Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  Stooping over to secure the errant quoit my eyes penetrated the leafy foliage beside it, and I plainly saw concealed therein the figure of the hunch-back, again clasping the murderous-looking knife and scowling as his dark eyes met mine.

  A number of the Emperor’s body guard stood a few paces away.

  Keeping close watch of the bushes and determined that this time the villain should not escape me, I beckoned the soldiers to my side.

  In an instant they had surrounded the shrub, while my eyes remained fastened upon the hunch-back. In one brief sentence I explained the position of the assassin, and at my word half a score of pikes were thrust into the bushes.

  I own I expected to see them withdrawn reeking with the scoundrel’s blood, and my amazement was supreme when the figure of the man vanished before my very eyes, and the pikes met with no resistance whatever!

  Again I was forced to endure the ridicule of the courtiers and the soldiery, while my royal master angrily chided me as a visionary fool and intimated that I was fast outgrowing my usefulness.

  Another week rolled away and one afternoon I accompanied his Majesty upon his daily ride. On our return to the palace my master dismounted, nodded gaily to the vast throng of subjects that stood by to gaze upon his benignant features, and started to walk up the avenue either side of which was densely lined with people eager for a near view of the Great Emperor.

  I was but a step behind him when I saw, a few paces in advance, the misshapen form and scowling face of the hunch- back. His right hand was thrust within his bosom, and I knew intuitively that his fingers grasped the doubleedged knife.

  As we reached the fellow I pressed to the Emperor’s side, and at the same instant the hunch-back sprang forward with a bound.

  The sharp blade flashed in his uplifted hand, and that moment might have been my master’s last. But I had been forewarned. In an instant my hands clutched the villain’s throat, and the blow intended for the Emperor penetrated my breast as I bore the assassin to the ground.

  He did not leave the spot alive; for, as the Emperor lifted me in his own august arms, a dozen pikes pinned the would-be murderer to the earth.

  It is true I was never able afterward to serve my dear master in person, but he sees that my life wants nothing to render it more bright or contented, and if ever I am tempted to deplore my uselessness, one glance at the glittering order upon my breast restores my peace of mind.

  I have since decided that the shadow of the calamity which threatened my master was cast before, and twice I was permitted in an occult way, to perceive the murderer, in order that when the event transpired I might preserve for Europe and for Christendom the greatest ruler of my time.

  Aunt Hulda’s Good Time

  Aunt Hulda sat under the shade of the apple-tree paring the fruit that had fallen from the gnarled, overladen branches. She was dressed in a faded blue calico gown and a checked apron, and wore a home-made sun-bonnet upon her gray head. At her right was the roadway leading from the barn to the turnpike in front of the house. A few feet to the left was her back door-step. It was a warm afternoon, and the shade of the tree had tempted her from the hot kitchen, as it often did.

  Aunt Hulda’s meditations were not worthy of mention. She was a simple old body, living a simple, circumscribed life and thinking simple, unimportant things. For instance, she was about to make apple-sauce, and she knew her sauce was highly praised by the farmer’s wives who now and then dropped in for a visit and some tea. These were memorable occasions with her. She reflected on the evident enjoyment Mr. Worrell had displayed only last week, when she ate two full saucers of Aunt Hulda’s apple-sauce. From the same tree, too. It was a good tree; she had used its fruit in sauce for many years: thirty--maybe forty. It was hard to remember the time. Probably it would keep on bearing these rosy-cheeked apples as long as her days lasted and then-Then she looked up and saw the boy. He had just ridden up the turnpike on his bicycle, and glancing over the fence perceived Aunt Hulda seated under her tree.

  He could not have said what made him pause, dismount and regard the homely picture thoughtfully as he leaned upon his wheel. When he saw that she observed him he took off his cap and bowed to her, and she returned the salutation composedly. Then, after a hesitating glance up the road, he trundled his wheel through the open gates and came to where the woman was sitting.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, pleasantly. “Will you let me lie here and rest a bit?”

  She nodded. She liked boys; and this one was fresh and manly and good to look upon. He wore a modest gray suit and cap, and stockings of brown worsted. There was nothing “flashy” in his appearance, which could not be truthfully said of all the bicyclers Aunt Hulda had seen spinning along the smooth turnpike.

  The boy leaned his wheel against the tree, reclined gracefully upon the grass, and resting his head upon his elbow, watched the deft fingers that busily continued to pare and quarter the apples.

  “Tired?” she asked, in a motherly tone. She had never been blessed with children, but had all a mother’s tenderness for youth still fresh in her old heart.

  “Not very.” he answered; “but it looked cool and pleasant here, and--and I thought I’d like to talk with you.”

  She nodded again.

  “You see, I am not limited as to time,” he continued, lazily stroking the kitten that had crept to his side, “for I am taking a cross-country trip on my wheel as part of my vacation. I never know where I shall stop at night: that is one of the delights of the trip. When dark overtakes me, or I grow tired, I stop at the nearest village.”

  “The nearest place to here is Millbank,” remarked Aunt Hulda. “There’s a circus there to-day.”

  “A circus? Why, that’s jolly! There’s nothing I love better than to attend a country circus. Not for the sake of the bareback riders and clowns, you understand; but to watch the people and enjoy their enjoyment.”

  “Martin is there now,” she said.

  “Martin?”

  “My man. It’s his year. We take turns, you know: he goes one year, and I go the next. Martin went early this afternoon, so as to see the animals fed; but he won’t see the show till the evening performance. It’s always better evenings. He took his supper in his pocket.”

  “But why didn’t you go together?” asked the boy, sitting up.

  “It costs too much,” she replied, frankly.

  “We really can’t afford it at all, now times are so hard; but we’re two old folks, living all by ourselves, and we thought as we’d divide up, and take in the circus every year. When I go, I tell Martin all about it; and when he goes he tells me. It gives us something to talk about when we’re alone in the evenings, and it’s almost as good as going yourself to hear Martin describe it.”

  The boy lay back and looked at her curiously. He did not laugh. It seemed to him he was nearer tears than laughter, although he could see well enough the comedy of it.

  “How far is the town?” he asked.

  “Two miles.”

  “Have you a horse?”

  “Yes, indeed. Old Piebald is in the barn now. Martin never takes him to the circus; no more do I. We walk.

  Piebald gets scart at the steam piano, and it costs a quarter to put him up in the hotel barn.”

  “Let’s go,” said the boy, suddenly.

  “Where?” demanded Aunt Hulda, dropping her knife in amazement.

  “To the circus. Be my guest. I’ve plenty of money--more than I shall know how to spend on my trip, and I’d like to take you to the circus. We’ll see it all,--side-shows and everything,--and we’ll have a real jolly time!”

  She stared at him stupidly a while. The audacity of the proposition almost took her breath away. She saw he was in earnest, however, and she glanced from her coarse blue gown to his neat gray suit with a puzzled air.

  Strangers had been polite to her before, but none had ever offered to take her to a circus; nor indeed, anywhere else. But this was a boy; a nice boy, too. He had risen to his fe
et and was standing before her, cap in hand.

  “Do let’s go!” he pleaded.

  “I--I can’t,” she answered; “I’ve got to make the applesauce.”

  “Let it wait,” he said, with a wave of the hand: “the circus only comes once a year.”

  “There’s the supper.”

  “I’ll help you get it--and eat it, also. And I’ll help do the dishes.”

  “There’s the stock to be fed,” she continued. Her tone waas growing more irresolute, and he noted it.

  “Two of us can feed the stock in no time,” he declared; “so come, please; let’s get to work at once.”

  “I--I don’t know what Martin’ll think,” she protested, as a last resort. But she rose from her chair, nevertheless, and stood with the pan of apples under her arm, a look of pleased anticipation spreading over her wrinkled face. He took the pan from her and carried it into the kitchen.

  “We’ll surprise Martin,” he said, easily; “but it will be easy to explain the matter. I’m sure he won’t object to your having a good time.”

  “Oh, no! Martin’s real good to me,” she answered.

  The next hour was a bright and happy one to them both. Aunt Hulda’s heart was not nearly so withered as her face, and there was a charm about this youngster, who had taken direction of her affairs in such a masterful way, that delighted her beyond measure. She was almost like a girl. Her laugh came freely and as sweetly as if she had been eighteen instead of fifty, and she answered his jokes with full appreciation of their fun.

  The boy was enjoying himself, al80. He filled the kettle helped set the table, cut the bread and talked continually. Then when the simple meal was ready, and the apples were simmering on the stove, they sat down opposite one another at the rude table and feasted merrily.

  He afterward tied a checked apron around his waist and wiped the dishes while Aunt Hulda washed them.

  “We must hurry,” he said, “for I don’t want to miss a bit of the fun. Now for the stock!”

  He carried water, climbed the loft to throw down hay, fed the pig and the chickens, and did it all so handily and quickly that Aunt Hulda was amazed. Next he led out old Piebald, harnessed him to the wagon, and had the equipage waiting beside the apple-tree before the woman had finished putting on her “best dress” and smoothing her hair.

  “I guess everything’s ‘tended to,” she said, as she climbed to a seat beside him. “I put your wheel in the kitchen, and left the apples to slow-bile and put the lamp handy for use when we come back, and fed the kitten.”

  “So there’s nothing on your mind to keep you from having a good time,” he commented.

  They drove through the dust to the village, where the boy promptly put up old Piebald at the hotel stable. Then he walked with Aunt Hulda down to the tents, where they first visited the side-shows and saw the fat lady and the snake charmer and the living skeleton and all the other wonders.

  There was a tremendous crowd. Every farmer and farmer’s wife for miles around seemed to be there: and now and then Aunt Hulda would nod proudly and happily to an acquaintance, and delight in the curious looks that were directed upon her escort. They were all country people--all but the boy. His appearance rendered him wholly unlike the others: but he did not seem to know it. He chatted gaily with Aunt Hulda, and called her attention to everything he thought would interest her.

  Then they visited the animals, and and he told her many wonderful things about them that were strange and edifying to the simple old woman. But the band was now playing fiercely in the big tent where the circus performance was held. Indeed, nearly every one had already entered, and they found themselves alone with a few stragglers.

  “I believe the grand procession’s going to start,” she whispered, nervously.

  “All right; let’s go in,” he replied, and led her to the entrance.

  The big tent was literally lined with people, from the canvas roof to the seats at the very ring-side. It seemed impossible that it could hold another person. The boy looked anxiously around. On each side of the band-stand he discovered that a small box had been built, with a flowing red canopy over it and cushioned seats.

  One of these boxes had been taken by a party from Squire Meldrum’s house--the “big man” of the village,--and a merry group of young and old people occupied it. But the other box was vacant; for who beside the squire had money enough to pay a dollar a seat at the circus?

  The boy stopped an usher, and after a whispered conversation was escorted, with Aunt Hulda, behind the tiers of seats and through a narrow passage into the box. Their appearance caused a murmur of surprise from the surrounding benches. Many knew the old lady’s pleasant, homely face and marvelled at seeing her thus occupying the position of honor opposite Squire Meldrum himself.

  Martin was seated away down near the ring-side, but he looked up with the others, and his astonishment was intense when he saw Aunt Hulda framed by the crimson curtains and canopy, and a strange youth beside her who was paying her devoted attention. All during the circus the poor man divided his attention between this remarkable vision of his wife and the antics of the cl0wn8 and jugglers. He saw her drinking red lemonade with her companion, and that her lap was loaded down with peanuts and candy and popcorn; for the boy would do nothing by halves, and bought everything that was offered for sale.

  Martin shook his head, and sighed and looked again. It was certainly Aunt Hulda, but how she came there was a mystery he could not fathom.

  He waited outside the tent while they heard the concert, after the circus itself was over. Martin was not given to solving problems; time would explain everything, he thought. He knew when they were coming by her laugh, and such he could not remember hearing from Aunt Hulda since the happy days when hey were first wed. He put out his hand and touched her, almost diffidently, as they followed the crowd from the entrance.

  “Huldy!” he said.

  “Good gracious!” she cried; if it isn’t Martin! We’ve been looking for you everywhere, for the boy wanted you to stay with us to the concert. It’s his fault, Martin,” she added, more soberly. “He would have me come in his company, you know,--and I couldn’t well say no.”

  “I’m glad you had the chance,” said Martin, simply. Then he plucked her sleeve. “Who is he?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, behind her hand; “but, O Martin, he’s been so good to me!”

  “Well, are we ready for home?” broke in the boy. “I expect old Piebald is anxious to get back and munch his hay. Shall we go?”

  They drove home almost in silence, with Martin sitting in the back of the wagon and the boy driving. Only once did Aunt Hulda speak, and that was to say, with a contented sigh, “I don’t think we missed a single thing!”

  While Martin put up the horse the boy got his wheel from the kitchen. “I shall sleep at Millbank to-night,” he said, brightly; “for the hotel there seems like a comfortable place; but before I go I want to thank you for a very happy evening.”

  Aunt Hulda leaned down, and taking his round face between her hands, kissed him tenderly.

  “What made you do it?” she whispered. “Why were you so good to an old woman like me?”

  The boy stood looking into the night for a moment before he answered. “Mother and I,” he said at last, softly, were always good comrades and had many jolly times together and when I saw you sitting under the tree this afternoon, my heart grew hungry for some one to go with me, as she used to do, and have a happy time. She’s dead now, you know.”

  His voice broke with a sob, and the woman gathered him into her arms and held him close to her for a while. Then she kissed him again, with a sweet, motherly caress.

  “Good night,” he said.

  The next moment he had mounted his wheel and disappeared down the road; but she stood looking long after his figure had faded into the darkness, and listening until the last muffled sound had died away upon the soft night air.

  Bessie’s Fairy Tale

>   The Ladies’ World for December 1911

  “OH, Uncle!” said Bessie, climbing to my lap and curling herself up cosily, “please tell me all about--”

  “But it is my turn, dear,” I interrupted, smiling into the eager face.

  “Your turn for what, Uncle?”

  “To hear a fairy story. It isn’t fair to make me tell them all.”

  “But I want to hear more about the Giant Killer, and the Little Lame Prince, and Cinderella, and Prince Marvel, and- and--”

  “I know; but you have heard of them many times, while poor Uncle has heard none of your fairy tales at all.”

  “My fairy tales!”

  “To be sure, Bessie. Isn’t that wise little head full of fairy dreams and pretty stories? I am sure it is. Then tell me one, please!”

  The big eyes were grave and earnest. They searched my face carefully, but could find no evidence that I was “poking fun” at my little niece. So she sighed and cuddled closer and said:

  “This morning, Uncle, I told my dolly a fairy story. She’s very fond of them, you know. But I’m afraid it was silly and you would not like it.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t silly, dear; and all stories have some good in them. Has your tale a moral, Bessie?”

  “What’s a moral, Uncle?”

  “Is there a reason for it, and does It teach any lesson?”

  “Must a story do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She considered the matter thoughtfully.

  “The story I told my dolly,” she remarked, after a moment, “was made up for a dolly to understand. Her brains are sawdust, you know, like the Scarecrow’s; but there isn’t any wizard here for me to take her to, so I’m afraid she won’t ever be very bright.”

  “Did she like the story?”

  “I think so, Uncle. There was a reason for it, and the reason was to keep Sarah Jane--that’s my dolly--amused. But if there was any lesson in the story I’m afraid she didn’t learn it; she’s so stupid.”