On account of the woodchuck’s illness, and at the special request of Pigeon Pretty, the story-telling was postponed for a day or two. Very soon, however, Chucky recovered sufficiently to ride as far as the cottage on Bruin’s back; and on a fine afternoon the friends were all once more assembled, and waiting for Toto’s story.

“I don’t know any long stories,” said Toto, “at least not well enough to tell them; so I will tell two short ones instead. Will that do?”

“Just as well,” said the raccoon. “Five minutes for refreshments between the two, did you say? My view precisely.”

Toto smiled, and began the story of

THE TRAVELLER, THE COOK, AND THE LITTLE OLD MAN.

Once upon a time there was a little old man who lived in a well. He was a very small little old man, and the well was very deep; and the only reason why he lived there was because he could not get out. Indeed, what better reason could he have?

He had long white hair, and a long red nose, and a long green coat; and this was all he had in the world, except a three-legged stool, a large iron kettle, and a cook. There was not room in the well for the cook; so she lived on the ground above, and cooked the little old man’s dinner and supper in the iron kettle, and lowered them down to him in the bucket; and the little old man sat on the three-legged stool, and ate whatever the cook sent down to him, with a cheerful heart, if it was good; and so things went on very pleasantly.

But one day it happened that the cook could not find anything for the old man’s dinner. She looked high, and she looked low, but nothing could she find; so she was very unhappy; for she knew her master would be miserable if he had no dinner. She sat down by the well, and wept bitterly; and her tears fell into the well so fast that the little old man thought it was raining, and put up a red cotton umbrella, which he borrowed for the occasion. You may wonder where he borrowed it; but I cannot tell you, because I do not know.

Now, at that moment a traveller happened to pass by, and when he saw the cook sitting by the well and weeping, he stopped, and asked her what was the matter. So the cook told him that she was weeping because she could not find anything to cook for her master’s dinner.

“And who is your master?” asked the traveller.

“He is a little old man,” replied the cook; “and he lives down in this well.”

“Why does he live there?” inquired the traveller.

“I do not know,” answered the cook; “I never asked him.”

“He must be a singular person,” said the traveller. “I should like to see him. What does he look like?”

But this the cook could not tell him; for she had never seen the little old man, having come to work for him after he had gone down to live in the well.

“Does he like to receive visitors?” asked the traveller.

“Don’t know,” said the cook. “He has never had any to receive since I have been here.”

“Humph!” said the other. “I think I will go down and pay my respects to him. Will you let me down in the bucket?”

“But suppose he should mistake you for his dinner, and eat you up?” the cook suggested.

“Pooh!” he replied. “No fear of that; I can take care of myself. And as for his dinner,” he added, “get him some radishes. There are plenty about here. I had nothing but radishes for my dinner, and very good they were, though rather biting. Let down the bucket, please! I am all right.”

“What are radishes?” the cook called after him as he went down.

“Long red things, stupid! with green leaves to them!” he shouted; and then, in a moment, he found himself at the bottom of the well.

The little old man was delighted to see him, and told him that he had lived down there forty years, and had never had a visitor before in all that time.

“Why do you live down here?” inquired the traveller.

“Because I cannot get out,” replied the little old man.

“But how did you get down here in the first place?”

“Really,” he said, “it is so long ago that I hardly remember. My impression is, however, that I came down in the bucket.”

“Then why, in the name of common-sense,” said the traveller, “don’t you go up in the bucket?”

The little old man sprang up from the three-legged stool, and flung his arms around the traveller’s neck. “My dear friend!” he cried rapturously. “My precious benefactor! Thank you a thousand times for those words! I assure you I never thought of it before! I will go up at once. You will excuse me?”

“Certainly,” said the traveller. “Go up first, and I will follow you.”

The little old man got into the bucket, and was drawn up to the top of the well. But, alas! when the cook saw his long red nose and his 114 long green coat, she said to herself, “This must be a radish! How lucky I am!” and seizing the poor little old man, she popped him into the kettle without more ado. Then she let the bucket down for the traveller, calling to him to make haste, as she wanted to send down her master’s dinner.

Up came the traveller, and looking around, asked where her master was.

“Where should he be,” said the cook, “but at the bottom of the well, where you left him?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed the traveller. “He has just come up in the bucket!”

“Oh!” cried the cook. “Oh! oh!! o-o-o-h!!! was that my master? Why, I thought he was a radish, and I have boiled him for his own dinner!”

“I hope he will have a good appetite!” said the traveller.

The cook was a good woman, and her grief was so excessive that she fell into the kettle and was boiled too.

Then the traveller, who had formerly been an ogre by profession, said, “’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good! My dinner was very insufficient;” and he ate both the little old man and the cook, and proceeded on his journey with a cheerful heart.

---

“The traveller was a sensible man,” said Bruin. “Did you make up that story, Toto?”

“Yes,” replied Toto. “I made it up the other day,—one of those rainy days. I found a forked radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little red man. So I thought that if there was a radish that looked like a man, there might be a man that looked like a radish, you see. And now—”

“Ahem!” said the raccoon softly. “Did you say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I misunderstand you?” and he winked at the company in a very expressive manner.

Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the only ones that were heard, except the constant “click, click,” of the grandmother’s needles. Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl,—

“Excuse me, ma’am; do you make the gingerbread with those things?”

“With what things, Mr. Bruin?” asked the grandmother.

“Those bright things that go clickety-clack,” said the bear. “I see some soft brown stuff on them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and I thought possibly—”

“Oh,” said the grandmother, smiling, “you mean my knitting. No, Mr. Bruin, gingerbread is made in a very different way. I mix it in a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?”

Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly at Coon. The latter, however, merely grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing; so he was obliged to answer the grandmother himself.

“Oh, of course,” he said. “If you mix it with a spoon, I should say certainly. As far as a spoon goes, you know, I—ah—quite correct, I’m sure.” Here the poor fellow subsided into a vague murmur, and glared savagely at the raccoon.

But now the gentle wood-pigeon interposed, with her soft, cooing voice. “Toto,” she said, 118 “were we not promised two stories to-day? Tell us the other one now, dear boy, for the shadows are beginning to lengthen.”

“I made this story myself, too,” said Toto, “and it is called

THE AMBITIOUS ROCKING-HORSE.

There was once a rocking-horse, but he did not want to be a rocking-horse. He wanted to be a trotter. So he went to a jockey—

“What’s a jockey?” inquired the bear.

A man who drives fast and tells lies.

He went to a jockey and asked him if he would like to buy a trotter.

“Where is your trotter?” asked the jockey.

“Me’s him,” said the rocking-horse. That was all the grammar he knew.

“Oh!” said the jockey. “You are the trotter, eh?”

“Yes,” said the rocking-horse. “What will you give me for myself?”

“A bushel of shavings,” said the jockey.

The rocking-horse thought that was better than nothing, so he sold himself. Then the jockey took him to another jockey who was blind, and told him (the blind jockey) that this was the Sky-born Snorter of the Sarsaparillas, and that he could trot two miles in a minute. So the blind jockey bought him, and paid ten thousand dollars for him.

There was a race the next day, and the blind jockey took the Sky-born Snorter to the race-course, and started him with the other horses. 120 The other horses trotted away round the course, but the Sky-born Snorter stayed just where he was, and rocked; and when the other horses came round the turn, there he was waiting for them at the judge’s stand. So he won the race; and the judge gave the prize, which was a white buffalo, to the blind jockey.

The jockey put the Sky-born Snorter in the stable, and then went to get his white buffalo; and while he was gone, the other jockeys came into the stable to see the new horse.

“Why, he’s a rocking-horse!” said one of them.

“Hush!” said the Sky-born Snorter. “Yes, I am a rocking-horse, but don’t tell my master. He doesn’t know it, and he paid ten thousand dollars for me.”

“Whom did he pay it to?” asked the jockeys.

“To the other jockey, who bought me from myself,” replied the Snorter.

“Oh! and what did he give for you?”

“A bushel of shavings,” said the Snorter.

“Ah!” said one of the jockeys. “A bushel of shavings, eh? Now, how would you like to have those shavings turned into gold?”

“Very much indeed!” cried the Sky-born.

“Well,” said the jockey, “bring them here, and we will change them for you.”

So the rocking-horse went and fetched the shavings, and the jockeys set fire to them. The flames shot up, bright and yellow.

“See!” cried the jockeys. “The shavings are all turned into gold. Now we will see what we can do for you.” And they took the Sky-born Snorter and put him in the fire, and he turned into gold too, and was all burned up. And the blind jockey drove the white buffalo all the rest of his life, and never knew the difference.

Moral: don’t be ambitious.

---

They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, “Both your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto. One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other 122 burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to tell one that ends cheerfully.”

“Yes, yes!” cried all the others. “Pigeon Pretty shall be the next story-teller!”

“And now,” continued the pigeon, “my Chucky must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet, by any means, and must be very careful of himself. Climb up on Bruin’s back, Chucky dear! so, that is right. Good-night, Toto. Good-night, dear madam. Now home again, all!” and flying round and round the bear’s head, Pigeon Pretty led the way towards the forest.