All this time Smaly and Redy had remained in the great kitchen. Suddenly they heard a voice say:

"It's confoundedly cold in this disgusting kitchen."

"Hullo, who is that?" asked Smaly and Redy together.

"It's I," replied the Mother of the Crow.

Peering about them they discovered her where she had been left forgotten under the table, still sitting in her oyster-shell.

"I'm cold," she said again.

"What can we do for you?" exclaimed Redy pityingly.

"Yes, how can we help?" asked Smaly.

"Take me back to my tree of coral."

"They won't let us go out of here," exclaimed Redy and Smaly.

"Then put the Tea-Cosy over me," suggested the poor old Mother of the Crow, whose teeth were chattering in her beak.

And so it was done.

There was no longer anything to see but a Tea-Cosy. The Mother of the Crow was completely hidden.

"Now I'm nice and warm," said the Mother of the Crow.

It was really quite a new experience for Smaly and Redy to hold a conversation with a Tea-Cosy. The Mother of the Crow was a great chatterbox, and she knew a thing or two, and several things more after that.

"What are you doing here?" asked the Tea-Cosy.

Redy and Smaly folded their hands, and began:

"I know, I know," interrupted the Tea-Cosy, "but I meant what are you doing here in the great kitchen?"

"We're waiting for the sun to go down," was the response.

"And you can't leave till then," replied the Tea-Cosy. "Then tell me a story, a nice long story. I love long stories," added the Tea-Cosy with enthusiasm.

"Are you equally fond of telling long stories?" asked Redy and Smaly, both seized with the same idea.

"I like it even better than gooseberry-fool and candy-sugar caterpillars," replied the Tea-Cosy in a voice that trembled with excitement.

"Then," said Smaly, "tell us the whole history of the Prisoner."

"Ah," replied the Tea-Cosy, "the Historian has the monopoly of the local chronicles. We others can't even remember what happens in this country. But I can tell you what the Prisoner's life was like before he came here and was put in his sugar-cane prison."

"We know that they cut off his head," interrupted Smaly.

"Of course if you know all about it it's not worth while my telling you the story, it will be so short," said the Tea-Cosy huffily.

Smaly managed to soothe the Tea-Cosy, which then told them the following story:

"THE STORY OF DJORAK

"My story begins on a Saturday, which was also market-day. There was a great crowd in all the streets. The chariot where Djorak was seated with the Executioner could barely force a way through the mass of people. Every one who had the leisure to do so followed the chariot of the condemned; others, who had not, took the time out of their work, or their luncheon hour. Servants out shopping followed it with their laden baskets on their arms. Great ladies sent away their sedan-chairs so that they might fight their way on foot, where no vehicles, however small, could have passed, so dense was the crowd.

"When he arrived at the scaffold Djorak sat down. He was a little pale, which is not to be wondered at, for it was enough to put any man out.

"The Executioner vested himself in his red robe, and taking out of his chariot a small grindstone he began to sharpen the pair of scissors with which he was going to cut off Djorak's head.

"The Prisoner, for his part, was so upset when he saw the scissors being sharpened that he neglected to respond to the farewell salutes of his friends, which they wafted to him across the barrier of policemen that surrounded the scaffold.

"It seemed to Djorak that he must be in a dream.

"Quite little things of no importance from every period of his life passed before the eyes of his imagination.

"He found himself thinking of a hen that his parents had possessed when he was a very little boy. This hen had been extremely intelligent.

"One day she had found herself unable to break the shell of a snail, so she had gone to the stock-pot and taken out a lettuce-leaf. She came back, her bright eyes twinkling, laid the leaf down before the snail and hid herself.

"Presently the snail began to shoot out his horns.

"Then his head.

"Then his whole body.

"It was exactly what the hen had wished to see.

"The hen gazed at it.

"The hen laughed.

"The hen opened her beak.

"The hen gobbled the snail up.

"This and equally ridiculous happenings passed through the Prisoner's brain. He remembered his mother, and how she used thoughtfully to put an ash-tray in his pocket when——"

"We know all about the ash-tray," said Smaly and Redy together.

"Very well, very well, I'll leave out the ash-tray," said the Tea-Cosy. "But do you know also how when he wanted his mother to do anything in particular for him, he thrust his face into roses covered with dew?"

"No, we don't know that."

"Well," continued the Tea-Cosy, "when he withdrew his face it would be covered with dew from the roses, and he would say to his mother:

"'Only look how I am crying....'

"Djorak thought of this and of a thousand other things. He had an excellent memory.

"Meanwhile the moment of his death was approaching.

"The Executioner bandaged his eyes, then turned towards the crowd and, according to custom, demanded:

"'Has any one in this town any objection to the way in which I am about to employ this magnificent pair of scissors?'

"The Chief of Police answered, also according to custom: 'Have the scissors been sharpened according to rule?'

"The crowd merely cried out, 'Can they cut?'

"The Executioner thereupon took several old newspapers and, holding them out before the crowd, began to cut them into fine strips. Next he took some old cardboard boxes, which he treated in the same way. Finally he cut up whole logs of wood into thin circles. In order that every one might see, he did these things in front of him, behind him, to the right and to the left.

"These experiments seemed to satisfy the crowd; but the Chief of Police still hesitated. Finally he approached the Executioner and, leaning forward, said in his ear:

"'Excuse me, I beg of you, my dear friend, if I seem indiscreet; but I am merely doing my duty. The King has particularly commanded that all the rules shall be observed. Therefore you will understand that I am bound to ask you three questions to assure myself that you really have the strength to use these scissors successfully.

"'1. Have you eaten three hard-boiled eggs this morning?

"'2. Have you eaten three rashers of bacon this morning?

"'3. Have you played a game of football this morning?'

"To each question the Executioner replied with a nod of the head.

"'Then get on with it,' said the Chief of Police.

"The Executioner raised the scissors towards the sky, turning himself about to all points of the compass. Then with a brisk movement he lowered the scissors, opened them and shut them again, and the head of Djorak tumbled to the ground."

"But that's the same Djorak who is here in the prison of the sugar-canes," interrupted Smaly, who in spite of his habit of being astounded at nothing could not help showing a little astonishment.

"Don't be so impatient," replied the Mother of the Crow imperturbably. "You'll understand in a moment or two. Now I have already told you that Djorak had a very good memory. At the moment when his head was falling he remembered that he had always heard one doesn't die immediately when one's head is cut off.

"It was extremely fortunate for him that he remembered this detail.

"He hastened to pick up his head, and he jumped off the scaffold holding it under his arm."

"Dear me," said Smaly and Redy.

The Mother of the Crow continued her story imperturbably:

"When the crowd saw this man in such a peculiar condition they began to fly in all directions. An indescribable panic followed. The square rapidly emptied. Soon there was no one left saving a few people who had been knocked down. The crowd ran and ran; but the beheaded Prisoner ran harder still. Soon he was running by himself; all the townspeople had taken shelter.

"Djorak and his head had a very precise end in view in running thus. It was important both for the head and for Djorak to arrive as soon as possible at the house of a certain Magician whom he knew.

"He arrived, rushed in and banged the door behind him. The Magician, unfortunately, was out, only his young son was there, and although this youth understood perfectly how urgent it was that Djorak's head should be fastened on again as soon as possible, he could do nothing to help him.

"'Let's consult the Brindled Rabbit,' suggested the Head.

"The Brindled Rabbit being questioned played several strains on a harp of silver and crystal, then he withdrew into an old comfit-box and shut the lid down on himself.

"After a few seconds he opened the lid again, his eye became visible, and his little paw shoved a folded slip of paper through the opening.

"The Son of the Magician read as follows:

"1 Three.

"2 Three.

"3 Three.

"He at once tore up to the third story of the house. There he counted three shelves, and from the third shelf he took the third little bottle and ran downstairs again.

"'What must he do with it?' asked the youth, of the Rabbit; but the box remained shut; there was no answer.

"'I must drink it,' replied the Head.

"'But you've no stomach,' cried the Son of the Magician.

"'Put my head back on my neck,' suggested Djorak, 'then there will at least be a stomach beneath my head.'

"The Son of the Magician at once placed Djorak's head back in its proper place with one hand, while with the other he tipped the little bottle between its lips.

"The effect was immediate.

"Directly the liquor trickled down his throat Djorak felt himself as well as ever. He danced about with joy. He even played a game of leapfrog with the Son of the Magician, then they sang a comic duet, of which I cannot remember the words. The first lines went something like this:

"But Djorak had a good memory, and so he had kept his head.

"During their song the Brindled Rabbit crept out of his comfit-box. He could not stay in it for laughing at the comic song.

"Djorak and the Son of the Magician begged him to advise them what to do next; but the Rabbit only held its sides with laughter, and made no reply.

"Then they questioned a Black Toad who came crawling out of a pot of treacle where he lived, and began to lick himself dry with a fine, forked tongue.

"The Rabbit hopped up to him wishing to share in the treacle; but the Black Toad flew into a rage. It was a worse rage than even that of the Chief Contractor when we have not placed ourselves symmetrically," added the Mother of the Crow, remembering that Smaly and Redy had seen the Contractor in a temper.

"Then," she continued, "the Son of the Magician asked the Black Toad in what country Djorak should take refuge, making the suggestion that they should send him to a green country where the clouds were all white and the trees mauve.

"The Black Toad shot forward to within an inch of the Rabbit's nose; but without advancing a step, for his legs suddenly expanded to allow him to do so.

"'I hate mauve and white,' he snapped, and shot back again.

"The Rabbit replied peacefully, 'How about a rose-coloured country, where the people dance as they bake the bread?'

"'I would like that,' said Djorak.

"'I don't doubt it,' said the Brindled Rabbit.

"'Or would you like a country where they hunt butterflies all the morning, and fish in the little river in the afternoon?' asked the Rabbit.

"'Yes, yes, that will do,' replied Djorak, who was anxious to get away.

"'He is a misanthrope,' declared the Toad, retreating towards its pot of treacle.

"'Oh, kind Toad, do tell me where I ought to go,' begged Djorak.

"'Get into this little glass tube,' replied the Toad.

"Djorak obeyed.

"This tube was no bigger than a penholder; when Djorak was comfortably settled inside of it the Black Toad put one end of it into his mouth and blew.

"He blew so hard that Djorak was shot right into our country. Then——"

But here Redy interrupted the Mother of the Crow. She gave a little shake to the Tea-Cosy and whispered rapidly what she had noticed taking place on the other side of the public square.

This is what she had seen.

From one of the holes made for the Flying-Fish Redy perceived the thin long arm of the Historian sticking out, the finger pointing accusingly towards the door of the kitchen, where Smaly, Redy, and the Mother of the Crow were seated.

The Mother of the Crow understood the significance of this at once. It meant she would not be permitted to carry her story any further. The monopoly of the chronicles of the country belonged to the Historian.

The Mother of the Crow had to hold her tongue.