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THE ENCHANTED TYPES, An American Fairy Tale, by L. Frank Baum
One time
a knook became tired of his beautiful life and longed for something new to do. The knooks have more wonderful powers than
any other immortal folk--except, perhaps, the fairies and ryls. So one would suppose that a knook who might gain anything
he desired by a simple wish could not be otherwise than happy and contented. But such was not the case with Popopo, the knook
we are speaking of. He had lived thousands of years, and had enjoyed all the wonders he could think of. Yet life had become
as tedious to him now as it might be to one who was unable to gratify a single wish.
Finally, by chance, Popopo
thought of the earth people who dwell in cities, and so he resolved to visit them and see how they lived. This would surely
be fine amusement, and serve to pass away many wearisome hours.
Therefore one morning, after a breakfast so dainty
that you could scarcely imagine it, Popopo set out for the earth and at once was in the midst of a big city.
His
own dwelling was so quiet and peaceful that the roaring noise of the town startled him. His nerves were so shocked that before
he had looked around three minutes he decided to give up the adventure, and instantly returned home.
This satisfied
for a time his desire to visit the earth cities, but soon the monotony of his existence again made him restless and gave him
another thought. At night the people slept and the cities would be quiet. He would visit them at night.
So at the
proper time Popopo transported himself in a jiffy to a great city, where he began wandering about the streets. Everyone was
in bed. No wagons rattled along the pavements; no throngs of busy men shouted and halloaed. Even the policemen slumbered slyly
and there happened to be no prowling thieves abroad.
His nerves being soothed by the stillness, Popopo began to
enjoy himself. He entered many of the houses and examined their rooms with much curiosity. Locks and bolts made no difference
to a knook, and he saw as well in darkness as in daylight.
After a time he strolled into the business portion of
the city. Stores are unknown among the immortals, who have no need of money or of barter and exchange; so Popopo was greatly
interested by the novel sight of so many collections of goods and merchandise.
During his wanderings he entered
a millinery shop, and was surprised to see within a large glass case a great number of women's hats, each bearing in one position
or another a stuffed bird. Indeed, some of the most elaborate hats had two or three birds upon them.
Now knooks
are the especial guardians of birds, and love them dearly. To see so many of his little friends shut up in a glass case annoyed
and grieved Popopo, who had no idea they had purposely been placed upon the hats by the milliner. So he slid back one of the
doors of the case, gave the little chirruping whistle of the knooks that all birds know well, and called:
"Come,
friends; the door is open--fly out!"
Popopo did not know the birds were stuffed; but, stuffed or not, every
bird is bound to obey a knook's whistle and a knook's call. So they left the hats, flew out of the case and began fluttering
about the room.
"Poor dears!" said the kind-hearted knook, "you long to be in the fields and forests
again."
Then he opened the outer door for them and cried: "Off with you! Fly away, my beauties, and be
happy again."
The astonished birds at once obeyed, and when they had soared away into the night air the knook
closed the door and continued his wandering through the streets.
By dawn he saw many interesting sights, but day
broke before he had finished the city, and he resolved to come the next evening a few hours earlier.
As soon as
it was dark the following day he came again to the city and on passing the millinery shop noticed a light within. Entering
he found two women, one of whom leaned her head upon the table and sobbed bitterly, while the other strove to comfort her.
Of course Popopo was invisible to mortal eyes, so he stood by and listened to their conversation.
"Cheer
up, sister," said one. "Even though your pretty birds have all been stolen the hats themselves remain."
"Alas!" cried the other, who was the milliner, "no one will buy my hats partly trimmed, for the fashion
is to wear birds upon them. And if I cannot sell my goods I shall be utterly ruined."
Then she renewed her
sobbing and the knook stole away, feeling a little ashamed to realized that in his love for the birds he had unconsciously
wronged one of the earth people and made her unhappy.
This thought brought him back to the millinery shop later
in the night, when the two women had gone home. He wanted, in some way, to replace the birds upon the hats, that the poor
woman might be happy again. So he searched until he came upon a nearby cellar full of little gray mice, who lived quite undisturbed
and gained a livelihood by gnawing through the walls into neighboring houses and stealing food from the pantries.
"Here are just the creatures," thought Popopo, "to place upon the woman's hats. Their fur is almost as soft
as the plumage of the birds, and it strikes me the mice are remarkably pretty and graceful animals. Moreover, they now pass
their lives in stealing, and were they obliged to remain always upon women's hats their morals would be much improved."
So he exercised a charm that drew all the mice from the cellar and placed them upon the hats in the glass case, where
they occupied the places the birds had vacated and looked very becoming--at least, in the eyes of the unworldly knook. To
prevent their running about and leaving the hats Popopo rendered them motionless, and then he was so pleased with his work
that he decided to remain in the shop and witness the delight of the milliner when she saw how daintily her hats were now
trimmed.
She came in the early morning, accompanied by her sister, and her face wore a sad and resigned expression.
After sweeping and dusting the shop and drawing the blinds she opened the glass case and took out a hat.
But when
she saw a tiny gray mouse nestling among the ribbons and laces she gave a loud shriek, and, dropping the hat, sprang with
one bound to the top of the table. The sister, knowing the shriek to be one of fear, leaped upon a chair and exclaimed:
"What is it? Oh! what is it?"
"A mouse!" gasped the milliner, trembling with terror.
Popopo, seeing this commotion, now realized that mice are especially disagreeable to human beings, and that he had
made a grave mistake in placing them upon the hats; so he gave a low whistle of command that was heard only by the mice.
Instantly they all jumpped from the hats, dashed out the open door of the glass case and scampered away to their cellar.
But this action so frightened the milliner and her sister that after giving several loud screams they fell upon their backs
on the floor and fainted away.
Popopo was a kind-hearted knook, but on witnessing all this misery, caused by his
own ignorance of the ways of humans, he straightway wished himself at home, and so left the poor women to recover as best
they could.
Yet he could not escape a sad feeling of responsibility, and after thinking upon the matter he decided
that since he had caused the milliner's unhappiness by freeing the birds, he could set the matter right by restoring them
to the glass case. He loved the birds, and disliked to condemn them to slavery again; but that seemed the only way to end
the trouble.
So he set off to find the birds. They had flown a long distance, but it was nothing to Popopo to reach
them in a second, and he discovered them sitting upon the branches of a big chestnut tree and singing gayly.
When
they saw the knook the birds cried:
"Thank you, Popopo. Thank you for setting us free."
"Do
not thank me," returned the knook, "for I have come to send you back to the millinery shop."
"Why?"
demanded a blue jay, angrily, while the others stopped their songs.
"Because I find the woman considers you
her property, and your loss has caused her much unhappiness," answered Popopo.
"But remember how unhappy
we were in her glass case," said a robin redbreast, gravely. "And as for being her property, you are a knook, and
the natural guardian of all birds; so you know that Nature created us free. To be sure, wicked men shot and stuffed us, and
sold us to the milliner; but the idea of our being her property is nonsense!"
Popopo was puzzled.
"If I leave you free," he said, "wicked men will shoot you again, and you will be no better off than before."
"Pooh!" exclaimed the blue jay, "we cannot be shot now, for we are stuffed. Indeed, two men fired several
shots at us this morning, but the bullets only ruffled our feathers and buried themselves in our stuffing. We do not fear
men now."
"Listen!" said Popopo, sternly, for he felt the birds were getting the best of the argument;
"the poor milliner's business will be ruined if I do not return you to her shop. It seems you are necessary to trim the
hats properly. It is the fashion for women to wear birds upon their headgear. So the poor milliner's wares, although beautified
by lace and ribbons, are worthless unless you are perched upon them."
"Fashions," said a black bird,
solemnly, "are made by men. What law is there, among birds or knooks, that requires us to be the slaves of fashion?"
"What have we to do with fashions, anyway?" screamed a linnet. "If it were the fashion to wear knooks
perched upon women's hats would you be contented to stay there? Answer me, Popopo!"
But Popopo was in despair.
He could not wrong the birds by sending them back to the milliner, nor did he wish the milliner to suffer by their loss. So
he went home to think what could be done.
After much meditation he decided to consult the king of the knooks, and
going at once to his majesty he told him the whole story.
The king frowned.
"This should teach
you the folly of interfering with earth people," he said. "But since you have caused all this trouble, it is your
duty to remedy it. Our birds cannot be enslaved, that is certain; therefore you must have the fashions changed, so it will
no longer be stylish for women to wear birds upon their hats."
"How shall I do that?" asked Popopo.
"Easily enough. Fashions often change among the earth people, who tire quickly of any one thing. When they read
in their newspapers and magazines that the style is so-and-so, they never question the matter, but at once obey the mandate
of fashion. So you must visit the newspapers and magazines and enchant the types."
"Enchant the types!"
echoed Popopo, in wonder.
"Just so. Make them read that it is no longer the fashion to wear birds upon hats.
That will afford relief to your poor milliner and at the same time set free thousands of our darling birds who have been so
cruelly used."
Popopo thanked the wise king and followed his advice.
The office of every newspaper
and magazine in the city was visited by the knook, and then he went to other cities, until there was not a publication in
the land that had not a "new fashion note" in its pages. Sometimes Popopo enchanted the types, so that whoever read
the print would see only what the knook wished them to. Sometimes he called upon the busy editors and befuddled their brains
until they wrote exactly what he wanted them to. Mortals seldom know how greatly they are influenced by fairies, knooks and
ryls, who often put thoughts into their heads that only the wise little immortals could have conceived.
The following
morning when the poor milliner looked over her newspaper she was overjoyed to read that "no woman could now wear a bird
upon her hat and be in style, for the newest fashion required only ribbons and laces."
Popopo after this found
much enjoyment in visiting every millinery shop he could find and giving new life to the stuffed birds which were carelessly
tossed aside as useless. And they flew to the fields and forests with songs of thanks to the good knook who had rescued them.
Sometimes a hunter fires his gun at a bird and then wonders why he did not hit it. But, having read this story, you
will understand that the bird must have been a stuffed one from some millinery shop, which cannot, of course, be killed by
a gun.
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THE GIRL WHO OWNED A BEAR, An American Fairy Tale, by L. Frank Baum
Mamma
had gone down-town to shop. She had asked Nora to look after Jane Gladys, and Nora promised she would. But it was her afternoon
for polishing the silver, so she stayed in the pantry and left Jane Gladys to amuse herself alone in the big sitting-room
upstairs.
The little girl did not mind being alone, for she was working on her first piece of embroidery--a sofa
pillow for papa's birthday present. So she crept into the big bay window and curled herself up on the broad sill while she
bent her brown head over her work.
Soon the door opened and closed again, quietly. Jane Gladys thought it was Nora,
so she didn't look up until she had taken a couple more stitches on a forget-me-not. Then she raised her eyes and was astonished
to find a strange man in the middle of the room, who regarded her earnestly.
He was short and fat, and seemed to
be breathing heavily from his climb up the stairs. He held a work silk hat in one hand and underneath his other elbow was
tucked a good-sized book. He was dressed in a black suit that looked old and rather shabby, and his head was bald upon the
top.
"Excuse me," he said, while the child gazed at him in solemn surprise. "Are you Jane Gladys
Brown?"
"Yes, sir," she answered.
"Very good; very good, indeed!" he remarked,
with a queer sort of smile. "I've had quite a hunt to find you, but I've succeeded at last."
"How
did you get in?" inquired Jane Gladys, with a growing distrust of her visitor.
"That is a secret,"
he said, mysteriously.
This was enough to put the girl on her guard. She looked at the man and the man looked at
her, and both looks were grave and somewhat anxious.
"What do you want?" she asked, straightening herself
up with a dignified air.
"Ah!--now we are coming to business," said the man, briskly. "I'm going
to be quite frank with you. To begin with, your father has abused me in a most ungentlemanly manner."
Jane
Gladys got off the window sill and pointed her small finger at the door.
"Leave this room 'meejitly!"
she cried, her voice trembling with indignation. "My papa is the best man in the world. He never 'bused anybody!"
"Allow me to explain, please," said the visitor, without paying any attention to her request to go away.
"Your father may be very kind to you, for you are his little girl, you know. But when he's down-town in his office he's
inclined to be rather severe, especially on book agents. Now, I called on him the other day and asked him to buy the 'Complete
Works of Peter Smith,' and what do you suppose he did?"
She said nothing.
"Why," continued
the man, with growing excitement, "he ordered me from his office, and had me put out of the building by the janitor!
What do you think of such treatment as that from the 'best papa in the world,' eh?"
"I think he was quite
right," said Jane Gladys.
"Oh, you do? Well," said the man, "I resolved to be revenged for
the insult. So, as your father is big and strong and a dangerous man, I have decided to be revenged upon his little girl."
Jane Gladys shivered.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to present
you with this book," he answered, taking it from under his arm. Then he sat down on the edge of a chair, placed his hat
on the rug and drew a fountain pen from his vest pocket.
"I'll write your name in it," said he. "How
do you spell Gladys?"
"G-l-a-d-y-s," she replied.
"Thank you. Now this," he
continued, rising and handing her the book
with a bow, "is my revenge for your father's treatment of me. Perhaps
he'll be sorry he didn't buy the 'Complete Works of Peter Smith.' Good-by, my dear."
He walked to the door,
gave her another bow, and left the room, and Jane Gladys could see that he was laughing to himself as if very much amused.
When the door had closed behind the queer little man the child sat down in the window again and glanced at the book.
It had a red and yellow cover and the word "Thingamajigs" was across the front in big letters.
Then she
opened it, curiously, and saw her name written in black letters upon the first white leaf.
"He was a funny
little man," she said to herself, thoughtfully.
She turned the next leaf, and saw a big picture of a clown,
dressed in green and red and yellow, and having a very white face with three-cornered spots of red on each cheek and over
the eyes. While she looked at this the book trembled in her hands, the leaf crackled and creaked and suddenly the clown jumped
out of it and stood upon the floor beside her, becoming instantly as big as any ordinary clown.
After stretching
his arms and legs and yawning in a rather impolite manner, he gave a silly chuckle and said:
"This is better!
You don't know how cramped one gets, standing so long upon a page of flat paper."
Perhaps you can imagine
how startled Jane Gladys was, and how she stared at the clown who had just leaped out of the book.
"You didn't
expect anything of this sort, did you?" he asked, leering at her in clown fashion. Then he turned around to take a look
at the room and Jane Gladys laughed in spite of her astonishment.
"What amuses you?" demanded the clown.
"Why, the back of you is all white!" cried the girl. "You're only a clown in front of you."
"Quite likely," he returned, in an annoyed tone. "The artist made a front view of me. He wasn't expected
to make the back of me, for that was against the page of the book."
"But it makes you look so funny!"
said Jane Gladys, laughing until her eyes were moist with tears.
The clown looked sulky and sat down upon a chair
so she couldn't see his back.
"I'm not the only thing in the book," he remarked, crossly.
This
reminded her to turn another page, and she had scarcely noted that it contained the picture of a monkey when the animal sprang
from the book with a great crumpling of paper and landed upon the window seat beside her.
"He-he-he-he-he!"
chattered the creature, springing to the girl's shoulder and then to the center table. "This is great fun! Now I can
be a real monkey instead of a picture of one."
"Real monkeys can't talk," said Jane Gladys, reprovingly.
"How do you know? Have you ever been one yourself?" inquired the animal; and then he laughed loudly, and
the clown laughed, too, as if he enjoyed the remark.
The girl was quite bewildered by this time. She thoughtlessly
turned another leaf, and before she had time to look twice a gray donkey leaped from the book and stumbled from the window
seat to the floor with a great clatter.
"You're clumsy enough, I'm sure!" said the child, indignantly,
for the beast had nearly upset her.
"Clumsy! And why not?" demanded the donkey, with angry voice. "If
the fool artist had drawn you out of perspective, as he did me, I guess you'd be clumsy yourself."
"What's
wrong with you?" asked Jane Gladys.
"My front and rear legs on the left side are nearly six inches too
short, that's what's the matter! If that artist didn't know how to draw properly why did he try to make a donkey at all?"
"I don't know," replied the child, seeing an answer was expected.
"I can hardly stand up,"
grumbled the donkey; "and the least little thing will topple me over."
"Don't mind that," said
the monkey, making a spring at the chandelier and swinging from it by his tail until Jane Gladys feared he would knock all
the globes off; "the same artist has made my ears as big as that clown's and everyone knows a monkey hasn't any ears
to speak of--much less to draw."
"He should be prosecuted," remarked the clown, gloomily. "I
haven't any back."
Jane Gladys looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression upon her sweet face,
and turned another page of the book.
Swift as a flash there sprang over her shoulder a tawney, spotted leopard,
which landed upon the back of a big leather armchair and turned upon the others with a fierce movement.
The monkey
climbed to the top of the chandelier and chattered with fright. The donkey tried to run and straightway tipped over on his
left side. The clown grew paler than ever, but he sat still in his chair and gave a low whistle of surprise.
The
leopard crouched upon the back of the chair, lashed his tail from side to side and glared at all of them, by turns, including
Jane Gladys.
"Which of us are you going to attack first?" asked the donkey, trying hard to get upon his
feet again.
"I can't attack any of you," snarled the leopard. "The artist made my mouth shut, so
I haven't any teeth; and he forgot to make my claws. But I'm a frightful looking creature, nevertheless; am I not?"
"Oh, yes;" said the clown, indifferently. "I suppose you're frightful looking enough. But if you have
no teeth nor claws we don't mind your looks at all."
This so annoyed the leopard that he growled horribly,
and the monkey laughed at him.
Just then the book slipped from the girl's lap, and as she made a movement to catch
it one of the pages near the back opened wide. She caught a glimpse of a fierce grizzly bear looking at her from the page,
and quickly threw the book from her. It fell with a crash in the middle of the room, but beside it stood the great grizzly,
who had wrenched himself from the page before the book closed.
"Now," cried the leopard from his perch,
"you'd better look out for yourselves! You can't laugh at him as you did at me. The bear has both claws and teeth."
"Indeed I have," said the bear, in a low, deep, growling voice. "And I know how to use them, too. If
you read in that book you'll find I'm described as a horrible, cruel and remorseless grizzly, whose only business in life
is to eat up little girls--shoes, dresses, ribbons and all! And then, the author says, I smack my lips and glory in my wickedness."
"That's awful!" said the donkey, sitting upon his haunches and shaking his head sadly. "What do you
suppose possessed the author to make you so hungry for girls? Do you eat animals, also?"
"The author
does not mention my eating anything but little girls,"
replied the bear.
"Very good," remarked
the clown, drawing a long breath of relief. "you may begin eating Jane Gladys as soon as you wish. She laughed because
I had no back."
"And she laughed because my legs are out of perspective," brayed the donkey.
"But you also deserve to be eaten," screamed the leopard from the back of the leather chair; "for you
laughed and poked fun at me because I had no claws nor teeth! Don't you suppose Mr. Grizzly, you could manage to eat a clown,
a donkey and a monkey after you finish the girl?"
"Perhaps so, and a leopard into the bargain,"
growled the bear. "It will depend on how hungry I am. But I must begin on the little girl first, because the author says
I prefer girls to anything."
Jane Gladys was much frightened on hearing this conversation, and she began to
realize what the man meant when he said he gave her the book to be revenged. Surely papa would be sorry he hadn't bought the
"Complete Works of Peter Smith" when he came home and found his little girl eaten up by a grizzly bear--shoes, dress,
ribbons and all!
The bear stood up and balanced himself on his rear legs.
"This is the way I look
in the book," he said. "Now watch me eat the little girl."
He advanced slowly toward Jane Gladys,
and the monkey, the leopard, the donkey and the clown all stood around in a circle and watched the bear with much interest.
But before the grizzly reached her the child had a sudden thought, and cried out:
"Stop! You mustn't
eat me. It would be wrong."
"Why?" asked the bear, in surprise.
"Because I own you.
You're my private property," she answered.
"I don't see how you make that out," said the bear, in
a disappointed tone.
"Why, the book was given to me; my name's on the front leaf. And you belong, by rights,
in the book. So you mustn't dare to eat your owner!"
The Grizzly hesitated.
"Can any of you
read?" he asked.
"I can," said the clown.
"Then see if she speaks the truth. Is
her name really in the book?"
The clown picked it up and looked at the name.
"It is,"
said he. "'Jane Gladys Brown;' and written quite plainly in big letters."
The bear sighed.
"Then,
of course, I can't eat her," he decided. "That author is as disappointing as most authors are."
"But
he's not as bad as the artist," exclaimed the donkey, who was still trying to stand up straight.
"The
fault lies with yourselves," said Jane Gladys, severely. "Why didn't you stay in the book, where you were put?"
The animals looked at each other in a foolish way, and the clown blushed under his white paint.
"Really--"
began the bear, and then he stopped short.
The door bell rang loudly.
"It's mamma!" cried
Jane Gladys, springing to her feet. "She's come home at last. Now, you stupid creatures--"
But she was
interrupted by them all making a rush for the book. There was a swish and a whirr and a rustling of leaves, and an instant
later the book lay upon the floor looking just like any other book, while Jane Gladys' strange companions had all disappeared.
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THE GLASS DOG, An American Fairy Tale, by L. Frank Baum
An accomplished
wizard once lived on the top floor of a tenement house and passed his time in thoughtful study and studious thought. What
he didn't know about wizardry was hardly worth knowing, for he possessed all the books and recipes of all the wizards who
had lived before him; and, moreover, he had invented several wizardments himself.
This admirable person would have
been completely happy but for the numerous interruptions to his studies caused by folk who came to consult him about their
troubles (in which he was not interested), and by the loud knocks of the iceman, the milkman, the baker's boy, the laundryman
and the peanut woman. He never dealt with any of these people; but they rapped at his door every day to see him about this
or that or to try to sell him their wares. Just when he was most deeply interested in his books or engaged in watching the
bubbling of a cauldron there would come a knock at his door. And after sending the intruder away he always found he had lost
his train of thought or ruined his compound.
At length these interruptions aroused his anger, and he decided he
must have a dog to keep people away from his door. He didn't know where to find a dog, but in the next room lived a poor glass-blower
with whom he had a slight acquaintance; so he went into the man's apartment and asked:
"Where can I find a
dog?"
"What sort of a dog?" inquired the glass-blower.
"A good dog. One that will
bark at people and drive them away. One that will be no trouble to keep and won't expect to be fed. One that has no fleas
and is neat in his habits. One that will obey me when I speak to him. In short, a good dog," said the wizard.
"Such a dog is hard to find," returned the glass-blower, who was busy making a blue glass flower pot with a pink
glass rosebush in it, having green glass leaves and yellow glass roses.
The wizard watched him thoughtfully.
"Why cannot you blow me a dog out of glass?" he asked, presently.
"I can," declared
the glass-blower; "but it would not bark at people, you know."
"Oh, I'll fix that easily enough,"
replied the other. "If I could not make a glass dog bark I would be a mighty poor wizard."
"Very
well; if you can use a glass dog I'll be pleased to blow one for you. Only, you must pay for my work."
"Certainly,"
agreed the wizard. "But I have none of that horrid stuff you call money. You must take some of my wares in exchange."
The glass-blower considered the matter for a moment.
"Could you give me something to cure my rheumatism?"
he asked.
"Oh, yes; easily."
"Then it's a bargain. I'll start the dog at once. What color
of glass shall I use?"
"Pink is a pretty color," said the wizard, "and it's unusual for a dog,
isn't it?"
"Very," answered the glass-blower; "but it shall be pink."
So the
wizard went back to his studies and the glass-blower began to make the dog.
Next morning he entered the wizard's
room with the glass dog under his arm and set it carefully upon the table. It was a beautiful pink in color, with a fine coat
of spun glass, and about its neck was twisted a blue glass ribbon. Its eyes were specks of black glass and sparkled intelligently,
as do many of the glass eyes worn by men.
The wizard expressed himself pleased with the glass-blower's skill and
at once handed him a small vial.
"This will cure your rheumatism," he said.
"But the
vial is empty!" protested the glass-blower.
"Oh, no; there is one drop of liquid in it," was the
wizard's reply.
"Will one drop cure my rheumatism?" inquired the glass-blower, in
wonder.
"Most certainly. That is a marvelous remedy. The one drop contained in the vial will cure instantly any kind of disease
ever known to humanity. Therefore it is especially good for rheumatism. But guard it well, for it is the only drop of its
kind in the world, and I've forgotten the recipe."
"Thank you," said the glass-blower, and went
back to his room.
Then the wizard cast a wizzy spell and mumbled several very learned words in the wizardese language
over the glass dog. Whereupon the little animal first wagged its tail from side to side, then winked his left eye knowingly,
and at last began barking in a most frightful manner--that is, when you stop to consider the noise came from a pink glass
dog. There is something almost astonishing in the magic arts of wizards; unless, of course, you know how to do the things
yourself, when you are not expected to be surprised at them.
The wizard was as delighted as a school teacher at
the success of his spell, although he was not astonished. Immediately he placed the dog outside his door, where it would bark
at anyone who dared knock and so disturb the studies of its master.
The glass-blower, on returning to his room,
decided not to use the one drop of wizard cure-all just then.
"My rheumatism is better to-day," he reflected,
"and I will be wise to save the medicine for a time when I am very ill, when it will be of more service to me."
So he placed the vial in his cupboard and went to work blowing more roses out of glass. Presently he happened to think
the medicine might not keep, so he started to ask the wizard about it. But when he reached the door the glass dog barked so
fiercely that he dared not knock, and returned in great haste to his own room. Indeed, the poor man was quite upset at so
unfriendly a reception from the dog he had himself so carefully and skillfully made.
The next morning, as he read
his newspaper, he noticed an article stating that the beautiful Miss Mydas, the richest young lady in town, was very ill,
and the doctors had given up hope of her recovery.
The glass-blower, although miserably poor, hard-working and
homely of feature, was a man of ideas. He suddenly recollected his precious medicine, and determined to use it to better advantage
than relieving his own ills. He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed his hair and combed his whiskers, washed his
hands and tied his necktie, blackened his hoes and sponged his vest, and then put the vial of magic cure-all in his pocket.
Next he locked his door, went downstairs and walked through the streets to the grand mansion where the wealthy Miss Mydas
resided.
The butler opened the door and said:
"No soap, no chromos, no vegetables, no hair oil,
no books, no baking powder. My young lady is dying and we're well supplied for the funeral."
The glass-blower
was grieved at being taken for a peddler.
"My friend," he began, proudly; but the butler interrupted
him, saying:
"No tombstones, either; there's a family graveyard and the monument's built."
"The
graveyard won't be needed if you will permit me to speak," said the glass-blower.
"No doctors, sir; they've
given up my young lady, and she's given up the doctors," continued the butler, calmly.
"I'm no doctor,"
returned the glass-blower.
"Nor are the others. But what is your errand?"
"I called to
cure your young lady by means of a magical compound."
"Step in, please, and take a seat in the hall.
I'll speak to the housekeeper," said the butler, more politely.
So he spoke to the housekeeper and the housekeeper
mentioned the matter to the steward and the steward consulted the chef and the chef kissed the lady's maid and sent her to
see the stranger. Thus are the very wealthy hedged around with ceremony, even when dying.
When the lady's maid
heard from the glass-blower that he had a medicine which would cure her mistress, she said:
"I'm glad you
came."
"But," said he, "if I restore your mistress to health she must marry me."
"I'll make inquiries and see if she's willing," answered the maid, and went at once to consult Miss Mydas.
The young lady did not hesitate an instant.
"I'd marry any old thing rather than die!" she cried.
"Bring him here at once!"
So the glass-blower came, poured the magic drop into a little water, gave it
to the patient, and the next minute Miss Mydas was as well as she had ever been in her life.
"Dear me!"
she exclaimed; "I've an engagement at the Fritters' reception to-night. Bring my pearl-colored silk, Marie, and I will
begin my toilet at once. And don't forget to cancel the order for the funeral flowers and your mourning gown."
"But, Miss Mydas," remonstrated the glass-blower, who stood by, "you promised to marry me if I cured you."
"I know," said the young lady, "but we must have time to make proper
announcement in the society
papers and have the wedding cards engraved. Call to-morrow and we'll talk it over."
The glass-blower had not
impressed her favorably as a husband, and she was glad to find an excuse for getting rid of him for a time. And she did not
want to miss the Fritters' reception.
Yet the man went home filled with joy; for he thought his stratagem had succeeded
and he was about to marry a rich wife who would keep him in luxury forever afterward.
The first thing he did on
reaching his room was to smash his glass-blowing tools and throw them out of the window.
He then sat down to figure
out ways of spending his wife's money.
The following day he called upon Miss Mydas, who was reading a novel and
eating chocolate creams as happily as if she had never been ill in her life.
"Where did you get the magic
compound that cured me?" she asked.
"From a learned wizard," said he; and then, thinking it would
interest her, he told how he had made the glass dog for the wizard, and how it barked and kept everybody from bothering him.
"How delightful!" she said. "I've always wanted a glass dog that could bark."
"But
there is only one in the world," he answered, "and it belongs to the wizard."
"You must buy
it for me," said the lady.
"The wizard cares nothing for money," replied the glass-blower.
"Then you must steal it for me," she retorted. "I can never live happily another day unless I have a glass
dog that can bark."
The glass-blower was much distressed at this, but said he would see what he could do.
For a man should always try to please his wife, and Miss Mydas has promised to marry him within a week.
On his
way home he purchased a heavy sack, and when he passed the
wizard's door and the pink glass dog ran out to bark at him
he threw the sack over the dog, tied the opening with a piece of twine, and carried him away to his own room.
The
next day he sent the sack by a messenger boy to Miss Mydas, with
his compliments, and later in the afternoon he called
upon her in person, feeling quite sure he would be received with gratitude for stealing the dog she so greatly desired.
But when he came to the door and the butler opened it, what was his amazement to see the glass dog rush out and begin
barking at him furiously.
"Call off your dog," he shouted, in terror.
"I can't, sir,"
answered the butler. "My young lady has ordered the glass dog to bark whenever you call here. You'd better look out,
sir," he added, "for if it bites you, you may have glassophobia!"
This so frightened the poor glass-blower
that he went away hurriedly. But he stopped at a drug store and put his last dime in the telephone box so he could talk to
Miss Mydas without being bitten by the dog.
"Give me Pelf 6742!" he called.
"Hello! What
is it?" said a voice.
"I want to speak with Miss Mydas," said the glass-blower.
Presently
a sweet voice said: "This is Miss Mydas. What is it?"
"Why have you treated me so cruelly and set
the glass dog on me?" asked the poor fellow.
"Well, to tell the truth," said the lady, "I don't
like your looks. Your cheeks are pale and baggy, your hair is coarse and long, your eyes are small and red, your hands are
big and rough, and you are bow-legged."
"But I can't help my looks!" pleaded the glass-blower; "and
you really promised to marry me."
"If you were better looking I'd keep my promise," she returned.
"But under the circumstances you are no fit mate for me, and unless you keep away from my mansion I shall set my glass
dog on you!" Then she dropped the 'phone and would have nothing more to say.
The miserable glass-blower went
home with a heart bursting with disappointment and began tying a rope to the bedpost by which to hang himself.
Some
one knocked at the door, and, upon opening it, he saw the wizard.
"I've lost my dog," he announced.
"Have you, indeed?" replied the glass-blower tying a knot in the rope.
"Yes; some one has
stolen him."
"That's too bad," declared the glass-blower, indifferently.
"You must
make me another," said the wizard.
"But I cannot; I've thrown away my tools."
"Then
what shall I do?" asked the wizard.
"I do not know, unless you offer a reward for the dog."
"But I have no money," said the wizard.
"Offer some of your compounds, then," suggested the
glass-blower, who was making a noose in the rope for his head to go through.
"The only thing I can spare,"
replied the wizard, thoughtfully, "is a Beauty Powder."
"What!" cried the glass-blower, throwing
down the rope, "have you really such a thing?"
"Yes, indeed. Whoever takes the powder will become
the most beautiful person in the world."
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