Mr. Munchausen <br />Being a True Account of Some of the Recent Adventures beyond the Styx of the L by John Kendrick Bangs (you can read anyone .TXT) 📕
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“That was fine,” said Diavolo. “You told pretty near the truth, too, Uncle Munch, because you are hot stuff yourself, ain’t you?”
“I am so considered, my boy,” said Mr. Munchausen. “The chief took a teaspoonful of the pepper down at a gulp, and let me go when he recovered. He said he guessed I wasn’t quite his style, and he thought I’d better depart before I set fire to the town. So I filled up the water bag, got into the row-boat, and started back to the ship, but the Betsy S. had gone and I was forced to row all the way to San Francisco, one thousand, five hundred and sixty-two miles distant. The captain and crew had given us all up for lost. I covered the distance in six weeks, living on water and Nepaul pepper, and when I finally reached home, I told my father that, after all, I was not so sure that I liked a sailor’s life. But I never forgot those cannibals or their island, as you may well imagine. They and their home always interested me hugely and I resolved if the fates ever drove me that way again, I would go ashore and see how the people were getting on. The fates, however, were a long time in drawing me that way again, for it was not until July, ten years ago that I reached there the second time. I was off on a yachting trip, with an English friend, when one afternoon we dropped anchor off that Cannibal Island.
“‘Let’s go ashore,’ said I. ‘What for?’ said my host; and then I told him the story and we went, and it was well we did so, for it was then and there that I discovered the new way the missionaries had of celebrating Decoration Day.
“No sooner had we landed than we noticed that the Island had become civilised. There were churches, and instead of tents and mud-hovels, beautiful residences appeared here and there, through the trees. ‘I fancy this isn’t the island,’ said my host. ‘There aren’t any cannibals about here.’ I was about to reply indignantly, for I was afraid he was doubting the truth of my story, when from the top of a hill, not far distant, we heard strains of music. We went to see whence it came, and what do you suppose we saw? Five hundred villainous looking cannibals marching ten abreast along a fine street, and, cheering them from the balconies of the houses that fronted on the highway, were the missionaries and their friends and their children and their wives.
“‘This can’t be the place, after all,’ said my host again.
“‘Yes it is,’ said I, ‘only it has been converted. They must be celebrating some native festival.’ Then as I spoke the procession stopped and the head missionary followed by a band of beautiful girls, came down from a platform and placed garlands of flowers and beautiful wreaths on the shoulders and heads of those reformed cannibals. In less than an hour every one of the huge black fellows was covered with roses and pinks and fragrant flowers of all kinds, and then they started on parade again. It was a fine sight, but I couldn’t understand what it was all done for until that night, when I dined with the head missionary—and what do you suppose it was?”
“I give it up,” said Diavolo, “maybe the missionaries thought the cannibals didn’t have enough clothes on.”
“I guess I can’t guess,” said Angelica.
“They were celebrating Decoration Day,” said Mr. Munchausen. “They were strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries.”
“They were celebrating Decoration Day … strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries.” Chapter IX.
“You didn’t tell us about any graves,” said Diavolo.
“Why certainly I did,” said the Baron. “The cannibals themselves were the only graves those poor departed missionaries ever had. Every one of those five hundred savages was the grave of a missionary, my dears, and having been converted, and taught that it was not good to eat their fellow-men, they did all in their power afterwards to show their repentance, keeping alive the memory of the men they had treated so badly by decorating themselves on memorial day—and one old fellow, the savagest looking, but now the kindest-hearted being in the world, used always to wear about his neck a huge sign, upon which he had painted in great black letters:
HERE LIES
JOHN THOMAS WILKINS,
SAILOR.
DEPARTED THIS LIFE, MAY 24TH, 1861.
HE WAS A MAN OF SPLENDID TASTE.
“The old cannibal had eaten Wilkins and later when he had been converted and realised that he himself was the grave of a worthy man, as an expiation he devoted his life to the memory of John Thomas Wilkins, and as a matter of fact, on the Cannibal Island Decoration Day he would lie flat on the floor all the day, groaning under the weight of a hundred potted plants, which he placed upon himself in memory of Wilkins.”
Here Mr. Munchausen paused for breath, and the twins went out into the garden to try to imagine with the aid of a few practical experiments how a cannibal would look with a hundred potted plants adorning his person.
MR. MUNCHAUSEN’S ADVENTURE WITH A SHARK
Mr. and Mrs. Henry B. Ananias.
THURSDAYS. CIMMERIA.
This was the card sent by the reporter of the Gehenna Gazette, and Mrs. Ananias to Mr. Munchausen upon his return from a trip to mortal realms concerning which many curious reports have crept into circulation. Owing to a rumour persistently circulated at one time, Mr. Munchausen had been eaten by a shark, and it was with the intention of learning, if possible, the basis for the rumour that Ananias and Sapphira called upon the redoubtable Baron of other days.
Mr. Munchausen graciously received the callers and asked what he could do for them.
“Our readers, Mr. Munchausen,” explained Ananias, “have been much concerned over rumours of your death at the hands of a shark.”
“Sharks have no hands,” said the Baron quietly.
“Well—that aside,” observed Ananias. “Were you killed by a shark?”
“Not that I recall,” said the Baron. “I may have been, but I don’t remember it. Indeed I recall only one adventure with a shark. That grew out of my mission on behalf of France to the Czar of Russia. I carried letters once from the King of France to his Imperial Coolness the Czar.”
“What was the nature of the letters?” asked Ananias.
“I never knew,” replied the Baron. “As I have said, it was a secret mission, and the French Government never took me into its confidence. The only thing I know about it is that I was sent to St. Petersburg, and I went, and in the course of time I made myself much beloved of both the people and his Majesty the Czar. I am the only person that ever lived that was liked equally by both, and if I had attached myself permanently to the Czar, Russia would have been a different country to-day.”
“What country would it have been, Mr. Munchausen,” asked Sapphira innocently, “Germany or Siam?”
“I can’t specify, my dear madame,” the Baron replied. “It wouldn’t be fair. But, at any rate, I went to Russia, and was treated warmly by everybody, except the climate, which was, as it is at all times, very freezing. That’s the reason the Russian people like the climate. It is the only thing the Czar can’t change by Imperial decree, and the people admire its independence and endure it for that reason. But as I have said, everybody was pleased with me, and the Czar showed me unusual attention. He gave fêtes in my honour. He gave the most princely dinners, and I met the very best people in St. Petersburg, and at one of these dinners I was invited to join a yachting party on a cruise around the world.
“Well, of course, though a landsman in every sense of the word, I am fond of yachting, and I immediately accepted the invitation. The yacht we went on was the Boomski Zboomah, belonging to Prince—er—now what was that Prince’s name! Something like—er—Sheeroff or Jibski—or—er—well, never mind that. I meet so many princes it is difficult to remember their names. We’ll say his name was Jibski.”
“Suppose we do,” said Ananias, with a jealous grin. “Jibski is such a remarkable name. It will look well in print.”
“All right,” said the Baron, “Jibski be it. The yacht belonged to Prince Jibski, and she was a beauty. There was a stateroom and a steward for everybody on board, and nothing that could contribute to a man’s comfort was left unattended to. We set sail on the 23rd of August, and after cruising about the North coast of Europe for a week or two, we steered the craft south, and along about the middle of September we reached the Amphibian Islands, and anchored. It was here that I had my first and last experience with sharks. If they had been plain, ordinary sharks I’d have had an easy time of it, but when you get hold of these Amphibian sharks you are likely to get yourself into twenty-three different kinds of trouble.”
“My!” said Sapphira. “All those? Does the number include being struck by lightning?”
“Yes,” the Baron answered, “And when you remember that there are only twenty-four different kinds altogether you can see what a peck of trouble an Amphibian shark can get you into. I thought my last hour had come when I met with him. You see when we reached the Amphibian Islands, we naturally thought we’d like to go ashore and pick the cocoanuts and raisins and other things that grow there, and when I got upon dry land again I felt strongly tempted to go down upon the beautiful little beach in the harbour and take a swim. Prince Jibski advised me against it, but I was set upon going. He told me the place was full of sharks, but I wasn’t afraid because I was always a remarkably rapid swimmer, and I felt confident of my ability, in case I saw a shark coming after me, to swim ashore before he could possibly catch me, provided I had ten yards start. So in I went leaving my gun and clothing on the beach. Oh, it was fun! The water was quite warm, and the sandy bottom of the bay was deliciously soft and pleasant to the feet. I suppose I must have sported in the waves for ten or fifteen minutes before the trouble came. I had just turned a somersault in the water, when, as my head came to the surface, I saw directly in front of me, the unmistakable fin of a shark, and to my unspeakable dismay not more than five feet away. As I told you, if it had been ten yards away I should have had no fear, but five feet meant another story altogether. My heart fairly jumped into my mouth. It would have sunk into my boots if I had had them on, but I hadn’t, so it leaped upward into my mouth as I turned to swim ashore, by which time the shark had reduced the distance between us by one foot. I feared that all was up with me, and was trying to think of an appropriate set of last words, when Prince Jibski, noting my peril, fired one of the yacht’s cannon in our direction. Ordinarily this would have been useless, for the yacht’s cannon was never loaded with anything but a blank charge, but in this instance it was better than if it had been loaded with ball and shot, for not only did the sound of the explosion attract the attention of the shark and cause him to pause for a moment, but also the wadding from the gun dropped directly upon my back, so showing that Prince Jibski’s aim was not as good as it might have been. Had the cannon been loaded with a ball or a shell, you can very well understand how it would have happened that yours truly would have been killed then and there.”
“We should have missed you,” said Ananias sweetly.
“Thanks,” said the Baron. “But
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