Part 10 (1/2)

”Full of despair threw herself down at the foot of that very oak and cried like a baby,” continued Jimmieboy, ecstatically, for this was one of his favorite stories.

”Yes, that's all there; and then you remember how it winds up? How the tree shuddered as her tears fell to the ground, and how she thought it was the breeze blowing through the branches that made it shudder?” said the Imp.

”And how the brook laughed at her thinking such a thing!” put in Jimmieboy.

”And how she cried some more, until finally every root of the tree was wet with her tears, and how the tree then gave a fearful shake, and--”

”Turned into Pixyweevil!” roared Jimmieboy. ”Yes, I remember that; but I never really understood whether Pixyweevil ever became King? My book says, 'And so they were married, and were happy ever afterwards;' but doesn't say that he finally became a great potteringtate, and ruled over the people forever.”

”I guess you mean potentate, don't you?” said the Imp, with a laugh--potteringtate seemed such a funny word.

”I guess so,” said Jimmieboy. ”Did he ever become one of those?”

”No, he didn't,” said the Imp. ”He couldn't, and live happy ever afterwards, for Kings don't get much happiness in this world, you know.”

”Why, I thought they did,” returned Jimmieboy, surprised to hear what the Imp had said. ”My idea of a King was that he was a man who could eat between meals, and go to the circus whenever he wanted to, and always had plenty of money to spend, and a beautiful Queen.”

”Oh no,” returned the Imp. ”It isn't so at all. Kings really have a very hard time. They have to be dressed up all the time in their best clothes, and never get a chance, as you do, for instance, to play in the snow, or in summer in the sand at the seash.o.r.e. They can eat between meals if they want to, but they can't have the nice things you have. It would never do for a King to like ginger-snaps and cookies, because the people would murmur and say, 'Here--he is not of royal birth, for even we, the common people, eat ginger-snaps and cookies between meals; were he the true King he would call for green peas in wintertime, and boned turkey, and other rich stuffs that cost much money, and are hard to get; he is an impostor; come, let us overthrow him.' That's the hard part of it, you see. He has to eat things that make him ill just to keep the people thinking he is royal and not like them.”

”Then what did Pixyweevil become?” asked Jimmieboy.

”A poet,” said the Imp. ”He became the poet of everyday things, and of course that made him a great poet. He'd write about plain and ordinary good-natured puppy-dogs, and snow-shovels, and other things like that, instead of trying to get the whole moon into a four-line poem, or to describe some mysterious thing that he didn't know much about in a ten-page poem that made it more mysterious than ever, and showed how little he really did know about it.”

”I wish I could have heard some of Pixyweevil's poems,” said Jimmieboy.

”I liked him, and sometimes I like poems.”

”Well, sit down there before the fire, and I'll see if we can't find a b.u.t.ton to press that will enable you to hear them. They're most of 'em nonsense poems, but as they are perfect nonsense they're good nonsense.

”It is some time since I've used the library,” the Imp continued, gazing about him as if in search of some particular object. ”For that reason I have forgotten where everything is. However, we can hunt for what we want until we find it. Perhaps this is it,” he added, grasping a wire and fastening it to the battery. ”I'll turn on the current and let her go.”

The crank was turned, and the two little fellows listened very intently, but there came no sound whatever.

”That's very strange,” said the Imp. ”I don't hear a thing.”

”Neither do I,” observed Jimmieboy, in a tone of disappointment.

”Perhaps the library is out of order, or the battery may be.”

”I'll have to take the wire and follow it along until I come to the book it is attached to,” said the Imp, stopping the current and loosening the wire. ”If the library is out of order it's going to be a very serious matter getting it all right again, because we have all the books in the world here, and that's a good many, you know--more'n a hundred by several millions. Ah! Here is the book this wire worked. Now let's see what was the matter.”

In a moment the whole room rang with the Imp's laughter.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”NO WONDER IT WOULDN'T SAY ANYTHING,” HE CRIED.]

”No wonder it wouldn't say anything,” he cried. ”What do you suppose the book was?”

”I don't know,” said Jimmieboy. ”What?”

”An old copy-book with nothing in it. That's pretty good!”