The clock was in ill humor; so was
the vase. It was all on account of the little
shoe that had been placed on the mantel-piece that
day, and had done nothing but sigh dolorously all
the afternoon and evening.
“Look you here, neighbor,”
quoth the clock, in petulant tones, “you are
sadly mistaken if you think you will be permitted to
disturb our peace and harmony with your constant sighs
and groans. If you are ill, pray let us know;
otherwise, have done with your manifestations of distress.”
“Possibly you do not know what
befell the melancholy plaque that intruded his presence
upon us last week,” said the vase. “We
pitched him off the mantelpiece, and he was shattered
into a thousand bits.”
The little shoe gave a dreadful shudder.
It could not help thinking it had fallen among inhospitable
neighbors. It began to cry. The brass
candlestick took pity on the sobbing thing, and declared
with some show of temper that the little shoe should
not be imposed on.
“Now tell us why you are so
full of sadness,” said the brass candlestick.
“I do not know how to explain,”
whimpered the little shoe. “You see I
am quite a young thing, albeit I have a rusty appearance
and there is a hole in my toes and my heel is badly
run over. I feel so lonesome and friendless
and sort of neglected-like, that it seems as if there
were nothing for me to do but sigh and grieve and
weep all day long.”
“Sighing and weeping do no good,”
remarked the vase, philosophically.
“I know that very well,”
replied the little shoe; “but once I was so
happy that my present lonesome lot oppresses me all
the more grievously.”
“You say you once were happy-pray
tell us all about it,” demanded the brass candlestick.
The vase was eager to hear the little
shoe’s story, and even the proud, haughty clock
expressed a willingness to listen. The matchbox
came from the other end of the mantel-piece, and the
pen-wiper, the paper-cutter, and the cigar-case gathered
around the little shoe, and urged it to proceed with
its narrative.
“The first thing I can remember
in my short life,” said the little shoe, “was
being taken from a large box in which there were many
of my kind thrown together in great confusion.
I found myself tied with a slender cord to a little
mate, a shoe so very like me that you could not have
told us apart. We two were taken and put in a
large window in the midst of many grown-up shoes,
and we had nothing to do but gaze out of the window
all day long into the wide, busy street. That
was a very pleasant life. Sometimes the sunbeams
would dance through the window-panes and play at hide-and-seek
all over me and my little mate; they would kiss and
caress us, and we learned to love them very much-they
were so warm and gentle and merrisome. Sometimes
the raindrops would patter against the window-panes,
singing wild songs to us, and clamoring to break through
and destroy us with their eagerness. When night
came, we could see stars away up in the dark sky winking
at us, and very often the old mother moon stole out
from behind a cloud to give us a kindly smile.
The wind used to sing us lullabies, and in one corner
of our window there was a little open space where the
mice gave a grand ball every night to the music of
the crickets and a blind frog. Altogether we
had a merry time.”
“I ’d have liked it all
but the wind,” said the brass candlestick.
“I don’t know why it is, but I ’m
dreadfully put out by the horrid old wind!”
“Many people,” continued
the little shoe, “used to stop and look in at
the window, and I believe my little mate and I were
admired more than any of our larger and more pretentious
companions. I can remember there was a pair
of red-top boots that was exceedingly jealous of us.
But that did not last long, for one day a very sweet
lady came and peered in at the window and smiled very
joyously when she saw me and my little mate.
Then I remember we were taken from the window, and
the lady held us in her hands and examined us very
closely, and measured our various dimensions with
a string, and finally, I remember, she said she would
carry us home. We did not know what that meant,
only we realized that we would never live in the shop
window again, and we were loath to be separated from
the sunbeams and the mice and the other friends that
had been so kind to us.”
“What a droll little shoe!”
exclaimed the vase. Whereupon the clock frowned
and ticked a warning to the vase not to interrupt the
little shoe in the midst of its diverting narrative.
“It is not necessary for me
to tell you how we were wrapped in paper and carried
a weary distance,” said the little shoe; “it
is sufficient to my purpose to say that, after what
seemed to us an interminable journey and a cruel banging
around, we were taken from the paper and found ourselves
in a quiet, cozy room-yes, in this very
apartment where we all are now! The sweet lady
held us in her lap, and at the sweet lady’s
side stood a little child, gazing at us with an expression
of commingled astonishment, admiration, and glee.
We knew the little child belonged to the sweet lady,
and from the talk we heard we knew that henceforth
the child was to be our little master.”
As if some sudden anguish came upon
it, hushing its speech, the little shoe paused in
its narrative. The others said never a word.
Perhaps it was because they were beginning to understand.
The proud, haughty clock seemed to be less imperious
for the moment, and its ticking was softer and more
reverential.
“From that time,” resumed
the little shoe, “our little master and we were
inseparable during all the happy day. We played
and danced with him and wandered everywhere through
the grass, over the carpets, down the yard, up the
street-ay, everywhere our little master
went, we went too, sharing his pretty antics and making
music everywhere. Then, when evening came and
little master was put to sleep, in yonder crib, we
were set on the warm carpet near his bed where we could
watch him while he slept, and bid him good-morrow
when the morning came. Those were pleasant nights,
too, for no sooner had little master fallen asleep
than the fairies came trooping through the keyholes
and fluttering down the chimney to dance over his
eyes all night long, giving him happy dreams, and
filling his baby ears with sweetest music.”
“What a curious conceit!” said the pen-wiper.
“And is it true that fairies
dance on children’s eyelids at night?”
asked the paper-cutter.
“Certainly,” the clock
chimed in, “and they sing very pretty lullabies
and very cunning operettas, too. I myself have
seen and heard them.”
“I should like to hear a fairy
operetta,” suggested the pen-wiper.
“I remember one the fairies
sang my little master as they danced over his eyelids,”
said the little shoe, “and I will repeat it if
you wish.”
“Nothing would please me more,” said the
pen-wiper.
“Then you must know,”
said the little shoe, “that, as soon as my master
fell asleep, the fairies would make their appearance,
led by their queen, a most beautiful and amiable little
lady no bigger than a cambric needle. Assembling
on the pillow of the crib, they would order their
minstrels and orchestra to seat themselves on little
master’s forehead. The minstrels invariably
were the cricket, the flea, the katydid, and the gnat,
while the orchestra consisted of mosquitos, bumblebees,
and wasps. Once in a great while, on very important
occasions, the fairies would bring the old blind hop-toad
down the chimney and set him on the window-sill, where
he would discourse droll ditties to the infinite delight
of his hearers. But on ordinary occasions, the
fairy queen, whose name was Taffie, would lead the
performance in these pleasing words, sung to a very
dulcet air:
AN INVITATION TO SLEEP
Little eyelids, cease your winking;
Little orbs, forget to beam;
Little soul, to slumber sinking,
Let the fairies rule your
dream.
Breezes, through the lattice sweeping,
Sing their lullabies the while-
And a star-ray, softly creeping
To thy bedside, woos thy smile.
But no song nor ray entrancing
Can allure thee from the spell
Of the tiny fairies dancing
O’er the eyes they love
so well.
See, we come in countless number-
I, their queen, and all my
court-
Haste, my precious one, to slumber
Which invites our fairy sport.
“At the conclusion of this song
Prince Whimwham, a tidy little gentleman fairy in
pink silk small-clothes, approaching Queen Taffie
and bowing graciously, would say:
Pray, lady, may I have the pleasure
Of leading you this stately measure?
To which her majesty would reply with
equal graciousness in the affirmative. Then
Prince Whimwham and Queen Taffie would take their
places on one of my master’s eyelids, and the
other gentleman fairies and lady fairies would follow
their example, till at last my master’s face
would seem to be alive with these delightful little
beings. The mosquitos would blow a shrill blast
on their trumpets, the orchestra would strike up,
and then the festivities would begin in earnest.
How the bumblebees would drone, how the wasps would
buzz, and how the mosquitos would blare! It
was a delightful harmony of weird sounds. The
strange little dancers floated hither and thither over
my master’s baby face, as light as thistledowns,
and as graceful as the slender plumes they wore in
their hats and bonnets. Presently they would
weary of dancing, and then the minstrels would be
commanded to entertain them. Invariably the
flea, who was a rattle-headed fellow, would discourse
some such incoherent song as this:
COQUETRY
Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee-
The spider courted the frisky flea;
Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-doo-
The flea ran off with the bugaboo!
“Oh, tiddle-de-dee!”
Said the frisky
flea-
For what cared
she
For the miseree
The spider knew,
When, tiddle-de-doo,
The flea ran off with the bugaboo!
Rumpty-tumpty, pimplety-pan-
The flubdub courted a catamaran
But timplety-topplety, timpity-tare-
The flubdub wedded the big blue bear!
The fun began
With a pimplety-pan
When the catamaran,
Tore up a man
And streaked the
air
With his gore
and hair
Because the flubdub wedded the bear!
“I remember with what dignity
the fairy queen used to reprove the flea for his inane
levity:
Nay, futile flea; these verses you are
making
Disturb the child-for, see,
he is awaking!
Come, little cricket, sing your quaintest
numbers,
And they, perchance, shall lull him back
to slumbers.
“Upon this invitation the cricket,
who is justly one of the most famous songsters in
the world, would get his pretty voice in tune and sing
as follows:
THE CRICKET’S SONG
When all around from out the ground
The little flowers are peeping,
And from the hills the merry rills
With vernal songs are leaping,
I sing my song the whole day long
In woodland, hedge, and thicket-
And sing it, too, the whole night through,
For I ’m a merry cricket.
The children hear my chirrup clear
As, in the woodland straying,
They gather flow’rs through summer
hours-
And then I hear them saying:
“Sing, sing away the livelong day,
Glad songster of the thicket-
With your shrill mirth you gladden earth,
You merry little cricket!”
When summer goes, and Christmas snows
Are from the north returning,
I quit my lair and hasten where
The old yule-log is burning.
And where at night the ruddy light
Of that old log is flinging
A genial joy o’er girl and boy,
There I resume my singing.
And, when they hear my chirrup clear,
The children stop their playing-
With eager feet they haste to greet
My welcome music, saying:
“The little thing has come to sing
Of woodland, hedge, and thicket-
Of summer day and lambs at play-
Oh, how we love the cricket!”
“This merry little song always
seemed to please everybody except the gnat.
The fairies appeared to regard the gnat as a pestiferous
insect, but a contemptuous pity led them to call upon
him for a recitation, which invariably was in the
following strain:
THE FATE OF THE FLIMFLAM
A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo,
Where the pollywog pinkled
so pale,
And the pipkin piped a petulant “pooh”
To the garrulous gawp of the
gale.
“Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping
swipe
That booms on the hobbling
bay!”
Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe
That lurked where the lamprey
lay.
The gluglug glinked in the glimmering
gloam,
Where the buzbuz bumbled his
bee-
When the flimflam flitted, all flecked
with foam,
From the sozzling and succulent
sea.
“Oh, swither the swipe, with its
sweltering sweep!”
She swore as she swayed in
a swoon,
And a doleful dank dumped over the deep,
To the lay of the limpid loon!
“This was simply horrid, as
you all will allow. The queen and her fairy
followers were much relieved when the honest katydid
narrated a pleasant moral in the form of a ballad
to this effect:
CONTENTMENT
Once on a time an old red hen
Went strutting ’round
with pompous clucks,
For she had little babies ten,
A part of which were tiny
ducks.
“’T is very rare that hens,”
said she,
“Have baby ducks as
well as chicks-
But I possess, as you can see,
Of chickens four and ducklings
six!”
A season later, this old hen
Appeared, still cackling of
her luck,
For, though she boasted babies ten,
Not one among them was a duck!
“’T is well,” she murmured,
brooding o’er
The little chicks of fleecy
down-
“My babies now will stay ashore,
And, consequently, cannot
drown!”
The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as
of yore-
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens, as before!
“’T is better,” said
the old red hen,
As she surveyed her waddling
brood;
“A little water now and then
Will surely do my darlings
good!”
But oh! alas, how very sad!
When gentle spring rolled
round again
The eggs eventuated bad,
And childless was the old
red hen!
Yet patiently she bore her woe,
And still she wore a cheerful
air,
And said: “’T is best
these things are so,
For babies are a dreadful
care!”
I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women, too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen
With foliage of vermilion
hue;
She ne’er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence-
She was contented-that
was all!
“Then the fairies would resume
their dancing. Each little gentleman fairy would
bow to his lady fairy and sing in the most musical
of voices:
Sweet little fairy,
Tender and airy,
Come, let us dance on the good baby-eyes;
Merrily skipping,
Cheerily tripping,
Murmur we ever our soft lullabies.
“And then, as the rest danced,
the fairy queen sang the following slumber-song, accompanied
by the orchestra:
A FAIRY LULLABY
There are two stars in yonder steeps
That watch the baby while he sleeps.
But while the baby is awake
And singing gayly
all day long,
The little stars their slumbers
take
Lulled by the
music of his song.
So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep
While little stars their vigils keep.
Beside his loving mother-sheep
A little lambkin is asleep;
What does he know of midnight
gloom –
He sleeps, and
in his quiet dreams
He thinks he plucks the clover
bloom
And drinks at
cooling, purling streams.
And those same stars the baby knows
Sing softly to the lamb’s repose.
Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child-
The stars are dim-the night
is wild;
But o’er the cot and
o’er the lea
A sleepless eye
forever beams-
A shepherd watches over thee
In all thy little
baby dreams;
The shepherd loves his tiny sheep-
Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep!
“That is very pretty, indeed!”
exclaimed the brass candlestick.
“So it is,” replied the
little shoe, “but you should hear it sung by
the fairy queen!”
“Did the operetta end with that
lullaby?” inquired the cigar-case.
“Oh, no,” said the little
shoe. “No sooner had the queen finished
her lullaby than an old gran’ma fairy, wearing
a quaint mob-cap and large spectacles, limped forward
with her crutch and droned out a curious ballad, which
seemed to be for the special benefit of the boy and
girl fairies, very many of whom were of the company.
This ballad was as follows:
BALLAD OF THE JELLY-CAKE
A little boy whose name was Tim
Once ate some jelly-cake for
tea-
Which cake did not agree with him,
As by the sequel you shall
see.
“My darling child,” his mother
said,
“Pray do not eat that
jelly-cake,
For, after you have gone to bed,
I fear ’t will make
your stomach ache!”
But foolish little Tim demurred
Unto his mother’s warning word.
That night, while all the household slept,
Tim felt an awful pain, and
then
From out the dark a nightmare leapt
And stood upon his abdomen!
“I cannot breathe!” the infant
cried-
“Oh, Mrs. Nightmare,
pity take!”
“There is no mercy,” she replied,
“For boys who feast
on jelly-cake!”
And so, despite the moans of Tim,
The cruel nightmare went for him.
At first, she ’d tickle Timmy’s
toes
Or roughly smite his baby
cheek-
And now she ’d rudely tweak his
nose
And other petty vengeance
wreak;
And then, with hobnails in her shoes
And her two horrid eyes aflame,
The mare proceeded to amuse
Herself by prancing o’er
his frame –
First to his throbbing brow, and then
Back to his little feet again.
At last, fantastic, wild, and weird,
And clad in garments ghastly
grim,
A scowling hoodoo band appeared
And joined in worrying little
Tim.
Each member of this hoodoo horde
Surrounded Tim with fierce
ado
And with long, cruel gimlets bored
His aching system through
and through,
And while they labored all night long
The nightmare neighed a dismal song.
Next morning, looking pale and wild,
Poor little Tim emerged from
bed-
“Good gracious! what can ail the
child!”
His agitated mother said.
“We live to learn,” responded
he,
“And I have lived to
learn to take
Plain bread and butter for my tea,
And never, never, jelly-cake!
For when my hulk with pastry teems,
I must expect unpleasant dreams!”
“Now you can imagine this ballad
impressed the child fairies very deeply,” continued
the little shoe. “Whenever the gran’ma
fairy sang it, the little fairies expressed great
surprise that boys and girls ever should think of
eating things which occasioned so much trouble.
So the night was spent in singing and dancing, and
our master would sleep as sweetly as you please.
At last the lark-what a beautiful bird
she is-would flutter against the window
panes, and give the fairies warning in these words:
MORNING SONG
The eastern sky is streaked with red,
The weary night is done,
And from his distant ocean bed
Rolls up the morning sun.
The dew, like tiny silver beads
Bespread o’er velvet
green,
Is scattered on the wakeful meads
By angel hands unseen.
“Good-morrow, robin in the trees!”
The star-eyed daisy cries;
“Good-morrow,” sings the morning
breeze
Unto the ruddy skies;
“Good-morrow, every living thing!”
Kind Nature seems to say,
And all her works devoutly sing
A hymn to birth of day,
So, haste, without delay,
Haste, fairy friends, on silver
wing,
And to your homes away!
“But the fairies could never
leave little master so unceremoniously. Before
betaking themselves to their pretty homes under the
rocks near the brook, they would address a parting
song to his eyes, and this song they called a matin
invocation:
TO A SLEEPING BABY’S EYES
And thou, twin orbs of love and joy!
Unveil thy glories
with the morn-
Dear eyes, another
day is born-
Awake, O little sleeping boy!
Bright are the summer morning skies,
But in this quiet
little room
There broods a
chill, oppressive gloom-
All for the brightness of thine eyes.
Without those radiant orbs of thine
How dark this
little world would be-
This sweet home-world
that worships thee-
So let their wondrous glories shine
On those who love their warmth and joy-
Awake, O sleeping little boy.
“So that ended the fairy operetta,
did it?” inquired the match-box.
“Yes,” said the little
shoe, with a sigh of regret. “The fairies
were such bewitching creatures, and they sang so sweetly,
I could have wished they would never stop their antics
and singing. But, alas! I fear I shall
never see them again.”
“What makes you think so?” asked the brass
candlestick.
“I ’m sure I can’t
tell,” replied the little shoe; “only everything
is so strange-like and so changed from what it used
to be that I hardly know whether indeed I am still
the same little shoe I used to be.”
“Why, what can you mean?”
queried the old clock, with a puzzled look on her
face.
“I will try to tell you,”
said the little shoe. “You see, my mate
and our master and I were great friends; as I have
said, we roamed and frolicked around together all
day, and at night my little mate and I watched at
master’s bedside while he slept. One day
we three took a long ramble, away up the street and
beyond where the houses were built, until we came
into a beautiful green field, where the grass was very
tall and green, and where there were pretty flowers
of every kind. Our little master talked to the
flowers and they answered him, and we all had a merry
time in the meadow that afternoon, I can tell you.
’Don’t go away, little child,’
cried the daisies, ’but stay and be our playfellow
always.’ A butterfly came and perched on
our master’s hand, and looked up and smiled,
and said: ’I ’m not afraid of you;
you would n’t hurt me, would you?’ A
little mouse told us there was a thrush’s nest
in the bush yonder, and we hurried to see it.
The lady thrush was singing her four babies to sleep.
They were strange-looking babies, with their gaping
mouths, bulbing eyes, and scant feathers! ‘Do
not wake them up,’ protested the lady thrush.
’Go a little further on and you will come to
the brook. I will join you presently.’
So we went to the brook.”
“Oh, but I would have been afraid,”
suggested the pen-wiper.
“Afraid of the brook!”
cried the little shoe. “Oh, no; what could
be prettier than the brook! We heard it singing
in the distance. We called to it and it bade
us welcome. How it smiled in the sunshine!
How restless and furtive and nimble it was, yet full
of merry prattling and noisy song. Our master
was overjoyed. He had never seen the brook before;
nor had we, for that matter. ‘Let me cool
your little feet,’ said the brook, and, without
replying, our master waded knee-deep into the brook.
In an instant we were wet through-my mate
and I; but how deliciously cool it was here in the
brook, and how smooth and bright the pebbles were!
One of the pebbles told me it had come many, many
miles that day from its home in the hills where the
brook was born.”
“Pooh, I don’t believe it,” sneered
the vase.
“Presently our master toddled
back from out the brook,” continued the little
shoe, heedless of the vase’s interruption, “and
sat among the cowslips and buttercups on the bank.
The brook sang on as merrily as before. ‘Would
you like to go sailing?’ asked our master of
my mate. ‘Indeed I would,’ replied
my mate, and so our master pulled my mate from his
little foot and set it afloat upon the dancing waves
of the brook. My mate was not the least alarmed.
It spun around gayly several times at first and then
glided rapidly away. The butterfly hastened
and alighted upon the merry little craft. ’Where
are you going?’ I cried. ‘I am going
down to the sea,’ replied my little mate, with
laughter. ’And I am going to marry the
rose in the far-away south,’ cried the butterfly.
‘But will you not come back?’ I cried.
They answered me, but they were so far away I could
not hear them. It was very distressing, and
I grieved exceedingly. Then, all at once, I
discovered my little master was asleep, fast asleep
among the cowslips and buttercups. I did not
try to wake him-only I felt very miserable,
for I was so cold and wet. Presently the lady
thrush came, as she had said she would. The
child is asleep-he will be ill-I
must hasten to tell his mother,’ she cried,
and away she flew.”
“And was he sick?” asked the vase.
“I do not know,” said
the little shoe. “I can remember it was
late that evening when the sweet lady and others came
and took us up and carried us back home, to this very
room. Then I was pulled off very unceremoniously
and thrown under my little master’s bed, and
I never saw my little master after that.
“How very strange!” exclaimed the match-safe.
“Very, very strange,”
repeated the shoe. “For many days and nights
I lay under the crib all alone. I could hear
my little master sighing and talking as if in a dream.
Sometimes he spoke of me, and of the brook, and of
my little mate dancing to the sea, and one night he
breathed very loud and quick and he cried out and seemed
to struggle, and then, all at once, he stopped, and
I could hear the sweet lady weeping. But I remember
all this very faintly. I was hoping the fairies
would come back, but they never came.
“I remember,” resumed
the little shoe, after a solemn pause, “I remember
how, after a long, long time, the sweet lady came and
drew me from under the crib and held me in her lap
and kissed me and wept over me. Then she put
me in a dark, lonesome drawer, where there were dresses
and stockings and the little hat my master used to
wear. There I lived, oh! such a weary time,
and we talked-the dresses, the stockings,
the hat, and I did-about our little master,
and we wondered that he never came. And every
little while the sweet lady would take us from the
drawer and caress us, and we saw that she was pale
and that her eyes were red with weeping.”
“But has your little master
never come back!” asked the old clock.
“Not yet,” said the little
shoe, “and that is why I am so very lonesome.
Sometimes I think he has gone down to the sea in search
of my little mate and that the two will come back
together. But I do not understand it.
The sweet lady took me from the drawer to-day and
kissed me and set me here on the mantelpiece.”
“You don’t mean to say
she kissed you?” cried the haughty vase, “you
horrid little stumped-out shoe!”
“Indeed she did,” insisted
the lonesome little shoe, “and I know she loves
me. But why she loves me and kisses me and weeps
over me I do not know. It is all very strange.
I do not understand it at all.”