SWANEE RIVER

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Speedy in Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 1, 1920.


Down, down, down, to a river deep
Fell a dear little boy who'd been sung to sleep.
To a river deep and a river wide,
Where Pixies and nixies and fairies ride

On the backs of swans, and everywhere
The big birds float on its waters fair.
Softly he dropped on a downy swan
And away it carried him--on and on

Past fairy palaces, doll-house isles--
Down the Swanee river of song for miles.
And 'twas full of swans as he thought 'twould be.
And the very same thing has occurred to me.

The big white birds were all aquiver
With glee to welcome him to their river.
They nodded their heads and winked their eyes
And floated around him with pleased little cries.

Ant then to amuse him they had a race.
And the swan that he rode came in first place.
What cheers from the pixies and nixies! Aho!
What showers of posies and feathers they throw!

Then away and away they sailed once more
And stopped for a rest by a silver shore,
Where an old, old, goose in a nightcap funny
Passed cups of tea and buns with honey.

And sang them a song in a high cracked key
Of a mouse and a robin who'd gone to sea.
There was much applause for the big swan birds,
But he little boy couldn't quite catch the words.

Then lazily on and on he sailed
Till the stars winked out an the big moon paled;
On and on till he drifted right
Into the harbor of Good Day Light!



THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, January 11, 1920.
 
The Puzzle Corner

The Forgetful Poet says he is going to be in fashion and write blank verse. I asked him if he were going to use a blank book for the purpose, and he was much offended. He said I never would take him seriously, and I am afraid I never will.

The Words missing from last week's verses were is and slides.

If you eat a magpie
You'll kangarue it--
If I were you
I wouldn't ------ ------!
(Well, who would?)

What Bird?

If I were going
To make a sail--,
I'd put some salt
Upon the ------

Upon the tail,
If I had luck
Of a certain sort and
Kind of -----!

To what crawling creature would you go for roofing material?

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2013 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE FORGETFUL POET

  

By Ruth Plumly Thompson 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, January 4, 1920.

The Puzzle Corner

The Forgetful Poet made a resolution last Thursday to make no more verses, but you see he has already forgotten it and I, for one, am glad that he did, for his verses so tickle me.

Can one hear
A postage stamp?
One one see
A Candle run?
Does a turnip
Really turn?
NO—it simply
Is not done!
(What nonsense!)

I’m afraid the dear fellow is a little pessimistic. Just read these verses, will you? He’s not so young as he used to be, I can see that!

In Jan. you worry over coal
And croup and rheumatiz.
In Jan, you worry over bills
Oh, what a month it -----.

In Feb. you worry over colds
And bursting pipes besides
And broken bones from sundry falls
On icy walks and -----
               (I don’t! Do you?)

The answers to last week’s puzzles are: The Bluebird, The Five Little Peppers, Ivanhoe and Huckleberry Finn.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2015 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

PEACE HATH HER VICTORIES NO LESS RENOWNED THAN WAR

By John R. Neill
Author of The Runaway in Oz, The Wonder City of Oz, Lucky Bucky in Oz, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia North American, November 17, 1901.

 

Click image to enlarge.

THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 28, 1919.
 
The Forgetful Poet

The Forgetful Poet says that you have all had plenty of time to read during the holidays, so he thinks for a change he'll give you some bookish riddles. If you get stuck, hunt up a bookworm.

What Book?

A bird all children know, I think
Will give a book by Maeterlinck.

What Book People?

There are five of them
Named for a seasoning
You'll puzzle this out
Without reasoning.

One of Scott's Characters

We see with the first syllable, move our furniture in the second and work in the garden with the third.

What Book Boy?

A fruit, dears, we have to begin
And part of a fish, yes, it's ------
  And the whole gives a lad,
  More mischievous than bad.
Now perhaps you can fill his name in.

The words the dear chap forgot last week were verse, day, wings and said. [These answers published December 21, 1919.]

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2013 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE GIFT OF THE WISE LITTLE PIXIE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Speedy in Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Phildelphia Public Ledger, April 8, 1917.


There was once a little prince, who had everything he wanted and more besides, and I suppose you are thinking right away, "What a fortunate fellow!" and "How happy he must have been!"

Nothing of the sort. He was the unhappiest boy alive, because - well - because he had not a thing in the world to wish for.

He had more ponies than ever he could ride, more toys than ever he could play with, more books than ever he could read, more candy than ever he could eat and more places to go than he could ever hope to choose from - so he just sat there feeling blue and dull.

Twenty men in waiting stood breathlessly at attention to execute his slightest command and the poor little prince's head ached trying to keep them busy. "For," he reasoned to himself, "it must be very tiresome to stand still all the time!"

This went on and on till the little prince could think of not one thing more he wanted. In the midst of his gorgeous garden and surrounded by his glittering attendants he drooped on his golden throne and nothing could interest or arouse him!

The queen and the king grew very much alarmed and begged him to tell them what he wanted to make him happy. He only shook his head. So off they hastened, the royal carriage clattering into town at a terrible rate. And back they came with all the toy and sweetmeat merchants at their heels.

"Choose any, my son - or all!" implored the king. The prince sighed wearily and then shook his head - so they left them all! Boats by the hundred, games galore - every sort of toy imaginable!

"Leave him alone with them!" whispered one of the wise men, so the king raised his scepter and all the attendants went backing away. Then the king and queen with a great swishing of silk and velvets went away, too, and for the first time he could remember the little prince was all by himself!

He could scarcely believe his eyes. He sat up straight on his golden throne and stared around in delight. Then down he jumped and ran to the very end of the garden, where he could not see one of the hateful toys. "There's not one thing left!" he remarked dismally. "Not one thing in the world!"

"What's that?" piped up a little voice. The prince looked down and there perched on a rose bush sat a little pixie!

"There's not one thing left to wish for!" repeated the prince, regarding her curiously.

"Ho! ho! ho! How funny?" chuckled the pixie, turning a somersault. "A little boy without a want!"

"You would not think it so funny if you had to keep twenty men-in-waiting from getting stiff and tired. I can't think of another thing for them to do for me!" The little prince threw himself down on the ground and began sighing again. "If I only had something to wish for! If I only wanted something!"

The pixie stopped swinging. "You are the only little boy in the world who isn't wanting something!" she remarked slowly. "Dear me! Dear me!"

"What do they want?" The little prince looked up with new interest.

"Look in the lake and I'll show you!" answered the pixie, skipping down to the edge of the water.

So he did, and there he saw hundreds of little boys and the things each wanted most. Some wanted ponies, some wanted boats, some wanted books. "Why!" gasped the little prince, "They want all the things I've got so many of!"

"Yes!" said the pixie, smoothing her rose-petal apron and looking sideways at the little prince, "they do!"

"Well, I wish they could have them!" sighed the prince. "See that little ragged boy, he does so want a dog!" But the pixie was hopping about, clapping her hands and laughing with glee.

"Now you've found them! Now you've found them!" she cried over and over again!

"What?" cried the little boy curiously.

"Why, your wishes and wants!" laughed the pixie. "Didn't you know that it was more fun to want things for other people than for yourself! Here!" She slipped a long list of names into the prince's hand and then disappeared like a soap bubble that has suddenly burst.

Calling for all twenty men-in-waiting at once, the little prince ran up the garden, stumbling over himself fairly in his eagerness! His "I wants!" and "I wishes!" kept the whole court flying, I can tell you, and before evening every little boy on the pixie's list had what he wanted. All the prince's ponies were gone but one, all the dogs but one, all the games but one; in fact, there was just one of everything left. The boys had had so much fun with the prince's gifts that he began to wonder whether he and the doggie and pony and toys that were left could not have some fun, too!

And they did, sweethearts, and after that one boy always came each day to play with the little prince, and as for wishes and wants - well, he discovered the fun of wanting things for other people and not for himself. There was no end to his commands and no end to the happiness in the kingdom where he lived.

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 14, 1919.
 
The Forgetful Poet Goes Shopping

Everybody guessed the answer to his verses last week. The modest chap wanted a wishing ring. The words omitted were sent, ring and know it.

I bought two dolls
And which was worse
Six neckties and
A book of ------?

I lost my wallet
And my way;
In fact, I've had
A dreadful ------?

Department stores
Are full of things
But one should have
A pair of ------?

For all are two
Aisles over - or
Just through the arch
Or seventh floor!

Why am I pale
And why in bed?
I've done my shopping
Sir, he ------!

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2013 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

DUFFY'S APPLE JUICE IMP

By W. W. Denslow
Author of The Scarecrow and Tin-Man of Oz, illustrator of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Dot and Tot of Merryland, etc.

Originally published 1909.


A little boy and little girl
  Went out one bright spring day
To wander through the woods and fields
  And find a place to play;
When lo! they heard a little voice
  It almost was a scream;
'Twas from a funny fairy man
  A splashing in a stream.

They went to his relief at once,
  And pulled him to the land;
He thanked them very many times,
  And took them by the hand;
"I am the Apple Imp," said he,
  "The trees I tend with care,
That golden autumn may be crowned
  With harvests everywhere.



"In gratitude I give to you
  This little apple seed,
'Twill give you health and happiness
  And anything you need.
Go plant it in a pleasant spot,
  All by the bright moonlight."
With that hue jumped into the air
  And was soon out of sight.

The children did as they were bid,
  Next day a sprout appeared;
They tended it with loving care
  And soon a tree they reared.
The blossoms first came in the spring,
  Green fruit in summer time;
Then luscious apples ripe and red
  In golden autumn's prime.



It puzzled both the children how
  To get those apples down;
And also where to get a cart
  To take them into town;
Then from the moon the imp appeared
  Said he, "I'll help you out."
Then from the moon the fairies appeared
  They came with merry shout.

"Now fairies fair, make haste with care,"
  Go pluck those apples sound;
Run out upon each bending branch
  And bring them to the ground.:
So spoke the imp, and in a wink,
  The fairies stripped the tree;
And piled the pippins on the grass,
  A goodly sight to see.


"Bring forth the magic auto car,
  And as the wind is fair,
Instead of running on the ground,
  We'll travel through the air."
This care was broad and deep and long,
  With room enough for all,
The apples that grew on the tree,
  The imp and children small.

The fairies loaded up the car
  With rosy apples bright;
And soon the imp and children, too,
  Were flying through the night.
Then as the golden-tinted sky
  Showed that the morn was dawning,
They landed close by Duffy's door
  At seven in the morning.

"This is Bets and this is Bob,
  Two great good friends of mine,”
The imp to Mister Duffy said,
   "With something in your line;
For they have brought you apples rare,
  Expressly for your use.
They'd like to have you make them
  Your famous apple juice."

Mister Duffy was delighted
  To get the goodly fruit,
For he was most particular
  And very hard to suit.
When he is making apple juice
  He always must be sure
To have the apples sound and good,
  To make the product pure.



Full soon the car was homeward bound,
  This time upon the road;
But now instead of apples ripe
  It bore a liquid load--
All snugly packed in bottles neat,
  With labels on the side;
So Bets and Bob were quite happy
  And filled with honest pride.


 
On evenings in the winter time,
  If you don't come too late,
You'll find a happy family
  All gathered 'round the grate.
'Twas Duffy's apple juice, Betsy Jane
  And Bob, the sturdy boy,
That brought their family health and strength,
  And filled their hearts with joy.



THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 7, 1919.

The Forgetful Poet

The queer creature received so many letters asking him what he did want for Christmas that he decided to answer them all in this week's verses.

What I Want for Christmas

I've thought and thought and quite reduced
  My wants to one small thing--
I'd be content if some one ------
  A magic wishing ------.

I know it is a modest gift.
  But I'm a modest poet.
I hardly need have added this
  For you already ------ ------.

Dear me, he'll have to tell the fairies about this. Modest? Oh, my! The words he forgot last week were size, use, hall, trees and cigars.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2013 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

GRAY YOUTH

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Speedy in Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Springfield [Massachusetts] Republican and other newspapers, March 9, 1924.


"Mother," observed the Important Person, absently shaking the ice in the bottom of his tumbler, "mother, you have lovely hair!"

"Same hair she's always had," smiled Aunt Hattie, rising rheumatically and fixing a frosty eye upon her nephew. "First time you've noticed it?"

"O, but it wasn't always gray," retorted Mrs. Eliot, flashing a quick smile across the table. "And--"

"Ever since you were thirty-five!" Belligerently seizing the pudding dish, Aunt Hattie billowed kitchenward. The Important Person considered this a moment in pensive silence; then, muttering something about seeing a man, extricated himself from the family group.

"Now, whatever made him say that?" inquired Aunt Hattie heavily as the front door shut with an emphatic slam.

"What?" Mrs. Eliot had already forgotten the chance remark.

"About your hair. No man notices anything on his own women folks that he hasn't first noticed on some other woman." Aunt Hattie waved the dish towel dramatically. "Take my brother Fred. Did he ever know I had blue eyes till he courted the Jones girl? Certainly not. But as soon as he said to me, 'Hat, your eyes are blue, aren't they?' I knew he was caught by another pair."

"Hattie--don't, don't try to tell me Dick is falling love with a gray head!"

"I'm only telling you what I know--plain facts!"

Dick's pause next morning at the desk of Anna Rae was so long and lively that Pat, his partner in law, regarded him with alarm.

"See here," he cautioned a bit later as they sat closeted in the tiny private office, "you're not going to fall for the colonial dame, are you? Better consult an eye specialist, boy; can't you see her hair is gray?"

Anna Rae, on her part, helped Dick not at all. She never so much as mentioned a single relative who had gone gray at twenty.

One morning, after they had been seen together at the theater and Pat's tongue had been more than usually waggish, there crept into Dicky's voice a manner of certain guardedness which was quickly detected and punished by Anna Rae, who was not altogether unaware of the little byplay behind the glass inclosure. She instantly froze into the perfect and impersonal secretary, and nothing Dick could do would restore the old friendly footing.

Then one sultry noon fate, in the guise of a meddlesome office boy, took the matter in hand. Anna Rae was listlessly typing a long contract when a quick call for a certain paper made her bend over the wire basket on her desk. At the same instant the office boy touched the electric switch at the door. There was an anguished scream that sent Dick flying out of his chair.

The sight that met his eyes completely paralyzed him for an instant, for the electric fan, thrown into action by the switch at the same moment Anna Rae's head bent over the wire basket, had seized in its cruel blades the hair of the only girl in the world. His paralysis gave way with a snap; he slid, leapt--fell--across the room and flung himself upon the switch; then, with a groan, turned around. This was his punishment for being such a cad--but he'd show her that nothing mattered--nothing! Anna Rae, her head fallen forward, upon the desk, lay perfectly quiet now. The fan, still revolving slowly, wound upon itself with jocose little chuckles satiny strands of gray hair. Pat, rigid with horror and round eyed with fright, stared and stared; Dick, his hand still glued to the switch, stared and stared. For Anna Rae was in no wise scalped, though minus every gray hair she owned. A perfect riot of bobbed brown curls tumbled about her neck and caressed her pale little face.

"Say, you!" Dick's voice, hoarse with relief, surprise, and an emotion he could no longer control, broke the tense silence. "Can't you see she's fainted? Get a doctor; get a nurse; get out! Quick!"

It was hours later. Cozily ensconce in a nearby tearoom, Dick and the girl surveyed one another through a blur of pink candlelight and spring sunshine. And then only did Dickie get what Aunt Hattie would call "plain facts."

She had come on from New York; had to have money; no one wanted a secretary with bobbed hair. "So I got me a wig," chuckled Anna Rae. "And because I'd studied law at Columbia and wanted to know more about it, and all the lawyers and judges wanted secretaries over thirty, I got me a gray wig and--"

"You little villain, why didn't you tell me?"

"O--because--" Anna Rae absently traced a heart with her butter knife. "Guess I'll have to resign!" she sighed pensively.

"You bet you will! Judge'll never stand for those curls. Besides--"

"But I wanted to go on with my law!"

"You're getting on with me!" Dick's hand dropped suddenly over Anna Rae's. "I'm a lawyer, and I'll tell you something about law. Possession is nine-tenths of it!"

The waitress fluttered the menu ingratiatingly--then, giving the pair a quick, pitying glance, turned on her heel.


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 30, 1919.

The Forgetful Poet

The answers to the gentleman's nutty puzzles were peanut, hazel nut, cream nut, butternut, chestnut, walnut.

What I Don't Want for Christmas

I don't want ties
Nor socks, what -----,

I don't want handkerchiefs at all.
I don't want shoes like old men -----,
No piperacks for my -----

No slippers, please,
Nor rubber-----,
No pipes, no pens, no purses,
Send no -----, tobacco jars
No mottoes and NO VERSES!
(My goodness--what does he want!)

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2013 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

AUNT 'PHRONEY'S BOY

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, John Dough and the Cherub, The Treasure of Karnak, and The Visitors from Oz, etc.
Illustrations by George Avison

Originally published in St. Nicholas Magazine, December 1912, exactly one hundred years ago.
Oddities of spelling and the spacing of contractions have been retained.
 

The boy realized he had made a mistake before he had driven the big touring car a half-mile along this dreadful lane. The map had shown the road Fennport clearly enough, but it was such a roundabout way that, when the boy came to this crossing, he decided to chance it, hoping it would get him to Fennport much quicker. The landscape was barren of interest, the farm-houses few and far between, and the cross-road seemed as promising as the main way. Meanwhile, at Fennport, the county fair was progressing, and there was no use wasting time on the road.

The promise faded after a short stretch; rust and ditches appeared; rotten culverts and sandy hollows threatened the safety of the car. The boy frowned, but doggedly kept going. He must be fully half-way to another road by this time, and, if he could manage to keep on without breaking a spring or ripping a tire, it would be as well to continue as to turn back.

Suddenly the engines began muttering and hesitated in doing their duty. The boy caught the warning sound, and instantly divined the reason; he had forgotten to replenish the gasolene before starting, and the tank was about empty. Casting a quick, inquiring glance around, he saw the roof of a farm-house showing through the trees just ahead. That was a joyful sight, for he had scarcely dared hope to find a building upon this unused, seemingly abandoned lane. He adjusted the carbureter, and urged the engines to feed upon the last drops of the precious fluid they could absorb. Slowly, with staggering gait, the automobile pushed forward until just opposite the farm-house, when, with a final moan, the engines gave up the struggle, and the car stopped dead.

Then the boy turned and looked at the lonely dwelling. It was a small, primitive sort of building, ancient and weather-stained. There was a simple garden at the front, which faced the grove and not the lane, and farther along, stood a rickety, rambling barn that was considerably larger than the house.

Upon a tiny side porch of the dwelling, directly facing the road, sat an old woman with a battered tin pan full of rosy-cheeked apples in her lap. She was holding a knife in one hand and a half-pared apple in the other. Her mouth was wide open in amazement, her spectacled eyes staring fixedly at the automobile--as if it had been a magical apparition and the boy a weird necromancer who had conjured it up.

He laughed a little at the amusing expression of the old woman, for he was a good-humored boy in spite of his present vexations. Then, springing to the ground, he walked toward the porch and removed his cap, to make a graceful bow. She did not alter her pose, and, with eyes still fixed upon the car, she gasped:

"Laws-a-me! if it ain't one o' them no-hoss keeridges."

"Nothing wonderful about that, is there?" asked the boy, smiling, as he reached the porch.

"Why not?" said she; "ain't they the mos' wunnerful things in all the world? Mart'n Luther's seen 'em in town, an' told me about 'em, but I never thought as I 'd see one with my own eyes."

Her awe and interest were so intense that, as yet, she had not glanced once at the boy's face. He laughed, in his quiet way, as he leaned over the porch rail, but it occurred to him that there was something pathetic in the fact that the lonely old woman had never seen an automobile before.

"Don't you ever go to town yourself?" he asked curiously.

She shook her head. "Not often, though sometimes I do," she replied. "Went to Fennport a year ago las' June, an' put in a whole day there. But it tired me, the waggin jolts so. I'm too old now fer sech doin's, an' Mart'n Luther 'lows it ain't wuth payin toll-gate both ways for. He has to go sometimes, you know, to sell truck an' buy groceries; he 's there to-day, 'tendin' the county fair; bit I 've stayed home an' minded my own business 'til I hain't got much hankerin' fer travel any more."

During this speech, she reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the automobile and turned them upon the boy's face. He was regarding her placid features with a wonder almost equal to her own. It seemed so strange to find one so isolated and secluded from the world, and so resigned to such a fate.

"No near neighbors?" he said.

"The Bascomes live two miles north, but Mis' Bascome an' I don't git on well. She ain't never had religion."

"But you go to church?"

"Certain sure, boy! But our church ain't town way, you know; it 's over to Hobbs' Corners. Ev'ry Sunday fer that las' year, I 've been lookin' out for them no-hoss waggins, thinkin' one might pass the Corners. But none ever did."

"This is a queer, forsaken corner of the world," the boy said reflectively. "and yet it 's in the heart of one of the most populous and progressive States in the Union."

"You 're right 'bout that," she agreed. "Silas Herrin 's bought the lates' style thrash'n'-machine--all painted red--an' I guess the county fair at Fennport makes the rest o' th world open its eyes some. We 're ahead of 'em all on progressin', as Mart'n Luther 's said more 'n once."

"Who is Martin Luther?" asked the boy.

"He 's my man. His name 's Mart'n Luther Sager, an' I 'm Aunt 'Phroney Sager--the which my baptism name is Sophroney. Mart'n Luther were named fer the great Meth'dis' preacher. He had a hankerin' to be a Baptis' in his young days, but he das n't with such a name. So he j'ined the Meth'dists to make things harmoni'us, an' he 's never regretted it."

The boy smiled in an amused way, but he did not laugh at her. There was something in her simple, homely speech, as well as in the expression of her face, that commanded respect. Her eyes were keen, yet gentle; her lips firm, yet smiling; her aged, wrinkled features complacent and confident, yet radiating a childlike innocence.

"Ain't ye 'fraid to run the thing?" she asked, reverting to the automobile.

"No, indeed. It 's as simple as a sewing-machine--when you know how."

"I 'd like to see it go. It come so sudden-like past the grove that when I looked up, you 'd stopped short."

"I 'd like to see it go myself, Aunt 'Phroney," the boy answered; "But it won't move a step unless you help it. Just think, Ma'am, you 've never seen a motor-car before, and yet the big machine can't move without your assistance! "

She knew he was joking, and returned his merry smile; but the speech puzzled her.

"As how, boy?" she inquired.

"The 'no-hoss keeridge' is a hungry monster, and has to be fed before he 'll work. I hope you will feed him, Aunt 'Phroney."

"On what?"

"Gasolene. I forgot to fill up the tank before I started, and now the last drop is gone."

"Gasolene!" she exclaimed, with a startled look; "why, we don't keep gasolene, child. How on earth do you expec' to find sech a thing in a farm-house?"

"Don't you cook with gasolene?" he asked.

"My, no! We use good chopped wood--splinters and knots. Mis' Bascome had a gas'lene stove once, but it bu'sted an' set fire to the baby; so they buried it in the back yard. "

"The baby?"

"No, boy; the stove. They managed to put the baby out."

This statement puzzled him, but his mind was more on the gasolene.

"Does n't your husband use gasolene around the farm?" he inquired.

"No, 'ndeed."

"And you have n't any naphtha or benzine--just a little?"

"Not a drop. "

"Nor alcohol?"

"Mercy, no!"

The boy's face fell. "Where is the nearest place I might get some gasolene?" he asked.

"Lemme see. Harpers' might have it--that 's six mile' west--or Clark's store might have some, at Everdale. That 's seven mile' off, but I ain't sure they keep it. The only place they 're sure to have it is over to Fennport, which is 'leven mile' from here by the turnpike."

The boy considered all this seriously. "Can I borrow a horse from you--and a buggy?" he asked.

"Mart'n Luther 's gone to town with the only team we own. We ain't had a buggy fer twenty-two years.

He sighed, and sat down on the steps, looking disconsolately toward the big touring car that was now so helpless. Aunt 'Phroney resumed her task of paring the apples, but now and then she also would glance admiringly at the automobile.

"Come far?" she presently inquired.

"From Durham."

"To-day? Why, Durham 's thirty mile' from here."

"I know; that 's only an hour's run, with good roads."

"Mercy me!"

"But the roads are not good in this neighborhood. I wanted to run over to Fennport to see the fair. I thought there might be some fun there, and I 'd jog over this morning and run back home to-night. That would n't have been any trick at all, if I had n't forgotten the gasolene."

"Live in Durham?" she asked.

"Yes; Father has the bank there."

"Pretty big town, I 've heard."

"Why, it 's only a village. And a stupid, tiresome village at that. Lonely, too. That 's why Father got this touring car; he said it would help to amuse me. May I have an apple?"

Aunt 'Phroney smiled indulgently, and handed him an apple from the pan. The idea of one who lived in the thriving, busy town of Durham becoming lonely filled her with amusement. For her part, she had n't left the old farm-house, except to go to church, for nearly two years, and days at a time she never saw a human being other than her silent, morose husband. Yet she was not lonely--not really lonely--only at times did her isolation weigh upon her spirits.

"Got a mother, child?" she softly inquired.

He nodded, biting the apple.

"Mother 's an invalid. She does n't leave, her own rooms, and keeps two trained nurses and a special cook, and she studies social science--and such things."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know; it 's only a name to Father and me. But Father has the bank to interest him, and as I 'm not ready for the bank yet, he lets me run the automobile."

Aunt 'Phroney gave him a pitying look.

"Guess I un'erstan' your hist'ry now," she said gently. "You need n't say no more 'bout it. Hev another apple?"

"I will, thank you. They 're fine. Grow 'em here?"

"Yes. Mart'n Luther 's entered a peck at the county fair, an' hopes to git the premium. It 's two dollars, in cash. He 's put up our Plymouth Rock rooster an' some pertaters fer prizes, too, an' seein' he 's entered 'em, it don't cost him anything to get into the fair grounds--only the ten cents fer toll-gate."

"Why did n't you go with him?" asked the boy.

Aunt 'Phroney flushed a little. "That some more hist'ry--the kind that 's better not studied," she remarked quietly. "Mart'n Luther took it from his pa, I guess. His pa once cried like a baby when he lost four cents through a whole in his pocket. After that, ev'ry penny was kep' strapped up in his leather pocket-book, which were never unstrapped without a groan. Yes, Mart'n Luther 's a' honest man. an' God-fearin'; but I guess he takes after his pa."

The boy finished his apple.

"Come out and see our touring car," he said. "I 'd like to show it to you, although I can't take you to ride in it."

"Thank you," she eagerly replied. ''I 'll come in a minute. Let me git this apple-sass started cookin' first."

She went into the kitchen with the apples, but soon came back, and with a brisk air followed the boy across the patch of rank grass to the road.

"I can't walk six miles or more, you know, " he remarked, "and lug a can of gasolene back with me; so I 'll have to wait until your husband comes back to-night with the team. You don't mind my staying with you, do you?"

"Of course not," she answered. "I like boys--boys like you, that is. We--we never had no children of our own."

He showed her all the parts of the automobile, and explained how they worked and what they were for, all in a simple way that enabled her readily to understand. She was in a flutter of excitement at her close proximity to the wonderful invention, and the luxury of the seats, and interior fittings filled her with awe. At first, he could not induce Aunt 'Phroney to enter the car and sit down upon the soft cushions, but, after much urging, she finally yielded, and was frankly delighted at the experience.

"It must 'a' cost a lot o' money," she observed.

"I guess your pa is pretty good to you. Like enough he did n't take after any one with a strapped pocket-book."

''No," laughed the boy; "Father is always kind to me. But I wish--I wish--"

"What, child?"

"I wish we lived together on a farm like this, where we could enjoy each other. All day he 's at the bank, you know."

"If he worked the farm," said the woman, "you would n't see much of him then, either, 'cept at meal-time. Mart'n Luther gits up at daylight, works in the fields all day, an' goes to bed after supper. In heaven we may find time to enjoy the sassiety of our friends, but p'r'aps there 'll be so much company there, it won't matter."

"I think," said the boy, solemnly, "we need a good deal more here than we shall need in heaven. Does any one get what he needs, I wonder?"

"Some may, but not many," she rejoined cheerfully. "Some of us don't get even gasolene, you know. Funny, ain't it, how such a little thing can spoil a great big creation like this? Why, in some ways, it beats Silas Herrin's new thrash'n'-machine; but it ain't so useful, 'cause the thrash'n'-machine runs along the road without horses to where it wants to go, an' then its injynes do the thrashin' better 'n hands can do it."

"I 've never really examined one," he replied thoughtfully; "it must be very interesting."

"Come into the barn." she said, "an' I 'll show you Silas Herrin's new one. He brought it here yest'day, but he an' all his crew are at the fair to-day, an' they won't begin thrashin' our crop till nex' Monday."

He followed her to the barn, willing to while away the time examining the big thresher. It filled nearly all the clear space on the barn floor, and towered half as high as the haymow. With its bright red body and diverse mechanical parts, the machine certainly presented an imposing appearance. The boy examined it with much curiosity.

"There are two distinct engines," he said musingly; "one a motor, I suppose, and one to do the work. The big one runs by steam, but this smaller one seems a gasolene engine."

"Perhaps it is," said the woman; "I never had it explained to me like you did your own machine."

"If it is," he suddenly exclaimed, "there must be some gasolene among Mr. Herrin's traps to run it with! If I can only find it, I 'll borrow enough to get me to Fennport."

Eagerly, now, he began the search, the woman looking on with interest. In a short time, he drew out from the interior of the thresher a ten-gallon can, which proved to be filled with the fluid he sought.

"Hooray!" be cried joyfully. "We 'll have our ride, after all. Aunt 'Phroney."

"It--it ain't stealin', is it?" she asked doubtfully. "This all b'longs to Silas Herrin, you know."

"It 's a law of the road, ma'am, that any one needing gasolene has the right to help himself--if he pays for what he lakes. I 'll pay Silas Herrin a good price, and he 'll have plenty left to run his engine with."

He got a bucket, measured out about three gallons, and placed a silver dollar on top of the can for payment. Then, when he had "fed" his automobile, an operation watched carefully by the old woman, the boy turned and said:

"Aunt 'Phroney, I 've a proposition to make. Get on your things, and I 'll take you to the fair at Fennport and give you a good time."

"Land sakes, boy!" she cried, holding up both hands; "I could n't think of it."

"Why not?"

"There 's the work to do."

"Cut it out for to-day. Martin Luther 's having a holiday, and I 'm sure you 're entitled to one, too."

"He--he might be mad."

"I don't see why. It won't cost him a cent, you know, and perhaps we won't see him at all. We 'll have a good dinner somewhere, see all the sights, have a fine auto ride, and I 'll fetch yon home in plenty of time to get supper for your husband."

The temptation was too strong to be resisted. Aunt 'Phroney's face broke into a beaming smile, and she hurried into the house to get on her "bes' bib an' tucker."

Her reappearance caused the boy's eyes to twinkle. She wore a plain, black gown, baggy and ill made, an old-fashioned "Peasley" shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and a wonderful hat that no milliner would have recognized as modern head-gear. But the boy did not mind. He helped her to the seat beside him, saw that she was comfortable, and started the engines slowly, so as not to alarm her.

The lane from the farm-house to the Fennport turnpike was in much better condition than the other end, which Aunt 'Phroney said was seldom used by any one. They traversed it with merely a few bumps, and on reaching the turnpike glided along so smoothly, that the old woman was in an ecstasy of delight.

"I almos' hope Mart'n Luther will see us,'' she remarked. "Would n't he be s'prised, though, to see me in this stylish no-hoss keeridge?"

"I think he would," said the boy.

"An' jealous, too. Mart'n Luther says I take life easier ner he does, 'though my work 's jus' as hard fer me as his is fer him. Only diffrence is, I don't complain."

"Is--is your husband a poor man?" the boy hazarded.

"Goodness, no! Mart'n Luther 's pretty well off, I 'm told. Not by him, mind you. He only tells me what he can't afford. But our minister once said he would n't be s'prised if Mart'n Luther had a thousan' dollars laid up! It 's a pretty good farm, an' he works it himself. An' he's so keerful o' spendin'."

"Does n't he give you money for--for clothes and--and things?"

"Oh, yes; he 's good 'bout that. We made an agreement, once, an' he 's stuck to it like a man. Ev'ry New-Year's, he gives me five dollars for dresses an' hats, an' ev'ry Fourth o' July I git fifty cents an' no questions asked."

The boy's eyes grew big at this.

"Does n't he spend anything on himself, either?" he inquired.

"A little, of course. He gits his clo's second-hand from the drug-store keeper, who 's about the same size as Mart'n Luther, but some fatter, an' he puts five cents in the contribution box ev'ry Sunday, an'--an'--well, there 's the toll-gate he has to pay for ev'ry time he goes to town. That toll-gate makes him orful mad. We 're comin' to it pretty soon. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," he cried, laughing merrily.

"Mart'n Luther 's savin', an' no mistake." she continued musingly, "He would n't let me put him up no lunch to-day, 'cause he said Tom Dwyer would he sure to ask him to eat with him, an' if he did n't, he could easy get hold o' some fruit on exhibition. He said to save the food for his supper to-night, an' he 'd git along somehow."

"He ought to he worth several thousand dollars, at that rate." observed the boy, not without indignation. "But what good is his money to him, or to you, if he does n't enjoy it? You ought to have a better allowance than you do, for you 've certainly helped him to accumulate the money."

She heaved a little sigh.

"He says he can't afford any more," she replied, "an' I 'm satisfied, as things be. I used to long to buy pretty things an' go 'round, once in a while, but I 've got all over that now. I 'm happy, an' the Lord takes keer o' me. Did n't He send you here to-day with the--this--orto--orto--machine o' yours?"

"I wonder if He did?" returned the boy, gravely. "Oh, here 's the dreadful toll-gate, Aunt 'Phroney."




It was nearly eleven o'clock when they entered the big gate of the fair grounds. The automobile attracted considerable attention, although there were two or three others in Fennport. As the boy assisted Aunt 'Phroney from the car, she was recognized by several acquaintances who frequented her church, and it was good to witness the old woman's pride and satisfaction at the looks of bewilderment that greeted her. She took the boy's arm and passed through the crowd with her chin well up, and presently they were in the main pavilion, where the largest part of the display was centered.

"Let 's look at the fruits an' veg'tibles," she eagerly exclaimed. "I want to see if Mart'n Luther 's won any prizes. Do you know, boy, he promised me all the money he won that come to over four dollars?"

"Did he, really?"

"Yes, he were feelin' quite chirky this mornin', 'fore he left, so he promised it. But if he won first prize on ev'rything, it 'd be only five dollars altogether, so I guess he did n't risk much."

They found the fruits, but Martin Luther's red apples had no ribbon on them, either blue or red.

"They don't look as good here, 'longside the others, as they did to home," sighed Aunt 'Phroney; "so I guess the jedge was correc' in lett'n' 'em pass by. Let 's see how the pertaters turned out."

Martin Luther's potatoes had failed to win. They lay just between the lots which had drawn the first and second prizes, and even the boy's inexperienced eyes could see they were inferior to the others.

"They bake well," murmured Aunt 'Phroney, "an' they bile jus' fine; but they ain't so pretty as them others, thet 's a fact. I guess Mart'n Luther won't hev to give me any of his prize-money this year--'specially as he don't git any."

"Did n't you say you had a chicken in the show?" asked the boy.

"Yes, an' a mightv fine rooster he is, if I do say it. I 've looked after him myself, ever since he were an egg, an' he 's that high an' mighty, I named him 'The Bishop.' Seems to me he 'll be hard to beat, but p'r'aps when he 's compared to others, the Bishop 'll be like the apples an' 'taters."

"Where is he?"

"The poultry show 'll be in a tent somewheres."

"Let 's find him," said the boy, almost as interested as his companion.

They inquired the way, and, in passing through the grounds to the poultry tent, they passed a crowd surrounding one of those fakers so prominent at every country fair. Aunt 'Phroney wanted to see what was going on, so the boy drew her dexterously through the circle of spectators. As soon as they reached a place of observation, the old woman gave a violent start and grabbed her escort's arm. A lean, round-shouldered man with chin whiskers was tossing rings at a board filled with jack-knives of all sizes and shapes, in a vain endeavor to "ring" one of them. He failed, and the crowd jeered. Then he drew a leather wallet from his pocket, unstrapped it, and withdrew a coin with which he purchased more delusive rings. The boy felt Aunt 'Phroney trembling beside him.




"See that ol' feller yonder?" she asked.

"Yes," said he.

"That 's Mart'n Luther!"

They watched him with breathless interest, but not one of the rings he threw managed to capture a knife. Others tried them, undeterred by the failure of the old farmer, and, after watching them a short time, out came Martin Luther's leather pocket-book again.

"Come!" whispered the woman, in deep distress; "let 's go afore I faint dead away! Who 'd believe Mart'n Luther could be sech a spen'thrift an' prodigal? I did n't b'lieve 't was in him."

The boy said nothing, but led her out of the crowd. To solace his companion's grief, he "treated" Aunt 'Phroney to pink lemonade, which had the effect of decidedly cheering her up. They found the poultry tent almost deserted, and, after a brief search, the woman recognized the Bishop. A man down the row of cages was even now judging the fowls and attaching ribbons to the winning birds as he went along.

"He 'll come to the Plymouth Rocks in a minute," whispered Aunt 'Phroney; "let 's wait an' see what happens."

It did n't take the judge very long to decide. Quite promptly he pinned a blue ribbon to the Bishop's cage, and Aunt 'Phroney exclaimed: "There! we 've got a prize at last, boy!"

The judge looked up, saw the boy, and held out his hand with a smile of recognition.

"Why, how are you, Mr. Carroll?" he exclaimed cordially; "I thought I was the only Durham man on the grounds. Did you drive your new car over?"

The boy nodded.

"They sent for me to judge this poultry show," continued the man, "but it 's the poorest lot of alleged thoroughbreds I ever saw together. Not a really good bird in the show."

"That ought to make your task easier," said the boy.

"No, it makes it harder. For instance, there's the Sweepstakes Prize for the best bird of any sort on exhibition. Tell me, how am I to make such an award, where all are undeserving?"

"Very well, I 'll tell you," returned the boy, audaciously. "If I were judging, I 'd give this fellow"--pointing to the Bishop--"the Sweepstakes."

"Eh? This fellow?" muttered the judge, eyeing Aunt 'Phroney's pet critically. "Why, I don't know but you 're right, Mr. Carroll. I had it in mind to give the Sweepstakes to that White Leghorn yonder, but this Plymouth Rock seems well set up and has good style."

The Bishop had recognized his mistress, and was strutting proudly and showing to excellent advantage. While the judge considered him, he flapped his wings and gave a lusty crow.

"I 'll take back my statement," said the man. "Here is a really good bird. Guess I 'll follow your advice, Mr. Carroll"; and he pinned a bright yellow ribbon marked "Sweepstakes" next to the blue one on the Bishop's cage.

Aunt 'Phroney drew a long breath. Her eyes were sparkling.

"How much is the Sweepstakes, jedge?" she inquired.

"It 's the largest money prize offered--twenty-five dollars--and there 's a silver water-pitcher besides. I 'm sorry such a liberal premium did not bring out a better display. But I must hurry and make my report, for I want to catch the two o'clock train home. Good day, Mr. Carroll."

As he bowed and left the tent, Aunt 'Phroney was staring proudly at the Bishop.

"Twenty-five dollars!" she gasped, "an' two dollars first prize for Plymouth Rocks! Twenty-seven dollars an' a silver pitcher! Boy, do you know what this means? It means I 'll git twenty-three dollars--an' Mart'n Luther 'll git jus' four.

"Will he keep his promise?" the boy asked.

"Yes. Mart'n Luther 's a' honest man, an' God-fearin'--but he ain't got much jedgment 'bout ringin' jack-knives. Dear me, who 'd ever think he 'd turn out a squanderer?"

The boy took her away to the big dining-hall. It was divided into two sections by a rail. On one side was a sign reading: "Square Meal, 25c.'' On the other side was the legend: "Regular Dinner, with Oysters and Ice-Cream, 50c."

Disregarding his companion's protests, the boy led her into the latter section, which had few patrons compared with the cheaper one. No sooner had Aunt 'Phroney tucked her napkin under her chin than she grew pale and stared amazed across the rail. The boy's eyes followed hers and recognized Martin Luther seated at a table facing them, and eating with ravenous industry.

"Twenty-five cents gone--an' he might 'a' took the lunch I offered him!" wailed the old woman. Perhaps the magnetism of their combined gaze affected Martin Luther, for he raised his eyes and encountered his wife's horrified stare. The man was justified in being equally astonished. Motionless, with a piece of beef poised half-way to his mouth, he glared alternately at the strange boy and at Aunt 'Phroney. His face betokened bewilderment, shame at being discovered, and, at the last, an unreasoning panic. He slowly rose to his feet, turned his back, and ignominiously fled from the hall.

"Never mind," said the woman, her lips firmly set, "he 'll know he 's got somethin' to explain when he gits home; an' if Mart'n Luther ever hears the last o' them jack-knives an' his prodigal 'square meal,' my name ain't Sophroney Sager!"

After the dinner, with its accompanying luxuries of oysters and ice cream, was over, they saw the balloon ascension and the races; and then, early in the afternoon, the boy put Aunt 'Phroney into the touring car and they drove to Fennport, where the tank was filled with gasolene. During this operation, the boy noticed that the old woman shivered slightly in the cool autumn weather, and drew her thin shawl more closely around her as she sat waiting in the car.

"You ought to have brought a heavy coat," he said.

"Why, I have n't got any," she returned, smiling at him cheerfully.

"No coat! What do you wear in winter, when you go to church?" the boy asked.

"When it 's real cold, I wrap a comforter 'round me on the way, an' then wear this shawl into church. Aunt Sally left it to me when she died. It 's real Peasley."

"Get out of the car, Please, Aunt 'Phroney," the boy said quietly.

"Why cert'nly, if you say so; but what for?"

"I had a birthday last week, and Father gave me a check. I want to buy a present for my best girl at this store, and I wish you to help me pick it out."

She went in, then, full of interest, and the boy whispered to the clerk, who began to display a collection of thick, warm coats in sober colors.

"Try this one on, Aunt 'Phroney," urged the boy.

Suddenly she became suspicious, and flushed like a school-girl.

"Boy," she began, "if you dare--"

"Hush, please!" he pleaded. "Do you want to shame me before all these strangers? And spoil my birthday? And prove that I have n't any best girl?"

The appeal was effective. The old woman meekly submitted to the "try-on," and presently he said to the clerk: "This one will do. Mrs. Sager will take it with her and wear it home, as the air is a bit chilly."




Before she could recover from her dazed condition, they were once more in the automobile and speeding down the turnpike toward the farm.

"Feel warm enough, Aunt 'Phroney?" asked the boy, turning a merry face toward her. Then he saw that her eyes were full of tears. She nestled closer to him and murmured softly: "You know, boy, we--we never had a chick or a child of our own!"




That evening father and son were seated in the banker's library.

"I spent twenty dollars of my birthday money, to-day," said the boy.

"Indeed. In what way?"

"Trying to make an old country woman happy."

"Really, my son?"

"Really, Father; and I think--I 'm quite sure--that I succeeded."

And then he told him the whole story.


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 16 and 23, 1919.

Last Week's Puzzles

The Forgetful Poet is pleased to learn that you guessed the missing words in his verses to be mincemeat, Thanksgiving, head, bed, dishes and Thanksgiving!

The Forgetful Poet

So many of you guessed the dear fellow's missing words that he is simply amazed. He wants to know how you knew Thanksgiving was coming. "Dear knows," I said, and he snapped his fingers and said he guessed nose was right and that your dear noses had given the secret away.

"How many raisins in a fruit cake?" he asked me.

"What nonsense!" I said crossly. "Can't you make up a regular riddle?" He said no; that he felt too funny.

"Did your ancestors come over in the Mayflower?" he asked next. "That is a riddle." I saw he had something on his mind, so instead of answering said:

"Did yours?"

"No, on the Cauliflower!" he chuckled. That was too much, so I went out and closed the door. On my return I found a paper with these riddles scrawled upon it:

What Nuts?

A nut that is a favorite
  With boys and girls is found
In a letter of the alphabet,
  And, after thought profound.

I've found a girl's name gives another!
  Dairy products two
Will add two more and that makes four.
  A certain part of you

Will give us five, and, word alive,
  Part of a room one more!
Ha, ho, hum, and that's enough,
  These riddles are a bore.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2012 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.