Mr. Rabbit at Home by Joel Chandler Harris (feel good books to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: Joel Chandler Harris
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Buster John sat there a long time. Mandy, the washerwoman, got through with her task and went toward the house, balancing a big basket of wet clothes on her head and singing as she went. Sweetest Susan and Drusilla had grown tired of playing with the dolls, and were hunting all over the place for Buster John. They saw him presently, and came running toward him, talking and laughing. He shook his head and motioned toward the spring. They became quiet at once, and began to walk on their tiptoes. They seated themselves on the stump by Buster John’s side, and waited for him to explain himself.
Presently Sweetest Susan saw the boards over the spring. “Oh, what have you done?” she cried. “Why, you have shut out the light! They can’t see a wink. I don’t think that’s right; do you, Drusilla?”
“Don’t ax me, honey,” replied Drusilla. “I ain’t gwine ter git in no ’spute. Somebody done gone an’ put planks on de spring. Dar dey is, an’ dar dey may stay, fer what I keer. I hope dey er nailed down.”
“Please take the boards off,” pleaded Sweetest Susan.
“No,” said Buster John. “I put an apple in the spring the other day, and they paid no attention to it. Maybe they’ll pay some attention now.”
Suddenly, before anybody else could say anything, Drusilla screamed and rolled off the stump. Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought a bee had stung her. But it was not a bee. She had no sooner rolled from the stump than she sprang to her feet and cried out, “Dar he is! Look at ’im!”
Buster John and Sweetest Susan turned to look, and there, upon the stump beside them, stood Mr. Thimblefinger with his hat in hand, bowing and smiling as politely as you please.
“I hope you are well,” he said. Then he began to laugh, as he turned to Buster John. “You may think it is a great joke to come to the spring, but it’s no joke to me. I have had a very hard time getting here, but I just had to come. Mrs. Meadows thinks there is a total eclipse going on, and Mr. Rabbit has gone to bed and covered up his head.”
“HOW DID YOU GET HERE?”
“How did you get here?” asked Buster John.
“Through the big poplar yonder,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It is hollow from top to bottom, but it was so dark I could hardly find my way. The jay birds used to go down through the poplar every Friday until I put up the bars and shut them out. I had almost forgotten the road.”
“Well,” said Buster John, “I covered the spring so that you might know we hadn’t forgotten you. I dropped an apple in the other day, but you paid no attention to it.”
“I saw the apple,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it didn’t stay in the spring long. It disappeared in a few minutes.”
“Aha! I know!” exclaimed Drusilla. “Dat ar Minervy nigger got it. I seed her comin’ long eatin’ a apple, and I boun’ you she de ve’y nigger what got it.”
“Well, well!” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “It makes no difference now, and if you’ll get ready we’ll go now pretty soon.”
“Why, I thought you couldn’t go down through the spring until nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve,” suggested Buster John.
“The water gets wet or goes dry with the tide,” Mr. Thimblefinger explained. “To-day we shall have to go at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. It was nine minutes and nine seconds after twelve before, and now it is nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine. Multiply nineteen by nineteen, add the answer together, and you get nothing but nines. You see we have to go by a system.” Mr. Thimblefinger was very solemn as he said this. “Now, then, come on. We haven’t any time to waste. When the nines get after us, we must be going. There are four of us now, but if we were to be multiplied by nine there would be nine of us, and nine is an odd number.”
“How would we be nine?” asked Buster John.
“It’s very simple,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “Nine times four are thirty-six. Three and six stand for thirty-six, and six and three are nine.”
Buster John laughed as he ran to remove the boards from the spring. In a few moments they were all ready in spite of Drusilla’s protests, and at nineteen minutes and nineteen seconds after nine they walked through the spring gate into Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country.
WHERE THE THUNDER LIVES.
Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Rabbit, Chickamy Crany Crow, and Tickle-My-Toes were very glad to see the children, especially Mrs. Meadows, who did everything she could to make the youngsters feel that they had conferred a great obligation on her by coming back again.
“I’ll be bound you forgot to bring me the apple I told you about,” said she.
But Sweetest Susan had not forgotten. She had one in her pocket. It was not very large, but the sun had painted it red and yellow, and the south winds that kissed it had left it fragrant with the perfume of summer.
“Now, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “To think you should remember an old woman! You are just as good and as nice as you can be!” She thanked Sweetest Susan so heartily that Buster John began to look and feel uncomfortable,—seeing which, Mrs. Meadows placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Never mind,” said she, “boys are not expected to be as thoughtful as girls. The next time you come, you may bring me a hatful, if you can manage to think about it.”
“He might start wid ’em,” remarked Drusilla, “but ’fo’ he got here he’d set down an’ eat ’em all up, ter keep from stumpin’ his toe an’ spillin’ ’em.”
Buster John had a reply ready, but he did not make any, for just at that moment a low, rumbling sound was heard. It seemed to come nearer and grow louder, and then it died away in the distance.
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Meadows, in an impressive whisper.
“Thunder,” answered Mr. Rabbit, who had listened intently. “Thunder, as sure as you’re born.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I saw a cloud coming up next door, just before we came through the spring gate.”
“I must be getting nervous in my old age,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “I had an idea that it was too late in the season for thunder-storms.”
“That may be so,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, “but it’s never too late for old man Thunder to rush out on his front porch and begin to cut up his capers. But there’s no harm in him.”
“But the Lightning kills people sometimes,” said Buster John.
“The Lightning? Oh, yes, but I was talking about old man Thunder,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “When I was a boy, I once heard of a little girl”—Mr. Thimblefinger suddenly put his hand over his mouth and hung his head, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.
“Why, what in the world is the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “I simply forgot my manners.”
“I don’t see how,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, frowning.
“Why, I was about to tell a story before I had been asked.”
“Well, you won’t disturb me by telling a story, I’m sure,” said Mr. Rabbit. “I can nod just as well when some one is talking as when everything is still. You won’t pester me at all. Just go ahead.”
“Maybe it isn’t story-telling time,” suggested Mrs. Meadows.
“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Sweetest Susan. “If it is a story, please tell it.”
“Well, it is nothing but a plain, every-day story. After you hear it you’ll lean back in your chair and wonder why somebody didn’t take hold of it and twist it into a real old-fashioned tale. It’s old fashioned enough, the way I heard it, but I always thought that the person who heard it first must have forgotten parts of it.”
“We won’t mind that,” said Sweetest Susan.
Mr. Thimblefinger settled himself comfortably and began:—
“Once upon a time—I don’t know how long ago, but not very long, for the tale was new to me when I first heard it—once upon a time there was a little girl about your age and size who was curious to know something about everything that happened. She wanted to know how a bird could fly, and why the clouds floated, and she was all the time trying to get at the bottom of things.
“Well, one day when the sky was covered with clouds, the Thunder came rolling along, knocking at everybody’s door and running a race with the noise it made; the little girl listened and wondered what the Thunder was and where it went to. It wasn’t long before the Thunder came rumbling along again, making a noise like a four-horse wagon running away on a covered bridge.
“While the little girl was standing there, wondering and listening, an old man with a bundle on his back and a stout staff in his hand came along the road. He bowed and smiled when he saw the little girl, but as she didn’t return the bow or the smile, being too much interested in listening for the Thunder, he paused and asked her what the trouble was.
“‘I hope you are not lost?’ he said.
“‘Oh, no, sir,’ she replied; ‘I was listening for the Thunder and wondering where it goes.’
“‘Well, as you seem to be a very good little girl,’ the old man said, ‘I don’t mind telling you. The Thunder lives on top of yonder mountain. It is not so far away.’
“‘Oh, I should like ever so much to go there!’ exclaimed the little girl.
“‘Why not?’ said the old man. ‘The mountain is on my road, and, if you say the word, we’ll go together.’
“The little girl took the old man’s hand and they journeyed toward the mountain where the Thunder had his home. The way was long, but somehow they seemed to go very fast. The old man took long strides forward, and he was strong enough to lift the little girl at every step, so that when they reached the foot of the mountain she was not very tired.
“But, as the mountain was very steep and high, the two travelers stopped to rest themselves before they began to climb it. Its sides seemed to be rough and dark, but far up on the topmost peak the clouds had gathered, and from these the Lightning flashed incessantly. The little girl saw the flashes and asked what they meant.
“‘Wherever the Thunder lives,’ replied the old man, ‘there the Lightning builds its nest. No doubt the wind has blown the clouds about and torn them apart and scattered them. The Lightning is piling them together again, and fixing a warm, soft place to sleep to-night.’
“When they had rested awhile, the old man said it was time to be going, and then he made the little girl climb on his back. At first she didn’t want the old man to carry her; but he declared that she would do him a great favor by climbing on his back and holding his bundle in place. So she sat upon the bundle, and in this way they went up the high mountain, going almost as rapidly as the little girl could run on level ground. She enjoyed it very much, for, although the old man went swiftly, he went smoothly, and the little girl felt as safe and as comfortable as if she had been sitting in a rocking-chair.
“When they had come nearly to the top of
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