  It was not raining at all beyond the wall. Overhead was a soft, mild sky, neither sunny nor cloudy. Before her stretched a grassy green meadow, and far away in the distance was a dark line of forest. Just at the foot of the meadow was a little house. It was such a curious little house that Ellen went nearer to look at it. It was not set solidly upon the ground, but stood upon four fowls' legs, so that you could look clear under it; and the roof was covered with shining feathers that overlapped like feathers upon the back of a duck. Beside the door, hitched to a post by a bridle just as a horse might be, was an enormous white gander. While Ellen stood staring with all her eyes at the house and the gander, the Presently she shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at the sky; then she looked at the meadows, and last her eyes fell upon the little girl who stood there staring at her. The old woman gazed and gazed. "Well, I declare," she cried, "if it isn't a little girl! What are you doing here, child?" "I'm just looking at your house." "But how did you happen to come here?" "I came through the nursery wall. I didn't know it was soft before." A number of queer-looking little people had come out from the house while Ellen and the old woman were talking, and they gathered about in a crowd and stared so hard and were so odd-looking that Ellen began to feel somewhat shy. They kept coming out and coming out until she wondered how the house could have held them all. There was a little boy with a pig in his arms, and now and then the pig squealed shrilly. There was a maid with a cap and apron, and her sleeves were so full of round, heavy things that the seams looked ready to burst. A pocket that hung at her side was full, too, and bumped against her as she walked. She came quite close to Ellen, and the child could tell by the smell that the things in her sleeves and pocket were oranges. There was one who Ellen knew must be a king by the crown on his head; he was a jolly-looking fellow, and had There were big people and little people, young people and old; and a dish and spoon came walking out with the rest. But what seemed almost the strangest of all to Ellen was to see an old lady come riding out through the door of the house on a white horse. "I wonder where she keeps it," thought the little girl to herself. "I shouldn't think it would be very pleasant to have a horse in the house with you." The old lady's hands were loaded with rings, and as the horse moved there was a jingling as of bells. The words of a nursery rhyme rang through Ellen's head in time to the jingling:— "Rings on her fingers And bells on her toes, She shall have music Wherever she goes." "Why," she cried, "it's the old lady "Of course they are," said the little old woman with the pointed hat. "What did you suppose would live in Mother Goose's house?" "And are you Mother Goose?" asked Ellen. "Yes, I am. Don't you think I look like the pictures?" "But—but—I didn't know you were alive. I thought you were only a rhyme." "Only a rhyme! Well, I should think not. How do you suppose there could be rhymes unless there was something to make them about?" "And all the rest, too," said Ellen dreamily, looking about her. "'Tom, Tom, the piper's son,' and 'Dingty, Diddlety, my mammy's maid,' and 'Old King Cole'—why, they're all alive. How queer it seems! I wonder if the stories are alive, too." "Yes, just as alive as we are." "And the story grandmother forgot—oh, do you suppose I could find that story?" "The story she forgot!" answered Mother Goose thoughtfully. "What was it about?" "Why, that's it; I don't know. Nobody knows only just grandmother, and she's forgotten." Mother Goose shook her head. "If every one's forgotten it, I'm afraid it must be at the house of the Queerbodies. That's where they send all the forgotten stories; then they make them over into new ones." "Couldn't I go there to find it?" "I don't know. I've never been there myself. Of course, they wouldn't let me in. But you're a real child. Maybe you could get in. Only, how would you get there? It's a long, long journey, through the forest and over hills and streams." "I don't know," said Ellen. "I've Mother Goose knitted her brows and began to think hard. Suddenly her face brightened. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lend you my gander; and he'll carry you there in short order, however far it is." "Oh, thank you, but I don't believe I could ride him! I'd fall off, I'm sure." "No, you wouldn't. He goes as smoothly as a dream goose, and almost as fast. Yes, I'll lend him to you. But there's one thing I'd like you to do for me in return when you reach the house of the Queerbodies." "What is that?" "I'd like you to ask about a rhyme I used to have. I think they must have it there, for I've lost it; and if it hasn't been made over yet, perhaps you could manage to get it for me." "What's its name?" asked Ellen. "Well, it hasn't any name, but it looks like this:— "Johnnykin learned to ride the wind, But he wouldn't let any one on behind. But the wind ran away With Johnny one day, And that wasn't such fun I have heard him say." Ellen promised to do what she could about it, and then Mother Goose sent Little Boy Blue to unhitch the gander and bring him to them. Ellen felt rather nervous about mounting him, but Mother Goose told her how to do it. Then the white gander |
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