The days went by pleasantly enough. All the sea and land creatures were most kind and attentive. The seal taught them all it knew and was always ready to play with them. The starfish taught them astronomy, and the jellyfish taught them fancy cooking. The limpets taught them dancing as well as they could for their lameness. The seabirds taught them to make nests, a knowledge they have never needed to apply. And if the oysters did not teach them anything it was only because oysters are so very stupid and not from any lack of friendly feeling. The children bathed every day in the sea, and if they had only been content with this all would have been well. But they weren't. Let's dig a bath, said Salim, and the sea will come in and fill it, and then we can bathe in it. So they fetched the spades and dug, and there was no harm in that, as you very properly remark. But when the hole was finished and the sea came creep, creep, creeping up, and at last a big wave thundered up the sand and swelled into the hole. Thomasina and Salim were struggling on the edge, fighting which should go in first. And the wave drew sandally back into the sea, and neither of them had bathed in a new bath. And now it was all wet and sandy, and its nice sharp edges rounded off, and much shallower. And as they looked at it angrily, the sandy bottom of the bath stirred and shifted and rose up, as if some great sea beast were heaving underneath with his broad back. The wet sand slipped back in slabs at each side, and a long pointed thing, like a thin cow's back, came slowly up. It showed broader and broader, and presently the flakes of wet sand were dropping heavily off the top of a brand new bathing machine that stood on the sand over where their bath had been. Well, said Salim, we've done it this time. They certainly had, for on the door of the bathing machine was painted, you must not bathe any more except through me. So there was no more running into the sea just when and how they liked. They had to use the bathing machine, and its smell to stale salt water and other people's wet towels. After this the children did not seem to care so much about the seaside, and they played more on the downs, where the rabbits were very kind and hospitable, and in the woods where all sorts of beautiful flowers grew wild, and there was nobody to say, don't, when you picked them. The children thought of what Uncle Thomas would have said if he had been there, and they were very, very happy. But one day Thomasina had pulled a lot of white convolvulus, and some pink geraniums and calciolarias, the kind you were never allowed to pick at home, and she had made a wreath of them and put it on her head. Then Salim said, you are silly, you look like a bank holiday. And his sister said, I can't help it, they'd look lovely on a hat, if they were only artificial, I wish I had a hat. And she had a large stiff hat that hurt her head just where the elastic was sewn on, and she had her stiff white frock that scratched her tiresome under-clothing, all of it, and stockings and heavy boots. And Salim had his sailor suit, the everyday one that was too tight in the arms, and they had to wear them always, and their fur coats were taken away. They went sadly, all stiff and uncomfortable, and told the boutsable ball. It looked very grave, and great tears of salt water rolled down its red and green cheeks, as it sat by the wet, seaweed-covered rock. Oh, you silly children, it said. Haven't you been warned enough? You've everything a reasonable child could wish for, can't you be contented? Of course we can, they said, and so they were, for a day and a half. And then it wasn't exactly discontent, but real naughtiness that brought them to grief. They were playing on the downs by the edge of the wood under the heliotrope tree. A hedge of chamelea bushes cast a pleasant shadow, and out in the open sunlight on the downs, the orchids grew like daisies, and the carnations like butter-cups. All about was that kind of turf on which the gardener does not like you to play, and they had pulled armfuls of lemon verbena, and made a bed of it. But Salim's blouse was tight under the arms. So when Thomasina said, Oh silly dear, how beautiful it is, just like fairy land, he said. Silly yourself, there's no such thing as fairy land. Just then a fairy, with little bright wings the colour of a peacock's tail, fluttered across the path, and settled on a magnolia flower. Oh, silly darling, cried Thomasina, it is fairy land, and there's a fairy, such a beautiful deer. Look, there she goes. But Salim would not look. He turned over and hid his eyes. There's no such thing as fairy land, I tell you, he grunted, and I don't believe in fairies. And then, quite suddenly, and very horribly, the fairy turned into a policeman, because everyone knows there are such things as policemen, and any one can believe in them. And all the rare and beautiful flowers withered up and disappeared, and only thorns and thistles were left, and the misty, twiny, trim little grass path that led along the top of the cliffs turned into a parade, and the policeman walked up and down it incessantly, and watched the children at their play, and you know how difficult it is to play when anyone is watching you, especially a policeman. Salim was extremely vexed. That was why, he said, there couldn't possibly be glow-worms as big as bicycle lamps, which, of course, there were in where you want to go to. It was after that that the gas lamps were put all along the parade, and a pier sprang up on purpose to be lighted with electricity, and a band played, because it is nonsense to have a pier without a band. Oh, you naughty, silly children! said the boutsable bore, turning red with anger, except in the part where he was green with disgust. It makes me bounce with rage to see how you've thrown away your chances, and what a seaside resort you're making of where you want to go to! And he did bounce, angrily, up and down the beach, till a housemaid looked out of the cave and told the children not to be so noisy, and the policeman called out, now then, move along there, move along, you're obstructing the traffic. And now I have something to tell you, which you will find it hard to make any excuses for. I can't make any myself. I can only ask you to remember how hard it is to be even moderately good, and how easy it is to be extremely naughty. When the boutsable ball stopped bouncing, Salim said, I wonder what makes him bounce. Oh, no! don't! cried Tomesina, for she had heard her brother wonder that about balls before, and she knew all too well what it ended in. Oh, don't! she said. Oh, silly! he brought us here! he's been so kind! But Salim said, nonsense! balls can't feel, and it will be almost as good to play with after I've looked inside it. And then, before Tomesina could prevent him, he pulled out the knife Uncle Reggie gave him last holiday but one, and catching the ball up, he plunged the knife into its side. The boutsable ball uttered one whiffing squeak of pain and grief. Then, with a low hissing sigh, its kindly spirit fled, and it lay, a lifeless mass of paint and India rubber in the hands of its assassin. Tomesina burst into tears, but the heartless Salim tore open the ball and looked inside. You know well enough what he found there. Emptiness. The little square patch of India rubber that makes the hard lump on the outside of the ball which you feel with your fingers when the ball is alive and his own happy, bouncing, cheerful self. The children stood, looking at each other. I, I almost wish I hadn't, said Salim at last. But before Tomesina could answer, he had caught her hand. Oh, look! he cried. Look at the sea! It was indeed a dreadful sight. The beautiful dancing sparkling blue sea was drying up before their eyes in less than a moment it was quite flat and dusty. It hurriedly laid down a couple of railway lines and up a signal box and telegraph poles and became the railway at the back of their house at home. The children, gasping with horror, turned to the downs. From them tall yellow brick houses were rising as if drawn up by an invisible hand, just as treakled us in cold weather if you put your five fingers in and pulled them up. But of course you were never allowed to do this. The beach got hard. It was a pavement. The green downs turned grey. They were slate roofs. And Tomesina and Salim found themselves at the iron gate of their own number in the terrace. And there was Uncle Tomes at the window knocking for them to come in, and Aunt Salina calling out to them how far from respectable it was to play in the streets. They were sent to bed at once. That was Aunt Salina's suggestion. And Uncle Tomes arranged that they should only have dry bread for tea. Salim and Tomesina have never seen where you want to go to again, nor the boutsable ball, nor even his poor body, and they don't deserve to either. Of course, Tomesina was not so much to blame as Salim, but she was punished just the same. I can't help that. This is really the worst of being naughty. You not only have to suffer for it yourself, but someone else always has to suffer too, generally the person who loves you best. You are intelligent children, and I will not insult you with a moral. I am not, Uncle Tomes. Nor will I ask you to remember what I have told you. I am not Aunt Salina. End of where you want to go to. The Blue Mountain from Nine Unlikely Tales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel. Nine Unlikely Tales by Inesbitt. The Blue Mountain. Tony was young Tony, and old Tony was his grandfather. This story is about young Tony, and no human being believes a word of it, unless young Tony does. Tony was born in the town of Antioch. This is not the same Antioch that you read about in history, but quite a different place. It was a place where nearly everyone was very dark as to the complexion, and rather short as to the temper and figure. People who were fair in the face and easy in the temper were not much thought of in Antioch. When Tony's mother saw that her baby was as fair as a daffodil, and as good as gold, and laughed all day, she said, Oh dear, oh dear, I suppose he takes after his grandfather, he is not in the least like my family. And the matter annoyed her so much that she died. Then there was only old Tony left to look after young Tony, because his father had been killed in the wars only a few weeks before. The people of Antioch were always fighting the neighbouring tribes, red-faced savages, who deserved no better fate than to be killed. Only, of course, sometimes a few Antiochians had to be killed too, because that is part of the game, and if there were no danger there would be no glory, would there? Little Tony's hair remained yellow, and his habit of laughing grew with his years, and he learned his lessons, and he learned his play. He was excellent company, and if it had not been for the yellowness of his hair and the gentleness of his nature he would have been quite popular among his schoolmates. His grandfather called him gentle, but the people of Antioch called him lazy, for they, as I said, were very black and generally angry. They scurried up and down in their rocky little city, and always they seemed to be driven by most urgent affairs, hurrying to keep important appointments. They ran about all day long, attending to their business, and hardly stopping even for their dinner or their tea, and no one ever saw any of them asleep. Why is it, grandfather? Young Tony asked one day. What is it all about? Why do they never sit down quietly like you and me? It is the great heart of the nation, my boy, said old Tony. It cannot be still. It is in the breed, you know. They can't help it. They are all alike, too, except you and me. Why? Bless your heart. Look at the king. He is more in a hurry than all the rest, and more, and more noble and active. Bless him! The old man ended his speech in quite a different voice from the one he had begun with. This was because he suddenly caught the glitter of the king's crown as the monarch popped around the corner. The king of Antioch was always in a hurry, always running somewhere or other. Consequently he was seldom on his throne, and his loyal subjects had to look out very sharply, for he was always sure to be where they least expected him. You may think that they could have got over this little difficulty, by always looking for the king where they least expected him, but if you try this simple experiment for yourself, with your governess or tutor, or even your nurse, I think you will find that it is not so easy as it looks. Ha! said the king, standing in the doorway and laughing cheerfully, talking trees and a, well, you know what the punishment for that is, pinching with black pints as you know till—well, till you don't feel the pinching any more. Aha! Your Majesty always has such a pleasant way with you, said old Tony politely, and young Tony decided that when he grew up he would try not to have any pleasant ways at all. The king rustled quickly round the little house, and looked at everything—dresser, chairs, plates and pots. He was sorry that there was nothing that he could find fault with, so he said, beware of luxury, and hurried off to make his presence felt in some other humble home. There was no pride about King Antony the twenty-third. He just dropped in without an invitation, and took his subjects as he found them. King Antony the twenty-third is the noblest of monarchs, said old Tony, as he and his grandson sat down to their plain supper. It's all right, grandfather, he is quite gone, he's not listening, for a wonder, said young Tony. Meantime the king was hurrying in and out and up and down the crowded streets of his city, picking up little bits of information, and making his subjects feel that his kingship was not a mere matter of form, but that he was really interested in the most humble life among his people. It was a strange town, all uphill and downhill, with steep rocks and precipices all mixed up with the public streets. The people for all their busy habits had no trade, or rather they did not manufacture anything. They built houses and brought up their families. They wrapped their children up very snugly and carried them about at an earlier age than we consider safe, and they milked their cows which were large and green and had wings, and they drank the milk, and they gathered the fruit of the trees that gathered on the plain below the town, and they got on very well indeed. There was only one drawback to life in Antioch, and that was its uncertainty. At any moment an earthquake might occur, then down would go half the town and the busy citizens had it all to build again. They soon did it, for they were nothing if not industrious. A much more awful thing was the storm of hot rain that now and then fell on the town, a blighting rain that killed all it touched. This was more dreaded than even the earthquakes, but fortunately it very seldom happened. Old Tony was beadle and sexton and keeper of the town records, and very nicely he kept them too. There was not a speck of dirt on one of them. He used to spend hours and hours polishing the records, and he scoured the tombstones till they shone again, and he had most of the inscriptions by heart. After an earthquake he was always most careful to put the tombstones back in their proper places, and one day, when he was doing this, he came on a stone he did not remember to have seen before. He called to young Tony, who had had a board-school education, to see if he could read the bits of words that were carved upon it. It seems like a foreign language, said he. I can't make it out, said young Tony. It is not carved, it is in the stone somehow. Looks as though it were coming through from the other side. He turned the stone over, and there, on the other side, was an inscription which both of them had read a hundred times. Here lies Henry Burbeck, magician to the Institute. However humble he seems to you, his last foretelling is going to come true. P.S., you see if it doesn't. Dear me, said old Tony, poor old Henry Burbeck, it seems like yesterday. Yes, he was very respectable, but only in a small way of business. A magician he was by trade, but no one thought much of him, except perhaps the king, and he never gave him a lift. He used to do things with eggs and a hat. He broke the eggs as often as not. And the goldfish and handkerchief he hardly ever brought off. Old Tony began to lay down the tombstone, but young Tony held it up with one hand, and tried to scrape the back of it with the other. There's something here, he said, let's set it upright instead of laying it down, and I will scrub it and see what the letters are. Poor old Mr. Burbeck, I wonder what his last foretelling was. Was he good at prophesying, grandfather? Not a bit, said the sexton, and to do him justice he almost gave it up in his later years. You see, people laughed at him so, because the things that he foretold never happened. Towards the end he grew very feeble, hardly prophesised a single prophecy from one year's end to another. Sometimes he would say, I should not wonder if it rained before Sunday. But then he never wondered at anything. He was a calm old man, was poor Henry, it took a good deal to astonish him. Young Tony tried to interest his boyfriends in the back of poor old Henry Burbeck's tombstone, but nobody cared. They were all in too much of a hurry to care for an occupation so slow as cleaning tombstones. But Tony worked away perseveringly. He cleaned it with soap, and he cleaned it with soda, with brick dust and vinegar, with rotten stone and wash leather, with patience and elbow grease, and the last two, as you know, will clean almost anything. So after a time a few letters began to show distinctly here and there, and presently Tony found he could read whole words. There was milk, and mountain, and a word that looked like jilk, and of course it could not be that. And the last word of all was rain, and the second word of all was Tony. It must be something to do with me, said young Tony, because of my name being in it. It must have something to do with the king, said old Tony, because it says rain, so you'd better cut off to the palace and look sharp about it, or his Majesty will know the reason why. So Tony looked sharp about it, and got to the palace in less than five minutes. For a wonder the king was not engaged in dropping in on his subjects, but was on his throne, amid his fussy black courtiers, who were all busy trying to make themselves as small as they could. This was because the king was very short, though he did not like to say so. He always had himself described in the census and the palace reports as a powerful man of middle height, though he was nowhere near the middle height, and no more powerful than other people. Well, boy, said King Antony the Twenty-Third, what have you come here for? There is a prophecy, said Tony. There are a good many, said King Antony, but they don't amount to much since poor Henry Burbeck died. He was something like a prophet, he went on, turning to his courtiers. He foretold, when I was only a baby, that if I grew up I should perhaps be king. The late king my father was very pleased, I remember. The courtiers all bowed, and said it was really wonderful. Tony said, Well then, you'd better come and have a look at this prophecy, because it is the late Mr. Burbeck's last one, and he said it'll come true. Bring it here, can't you? said the king. No, I can't, said the boy. It's on his tombstone, so there. I can't carry tombstones about. No, said the king thoughtfully. Of course, you were not powerfully built. You were nowhere near the medium height. Come and look at it if you want to, said Tony. I'm in no hurry. Well, said King Anthony, I don't care if I do, I'm tired of sitting still. So off they all went, king, court, heralds, men-at-arms, banner-bearers and spearmen, down the narrow dark crooked town streets, till they came to the churchyard where the tombstones were, both the upright and the flat kind. Tony ran on ahead, and knelt in front of the tombstone. Then he jumped up and called out, You hurry up. It is plain now as the nose on your face. You should say the royal nose on your Majesty's royal face, said old Tony anxiously. But the king was too interested to care about even his subject manners. He came up to the tombstone, and on it he read, and Tony read, and all the courtiers read. When Tony drinks the Blue Mountain's milk, he shall wear a sunday suit of silk. He shall be tallest in all the land, and hold the town under his command. He shall have greatness, and we shall have grain. Soon may it happen, and long may he reign. Hurrah! HT Burbeck! The king read this and said, Well, I never, and all the courtiers said the same. Tony means me, said the king. The courtiers said that, of course, it did. I am King Tony the 23rd, said he, and all the courtiers said of course he was. They all spoke at once like a chorus. I was christened to Anthony, of course. His restless Majesty went on, fidgeting with his gold collar. But I know that my subjects have always spoken of me behind my back by the enduring diminutive. The courtiers assured the king that this was so. I suppose there's no one else called Tony. The king turned a threatening glance on the crowd, and everyone hastened to say, No, there wasn't. But old Tony turned extremely pale, and hurrying into the vestry, he tampered with a register of births, and altered his own name to Sydney Cecil Ernest Watchit. But young Tony spoke up. My name's Tony, said he. Oh, is it? said his Majesty. We'll soon see about that. Guards seize him. Now what is your name? Tony, said he. Your name is not Tony, said the king. Your name is? He could not think of a name at the moment, so he stopped. Tony said, My name is Tony. Take him to the Parliament's house, said the king, beside himself with rage. Give him a taste of the mace. And Tony tasted the mace, and was stamped on by the great seal, who was very fierce, and lived in a cage at the Parliament house, until he was stiff and sore and sorry enough to be glad to say that his name was anything the king liked, except Tony, which of course it never, never could have been. He admitted at last that his name was William Waterbury Watchit, and was discharged with a caution. But my name is Tony, after all, he said to himself as he went home, full of sad memories of the mace and the great seal. I wonder where the Blue Mountain is. Young Tony thought a good deal about poor Henry Burbeck's prophecy. Perhaps the great seal had stamped it on his memory. Anyway, he could not forget about it, and all the next day he was wondering about on the steep edge of the town looking out over the landscape below. It was not an interesting landscape. All round the brown hill where the town was lay the vast forests of green trees, something like bamboo's, whose fruit the people ate. And beyond that one could see the beginnings of a still larger forest, where none of the people of Antioch had ever dared to go, the forest whose leaves were a hundred times as big as the king himself, and the trunks of the trees as big as whole countries. Above all was the blue sky, but look as Tony would he could see no Blue Mountain. Then suddenly he saw the largest forest shake. And shiver its enormous leaves swaying this way and that. It must be an earthquake, said Tony trembling, but he did not run away, and his valour was rewarded as valour deserves to be. The next moment the vast branches of the enormous forest parted, and a giant figure came out into the forest of bamboo-like trees. It was a figure more gigantic than Tony had ever imagined possible. It had long yellow hair. In its hand it carried a great white bowl, big enough to float a navy in. If such an expression did not sound rather silly, I should say that this figure gave Tony the idea of a little girl giant. It sat down among the bamboo forest, crushing millions of trees as it sat. With a spoon twice the length of the king's banqueting hall, it began to eat out of the tremendous basin. Tony saw great lumps, like blocks of soft marble, balanced on the vast spoon, and he knew that the giant little girl was eating giant bread and milk. And she wore a giant frock, and the frock was blue. Then Tony understood. This was the Blue Mountain, and in that big, big sea of a basin there was milk, the Blue Mountain's milk. Tony stood still for a moment, then turned, and ran as hard as he could straight into the royal presence. To be more exact, he ran into the royal waistcoat, for the king, in a hurry as usual, was coming out of his palace gates with a rush. The king was extremely annoyed. He refused to listen to a word Tony had to say until Parliament had been called together, and had passed a bill strengthening the enactments against Cheek. Then he allowed Tony to tell his tale. And when the tale was told, everyone ran to the battlements of the town to look. There was no Blue Mountain to be seen. Then his Majesty told Tony what he thought of him, and it was not pleasant hearing. I am not a liar, said Tony. I am very sorry I told you anything about it. I might jolly well have gone and got it for myself. My name is William Waterbury. Watch it. He stopped in confusion. I should think it was, said the king. If there is any mountain, which I don't for a moment believe, you had better go and fetch me some of the milk, not that I think there is any, out of the mountain's basin, which I cannot believe exists outside of your imagination. If you bring it to this address you will be suitably rewarded. All right, said Tony. Shall I fetch it in a jug, or will they lend me a can? I will lend you my mug, said the king, and mind you bring it back full. So Tony took the mug. It had, for a good little king, a present from Antwerp, on it. And he kissed his grandfather and started off on his long perilous journey. I suppose he will give me a reward if I get it, he thought, and if not, well, it's an adventure anyway. He passed through the crowded streets, where everyone was rushing about in the usual frantic haste, and out at the town gates, and down the road into the forest. The trunks of the trees towered tall and straight above, and a subdued green light shone all about him. The ground was very broken and uneven, and often Tony had to go a long way round to avoid some great rock or chasm. But he travelled fast, for he was a quick walker, and he did not miss the way once, although, of course, it was a quite strange country to him. There had been evening classes at his school to teach the boys the art of finding their way in strange places, and Tony had attended all the lectures and taken notice as well as notes. And now he was able to practice what he had learned, and he was glad he had not wasted his time in drawing pictures of the masters, or playing nibs with the boys next to him, and throwing ink pellets at more studious boys. But the journey was longer than he expected, and the mug was rather in his way. He was very much afraid of breaking that mug. It is an awkward thing to break a mug with a present for a good king on it. It is so difficult to replace. There are very few of those mugs made nowadays. There is little or no demand for them. But at last the green light of the forest began to grow brighter, and Tony saw that he was approaching a sort of clearing among the trees, so he put his best foot foremost, without stopping to think which was his worst foot, always a mistake when you were tired and footsaw. And now he came out from under the tall branches, and saw a round open space in the forest, where millions of fallen trees lay on the ground. And he knew that this was the spot where the mountain had sat down to eat its unimaginable enormous breakfast. But there was no mountain to be seen, and Tony knew that he could do nothing but sit down and wait, in the hope that the blue mountain would come next morning to eat its breakfast in the same place. So he looked about for a place to rest safely in, and presently found just what he wanted, a little cave whose walls and roof were of dried earth, and there he stayed all that day and night, eating the fruit of the fallen trees. And next morning there was a rustling, and a swaying of the trees, and the blue mountain came striding over the tall tree tops, bending down the forest as she came, on colossal black legs, and massive shoes with monstrous ankle straps. Each shoe was big enough to have crushed a hundred Tony's at one step. So he hid in his cave, and presently knew by the shaking of the ground, like an earthquake, that the mountain had sat down. Then he came out. He was too near to see the mountain properly, but he saw a great blue fold of giant frock near him, and far above him towered the blue heights of the giant little girl's knees. On the summit of these shone a vast white round, the great bread-and-milk basin. Tony started to climb the blue fold. It was stiff, starched, with giant starch, I suppose, and it bore his weight easily. But it was a long climb, and he drew a deep breath of thankfulness when he reached the broad table-land of the giant little girl's knees. And now the smooth china roundness of the big basin was before him. He tried its polished surface again and again, and always fell back baffled. Then he saw that he might climb up the sleeve of the gigantic arm whose hand held the basin. With his heart in his mouth he began the ascent, slowly and carefully, holding the precious mug closely to his breast. His breath came faster and faster as he went up and up, and at last stood triumphantly on the edge of the great blue sleeve. From there to the edge of the basin it was easy to crawl, and now at last he stood on the giddy verge of the monstrous basin and looked down at the lake of milk with the rocks of bread in it, many feet below. The great height made him giddy. He lost his footing and still clasping the mug, he fell headlong into the giant bread and milk. The bread rocks were fortunately soft. Tony picked himself up. He was wet, but no bones were broken, and the mug, oh joy, the mug was safe. Tony looked it over anxiously as he sat on a rock, a sloppy and uncertain resting place. There was only one small crack near the handle, and Tony was almost sure that that had been there before. I don't know, however, I shall get out again, said Tony. Perhaps I never shall, but in case I do, I suppose I had better fill the mug. So he stooped from the rocks and filled the mug from the lake of milk, which was much thicker than the milk of the green cows with wings, the only milk Tony was used to. He had just filled the mug and tied it down with a piece of parchment, which he had taken from the town records and brought with him for the purpose, when a noise like thunder suddenly broke on his ear, and indeed it very nearly broke the ear itself, and so startled Tony that the precious mug all but slipped from his grasp. Then a wave of milk swept up almost over his head. The whole of the massive basin was moved sideways. Then came a shock like an earthquake. The basin was being set on the ground. Tony felt that the Blue Mountain had seen him, and had screamed, What would the giant little girl do? Would she kill him? If so, how? These questions afforded Tony food for some interesting reflections during the next few moments. He looked round him for a way of escape. Everywhere towered the smooth white walls. The tremendous spoon which he had seen the Blue Mountain use had, unfortunately, not been left in the basin, or he could have climbed out by that. He gave himself up for lost. Then suddenly he saw the trunk of a slender tree appear at the edge of the basin. It was pushed down towards him. Yes, onto the very bread-rock on which he crouched. Would it crush him? No. The end of it rested on the rock by his side. It gently moved towards him. He saw now that the Blue Mountain was not cruel. She was not bent on destroying him. She was offering him a way of escape. He eagerly climbed the tree. When he was half way up, however, the giant little girl flung the tree aside, and with Tony still clinging to it, it fell crashing into the forest. When he came to himself, he almost shouted for joy to find the mug still whole. He never knew how he got home. When he took the mug to the king, the monarch looked at it and said, The milk's very thick. It's giant cow's milk, said Tony. You drink it up and let's see what happens. I don't know, said the king suspiciously. Suppose it's poison. I shall have it analysed. Will you promise me a reward, said Tony, and you wouldn't grudge it if you knew what a time I've had of it. I might have been killed, you know. Reward, said the king, who had been looking at the mug. Reward when you have cracked my mug, my own only mug, with a present for a good king on it. Reward, indeed, a stamp from the great seal would be more. But Tony was gone. He ran home to tell his grandfather. But his grandfather was not there. Only a letter lay on the kitchen table. Dear grandson, it said, the king has found out that my name was entered in the register as Anthony Antrobus, and he refuses to believe that the alteration to Sidney Cecil Ernest Watchit was made at my birth. So I am seeking safety at a distance. I have only one piece of advice to give you. Do so, too. Your loving grandfather. This seemed such good advice to Tony, whose name was also in the register, that he was just going to take it, when the door was flung open, and in rushed the king and the army. They hustled and bustled and rustled round the house, breaking and tearing everything. And when there was nothing more to spoil, they carried Tony off to prison. So this is my reward for getting the milk for him, said poor Tony to himself, as he sat in prison, loaded with chains, and waiting for his trial. I wish I had drunk the milk myself. This is what comes of loyalty. But I don't care. My name is Tony, and his is not, and I will say so, too, if I hang for it. Acting on this resolution next day, at his trial, Tony said so, and what is more, he came very near indeed to hanging for it. For King Anthony the 23rd was furious. He absolutely danced with rage, and it took six prime ministers to restrain his emotion while the trial went on. Tony was tried for an attempt to murder the king. The whole thing, said the public persecutor, was nothing but a plot. The prophecy of Henry Burbeck, which nobody had seen till Tony found it, the Blue Mountain, which nobody but Tony had seen at all, the thick milk so mysteriously obtained, all pointed to dark treason and villainy. The crack in the mug was a peculiarly incriminating circumstance. I cannot help the long words. Public persecutors will use them. It was a vile plot, the persecutor said, but it had failed. The public analyst gave evidence that the milk was not milk at all, but some explosive substance, too dangerous to analyse. Tony looked at the jury, and he looked round the court, and he saw that the case did indeed look black against himself. When he was asked what was his defence, he said, There is no pleasing some people. It is my duty to caution you, said the persecutor, that everything you say will be used against you. I am sure it will, said Tony wearily, but I can't help that. Everything I do is used against me, too. I needn't have told anyone anything about it. I might have got the milk myself and been king, but I got it for him, and I did not crack the mug. At least I am almost sure not. I only wish I had drunk the milk. Make him drink it now! shouted a thousand voices from the crowded court. Don't! said the king hastily. It might not be poison after all. You can't have it both ways, your Majesty, said the persecutor bravely. Either it is poison, in which case the prisoner deserves to drink it, or it is not poison, in which case the prisoner leaves the court without a stain upon his character. It is poison. It isn't. It is. It is not. The shouts rose louder and louder. It is not poison, it is milk, cried Tony, and suddenly seizing the mug of milk, which had been brought into the court to give its evidence, he lifted it to his lips, and before the jailer could prevent it he drained the milk to the last drop and ran out of the court. For everyone was too astonished to stop him. The moment he was outside he felt a sudden and awful change in himself. He was growing, growing, growing. He hurried out of the town. He felt that it would soon be too small to hold him. Outside he got bigger and bigger, till the trees of the nearer forest were like grass under his feet, and the mug ran out of his hand like a little grain of rapeseed. And there beside him stood the mountain, a little girl in a blue dress, and he was taller than she was. Hello, said the blue mountain. Where did you spring from? From the town down there, said Tony. There, said the mountain, stooping. That's not a town, silly. You know it's only an anteep, really. It is my town, said Tony, and its name is Antioch, and... And then he told her the whole story. In the middle of it she sat down to listen better, crushing millions of trees as she sat, and Tony sat down, crushing other millions, only now it seemed to him that he had sat down on the grass. It makes a great deal of difference what size you are. And that is where I used to live, said Tony, pointing to the town, and my name is Tony. I know that, said the blue mountain, but you live next door to us, you know you do, you always did, and that is only an anteep. And when Tony looked down again, it seemed to him that perhaps it really was only an anteep. All the same he knew the king when he saw him hurrying along the ramparts, and he picked the king up and put him on a cow's ear, and the cow scratched its ear with its hind foot, and that was the end of the king. Don't tease the ants, said the blue mountain. People pour boiling water sometimes, or dig up the heaps, but I think it's cruel. Tony remembered the hot rain and the earthquakes. It is a nice story, she said. Of course the grass is like a forest to the ants, and the big forest is the hedge. Your Sunday suit is silk velvet, your aunt told mother so. Yes, it is a nice story, and an ant did drop into my bread and milk yesterday, though I don't know how you knew. You may not believe it, said Tony, but I shall give them a corn, because it says so in Mr. Burbeck's prophecy. Only I won't ever give them any milk in case they grow big. They are too bad tempered. Just think if the king had been our size. Oh, come along home, do! said the blue mountain, a little crossly. I am tired. It is dinnertime, it's no use pretending about kings and things. You know well enough you are only Tony next door. And whatever he may have been before, it is quite certain that since then he has been Tony next door and nothing else whatever. End of The Blue Mountain.