Mr RABBIT AT HOME - 24 Illustrated Children's Stories E-Book

Joel Chandler Harris

• Herausgeber: Abela Publishing
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

MR. RABBIT AT HOME contains 24 stories and tales of Mr Rabbit, Blue Hen, Brother Wolf, Brother Lion, Mr. Thimblefinger, Chickamy Crany Crow, Sweet Susan, Woog and Weeze, Uncle Rain, Brother Drouth and so many more wonderfully enchanting characters woven together in a tapestry of America’s old South.
There are also 25 full page pen-and-ink drawings by Oliver Herford sprinkled throughout which bring the stories to life.
Some of the stories in this volume are:

• Where the Thunder lives
• How a King was Found
• The Magic Ring
• The Little Boy of the Lantern
• The King of the Clinkers
• How Brother Lion lost his Wool
• A Mountain of Gold
• The Rabbit and the Moon
• The Shoemaker who made but One Shoe
• The Woog and the Weeze
• The Fate of the Diddypawn, and more.

Mr Rabbit At Home was written by Joel Chandler Harris in 1895, a full twelve years before he penned the tales of Uncle Remus and Brer Rabbit. It could be said, therefore, that Mr Rabbit at Home was the book which sparked the idea for the consequent Brer Rabbit character and books.
Just as the Brer Rabbit books are entertaining, so is Mr Rabbit at Home. Don’t be surprised that when you finish reading one of the many wonderful stories from this book, that you feel a tug at your sleeve with a coy request of “’nuther pleaaaaase?”
Joel Chandler Harris was born in Eatonton, Ga., on December 9, 1848. Deserted by his father at an early age, Harris dropped out of school and began working as a literary apprentice to help his mother make ends meet. Soon after, he was writing humorous pieces for several Georgia newspapers and in 1876, Harris joined the Staff of the Atlanta Constitution as an editor. Harris is best remembered for writing the Uncle Remus stories. Based on traditional African tales and folklore, the stories feature animal characters, such as Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox, who are endowed with human characteristics. Some of the Uncle Remus titles include Uncle Remus: His Songs and Sayings, Night with Uncle Remus, Uncle Remus and His Friends, and Uncle Remus and the Little Boy. After his death on July 3, 1908, Harris's home in Atlanta's West End was preserved as a museum called Wren's Nest. The museum got its name from a family of wrens that were found nesting in Harris's rickety old wooden mailbox.

10% of the profit from the sale of this book is donated to charities.
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KEYWORDS/TAGS: Folklore, fairy tales, myths, legends, children’s stories, animal stories, fables, folk tales, children’s Chickamy Crany Crow, books, parents with children, parents to be, grandparents, grandparents to be, animals, apple, astonish, baker, barbecue, Bear, beautiful, black, Brindle, Brother, Buster, castle, Chickamy, children, Clinkers, coal-black, companions, Crany, Crow, Diddypawn, dream, Drouth, Drusilla, eleven, Eolen, family, feathers, fingers, Fox, friends, Golden, Hen, hogshead, honeycomb, husband, island, Johnny, journey, Jumping-Off, King, kingdom, love at first sight, lady, lantern, leather, Lion, Looking-glass, mirror, , Majesty, Meadows, merchants, message, Monkeys, Moon, moral, mountains, nineteen, officers, palace, , Prince, Princess, Queen, Rabbit, Rain, ribbon, robbers, shoemaker, silver, Smat, snow-white, Sparkle, Spry, Stuff, Susan, Sweetest, tavern-keeper, landlord, , Thimblefinger, Tickle-My-Toes, Tiger, Uncle, Aunt, , wax, Wise, Wolf, woods, Woog, worth

Leseprobe

Mr. Rabbit at Home

A Sequel To

“Little Mr. Thimblefinger And His Queer Country”

By

Joel Chandler Harris

Author Of “Uncle Remus,” Etc.

Illustrated By Oliver Herford

Originally Printed by

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

[1895]

Resurrected By

Abela Publishing, London

[2019]

Mr Rabbit at Home

Typographical arrangement of this edition

© Abela Publishing 2018

This book may not be reproduced in its current format in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, or mechanical ( including photocopy, file or video recording, internet web sites, blogs, wikis, or any other information storage and retrieval system) except as permitted by law without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Abela Publishing,

London

United Kingdom

2018

ISBN-13: 978-8-XXXXXX-XX-X

email

[email protected]

website

www.AbelaPublishing.com

BROTHER LION WATCHED ME.

Contents

I.Buster John alarms Mr. Rabbit

II.Where the Thunder lives

III.The Jumping-off Place

IV.The Blue Hen’s Chicken

V.How a King was Found

VI.The Magic Ring

VII.The Cow with the Golden Horns

VIII.Brother Wolf’s two Big Dinners

IX.The Little Boy of the Lantern

X.A Lucky Conjurer

XI.The King of the Clinkers

XII.The Terrible Horse

XIII.How Brother Lion lost his Wool

XIV.Brother Lion has a Spell of Sickness

XV.A Mountain of Gold

XVI.An Old-Fashioned Fuss

XVII.The Rabbit and the Moon

XVIII.Why the Bear is a Wrestler

XIX.The Shoemaker who made but One Shoe

XX.The Woog and the Weeze

XXI.Uncle Rain and Brother Drouth

XXII.The Snow-White Goat and the Coal-Black Sheep

XXIII.The Butting Cow and the Hitting Stick

XXIV.The Fate of the Diddypawn

List of Illustrations

Brother Lion watched me - Frontispiece

“How did you get here?”

She waited a Little While

Presently they came to a Precipice

One of them was entirely different from all the Rest

They saw the Handsome Boy sleeping

Her Stepmother crept into the Room

She would have knelt, but he lifted her up

He went a little Way down one Road

A Lady, richly dressed, came out of the Woods

As he did so, a Crow hopped out

He saw an old Man, no bigger than a Broomstick

The Wooden Horse had stampeded the Enemy’s Army

You never heard such Howling since you were born

He was so weak that he couldn’t get up

The Monkeys would make Faces and squeal at the Dogs

“What is the Trouble?” says the Oldest Rabbit

He rubbed the Side of his Head

A Queer-looking little Man came jogging along the Road

“Have you seen Anything of a Stray Shoe?”

A Horrible Monster glared at them

The Boy told Uncle Rain the whole Story

At last the Robbers managed to escape

“Hit, Stick! Stick, hit!” she cried

It made him grin from Ear to Ear

MR. RABBIT AT HOME.

I Buster John Alarms Mr. Rabbit

When Buster John and Sweetest Susan and Drusilla returned home after their first visit to Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, a curious thing happened. The children had made a bargain to say nothing about what they had seen and heard, but one day, when there was nobody else to hear what she had to say, Sweetest Susan concluded to tell her mother something about the visit she had made next door to the world. So she began and told about the Grandmother of the Dolls, and about Little Mr. Thimblefinger, and all about her journey under the spring. Her mother paid no attention at first, but after awhile she became interested, and listened intently to everything her little daughter said. Sometimes she looked serious, sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she laughed. Sweetest Susan couldn’t remember everything, but she told enough to astonish her mother.

“Darling, when did you dream such nonsense as that?” the lady asked.

“Oh, it wasn’t a dream, mamma,” cried Sweetest Susan. “I thought it was a dream at first, but it turned out to be no dream at all. Now, please don’t ask brother about it, and please don’t ask Drusilla, for we promised one another to say nothing about it. I didn’t intend to tell you, but I forgot and began to tell you before I thought.”

A little while afterward Sweetest Susan’s mother was telling her husband about the wonderful imagination of their little daughter, and then the neighbors got hold of it, and some of the old ladies put their heads together over their teacups and said it was a sign that Sweetest Susan was too smart to stay in this world very long.

One day, while Drusilla was helping about the house, Sweetest Susan’s mother took occasion to ask her where she and the children went the day they failed to come to dinner.

“We wuz off gettin’ plums, I speck,” replied Drusilla.

“Why, there were no plums to get,” said the lady.

“Well, ’m, ef ’t wa’n’t plums, hit must ’a’ been hick’y nuts,” explained Drusilla.

“Hickory nuts were not ripe, stupid.”

“Maybe dey wa’n’t,” said Drusilla stolidly; “but dat don’t hinder we chilluns from huntin’ ’em.”

“You know you didn’t go after hickory nuts, Drusilla,” the lady insisted. “Now I want you to tell me where you and the children went. I’ll not be angry if you tell me, but if you don’t”—

Drusilla could infer a good deal from the tone of the lady’s voice, but she shook her head.

“Well, ’m,” she said, “we went down dar by de spring, an’ down dar by de spring branch, an’ all roun’ down dar. Ef we warn’t huntin’ plums ner hick’y nuts, I done fergot what we wuz huntin’.”

Drusilla seemed so much in earnest that the lady didn’t push the inquiry, but when she went into another room for a moment, the negro girl looked after her and remarked to herself:—

“I done crossed my heart dat I wouldn’t tell, an’ I ain’t gwine ter. Ef I wuz ter tell, she wouldn’t b’lieve me, an’ so dar ’t is!”

Sweetest Susan was careful to say nothing to Buster John and Drusilla about the slip of the tongue that caused her to tell her mother about their adventures in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country; but she didn’t feel very comfortable when Drusilla told how she had been questioned by her mistress.

“Ef somebody ain’t done gone an’ tol’ ’er,” said Drusilla, “she got some mighty quare notions in ’er head.”

Buster John, who had ideas of his own, ignored all this, and said he was going to put an apple in the spring the next day and watch for Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Well, ef you gwine down dar any mo’,” remarked Drusilla, “you kin des count me out, kaze I ain’t gwine ’long wid you. I’m one er deze yer kind er quare folks what know pine blank when dey done got nuff. I been shaky ever since we went down in dat ar place what wa’n’t no place.”

“You will go,” said Buster John.

“Huh! Don’t you fool yo’self, honey! You can’t put no ’pen’ence in a skeer’d nigger.”

“If you don’t go, you’ll wish you had,” said Buster John.

“How come?” asked Drusilla.

“Wait and see,” replied Buster John.

The next morning, bright and early, Buster John put an apple in the spring. He watched it float around for awhile, and then his attention was attracted to something else, and he ran away to see about it. Whatever it was, it interested him so much that he forgot all about the apple in the spring, and everything else likely to remind him of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

Buster John went away from the spring and left the apple floating there. No sooner had he gone than one of the house servants chanced to come along, and the apple was seized and appropriated. The result was that neither Mr. Thimblefinger nor Mrs. Meadows saw the signal.

Buster John, thinking the apple had remained in the spring for some hours, waited patiently for two or three days for Mr. Thimblefinger, but no Mr. Thimblefinger came. Finally the boy grew impatient, as youngsters sometimes do. He remembered that the bottom of the spring, with the daylight shining through, was the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, and he concluded to give Mrs. Meadows and the rest a signal that they couldn’t fail to see. So, one morning, after water had been carried to the house for the cook, and the washerwoman’s tubs had been filled, Buster John got him some short planks, carrying them to the spring one by one. These he placed across the top of the gum, or curb, close together, so as to shut out the light. Then he perched himself on a stump not far away, and watched to see what the effect would be. He knew he had the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country securely roofed in, and he laughed to himself as he thought of the predicament Mr. Rabbit would be in, dropping his pipe and hunting for it in the dark.

Buster John sat there a long time. Mandy, the washerwoman, got through with her task and went toward the house, balancing a big basket of wet clothes on her head and singing as she went. Sweetest Susan and Drusilla had grown tired of playing with the dolls, and were hunting all over the place for Buster John. They saw him presently, and came running toward him, talking and laughing. He shook his head and motioned toward the spring. They became quiet at once, and began to walk on their tiptoes. They seated themselves on the stump by Buster John’s side, and waited for him to explain himself.

Presently Sweetest Susan saw the boards over the spring. “Oh, what have you done?” she cried. “Why, you have shut out the light! They can’t see a wink. I don’t think that’s right; do you, Drusilla?”

“Don’t ax me, honey,” replied Drusilla. “I ain’t gwine ter git in no ’spute. Somebody done gone an’ put planks on de spring. Dar dey is, an’ dar dey may stay, fer what I keer. I hope dey er nailed down.”

“Please take the boards off,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.

“No,” said Buster John. “I put an apple in the spring the other day, and they paid no attention to it. Maybe they’ll pay some attention now.”

Suddenly, before anybody else could say anything, Drusilla screamed and rolled off the stump. Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought a bee had stung her. But it was not a bee. She had no sooner rolled from the stump than she sprang to her feet and cried out, “Dar he is! Look at ’im!”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan turned to look, and there, upon the stump beside them, stood Mr. Thimblefinger with his hat in hand, bowing and smiling as politely as you please.

“I hope you are well,” he said. Then he began to laugh, as he turned to Buster John. “You may think it is a great joke to come to the spring, but it’s no joke to me. I have had a very hard time getting here, but I just had to come. Mrs. Meadows thinks there is a total eclipse going on, and Mr. Rabbit has gone to bed and covered up his head.”

“How did you get here?” asked Buster John.

“Through the big poplar yonder,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It is hollow from top to bottom, but it was so dark I could hardly find my way. The jay birds used to go down through the poplar every Friday until I put up the bars and shut them out. I had almost forgotten the road.”

“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?”

“Well,” said Buster John, “I covered the spring so that you might know we hadn’t forgotten you. I dropped an apple in the other day, but you paid no attention to it.”

“I saw the apple,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it didn’t stay in the spring long. It disappeared in a few minutes.”

“Aha! I know!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Dat ar Minervy nigger got it. I seed her comin’ long eatin’ a apple, and I boun’ you she de ve’y nigger what got it.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It makes no difference now, and if you’ll get ready we’ll go now pretty soon.”

“Why, I thought you couldn’t go down through the spring until nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve,” suggested Buster John.

“The water gets wet or goes dry with the tide,” Mr. Thimblefinger explained. “To-day we shall have to go at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. It was nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve before, and now it is nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. Multiply nineteen by nineteen, add the answer together, and you get nothing but nines. You see we have to go by a system.” Mr. Thimblefinger was very solemn as he said this. “Now, then, come on. We haven’t any time to waste. When the nines get after us, we must be going. There are four of us now, but if we were to be multiplied by nine there would be nine of us, and nine is an odd number.”

“How would we be nine?” asked Buster John.

“It’s very simple,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Nine times four are thirty-six. Three and six stand for thirty-six, and six and three are nine.”

Buster John laughed as he ran to remove the boards from the spring. In a few moments they were all ready in spite of Drusilla’s protests, and at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine they walked through the spring gate into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.

II Where The Thunder Lives

Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Rabbit, Chickamy Crany Crow, and Tickle-My-Toes were very glad to see the children, especially Mrs. Meadows, who did everything she could to make the youngsters feel that they had conferred a great obligation on her by coming back again.

“I’ll be bound you forgot to bring me the apple I told you about,” said she.

But Sweetest Susan had not forgotten. She had one in her pocket. It was not very large, but the sun had painted it red and yellow, and the south winds that kissed it had left it fragrant with the perfume of summer.

“Now, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “To think you should remember an old woman! You are just as good and as nice as you can be!” She thanked Sweetest Susan so heartily that Buster John began to look and feel uncomfortable,—seeing which, Mrs. Meadows placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Never mind,” said she, “boys are not expected to be as thoughtful as girls. The next time you come, you may bring me a hatful, if you can manage to think about it.”

“He might start wid ’em,” remarked Drusilla, “but ’fo’ he got here he’d set down an’ eat ’em all up, ter keep from stumpin’ his toe an’ spillin’ ’em.”

Buster John had a reply ready, but he did not make any, for just at that moment a low, rumbling sound was heard. It seemed to come nearer and grow louder, and then it died away in the distance.

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Meadows, in an impressive whisper.

“Thunder,” answered Mr. Rabbit, who had listened intently. “Thunder, as sure as you’re born.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I saw a cloud coming up next door, just before we came through the spring gate.”

“I must be getting nervous in my old age,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “I had an idea that it was too late in the season for thunder-storms.”

“That may be so,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it’s never too late for old man Thunder to rush out on his front porch and begin to cut up his capers. But there’s no harm in him.”

“But the Lightning kills people sometimes,” said Buster John.

“The Lightning? Oh, yes, but I was talking about old man Thunder,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “When I was a boy, I once heard of a little girl”—Mr. Thimblefinger suddenly put his hand over his mouth and hung his head, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

“Why, what in the world is the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “I simply forgot my manners.”

“I don’t see how,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, frowning.

“Why, I was about to tell a story before I had been asked.”

“Well, you won’t disturb me by telling a story, I’m sure,” said Mr. Rabbit. “I can nod just as well when someone is talking as when everything is still. You won’t pester me at all. Just go ahead.”

“Maybe it isn’t story-telling time,” suggested Mrs. Meadows.

“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Sweetest Susan. “If it is a story, please tell it.”

“Well, it is nothing but a plain, every-day story. After you hear it you’ll lean back in your chair and wonder why somebody didn’t take hold of it and twist it into a real old-fashioned tale. It’s old fashioned enough, the way I heard it, but I always thought that the person who heard it first must have forgotten parts of it.”

“We won’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.

Mr. Thimblefinger settled himself comfortably and began:—

“Once upon a time—I don’t know how long ago, but not very long, for the tale was new to me when I first heard it—once upon a time there was a little girl about your age and size who was curious to know something about everything that happened. She wanted to know how a bird could fly, and why the clouds floated, and she was all the time trying to get at the bottom of things.

“Well, one day when the sky was covered with clouds, the Thunder came rolling along, knocking at everybody’s door and running a race with the noise it made; the little girl listened and wondered what the Thunder was and where it went to. It wasn’t long before the Thunder came rumbling along again, making a noise like a four-horse wagon running away on a covered bridge.

“While the little girl was standing there, wondering and listening, an old man with a bundle on his back and a stout staff in his hand came along the road. He bowed and smiled when he saw the little girl, but as she didn’t return the bow or the smile, being too much interested in listening for the Thunder, he paused and asked her what the trouble was.

“‘I hope you are not lost?’ he said.

“‘Oh, no, sir,’ she replied; ‘I was listening for the Thunder and wondering where it goes.’

“‘Well, as you seem to be a very good little girl,’ the old man said, ‘I don’t mind telling you. The Thunder lives on top of yonder mountain. It is not so far away.’

“‘Oh, I should like ever so much to go there!’ exclaimed the little girl.

“‘Why not?’ said the old man. ‘The mountain is on my road, and, if you say the word, we’ll go together.’

“The little girl took the old man’s hand and they journeyed toward the mountain where the Thunder had his home. The way was long, but somehow they seemed to go very fast. The old man took long strides forward, and he was strong enough to lift the little girl at every step, so that when they reached the foot of the mountain she was not very tired.

“But, as the mountain was very steep and high, the two travelers stopped to rest themselves before they began to climb it. Its sides seemed to be rough and dark, but far up on the topmost peak the clouds had gathered, and from these the Lightning flashed incessantly. The little girl saw the flashes and asked what they meant.

“‘Wherever the Thunder lives,’ replied the old man, ‘there the Lightning builds its nest. No doubt the wind has blown the clouds about and torn them apart and scattered them. The Lightning is piling them together again, and fixing a warm, soft place to sleep to-night.’

“When they had rested awhile, the old man said it was time to be going, and then he made the little girl climb on his back. At first she didn’t want the old man to carry her; but he declared that she would do him a great favor by climbing on his back and holding his bundle in place. So she sat upon the bundle, and in this way they went up the high mountain, going almost as rapidly as the little girl could run on level ground. She enjoyed it very much, for, although the old man went swiftly, he went smoothly, and the little girl felt as safe and as comfortable as if she had been sitting in a rocking-chair.

“When they had come nearly to the top of the mountain, the old man stopped and lifted the little girl from his back. ‘I can go no farther,’ he said. ‘The rest of the way you will have to go alone. There is nothing to fear. Up the mountain yonder you can see the gable of the Thunder’s house. Go to the door, knock, and do not be alarmed at any noise you hear. When the time comes for you to go, you will find me awaiting you here.’

“The little girl hesitated, but she had come so far to see where the Thunder lived that she would not turn back now. So she went forward, and soon came to the door of Mr. Thunder’s house. It was a very big door to a very big house. The knocker was so heavy that the little girl could hardly lift it, and when she let it fall against the panel, the noise it made jarred the building and sent a loud echo rolling and tumbling down the mountain. The little girl thought, ‘What have I done? If the Thunder is taking a nap before dinner, he’ll be very angry.’

“She waited a little while, not feeling very comfortable. Presently she heard heavy footsteps coming down the wide hall to the door.

“‘I thought I heard someone knocking,’ said a hoarse, gruff voice. Then the big door flew open, and there, standing before her, the little girl saw a huge figure that towered almost to the top of the high door. It wore heavy boots, a big overcoat, and under its long, thick beard there was a muffler a yard wide. The little girl was very much frightened at first, but she soon remembered that there was nothing for such a little bit of a girl to be afraid of.

“The figure, that seemed to be so terrible at first glance, had nothing threatening about it. ‘Who knocked at the door?’ it cried.

SHE WAITED A LITTLE WHILE

“Its voice sounded so loud that the little girl put her fingers in her ears.

“‘Don’t talk so loud, please,’ she said. ‘I’m not deaf.’

“‘Oh!’ cried the giant at the door. ‘You are there, are you? You are so small I didn’t see you at first. Come in!’

“The little girl started to go in, and then paused. ‘Are you the Thunder?’ she asked.

“‘Why, of course,’ was the reply; ‘who else did you think it was?’

“‘I didn’t know,’ said the little girl. ‘I wanted to be certain about it.’

“‘Come in,’ said the Thunder. ‘It isn’t often I have company from the people below, and I’m glad you found me at home.’

The Thunder led the way down the hall and into a wide sitting-room, where a fire was burning brightly in the biggest fireplace the little girl had ever seen. A two-horse wagon could turn around in it without touching the andirons. A pair of tongs as tall as a man stood in one corner, and in the other corner was a shovel to match. A long pipe lay on the mantel.

“‘There’s no place for you to sit except on the floor,’ said the Thunder.

“‘I can sit on the bed,’ suggested the little girl.

“The Thunder laughed so loudly that the little girl had to close her ears again. ‘Why, that is no bed,’ the Thunder said when it could catch its breath; ‘that’s my footstool.’

“‘Well,’ said the little girl, ‘it’s big enough for a bed. It’s very soft and nice.’

“‘I find it very comfortable,’ said the Thunder, ‘especially when I get home after piloting a tornado through the country. It is tough work, as sure as you are born.’

“The Thunder took the long pipe from the mantel and lit it with a pine splinter, the flame of which flashed through the windows with dazzling brightness.

“‘Folks will say that is heat lightning,’ remarked the little girl.

“‘Yes,’ replied the Thunder; ‘farmers to the north of us will say there is going to be a drought, because of lightning in the south. Farmers to the south of us will say there’s going to be rain, because of lightning in the north. None of them knows that I am smoking my pipe.’

“But somehow, in turning around, the Thunder knocked the big tongs over, and they fell upon the floor with a tremendous crash. The floor appeared to give forth a sound like a drum, only a thousand times louder, and, although the little girl had her fingers in her ears, she could hear the echoes roused under the house by the falling tongs go rattling down the mountain side and out into the valley beyond.

“The Thunder sat in the big armchair smoking, and listening with legs crossed. The little girl appeared to be sorry that she had come.

“‘Now, that is too bad,’ said the Thunder. ‘The Whirlwind in the south will hear that and come flying; the West Wind will hear it and come rushing, and they will drag the clouds after them, thinking that I am ready to take my ride. But it’s all my fault. Instead of turning the winds in the pasture, I ought to have put them in the stable. Here they come now!’

“The little girl listened, and, sure enough, the whirlwinds from the south and the west came rushing around the house of the Thunder. The west wind screamed around the windows, and the whirlwinds from the south whistled through the cracks and keyholes.

“‘I guess I’ll have to go with them,’ said the Thunder, rising from the chair and walking around the room. ‘It’s the only way to quiet them.’

“‘Do you always wear your overcoat?’ the little girl asked.

“‘Always,’ replied the Thunder. ‘There’s no telling what moment I’ll be called. Sometimes I go just for a frolic, and sometimes I am obliged to go. Will you stay until I return?’

“‘Oh, no,’ the little girl replied; ‘the house is too large. I should be afraid to stay here alone.’

“‘I am sorry,’ said the Thunder. ‘Come and see me get in my carriage.’

“They went to the door. The whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west had drawn the clouds to the steps, and into these the Thunder climbed.

“‘Good-by,’ he cried to the little girl. ‘Stay where you are until we are out of sight.’

“There was a flash of light, a snapping sound, a rattling crash, and the Thunder, with the clouds for his carriage and the winds for his horses, went roaming and rumbling through the sky, over the hills and valleys.”

Mr. Thimblefinger paused and looked at the children. They, expecting him to go on, said nothing.

“How did you like my story?” he asked.

“Is it a story?” inquired Buster John.

“Well, call it a tale,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.

“Hit’s too high up in de elements for ter suit me,” said Drusilla, candidly.

“What became of the little girl?” asked Sweetest Susan.

“When the Thunder rolled away,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “she went back to where the old man was awaiting her, and he, having nothing to do, carried her to the Jumping-Off Place.”