Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

V >> Various >> Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know




No one dared to touch the tart before the arrival of His Majesty.
Meanwhile, something must be done to allay the universal impatience,
and they resolved to show Mother Mitchel the gratitude with which all
hearts were filled. She was crowned with the laurel of _conquerors_,
which is also the laurel of _sauce_, thus serving a double purpose.
Then they placed her, with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of
throne, and carried her all round her vast work. Before her marched
all the musicians of the town, dancing, drumming, fifing, and tooting
upon all instruments, while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd,
who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it with a shower of
caps. Her fame was complete, and a noble pride shone on her
countenance.

The royal procession arrived. A grand stairway had been built, so that
the King and his ministers could mount to the summit of this
monumental tart. Thence the King, amid a deep silence, thus addressed
his people:

"My children," said he, "you adore tarts. You despise all other food.
If you could, you would even eat tarts in your sleep. Very well. Eat
as much as you like. Here is one big enough to satisfy you. But know
this, that while there remains a single crumb of this august tart,
from the height of which I am proud to look down on you, all other
food is forbidden you on pain of death. While you are here, I have
ordered all the pantries to be emptied, and all the butchers, bakers,
pork and milk dealers, and fishmongers to shut up their shops. Why
leave them open? Why indeed? Have you not here at discretion what you
love best, and enough to last you ever, _ever_ so long? Devote
yourselves to it with all your hearts. I do not wish you to be bored
with the sight of any other food.

"Greedy ones! behold your TART!"

What enthusiastic applause, what frantic hurrahs rent the air, in
answer to this eloquent speech from the throne!

"Long live the King, Mother Mitchel, and her cat! Long live the tart!
Down with soup! Down with bread! To the bottom of the sea with all
beefsteaks, mutton chops, and roasts!"

Such cries came from every lip. Old men gently stroked their chops,
children patted their little stomachs, the crowd licked its thousand
lips with eager joy. Even the babies danced in their nurses' arms, so
precocious was the passion for tarts in this singular country. Grave
professors, skipping like kids, declaimed Latin verses in honour of
His Majesty and Mother Mitchel, and the shyest young girls opened
their mouths like the beaks of little birds. As for the doctors, they
felt a joy beyond expression. They had reflected. They understood.
But--my friends!--

At last the signal was given. A detachment of the engineer corps
arrived, armed with pick and cutlass, and marched in good order to the
assault. A breach was soon opened, and the distribution began. The
King smiled at the opening in the tart; though vast, it hardly showed
more than a mouse hole in the monstrous wall.

The King stroked his beard grandly. "All goes well," said he, "for him
who knows how to wait."

Who can tell how long the feast would have lasted if the King had not
given his command that it should cease? Once more they expressed their
gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembled grunts, and then
rushed to the river. Never had a nation been so besmeared. Some were
daubed to the eyes, others had their ears and hair all sticky. As for
the little ones, they were marmalade from head to foot. When they had
finished their toilets, the river ran all red and yellow and was
sweetened for several hours, to the great surprise of all the fishes.

Before returning home, the people presented themselves before the King
to receive his commands.

"Children!" said he, "the feast will begin again exactly at six
o'clock. Give time to wash the dishes and change the tablecloths, and
you may once more give yourselves over to pleasure. You shall feast
twice a day as long as the tart lasts. Do not forget. Yes! if there is
not enough in this one, I will even order ANOTHER from Mother Mitchel;
for you know that great woman is indefatigable. Your happiness is my
only aim." (Marks of universal joy and emotion.) "You understand?
Noon, and six o'clock! There is no need for me to say be punctual! Go,
then, my children--be happy!"

The second feast was as gay as the first, and as long. A pleasant walk
in the suburbs--first exercise--then a nap, had refreshed their
appetites and unlimbered their jaws. But the King fancied that the
breach made in the tart was a little smaller than that of the morning.

"'Tis well!" said he, "'tis well! Wait till to-morrow, my friends;
yes, till day after to-morrow, and _next week_!"

The next day the feast still went on gayly; yet at the evening meal
the King noticed some empty seats.

"Why is this?" said he, with pretended indifference, to the court
physician.

"Your Majesty," said the great Olibriers, "a few weak stomachs; that
is all."

On the next day there were larger empty spaces. The enthusiasm visibly
abated. The eighth day the crowd had diminished one half; the ninth,
three quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who came at first, only
two hundred remained; on the eleventh day only one hundred; and on the
twelfth--alas! who would have thought it?--a single one answered to
the call. Truly he was big enough. His body resembled a hogshead, his
mouth an oven, and his lips--we dare not say what. He was known in the
town by the name of Patapouf. They dug out a fresh lump for him from
the middle of the tart. It quickly vanished in his vast interior, and
he retired with great dignity, proud to maintain the honour of his
name and the glory of the Greedy Kingdom.

But the next day, even he, the very last, appeared no more. The
unfortunate Patapouf had succumbed, and, like all the other
inhabitants of the country, was in a very bad way. In short, it was
soon known that the whole town had suffered agonies that night from
too much tart. Let us draw a veil over those hours of torture. Mother
Mitchel was in despair. Those ministers who had not guessed the secret
dared not open their lips. All the city was one vast hospital. No one
was seen in the streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running
from house to house in frantic haste. It was dreadful! Doctor
Olibriers was nearly knocked out. As for the King, he held his tongue
and shut himself up in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes,
to the wonder of every one. He waited three days without a word.

The third day, the King said to his ministers:

"Let us go now and see how my poor people are doing, and feel their
pulse a little."

The good King went to every house, without forgetting a single one. He
visited small and great, rich and poor.

"Oh, oh! Your Majesty," said all, "the tart was good, but may we never
see it again! Plague on that tart! Better were dry bread. Your
Majesty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread! Oh, a morsel of dry
bread, how good it would be!"

"No, indeed," replied the King. "_There is more of that tart!_"

"What! Your Majesty, _must_ we eat it all?"

"You _must_!" sternly replied the King; "you _MUST_! By the immortal
beefsteaks! not one of you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf
shall be baked in the kingdom while there remains a crumb of that
excellent tart!"

"What misery!" thought these poor people. "That tart forever!"

The sufferers were in despair. There was only one cry through all the
town: "Ow! ow! ow!" For even the strongest and most courageous were in
horrible agonies. They twisted, they writhed, they lay down, they got
up. Always the inexorable colic. The dogs were not happier than their
masters; even they had too much tart.

The spiteful tart looked in at all the windows. Built upon a height,
it commanded the town. The mere sight of it made everybody ill, and
its former admirers had nothing but curses for it now. Unhappily,
nothing they could say or do made it any smaller; still formidable, it
was a frightful joke for those miserable mortals. Most of them buried
their heads in their pillows, drew their nightcaps over their eyes,
and lay in bed all day to shut out the sight of it. But this would not
do; they knew, they felt it was there. It was a nightmare, a horrible
burden, a torturing anxiety.

In the midst of this terrible consternation the King remained
inexorable during eight days. His heart bled for his people, but the
lesson must sink deep if it were to bear fruit in future. When their
pains were cured, little by little, through fasting alone, and his
subjects pronounced these trembling words, "We are hungry!" the King
sent them trays laden with--the inevitable tart.

"Ah!" cried they, with anguish, "the tart again! Always the tart, and
nothing but the tart! Better were death!"

A few, who were almost famished, shut their eyes, and tried to eat a
bit of the detested food; but it was all in vain--they could not
swallow a mouthful.

At length came the happy day when the King, thinking their punishment
had been severe enough and could never be forgotten, believed them at
length cured of their greediness. That day he ordered Mother Mitchel
to make in one of her colossal pots a super-excellent soup of which a
bowl was sent to every family. They received it with as much rapture
as the Hebrews did the manna in the desert. They would gladly have had
twice as much, but after their long fast it would not have been
prudent. It was a proof that they had learned something already, that
they understood this.

The next day, more soup. This time the King allowed slices of bread in
it. How this good soup comforted all the town! The next day there was
a little more bread in it and a little soup meat. Then for a few days
the kind Prince gave them roast beef and vegetables. The cure was
complete.

The joy over this new diet was as great as ever had been felt for the
tart. It promised to last longer. They were sure to sleep soundly, and
to wake refreshed. It was pleasant to see in every house tables
surrounded with happy, rosy faces, and laden with good nourishing
food.

The Greedy people never fell back into their old ways. Their once
puffed-out, sallow faces shone with health; they became, not fat, but
muscular, ruddy, and solid. The butchers and bakers reopened their
shops; the pastry cooks and confectioners shut theirs. The country of
the Greedy was turned upside down, and if it kept its name, it was
only from habit. As for the tart, it was forgotten. To-day, in that
marvellous country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a
basket of cakes. It is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful
teeth of the people. If they have still a king, he may well be proud
to be their ruler.

Does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten? No;
but there is reason in all things.

The doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution. They could
not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had
become unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun
webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of
use.

Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She was ridiculed without measure by
those who had adored her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her
cat. Alas for Mother Mitchel!

The King received the reward of his wisdom. His grateful people called
him neither Charles the Bold, nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the
Great, but always by the noble name of Prosper I, the Reasonable.




THANKFUL[1]

BY MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN.

This tale is evidence that Mrs. Freeman understands the
children of New England as well as she knows their parents.
There is a doll in the story, but boys will not mind this as
there are also two turkey-gobblers and a pewter dish full of
Revolutionary bullets.


Submit Thompson sat on the stone wall; Sarah Adams, an erect, prim
little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding
Thankful. Thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest
linen, with little rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax. She
wore a blue wool frock and a red cloak. Sarah held her close. She even
drew a fold of her own blue homespun blanket around her to shield her
from the November wind. The sky was low and gray; the wind blew from
the northeast, and had the breath of snow in it. Submit on the wall
drew her quilted petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled
herself into a small space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out
of the depths of a great red hood that belonged to her mother. Her
eyes were fixed upon a turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the
back door of the Adams house. The two gambrel-roofed Thompson and
Adams houses were built as close together as if the little village of
Bridgewater were a city. Acres of land stretched behind them and at
the other sides, but they stood close to the road, and close to each
other. The narrow space between them was divided by a stone wall which
was Submit's and Sarah's trysting-place. They met there every day and
exchanged confidences. They loved each other like sisters--neither of
them had an own sister--but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen.

[Footnote 1: From _Harper's Young People_, November 25, 1890.]

The tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around Submit; she
looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late
flower blooming out on the wall. "I know he don't, Sarah Adams," said
she.

"Father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned Sarah, in a small,
weak voice, which still had persistency in it.

"I don't believe he will. Our Thanksgiving turkey is twice as big. You
know he is, Sarah Adams."

"No, I don't, Submit Thompson."

"Yes, you do."

Sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was
beyond words. She was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small
blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her
high forehead and her sharp chin.

Submit nodded violently.

Sarah shook her head again. She hugged Thankful, and shook her head,
with her eyes still staring defiantly into Submit's hood.

Submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks. She
nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded and
spoke together. "Sarah Adams," said she, "what will you give me if our
turkey is bigger than your turkey?"

"It ain't."

"What will you give me if it is?"

Sarah stared at Submit. "I don't know what you mean, Submit Thompson,"
said she, with a stately and puzzled air.

"Well, I'll tell you. If your turkey weighs more than ours I'll give
you--I'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and
if our turkey weighs more than yours you give me--What will you give
me, Sarah Adams?"

Sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air. "I don't know," said
she. "I don't believe I've got anything mother would be willing to
have me give away."

"There's Thankful. Your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away."

Sarah started, and hugged Thankful closer. "Yes, my mother would care,
too," said she. "Don't you know my Aunt Rose from Boston made her and
gave her to me?"

Sarah's beautiful young Aunt Rose from Boston was the special
admiration of both the little girls. Submit was ordinarily impressed
by her name, but now she took it coolly.

"What if she did?" she returned. "She can make another. It's just
made out of a piece of old linen, anyhow. My work-box is real
handsome; but you can do just as you are a mind to."

"Do you mean I can have the work-box to keep?" inquired Sarah.

"Course I do, if your turkey's bigger."

Sarah hesitated. "Our turkey is bigger anyhow," she murmured. "Don't
you think I ought to ask mother, Submit?" she inquired suddenly.

"No! What for? I don't see anything to ask your mother for. She won't
care anything about that rag doll."

"Ain't you going to ask your mother about the work-box?"

"No," replied Submit stoutly. "It's mine; my grandmother gave it to
me."

Sarah reflected. "I _know_ our turkey is the biggest," she said,
looking lovingly at Thankful, as if to justify herself to her. "Well,
I don't care," she added, finally.

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"When's yours going to be killed?"

"This afternoon."

"So's ours. Then we'll find out."

Sarah tucked Thankful closer under her shawl. "I know our turkey is
biggest," said she. She looked very sober, although her voice was
defiant. Just then the great turkey came swinging through the yard. He
held up his head proudly and gobbled. His every feather stood out in
the wind. He seemed enormous--a perfect giant among turkeys. "_Look_
at him!" said Sarah, edging a little closer to the wall; she was
rather afraid of him.

"He ain't half so big as ours," returned Submit, stoutly; but her
heart sank. The Thompson turkey did look very large.

"Submit! Submit!" called a voice from the Thompson house.

Submit slowly got down from the wall. "His feathers are a good deal
thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to Sarah.

"Submit," called the voice, "come right home! I want you to pare
apples for the pies. Be quick!"

"Yes, marm," Submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "I'm coming!"
Then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the
Thompson house, like a red robin into a nest. Submit had been taught
to obey her mother promptly. Mrs. Thompson was a decided woman.

Sarah looked after Submit, then she gathered Thankful closer, and also
went into the house. Her mother, as well as Mrs. Thompson, was
preparing for Thanksgiving. The great kitchen was all of a pleasant
litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of
warm, spicy odours. The oven in the chimney was all heated and ready
for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies. Mrs. Adams was busy sliding
them in, but she stopped to look at Sarah and Thankful. Sarah was her
only child.

"Why, what makes you look so sober?" said she.

"Nothing," replied Sarah. She had taken off her blanket, and sat in
one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding Thankful.

"You look dreadful sober," said her mother. "Are you tired?"

"No, marm."

"I'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. Do you
feel chilly?"

"No, marm. Mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"

"I believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds. You are sure
you don't feel chilly?"

"No, marm. Mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than
Submit's?"

"How do you suppose I can tell? I ain't set eyes on their turkey
lately. If you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone
that bowl of raisins. Put your dolly away, and get your apron."

But Sarah stoned raisins with Thankful in her lap, hidden under her
apron. She was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her
away. Suppose the Thompson turkey should be larger, and she should
lose Thankful--Thankful that her beautiful Aunt Rose had made for her?

Submit, over in the Thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple
paring. She had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box
whose possession she had hazarded. It stood in there on the table,
made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a
beautiful little picture. Submit had a certain pride in it, but her
fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing Thankful.
Submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured
secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she
possessed to admire.

Gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty
covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll. Submit felt
shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the Baldwin apples, and
thinking to herself: "If our turkey is only bigger, if it only is,
then--I shall have Thankful." Her mouth was pursed up and her eyes
snapped. She did not talk at all, but pared very fast.

Her mother looked at her. "If you don't take care, you'll cut your
fingers," said she. "You are in too much of a hurry. I suppose you
want to get out and gossip with Sarah again at the wall, but I can't
let you waste any more time to-day. There, I told you you would!"

Submit had cut her thumb quite severely. She choked a little when her
mother tied it up, and put on some balm of Gilead, which made it smart
worse.

"Don't cry!" said her mother. "You'll have to bear more than a cut
thumb if you live."

[Illustration: "How much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"]

And Submit did not let the tears fall. She came from a brave race. Her
great-grandfather had fought in the Revolution; his sword and
regimentals were packed in the fine carved chest in the best room.
Over the kitchen shelf hung an old musket with which her
great-grandmother, guarding her home and children, had shot an Indian.
In a little closet beside the chimney was an old pewter dish full of
homemade Revolutionary bullets, which Submit and her brothers had for
playthings. A little girl who played with Revolutionary bullets ought
not to cry over a cut thumb.

Submit finished paring the apples after her thumb was tied up,
although she was rather awkward about it. Then she pounded spices in
the mortar, and picked over cranberries. Her mother kept her busy
every minute until dinnertime. When Submit's father and her two
brothers, Thomas and Jonas, had come in, she began on the subject
nearest her heart.

"Father," said she, "how much do you think our Thanksgiving turkey
will weigh?"

Mr. Thompson was a deliberate man. He looked at her a minute before
replying. "Seventeen or eighteen pounds," replied he.

"Oh, Father! don't you think he will weigh twenty?" Mr. Thompson shook
his head.

"He don't begin to weigh so much as the Adams' turkey," said Jonas.
"Their turkey weighs twenty pounds."

"Oh, Thomas! do you think their turkey weighs more than ours?" cried
Submit.

Thomas was her elder brother; he had a sober, judicial air like his
father. "Their turkey weighs considerable more than ours," said he.

Submit's face fell.

"You are not showing a right spirit," said her mother, severely. "Why
should you care if the Adams' turkey does weigh more? I am ashamed of
you!"

Submit said no more. She ate her dinner soberly. Afterward she wiped
dishes while her mother washed. All the time she was listening. Her
father and brothers had gone out; presently she started. "Oh, Mother,
they're killing the turkey!" said she.

"Well, don't stop while the dishes are hot, if they are," returned her
mother.

Submit wiped obediently, but as soon as the dishes were set away, she
stole out in the barn where her father and brothers were picking the
turkey.

"Father, when are you going to weigh him?" she asked timidly.

"Not till to-night," said her father.

"Submit!" called her mother.

Submit went in and swept the kitchen floor. It was an hour after that,
when her mother was in the south room, getting it ready for her
grandparents, who were coming home to Thanksgiving--they had been on a
visit to their youngest son--that Submit crept slyly into the pantry.
The turkey lay there on the broad shelf before the window. Submit
looked at him. She thought he was small. "He was 'most all feathers,"
she whispered, ruefully. She stood looking disconsolately at the
turkey. Suddenly her eyes flashed and a red flush came over her face.
It was as if Satan, coming into that godly new England home three
days before Thanksgiving, had whispered in her ear.

Presently Submit stole softly back into the kitchen, set a chair
before the chimney cupboard, climbed up, and got the pewter dish full
of Revolutionary bullets. Then she stole back to the pantry and
emptied the bullets into the turkey's crop. Then she got a needle and
thread from her mother's basket, sewed up the crop carefully, and set
the empty dish back in the cupboard. She had just stepped down out of
the chair when her brother Jonas came in.

"Submit," said he, "let's have one game of odd or even with the
bullets."

"I am too busy," said Submit. "I've got to spin my stint."

"Just one game. Mother won't care."

"No; I can't."

Submit flew to her spinning wheel in the corner. Jonas, still
remonstrating, strolled into the pantry.

"I don't believe mother wants you in there," Submit said anxiously.

"See here, Submit," Jonas called out in an eager voice, "I'll get the
steelyards, and we'll weigh the turkey. We can do it as well as
anybody."

Submit left her spinning wheel. She was quite pale with trepidation
when Jonas and she adjusted the turkey in the steelyards. What if
those bullets should rattle out? But they did not.

"He weighs twenty pounds and a quarter," announced Jonas, with a
gasp, after peering anxiously at the figures. "He's the biggest turkey
that was ever raised in these parts."

Jonas exulted a great deal, but Submit did not say much. As soon as
Jonas had laid the turkey back on the shelf and gone out, she watched
her chance and removed the bullets, replacing them in the pewter dish.

When Mr. Thompson and Thomas came home at twilight there was a deal of
talk over the turkey.

"The Adams' turkey doesn't weigh but nineteen pounds," Jonas
announced. "Sarah was out there when they weighed him, and she 'most
cried."

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