“I ‘d like to get back to the Moon,” said the Man, “for I do n’t like this earth of yours at all. The nights are too hot.”
“Why, it ‘s quite cool this evening!” said the magistrate.
“I ‘ll tell you what we can do,” remarked the astronomer; “there ‘s a big balloon in town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer, and was pawned for a board bill. We can inflate this balloon and send the Man out of the Moon home in it.”
“That ‘s a good idea,” replied the judge. So the balloon was brought and inflated, and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let go, and then the balloon mounted up into the sky in the direction of the moon.
The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their heads, and watched the balloon go higher and higher, until finally the Man reached out and caught hold of the edge of the moon, and behold! the next minute he was the Man in the Moon again!
After this adventure he was well contented to stay at home; and I ‘ve no doubt if you look through a telescope you will see him there to this day.
The Jolly Miller
There was a jolly miller
Lived on the river Dee;
He sang and worked from morn till night,
No lark so blithe as he.
And this the burden of his song
Forever seemed to be:
I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.
“Cree-e-eekety-cruck-crick! cree-e-eekety-cruck-crick!” sang out the big wheel of the mill upon the river Dee, for it was old and ricketty and had worked many years grinding corn for the miller; so from morning till night it creaked and growled and complained as if rebelling against the work it must do. And the country people, at work in the fields far away, would raise their heads when the soft summer breezes wafted the sound of the wheel to their ears and say,
“The jolly miller is grinding his corn.” And again, at the times when the mill was shut down and no sound of the wheel reached them, they said to one another,
“The jolly miller has no corn to grind to-day,” or, “The miller is oiling the great wheel.” But they would miss the creaking, monotonous noise, and feel more content when the mill started again and made music for them as they worked.
But no one came to the mill unless they brought corn to grind, for the miller was a queer man, and liked to be alone. When people passed by the mill and saw the miller at his work, they only nodded their heads, for they knew he would not reply if they spoke to him.
He was not an old man, nor a sour man, nor a bad man; on the contrary he could be heard singing at his work most of the time. But the words of his song would alone have kept people away from him, for they were always these:
”I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.”
He lived all alone in the mill-house, cooking his own meals and making his own bed, and neither asking nor receiving help from anyone. It is very certain that if the jolly miller had cared to have friends many would have visited him, since the country people were sociable enough in their way; but it was the miller himself who refused to make friends, and old Farmer Dobson used to say,
“The reason nobody cares for the miller is because he won’t let them.
It is the fault of the man himself, not the fault of the people!”
However this may have been, it is true the miller had no friends, and equally sure that he cared to have none, for it did not make him a bit unhappy.
Sometimes, indeed, as he sat at evening in the doorway of the mill and watched the moon rise in the sky, he grew a bit lonely and thoughtful, and found himself longing for some one to love and cherish, for this is the nature of all good men. But when he realized how his thoughts were straying he began to sing again, and he drove away all such hopeless longings.
At last a change came over the miller’s life. He was standing one evening beside the river, watching the moonbeams play upon the water, when something came floating down the stream that attracted his attention. For a long time he could not tell what it was, but it looked to him like a big black box; so he got a long pole and reached it out towards the box and managed to draw it within reach just above the big wheel. It was fortunate he saved it when he did for in another moment it would have gone over the wheel and been dashed to pieces far below.
When the miller had pulled the floating object upon the bank he found it really was a box, the lid being fastened tight with a strong cord. So he lifted it carefully and carried it into the mill-house, and then he placed it upon the floor while he lighted a candle. Then he cut the cord and opened the box and behold! a little babe lay within it, sweetly sleeping upon a pillow of down.
The miller was so surprised that he stopped singing and gazed with big eyes at the beautiful face of the little stranger. And while he gazed its eyes opened — two beautiful, pleading blue eyes, — and the little one smiled and stretched out her arms toward him.
“Well, well!” said the miller, “where on earth did you come from?”
The baby did not reply, but she tried to, and made some soft little noises that sounded like the cooing of a pigeon.
The tiny arms were still stretched upwards, and the miller bent down and tenderly lifted the child from the box and placed her upon his knee, and then he began to stroke the soft, silken ringlets that clustered around her head, and to look upon her wonderingly.
The baby leaned against his breast and fell asleep again, and the miller became greatly troubled, for he was unused to babies and did not know how to handle them or care for them. But he sat very still until the little one awoke, and then, thinking it must be hungry, he brought some sweet milk and fed her with a spoon. The baby smiled at him and ate the milk as if it liked it, and then one little dimpled hand caught hold of the miller’s whiskers and pulled sturdily, while the baby jumped its little body up and down and cooed its delight.
Do you think the miller was angry? Not a bit of it! He smiled back into the laughing face and let her pull his whiskers as much as she liked. For his whole heart had gone out to this little waif that he rescued from the river, and at last the solitary man had found something to love.
The baby slept that night in the miller’s own bed, snugly tucked in beside the miller himself; and in the morning he fed her milk again, and then went out to work singing more merrily than ever.
Every few minutes he would put his head into the room where he had left the child, to see if it wanted anything, and if it cried even the least bit he would run in and take it in his arms and soothe the little girl until she smiled again.
That first day the miller was fearful some one would come and claim the child, but when evening came without the arrival of any stranger he decided the baby had been cast adrift and now belonged to nobody but him.
“I shall keep her as long as I live,” he thought, “and never will we be separated for even a day. For now that I have found some one to love I could not bear to let her go again.”
He cared for the waif very tenderly; and as the child was strong and healthy she was not much trouble to him, and to his delight grew bigger day by day.
The country people were filled with surprise when they saw a child in the mill-house, and wondered where it came from; but the miller would answer no questions, and as year after year passed away they forgot to enquire how the child came there and looked upon her as the miller’s own daughter.
She grew to be a sweet and pretty child, and was the miller’s constant companion. She called him “papa,” and he called her Nathalie, because he had found her upon the water, and the country people called her the Maid of the Mill.
The miller worked harder than ever before, for now he had to feed and clothe the little girl; and he sang from morn till night, so joyous was he, and still his song was:
”I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.”
One day, while he was singing this, he heard a sob beside him,
and looked down to see Nathalie weeping.
“What is it, my pet?” he asked, anxiously.
“Oh, papa,” she answered, “why do you sing that nobody cares for you, when you know I love you so dearly?”
The miller was surprised, for he had sung the song so long he had forgotten what the words meant.
“Do you indeed love me, Nathalie?” he asked.
“Indeed, indeed! You know I do!” she replied.
“Then,” said the miller, with a happy laugh, as he bent down and kissed the tear-stained face, “I shall change my song.”
And after that he sang:
”I love sweet Nathalie, that I do.
For Nathalie she loves me.”
The years passed by and the miller was very happy. Nathalie grew to be a sweet and lovely maiden, and she learned to cook the meals and tend the house, and that made it easier for the miller, for now he was growing old.
One day the young Squire, who lived at the great house on the hill, came past the mill and saw Nathalie sitting in the doorway, her pretty form framed in the flowers that climbed around and over the door.
And the Squire loved her after that first glance, for he saw that she was as good and innocent as she was beautiful. The miller, hearing the sound of voices, came out and saw them together, and at once he became very angry, for he knew that trouble was in store for him, and he must guard his treasure very carefully if he wished to keep her with him. The young Squire begged very hard to be allowed to pay court to the Maid of the Mill, but the miller ordered him away, and he was forced to go. Then the miller saw there were tears in Nathalie’s eyes, and that made him still more anxious, for he feared the mischief was already done.
Indeed, in spite of the miller’s watchfulness, the Squire and Nathalie often met and walked together in the shady lanes or upon the green banks of the river. It was not long before they learned to love one another very dearly, and one day they went hand in hand to the miller and asked his consent that they should wed.
“What will become of me?” asked the miller, with a sad heart.
“You shall live in the great house with us,” replied the Squire, “and never again need you labor for bread.”
But the old man shook his head.
“A miller I have lived,” quoth he, “and a miller will I die. But tell me, Nathalie, are you willing to leave me?”
The girl cast down her eyes and blushed sweetly.
“I love him,” she whispered, “and if you separate us I shall die.”
“Then,” said the miller, kissing her with a heavy heart, “go; and may
God bless you.”
So Nathalie and the Squire were wed, and lived in the great house, and the very day after the wedding she came walking down to the mill in her pretty new gown to see the miller.
But as she drew near she heard him singing, as was his wont; and the song he sung she had not heard since she was a little girl, for this was it:
”I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.”
She came up softly behind him, and put her arms around his neck.
“Papa,” said she, “you must not sing that song. Nathalie loves you yet, and always will while she lives; for my new love is complete in itself, and has not robbed you of one bit of the love that has always been your very own.”
The miller turned and looked into her blue eyes, and knew that she spoke truly.
“Then I must learn a new song again,” he said, “for it is lonely at the mill, and singing makes the heart lighter. But I will promise that never again, till you forget me, will I sing that nobody cares for me.”
And the miller did learn a new song, and sang it right merrily for many years; for each day Nathalie came down to the mill to show that she had not forgotten him.
The Little Man and His Little Gun
There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.
There was once a little man named Jimson, who had stopped growing when he was a boy, and never started again. So, although he was old enough to be a man he was hardly big enough, and had he not owned a bald head and gray whiskers you would certainly have taken him for a boy whenever you saw him.
This little man was very sorry he was not bigger, and if you wanted to make him angry you had but to call attention to his size. He dressed just as big men do, and wore a silk hat and a long-tailed coat when he went to church, and a cap and top-boots when he rode horseback. He walked with a little cane and had a little umbrella made to carry when it rained. In fact, whatever other men did this little man was anxious to do also, and so it happened that when the hunting season came around, and all the men began to get their guns ready to hunt for snipe and duck, Mr. Jimson also had a little gun made, and determined to use it as well as any of them.
When he brought it home and showed it to his wife, who was a very big woman, she said,
“Jimson, you ‘d better use bullets made of bread, and then you won’t hurt anything.”
“Nonsense, Joan,” replied the little man, “I shall have bullets made of lead, just as other men do, and every duck I see I shall shoot and bring home to you.”
“I ‘m afraid you won’t kill many,” said Joan.
But the little man believed he could shoot with the best of them, so the next morning he got up early and took his little gun and started down to the brook to hunt for duck.
It was scarcely daybreak when he arrived at the brook, and the sun had not yet peeped over the eastern hill-tops, but no duck appeared anywhere in sight, although Mr. Jimson knew this was the right time of day for shooting them. So he sat down beside the brook and begun watching, and before he knew it he had fallen fast asleep.
By and by he was awakened by a peculiar noise.
“Quack, quack, quack!” sounded in his ears; and looking up he saw a pretty little duck swimming in the brook and popping its head under the water in search of something to eat. The duck belonged to Johnny Sprigg, who lived a little way down the brook, but the little man did not know this. He thought it was a wild duck, so he stood up and carefully took aim.
“I ‘m afraid I can’t hit it from here,” he thought, “so I ‘ll just step upon that big stone in the brook, and shoot from there.”
So he stepped out upon the stone, and took aim at the duck again, and fired the gun.
The next minute the little man had tumbled head over heels into the water, and he nearly drowned before he could scramble out again; for, not being used to shooting, the gun had kicked, or recoiled, and had knocked him off the round stone where he had been standing.
When he had succeeded in reaching the bank he was overjoyed to see that he had shot the duck, which lay dead upon the water a short distance away. The little man got a long stick, and, reaching it out, drew the dead duck to the bank. Then he started joyfully homeward to show the prize to his wife.
“There, Joan,” he said, as he entered the house, “is a nice little duck for our dinner. Do you now think your husband cannot shoot?”
“But there ‘s only one duck,” remarked his wife, “and it ‘s very small. Can’t you go and shoot another? Then we shall have enough for dinner.”
“Yes, of course I can shoot another,” said the little man, proudly; “you make a fire and get the pot boiling, and I ‘ll go for another duck.”
“You ‘d better shoot a drake this time,” said Joan, “for drakes are bigger.”
She started to make the fire, and the little man took his gun and went to the brook; but not a duck did he see, nor drake neither, and so he was forced to come home without any game.
“There ‘s no use cooking one duck,” said his wife, “so we ‘ll have pork and beans for dinner and I ‘ll hang the little duck in the shed. Perhaps you ‘ll be able to shoot a drake to-morrow, and then we ‘ll cook them bot
h together.”
So they had pork and beans, to the great disappointment of Mr. Jimson, who had expected to eat duck instead; and after dinner the little man lay down to take a nap while his wife went out to tell the neighbors what a great hunter he was.
The news spread rapidly through the town, and when the evening paper came out the little man was very angry to see this verse printed in it:
There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.
He carried it home to his good wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,
While he went to the brook where he shot the little duck,
And tried for to shoot the drake, drake, drake.
“There ‘s no use putting it into the paper,” exclaimed the little man, much provoked, “and Mr. Brayer, the editor, is probably jealous because he himself cannot shoot a gun. Perhaps people think I cannot shoot a drake, but I ‘ll show them to-morrow that I can!”
So the next morning he got up early again, and took his gun, and loaded it with bullets made of lead. Then he said to his wife,
“What does a drake look like, my love?”
“Why,” she replied, “it ‘s much like a duck, only it has a curl on its tail and red on its wing.”
“All right,” he answered, “I ‘ll bring you home a drake in a short time, and to-day we shall have something better for dinner than pork and beans.”
When he got to the brook there was nothing in sight, so he sat down on the bank to watch, and again fell fast asleep.
Now Johnny Sprigg had missed his little duck, and knew some one had shot it; so he thought this morning he would go the brook and watch for the man who had killed the duck, and make him pay a good price for it. Johnny was a big man, whose head was very bald; therefore he wore a red curly wig to cover his baldness and make him look younger.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 817
