It was Everychild who went forward to salute the traveler, who proved to be a boy with hanging head and lagging feet. His hands were thrust into his pockets and there were tear-stains on his cheeks.

"Good morning," said Everychild.

"Don't bother me," said the boy. "I'm running away."

"I didn't see you run," said Everychild.

The boy stopped and looked at Everychild reproachfully. "It's called running away," he said; "though everybody knows you don't run, and for that matter, there's no away about it. Mostly you turn around and go back. But I call it running away just the same. It takes a load off my mind."

"I know how it is," declared Everychild. "My friends and I have taken to the road, too; and if you like, you may join us."

The boy thought this over a moment; and at length he said, "I'll do it. I'll not get any further away, being with others, and it'll not be any harder to go back, when I weaken. I'm ready to join you now, only it might look better if I just drop in on my mother for a minute to tell her good-by."

If seemed to Everychild that perhaps this would be a wise thing to do. "And shall we wait for you?" he asked.

"You might just go along with me, if the others will wait, to make sure there isn't any foul play."

To this plan Everychild readily agreed; and after he had explained the situation to his companions, he set off with the new boy along a path which branched off from the road.

"My name is Tom," explained the boy. "Tom Hubbard." And after that they continued their way in silence.

They arrived, after no great journey, at a very prim little house, set down in a very prim little garden. Curtains hung in the windows just so, and the door-knob shone like gold. The only friendly thing about the place was a little black dog with a rough coat and great wistful eyes, which came running down the walk to leap up before the boy Tom, trying to lick his hands.

They entered the house, and the instant Everychild crossed the threshold he realized that he had never seen a house quite like this one. It made you think of a very careful drawing. Everything was at right angles with everything else. A small table stood precisely in the middle of the floor, and two really silly little chairs were placed before it. A spick-and-span cupboard, with a perforated tin front, stood over against the wall.

The little black dog ran over to the cupboard immediately and stood on his hind legs, gazing at the perforated doors.

"We'd better sit on the floor." said Tom, after he had glanced uneasily about the room.

This seemed a bit strange to Everychild, but he said politely, "I'm very fond of sitting on the floor myself."

And so they sat down on the floor and clasped their hands about their knees.

"And so this is where you live!" said Everychild, looking about him with frank interest.

"It is where I did live. I'll live here no more, now that I've found somebody to run away with. When she comes in—my mother, I mean—I'll just say good-by and light out."

"What's been the matter?" asked Everychild.

"It's no fit place for a boy to live," said Tom. "In the first place, nobody's ever home. Mother's always gadding about somewhere. She gives lectures on The Home, and she's never here except between lectures. And even then her mind is somewhere else. You don't dare to speak to her. She stares at nothing—so. And all she says is, 'For goodness' sake, don't shout so;' or 'Must you make that noise when you're eating?' or 'Can't you walk without shaking the floor like that?' and finally, 'I think you'll drive me insane at last—such a careless creature you are!'"

"It must be very bad," said Everychild.

"I've been so I was afraid to move, knowing she would complain. I've sat for hours studying her, trying to understand her. I used to think the fault was all mine."

"It does make you feel that way, doesn't it?" said Everychild. "And sometimes I've thought fathers were as bad as mothers about making you feel so."

Tom lapsed into a dreamy mood. "Fathers . . . I don't remember much about my father," he said. "But he used to be uncomfortable about the house the same as me. The things she says to me—they come easy to her now, because she learned to say them long ago, to my father. He couldn't have a friend in to see him. It was always: 'Why don't they go home for their meals?' or 'Why don't they track dirt into their own houses?' or 'Why don't they fill their own curtains with tobacco smoke?' You know how they talk. And he quit bringing his friends home. He stayed away more and more himself. I've not seen him now for years."

"I'm not sure I ever heard of your father," said Everychild.

"You wouldn't have heard of him. Mother always made so much noise that you only heard of her. You wouldn't have overlooked her, with her finding fault all the time, and pretending not to be appreciated at home. She was always pitied by the neighbors, who knew only her side of the story. Oh, everybody's heard of Old Mother Hubbard. But who ever heard of Old Father Hubbard? She drove him away with her precise little ways, and now he's forgotten."

Everychild could scarcely conceal his surprise. He hadn't supposed it was that Hubbard. "And so this is where Old Mother Hubbard lives," he said, looking about him with new interest.

"It's where you'll find her at odd times," said Tom, "when she hasn't got a committee meeting to attend, or a board meeting, or a convention, or something. I shouldn't say she lives anywhere."

"Still, everything is nice enough in its way," remarked Everychild, "and I always thought she was very poor."

"Not at all," said Tom. "It was her 'poor dog.' That's what you have in mind, I suppose. And there never was a poor dog except one with a mean master or mistress."

At that moment, the little black dog, weary of looking at the cupboard, approached Tom and flopped down beside him.

"And that's her dog," said Everychild musingly.

"He's mine, really," explained Tom, "though I always try to think of him as hers. You take a fellow like me and he'd rather not own a dog. He has to go out into the world sooner or later; and if he has a dog he keeps thinking about him when he's away, and about there not being any one to put water in his bowl, and open the gate for him or go with him for a run. A dog likes to be with you, you know; and when you're gone you keep seeing him all the while: waiting at the gate for you, or outside your door. And you know all the time that some day when you're gone he'll grow old at last, and lie alone dreaming of you, and looking—while there's none but strangers by to spurn him. No, sometimes I think it's better not to have a dog for a friend."

Everychild was thinking about this when Tom suddenly reached for his hat, which he had placed by his side. "Perhaps we'd better be getting along," he said, "without waiting to tell her good-by. After all, there's no telling when she'll be here."

Everychild did not like to go without having seen Old Mother Hubbard; but there seemed no way to suggest this, and he was just rising to his feet when there was a bustling sound outside the door.

"She's coming now," said Tom in a whisper. "She'll be here right away." He was dreadfully uneasy. He added in a tone of apology, "Just make the best of it, won't you, if she's ugly? It will blow over in a minute or two."

And then the front door was opened briskly and Old Mother Hubbard entered the room.



CHAPTER XIII

A TERRIBLE LADY AT HOME

She came into the room in the manner of one who was about to say, "Fellow-citizens!" But she said nothing just at first. She took a few steps further, walking as if she expected to have a badge pinned on her, or to receive a prize. She had a double chin; and when she began to speak, which she did a moment later, it developed that she had a deep baritone voice.

Her first words were: "Away with you!"

They were for the little black dog, who had rushed toward her with swaying tail.

Then she saw her son and Everychild. She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere as she said to her son, "And who is this, pray?"



Everychild would have felt almost alarmed but for the fact that something extraordinary occurred just then. The Masked Lady entered the room and stood just inside the door. Still more remarkable, Mr. Literal appeared just behind her.

"This," replied Tom to his mother, "is—is a boy who came home with me."

"Is it, indeed!" exclaimed Old Mother Hubbard icily. She added, "What I meant to inquire was. What is his name?"

Tom was blushing. "His name is Everychild, mother," he said, "and he's——"

Old Mother Hubbard had removed her bonnet, which was a little affair of black velvet and jet ornaments. She touched her hair with her finger tips here and there. "I might have known as much!" she said. "Everychild! And I suppose you think it is quite right for Everychild to come tagging home after you, making work for other people?"

Tom cried out forlornly, "Oh, mother . . ."

As for Everychild, he was thinking—"She'll never let him go!" He was standing with one foot on top of the other in a very uncomfortable manner. Still, he was trying to smile, as if to convey the idea that Old Mother Hubbard must be joking, of course.

But the old lady continued severely: "I've warned you before. You ought to know by this time that a house is a—a house."

Here Everychild managed to say, "I'll not be a bit of trouble, Mother Hubbard, and—and I'm very glad to meet you."

She stared at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time. But her temper broke forth again. "Don't tell me!" she exclaimed. "I know what boys are. You'll not deny, I suppose, that you get ravenously hungry three times a day?"

Everychild was so amazed by this that he looked helplessly at Tom.

"Precisely!" continued Old Mother Hubbard. "Well, you should have heard our President's address yesterday afternoon on The Superfluous Table."

Her son interrupted in great embarrassment, "Oh, mother, he doesn't even know what you mean!"

"Per'aps not. You've not told him, then, that your mother is Vice-President of the Mother Goose Auxiliary of the Amalgamated Associations of Notable Ladies?"

"No, mother," said Tom, bending his head in shame.

"Well, at all events . . . the President went on to say that the dinner table was a relic of barbarism. And she was quite right. She cited cases known to all we ladies . . ."

Mr. Literal, from his place in the background, could not help saying to the Masked Lady, "Why is it that ladies with baritone voices always have trouble with their objective case?"

But the Masked Lady did not reply, and Old Mother Hubbard continued: "There was the case of Mrs. Horner's son—her dear, dutiful little Jack. When he ate his Christmas pie, where was he sitting? In a corner! No dinner table there to cause a lot of work and worry. And please note that he was delighted when he pulled out a plum. Yet the plum is one of the simplest forms of—of sustenance. And there was Miss Muffet, daughter of the highly honored Mrs. Alonso Muffet. During that meal which has become historic, where did she sit? On a tuffet!"

Everychild could not help asking, "What is a tuffet?"

But Old Mother Hubbard only regarded him blankly, as if there had been no interruption, and then she proceeded. "And you will note what she was eating. Curds and whey—perfectly simple yet nutritious fare. There were other instances showing that the wasteful dinner table must go. It was a wonderful address. A treat. A feast of good things. A spiritual feast."

Her son tried to lift his head. "Yes, mother," he said, "but you know I've sometimes thought how good it would seem to see you in the house, dressed for staying in instead of going out, and maybe sitting by the window sewing, or in the kitchen paring apples, or lifting the lid from a pot and letting the steam out in a cloud . . ."

"A survival of the male superstition that Woman was born into perpetual bondage," was the crisp response.

It seemed to Everychild that some one ought to change the subject. He tried. "It's really very interesting, Mother Hubbard," he said; "and—and that's a very nice dog you've got!"

"Do you think so? Take him away with you—do! I see nothing nice about him."

By this time her son could endure no more. "He's going to take him away, mother," he said. "And he's going to take me, too. I just came to tell you good-by."

For the first time the old lady was strangely quiet. She gasped an instant and then she cried out angrily, "Good-by? And where are you going?"

"I'm going with Everychild. We're going to find the truth."

His mother turned aside. "The boy is mad!" she said. Then facing him again she demanded, "Do you know what the truth is? I'll tell you. It's this: When you get hungry and come back home, standing with one foot on top of the other outside my door, you'll find the door shut!"

There was an impressive silence for a moment, and then the Masked Lady remarked tranquilly, "If he finds the truth, no door will ever be closed to him again."

Then Tom, turning to Everychild, said—"Come, we'll go."

They left the house together. The little dog bounded after them. The door swung to.

The old lady, clearly alarmed, went to the door as if she would open it and cry out. But pride prevented her from doing so. She stood with one hand on the wall, listening. And at last she did open the door; but not a living creature was in sight.



CHAPTER XIV

MR. LITERAL'S WARNING

Everychild was in a high state of excitement as he and Tom made their way back to where the other members of the band awaited them.

He had scarcely dared to hope that Tom would be able to get away from his mother so easily. She had seemed really terrible. But now there was little danger of her overtaking them and making her son go back.

He was delighted that there was to be a new member of the band; while the thought of having a dog along with them seemed almost too good to be true. It would be much more interesting, having a dog with them. He could not know, of course, what exciting events lay in wait for him, and it seemed to him that having the dog might be the most wonderful part of the entire journey.

He was just thinking that the band was now large enough, even if no other children appeared to go with them, when something occurred to mar his perfect happiness.

Tom had been walking ahead, because he knew the path better; and all of a sudden some one caught step with him and began to talk to him.

It was Mr. Literal; and the little old man was smiling in a very hypocritical manner and rubbing his hands together.

"Just a word of caution," said Mr. Literal, by way of beginning.

Everychild knew it was going to be something disagreeable, but he only said, "What is it?"

"That fellow who calls himself your friend——"

"You mean the giant," said Everychild.

"He's a bad lot. Better keep an eye on him."

Everychild stared at the path before him.

"I'll tell you a little something about him—then you'll know whether I'm right or not. Did he ever tell you where his home is?"

"No," said Everychild, very uncomfortably.

"Of course not. Well, he was driven away from his home, years ago. He'd not dare to go back."

"Why?" asked Everychild.

"For telling lies. Every word he speaks is false. He doesn't know how to tell the truth. His own mother doesn't know him any more. That's how bad he is."

"He seems a very pleasant boy," said Everychild.

"There you are! Of course. It's easy to have a name for being pleasant if you're willing to say the first thing that comes to hand."

"But wouldn't you find people out if they did that?" asked Everychild.

"Of course!"

"Well, when I find the giant out I'll remember what you've said."

He was glad that the path broadened into a road just then. He ran forward a few steps and walked by the side of Tom. He didn't want to hear anything more against the giant. In truth, it had begun to seem to him the best thing of all, having the giant as a companion. He even hoped that after a time the Masked Lady would take some other road and leave them. It was rather uncomfortable, her happening to be places when you were not thinking about her. And if she were to go away there would be an end to Mr. Literal too. They both might be all right in their way, but it ought to be a band of children, with nobody else about.

And so he put Mr. Literal and the Masked Lady, too, out of his mind. He was talking eagerly to Tom when they got back to where the others were. He called out gladly, when he came within hearing of them, "He's going with us. And what do you think? We've got a dog!"

There was general rejoicing when the dog made his appearance, running from one to another to get acquainted. And then, as they had already been delayed quite a little, they made haste to continue on their journey.



PART III

ARGUMENT: EVERYCHILD VIEWS WITH AMAZEMENT A FAMOUS DWELLING-PLACE, AND IS GRIEVED BY THE PLIGHT OF AN UNFORTUNATE PRINCE.



CHAPTER XV

A STRANGE HOUSE IN THE FOREST

Together they traveled along the road the greater part of the day without mishap and without any experience worth recording.

As was her custom, the Masked Lady did not make her appearance among them as long as they were quite light-hearted, and Everychild went so far as to congratulate himself upon having seen the last of her.

Toward evening they came within sight of a path leading into the road on which they traveled, and on a stile which stood in the way of the path they observed a little boy who was plainly in trouble.

With much difficulty the little boy crawled up the stile, step by step; and when he got to the top step and paused a minute, he turned about, just as small children will do, and began climbing down the stile on the other side, moving feet foremost.

Now and again he looked over his shoulder to be sure that his feet had been safely placed before he put his weight on them; and when he did this you could see his face, showing two eyes very bright with excitement and fear.

At last he had got clear over the stile; and then he stood erect and put his finger in his mouth. You could tell that he was trying to think what to do now.

In the meantime Everychild and his companions had come up.

"Such a cute little chap," said Everychild. Then he spoke to the child. "Where are you going, little boy?" he asked.

The little boy looked at Everychild blankly. He looked at him quite a long time. Then he looked at the other members of the band. Finally he looked at Everychild again, still with a blank expression. But at last he replied, "I want to go home, but I dasn't."

The band of travelers all laughed at this; whereupon the little boy looked at all of them, one after another. He still had his finger in his mouth, where he kept crooking it and uncrooking it.

Then Cinderella asked: "Why dare you not go home?"

The little boy lowered his eyes until they rested on the ground. "Because I dasn't," he said.

"But why?" persisted Cinderella.

A pause; and then, "Because I'll catch a lickin'."

It seemed to Everychild that the little boy was much too small to be whipped; and he said with assurance, "You may go with us, if you will, and then you'll never get a whipping again."

But the little boy only shook his head. Clearly there was a difficulty in the way of accepting the invitation. And presently he began, falteringly, "My brothers and sisters . . ."

"Oh," said Cinderella, understanding, "he doesn't want to leave his brothers and sisters."

"But we could take your brothers and sisters, too," said Everychild to the little boy.

The little boy now gazed at Everychild, and the blank expression in his eyes was there no more.

"Come, we'll get them," declared Everychild. "Do you live far away?"

"There," said the little boy, pointing away into the forest, where not a sign of a house was visible.

Here Grettel spoke for the first time: "Let's not," she said. "I don't think I care about wandering away into the woods."

"We might get lost," suggested Cinderella.

And now the giant interposed. "I agree with Everychild that we ought to take the little boy and his brothers and sisters with us," he said; "and as for wandering away into the woods, that will not be necessary. I'll take you to the house where the little boy lives by a secret method which I understand."

With that he faced the depths of the forest and stood very erect, with hands uplifted. There was a very solemn expression in his eyes. And suddenly it seemed that the nearby trees began to lift and disappear; and presto!—Everychild and his companions were standing quite close to one of the most famous and remarkable houses ever heard of.

Everychild had too little time just then to marvel at the strange feat which had been performed by the giant. He was lost in amazement at the house before which he stood.

It was really an immense, dilapidated shoe, patched and broken. The toe was about to gape open, though it was held here and there by a few threads. The laces were gone and the whole upper sprawled shapelessly. In brief, it was precisely like any old shoe you will see on a vacant lot, save for its immense size. Its size was prodigious. It was as large as a small house.

A stovepipe stuck out where the little toe would be, and smoke was pouring out of the pipe just as if some one had been putting a supply of fuel on the fire. It was woodsmoke and had a pleasant smell. It seemed that perhaps some one was preparing supper.

Not a soul was in sight about the house—or the shoe—nor about the premises. Yet you could see that some one had been hard at work only a short time before. The wash had been hung out to dry and it was still damp. It hung from a line which was suspended from the highest point of the shoe—where the strap is that you pull it on by—to the limb of a nearby tree. You could tell by the garments that there were a lot of children about. There were best shirts and every-day shirts and petticoats and trousers. There were many colors, so that they all made a rather gay spectacle. And some were of ordinary size, and some were quite tiny.

There were many trees in the background; and one of these cast its shade over the immense shoe in a very pleasing way. There was a table under the tree, and a kind of dinner-bell hanging from a limb of the tree. There were chairs about the table. Finally, there was a ladder standing against the shoe, so that you could climb up and get in at the top.

"And so," said Everychild in a tone of wonder, "this is where you live!" He had taken the little boy by the hand.

The little boy was about to reply when something almost alarming happened. The little boy slipped his hand away from Everychild's and shrank back until he was hiding behind Cinderella's skirt. An astonishing head and shoulders appeared above the top of the shoe!

The Old Woman who Lived in the Shoe had heard them. She remained perched in her place, glaring severely about the yard below.

Nor was this all. Other individuals inside the shoe had evidently heard the voice of Everychild. And now they began to peep out in the most extraordinary fashion. Three pairs of eyes appeared at the broken toe of the shoe. And up the double row of eye-holes, all the way up the front of the shoe, startled faces were to be seen. You could see excited eyes with hair hanging down before them.

All this proved too much for the little black dog, who had gone forward from Tom's side to inspect the shoe. Now he began barking excitedly at the half-hidden faces.

Everychild stood in his place, wide-eyed and with beating heart.

The Old Woman arose more fully into view. She stared down at Everychild. She flung the hair back from her face.

"Humph!" she said.



CHAPTER XVI

AN ELABORATION OF ONE OF HISTORY'S MOST SUCCINCT CHAPTERS

Everychild's companions drew back behind the shelter of a convenient bush. The Old Woman's countenance really did seem, for the moment, quite ferocious. But Everychild did not move.

The Old Woman arose still higher and stepped out of the top of the shoe to the top rung of the ladder. She carried a steaming pot in one hand, and thus handicapped she descended the ladder.

She placed the steaming pot on the table and then turned her attention to Everychild. She exclaimed dubiously: "You're not one o' mine!"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am," he replied.

She sat down deliberately, drawing a long breath, but without taking her eyes from Everychild. "Just an idler," she said, "like all the rest of the young ones. I don't know what's the matter with them these days—children. When I was young I had to work. I expected nothing less. And I tell mine what was good enough for me is good enough for them."

She made this statement as if she hadn't left a single thing to be said.

It seemed rather obscure to Everychild. He tried to think of a more agreeable subject. He looked the Old Woman's house over, up and down. "It's rather a funny house, isn't it?" he remarked.

The Old Woman's manner became more sullen than ever. She seized upon a ladle and began stirring the steaming pot. "It does very well," she declared. "Houses are funny or otherwise according to what goes on in them. When you've got your hands full of children who don't want to work you can't say that your house is exactly funny. Its being an old shoe—if that's what you mean . . . that's a matter of taste. I prefer it, for my part. I'd never have been able to settle down anywhere else. You see, I had to be on my feet mostly all the time from little on, and now it comes natural, being in a shoe. I can imagine I'm on the go, even if I never get out from one week's end to another."

She lifted the ladle from the pot. She pressed one hand to her bosom and with the other lifted the ladle to her lips, testing the stew. There was a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then she continued:

"As for living in a shoe . . . there's plenty of females that live in two. Always on the go, they're that restless. I tell my undergrowth it's no more disgrace to live in one shoe than in two, so long as you've got one that's big enough."



She seemed so pleased with this remark that she had to stir the pot vigorously, as a relief to her emotions.

There was a surprising interruption just here. The Masked Lady and Mr. Literal were there, after all, standing close behind Everychild. And Mr. Literal was saying: "She seems to be a bit of a cynic. That reference to women on the go . . . what period should you say she belongs to?"

"To every period," said the Masked Lady. After which, fortunately, they remained silent. "And your children," said Everychild. "I don't see them anywhere."

"They'll be here soon enough. I hire 'em out by the day—the boys. I tell 'em if they won't work for me I'll put 'em under masters who'll make 'em work. They gather fagots—the boys. The girls are in the house. They did the wash to-day and I keep 'em under my eye until it's time to take the clothes in. Nothing like keeping a girl under your eye if you want to know where she is."

She got up with an air of great industry and went to the line where the wash was hanging.

She tried the garments with her hand. It seemed they were now dry enough to be taken in. She stepped to the bell suspended from the tree and struck it sharply with a little mallet which had been provided for this purpose.

Wonder of wonders!—the top of the shoe began to overflow with girls! They were rather carelessly dressed, and there was hair in their eyes—they took after their mother in this matter—but being young, they were all fresh and blooming in a way.

They could leave the shoe only one at a time. They began descending the ladder in a sort of procession. You would have thought the last one would never make her appearance.

They paid very little attention to Everychild. They began taking in the wash. Some held their arms out to receive the clothes which others removed from the line. They took the line down the last thing of all. They wound it up carefully.

Just at this time there were stealthy movements all about the house, as if robbers were coming. From among the trees the boys began to steal home. They came from various directions, all walking on tip-toe. Many of them hung back fearfully, though two of them found courage enough to come up close to Everychild.

"You must be the boys coming home," said Everychild.

The first son nodded, but kept his eyes fixed anxiously on the Old Woman. She was glaring at a girl ascending the ladder. "Look sharp where you put those things, now," she was saying. "I'll be inside in a minute, and if you haven't put them away properly I'll know the reason why!"

Everychild felt that he was fully justified in saying (to the first son) "She seems to be pretty bad, doesn't she!"

The first son fairly jumped. "Not so loud!" he whispered. "She might hear you."

The Old Woman really had heard. She stared at her first son in a terrible manner. "So you've come, have you?" she exclaimed. "And I suppose you'll tell me you've been working hard all day?"

"Yes, mother," replied the first son, "We've carried more fagots than you ever saw. Such fine fagots! Didn't we?" He turned to the second son to have his report verified.

"You wouldn't believe how many fine fagots we carried," declared the second son.

The other sons began to appear one by one, now that the first shock of battle was over. They all stared up at the Old Woman as if they were prepared to run if she so much as sneezed.

"Well, you know what's coming to you now," said the Old Woman. "Come on, all of you!"

They all began to make wry faces. "If we could only have some bread with it, mother!" pleaded the first son.

"You'll take what's offered you!" exclaimed the Old Woman grimly.

"And if you wouldn't whip us to-night, mother—anyway, not so soundly," said the second son.

To this the Old Woman retorted: "Who does the whipping around here, I'd like to know? Come here this instant!"

It seemed that there was to be a brief respite, however; for the Old Woman turned to the steaming pot and began testing its contents with great seriousness, lifting the ladle to her lips again and again, and looking abstractedly far away into the forest.

In the meantime more of the children gathered around Everychild. A few of the girls now joined their brothers. They looked at Everychild with unconcealed admiration.

"What do you suppose she is going to do to you?" asked Everychild of the group about him.

The first son replied to this: "I should think you'd know. Haven't you been told how she whips us something terrible?"

Everychild inquired in amazement: "All of you?"

The first daughter now spoke. "All of us," she said. "Every last one of us. That's just before she puts us to bed, you know."

"Of course—I remember now," said Everychild. "She 'whips you all soundly.'"

"That's no word for it," declared the first son. "You know she's had an awful lot of experience all these years. And there's so many of us."

He concluded this sentence in so meek a manner that Everychild exclaimed indignantly, "I think it ought to be stopped. If I were you . . . did you ever try hiding her whip?"

The first daughter replied hopelessly, "We couldn't do that. Her whip . . . it's the kind of whip that grows, you understand."

"Some sort of limb?"

"You might call it that. But it's her own limb."

"Yes, if she got it first."

"She did. It's her hand."

"Do you mean," demanded Everychild, "that she whips all of you with her hand?"

"And does a thorough job, too," said the first daughter.

Everychild assumed a very grave air. "How often does this happen?" he asked.

"Every night," he was assured.

He made a very wry face. "But such things . . ." He couldn't think of the right word at first. Then he asked, "But isn't it all very—very vulgar?"

The first daughter sighed. "I suppose so," she admitted. "But when there are so many children you can't help being a little vulgar."

The first son put in here: "And you mustn't think too hard of mother. You can imagine her position: so many of us, and the high cost of living, and all. Sometimes I think she whips us just to get our minds off our stomachs. You know, a supper of broth without any bread—and that's just what it is—is about as bad as nothing at all. But if you've been whipped soundly you forget about being hungry. You think about running away, or something like that. And the next thing you know it's morning."

Everychild still felt very uncomfortable. "But how does she manage about breakfast?" he asked.

"Oh, she has to feed us well in the morning—to keep us from starving," explained the first son.

Everychild nodded as if the matter had been made perfectly clear. And then the Old Woman cried out quite alarmingly, "Are you coming, or shall I have to fetch you?"

Several of the children replied to this: "We're coming!" Nevertheless they did not go immediately. The first daughter would not go without saying to Everychild, "Of course we ought to invite you to have supper with us—but you see it isn't quite like a regular supper." She blushed painfully.

Everychild reassured her immediately. "Don't think of it," he said.

The second son also had something else to say. "I suppose there aren't so many of you at your house?" he asked.

"So many children?" replied Everychild. "No. Not any, now. I was the only child."

This had the effect of exciting all the sons and daughters. The second son voiced the amazement which they all felt. "You don't say so!" he exclaimed. "But how did you ever get anything to wear? If there was no one ahead of you, how could they make anything over for you?"

Everychild really did not understand this. "Why, my mother used to get things for me," he said.

"Your mother, certainly," said the second son. "But who wore your clothes before you got them?"

"No one, I suppose. You mean that your clothes . . . ?"

"They're made over from the things the older children have grown too big for."

Everychild was more and more puzzled. "Yes," he said, "but the oldest one of all—there had to be a beginning!"

The second son laughed. "In the beginning," he explained, "they have to be cut down from father's things."

"Oh—your father's!" exclaimed Everychild. Then in a polite murmur, "I—I never heard of your father."

The second son explained this simply. "You never do, when there are so many children," he said.

While Everychild was nodding slowly in reply to this the scene suddenly changed.

The Old Woman took two or three steps in the direction of her sons and daughters; and the sons and daughters, seeing there was no hope for them, approached her with hanging heads.

The scene which followed was such that Everychild felt certain he could never forget it. One after another the children were seized and fed a few spoonfuls of the broth without any bread. Then each was spanked most soundly. Then one by one they quickly escaped up the ladder until the last of them had disappeared. It was all over in a very short time.

Everychild had now been joined by his companions, who saw the last of the Old Woman's children scramble up the ladder and disappear.

As for the Old Woman, she stood a moment, panting, as well she might, and then she made her way around behind the shoe. Just before she disappeared she glared at Everychild and actually made a face at him!

Everychild addressed his companions. "I think we ought to get them to go with us," he said. "That's no way for them to be treated—to be whipped and sent to bed like that."

The giant began dreamily—"There ought to be some way . . ."

Everychild's eyes brightened. "If we could only open the toe of the shoe—though of course we couldn't!"

"We could," declared the giant.

They went forward stealthily. Will o'Dreams following the example of Everychild and moving without a sound.

The giant slipped his fingers under the loose ends of the toe of the shoe and tugged with all his might. After resisting a moment the toe lifted.

What a sight do we behold! One child after another came tumbling out of the shoe until all the Old Woman's sons and daughters had been liberated. They sprang to their feet excitedly, dusting their garments and looking grateful and relieved.

Everychild addressed them briefly, in a low voice: "You're going away with us, all of you. You're not going to stand such treatment any longer. We're all going on a great adventure, and you shall go with us."

The sons and daughters all made eager signs of assent, though they were careful not to speak a word. Only the little black dog violated the rule of silence. He fairly danced about the entire group of children. And then they all slipped away into the forest.

Let us, however, remain a moment to note what took place about the shoe.

Presently the Old Woman emerged from behind the shoe. She was yawning prodigiously. Slowly she climbed the ladder. She disappeared. But was this to be the last of her? Not so!

Only a moment later her head and shoulders again appeared. Her eyes were staring wildly. She looked this way and that, all about her. Her eyes clearly revealed that she had realized her loss. At last she began beating her bosom with both hands. Her hair fell down until you could scarcely see her face.

And far off in the forest her children were speeding on their way.



CHAPTER XVII

EVERYCHILD WITH ADDITIONAL COMPANIONS FINDS REFUGE IN AN OLD HOUSE

Everychild and his companions were now journeying through a country where the evenings were very long; and thus it chanced that after they had all departed from the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, there was still a considerable period of daylight before them.

Their number was now greatly augmented by the sons and daughters of the Old Woman, and as a result, they were merrier than they had been before. Just the same, they began to be hungry before night fell, and they were greatly puzzled as to where they might satisfy their hunger.

Indeed, it may be confessed that Hansel became really disagreeable, and remarked—in a muttering fashion, so that no one could be sure of understanding him—that they might be on the right road to find the truth, but that if they did not find food in greater abundance before long, he, for his part, should take some other direction.

There were moments when Everychild was tempted to turn back; but he could not doubt that if they all persevered they would come to a glorious end to their adventure sooner or later, and perhaps very soon.

Unfortunately, they made so much noise as they journeyed that such travelers as might have been on the road, and who might by good chance have offered them food, turned aside and hid from them, fearing, no doubt, that they were the Forty Thieves, or some other equally rapacious band.

Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the evening hour. They came upon two adorable little children whom they found clinging together and weeping freely.

One of these they recognized immediately as Little Boy Blue; and as they had never known of his having to bear any very grievous misfortune, they suspected that his tears might be of the sort that are easily dried. Yet it developed that Little Boy Blue had not wept until he had borne up a long time with great fortitude.

The band paused and Everychild asked, "Why are you weeping, Little Boy Blue?"

The reply came between broken sobs. "I could bear it no longer," said Little Boy Blue. "I was required to watch the cows and the sheep from early morn till dark, and often I must needs arise at night to run forth to the fold when there was an alarm of wolves. Day after day my head grew heavier from want of sleep, until at last I could keep my eyes open no longer. I stole under the haystack to snatch a few extra winks, and when I was discovered my shame and disgrace were heralded forth to all the world." And again the poor child sobbed without restraint.

"And this dear little girl with you," asked Cinderella, who had been walking side by side with Everychild, "who is she?"

Little Boy Blue checked his grief long enough to stare at Cinderella incredulously. "Is it possible that there is anywhere a person who does not recognize Little Bo-Peep?" he asked.

"So it is!" exclaimed Cinderella. And bending tenderly above the form of Little Bo-Peep she asked, "And why do you weep so bitterly, Little Bo-Peep?"

The child could scarcely speak, so spent was she with weeping; but little by little Cinderella drew from her the truth. The little thing was much too small to be entrusted with the care of sheep, and her life had been made wretched by fear of the great dogs which were never absent from the flocks, and by the dark rumors of wolves which the shepherds were forever repeating.

Grettel expressed her opinion of the case without reserve. "It may be hysteria," she said, "though it looks more to me like a complete nervous break-down."

"I hardly think so," said Cinderella smiling. "We'll just take them along with us, and they'll be all right."

And so, with the addition of yet another pair to their numbers, they quickened their pace along the road.

They were becoming hungrier every minute—even the sons and daughters of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, who, as we have seen, had had far too light a supper—and while they were willing to sleep without shelter, if they were called upon to do so, they all hoped that they need not go to sleep supperless.

While there was still a short period of daylight remaining they came into an ancient town situated at the foot of a hill on which a castle stood; and upon questioning a number of the townspeople they learned that they had entered the realm of a cruel king, who resided in the castle on the hill.

"Take my advice and escape while ye may," said one ancient man with a long white beard. He had addressed Everychild. He added, "The king hath a grudge against one manly little lad who greatly resembles you, and if he once sets eyes on you I should tremble for the consequences."

Everychild thanked the old man for this well-meant counsel. "But," said he, "my friends and I are weary, and we must think of resting for the night before we set forth on our way again."

"Then," said the old man, "you might find shelter in yonder house, which hath long remained empty, because it is said to be haunted." And he pointed to a neglected old house hard by the road. "Though," he added, "I can assure you that the story which hath it that there are specters in the house is but an idle one. The truth is this: there once dwelt a good woman and her fair daughter in the house; and the cruel king seeing the daughter, he commanded straightway that she be brought to him to become his bride. The good woman, desiring to save her daughter, escaped; and the henchmen of the king, not wishing the real truth to be known, invented the story of a ghost in the house. And since that day no one has ventured to occupy the house after sundown."

Everychild thanked the old man again; and then, together with all his companions, he entered the old house which had been pointed out to him.

There was, indeed, no trace of ghostly occupants of the house; but on the contrary, the rooms, upstairs and down, speedily became the scene of much jollity. It seemed, also, that the old man had spread the report among the townspeople that a band of children had taken refuge in the house for the night; and many kindly-disposed folk came and brought food and drink, so that there was an abundance for all the children.

After eating heartily, and looking from the windows to observe the castle wherein the king dwelt, they all sought a good night's rest.

And now once again we must leave Everychild and his companions for a little while, and take our place among surroundings at once strange and cruel.



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW THE HAND OF A CHAMBERLAIN TREMBLED

We are now in a room in the castle of the cruel king, on top of the hill.

The four walls of the room were grim and forbidding of aspect. The tapestry covering them in places was old and of somber design. There were two doors opening to the room: one on the right and one on the left. At the far side of the room there was a deep-silled window with leaded panes through which a dreary light struggled.

At first you would have said that the room was empty; and then you would have perceived the Masked Lady and Mr. Literal, occupying a position among the shadows, not far from the deep-silled window.

The Masked Lady was again wearing the white garment in which we first beheld her. She was seated before a desk, writing in a large book in which you could see a few initial letters in red, outlined in gold.

Mr. Literal stood by her, regarding her with an impatient, puzzled air. And presently it would have seemed that he could no longer endure her silence; for he asked in a fault-finding tone:

"Can you tell me what you're doing here? This place is—is genuine. And of late it has been your fancy to haunt places which have existed only in the imaginations of the story-tellers."

Without looking up from the Book of Truth (for this was the volume in which she was writing) the Masked Lady replied: "Did you say that this place is genuine?"

"Of course," said Mr. Literal. "We are in a medieval castle in Northampton—the castle of King John of England. King John or his chamberlain is likely to enter at any moment. And goodness knows what they'd say at finding you here."

The Masked Lady turned a page. "King John would not see me here if he were to enter," said she; "no, neither here nor anywhere. And as for honest old Hubert de Burgh . . . well, perhaps I have a purpose in being here. You have said this place is genuine; yet I sometimes wonder if any place in all the world is so unreal as the palace of a king." She gazed before her dreamily for an instant and added, "I can see a day coming when all such palaces will be viewed by wondering, emancipated people, their minds filled with incredulity: because they will realize that kings' palaces have represented the most terrible delusion of all."

There was a footfall without at that moment, and the Masked Lady resumed her writing.

A bluff, soldierly-appearing man of middle age entered the room: a bearded man of harsh visage, yet with an eye in which justice sat enthroned. He looked about the room with an air of dawning relief; and when two villainous-looking rascals followed him into the room he remarked, with a sigh: "He's not here. And that's a bit of luck at least—to have no one about whilst we mix this devil's brew." Then more briskly: "A red-hot iron—red-hot, do you hear?—in a hurry!"

The first attendant, to whom he had spoken, glanced darkly at the second door of the room, which remained closed. "A hot iron? Yes, sir," he said, trying to speak naturally. "It shall be prepared."

The second attendant seemed incapable of remaining silent—after the manner of sorry men. "It will be quite simple, sir," he said.

Hubert de Burgh (for the soldierly-appearing man was he) turned upon them fiercely. "Enough!" he exclaimed. "I don't know how men of your breed go about a task like this, but Hubert de Burgh has always faced the truth. Listen: When you've fetched me the hot iron you'll hide behind the tapestry there. And when I stamp on the floor you'll come quickly and bind him hand and foot."

The first attendant found courage to say: "Bind him? A little lad like that? A man might do the job with one hand without half trying."

But Hubert de Burgh gazed at the man darkly. "Look you, fellow," he said, "there are forces besides a man's hands which are powerful. His very helplessness and innocence . . . I think they shall paralyze my hands and make me helpless. Do as I say: bind the boy and stand near, ready to lend a hand."

Whereupon the first and second attendants withdrew, staring as if with terror at the unopened door near which they had to pass.

Hubert de Burgh took no further notice of them, but dropped into a chair and stared straight before him.

At this point Mr. Literal began rubbing his hands and smiling with pleased excitement. "It seems," he remarked to the Masked Lady, "that we're to be in on a really famous event—the slaying of Prince Arthur. It's a great opportunity of its kind. It will give me a chance to confute the historians who have quarreled among themselves about how the poor boy met his death. How—er—how should you say he dies?"

The Masked Lady replied tranquilly: "He does not die. He lives forever to proclaim to all mankind that the way of kings is an evil way."

It was now that Hubert de Burgh bestirred himself as if he could no longer bear to be alone with his thoughts. He cried out sharply—"Arthur! Arthur!"

The second door now opened and Prince Arthur appeared: a handsome boy, perhaps fourteen years of age, straight of limb and noble of countenance. He wore a velvet suit, including knee breeches and silk hose and gaiters, and a jacket with a flowing lace collar.

He regarded Hubert de Burgh with dull eyes which slowly began to brighten. "Oh, it's you?" he cried after a pause. And then, "If you could know how glad I am to see you!" And then, falteringly, "Hubert—when you were a boy, were you ever kept hidden away as if you meant ill to every one?"

And now he approached Hubert with a wistful air, and leaned against his knee, and placed his hand on his shoulder.

But the chamberlain flinched beneath the weight of that light hand. "There, there, Arthur!—take your hand away!" he said. And then, with an attempt to be severe, "We'll have none of that, you know!"

Prince Arthur pondered, and then his eyes brightened. "I'm glad you said that, Hubert," he declared. "If you feel that way toward me you can tell me why—why all the others feel so. Every face I look into seems either to pity or to hate me; and I'd so like people to be friendly. Tell me, why must I take my hand away?"

The stern man plucked at his beard thoughtfully; and suddenly he turned to the boy with a quality of stern candor which was a true prince's due. "Listen, boy," he said. "It is the fate of kings to tremble at many things: at the too great misery of their subjects, at their too great liberty; at the touch of those who claim to be friends, at the whisper of a foe's voice. They have taught themselves that they rule by divine right, yet they move by day and by night like any thief who carries booty beneath his cloak when he walks before those in authority, or like one who is wounded unto death who would hide his wound from a strong adversary. Your Uncle John fears you, Arthur, because his throne is yours by right—if there were such a thing as right to any throne. And he has willed that you must die. He has appointed me . . . but there, I must to my task. No struggling, now—no resistence. It will be better so. The king's will be done."

He would have summoned his attendants then, but Prince Arthur stayed him with one more question. "And how would you take my life, dear Hubert?" he asked in a gentle voice.

But this the chamberlain would not tell him. Instead he stamped on the floor and the two attendants entered hurriedly, one bearing a hot iron and the other a cord with which to bind the prince's hands and feet. "These," said Hubert, "will make plain the manner of the deed."

But Arthur only clapped his hands in mirth. "It is your way of jesting, Hubert," he said, "to amuse me." But there was a catch in his voice as he continued, "It is your way of driving away the shadows which hang about me always. Dear Hubert, I know what a kind heart you have!"

But despite these brave words he turned pale and suddenly clapped his hands to his eyes to shut out the terrible vision he had beheld.

Hubert cried out huskily to the attendants, "Bind him—and be quick!"

With this the attendants seized the prince, one on either side. Yet they paused when they perceived that the prince wished to speak: a final word to the chamberlain. The boy had turned upon Hubert a calm glance. A strange stillness had come over him. He spoke in a low, intense voice—

"Do not permit them to bind me," he said. "It would be shameful for a prince to be bound. I know you were not speaking in jest, but please do not let them bind me, as if I were a slave. I shall think of you as my friend—as long as my hands are free. Come, Hubert . . . do you recall how, when your head once ached, I put my handkerchief about it to comfort you? It was one that a princess did make for me. Remember how I have loved you—and do not let them bind me!"

His plea prevailed. "So—then they shall not!" cried Hubert. And to the attendants he exclaimed fiercely, "Begone! Did I not bid you be swift, that the very blood in my veins should not turn to water? Fellows—begone! It may be that my task will be easier if I work alone and he resist me."

The two attendants turned in terror before the wrath of the chamberlain and fled. And before Hubert had withdrawn his eyes from their retreating forms certain strange events came to pass.

The Masked Lady had remained, strangely tranquil, before the Book of Truth; but now she lifted her eyes, because the great windows with their leaded panes had been thrust open. Outside the open windows there were revealed the head and shoulders of the giant, Will o'Dreams.

The giant paused long enough to take in the scene before him, and then he disappeared in great agitation.

A moment later he had reappeared and had lifted Everychild to a level with the window sill.



CHAPTER XIX

HOW AN UNFORTUNATE PRINCE ESCAPED

The giant could be heard whispering to Everychild: "I cannot enter here. The things which are taking place in this room—they stagger me. But you may do so." Whereupon he placed Everychild on the window sill and withdrew with a shudder.

A light leap, and Everychild was in the room, advancing and taking in his surroundings with amazed eyes. But no one paid any attention to him. Hubert de Burgh stood near Prince Arthur, a smoking iron in his hand. The two attendants closed the door behind them with a crash. Then Arthur spoke again:

"I could not bear to have them looking, Hubert," he said. "It will be easier, just we two alone. I am ready now."

It was then that Hubert gripped Arthur by the shoulder; he brought the hot iron close to his face. And then again his resolution failed him. His hand trembled; he paused. Presently he was gazing away over the prince's head, almost as if he saw a vision, and his hand on the boy's shoulder slowly relaxed.

"A strange lad!—a strange lad!" he mused. And then looking wonderingly at Arthur he added, "The agony is gone from your eyes when you look at me now. And yet it is I who would destroy you—not those fellows who made you tremble so!"

The prince drew himself up with unconscious pride. "I would rather suffer at the hands of those I love than receive benefits from hirelings," he said.

But Hubert shook his head darkly. "Hirelings?" he repeated. "Ah, who is not a hireling, when a king may have his way? Who can call his honor his own, when a crown is counted a more sacred thing than a man's soul?" He paused in silence again and then added almost banteringly—yet with a note of earnestness, too—"Come, boy, the young have wary eyes and swift feet. Can you not flee and escape from the wrath and fear of your uncle the King?"

But Arthur shook his head. "I think when your work is done, dear Hubert," he said, "the fear of the king and his wrath will trouble me no more."

Hubert frowned darkly. "That is an old man's creed," he cried. "It is monstrous that a child should welcome death!"

He turned away from Arthur and fixed his blank eyes in the direction of Everychild. And presently he lifted his trembling hand to his brow, and there was the light of a terrible vision in his eyes. He began to speak like one in a dreadful dream—

"Methinks I see the face of Everychild!" he mused. "Methinks that always the face of Everychild shall gaze upon me with horror and contempt because I slew this gentle lad. Nay, by my faith, I will not!"

He thrust Arthur from him. "Go your way!" he cried. "Though there were a thousand King Johns, it shall also be said that there was one Hubert de Burgh. If heaven has set no bounds to duty, then I owe a duty to myself as well as to the king. And if a child must needs teach me that there are things more terrible than death, then let me learn a lesson from this child who has the soul of a prince, though he may never wield the scepter of a king. Go free, boy. King John may have a thousand murderers, but it shall also be said of him that he had for chamberlain one who was a man."

With the tread of a soldier, undaunted and unashamed, he left the room.

For a moment Arthur lifted his face with an expression of intense relief; but little by little his eyes darkened again and his head drooped.

"He has spared me—yet to what end?" he mused. "I have escaped for the moment, yet in a few days—on what day none may tell—a new jailor, a poisoned cup, a summons up a broken stairway in the dark, a ride on the river in a mist . . . Ah, woe is me! How shall I really escape?"

He stood disconsolate a moment, and then it seemed he saw Everychild for the first time: Everychild, who came toward him, slowly yet with assurance.

"You shall come with me," said Everychild.

And the prince replied indulgently, "With you, Everychild? But whither are you going?"

"I fare forth to find the truth," said Everychild.

Arthur replied: "It seems you should be a prince if you would find it soon. I shall find the truth before you, Everychild."

"We shall find it together," declared Everychild.

"I was near finding it now," said Arthur; "and even yet I cannot think it is far away."

But Everychild had gone to the window, evidently in the hope of seeing the giant, Will o'Dreams; and while Arthur looked after him hopelessly, Mr. Literal took occasion to say to the Masked Lady—

"He is as beautiful as tradition has pictured him. Small wonder that his foolish mother was moved to speak of him so eloquently. Do you remember?—

"'Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form: Then have I reason to be fond of grief.'"

Then the giant appeared at the window and there was a hurried conference between him and Everychild. Soon the latter turned confidently toward Arthur.

"Come, you shall go with me," said Everychild eagerly.

It seemed for an instant that the prince was really hopeful. Then again his dark mood returned—the mood of one who believes he is lost. Yet nevertheless he put forth his hand to Everychild and said, "Yes, I will go with you."

He approached the window with slow, majestic tread. Once he shrank back and lifted his hands to his eyes. Then he climbed resolutely to the window sill. He could be seen for an instant, and then he disappeared.

Seeing that he had vanished, Everychild hurried to the window, his face elated. "Splendid!" he cried. "Now he shall be my companion to the end of time!"

Then the giant could be seen at the window. He put forth his hands and lifted Everychild through the window.

A moment, and then Hubert de Burgh re-entered the room. He cast a swift, agitated glance about the room, and soon he noted the open window.

"The window!" he cried in a loud voice. "God save us all!"

He stood staring at the open window; and as he did so the Masked Lady hid her face in her arms upon the Book of Truth before her. She was softly weeping.



PART IV

ARGUMENT: EVERYCHILD'S FEET ARE DRAWN TO THE SPOT WHERE THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD LIES. TIME PASSES.



CHAPTER XX

A SONG IN THE GARDEN

While Everychild and the giant had made their visit to the castle of the cruel king, their companions had remained in the old house at the foot of the hill, and great was their delight when the two who had been absent returned, bringing with them Prince Arthur, toward whom all the children felt immediately drawn.

It was quickly decided that the prince should be allowed to rest before they resumed their journey; and as they were very comfortable where they were, they agreed not to stir until the next day. They still had an abundance to eat; and besides, they had not yet explored the walled garden, very shady and inviting, which they could see from the kitchen windows.

In the afternoon, then, they all invaded the walled garden, where they found much to gladden their hearts. The juniper trees were quite perfect; and the flowers, though they had been so long neglected, seemed really to have been waiting for them. The different kinds of flowers each had a bed of their own; the larkspur and poppies and coxcomb and hollyhocks and columbines, and each seemed to lean forward and say, "Come and see us! Come and see us!" And so the children made the rounds of the garden, visiting each variety of flower.

At last they sat down on the stone benches which surrounded a fine grass-plot with an ancient sundial in the middle.

Many of the children were content to sit quietly and rest; but Little Bo-Peep and Little Boy Blue, being very young, and naturally rather playful, could not restrain themselves, and they took their places on the grass and began to play. They looked simply charming: Little Bo-Peep being dressed in a white frock with short sleeves having any number of flounces. She wore a Gainesborough hat of delicate materials, with cherry ribbons ending in tassels of the same color hanging down behind. She also wore red slippers having buckles set with rubies.

Little Boy Blue was arrayed in blue rompers, cunningly made of one piece, and very ample.

It seemed that they had long resided close to each other, and had often played together; and now, almost without any pre-arrangement at all, they began a game which consisted of singing and dancing.



They stood facing each other on the grass, and Little Boy Blue began the following song:

"Oh, Little Bo-Peep, when the sun is shining And the birds are up in the tree; When there's never a cause for sad repining, And we're happy as we can be; When breezes blow through the vale and hollow, And glade and garden and glen, Oh, whom does your heart in its rapture follow, And whom do you think of then?"

Little Bo-Peep listened, smiling, and with her head a little to one side, until the stanza was finished, and then she replied as follows:

"Oh, Little Boy Blue, when the skies are beaming And my heart is happy and free, When the green grass smiles, where it lies a-dreaming, And the birds are up in the tree, I lift my eyes to the arch above us, So soft and tender and blue, And I know that the earth and the sky both love us, And I tenderly think of you, Of you, Of you, of you, of you!"

Then they both bowed graciously and began their dance. They advanced toward each other so that the palms of their right hands touched; and then they receded, moving obliquely; and then advanced again, touching the palms of their left hands. A moment later they had clasped both hands, holding them high, and were hopping about in a circle.

But it seemed that the song was not yet finished; and presently they were facing each other again, and Little Bo-Peep sang the following stanza:

"Oh, Little Boy Blue, when the star of even Hangs low o'er the lonely hill, When the night-wind sighs through the fields of heaven And the world is lonely and still; When you almost fear that the birds and flowers Will never waken again, And you lie and dream through the long night hours, Oh, whom do you dream of then?"

No sooner had Little Bo-Peep completed her stanza than Little Boy Blue responded:

"Oh, Little Bo-Peep, from my friendly pillow I gaze at the even star; Then I sail away on a gentle billow, Where dreaming and visions are. And never a doubt nor a fear assails me The whole of the long night through, And the welcomest dream of all ne'er fails me, For I constantly dream of you, Of you, Of you, of you, of you!"

They repeated their dance at the end, and then, blushing and stumbling, they made their way to one of the stone benches and sat down.

All the children applauded generously; but during the silence which followed, Grettel remarked:

"For my part, I like games that have kissing in them."

Cinderella merely gazed at her, in reply to this, with lifted chin and half-closed eyes.

Then Hansel observed: "If you'd leave it to me, I'd prefer sitting at a table where there'd be something left after you'd filled yourself as full as a drum."

Prince Arthur seemed to feel that Hansel and Grettel had struck a wrong note, and he said, "Upon my word, it seemed to me that the singing and dancing weren't half bad!"

"They were just perfect," declared Everychild.

"That's really what Arthur meant," interposed Will o'Dreams.

There was almost unanimous agreement then that the song and dance had been very well done, the strongest testimony of all being offered by the little black dog, who approached Little Boy Blue and asked, quite as plainly as if he had spoken, to have the entertainment prolonged.

But as the entire band hoped to be on their way early in the morning, it was agreed, after a time, that a good night's sleep was the best thing they could have; and as the sun had now set, they went into the house, and each chose a place in which to spend the night.

The clamor of voices soon sank to a sleepy murmur; and presently there was such silence that the house might indeed have been a haunted one, just as the village superstition held it to be.

There would have been nothing more worth recording in the adventures of that day but for the fact that Everychild, at the last moment, felt an irresistible desire to explore the attic of the old house. And this he undertook to do, after all his companions had, as he supposed, fallen asleep.



CHAPTER XXI

AN ENCOUNTER IN THE ATTIC

He moved stealthily about the upper story of the house, trying this door and that. He did not wish to disturb his companions, for he knew that a sound in the dark would startle them, especially after they had been told of the rumor that the house was haunted.

The first and second doors he tried opened into empty rooms. The third and fourth, into closets. But the fifth opened to a narrow staircase; and ascending this on tip-toe, he presently found himself in the attic.

It was a very solemn place. The eaves sloped down closely as if they were a sort of hood, meant to hide something evil. There was one window at the gable end: a broken window, with fragments of glass lying about it. The light of the moon penetrated the window, making the fragments of glass glisten, and forming a pale avenue across the dusty floor.

There were old chests here and there, all mysteriously closed—perhaps locked. There were old garments hanging in obscure places. They made you think of persons lurking there in the dark. Outside the broken window an owl in a dark tree hooted mournfully.

Everychild crossed the attic cautiously. Timbers creaked beneath his feet. The smell of old, abandoned things arose. And suddenly he stopped short and clinched his hands. Beyond a pale haze of moonbeams he saw some one sitting on one of the closed chests.

That form in the gloom was perfectly motionless; and for a time Everychild tried to convince himself that here was simply another delusion—that certain old articles of furniture or clothing had been so arranged as to suggest the form of a human being.

But no, this could scarcely be. Every outline of the figure was too real. And besides, the person on the chest now moved slightly.

Everychild forced himself to advance a step, to move to right and to left, that he might learn something of that person who sat there in mysterious silence. And suddenly he found himself smiling and relaxing.

It was Will o'Dreams who sat there!

The giant had seen him at last, and he called out pleasantly, "You here too, Everychild? Come and sit down. There's room for two here on this old chest."

"I didn't know you were here," said Everychild.

"It's the very sort of place I like to visit," was the reply. "If ever you miss me, you've only to hunt for an old attic near by, and there you'll find me."

"I wonder why?" asked Everychild.

"Ah, I scarcely know. But a great many lovely persons come up into old attics—mostly children, or else quite old men or women—and I think they like to find me at such times."

"And do you never frighten them?"

The giant laughed. "I've no doubt I do, sometimes. But mostly I am of real help to them. The old things that are left in attics seem somehow different if I'm about. Some day you'll understand what I mean. And the sounds you hear in an attic, and the thoughts that come to you, seem pleasant in a way, as long as I'm near by."

Everychild realized immediately that this was true; for at that very moment the owl in the dark tree outside the broken window hooted—and the sound was not at all what it had been only a little while ago.

"It's fine to hear the owl make a noise like that, isn't it?" he asked of the giant.

"Is it?" replied Will o'Dreams with a kindly taunt in his voice. "Suppose you tell me why."

"I'm not sure I can. But you know it makes you think of so many wonderful and strange things."

"Of what?" persisted the giant.

Everychild pondered a little, and then it seemed that he saw a sort of vision. "It makes you think of dark forests," he said, "—the very middle of them. And it makes you think of old ruined castles, with nothing living about them any more but the ivy climbing up on the broken walls."

The giant's eyes were shining in the gloom. "And what else?" he asked softly.

"And then you think of the castles as they used to be, long ago. When there were bright lights in them, and knights and ladies, and music, and maybe a—what do you call them?—a harper to come in out of the storm to sit beside the fireplace and tell tales." He seemed unable to fill in the picture more completely, but Will o'Dreams began where he had left off:

"And do you know what is true, as long as you think of the knights and ladies? It means that they are still living. That's what thinking of things means—it means keeping them alive. Most persons die when their children are all dead: at the very latest, when their grandchildren die. But as long as you think of knights and ladies, and picture their ways, why, that keeps them alive. It means that they will never die. That is, as long as there are owls to hoot." He added with a hidden smile, "And as long as I idle about in old attics."

"It is very strange," said Everychild, not clearly understanding.

"It just needs a little thinking about," declared the giant. "And it's not only in attics that I'm able to help. That old garden we played in to-day . . . do you know what would happen, if certain persons came into it while I was there?"

As Everychild did not know, the giant continued: "They would see the columbine growing; and straightway they would think of a poor lady named Ophelia; and then they would think of Shakespeare; and then they would think of the river Avon; and then they would think of lovely English meadows, and then they would think of the sea—because the Avon finally reaches it, you know—and then they would think of ships, and then of Columbus, and then of America, and then of millions of new gardens where the columbine of England found new homes."

Everychild was trying to see the pictures as they passed; but he could not quite keep up. And after Will o'Dreams had finished he remained silent, going over it all in his mind.

But the giant interrupted him. "There," he said, "we ought not to stay up too late. You know we want to make an early start to-morrow."

Everychild's heart prompted him to say impulsively, "And you'll go on with us? You'll not get tired and leave us on the way?"

The giant pondered a moment, and then he replied: "No. My search will carry me as far as your search is to carry you."

"You haven't told me what it is you're searching for," said Everychild.

There was a long silence, and then the giant replied: "I scarcely liked to speak of it; yet if we are to be friends, perhaps I may do so. The truth is, I am seeking my mother."

Everychild felt a little thrilled. He recalled what Mr. Literal had said of the giant—how he had been driven away from home because of the evil he had done. He had refused to believe what Mr. Literal had said; yet what was the meaning of what the giant was now saying?

"I lost my mother long ago," the giant resumed. "I can't explain just how it was. But there were many who mistrusted me in my childhood and believed I wasn't up to any good. They said I was made up of lies. They drove me from their houses and closed their doors on me. And my mother and I got lost from each other. From that day to this I have had bad days when I've feared that all my enemies ever said about me was true. But it is only occasionally I have a bad day. You see, I remember my mother's ways so well that it seems almost as if she were with me, much of the time. But I know well that if I could find her, never to lose her again, I should never have another evil thought. And so it is that I constantly dream of finding her, and go about the world seeking her. And I never see a beautiful lady without stopping to ask myself in a whisper, 'Can it be she?'"

"Was she so beautiful, then?" asked Everychild.

"Ah, I cannot tell you how beautiful. So straight and tall and brave, yet with a great tenderness a little hidden from sight. Her lips curved a little, mournfully, as if she had been singing a sad song; yet there was an expression in her eyes—a soft, calm expression, which made everything seem right when you looked into them. There are even now moments when I feel . . . I scarcely know how to explain it to you. It's as if she were near by, whispering, and I couldn't think just where to look for her."

"I'll help you to look for her," said Everychild heartily. And then together they quit the attic and went cautiously down the narrow staircase.

Only a few moments later they had taken their places among their companions and had fallen asleep.



CHAPTER XXII

THE END OF A HUNDRED YEARS

They all resumed their journey at sunrise, carrying with them a fair supply of food which the townspeople had brought; and by noon they had crossed the boundary into a different kingdom, where the cruelties of the wicked King John were wholly unknown, and where Prince Arthur became almost the gayest member of the band.

Late in the afternoon they came within sight of another castle; and as they were now journeying through a very lonely region, they decided that it would be a wise plan to apply at this place for accommodations for the night.

Somewhat to their dismay, however, they discovered upon drawing nearer that the castle was surrounded by a forest so dense that not even the smallest member of the band could penetrate between the trunks and branches. Nor did there seem to be a road for them to take, the only thing resembling a road having been abandoned so long that it was quite overgrown.

It was here that Will o'Dreams found opportunity to render a most important service. Without the slightest spirit of boasting he stepped forward, saying, "Follow me!"

To the amazement of all, the trees parted so that a way was opened and the entire band now found it quite easy to follow in the footsteps of the giant.

Together they all began to climb the hill in the direction of the mysterious castle.

But while the children are wending their way up the hill, let us take leave of them for a time, that we may have a peep at one of the rooms of the castle.

The room has been described as "the finest room in a king's palace," and while this would seem a somewhat exaggerated statement, there were at least many evidences of elegance to be noted.

Rich tapestries hung about the walls. They presented certain stories from mythology in the form of pictures traced in golden threads. There were golden candlesticks, and even the chairs and tables were of gold.

At the far side of the room, which was very large, there appeared to be a sort of alcove before which a damask curtain was closely drawn.

Before this curtain sat a lady of honor. She seemed a very great person indeed, her dress being inferior only to that of a queen in richness and elegance. She had a double chin and a very large stomach, which in her day were considered quite suitable to a person in her position.

Somewhat out of keeping with the golden furniture and the rich tapestries was the great fireplace containing an almost commonplace crane and kettle, and bordered by irregular areas of smoked wood and stone, indicating that the ventilation of the room needed looking after in the worst way.

In addition to the lady of honor there were other persons in the room: a scullion, or cook, with rather comical features and a red nose, who sat before the fireplace; a line of guards in mailed armor who were stationed around the walls, finely erect, with spears held perpendicularly, their ends resting on the floor; and a herald, or messenger, standing just inside an inner door.

But—wonderful to relate—the lady of honor, the scullion, the guards in mail, and the herald, were all sound asleep! Moreover, they had all been sound asleep for precisely one hundred years.

I should add that two other individuals already known to us were in the room: the Masked Lady and Mr. Literal. The Masked Lady held in her hands a time-glass precisely like an hourglass in every respect, save that it was designed to measure the passage of a full century. The last grains of sand were just falling when she looked up, startled, because Mr. Literal had broken the stillness by yawning. He was plainly bored, and he was looking about the room at the various sleepers as if he were thoroughly tired of them all.

After Mr. Literal had finished his yawn a truly unearthly silence reigned. There wasn't so much as the ticking of a clock or the falling of embers in the fireplace. Silence, a long, long silence.

Then a distant door opened and closed sharply. There was the muffled tramp of many feet. And then—what have we here? Everychild entered the room!

He was followed instantly by Cinderella, Hansel and Grettel, Will o'Dreams, Prince Arthur, Tom Hubbard, Little Bo-Peep, Little Boy Blue, the children of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe (who numbered some forty boys and girls all told), and last of all, the little black dog.

There was necessarily a good deal of bustle and noise while the members of the band were entering; but when Everychild had had time to look about him he was smitten with silence, and all his companions suddenly became as quiet as mice.

Then Everychild perceived the Masked Lady, and for once he was very glad to see her. He approached her eagerly, if somewhat timidly.

"What is this strange place?" he whispered.

And as the Masked Lady did not reply to him, he turned to Cinderella. "Am I—are we—dreaming?" he asked.

Cinderella reassured him promptly. "We are not dreaming," she said. "I have seen other places as beautiful. The ballroom where I danced—it might have been in this very castle. Yet how strange it is to find them all asleep!" And she gazed about the room with amused wonder.

"And the way the forest opened as we climbed the hill," added Everychild, "just as if we were expected. Did anything like it ever happen before?"

The Masked Lady remarked almost dreamily: "When Everychild seeks the place where the Sleeping Beauty lies, forests always open and the steepest paths are easy to climb."

Everychild caught at the name. "The Sleeping Beauty—I have heard of her," he said. And he added, "Is she here?"

The Masked Lady did not reply in words, but the obscure smile on her lips was very significant.

It was Cinderella who clasped her hands in sudden ecstacy and cried, "She must be here. A place so lovely—it couldn't have been meant for any one else!" She spoke with such elation that all the other children looked at her with beaming eyes.

Everychild asked in perplexity—"But if she be here . . . ?"

"You haven't forgotten, have you?" asked Cinderella. "She was doomed to sleep a hundred years, until the prince came to waken her with a kiss."

"And is she still waiting?" asked Everychild.

"I haven't a doubt in the world that she is still waiting."

"She is always waiting," said the dreamy voice of the Masked Lady.

"But not—not here?" asked Everychild.

"There's never any telling where you'll find things," replied Cinderella. "We might look at least."

No one had observed that the Masked Lady had straightened up with a very dramatic gesture. The sand in the glass she held had all fallen!

No sooner had she spoken than Cinderella advanced to the alcove hidden by the damask curtain. The other children watched her intently. She barely touched the curtain—yet it was drawn aside. And everything within the alcove became visible.

There was a perfectly beautiful bed, all trimmed with gold and silver lace, so it is said. And on it reposed a slight, queen-like young lady, fully dressed, yet sound asleep. Her cheeks were delicately tinted, indicating perfect health. Her lips were slightly parted; her bosom rose and fell tranquilly. A naked little Cupid knelt on her pillow, his wings aloft, his eyes intently inspecting her closed eyelids.

Everychild seemed really to lose control of himself. He gazed, and then he advanced in a manner so determined that Cinderella drew back, leaving him alone with the sleeper, save for the Cupid on the pillow and the lady of honor asleep in her chair.

"It is the Sleeping Beauty!" exclaimed Everychild. Somehow or other he knew positively. He knelt down beside her and gazed at her reverently. Slowly and gently he reached for the hand nearest him. He took it into his own; and then—he never could have told what put it into his head to do so!—he shyly kissed the beautiful hand.

And the Sleeping Beauty? She sighed and opened her eyes. For an instant she gazed dreamily at the ceiling. Then she sat up, placing her feet on the floor. With wonder and delight she leaned a little forward, her eyes fixed on Everychild's.

And then she said, in a voice which would have set the birds to singing, if there had been any near by—

"Is it you, my prince? You have waited a long while!"



CHAPTER XXIII

THE AWAKENING

No sooner had the Sleeping Beauty spoken than a number of things began to happen.

The other sleepers in the room opened their eyes.

The lady of honor was the first to attract attention. She stirred and placed her fingers against her lips in a very elegant manner to suppress a yawn. Then she exclaimed very audibly: "Bless my soul—I must have dropped off for a moment!"