Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  At another time David saw the icebergs glittering bright and transparent with sapphire and green and red light as they floated in the dark northern seas. He was, it seemed to him, walking on the ice-floes, and there were herds of seals and walrus scattered like black patches along the white shore. The northern lights waved like white and violet banners in the air, and queer little Eskimo folk — men, women, and children — clad all in furs, crept in and out of their ice houses.

  At another time it was as though he was aboard of a great ship, with its sails spread white and round, as it went sailing away toward the Indies; plunging and yawing across the ocean, with clouds of foam and spray under the how, and with little Mother Carey’s chickens flitting from wave to wave astern, waiting for the cook to throw good things overboard. The great waves rose and fell, and the air was full of the sound of rushing waters. The tall masts with their tangled maze of rigging swung hack and forth across the sky, and the salt air swept dank and cool across the deck. It was famous sailing weather.

  All these things David saw out of the windows of the moon-house — and it was just as though he was living in the midst of them, as you live in the midst of things when you are out of doors. But I have told you only the outside of what he saw. Always David would see the inside as well — how the great tangled, useless tropical forest was working and working with all its might and main to get things in such order that man might live there some day or other; how the great brown earth lay fast asleep under the arctic ice fields, waiting until its time should come to work as the tropical forests were working; how the great ship, that the captain, and the supercargo, and the sailors thought was carrying calico and cotton cloth to the coolies, was really and truly carrying old things to the Moon-Angel, so that he might make them over into new things again. These were the things that David saw.

  So the days passed, and every evening the Man-in-the-moon came and took the stars that David had polished and stuck them up in the sky where they belonged. You may see that for yourself if you watch; for as the moon passes the full, the sky grows darker and more dark, and the stars grow greater and greater in number, as the Man-in-the-moon puts them back in their places.

  And now David began to see the very strangest part of the strange things that concern the moon-house.

  Each day the moon-house grew less and less bright. By and by, half the moon-house was dark and half shone as white as shining silver. By and by three fourths of the moon was dark and only one fourth was bright. By and by the moon-house was all dark except just a little rim of silver light.

  And each day there were fewer and fewer of the twelve windows open. By and by there were six of them closed and six of them open. By and by there were nine of them closed and only three of them open. By and by they were all closed, and the second story was darkened as a room is darkened in summer time when you are sent to take a nap in the afternoon.

  And each day there were fewer and fewer stars in the basket in the third story. By and by the basket was half emptied. By and by it was three quarters emptied. By and by it was all emptied but just a few scattered stars in the bottom. At last they were all gone, and the Man-in-the-moon came up-stairs and shut the trap-door that led up from below into the third story, and locked it with a padlock, and put the key in his pocket.

  He did this because nobody is allowed to be in the third story of the moon unless they have stars to polish. That is the way it is in the moon, — and that is the way it is everywhere else and with everybody.

  So, now, the moon was all closed and darkened, and everything was a dim twilight, just as it is in a house that is closed and darkened in the day time. It was of no use to go up into the second story now, for the windows were all closed. So David spent all of his time down in the moon-kitchen, watching the Man-in-the-moon as he stitched and patched and cobbled and tinkered and mended at all the queer odds and ends of things that people have seen or heard of and forgotten about. When the Man-in-the-moon was not doing that, he was cooking or frying at the stove or making up the beds; and when he was not doing that, he was reading the almanac by candle-light. As for stories — clever as was Hans Krout at telling stories, the Man-in-the-moon knew ten times more than he, and could play the fiddle beside, so that, after all, that time of moon darkness was anything but a dull tune for David.

  Then one day a wonderful thing happened. Somebody was singing in the second story of the moon-house, and when David looked up the stair toward the door-way above, he saw a light shining through the cracks and the keyhole as though very bright candles were burning on the other side.

  David sat and looked, and listened and wondered. “What is that?” said he to the Man-in-the-moon.

  “Go and see for yourself,” said the Mau-in-the-moon, without looking up from the almanac.

  “By myself?” said David.

  “Of course,” said the Man-in-the-moon. “How else would you go?”

  Then David got slowly up from the cricket where he sat and went up the tall, steep stairs, that led to the second story of the moon-house. He did not know what was about to happen next. He stopped and listened at the door. The singing was louder and louder; it sounded like a whole hive full of golden bees humming in tune. The light through the cracks and the key-hole shone brighter and brighter; it was like the light of seven hundred and ten wax candles shining in a dark room. David opened the door a little crack and peeped in.

  The room was all frill of brightness, and there was the Moon-Angel himself.

  He was standing at an open window that David had never seen before, and he stood gazing out of it into the dark, still, fathomless sky. He was gazing, gazing at one bright star that shone, now red, now blue, and flickered and blazed, and then shone red and then blue again. There he stood gazing, gazing at the star, and in his eyes were two shining stars just like the one at which he was looking, and the two stars in his eyes shone now red, now blue, and flickered and blazed, and then shone red, and then blue again. And all the time that the Moon-Angel gazed at the star he sang to himself a soft, low song, such as you will never hear until the clay stoppers are taken out of your ears. That was the music that David heard humming like a hive of golden bees. The Moon-Angel never turned his face or looked anywhere but up at the bright star, but as David gazed at him he knew that the Moon-Angel was looking at him, even though he was looking so steadily at that bright star of changing red and blue. And though the Moon-Angel never stopped gazing, he spoke to David as though there were no one else in the world. “How do you do, David?” said he. “Come in and shut the door.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said David. He came in and shut the door behind him. “What are you doing?” said he.

  “I am making old things new,” said the Moon-Angel.

  David stood and looked at the Moon-Angel, and the Moon-Angel stood and gazed at the star and sang to himself. That is one way he makes old things new. He did not move so much as a hair, and yet it was as he said. All the time he was making old things over into new things.

  That is what the Moon-Angel does, and that is why he was made, and set a-going — so that he might save a body from growing old forever.

  “Well, David,” said he at last, “you have been a good boy and have done your work well. Now you shall have three days’ holiday.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said David. “And where shall I go for my holiday?”

  “You shall,” said the Moon-Angel, “go into the moon-garden. That is the best place out of the world in which to play.”

  “The moon-garden?” said David. “That sounds well, but how shall I get there?”

  “Down the back stairs and out the hack door,” said the Moon-Angel.

  “Thank you, sir,” said David. “When shall I go?”

  “You may go now,” said the Moon-Angel.

  “Thank you, sir,” said David again. “But where are the hack stairs?”

  “Look for yourself and see,” said the Moon-Angel.

  David looked about him, and there they wer
e — the hack stairs. He wondered that he had not seen them before, just as we all do when we suddenly stumble upon them — those hack stairs of the moon.

  There they were, and the strangest part of it was that, now David had found them, there was no other way out of the second story of the moon-house.

  Yes, it was very strange; but it is as true as the sun in the blue sky. And as it was with David, so it is with every one: as soon as you find the hack stairs of the moon-house, you lose sight of the front stairs, and there is no other way out of the second story; and when you find the front stairs, you may hunt until your head spins, but not so much as a single step of the hack stairs can you find. You can only see one flight of stairs at a time; — either it is the front stairs, or else it is the hack stairs. You can find whichever you choose, but you cannot find them both at the same time. If you choose to find the front stairs, there they are, and there is the moon-path and the brown world far away, and you can get hack there whenever you choose, if the tide is right. But if you look for the hack stairs, there they are, and the front stairs are gone, and whither the hack stairs lead, you must find for yourself.

  All this, I say, is as true as the sun in the blue sky. Yes, it is; and you must not believe poets when they tell you it is not true. The fact is, that many, many people, who do not know what they are talking about, vow and declare that there are no hack stairs to the moon, and when you tell them there are hack stairs, they laugh and sneer, and giggle and snicker and flout at you, and, maybe, call you a moon-calf, just as the little hoys and the little girls in the village called David a moon-calf. That is because such folk do not choose to look for the back stairs, and so they never find them.

  But now, there they were, and David knew that they must lead somewhere, for the stairs were made for the people to go up and down. So down-stairs he went — down, down, down. The stairs were narrow, and he had to feel his way in the milk-whiteness, but he went on, down, down, and by and by he saw a bright light shining from the other side through the cracks of the door, just as the light had shone from the second story, when he had been in the moon-kitchen, and the Moon-Angel up above. And now that he had come to the door, he heard the sound of voices on the other side, and they were the voices of children, laughing and playing. David stopped and listened for a little while, and thought to himself: “There are little children there, and they are playing with one another. They will not want me to play with them, for all the children call me moon-calf, and if I go there, maybe they will just laugh and flout at me, as they used to do down in the village.” So he thought at first he would go hack again up into the moon, but then he said to himself: “No, the Moon-Angel would not have told me to come unless he wanted me to do so.”

  He put up his hand and felt for the lock. He found it and pressed the latch. Click-clack! the door opened a crack. Then he pushed it open wider. Then he stepped out into the brightness beyond.

  If you want to know how he felt at first, just stay in a dark room for a half hour, and then step out into the bright sunlight. David saw nothing at all but the dazzling light, that was neither like the light of the sun nor like the light of a cloudy day. He smelt flowers and heard children’s voices, but he could see nothing. He put up his hand to his eyes to shelter them, and stood winking and blinking and shrinking. For a moment the children’s voices still rose in a great loud babble, then suddenly they ceased, and everything was hushed and still. David knew that they were all looking at him. “Now they will call me moon-calf,” he thought to himself.

  But they did not. “Oh-h-h!” said the voices, and they rose higher and higher, and shriller and shriller. “Oh-h-h-h, here is a new little boy!” and then David could look around him.

  Yes; there he was in the midst of the moon-garden, but there was no moon-house in sight. There was a broad level lawn of grass with a sun-dial and rose bushes. Beyond the lawn there were trees rich both with flowers and fruit. Over the tops of the trees he could see a long, bright-red brick house, with a row of windows that shone in the sun, and a sloping roof, and a tower with a clock, and a brass weather-vane, that burned like a spark of yellow fire against the blue sky above. It was very beautiful, but David only just looked at it. That was all; for there all around him was a circle of children standing looking at him with big round eyes. There was none of them older than twelve years, and none of them younger than three, because a child of less than three years is too young to come into this part of the moon-garden, and a child past twelve is too old to be there. So nobody but children between three and twelve years old are allowed here, except the teachers. So these children — there were twenty-five or thirty of them — stood looking at David with great round eyes, and with them was the most beautiful lady that David had ever seen — a lady with a soft, gentle face, and smooth hair, and eyes as blue as the sky. She was the teacher. She too was looking at him with gentle blue eyes, then she reached out and laid her hand very gently upon him and looked into his face. “Where did you come from, little boy?” said she.

  “I came out of the moon,” said David.

  “To be sure you did,” said she. “And now I see that you have been polishing the stars, have you not?”

  “Yes,” said David. “With lamb’s-wool, ma’am,” he added.

  “I knew you had,” said the lady, “for I saw them shining in your eyes. And you have come here for a holiday, have you not?”

  “Yes ma’am,” said David; “the Moon-Angel sent me.”

  “To he sure he did,” said the beautiful lady. “Very well, then; ran along and play with the other children, for supper will he ready by and by.”

  “But won’t they call me moon-calf?” said David.

  The beautiful lady laughed; the sweetest, gentlest laugh. “No, indeed,” said she; “they will never call you moon-calf, for all the children here are moon-calves. But now run away and play, children.”

  Then all the other children scampered away, shouting and laughing, and David ran after them, not feeling even yet quite sure that they wanted him. Beside that, he did not know how to play as other children played.

  The biggest boy of the lot was just about David’s age. “You shall he our king,” said he, “because the Moon-Angel sent you here and because you have polished the stars. There isn’t one among us who has done that.”

  “I looked out of the moon-window, too,” said David.

  “Oh-h-h-h!” cried all the little children, and they came crowding up around him, and some of the littlest of them pushed up against him. “What did you see?”

  Then David told them some of the things he had seen out of the second-story windows, and they all listened in silence.

  David thought he had never been so happy in all his life before, for all the children called him their king and asked him what he chose to play; and they listened to him, and did as he told them, and nobody called him a moon-calf.

  So they romped and played and shouted until supper time. Then a hell rang, and there was a supper of bread and butter and honey in bright blue china plates, and milk in blue china cups. The supper was spread on a long table under the shade of the trees. The birds sang in the branches over their heads, and bees buzzed and hummed in the flowers, and the sloping afternoon sun shone warm through the leaves and blossoms, and the clock bell in the tower struck five, and everything was as sweet and happy and tranquil as an evening in May time. David’s heart swelled so full of happiness that it almost ached.

  After supper was over the beautiful lady sat on the grass and read them wonderful stories out of a picture book, and the children crowded around her and peeped over her shoulder and across her arms, and got into her lap and scrambled over her, and she never once scolded them, — even when they trod on her beautiful dress. The picture book was full of the most wonderful fairy tales that ever you heard in your life, and the pictures were painted in colors as real as life. And the most wonderful part of the hook was that the pictures moved just as real things move. The leaves and branches of the trees mo
ved as though the wind were blowing, the flags on the castle fluttered and waved, the giants walked about, the lions wagged their tails, and yon could almost hear them roar, the boats sailed across the water, and the beautiful Princess leaned out and waved her handkerchief, and the Prince galloped up in a cloud of dust.

  David had never seen such a wonderful book in all his life before, and he fairly held his breath as he looked at the pictures and listened to the wonderful stories the beautiful lady read aloud to the children.

  Then came the twilight, soft and gray, and time for the children to go to bed. The bedroom was in the red brick house — a great, long room, with two rows of small white beds, that smelt of old lavender and dry rose leaves, and all sorts of sweet things. There the children were put to bed, and nobody scolded them, though they laughed and talked and romped to their heart’s content, and jumped up and down on the beds, and climbed in and out of them. Every now and then, when their romping and shouts grew louder and louder, the beautiful lady would say, “Hush, hush!” in her gentle voice, but that was all. So they played until they were tired, and then went to sleep — all but David.

  He lay quite still, feeling happy — so happy and quiet. He watched the beautiful lady as she moved silently through the room, putting the children’s clothes to rights, and when she saw that David was looking at her, with his big blue eyes, she came and stooped over him and kissed him.