Part 2 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER III

A VISIT TO THE GOOSE

The door flew open almost before Rudolf had stopped knocking, but there was nothing very alarming about the person who stood on the threshold. Ann said afterward she had thought at first it was a Miss Spriggins who came sometimes to sew for her mother, but it was not; it was only a very large gray goose neatly dressed in blue and white bed-ticking, with a large white ap.r.o.n tied round her waist and wearing big spectacles with black rims to them.

”Nothing to-day, thank you,” said the Goose.

”But please--” began Rudolf.

”No soap, no baking powder, no lightning rods, no hearth-brooms, no cake tins, no life insurance--” rattled the Goose so rapidly that the children could hardly understand her--”nothing at all to-day, _thank_ you!”

”But _we_ want something,” Ann cried, ”we want to come in!”

”I never let in peddlers,” said the Goose, and she slammed the door in their faces. As she slammed it one of her broad ap.r.o.n-strings caught in the crack, and Rudolf seized the end of it. When the Goose opened the door an inch or so to free herself he held on firmly and said:

”Tell us, please, are you the Warming-pan's aunt?”

The Gray Goose looked immensely pleased, but shook her head.

”Nothing so simple,” said she, ”nor, so to speak, commonplace, since the relations.h.i.+p or connection if you will have it, is, though perfectly to be distinguished, not always, as it were, entirely clear, through his great-grandfather who, as I hope you are aware, was a Dutch-Oven, having run away with a cousin of my mother's uncle's stepfather, who was three times married, numbers one, two and three all having children but none of 'em resembling one another in the slightest, which, as you may have perceived, is only the beginning of the story, but if you will now come in, not forgetting to wipe your feet, and try to follow me very carefully, I'll be delighted to explain all particulars.”

The children were glad to follow the Lady Goose into the house, though they thought she had been quite particular enough. They found it impossible to wipe their feet upon the mat because it was thick with snow, and when the door was closed behind them, they were surprised to feel that it was snowing even harder inside the house than it was out. For a moment they stood half blinded by the storm, unable to see clearly what kind of room they were in or to tell whose were the voices they heard so plainly. A great fluttering, cackling, and complaining was going on close to them, and a hoa.r.s.e voice cried out:

”One hundred and seventeen and three-quarters feathers to be multiplied by two-sevenths of a pound. That's a sweet one! Do that if you can, Squealer.”

”You can't do it yourself,” a whining voice replied. ”I've tried the back and the corners and the edges--there's no more room--”

Then came the sound of a sudden smack, as if some one's ears had been boxed when he least expected it, and this was followed by a loud angry squawk. Now the flakes, which had been gradually thinning, died away entirely, and the children suddenly discovered that they had not been snowflakes at all but only a cloud of white feathers sent whirling through the house, out of the windows, and up the chimney by some disturbance in the midst of a great heap in one corner of the room as high as a haystack. From the middle of this heap of feathers stuck up two very thin yellow legs with shabby boots that gave one last despairing kick and then were still. Near by at a counter a Gentleman Goose in a long ap.r.o.n was weighing feathers on a very small pair of scales, and at his elbow stood a little duck apprentice with the tears running down his cheeks. He was doing sums in a greasy sort of butcher's book that seemed quite full already of funny scratchy figures.

”That must be Squealer, the one who got his ears boxed,” whispered Ann to Rudolf, ”but what do you suppose is the matter with the other duck, the one in the heap? He will be smothered, I know he will!”

Rudolf thought so, too, yet it didn't seem polite to mention it. The Lady Goose had been busily helping the children to brush off the feathers that were sticking to them, and patting Peter on the back with her bill because he said he was sure he had swallowed at least a pound. She now brought forward chairs for them all. As the children looked around more closely they saw that the room they were in was a very cozy sort of place, long and low and neatly furnished with a white deal table, a s.h.i.+ny black cook-stove, a great many bright copper saucepans, and a red geranium in the window. A large iron pot was boiling merrily on the stove and from time to time the Gray Goose stirred its contents with a wooden spoon. It smelled rather good, and Peter, sniffing, began to put on his hungry expression.

”No, not even a family resemblance,” went on the Gray Goose, waving her spoon, ”although, as is generally known, a Roman nose is characteristic in our family, having developed in fact at the time of that little affair when we repelled the Gauls in the year--”

But Rudolf felt he could not stand much more of this. ”I beg your pardon,” he interrupted, ”but would you mind if we helped the little one out of the heap, the--the--duck who is getting so thoroughly smothered?”

”Not at all, if you care about it,” said the Gray Goose kindly.

”Squawker'll be good now, won't he, Father?”

”Oh, I'm sure he'll be good,” Ann cried, and she ran ahead of Rudolf to catch hold of one of the thin yellow legs and give it a mighty pull.

”He'll be good,” said the Gentleman Goose gravely, speaking for the first time, ”when he's roasted. Very good indeed'll Squawker be--with apple sauce!” And he smacked his lips and winked at Peter who was standing close beside him, looking up earnestly into his face.

Peter thought a moment. Then he said: ”_I_ likes currant jelly on my duck. I eats apple sauce on goose.”

The Gentleman Goose appeared suddenly uncomfortable. He began nervously stuffing little parcels of the feathers he had been weighing into small blue and white striped bags, which he threw one after the other to Squealer, who never by any chance caught them as he turned his back at every throw. ”I suppose,” said the Gentleman Goose to Peter in a hesitating, anxious sort of voice, ”you believe along with all the rest, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, don't you? I suppose there's nothing sauce-y about yourself now, is there?” And apparently comforted by his miserable little joke he went on with his weighing.