The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  With a sigh at his latest misfortune he returned home for another hat, and the agitated wash-lady, imagining that the devil had doubtless been lured by her beautiful gown, made haste to sell it to a Chinaman who lived next door.

  Its bright colors pleased the Chink, who ripped it up and made it over into a Chinese robe, with flowing draperies falling to his heels. He dressed himself in his new costume and, being proud of possessing such finery, sat down on a bench outside his door so that everyone passing by could see how magnificent he looked.

  It was here the wandering Woggle-Bug espied him; and, recognizing at once the pattern and colors of his infatuating idol, he ran up and sat beside the Chinaman, saying in agitated but educated tones:

  “Oh my prismatic personification of gigantic gorgeousness!—again I have found you!”

  “Sure tling,” said the Chink with composure.

  “Be mine! Only be mine!” continued the enraptured Woggle-Bug.

  The Chinaman did not quite understand.

  “Two dlolla a day,” he answered, cautiously.

  “Oh, joy,” exclaimed the insect in delight; “I can then own you for a day and a half—for I have three dollars left. May I feel your exquisite texture, my dearest Fabric?”

  “No flabic. No feelee. You too flesh. I man Chinaman!” returned the Oriental calmly.

  “Never mind that! ‘Tis your beautiful garment I love. Every check in that entrancing dress is a joy and a delight to my heart!”

  While the Woggle-Bug thus raved, the Chinaman’s wife (who was Mattie De Forest before she married him) heard the conversation, and decided this love affair had gone far enough. So she suddenly appeared with a broomstick, and with it began pounding the Woggle-Bug as fiercely as possible—and Mattie was no weakling, I assure you.

  The first blow knocked the Insect’s hat so far over his eyes that he was blinded; but, resolving not to be again cheated out of his darling, he grasped firmly hold of the Wagnerian plaids with all four hands, and tore a goodly portion of it from the frightened Celestial’s body.

  Next moment he was dashing down the street, with the precious cloth tucked securely underneath an arm, and Mattie, being in slight dishabile, did not think best to follow him.

  The triumphant joy of the Woggle-Bug can well be imagined. No more need he chase the fleeting vision of his love—no more submit to countless disappointments in his efforts to approach the object of his affection. The gorgeous plaids were now his own (or a large part of them, anyway), and upon reaching the quiet room wherein he lodged he gloated long and happily over its vivid coloring and violent contrasts of its glowing hues. To the eyes of the Woggle-Bug nothing could be more beautiful, and he positively regretted the necessity of ever turning his gaze from this bewitching treasure.

  That he might never in the future be separated from the checks, he folded them, with many loving caresses, into compact form, and wrapped them in a sheet of stout paper tied with cotton cord that had a love-knot at the end. Wherever he went, thereafter, he carried the parcel underneath his left upper arm, pressed as closely to his heart as possible. And this sense of possession was so delightful that our Woggle-Bug was happy as the day is long.

  In the evening his fortunes changed with cruel abruptness.

  He walked out to take the air, and noticing a crowd people standing in an open space and surrounding a huge brown object, our Woggle-Bug stopped to learn what the excitement was about.

  Pushing his way through the crowd, and hugging his precious parcel, he soon reached the inner circle of spectators and found they had assembled to watch a balloon ascension. The Professor who was to go up with the balloon had not yet arrived; but the balloon itself was fully inflated and tugging hard at the rope that held it, as if anxious to escape the blended breaths of the people that crowded around. Just below the balloon was a small basket, attached to the netting of the gas-bag, and the Woggle-Bug was bending over the edge of this, to see what it contained, when a warning cry from the crowd caused him to pause and glance over his shoulder.

  Great horrors and crumpled creeps! Springing toward him, with a scowl on his face and a long knife with a zig-zag blade in his uplifted hand, was that very Chinaman from whose body he had torn the Wagnerian plaids!

  The plundered Celestial was evidently vindictive, and intended to push the wicked knife into the Woggle-Bug’s body.

  Our hero was a brave bug, as can easily be proved; but he did not wait for the knife to arrive at the broad of his back. Instead, he gave a yell (to show he was not afraid) and leaped nimbly into the basket of the balloon. The descending knife, missing its intended victim, fell upon the rope and severed it, and instantly the great balloon from the crowd and soared majestically toward the heavens.

  The Woggle-Bug had escaped the Chinaman, but he didn’t know whether to be glad or not.

  For the balloon was earning him into the clouds, and he had no idea how to manage it, or to make it descend to earth again. When he peered over the edge of the basket he could hear the faint murmur of the crowd, and dimly see the enraged Professor (who had come too late) pounding the Chinaman, while the Chinaman tried to dissect the Professor with his knife.

  Then all was blotted out; clouds rolled about him; night fell. The man in the moon laughed at him; the stars winked at each other as if delighted at the Woggle-Bug’s plight, and a witch riding by on her broomstick yelled at him to keep on the right side of the road, and not run her down.

  But the Woggle-Bug, squatted in the bottom of the basket and hugging his precious parcel to his bosom, paid no attention to anything but his own thoughts.

  He had often ridden in the Gump; but never had he been so high as this, and the distance to the ground made him nervous.

  When morning came he saw a strange country far beneath him, and longed to tread the earth again.

  Now all woggle-bugs are born with wings, and our highly-magnified one had a beautiful, broad pair of floppers concealed beneath ample coat-tails. But long ago he had learned that his wings were not strong enough to lift his big body from the ground, so he had never tried to fly with them.

  Here, however, was an occasion when he might put these wings to good use, for if he spread them in the air and then leaped over the side of the basket they would act in the same way a parachute does, and bear him gently to the ground.

  No sooner did this thought occur to him than he put it into practice.

  Disentangling his wings from his coat-tails, he spread them as wide as possible and then jumped from the car of the balloon.

  Down, down the Woggle-Bug sank; but so slowly that there was no danger in the flight. He began to see the earth again, lying beneath him like a sun-kissed panorama of mud and frog-ponds and rocks and brushwood.

  There were few trees, yet it was our insect’s fate to drop directly above what trees there were, so that presently he came ker-plunk into a mass of tangled branches—and stuck there, with his legs dangling helplessly between two limbs and his wings caught in the foliage at either side.

  Below was a group of Arab children, who at first started to run away. But, seeing that the queer creature which had dropped from the skies was caught fast in the tree, they stopped and began to throw stones and clubs at it. One of the missiles struck the tree-limb at the right of the Woggle-Bug and jarred him loose. The next instant he fluttered to the ground, where his first act was to fold up his wings and tuck them underneath his coat-tails again, and his next action was to assure himself that the beloved plaids were still safe.

  Then he looked for the Arab children; but they had scuttled away towards a group of tents, and now several men with dark skins and gay clothing came from the tents and ran towards the Woggle-Bug.

  “Good morning,” said our hero, removing his hat with a flourish and bowing politely.

  “Meb-la-che-bah!” shouted the biggest Arab, and at once two others wound coils of rope a
round the Woggle-Bug and tied the ends in hard knots.

  His hat was knocked off and trampled into the mud by the Shiek (who was the big Arab), and the precious parcel was seized and ruthlessly opened.

  “Very good!” said the Shiek, eyeing the plaids with pleasure. “My slaves shall make me a new waistcoat of this cloth.”

  “No! oh, no!” cried the agonized Insect; “it is taken from a person who has had small-pox and yellow-fever and toothache and mumps—all at the same time. Do not, I bet you, risk your valuable life by wearing that cloth!”

  “Bah!” said the Shiek, scornfully; “I have had all those diseases and many more. I am immune. But now,” he continued, “allow me to bid you good-bye. I am sorry to be obliged to kill you, but such is our custom.”

  This was bad news for the Woggle-Bug; but he did not despair.

  “Are you not afraid to kill me?” he asked, as if surprised.

  “Why should I be afraid?” demanded the Shiek.

  “Because it is well-known that to kill a woggle-bug brings bad luck to one.”

  The Shiek hesitated, for he was very superstitious.

  “Are you a woggle-bug?” he asked.

  “I am,” replied the Insect, proudly. “And I may as well tell you that the last person who killed one of my race had three unlucky days. The first his suspenders broke (the Arab shuddered), the second day he smashed a looking-glass (the Arab moaned), and the third day he was chewed up by a crocodile.”

  Now the greatest aversion Arabs have is to be chewed by a crocodile, because these people usually roam over the sands of the desert, where to meet an amphibian is simply horrible; so at the Woggle-Bug’s speech they set up a howl of fear, and the Shiek shouted:

  “Unbind him! Let not a hair of his head be injured!”

  At once the knots in the ropes were untied, and the Woggle-Bug was free. All the Arabs united to show him deference and every respectful attention, and since his own hat had been destroyed they wound about his head a picturesque turban of an exquisite soiled white color, having stripes of red and yellow in it.

  Then the Woggle-Bug was escorted to the tents, where he suddenly remembered his precious plaids, and asked that the cloth he restored to him.

  Thereupon the Shiek got up and made a long speech, in which he described his grief at being obliged to refuse the request.

  At the end of that time one of the women came op to them with a lovely waistcoat which she had manufactured out of the Wagnerian plaids; and when the Shiek saw it he immediately ordered all the tom-toms and kettle-drums in the camp destroyed, as they were no longer necessary. Then he put on the gorgeous vestment, and turned a deaf ear to the Woggle-Bug’s agonized wails.

  But there were some scraps of cloth left, and to show that he was liberal and good-natured, the Shiek ordered these manufactured into a handsome necktie, which he presented Woggle-Bug in another long speech.

  Our hero, realizing a larger part of his darling was lost to him, decided to be content with the smaller share; so he put on the necktie, and felt really proud of its brilliance and aggressive elegance.

  Then, bidding the Arabs farewell, he strode across the desert until he reached the borders of a more fertile and favored country.

  Indeed, he found before him a cool and enticing jungle, which at first seemed deserted. But while he stared about him a sound fell upon his ear, and he saw approaching a young lady Chimpanzee. She was evidently a personage of some importance, for her hair was neatly banged just over her eyes, and she wore a clean white pinafore with bows of pink ribbon at the shoulders.

  “Good morning, Mr. Beetle,” said she, with merry laughter.

  “Do not, I beg of you, call me a beetle,” exclaimed our hero, rather peevishly; “for I am actually a Woggle-Bug, and Highly-Magnified at that!”

  “What’s in a name?” laughed the gay damsel. “Come, let me introduce you to our jungle, where strangers of good breeding are always welcome.”

  “As for breeding,” said the Woggle-Bug, “my father, although of ordinary size, was a famous Bug-Wizard in his day, and claimed descent from the original protoplasm which constituted the nucleus of the present planetary satellite upon which we exist.”

  “That’s all right,” returned Miss Chim. “Tell that to our king, and he’ll decorate you with the medal of the Omnipotent Order of Onerous Orthographers, Are you ready to meander?”

  The Woggle-Bug did not like the flippant tone in which maiden spoke; but he at once followed her.

  Presently they came to a tall hedge surrounding the Inner Jungle, and without this hedge stood a patrol of brown bears who wore red soldier-caps and carried gold-plated muskets in their hands.

  “We call this the bearier,” said Miss Chim, pointing to the soldiers, “because they oblige all strangers to paws.”

  “I should think it was a bearicade,” remarked the Woggle-Bug.

  But when they approached the gateway the officer in charge saluted respectfully to Miss Chim, and permitted her to escort the Woggle-Bug into the sacred precincts of the Inner Jungle.

  Here his eyes were soon opened to their widest capacity in genuine astonishment.

  The Jungle was as clean and as well-regulated as any city of men the Insect had ever visited. Just within the gate a sleek antelope was running a pop-corn stand, and a little further on a screech-owl stood upon a stump playing a violin, while across her breast was a sign reading: “I am blind—at present.”

  As they walked up the street they came to a big grey monkey turning a hand-organ, and attached to a cord was a little nigger-boy whom the monkey sent into the crowd of animals, standing by to gather up the pennies, pulling him back every now and then by means of the cord.

  “There’s a curious animal for you,” said Miss Chim, pointing to the boy. “Those horrid things they call men, whether black or white, seem to me the lowest of all created beasts.”

  “I have seen them in a highly civilized state,” replied the Woggle-Bug, “and they’re really further advanced than you might suppose.”

  But Miss Chim gave a scornful laugh, and pulled him away to where a hippopotamus sat under the shade of a big tree, mopping his brow with a red handkerchief—for the weather was somewhat sultry. Before the hip was a table covered with a blue cloth, and upon the cloth was embroidered the words: “Professor Hipmus, Fortune Teller.”

  “Want your fortune told?” asked Miss Chim.

  “I don’t mind,” replied the Woggle-Bug.

  “I’ll read your hand,” said the Professor, with a yawn that startled the insect. “To my notion palmistry is the best means of finding out what nobody knows or cares to know.”

  He took the upper-right hand of the Woggle-Bug, and after adjusting his spectacles bent over it with an air of great wisdom.

  “You have been in love,” announced the Professor; “but you got it in the neck.”

  “True!” murmured the astonished Insect, putting up his left lower hand to feel of the beloved necktie.

  “You think you have won,” continued the Hip; “but there are others who have 1, 2. You have many heart throbs before you, during your future life. Afterward I see no heart throbs whatever. Forty cents, please.”

  “Isn’t he just wonderful?” asked Miss Chim, with enthusiasm. “He’s the greatest fortune teller in the jungle.”

  “On account of his size, I suppose,” returned the Woggle-Bug, as they walked on.

  Soon they came to the Royal Palace, which was a beautiful bower formed of vines upon which grew many brilliant-hued forest flowers. The entrance was guarded by a Zebra, who barred admission until Miss Chim whispered the password in his ear. Then he permitted them to enter, and the Chimpanzee immediately ushered the Woggle-Bug into the presence of King Weasel.

  This monarch lay coiled upon a purple silk cushion, half asleep and yet wakeful enough to be smoking a big cigar. Beside
him crouched two prairie-dogs who were combing his hair very carefully, while a red squirrel perched near his head and fanned him with her bushy tail.

  “Dear me, what have we here?” exclaimed the King of the Jungle, in a querulous tone, “Is it an over-grown pinch-bug, or is it a kissing-bug?”

  “I have the honor to be a Woggle-Bug, your Majesty!” replied our hero, proudly.

  “Sav, cut out that Majesty,” snapped the King, with a scowl. “If you can find anything majestic about me, I’d like to know what it is.”

  “Don’t treat him with any respect,” whispered Miss Chim to the Insect, “or you’ll get him riled. Sneer at him, and slap his face if you get a chance.”

  The Woggle-Bug took the hint.

  “Really,” he told the King. “I have never seen a more despicable creature than you. The admirable perspicacity inherent in your tribe seems to have deteriorated in you to a hyperbolated insousancy.” Then he reached out his arms and slapped the king four times, twice on one side of his face and twice on the other.

  “Thanks, my dear June-Bug,” said the monarch; “I now recognize you to be a person of some importance.”

  “Sire, I am a Woggle-Bug, highly magnified and thoroughly educated. It is no exaggeration to say I am the greatest Woggle-Bug on earth.”

  “I fully believe it, so pray do not play any more foursomes on my jaw. I am sufficiently humiliated at this moment to recognize you as a Sullivanthauros, should you claim to be a member of that extinct race.”

  Then two little weasels—a boy weasel and a girl weasel—came into the bower and threw their school-books at the squirrel so cleverly that one hit the King upon the nose and smashed his cigar and the other caught him fairly in the pit of his stomach.

  At first the monarch howled a bit; then he wiped the tears from his face and said: