Chapter I: Part 1

_King Time
or the
Mystical Land of the Hours_
_A Fantasy_

_BY
P.K. Fitzhugh_

_Illustrated By
L.J. Bridgman_

_H M Caldwell Company
New York and Boston_

_Published simultaneously in the United States, Great Britain, Canada, and British Possessions_

=To Lawrence=

_Contents_

PAGE

PRELUDE 13

WHAT THE CLOCK HAD TO DO WITH IT 19

MR. THREE O’CLOCK’S INVITATION 25

THE SECRET OF THE PASSING HOURS 27

THE JOURNEY 34

SONG OF THE MINSTRELS ON THE FRONTIER 43

THE MAGICAL FLOWER 47

THE SAD STORY OF THE WOLLERPERLECK 63

THE WOLLERPERLECK, OR THE LEGEND OF THE ROADS 71

THE WHOPPER THAT GEORGE WASHINGTON TOLD 83

MR. THREE O’CLOCK’S AWFUL CONFESSION 97

AN EVENING WITH THE COLONIAL HOURS 123

THE DREADFUL NEWS FROM TICKERLEEN 145

ON TO TICKERLEEN! 153

FATHER TIME GIVES HIS OPINION 169

THE MIGHTY DUKE PROCRASTINATE 207

THE REASON WHY 221

THE CLOCK STRIKES EIGHT 229

_List of Colored Plates_

PAGE

“‘MAY I SAY A WORD TO YOU, FATHER TIME?’” (_Page_ 186) _Frontispiece_

“‘I AM THE HOUR THE BOYS ALL LIKE’” 21

ON THE SWINGER 33

“AND THE FIRE SMILED ON THE GENIAL HOST, THE IMP, AND THE LITTLE BOY”
69

“‘HE TRIED TO BUTTON IT HERE WHEN HE COULDN’T!’” 93

THE BULLETIN 116

“THROUGH THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF TOCKERLORE WENT THE QUEER LITTLE
CLOCK-WORK TRAIN” 154

THE DUKE PROCRASTINATE 213

PRELUDE

_Seated in our easy chair—
All upon a rainy day—
Let us not be in despair
If the weather be not fair;
We have toys with which to play._

_But the toys, alas! will break,
All the Noah’s Ark flock disband,
And the chairs which help to make
Farms and barnyards, nurse will take,
For she cannot understand._

_Gone is every boat and train,
Disappeared—we know not where;
Dobbin there, without his mane,
Never’ll be the same again,—
Hiding is the Teddy bear._

_And the leaden regiment
Disobeys each stern command;
Some are broken, others lent,
Some are lost, and some are bent,
Very few of them will stand._

_We might play the Christmas game,
Kept intact a solid year,
But the Santa Claus is lame,
And the dice gone. What a shame!
Not a single counter here!_

_What care we for games and toys,
All upon a rainy day?
What care we if little boys—
Conjured not to make a noise—
Find it hard indoors to play?_

_There are toys they do not know,
In a land they’ve never seen,
Where we all of us can go,
Where the litter does not show,
And the nursery’s always clean._

_What care we for skies of gray,
Broken toys and pelting rains?
We’ve a land of endless play,
All upon a rainy day,
Stored within our brains._

WHAT THE CLOCK HAD TO DO WITH IT

A little boy sat on a stool one day,
While the swinger of shiny brass
In the big hall clock swung to and fro
In its little cell of glass;
And he thought a thought, did that little boy,
As he watched the hours pass.

Week in, week out, from year to year,
Had the old clock ticked away;
On the nights that he couldn’t go to sleep,
It had ticked the same as day;
And when he lay sick he had heard it tick,
The same as he had at play.

And its steady tick was his only toy
In those days he spent in bed,
When he tried to count the minutes, and play
They were soldiers marching instead;
Till his little brain, it was all confused
In his little, feverish head.

But now he was better, though not quite strong
Enough to go out and play;
And he sat alone on the little stool
All of the long, slow day;
And he thought a thought, did that little boy,
As the hours wore away.

The clock struck twelve, and the clock struck one,
And the swinger down below
Seemed to nod “Good-bye” to the parting hours
That took their leave so slow,
Till the drowsy bell it rang again,
It was time for “Two” to go.

And the little boy blinked his sleepy eyes,
And he said, “I wish I knew
Where the hours go as they pass away,
And what in the world they do.”
And his eyes shut tight, and he hung his head,
And the clock struck half past two.

And the sly old hand, it crept up-hill,
For its way was long and steep,
But the little boy didn’t see it move,
For he lay in the hall asleep,
And all was still but the drowsy tick,
And the sleeper, breathing deep.

When all of a sudden, he heard a sound,
Like the ring of a distant bell,
And following this an hilarious roar,
And then a terrific yell.
It’s a wonder it didn’t wake him up—
Which it didn’t, I’m glad to tell,—

And there, in front of his very face,
On the arm of his father’s chair,
Stood the queerest imp that you ever saw,
A-smoothing his ruffled hair;
And he smiled and winked, and danced a jig,
With a very sporty air.

And he touched the child who was fast asleep,
In a manner soft, but gay—
It’s surprising that such an exuberant imp
Could have such a gentle way—
And the little boy looked with wondering eyes,
As he heard his caller say,

“Oh, I am the hour the boys all like,
I’m the glorious hour of Three,
And I’m no sort of hand at studies and books,
And I never pretended to be!

“And I don’t care a rap, or a slap, or a bang
For all of the schools in creation,
And there’s only one thing about school that I like,
And that is the summer vacation.

“I never could draw on a blackboard or slate,
And I always dance rapidly by,
For I cannot be slow like some hours that I know,
And I have no intention to try.

“And I always arrive with a cheer and a roar,
And a laugh, and a run, and a shout.
I’m the hour that every child welcomes with joy,
The hour when school is out.

“And I say to the boys, ‘Now, out with your toys!
Climb up in the fences and trees,
For I am the hour that gives you the power,
Thank Goodness! to do as you please!’”

MR. THREE O’CLOCK’S INVITATION

“Oh, it’s very kind,” said the little boy,
“To spend your time on me,
And your arguments certainly have great force
As any sane boy can see,
And if I were an hour, you’re just the one
I’m sure that I’d like to be.

“But I probably do not appreciate,
As I sit on that little stool,
The regard that other boys have for you,
Which you say is quite the rule,
For I’m not in the habit of romping much,
And I do not go to school.

“But now that you’re here, there’s a certain thing
That I’d like to ask of you,—
I’m afraid that I ask too many things,
The nurses say I do,
But I never have troubled _you_ before,
So I’m sure you’ll answer true.

“I’ve watched that clock for the last three days,
And I’ve puzzled my brains to tell
What becomes of the hours that pass away
At the sound of that sleepy bell.
Do they just die out, or is there some place
Where the worn-out hours dwell?”

The Imp, he smiled and he cocked his head,
And he doffed his tasselled hat.
“So you want to know where they go,” said he,
And he came right down and sat
By the little boy’s ear, and whispered low,
“It’s I that can tell you that!”

_The Secret of the Passing Hours_

“You want to know where the hours go,
As they vanish softly away?
To a wonderful land that you’ve never seen,
To the mystical city of Tickerleen,
Where every hour of every day,
Recounts his life in a manner gay,
And deports himself in the oddest way—
The pleasantest way, I mean.

“For they sing, ‘Ha, ha,’ and they dance tra la—
You’d laugh at the things they do—
And they tell in a manner quite sublime—
For they talk in prose and sing in rhyme—
The stories of what they’ve all been through,
And every word that they tell is true,
With a guarantee trademark right in view,
And signed by Father Time.

“And I’ve heard it said, though I shouldn’t care
To be quoted in this regard,
That the musty tales of dry old fools
From histories used in the public schools,
With their beauty gone and their interest marred,
Are, candidly speaking, thrown down hard,
And scornfully, rigidly, justly debarred
By wisely ordered rules.

“And the hours from every single age,
They assemble at Tickerleen,
And recount their tales of ancient lore,
Of actual things they really saw,
Which nobody living now has seen,
Which you couldn’t find in a magazine,
To our aged king and his beauteous queen,
In the land of Tockerlore.”

“And is it far to that wonderful land?”
Said the little boy on the floor;
“To Tickerleen, in the land of Tock—
Of—What do you call it?—Lore?
And will the hours ever come back,
Or never be heard of more?”

“Not one has ever been known to leave,
Or even try to get out;
Why, some have been there a thousand years,
Or a million, or thereabout,
And whether they’d even like to return
Is a matter of gravest doubt.

“But I’ll tell you what,” said the laughing Imp,
“As you seem to be fully dressed,
And as I’m just starting for Tockerlore
Where all of the hours rest,
I’d be glad to have you visit me there,—
Suppose you be my guest.

“For the rules of our land are very strict,
And the sentinels stern and grim;
And the hour Three must always land
Before the light grows dim,
And if Four O’clock were to find _me_ here
It would more than stagger him.

“And he’s coming on at a dreadful pace,
He’s now almost half way;
If he were to find me standing here
’Twould upset the time of day.
And old Father Time would be all confused,
And I can’t think what he’d say.”

And the words he spoke as he started up
Were as true as words can be,
For there he’d sat for a half an hour;
“Come, be my guest,” said he,
And the little boy was about to speak
When the clock struck half past three.

“Come on,” said the Imp, as he turned to go,
“It’s a magical, wondrous land
Where you’ll see the strangest, queerest things—
That’s right, I’ll help you stand!”
And he lifted the little boy right up,
And he took him by the hand.

And then he escorted that little boy,
Like a real professional guide,
To the clock, and then—unlocked the door
And gallantly stalked inside,
And catching the swinger, he held it fast;
“And now,” said he, “for a ride!”

And then there happened a curious thing,
And I hope you will not fail
To credit each word that I’m telling you,
For confidence must prevail;
And there on that swinger, as one might say,
There hangs the entire tale.

As the Imp took hold of the shiny disk
He uttered a magical word,
(Protected, I’m told, by copyright)
Which the boy had never heard;
It was most a yard and a quarter long,
And it sounded quite absurd.

But whatever that singular word might be,
(And _I_ do not pretend to say)
The swinger at once began to act
In a most suspicious way,
For it grew as large as a cannon ball,
And began to slowly sway.

“Jump on!” said the Imp to the little boy,
“There isn’t a minute to spare;
Be quick! for in just a second more
That swinger’ll be in the air.”
But the little boy didn’t mind the Imp,
For he simply didn’t dare.

And he said to the Imp, “Before I start
I am anxious to ascertain,
When I’ve seen the sights of Tockerlore
May I come back home again?
For I don’t want to stay away for good;
Will they force me to remain?”

“Jump on!” said the Imp, with a laughing face,
“For the land that you’re going to see
Is strongly opposed to all restraint,
And its citizens all agree
That tourists arriving from other worlds
Should be entirely free.”

So the little boy jumped with all his might,
And he presently sat astride
The long thin stem of the shiny ball
To make sure he wouldn’t slide;
And he felt quite gay as he smiled at the Imp
Who sat on the other side.

And grasping the stem with his little hands,
The little boy presently saw
The furniture near him growing dim
On the disappearing floor,
And they swung to right! And they swung to left!
And he heard the clock strike four.

THE JOURNEY

After they were both comfortably seated on the swinger and settled down for their long ride, the Imp was presently seized with the wildest excitement, which first startled and then amused the little boy. The more the swinger swung, the more loud and boisterous became the Imp’s extraordinary conduct.

But in less than a minute everything seemed to the little boy to be growing dreamy and hazy. He did not know where he was; he simply knew that he was sitting on something and holding on and moving at a terrific rate. He remembered being carried past the big parlour, and seeing the piano which looked all shadowy and strange, as if it were covered with thick dust. He recognized the hat-rack, as he flew by, and the silver plate which held the calling cards seemed to be whizzing round like a pin wheel. He did not know whether the clock had suddenly grown large enough to accommodate its tumultuous swinger, or whether the swinger had given up its usual duties altogether, and was running away as fast as it could. In short he did not know anything except that he was sitting opposite his singular friend, who had risen and was giving an acrobatic performance on the opposite side of the long stem—apparently without the smallest regard for the danger which attended his reckless actions.

Suddenly he began to sing and dance, and the song, as nearly as the little boy could make it out, was as follows. It amused him greatly, for it seemed to be curiously fitted to the motions which, of course, cannot be given here.

“And it’s merrily out of the front hall door,
When the good old clock is striking four,
We’re off to the Land of Tockerlore—
The land you’ve never seen!

“And it’s pleasantly over the hills we go;
Look out for your feet! Don’t hold them so!
Just pull them up when the ball swings low!
Hurrah, for Tickerleen!

“And it’s merry I’ll be at your great surprise!
And I’ll laugh to see you strain your eyes,
And stare all day at the custard pies,
With which the streets are paved!

“And you’ll probably say, as your feet sink in
To the yellow custard, rich and thin,
In the rural districts, ‘What a sin!
Such custard should be saved.’

“And it’s jolly we are, and a merry pair!
My life! I believe we’re half way there!
Do you notice yet the change of air?
Those distant mountains tall?

“And hurrah, for the glorious King and Queen!
And the queerest court you’ve ever seen!
Hurrah, for the Duke of Limabean!
Look out! You’re going to fall!

“And it’s hip, hurrah, for the National Guard!
With their table-spoons and deep regard
For the country’s—Oh, don’t laugh so hard!
You’d better hold on tight!

“For the country’s—
Oh, what was I going to tell?
Oh, never mind and it’s just as well,
For I see the village of Minutel;
Just watch that distant light!

“And I’m glad that you never attended school!
I’m glad you were sitting on that stool!
And glad you’re out of the common rule!”
(And then he gave a wink.)

“For our land is one glorious, gorgeous toy,
That you cannot lose nor yet destroy,
Especially made for a little boy
That has the brains to think!”

“There!” said the Imp, as he resumed his seat on the swinging ball, “now I feel better! I was locked up in that musty clock for an hour before I met you, without a particle of fresh air. Now I feel better! I’m a great believer in exercise, and they say dancing is the greatest exercise in the world. I once knew a boy about your age who had St. Vitus’ Dance, and they thought there was no hope for him, but I said, ‘This is a disease and a cure all in one; let him dance; it’s good exercise.’ And he did, and he cured himself of dancing simply by dancing. The more he danced, the less he danced, until he was well altogether.”

“Wasn’t that a little strange?” asked the little boy; “you say he is well now?”

“Perfectly; he is a clock maker. I know him personally.”

There was a long pause after this, and then the little boy asked,

“Shall I meet the Duke of Limabean?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the Imp. “I’ll show you his country-place when we get past the frontier. He married the Countess of Corn, you know. Their beautiful place at Succotash is visited by all tourists. There! Look close, and look out, don’t fall! You see that row of hills over there? Those are the Tockerlore Mountains. They form the frontier of the land. There used to be a fence there instead, but Father Time happened to see those mountains at a bargain sale and he thought they’d be better.”

“What?” said the little boy.

“I say there used to be a fence there instead.”

“Did you say that the king bought the mountains?”

“Why, yes, you don’t suppose he got them for nothing, do you?”

“I never heard of a person buying a range of mountains!”

“Did you ever hear of any one getting a range of mountains for nothing?”

“N-no, I can’t say I did.”

“Well, then!”

“But what was the use of buying the mountains for a frontier when they were already there?”

“I didn’t say they were already there.”

There was a pause after this retort, and the little boy looked at his friend curiously. He then unfastened the belt of his Russian suit, and fixed it so that it went around the long stem.

“They have straps like this to hold you on merry-go-rounds; don’t you think this is a good idea?”

“Excellent,” said the Imp.

“May I ask another question?” said the little boy.

“Certainly; what is it?”

“Where were the mountains before the king bought them?”

“At the bargain sale.”

“And you mean to say that some one carried them there?”

“Why, certainly; you don’t suppose they walked there, do you? That is a strange question.”

“How far was the bargain sale?” asked the little boy.

“About two miles; at the five and ten cent store.”

“And the mountains were bought there?”

“Yes, delivered C. O. D.”

“Tockerlore is a kind of magic place, where they have fairies and magic wands, isn’t it?”

“Why, do you think there is anything strange in a range of mountains not walking two miles of their own accord?”

“Oh, I didn’t expect them to walk!” said the little boy.

“Yes, you did, and you seemed to doubt that the king bought them—as if he would have stolen them!”

“Oh, I never thought that!” said the little boy. “I truly didn’t. I thought it was strange that—well, I don’t understand it, that’s all.”

The Imp looked at him in a quizzical way, and then said,

“What a queer child you are!” And that was all the conversation which took place until the strange mountains loomed up in full view before the boy’s eyes. But he had made a resolution not to express any surprise at anything he saw, for the Imp didn’t seem to see things in his way, and was very touchy.

As they approached nearer and nearer to the mighty hills, the little boy could distinguish living figures seated upon the rocks and ledges all about, and twanging little harps. They were very small—these figures—and they seemed to be singing an anthem, or something of the sort, which the little boy couldn’t make out. But he hesitated to ask any question concerning them and their business for fear of getting into a dispute.

“There!” said the Imp, finally; “those are His Majesty’s Minstrels on guard at the mountains.”

“To keep them from running away?” asked the boy.

“To keep what from running away?”

“The mountains.”

“Now, don’t be absurd,” said the Imp, “do you hear that song they’re singing? That’s the national hymn. How beautiful it is. Just listen!”

They were now close upon a mighty canyon which ran between two great hills and formed a gateway into the mystic land.

The scented breeze wafted the voices of the tiny singers in the little boy’s direction, and he was struck with consternation on hearing the words of the national song.

_Song of the Minstrels on the Frontier_

Upon the snow-clad mountain tops
The waves of ocean roar,
And the ships that bear the milkmaids home,
From their cabins out on the briny foam,
Are tied again to the barnyard door;
And all is still
On the sun-kissed hill
As the rain begins to pour;
And the codfish, coming out of his hole,
He heaves a sigh as he sips his bowl
Of cod liver oil, and eats his roll—
In the Land of Tockerlore.

And the song that we sing
To our mighty king
Will resound the wide world o’er,
And it’s magical,
musical,
mystical
muse
Will be heard forevermore!

As they passed into the great canyon which lay between the two high mountains, they could hear the echo of the minstrels’ song, farther and farther away in the distance,

“Magical, musical, mystical muse,
musical, mystical muse,
mystical muse,
muse,
use,
se,
e”

and so on, until it died away altogether, and they realized that they were in the Land of Tockerlore.

THE MAGICAL FLOWER

As the little boy glanced about the scene
Which he’d just arrived to explore,
A curious sight it met his gaze,
And he scanned it o’er and o’er;
’Twas the beautiful, winding country road
Extending through Tockerlore.

They stood on the edge of a rocky shelf
Surveying the beautiful land,
And no matter where his eyes would turn
The road was on every hand,
And he noticed the distant towns it touched
And the rivers that it spanned

And looking afar from the rocky height,
He remarked to the Imp, “It seems
Like places they have in fairy books,
And the things you see in dreams;
And is that the village of Minutel,
Where the little white light gleams?”

And turning his wondering eyes above
To the beautiful fleecy sky,
He saw how the floating clouds were formed
Like mystical clocks on high,
And he thought as he saw them passing there
How the time was fleeting by.

And still as he paused on the mighty cliff
And noted those clouds pass o’er,
His ears caught a smothered rolling sound
Like the distant thunder’s roar,
And he said, “They’re winding the clock-clouds up
In the land of Tockerlore.”

The Imp laid his hand on the little boy,
And he said, “We shall have to strive
To follow that road to Minutel,
Or we never shall arrive.
How nice, when you follow its winding way,
To think it was once alive!

“Now watch what you’re doing, and step right down,
Holding fast to those slender trees;
When we’re off this hill, we’ll be all right,
And can find the—”

“Wait a minute!” said the little boy. “Did you say that the road was once alive! Or didn’t you say that?”

“Yes, I did, and you shouldn’t interrupt.

“And can find the road with ease;
And we’ll see the garden of Minutel,
Where they make the scented breeze.

“There, now what is it?”

“Well, I thought it seemed funny that—I didn’t see how a road—Well, nothing.”

“Go on,” said the Imp, “I’m listening.”

“Well, would you mind telling me about how the road was alive—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

“Oh, there’s an old legend they tell in Minutel—I’ve no doubt you’ll hear it; we’ll ask when we get there. Minutel is a queer little place, full of folk-lore. Those gardens I spoke of are called the Fields of Fragrant Flowers; they are a reservoir.”

“A what?”

“A reservoir, supplying fragrance to the whole kingdom. The delightful scent from the flowers is carried through pipes into Tickerleen and the smaller places. You’ll notice the little registers in the streets which open and close. Just see how beautiful the view is now—look over there—”

And he pointed off to a distant spot,
Where some clustering steeples rose
Like stately ghosts in the soft, clear air,
And said to the child, “Now those
Are within the City of Tickerleen
Where each tired hour goes.”

But while he was speaking, a scented breeze
From the region of Minutel
Bore a sound the child had often heard
And seemed to remember well;
’Twas the steady tick of the old hall clock,
And a faintly chiming bell.

It was wafted up from the lowlands fair,
Where the flickering light was seen.
“Look there!” said the Imp, “you’ll see it move;
It’s skirting that long ravine;
’Tis the clock-work train leaving Minutel
On its way to Tickerleen.

“And that means, in plain language, that we’ve missed it! And there won’t be another till that gets back, for there’s only one train. There, that’s the last you’ll see of it, for it’s gone behind the mountains. It’ll be in Chymerline before you and I get to Minutel. Now, step down this way.”

“That’s too bad,” said the little boy, as he stepped down, “but we can wait in Minutel, can’t we? We’ll want to see the village anyway, I suppose.”

“Yes, but I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait. Minutel is an old-fashioned place, filled with queer, old hours,—Pilgrim hours, and Puritan hours, and that sort; there’s not much to do there unless you want to listen to their prosy chaff.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about the Pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock, and I like stories of that kind,” said the boy. “Do you suppose the hour is there who saw them land?”

“Yes, I suppose so—Look out, don’t fall!”

“Is the train usually on time?” asked the little boy.

“Yes, always,—except once I believe it lost three minutes, but the engineer got them back again.”

“Made them up, you mean?”

“No, he lost them somewhere between Snooze and Tickerleen, so he advertised in the Tickerleen papers and some one who had picked them up returned them.”

“What!” said the little boy, standing stark still and staring at the Imp. “Do you mean that those minutes were brought back to him?”

“Yes; what a curious little boy you are! You seem to think that nobody is honest. First Father Time is suspected of stealing mountains. Then you seem to be surprised that there is a single person in the whole great city of Tickerleen honourable enough to return three little golden minutes which he knew didn’t belong to him!”

“It isn’t that,” said the little boy, as they picked their way along down into the valley from the rocky ledge, “but it seems so funny—oh, well, I suppose things are different here.”

Soon they found themselves on level ground and hastened across some wide meadow land where they found a part of the road they had seen from the hill, and falling into it they saw at once how it led out of the valley up into Minutel, which was on the side of a mountain, not very far up.

“Wasn’t that a funny song?” said the little boy, as he trudged along up the winding road, watching the ground beneath him lest it should come to life again and shake him off. “I don’t think I ever heard such an odd song; it was meant to be funny, wasn’t it?”

“What song was that?”

“The song the minstrels were singing as we came in.”

“_I_ thought it was beautiful and stirring,” said the Imp.

“I thought it was funny about the ships being tied to the barnyard door.”

“O-oh, I don’t know, I suppose they must be tied somewhere; it’s just a matter of taste.”

“And the cod-fish coming out of his hole in the rain!”

“Yes,” said the Imp, “I’ll admit that was rather strange.”

“I’m glad that you agree with me at last,” said the little boy, “for I was beginning to think that nothing would ever seem strange to _you_.”

“Yes, that _was_ strange,” said the Imp, “I can’t understand it.”

“And the cod liver oil part—the bowl of cod liver oil, you know. I thought that was odd.”

“Yes,” said the Imp, “that was the queerest part.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the little boy.

“Very strange!” said the Imp.

The little boy seemed to be quite encouraged that he and his guide had come to an agreement about something at last, and he laughed uproariously as he thought over the rest of the minstrels’ song.

“The idea of his taking cod liver oil for his health and then coming out in the rain!” said the Imp. “I should think that he would have had better sense; that was a strange thing to do, I’ll admit.”

The little boy’s face became very serious again as he heard this, and a look of disappointment was plainly visible in his big eyes.

“I didn’t mean that his coming out was strange, but his _having_ a hole; I thought that was queer.”

The Imp stopped in the middle of the road, and looked at the little boy in utter astonishment. The poor little fellow was quite uncomfortable at being so sternly scrutinized, but he could only stand still too, and wait. Then the Imp spoke very slowly as if he wanted to make sure that the little boy understood every word,

“If you were taking medicine in such a quantity as that cod-fish—that is, if you were taking a whole bowl of something for your health—I ask you if you would come out in a rain storm. Now answer!”

“No, I wouldn’t, but—”

“No, you wouldn’t, of course you wouldn’t! Then it was strange for him to come out and do it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, but—”

“There is no ‘but’ about it; it was a foolhardy and absurd thing to do, and it was strange, as you said yourself.”

The little boy was about to speak when he changed his mind and decided that it was of no use. But he resolved to ask Father Time a few questions if His Majesty was willing to give him an audience when they got to the royal city.

Soon they reached the Fields of Fragrant Flowers, which were just outside of the village. Many little imps were here, roaming about amid a veritable forest of fragrant plants, and fanning the air into large funnels which rose here and there among the flowers, and which looked like the pipes the little boy had seen on the big ocean liner on which his parents had taken him abroad, and which he had been told were for the purpose of carrying air down into the staterooms below.

They sat on the fence a while to rest and watch the imps who were wandering here and there and fanning vigorously. Now and then a head would peer up from the clustering plants and take a peep at the little boy and then disappear again. Finally the little fellow noticed that many of the imps were stopping their work and joining a group where an animated conversation seemed to be going on. He watched them eagerly, supposing that something queer must have happened, and that perhaps one of them had been too stubborn to admit its queerness, and the rest were arguing with him. At last, to his great surprise, one of the little imps came running through the flowers till he almost reached the fence, where he stood and beckoned to the little boy to come inside.

“Shall I go?” said the little boy.

“Certainly,” said his friend, “they won’t hurt you.”

“I suppose they must have been talking about me; don’t you think so?” said the child.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” responded his guide. “You’d better go in and see what they want.”

The little boy jumped down from the fence and hastened through the flowers till he reached the Imp, who, he now saw, was smaller than his travelling companion, but whose fan was perfectly gigantic. He wore a badge which said “Municipal Fragrance Department,” with a number underneath the words.

“What is it you want?” asked the little boy.

“Come back here; we want to speak with you,” said the Imp. So the little boy followed him back to the corner where the rest of the Municipal Fragrance Department workers were standing.

“How do you do?” said one of them.

“I’m very well,” said the little boy, “except my eyes hurt me. What do you want to see me about?”

“Where do you come from—the earth?”

“Yes, I’m here to see the Land of Tockerlore.”

“Who is your friend?”

“His name is Three O’clock. He invited me; wasn’t it all right?”

“Oh, yes, there are a good many Three O’clocks here; one comes about every day. Have you seen anything strange, unusual?”

The little boy looked back toward the fence to make sure his friend could not overhear the conversation. There was no danger of this, however, for his friendly guide was swinging his legs and singing a boisterous song about what an unpleasant thing school was.

“He’s very prejudiced against schools,” said the little boy. “I don’t know why, I’m sure. No, I haven’t seen anything so very strange, but he tells me strange things. I don’t know what to think of them; I don’t want to be impolite with him.”

“No, certainly not,” said the group, “you are quite right.”

“What did I tell you?” said one imp.

“I _thought_ he wouldn’t understand,” said another.

“Didn’t I say we ought to set him right?” said a third.

“It is just as I suspected,” observed a fourth. “There ought to be some one out on the frontier to inform visitors; they get all confused before they’re in the land. I’m glad we called him in,” and he looked about at the others as if he thought they ought to thank him for his thoughtfulness.

“My dear little boy,” said one of the imps, “there is nothing strange about Tockerlore, but the Earth, where you come from, is a queer place. Consequently, when you come here things appear strange when they really are not so. Scarcely a week passes but some visitor goes by here—invited, I suppose, by a friendly hour—and we always notice how surprised he seems to be. Now if you will just let me pin this flower on your blouse, it will set you right until you get to Tickerleen, where you won’t need it. They have so much fragrance there from the pipes that you won’t need any flower, but Minutel has no municipal supply, and only gets what fragrance the free air supplies, and that isn’t much. Now run along—you came up through the Snooze Valley from the frontier, didn’t you?”

“Yes, was that the Snooze Valley?” said the child.

“That was the Snooze Valley. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said the little boy, “and I thank you—I really thank you very much if it will make me see things right.”

The imps all nodded as he ran away, and as he and his friend proceeded along the road, he turned and saw that they were all at work again, fanning with all their might and main. He explained to the Imp what they had done, and the Imp seemed to think it was a good idea.

“I only hope it will work,” said he, “for you are the strangest child I ever knew.”

THE SAD STORY OF THE WOLLERPERLECK

So they trudged along the curious road
Till the village was quite in view,—
A funny old town with crooked lanes
And houses all askew;
And some of them seemed to be tumbling down,
And not a thing was new.

And the place seemed wrapped in a drowsy calm
Which pervaded the very air,
And nobody took the slightest heed
That one of the weary pair
Was a little boy from some distant sphere,—
And nobody seemed to care:

And the sleepy bell on the little church,
Which was chiming sadly and low,
Seemed lost in a dreamy reverie,
In its swinging to and fro;
Seemed lost in a vision of other things,
In the days of long ago.

They hastened along to the Hairspring Inn,
(’Twas the place where they’d seen the lights)
And said, “We have brought four tired legs,
And two splendid appetites.
Have you room, mine host, for a little boy
Who wants to see the sights?”

“We have,” said the host, “but my house is old,
And I shouldn’t neglect to state
That I’m doubtful if the place would do
For a boy who is up to date;
For the china we use is quite passé—
As well as the silver plate.

“And the bread that we serve is quite antique—
Though it’s thought to be very fine
By antiquarians living here,
Who frequently stop to dine—
And all of our biscuits and pies were made
In seventeen twenty-nine.”

“You see,” said the Imp, drawing the little boy aside, “he is inclined to be perfectly honest; he doesn’t want to have you stop here and then be dissatisfied.”

“Is he an hour?” asked the little boy.

“Certainly, every imp you meet here is an hour. Just look on his badge and you’ll see what hour he is; Fourth of July, 1776, 4 P. M.—That was the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, wasn’t it? He ought to have some interesting things to tell.”

Then the Imp walked back to the counter where the innkeeper was standing, and said:

“Pardon me, good host, I interrupted you; you were telling us about your house, I believe. Pray continue.”

“And I haven’t a doubt,” the host remarked,
As the Imp and the boy sat down,
“That you’ll want to see our quaint, old club,
Which enjoys a wide renown.
It meets in a tumble-down, queer, old house,
At the other end of town.

“There’s a little poem which I used to know,
From a paper in Tickerleen,
By some one who spent the summer here,
And went to the club, I mean,
And he wrote the poem on arriving home,
Describing the things he’d seen.”

“Oh, try to remember it,” said the child,
“And I hope that you surely can,
For _I_ am old-fashioned, people say,—
Can’t you think how it began?”
And the host he smiled and presently said,
“I think that the stanzas ran,—

“‘When the twilight slowly lowers,
On the Fields of Fragrant Flowers,
Then the good, old-fashioned hours,
With their quaint, old-fashioned ways,

“‘With their pointed, antique noses,
And their doublets and their hoses,
Meet to talk when business closes,
Of the good, old-fashioned days.

“‘All unheedful of each mocker,
Each arrives and bangs the knocker,
And proceeding to his rocker,
He begins at once to flay

“‘Every sociable and smoker,
Every modern, flippant joker,
And observes how mediocre
Is the joking of to-day.

“‘All unheedful of inventions,
In their queer, old-time conventions,
Not a member even mentions
Such a word as “telephone.”

“‘And they scorn all modern folly,
And denounce the useful trolley,
And are seized with melancholy
If they hear a megaphone!

“‘And upon a quaint old bracket,
Each one hangs his funny jacket,
And they have a quaint old racket,
In the queer old house they use.

“‘You can hear their solemn laughing,
And their Puritanic chaffing,
And suspicious sounds of quaffing,
As they tell their good old news.

“‘Of the quaint old times, untainted,
Of events quite often painted,
And with which we’re all acquainted,
But which never lose their spell;

“‘Of the knowledge they acquired,
Ere their time on earth expired,
And they quietly retired
To the town of Minutel.’”

“We’ll take that in,” laughed the gay little Imp,
“Is there any especial date?
For we’re on our way to Tickerleen;
How long shall we have to wait?”
“They meet,” said the host, “as I understand,
On Fridays, at half-past eight.”

“And the train next starting for Tickerleen,—
May I ask you when that will leave?”
“The train will depart,—now, let me see,
On Saturday, I believe.
It will get back here at Saturday noon,
And start on Saturday eve.”

“Ah, that will be fine!” said the little Imp,
“And our plans will come out just right;
It’s Thursday now, and we’ll do the club
When it meets to-morrow night,
And to-night we’ll stay in this cosy inn,
And sit by the fire bright.”

So they drew close up to the cheerful blaze,
And the host began to employ
The time in relating many tales
Which the child received with joy;
And the fire smiled on the genial host,
The Imp, and the little boy.

And the sound borne in on the soft, still air
From the drowsily chiming bell,
Seemed to say, “Those good, old-fashioned tales
Are ones that _I_ know quite well,
For they’re all about things I saw myself
In the village of Minutel.”

“May I ask you, please,” said the little boy,
“There’s a story of old folk-lore
That I heard about, and I want to know—
Would you tell me just one more?
It’s the legend about those funny roads
In the Land of Tockerlore.”

“I will,” said the host, as he settled down,
“But you’ll think it is sad, I fear.
You know the valley you came across
Before you arrived up here?
The valley that separates Minutel
From the mountainous frontier?

“Did you notice along a narrow stream
A ruin, all mossy and old,
And near it a little vender’s stand,
Where souvenir cards are sold?
It’s about the ruin along that stream
The following tale is told—”

_The Wollerperleck
or
The Legend of the Roads_

In the mystical land of the Hours,
In the beautiful valley of Snooze
Lived a Wollerperleck, with a wabbly neck
And a pair of russet shoes.

He resided alone in the valley,
Near a brooklet with murmuring rills,
With the moon, you know, and a tree or so,
And a couple of rustic mills.

The surroundings were simply perfection,
For the scenery on every hand
Was of rarest hue, and even the dew
Was of an imported brand.

And the sunshine which gilded the meadows
And illumined each showery tear,
I’m happy to state, was of triple plate
And warranted for a year.

And the maidens who passed in the evening
Would incessantly loiter and stand
By the fence near by, and giggle and sigh,
And remark, “He is simply grand!”

And he noted their flattering comments,
And the way that they’d gurgle and gush,
And he entered each look in a leather book,
And credited every blush.

And the maidens, embracing each pretext
(It was all that they had to embrace),
Would cluster together and talk of the weather,
In front of the Wollerp’s place.

And they gave not a thought as they practised
Each alluring and innocent art
And swung on his gate, that as sure as fate
They were breaking that Wollerp’s heart.

And it’s woe to their maidenly graces!
And alas, for each innocent gaze!
Oh, woe and alack and a liberal stack
Of sorrowful welladays!

Oh, alas, that a maiden should flatter!
And alas, that they never could see
How each ominous word was overheard
By the miserable flatteree!

In the past his young life had been simple,
Unaccustomed to people and news.
He’d sit by the fire for days and admire
His beautiful russet shoes.

But the happiest life can be broken,
And its blessed contentments escape,
Or, like to the neck of the Wollerperleck,
Be twisted all out of shape.

In the mystical land of the Hours,
In the beautiful valley of Snooze
That Wollerperleck, he became a wreck,
And took off his russet shoes.

It was little he cared for their beauty,
And he had no intention to wed,
But a silly desire consumed him like fire
To hear what those maidens said.

When they likened his eyes to the heavens,
And his rippling laugh to a brook,
The Wollerp, concealed by some rock in his field,
Would enter it in his book.

He would listen in rapt consternation,
And his curious intellect burned
To such an extent that his neck was bent,
And his head completely turned.

When they spoke of him as an Apollo,
In their fervent but innocent way,
He would open his book with a fiendish look,
And enter it under “A.”

And each sigh, and each giggle and simper,
And each sweet exhibition of guile,
And each movement of grace had its regular place
In his patented index file.

But I cannot conceal the finale,
Nor the lesson it’s certain to teach.
How the beautiful neck of the Wollerperleck
Extended beyond his reach.

How it strayed far beyond the intentions
Which Dame Nature had once entertained;
How it first got askew; then rapidly grew
From being incessantly craned.

How it wound as it slowly meandered;
How its owner would constantly bend
Its unlimited length with all of his strength,
In search of his other end.

How it entered the Minute Hand Forest,
And explored every leaf bordered track;
How he peered here and there, and with utter despair,
Tried to follow its windings back.

How it curled round the trees of the woodland,
While its body in dreadful suspense,
Would stroll out and wait by the ill-omened gate,
Or sit on the fateful fence.

At his beautiful home in the valley,
In the vine covered cottage at Snooze,
The Wollerp repined and endeavoured to find
His beautiful russet shoes.

And he cried from the Minute Hand Forest,
“I would give my existence to see
Those beautiful shoes in my home at Snooze!
Oh, where is the rest of me?”

So he felt in each corner and closet,
And he looked high and low for a day,
But his absent mind, it was all confined
In the head that had gone away.

And anon, as he groped round undaunted,
All in spite of his wandering head,
Toward the close of the day a voice seemed to say,
“Have you felt at the foot of the bed?”

’Mid the dismal and wind haunted Forest,
Through its trackless and endless expanse,
For a year and a day, on its sorrowful way,
Did that Wollerp’s head advance.

Till his body came forth from the cottage,
And the gathering populace said,
“He simply can’t wait, for the strain is too great;
He is going to hunt for his head.”

To the beautiful Minute Hand Forest
He proceeded with might and with main,
And he felt all around his neck on the ground,
But the head had gone out again.

So he followed its curious windings,
All bewildered and weary the while,
And came without harm to the mount of “Alarm”
Near the quaint little hamlet of “Dial;”

And along a steep, rock bordered pathway,
From a dizzy and crooked incline,
Came a voice calling shrill from the top of the hill,
Which said, “I am thine, I am thine!”

And the neck, as it lay o’er the mountain,
Seemed to thrill at each love-laden word,
But the Wollerp was still at the foot of the hill,
For the calling was all unheard.

And the voice wailing out in the darkness,
Said, “My misery now is complete!
With my body in sight at the foot of the height,
And yet we can never meet!”

And advancing from under its shelter,
Came the head of the Wollerperleck,
And he wailed and he cried, as he shortly espied
The extent of his tangled neck.

For it seemed like some wandering mainspring,
As it wound mid the Tockerlore wild,
All twisted and bent to a shocking extent,
Like a spring in the hands of a child.

And it wound, and meandered, and twisted,
And the head of the Wollerp it saw
How it actually went to the whole extent
Of the Land of Tockerlore!

And remarking its limitless windings,
He perceived how absurd it would be
To endeavour to go to his body below,
For there’d be nothing gained, you see.

So he quietly lived on the mountain,
And his brain kept in touch with his heart,
But his trunk and his head—so the gossips said—
Had agreed to live apart.

But they acted in amiable concert,
Till their earthly existence was o’er,
And he proudly wrote that his delicate throat
Was the Land of Tockerlore.

And the souvenir hunters from Swipo,
They demolished the cottage at Snooze,
And all his estate which went to probate
Was his beautiful russet shoes.

THE WHOPPER THAT GEORGE WASHINGTON TOLD

Several times during the host’s narrative the Imp glanced in the direction of his young friend to see whether the little fellow appeared surprised at anything he heard. The child gave no signs, however, to indicate that he had any doubt as to the perfect accuracy of the tale, in which he was deeply interested, being visibly affected toward the end, when his eyes were filled with tears. The Imp concluded that the flower was working splendidly, and making the little boy quite sensible in his way of seeing things.

After a moment or two of meditation into which all three had fallen when the story was finished, the little boy said,

“That Wollerp did a fine thing for the country, didn’t he?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the host, “and it was appreciated, too. As you go through Chymerline you’ll notice a monument on the village green; the road goes right past it. It was put there by the road commissioners in honour of the noble martyr who saved them the trouble of doing their duty. You see, people used to try to follow the curious windings of the neck, just for fun, until it got to be a kind of national game. Expeditions started out continually, until finally ‘Hunting the Head’ became a perfect fad. They had little wollerps with long necks to play with indoors, and they’d tangle the necks up on dining tables, and then try to follow them with little pointers until they came to the end. Of course, all this travelling outside made a beaten track, and the track developed into a path, and the path into a road, and the road into this beautiful endless highway which is the pride of the Kingdom and the delight of tourists.

“I remember the day I first got here. It was the afternoon of the Fourth of July, 1776, and everyone was saying a little poem. Some had gone crazy trying to learn to say it. I didn’t know what it meant until I heard the old road legend. This is how it went:—

“Said an imp as he buttoned his shoes,
‘I will follow that neck into Snooze,’
And he giggled with glee,
‘What a lark it would be,
I believe it would banish the blues!’

“And taking his suitcase, said he,
‘Now promise, don’t worry for me,
For I never shall flinch,
It’s a regular cinch,
And as easy as easy can be.’

“But when he arrived at the Ku-
Peremaliganundi of Soo,
He had to go back
On account of the crack
In the Nickuberamelegoo!
In the Nick, in the Nick, in the—”

“Don’t you think we’d better have dinner?” asked the host, rising. “It’s long past time.”

The little boy did think so, and had thought so for an hour or more, so he answered that he was perfectly agreeable, and they all went into the dining-room where they were soon seated before a steaming tankard of frizzled strikers with daybreak sauce.

“When is it going to be night?” asked the little boy, as they finished. For he knew they must have been in Tockerlore for sometime, and yet it was neither darker nor lighter than when they had passed the frontier.

“Why, it’s night now, I suppose,” said the landlord, “it’s never dark here, you know; the light always remains as you see it now. Would you like to go to bed?”

“If you don’t mind,” said the little boy.

“Mind! Why, certainly I don’t mind. You’ve no objection to your friend’s sitting up with me a while, have you?”

“Oh, certainly not, not at all, but would someone be good enough to help me undo the buttons? I don’t want to trouble you, but you know I always have nurse to help me when I go to bed.”