"Oh! don't do that," said Davy, anxiously. "I'd rather get out and walk."

"Well, I wish you would," said the cabman, in a tone of great relief. "This is a very valuable stand, and I don't care to lose my place on it;" and Davy accordingly jumped out of the cab and walked away.

Presently there was a clattering of hoofs behind him, and Ribsy came galloping along the road, with nothing on him but his collar. He was holding his big head high in the air, like a giraffe, and gazing proudly about him as he ran. He stopped short when he saw the little boy, and, giving a triumphant whistle, said cheerfully, "How are you again?"

It seemed rather strange to be spoken to by a cab-horse, but Davy answered that he was feeling quite well.

"So am I," said Ribsy. "The fact is, that when it comes to beating a horse about the head with a three-legged stool, if that horse is going to leave at all, it's time he was off."

"I should think it was," said Davy, earnestly.

"You'll observe, of course, that I've kept on my shoes and my collar," said Ribsy. "It isn't genteel to go barefoot, and nothing makes a fellow look so untidy as going about without a collar. The truth is," he continued, sitting down in the road on his hind legs,—"the truth is, I'm not an ordinary horse, by any means. I have a history, and I've arranged it in a popular form, in six canters,—I mean cantos," he added, hastily correcting himself.

"I'd like to hear it, if you please," said Davy, politely.

"Well, I'm a little hoarse,"—began Ribsy.

"I think you're a very big horse," said Davy, in great surprise.

"I'm referring to my voice," said Ribsy, haughtily. "Be good enough not to interrupt me again;" and, giving two or three preliminary whistles to clear his throat, he began:—

It's very confining, this living in stables, And passing one's time among wagons and carts; I much prefer dining at gentlemen's tables, And living on turkeys and cranberry tarts.

I find with surprise that I'm constantly sneezing; I'm stiff in the legs, and I'm often for sale; And the blue-bottle flies, with their tiresome teasing, Are quite out of reach of my weary old tail.

"By the way," said Ribsy, getting up and turning himself around, "what does my tail look like?"

"I think," said Davy, after a careful inspection, "I think it looks something like an old paint-brush."

"So I supposed," said Ribsy, gloomily, and, sitting down again, he went on with his history:—

As spry as a kid and as trim as a spider Was I in the days of the Turnip-top Hunt, When I used to get rid of the weight of my rider And canter contentedly in at the front.

I never was told that this jocular feature Of mine was a trick reprehensibly rude, And yet I was sold, like a commonplace creature, To work in a circus for lodgings and food.

"I suppose you have never been a circus-horse?" said Ribsy, stopping short in his verses again and gazing inquiringly at Davy.

"Never," said Davy.

"Then you don't know anything about it," said Ribsy. "Here we go again:"—

Pray why, if you please, should a capable charger Perform on a ladder and prance in a show? And why should his knees be made thicker and larger By teaching him tricks that he'd rather not know?

Oh! why should a horse, for society fitted, Be doomed to employment so utterly bad, And why should a coarse-looking man be permitted To dance on his back on a top-heavy pad?

Here Ribsy paused once more, and Davy, feeling that he ought to make some sort of an answer to such a lot of questions, said helplessly, "I don't know."

"No more do I," said Ribsy, tossing his head scornfully.

It made me a wreck, with no hope of improvement, Too feeble to race with an invalid crab; I'm wry in the neck, with a rickety movement Peculiarly suited for drawing a cab.

They pinch me with straps, and they bruise me with buckles, They drive me too rapidly over the stones;— A reason, perhaps, why a number of knuckles Have lately appeared on my prominent bones.

"I see them," cried Davy, eagerly; "I thought they were corns."

"Thank you," said Ribsy, haughtily. "As the next verse is the last you needn't trouble yourself to make any further observations."

I dream of a spot which I used to roam over In infancy's days, with a frolicsome skip, Content with my lot, which was planted with clover, And never annoyed by the crack of a whip.

But I think my remarks will determine the question, Of why I am bony and thin as a rail; I'm off for some larks, to improve my digestion, And point the stern moral conveyed by my tail.

Here Ribsy got upon his legs again, and, after a refreshing fillip with his heels, cantered off along the road, whistling as he went. Two large blue-bottle flies were on his back, and his tail was flying around, with an angry whisk, like a pin-wheel; but, as he disappeared in the distance, the flies were still sitting calmly on the ridge of his spine, apparently enjoying the scenery.

Davy was about to start out again on his journey, when he heard a voice shouting "Hi! Hi!" and, looking back, he saw the poor cabman coming along the road on a brisk trot, dragging his cab after him. He had on Ribsy's harness, and seemed to be in a state of tremendous excitement.

As he came up with Davy the door of the cab flew open again, and the three-legged stools came tumbling out, followed by a dense cloud of dust.

"Get in! Get in!" shouted the cabman, excitedly. "Never mind the dust; I've turned it on to make believe we're going tremendously fast."

Davy hastily scrambled in, and the cabman started off again. The dust was pouring out of both faucets, and a heavy shower of gravel was rattling into the bath-tub; and, to make matters worse, the cabman was now going along at such an astonishing speed that the cab rocked violently from side to side, like a boat in a stormy sea. Davy made a frantic attempt to shut off the dust, but it seemed to come faster and faster, until he was almost choked, and by this time the gravel had become as large as cherry-stones, and was flying around in the cab and rattling about his ears like a little hail-storm. Now, all this was a great deal more than Davy had bargained for, and it was so very unpleasant that he presently sat down on the floor of the cab in the hope of getting a little out of the way of the flying gravel. As he did this the rocking motion became less violent, and then ceased altogether, as though the cabman had suddenly come to a stop. Then the dust cleared away, and Davy, to his surprise, found himself sitting in the road directly in front of the little house that Jack built.

The cabman and his cab had vanished entirely, but, curiously enough, the cab door was standing wide open in the wall of the house, just above the porch, and in the opening stood the red Cow gazing down upon him, and solemnly chewing, as before. The house had such a familiar look to him that Davy felt quite at home; and, moreover, the Cow seemed quite like an old acquaintance, compared with the other creatures he had met, and he was just about to begin a friendly conversation with her, when she suddenly stopped chewing, and said, "How did you get here?"

"I came in a cab," said Davy. "We came along just behind the horse."

"People in cabs usually do," said the Cow; "leastwise I never heard of any of 'em being ahead of him."

"But this horse was running away, you know," said Davy.

"Where was the cabman?" said the Cow, suspiciously.

"He was drawing the cab," said Davy.

"What!" exclaimed the Cow,—"while the horse was running away? Oh, come, I say!"

"He was, truly," said Davy, laughing; "you never saw anything half so ridiculous."

"I certainly never did—that I can remember," said the Cow; "but then, you see, I haven't always been a cow."

"Really?" said Davy.

"Really," said the Cow, very solemnly. "The fact is, I've been changed."

"And what did you use to be?" said Davy, who was now fully prepared for something marvellous.

"A calf," said the Cow, with a curious rumbling chuckle.

"I don't think that's a very good joke," said the disappointed little boy.

"It's a deal funnier than your cab story," said the Cow. "And, what's more, it's true! Good-afternoon." And with this the Cow disappeared from the opening, and the cab door shut to with a loud bang.

Davy sat still for a moment, hoping that Mother Hubbard, or perhaps the dog, or even the cat, would appear, so that he might explain his story about the cab. None of them came; but meanwhile a very extraordinary thing happened, for the house itself began to go. First the chimneys sank down through the roof, as if they were being lowered into the cellar. Then the roof itself, with its gables and dormer windows, softly folded itself flat down upon the top of the house, out of sight. Then the cab door and the latticed windows fluttered gently for a moment, as if rather uncertain how to dispose of themselves, and finally faded away, one by one, as if they had been soaked into the bricks. Then the porch gravely took itself to pieces and carried itself, so to speak, carefully in through the front door; and finally the front door went in itself, and nothing was left of the house that Jack built but a high brick wall, with the climbing roses running all over it like a beautiful pink vine. All this was so unexpected and so wonderful that Davy sat quite still, expecting something marvellous of this wall; but it proved to be a very matter-of-fact affair, with no intention whatever of doing anything or going anywhere, and, after watching it attentively for a few moments, Davy got up and resumed his journey along the road.



CHAPTER XI.

ROBINSON CRUSOE'S ISLAND.

"This is a very sloppy road," said Davy to himself, as he walked away from the Bean-stalk farm; and it was, indeed, a very sloppy road. The dust had quite disappeared, and the sloppiness soon changed to such a degree of wetness that Davy presently found himself in water up to his ankles. He turned to go back, and saw, to his alarm, that the land in every direction seemed to be miles away, and the depth of the water increased so rapidly that, before he could make up his mind what to do, it had risen to his shoulders, and he was carried off his feet and found himself apparently drifting out to sea. The water, however, was warm and pleasant, and he discovered that, instead of sinking, he was floated gently along, slowly turning in the water like a float on a fishing-line. This was very agreeable; but he was, nevertheless, greatly relieved when a boat came in sight sailing toward him. As it came near, it proved to be the clock, with a sail hoisted, and the Goblin sitting complacently in the stern.

"How d'ye do, Gobsy?" said Davy.

"Prime!" said the Goblin, enthusiastically.

"Well, stop the clock," said Davy; "I want to get aboard."

"I haven't any board," said the Goblin, in great surprise.

"I mean I want to get into the clock," said Davy, laughing. "I don't think you're much of a sailor."

"I'm not," said the Goblin, as Davy climbed in. "I've been sailing one way for ever so long, because I don't know how to turn around; but there's a landing-place just ahead."

Davy looked over his shoulder and found that they were rapidly approaching a little wooden pier, standing about a foot out of the water. Beyond it stretched a broad expanse of sandy beach.

"What place is it?" said Davy.

"It's called Hickory Dickory Dock," said the Goblin. "All the eight-day clocks stop here;" and at this moment the clock struck against the timbers with a violent thump, and Davy was thrown out, heels over head, upon the dock. He scrambled upon his feet again as quickly as possible, and saw, to his dismay, that the clock had been turned completely around by the shock and was rapidly drifting out to sea again. The Goblin looked back despairingly, and Davy just caught the words, "I don't know how to turn around!" when the clock was carried out of hearing distance, and soon disappeared on the horizon.

The beach was covered in every direction with little hills of sand, like haycocks, with scraggy bunches of sea-weed sticking out of the tops of them; and Davy was wondering how they came to be there, when he caught sight of a man walking along the edge of the water, and now and then stopping and gazing earnestly out to sea. As the man drew nearer, Davy saw that he was dressed in a suit of brown leather, and wore a high-peaked hat, and that a little procession, consisting of a dog, a cat, and a goat, was following patiently at his heels, while a parrot was perched upon his shoulder. They all wore very large linen collars and black cravats, which gave them a very serious appearance.

Davy was morally certain that the man was Robinson Crusoe. He carried an enormous gun, which he loaded from time to time, and then, aiming carefully at the sea, fired. There was nothing very alarming about this, for the gun, when fired, only gave a faint squeak, and the bullet, which was about the size of a small orange, dropped out quietly upon the sand. Robinson, for it was really he, always seemed to be greatly astonished at this result, peering long and anxiously down into the barrel of the gun, and sometimes listening attentively, with his ear at the muzzle. His animal companions, however, seemed to be greatly alarmed whenever he prepared to fire; and, scampering off, hid behind the little hills of sand until the gun was discharged, when they would return, and, after solemnly watching their master reload his piece, follow him along the beach as before. This was all so ridiculous that Davy had great difficulty in keeping a serious expression on his face as he walked up to Robinson and handed him the Hole-keeper's letter. Robinson looked at him suspiciously as he took it, and the animals eyed him with evident distrust.

Robinson had some difficulty in opening the letter, which was sopping wet, and took a long time to read it, Davy, meanwhile, waiting patiently. Sometimes Robinson would scowl horribly, as if puzzled, and then, again, he would chuckle to himself, as if vastly amused with the contents; but as he turned the letter over, in reading it, Davy could not help seeing that it was simply a blank sheet of paper, with no writing whatever upon it except the address. This, however, was so like the Hole-keeper's way of doing things that Davy was not much surprised when Robinson remarked, "He has left out the greatest lot of comical things!" and, stooping down, buried the letter in the sand. Then, picking up his gun, he said, "You may walk about in the grove as long as you please, provided you don't pick anything."

"What grove?" said Davy, very much surprised.

"This one," said Robinson, proudly pointing out the tufts of sea-weed. "They're beach-trees, you know; I planted 'em myself. I had to have some place to go shooting in, of course."

"Can you shoot with that gun?" said Davy.

"Shoot! Why, it's a splendid gun!" said Robinson, gazing at it proudly. "I made it myself—out of a spy-glass."

"It doesn't seem to go off," said Davy, doubtfully.



"That's the beauty of it!" exclaimed Robinson, with great enthusiasm. "Some guns go off, and you never see 'em again."

"But I mean that it doesn't make any noise," persisted Davy.

"Of course it doesn't," said Robinson. "That's because I load it with tooth-powder."

"But I don't see what you can shoot with it," said Davy, feeling that he was somehow getting the worst of the argument.

Robinson stood gazing thoughtfully at him for a moment, while the big bullet rolled out of the gun with a rumbling sound and fell into the sea. "I see what you want," he said, at length. "You're after my personal history. Just take a seat in the family circle and I'll give it to you."

Davy looked around and saw that the dog, the goat, and the cat were seated respectfully in a semicircle, with the parrot, which had dismounted, sitting beside the dog. He seated himself on the sand at the other end of the line, and Robinson began as follows:—

The night was thick and hazy When the "Piccadilly Daisy" Carried down the crew and captain in the sea; And I think the water drowned 'em; For they never, never found 'em, And I know they didn't come ashore with me.

Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I've made a little tavern In a rocky little cavern, And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking For a girl to do my cooking, As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews But I had that fellow Friday, Just to keep the tavern tidy, And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden That I'm cultivating lard in, As the things I eat are rather tough and dry; For I live on toasted lizards, Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards, And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry When I found the moths were eating off the hair; And I had to scrape and sand 'em, And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em, Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion In a family excursion With the few domestic animals you see; And we take along a carrot As refreshment for the parrot, And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather, as we travel, Bits of moss and dirty gravel, And we chip off little specimens of stone; And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs, of handy sizes, Just to give the day a scientific tone.



If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study,— For the Goat is very clever at a sum,— And the Dog, instead of fighting, Studies ornamental writing, While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven, And we rise again at seven; And I wish to call attention, as I close, To the fact that all the scholars Are correct about their collars, And particular in turning out their toes.

Here Robinson called out, in a loud voice, "First class in arithmetic!" but the animals sat perfectly motionless, sedately staring at him.

"Oh! by the way," said Robinson, confidentially to Davy, "this is the first class in arithmetic. That's the reason they didn't move, you see. Now, then," he continued sharply, addressing the class, "how many halves are there in a whole?"

There was a dead silence for a moment, and then the Cat said gravely, "What kind of a hole?"

"That has nothing to do with it," said Robinson, impatiently.

"Oh! hasn't it, though!" exclaimed the Dog, scornfully. "I should think a big hole could have more halves in it than a little one."

"Well, rather," put in the Parrot, contemptuously.

Here the Goat, who apparently had been carefully thinking the matter over, said in a low, quavering voice, "Must all the halves be of the same size?"

"Certainly not," said Robinson, promptly; then, nudging Davy with his elbow, he whispered, "He's bringing his mind to bear on it. He's prodigious when he gets started!"

"Who taught him arithmetic?" said Davy, who was beginning to think Robinson didn't know much about it himself.

"Well, the fact is," said Robinson, confidentially, "he picked it up from an old Adder, that he met in the woods."

Here the Goat, who evidently was not yet quite started, inquired, "Must all the halves be of the same shape?"

"Not at all," said Robinson, cheerfully. "Have 'em any shape you like."

"Then I give it up," said the Goat.

"So do I," said the Dog.

"And I," said the Cat.

"Me, too," said the Parrot.

"Well!" exclaimed Davy, quite out of patience. "You are certainly the stupidest lot of creatures I ever saw."

At this the animals stared mournfully at him for a moment, and then rose up and walked gravely away.

"Now you've spoiled the exercises," said Robinson, peevishly. "I'm sorry I gave 'em such a staggerer to begin with."

"Pooh!" said Davy, contemptuously. "If they couldn't do that sum they couldn't do anything."

Robinson gazed at him admiringly for a moment, and then, looking cautiously about him, to make sure that the procession was out of hearing, said coaxingly:—

"What's the right answer? Tell us, like a good fellow."

"Two, of course," said Davy.

"Is that all?" exclaimed Robinson, in a tone of great astonishment.

"Certainly," said Davy, who began to feel very proud of his learning. "Don't you know that when they divide a whole into four parts they call them fourths, and when they divide it into two parts they call them halves?"

"Why don't they call them tooths?" said Robinson, obstinately. "The fact is, they ought to call 'em teeth. That's what puzzled the Goat. Next time I'll say, 'How many teeth in a whole?'"

"Then the Cat will ask if it's a rat-hole," said Davy, laughing at the idea.

"You positively convulse me, you're so very humorous," said Robinson, without a vestige of a smile. "You're almost as droll as Friday was. He used to call the Goat 'Pat,' because he said he was a little butter. I told him that was altogether too funny for a lonely place like this, and he went away and joined the minstrels."

Here Robinson suddenly turned pale, and, hastily reaching out for his gun, sprang to his feet.

Davy looked out to sea, and saw that the clock, with the Goblin standing in the stern, had come in sight again, and was heading directly for the shore with tremendous speed. The poor Goblin, who had turned sea-green in color, was frantically waving his hands to and fro, as if motioning for the beach to get out of the way; and Davy watched his approach with the greatest anxiety. Meanwhile the animals had mounted on four sand-hills, and were solemnly looking on, while Robinson, who seemed to have run out of tooth-powder, was hurriedly loading his gun with sand. The next moment the clock struck the beach with great force, and, turning completely over on the sand, buried the Goblin beneath it. Robinson was just making a convulsive effort to fire off his gun, when the clock began striking loudly, and he and the animals fled in all directions in the wildest dismay.



CHAPTER XII.

A WHALE IN A WAISTCOAT.

Davy rushed up to the clock, and, pulling open the little door in the front of it, looked inside. To his great disappointment the Goblin had again disappeared, and there was a smooth, round hole running down into the sand, as though he had gone directly through the beach. He was listening at this hole, in the hope of hearing from the Goblin, when a voice said, "I suppose that's what they call going into the interior of the country;" and, looking up, he saw the Hole-keeper sitting on a little mound in the sand, with his great book in his lap.

The little man had evidently been having a hard time since Davy had seen him. His complexion had quite lost its beautiful transparency, and his jaunty little paper tunic was sadly rumpled, and, moreover, he had lost his cocked hat. All this, however, had not at all disturbed his complacent conceit; he was, if anything, more pompous than ever.

"How did you get here?" asked Davy, in astonishment.

"I'm banished," said the Hole-keeper, cheerfully. "That's better than being boiled, any day. Did you give Robinson my letter?"

"Yes, I did," said Davy, as they walked along the beach together; "but I got it very wet coming here."

"That was quite right," said the Hole-keeper. "There's nothing so tiresome as a dry letter. Well, I suppose Robinson is expecting me by this time, isn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Davy. "He didn't say that he was expecting you."

"He must be," said the Hole-keeper, positively. "I never even mentioned it in my letter; so, of course, he'll know I'm coming. By the way," he added, hurriedly opening his book, and staring anxiously at one of the blank pages, "there isn't a word in here about Billyweazles. This place must be full of 'em."

"What are they?" said Davy.

"They're great pink birds, without any feathers on 'em," replied the Hole-keeper, solemnly. "And they're particularly fond of sugar. That's the worst thing about 'em."

"I don't think there's anything very wicked in that," said Davy.

"Oh! of course you don't," said the Hole-keeper, fretfully. "But you see I haven't any trowsers on, and I don't fancy having a lot of strange Billyweazles nibbling at my legs. In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to run away from here."

"Very well," said Davy, who was himself beginning to feel rather nervous about the Billyweazles, and accordingly he and the Hole-keeper started off along the beach as fast as they could run.

Presently the Hole-keeper stopped short and said, faintly, "It strikes me the sun is very hot here."

The sun certainly was very hot, and Davy, looking at the Hole-keeper as he said this, saw that his face was gradually and very curiously losing its expression, and that his nose had almost entirely disappeared.

"What's the matter?" inquired Davy, anxiously.

"The matter is that I'm going back into the raw material," said the Hole-keeper, dropping his book, and sitting down helplessly in the sand. "See here, Frinkles," he continued, beginning to speak very thickly; "wrap me up in my shirt and mark the packish distingly. Take off shir quigly!" and Davy had just time to pull the poor creature's shirt over his head and spread it quickly on the beach, when the Hole-keeper fell down, rolled over upon the garment, and, bubbling once or twice, as if he were boiling, melted away into a compact lump of brown sugar.

Davy was deeply affected by this sad incident, and, though he had never really liked the Hole-keeper, he could hardly keep back his tears as he wrapped up the lump in the paper shirt and laid it carefully on the big book. In fact, he was so disturbed in his mind that he was on the point of going away without marking the package, when, looking over his shoulder, he suddenly caught sight of the Cockalorum standing close beside him, carefully holding an inkstand, with a pen in it, in one of his claws.

"Oh! thank you very much," said Davy, taking the pen and dipping it in the ink. "And will you please tell me his name?"

The Cockalorum, who still had his head done up in flannel, and was looking rather ill, paused for a moment to reflect, and then murmured, "Mark him 'Confectionery.'"



This struck Davy as being a very happy idea, and he accordingly printed "CONFEXIONRY" on the package in his very best manner. The Cockalorum, with his head turned critically on one side, carefully inspected the marking, and then, after earnestly gazing for a moment at the inkstand, gravely drank the rest of the ink and offered the empty inkstand to Davy.

"I don't want it, thank you," said Davy, stepping back.



"No more do I," murmured the Cockalorum, and, tossing the inkstand into the sea, flew away in his usual clumsy fashion.

Davy, after a last mournful look at the package of brown sugar, turned away, and was setting off along the beach again, when he heard a gurgling sound coming from behind a great hummock of sand, and, peeping cautiously around one end of it, he was startled at seeing an enormous whale lying stretched out on the sand basking in the sun, and lazily fanning himself with the flukes of his tail. The great creature had on a huge white garment, buttoned up in front, with a lot of live seals flopping and wriggling at one of the button-holes, and with a great chain cable leading from them to a pocket at one side. Before Davy could retreat the Whale caught sight of him and called out, in a tremendous voice, "How d'ye do, Bub?"

"I'm pretty well, I thank you," said Davy, with his usual politeness to man and beast. "How are you, sir?"

"Hearty!" thundered the Whale; "never felt better in all my life. But it's rather warm lying here in the sun."

"Why don't you take off your"—Here Davy stopped, not knowing exactly what it was the Whale had on.

"Waistcoat," said the Whale, condescendingly. "It's a canvas-back-duck waistcoat. The front of it is made of wild duck, you see, and the back of it out of the fore-top-sail of a brig. I've heard they always have watches on board of ships, but I couldn't find any on this one, so I had to satisfy myself with a bit of chain cable by way of a watch-guard. I think this bunch of seals rather sets it off, don't you?"

"Yes, rather," said Davy, doubtfully; "only they slobber so."

"Ah, that reminds me that it's wash-day," said the Whale; and here he spouted a great stream of water out of the top of his head and let it run down in a little cascade all over the front of his waistcoat. The seals seemed to enjoy this amazingly, and flopped about in an ecstasy.

"What do whales eat?" said Davy, who thought it was a good time for picking up a little information.

"Warious whales wants warious wiands," replied the Whale. "That's an old sea-saw, you know. For my part I'm particularly fond of small buoys."

"I don't think that is a very nice taste," said Davy, beginning to feel very uneasy.

"Oh! don't be frightened," bellowed the Whale, good-naturedly. "I don't mean live boys. I mean the little red things that float about in the water. Some of 'em have lights on 'em, and them are particularly nice and crisp."

"Is it nice being a Whale?" said Davy, who was anxious to change the subject.



"Famous!" said the Whale, with an affable roar. "Great fun, I assure you! We have fish-balls every night, you know."

"Fish-balls at night!" exclaimed Davy. "Why, we always have ours for breakfast."

"Nonsense!" thundered the Whale, with a laugh that made the beach quake; "I don't mean anything to eat. I mean dancing parties."

"And do you dance?" said Davy, thinking that if he did it must be a very extraordinary performance.

"Dance?" said the Whale, with a reverberating chuckle. "Bless you! I'm as nimble as a sixpence. By the way I'll show you the advantage of having a bit of whalebone in one's composition;" and with these words the Whale curled himself up, then flattened out suddenly with a tremendous flop, and, shooting through the air like a flying elephant, disappeared with a great splash in the sea.

Davy stood anxiously watching the spot where he went down, in the hope that he would come up again; but he soon discovered that the Whale had gone for good. The sea was violently tossed about for a few moments, and then began circling out into great rings around the spot where the Whale had gone down. These soon disappeared, however, and the water resumed its lazy ebb and flow upon the shore; and Davy, feeling quite lonesome and deserted, sat down on the sand, and gazed mournfully out upon the sea.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE TALKING WAVES, AND THE OLD SEA-DOG.

"I wonder why the ocean doesn't keep still sometimes, and not be moving its edge about all the time," said Davy, after watching the waves that constantly rolled up on the beach and then rolled back again, looking like creamy soap-suds.

"That wouldn't do at all!" said a Wave that rolled almost up to his feet. "The beach gets mussed, you see, and we have to smooth it off again. The sea is always tidy;" and here the Wave broke with a little, murmuring laugh, and rolled back again, all in a foam.

Davy was so astonished that it almost took away his breath. A talking Wave was certainly the most marvellous thing he had met with, and in an instant he was lying flat on his face, trembling with eagerness, and waiting for the next Wave to roll up on the shore.

It came in a moment, and gently whispered, "If we didn't wet the sand once in a while there wouldn't be any nuts on the beach-trees,—no nuts on the trees, and no shells on the shore;" and here this Wave broke in its turn into foam, and ran back into the sea.

"This is perfectly delicious!" said Davy, joyfully, and as the next Wave rolled up to him he softly asked, "Do you know the Whale?"

"Know him!" cried the Wave, passionately; "I should think I did! Many a time I've been spanked by his horrid old tail. The nasty, blundering, floundering, walloping old"—and here the end of the sentence dribbled away in a sort of washy whisper.

"Such a mouth!" said the next Wave, taking up the story. "Like a fishing-smack lined with red morocco! And such a temper! I wouldn't be so crusty for all"—but just here the Wave toppled over as usual, and the rest of the sentence ran back into the sea.

"Once," said the next Wave, still scolding about the Whale,—"once he got so far up on the shore that he couldn't get back into the water for a long time, and he blamed me for it, and called me names. He said I was a mean, low tide;" but just as Davy was eagerly listening for the rest of the story this Wave, like the rest, broke into foam and washed away.

"It's really too ridiculous, the way they break off their sentences!" cried Davy, impatiently.

"Is it, indeed!" said a big Wave, coming in with a rush. "Perhaps you'd like to get acquainted with an angry sea!"

It was an angry sea, indeed; for, as the Wave said this, the ocean was suddenly lashed into fury, the water rose into huge, green billows that came tossing up on the shore, and Davy, scrambling to his feet, ran for his life. The air was filled with flying spray, and he could hear the roar of the water coming on behind him with a mighty rush as he ran across the beach, not daring to stop until he found himself out of reach of the angry ocean, on a high bluff of sand. Here he stopped, quite out of breath, and looked back.

The wind was blowing fiercely, and a cloud of spray was dashed in his face as he turned toward it, and presently the air was filled with lobsters, eels, and wriggling fishes that were being carried inshore by the gale. Suddenly, to Davy's astonishment, a dog came sailing along. He was being helplessly blown about among the lobsters, uneasily jerking his tail from side to side to keep it out of reach of their great claws, and giving short, nervous barks from time to time, as though he were firing signal-guns of distress. In fact, he seemed to be having such a hard time of it that Davy caught him by the ear as he was going by, and landed him in safety on the beach. He proved to be a very shaggy, battered-looking animal, in an old pea-jacket, with a weather-beaten tarpaulin hat jammed on the side of his head, and a patch over one eye; altogether he was the most extraordinary-looking animal that could be imagined, and Davy stood staring at him, and wondering what sort of a dog he was.

"Are you a pointer?" he said at last, by way of opening conversation.

"Not I," said the Dog, sulkily. "It's rude to point. I'm an old Sea-Dog, come ashore in a gale."

Here he stared doubtfully at Davy for a moment, and then said, in a husky voice:—

"What's the difference between a dog-watch and a watch-dog? It's a conundrum."



"I don't know," said Davy, who would have laughed if he had not been a little afraid of the Dog.

"A dog-watch keeps a watching on a bark," said the old Sea-Dog; "and a watch-dog keeps a barking on a watch." Here he winked at Davy, and said, "What's your name?" as if he had just mentioned his own.

"Davy"—began the little boy, but before he could say another word the old Sea-Dog growled, "Right you are!" and, handing him a folded paper, trotted gravely away, swaggering, as he went, like a seafaring man.

The paper was addressed to "Davy Jones," and was headed inside, "Binnacle Bob: His werses;" and below these words Davy found the following story:—

To inactivity inclined Was Captain Parker Pitch's mind; In point of fact, 'twas fitted for A sedentary life ashore.

His disposition, so to speak, Was nautically soft and weak; He feared the rolling ocean, and He very much preferred the land.

A stronger-minded man by far Was gallant Captain Thompson Tar; And (what was very wrong, I think) He marked himself with India ink.

He boldly sailed the "Soaking Sue" When angry gales and tempests blew, And even from the nor-nor-east He didn't mind 'em in the least.

Now, Captain Parker Pitch's sloop Was called the "Cozy Chickencoop,"— A truly comfortable craft, With ample state-rooms fore and aft.

No foolish customs of the deep, Like "watches," robbed his crew of sleep; That estimable lot of men Were all in bed at half-past ten.

At seven bells, one stormy day, Bold Captain Tar came by that way, And in a voice extremely coarse He roared "Ahoy!" till he was hoarse.

Next morning, of his own accord, This able seaman came aboard, And made the following remark Concerning Captain Pitch's bark:—

"Avast!" says he, "Belay! What cheer! How comes this little wessel here? Come, tumble up your crew," says he, "And navigate a bit with me!"

Says Captain Pitch, "I can't refuse To join you on a friendly cruise; But you'll oblige me, Captain Tar, By not a-taking of me far."

At this reply from Captain Pitch, Bold Thompson gave himself a hitch, It cut him to the heart to find A seaman in this frame of mind.

"Avast!" says he; "we'll bear away For Madagascar and Bombay, Then down the coast to Yucatan, Kamtschatka, Guinea, and Japan."

"Stand off for Egypt, Turkey, Spain, Australia, and the Spanish Main, Then through the nor-west passage for Van Dieman's Land and Labrador."



Says Captain Pitch, "The ocean swell Makes me exceedingly unwell, And, Captain Tar, before we start, Pray join me in a friendly tart."

And shall I go and take and hide The sneaking trick that Parker tried? Oh! no. I very much prefer To state his actions as they were:

With marmalade he first began To tempt that bluff seafaring man, Then fed him all the afternoon With custard in a table-spoon.

No mariner, however tough, Can thrive upon this kind of stuff; And Thompson soon appeared to be A feeble-minded child of three.



He cried for cakes and lollipops; He played with dolls and humming-tops; He even ceased to roar "I'm blowed!" And shook a rattle, laughed, and crowed.

When Parker saw the seamen gaze Upon the captain's cunning ways, Base envy thrilled him through and through. And he became a child of two.

Now, Parker had in his employ A mate, two seamen, and a boy; The mate was fond as he could be Of babies, and he says, says he,—

"Why, messmates, as we're all agreed Sea-bathing is the thing they need, Let's drop these hinfants off the quarter!" (They did, in fourteen fathom water).

—and here the story came abruptly to an end.

Davy was quite distressed at this, particularly as the dreadful thought came into his mind that some babies do not know how to swim, and he was therefore very well satisfied when he saw that the old Sea-Dog had apparently changed his mind about going away, and was swaggering along toward him again.

"If you please," said Davy, as the surly creature came within hearing distance,—"if you please, sir, were the two little captains drowned?"

"Well, sticking, as it were, to the truth, they were not," replied the old Sea-Dog, very gruffly.

"Then, why don't you say so in the story?" said Davy.

Now, this was pretty bold of him, for old Sea-Dogs don't much like to have fault found with their verses, and this particular old Sea-Dog evidently did not like it at all, for, after staring at Davy for a moment, he began walking slowly around him in such a threatening manner that Davy, thinking that perhaps he meant to jump on him from behind, began also turning so as to keep his face always toward the Dog. Meanwhile, as you may well believe, he began to feel very sorry that he had said anything about the verses.

Presently the old Sea-Dog broke into a clumsy canter, like a weary old circus horse, and as he went heavily around the circle he began to explain about the story. "You see there's more of it," said he, wheezing dreadfully as he galloped; "but then I haven't had the time to put the rest of it in rhyme. It's all about old Thompson's crew as stayed aboard the 'Soaking Sue,' and saw the skippers floating by and hauled 'em out and got 'em dry, and when the little creeturs cried they gave 'em something warm inside, and being as they had no bed they stowed 'em in a bunk instead,"—but just at this moment the old Sea-Dog, who had been constantly increasing his speed, disappeared in a most extraordinary manner in a whirling cloud of sand, and Davy, who was by this time spinning around like a teetotum, discovered that he himself was rapidly boring his way, like a big screw, down into the beach. This was, of course, a very alarming state of things; but, before Davy could make an effort to free himself, the whirling cloud of sand burst upon him with a loud, roaring sound like the sea, and he felt himself going directly down through the beach, with the sand pouring in upon him as if he had been inside of a huge hour-glass. He had just time to notice that, instead of scraping him, the sand had a delightful ticklesome feeling about it, when he went completely through the beach, and landed, with a gentle thump, flat on his back, with tall grass waving about him.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE END OF THE BELIEVING VOYAGE.

When Davy sat up and looked around him he found himself in a beautiful meadow, with the sun shining brightly on the grass and the wild flowers. The air was filled with dainty-colored insects, darting about in the warm sunshine, and chirping cheerily as they flew, and at a little distance the Goblin was sitting on the grass, attentively examining a great, struggling creature that he was holding down by its wings.

"I suppose," said the Goblin, as if Davy's sudden appearance was the most ordinary thing in the world,—"I suppose that this is about the funniest bug that flies."

"What is it?" said Davy, cautiously edging away.

"It's a Cricket-Bat," said the Goblin, rapping familiarly with his knuckles on its hard shell. "His body is like a boot-jack, and his wings are like a pair of umbrellas."

"But, you know, a Cricket-Bat is something to play with!" said Davy, surprised at the Goblin's ignorance.

"Well, you may play with it if you like. I don't want to," said the Goblin, carelessly tossing the great creature over to Davy, and walking away.

The Cricket-Bat made a swoop at Davy, knocking him over like a feather, and then, with a loud snort, flew away across the meadow. It dashed here and there at flying things of every kind, and, turning on its side, knocked them, one after another, quite out of sight, until, to Davy's delight, the Cockalorum came into view, flying across the meadow in his usual blundering fashion. At sight of him the Cricket-Bat gave another triumphant snort, and with a wild plunge at the great creature knocked him floundering into the tall grass, and with a loud, whirring sound disappeared in a distant wood.

Davy ran to the spot where the Cockalorum had fallen, and found him sitting helplessly in the grass, looking dreadfully rumpled, and staring about confusedly, as if wondering what had happened to him. As Davy came running up he murmured, in a reproachful way, "Oh! it's you, is it? Well, then, I don't want any more of it."

"Upon my word I didn't do it," cried Davy, trying to keep from laughing. "It was the Cricket-Bat."

"And what did he want?" murmured the Cockalorum, very sadly.

"Oh! he was only having a game of cricket with you," said Davy, soothingly. "You were the ball, you know."

The Cockalorum pondered over this for a moment, and then murmuring, "I prefer croquet," floundered away through the waving grass. Davy, who for once felt sorry for the ridiculous old creature, was just setting off after him, when a voice cried, "Come on! Come on!" and Davy, looking across the meadow, saw the Goblin beckoning vigorously to him, apparently in great excitement.

"What's the matter?" cried Davy, pushing his way through the thick grass.

"Oh, my! oh, my!" shrieked the Goblin, who was almost bursting with laughter. "Here's that literary hack again!"

Davy peered through a clump of bushes, and discovered a large red animal, with white spots on its sides, clumsily rummaging about in the tall grass and weeds. Its appearance was so formidable that he was just about whispering to the Goblin, "Let's run!" when the monster raised its head, and, after gazing about for an instant, gave a loud, triumphant whistle.

"Why, it's Ribsy!" cried Davy, running forward. "It's Ribsy, only he's grown enormously fat."

It was Ribsy, indeed, eating with all his might, and with his skin so stretched by his extreme fatness that the hair stood straight up all over it like a brush. The name on his side was twisted about beyond all hope of making it out, and his collar had quite disappeared in a deep crease about his neck. In fact, his whole appearance was so alarming that Davy anxiously inquired of him what he had been eating.

"Everything!" said Ribsy, enthusiastically,—"grass, nuts, bugs, birds, and berries! All of 'em taste good. I could eat both of you easily," he added, glaring hungrily down upon Davy and the Goblin.

"Try that fellow first," said the Goblin, pointing to a large, round insect that went flying by, humming like a top. Ribsy snapped at it, and swallowed it, and the next instant disappeared with a tremendous explosion in a great cloud of smoke.

"What was that?" said Davy, in a terrified whisper.

"A Hum Bug," said the Goblin, calmly. "When a cab-horse on a vacation talks about eating you, a Hum Bug is a pretty good thing to take the conceit out of him. They're loaded, you see, and they go booming along as innocently as you please; but if you touch 'em—why, 'There you aren't!' as the Hole-keeper says."

"The Hole-keeper isn't himself any more," said Davy, mournfully.

"Not altogether himself, but somewhat," said a voice; and Davy, looking around, was astonished to find the Hole-keeper standing beside him. He was a most extraordinary-looking object, being nothing but Davy's parcel marked, "CONFEXIONRY," with arms and legs and a head to it. At the sight of him the Goblin fell flat on his back, and covered his face with his hands.

"I'm quite aware that my appearance is not prepossessing," said the Hole-keeper, with a scornful look at the Goblin. "In fact, I'm nothing but a quarter of a pound of 'plain,' and the price isn't worth mentioning."

"But how did you ever come to be alive again, at all?" said Davy.

"Well," said the Hole-keeper, "the truth of the matter is, that after you went away the Cockalorum fell to reading the Vacuum; and, if you'll believe it, there wasn't a word in it about my going back into the raw material."

"I do believe that," said Davy; but the Hole-keeper, without noticing the interruption, went on:—

"Then, of course, I got up and came away. Meanwhile the Cockalorum is gorging himself with information.

"I saw him just now," said Davy, laughing, "and he didn't act as if he had learned anything very lately. I don't think he'll find much in your book;" and here he went off into another fit of laughter.

"Ah! but just think of the lots and lots of things he won't find," exclaimed the Hole-keeper. "Everything he doesn't find in it is something worth knowing. By the way, your friend seems to be having some sort of a fit. Give him some dubbygrums;" and with this the Hole-keeper stalked pompously away.

"The smell of sugar always gives me the craw-craws," said the Goblin, in a stifled voice, rolling on the ground and keeping his hands over his face. "Get me some water."

"I haven't anything to get it in," said Davy, helplessly.

"There's a buttercup behind you," groaned the Goblin, and Davy, turning, saw a buttercup growing on a stem almost as tall as he was himself. He picked it, and hurried away across the meadow to look for water, the buttercup, meanwhile, growing in his hand in a surprising manner, until it became a full-sized teacup, with a handle conveniently growing on one side. Davy, however, had become so accustomed to this sort of thing that he would not have been greatly surprised if a saucer had also made its appearance.

Presently he came upon a sparkling little spring, gently bubbling up in a marshy place, with high, sedgy grass growing about it, and being a very neat little boy he took off his shoes and stockings, and carefully picked his way over the oozy ground to the edge of the spring itself. He was just bending over to dip the cup into the spring, when the ground under his feet began trembling like jelly, and then, giving itself a convulsive shake, threw him head-foremost into the water.

For a moment Davy had a very curious sensation, as though his head and his arms and his legs were all trying to get inside of his jacket, and then he came sputtering to the top of the water and scrambled ashore. To his astonishment he saw that the spring had spread itself out into a little lake, and that the sedge-grass had grown to an enormous height, and was waving far above his head. Then he was startled by a tremendous roar of laughter, and, looking around, he saw the Goblin, who was now apparently at least twenty feet high, standing beside the spring.



"Oh, lor! Oh, lor!" cried the Goblin, in an uncontrollable fit of merriment. "Another minute and you wouldn't have been bigger than a peanut!"

"What's the matter with me?" said Davy, not knowing what to make of it all.

"Matter?" cried the Goblin. "Why, you've been and gone and fallen into an Elastic Spring, that's all. If you'd got in at stretch tide, early in the morning, you'd have been a perfect giraffe; but you got in at shrink tide and—oh, my! oh, my!" and here he went off into another fit of laughter.

"I don't think it's anything to laugh at," cried Davy, with the tears starting to his eyes, "and I'm sure I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Oh! don't worry," said the Goblin, good-naturedly. "I'll take a dip myself, just to be companionable, and tomorrow morning we can get back to any size you like."

"I wish you'd take these things in with you," said Davy, pointing to his shoes and stockings. "They're big enough now for Badorful."

"All right!" cried the Goblin. "Here we go;" and, taking the shoes and stockings in his hand, he plunged into the spring, and a moment afterward scrambled out exactly Davy's size.

"Now, that's what I call a nice, tidy size," said the Goblin, complacently, while Davy was squeezing his feet into his wet shoes. "What do you say to a ride on a field-mouse?"

"That will be glorious!" said Davy.



"Well, there goes the sun," said the Goblin; "it will be moonlight presently, and moonlight is the time for mouse-back riding;" and as he spoke, the sun went down with a boom like a distant gun, and left them in the dark. The next moment the moon rose above the trees and beamed down pleasantly upon them, and the Goblin, taking Davy by the hand, led him into the wood.

* * * * *

"Freckles," said the Goblin, "what time is it?"

They were now in the densest part of the wood, where the moon was shining brightly on a little pool with rushes growing about it, and the Goblin was speaking to a large Toad.

"Forty croaks," said the Toad, in a husky whisper; and then, as a frog croaked in the pool, he added, "That makes it forty-one. The Snoopers have come in, and Thimbletoes is shaking in his boots." And with these words the Toad coughed, and then hopped heavily away.

"What does he mean?" whispered Davy.

"He means that the fairies are here, and that means that we won't get our ride," said the Goblin, rather sulkily.

"And who is Thimbletoes?" said Davy.

"He's the Prime Minister," said the Goblin. "You see, if any one of the Snoopers finds out something the Queen didn't know before, out goes the Prime Minister, and the Snooper pops into his boots. Thimbletoes doesn't fancy that, you know, because the Prime Minister has all the honey he wants, by way of a salary. Now, here's the mouse-stable, and don't you speak a word—mind!"

As the Goblin said this they came upon a little thatched building, about the size of a baby-house, standing just beyond the pool; and the Goblin, cautiously pushing open the door, stole noiselessly in, with Davy following at his heels, trembling with excitement.

The little building was curiously lighted up by a vast number of fire-flies, hung from the ceiling by loops of cobweb; and Davy could see several spiders hurrying about among them and stirring them up when the light grew dim. The field-mice were stabled in little stalls on either side, each one with his tail neatly tied in a bow-knot to a ring at one side; and, at the farther end of the stable was a buzzing throng of fairies, with their shining clothes and gauzy wings sparkling beautifully in the soft light. Just beyond them Davy saw the Queen sitting on a raised throne, with a little mullen-stalk for a sceptre, and beside her was the Prime Minister, in a terrible state of agitation.

"Now, here's this Bandybug," the Prime Minister was saying. "What does he know about untying the knots in a cord of wood?"

"Nothing!" said the Queen, positively. "Absolutely nothing!"

"And then," continued the Prime Minister, "the idea of his presuming to tell your Gossamer Majesty that he can hear the bark of the dogwood trees"—

"Bosh!" cried the Queen. "Paint him with raspberry jam, and put him to bed in a bee-hive. That'll make him smart, at all events."

Here the Prime Minister began dancing about in an ecstasy, until the Queen knocked him over with the mullen-stalk, and shouted, "Silence! and plenty of it, too. Bring in Berrylegs."

Berrylegs, who proved to be a wiry little Fairy, with a silver coat and tight, cherry-colored trousers, was immediately brought in. His little wings fairly bristled with defiance, and his manner, as he stood before the Queen, was so impudent, that Davy felt morally certain there was going to be a scene.

"May it please your Transparent Highness,"—began Berrylegs.



"Skip all that!" interrupted the Queen, flourishing her mullen-stalk.

"Skip, yourself!" said Berrylegs, boldly, in reply. "Don't you suppose I know how to talk to a Queen?"

The Queen turned very pale, and, after a hurried consultation with the Prime Minister, said faintly, "Have it your own way;" and Berrylegs began again.

"May it please your Transparent Highness, I've found out how the needles get into the haystacks."

As Berrylegs said this a terrible commotion arose at once among the fairies. The Prime Minister cried out, "Oh, come, I say! That's not fair, you know," and the Queen became so agitated that she began taking great bites off the end of the mullen-stalk in a dazed sort of way; and Davy noticed that the Goblin, in his excitement, was trying to climb up on one of the mouse-stalls, so as to get a better view of what was going on. At last the Queen, whose mouth was now quite filled with bits of the mullen-stalk, mumbled, "Get to the point."

"It ought to be a sharp one, being about needles," said the Prime Minister, attempting a joke, with a feeble laugh, but no one paid the slightest attention to him; and Berrylegs, who was now positively swelling with importance, called out, in a loud voice, "It comes from using sewing-machines when they sow the hay-seed!"

The Prime Minister gave a shriek, and fell flat on his face, and the Queen began jumping frantically up and down, and beating about on all sides of her with the end of the mullen-stalk, when suddenly a large Cat walked into the stable, and the fairies fled in all directions. There was no mistaking the Cat, and Davy, forgetting entirely the Goblin's caution, exclaimed, "Why! it's Solomon!"

The next instant the lights disappeared, and Davy found himself in total darkness, with Solomon's eyes shining at him like two balls of fire. There was a confused sound of sobs and cries and the squeaking of mice, among which could be heard the Goblin's voice, crying, "Davy! Davy!" in a reproachful way; then the eyes disappeared, and a moment afterward the stable was lifted off the ground and violently shaken.

"That's Solomon, trying to get at the mice," thought Davy. "I wish the old thing had stayed away," he added aloud, and as he said this the little stable was broken all to bits, and he found himself sitting on the ground in the forest.

The moon had disappeared, and snow was falling rapidly, and the sound of distant chimes reminded Davy that it must be past midnight, and that Christmas-day had come. Solomon's eyes were shining in the darkness like a pair of coach-lamps, and, as Davy sat looking at them, a ruddy light began to glow between them, and presently the figure of the Goblin appeared, dressed in scarlet, as when he had first come. The reddish light was shining through his stomach again, as though the coals had been fanned into life once more, and as Davy gazed at him it grew brighter and stronger, and finally burst into a blaze. Then Solomon's eyes gradually took the form of great brass balls, and presently the figure of the long-lost Colonel came into view just above them, affectionately hugging his clock. He was gazing mournfully down upon the poor Goblin, who was now blazing like a dry chip, and as the light of the fire grew brighter and stronger the trees about slowly took the shape of an old-fashioned fireplace with a high mantel-shelf above it, and then Davy found himself curled up in the big easy-chair, with his dear old grandmother bending over him, and saying gently, "Davy! Davy! Come and have some dinner, my dear!"

In fact, the Believing Voyage was ended.

THE END