Mollie and the Unwiseman
Page 8
VIII. The Unwiseman Turns Poet.In which the Unwiseman goes into literature.
The]
ground was white with snow when Mollie awakened from a night of pleasantdreams. The sun shone brightly, and as the little girl looked out of herbed-room window it seemed to her as if the world looked like a greatwedding-cake, and she was very much inclined to go out of doors and cuta slice out of it and gobble it up, just as if it were a wedding-cakeand not a world.
Whistlebinkie agreed with her that that was the thing to do, but therewere music-lessons and a little reading to be done before Mollie couldhope to venture out, and as for Whistlebinkie, he was afraid to go outalone for fear of getting his whistle clogged up with snow. Consequentlyit was not until after luncheon that the two inseparable companions,accompanied by Mollie's new dog, Gyp, managed to get out of doors.
"Isn't it fine!" cried Mollie, as the snow crunched musically under herfeet.
"Tsplendid!" whistled Whistlebinkie.
Gyp took a roll in the snow and gleefully barked to show that he toothought it wasn't half bad.
"I wonder what the Unwiseman is doing this morning," said Mollie, afterthey had romped about for some little while.
"I dare say he is throwing snow-balls at himself," said Whistlebinkie."That's about as absurd a thing as any one can do, and he can always becounted upon to be doing things that haven't much sense to 'em."
"I've half a mind to go and see what he's doing," said Mollie.
"Let's," ejaculated Whistlebinkie, and Gyp indicated that he was readyfor the call by rushing pell-mell over the snow-encrusted lawn in thedirection of the spot where the Unwiseman's house had last stood.
"Gyp hasn't learned that the Unwiseman moves his house about every day,"said Mollie.
"Dogs haven't much sense," observed Whistlebinkie, with a superior air."It takes them a long time to learn things, and they can't whistle."
"That they haven't," came a voice from behind Whistlebinkie. "Thatlittle beast has destroyed eight lines of my poem with his horrid paws."
Mollie turned about quickly and there was the house of the Unwiseman,and sitting on the door-step was no less a person than the old gentlemanhimself, gazing ruefully at some rough, irregular lines which he hadtraced in the snow with a stick, and which were punctuated here andthere by what were unmistakably the paw-marks of Gyp.
"Why--hullo!" said Mollie; "moved your house over here, have you?"
"Yes," replied the Unwiseman. "There is so much snow on the ground thatI was afraid it would prevent your coming to see me if I let the housestay where it was, and I wanted to see you very much."
"It was very thoughtful of you," said Mollie.
"Yes; but I can't help that, you know," said the Unwiseman. "I've got tobe thoughtful in my new business. Thoughts and snow and a stick arethings I can't get along without, seeing that I haven't a slate or pen,ink and paper, in the house."
"You've got a new business, then, have you?" said Mollie.
"Yes," the Unwiseman answered. "I had to have. When the Christmas toybusiness failed I cast about to find some other that would pay for myeclaires. My friend the hatter wanted me to go in with him, but when Ifound out what he wanted me to do I gave it up."
"What did he want you to do?" asked Mollie.
"Why, there is a restaurant next door to his place where two or threehundred men went to get their lunch every day," said the Unwiseman. "Hewanted me to go in there and carelessly knock their hats off the pegsand step on them and spoil them, so that they'd have to call in at hisshop and buy new ones. My salary was to be fifteen a week."
"Fifteen dollars?" whistled Whistlebinkie in amazement, for to himfifteen dollars was a princely sum.
"No," returned the Unwiseman. "Fifteen eclaires, and I was to do my ownfighting with the ones whose hats were spoiled. That wouldn't pay,because before the end of the week I'd be in the hospital, and I am toldthat people in hospitals are not allowed to eat eclaires."
"And so you declined to go into that business?" asked Mollie.
"Exactly," returned the Unwiseman. "I felt very badly on my way backhome, too. I had hoped that the hatter wanted to employ me as ademonstrator."
"A what?" cried Whistlebinkie.
"A demonstrator."]
"A demonstrator," repeated the Unwiseman. "A demonstrator is one whodemonstrates--a sort of a show-man. In the hat business he would be aman who should put on new styles of hats so as to show people how peoplelooked in them. I suggested that to the hatter, but he said no, itwouldn't do. It would make customers hopeless. They couldn't hope tolook as well in his hats as I would, and so they wouldn't buy them; andas he wasn't in the hat trade for pleasure, he didn't feel that he couldafford a demonstrator like me."
"And what did you do then?" asked Mollie.
"I was so upset that I got on board of a horse-car to ride home,forgetting that the horse-cars all ran the other way and that I hadn'tfive cents in my pocket. That came out all right though. I didn't haveto walk any further," said the Unwiseman. "The conductor was so mad whenhe found out that I couldn't pay my fare that he turned the car aroundand took me back to the hatter's again, where I'd got on. It was a greatjoke, but he never saw it."
And the Unwiseman roared with laughter as he thought of the joke on theconductor, and between you and me, I don't blame him.
"Well, I got home finally, and was just about to throw myself down withmy head out of the window to weep when I had an idea," continued theUnwiseman.
"With your head out of the window?" echoed Mollie. "What on earth wasthat for?"
"I always weep out of the window."]
"So that my tears wouldn't fall on the carpet, of course," returned theUnwiseman. "What else? I always weep out of the window. There isn't anyuse of my dampening the house up and getting rheumatism just because ithappens to be easier to weep indoors. When you're as old as I am, youhave to be careful how you expose yourself to dampness. Rheumatism mightbe fun for you, because you can stay home from school, and be pettedwhile you have it, but for me it's a very serious matter. I had it sobad once I couldn't lean my elbow on the dinner-table, and it spoiledall the pleasure of dining."
"Well--go on and tell us what your idea was," said Mollie, withdifficulty repressing a smile. "Are you going to patent your scheme ofweeping through a window?"
"No, indeed," said the Unwiseman. "I'm willing to let the world have thebenefit of my discoveries, and, besides, patenting things costs money,and you have to send in a model of your invention. I can't afford tobuild a house and employ a man to cry through a window just to supplythe government with a model. My idea was this. As my tears fell to theground my ears and nose got very cold--almost froze, in fact. There wasthe scheme in a nutshell. Tears rhyme with ears, nose with froze. Whynot write rhymes for the comic papers?"
"Oho!" said Mollie; "I see. You are going to be a poet."
"That's the idea," said the Unwiseman. "There's heaps of money in it. Iknow a man who gets a dollar a yard for writing poetry. If I can writeten yards of it a week I shall make eight dollars anyhow, and maybe ten.All shop-keepers calculate to have remnants of their stock left over,and I've allowed two yards out of every ten for remnants. The chieftrouble I have is in finding writing materials. I haven't any pen andink; I don't own any slates; the only paper I have in the house is thewall paper and a newspaper, and I can't use them, because the wall paperis covered with flowers and the newspaper is where I get myideas--besides, it's all the library I've got. I didn't know what to dountil this morning when I got up and found the ground all covered withsnow. Then it came to me all of a sudden, why not get a stick and writeyour poems on the snow, and then maybe, if you have luck, you call sellthem before the thaw. I dressed hurriedly and hastened downstairs, movedthe house up near yours, so that I'd be near you and be sure to see you,feeling confident that you could get your papa to come out and see thepoems and maybe buy them for his paper. Before long I had written thirtyyards of poetry, and just as I had finished what I thought wa
s a fairday's work, up comes that horrid Gyp and prances the whole thing intonothing."
"Dear me!" said Whistlebinkie. "That was too bad."
"Wasn't it!" sighed the Unwiseman. "It was such a beautifully longpoem--and what's more, it isn't easy work. It's almost as hard asshoveling snow, only, of course, you get better pay for it."
"You can rewrite it, can't you?" asked Mollie, gazing sadly at the havocGyp had wrought in the Unwiseman's work.
"I am afraid not," said the Unwiseman. "My disappointment has driven itquite out of my head. I can only remember the title."
"What did you call it?" asked Mollie.
"A Poem, by Me."]
"It was a simple little title," replied the Unwiseman. "It was called 'APoem, by Me.'"
"And what was it about?" asked Mollie.
"About six hundred verses," said the Unwiseman; "and not one of 'em hasescaped that dog. Those that he hasn't spoiled with his paws he haswagged his tail on, and he chose the best one of the lot to lie on hisback and wiggle on. It's very discouraging."
"I'm very sorry," said Mollie; "and if you want me to I'll punish Gyp."
"What good would that do me?" queried the Unwiseman. "If chaining him upwould restore even half the poem, I'd say go ahead and chain him up; butit won't. The poem's gone, and there's nothing left for me to do but goin the house and stick my head out of the window and cry."
"Perhaps you can write another poem," said Mollie.
"That's true--I hadn't thought of that," said the Unwiseman. "But Idon't think I'd better to-day. I've lost more money by the destructionof that first poem than I can afford. If I should have another ruinedto-day, I'd be bankrupt."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mollie. "I'll ask papa to letme give you a lead-pencil and a pad to write your next poem on. Howwill that do?"
"I should be very grateful," said the Unwiseman; "and if with these hecould give me a few dozen ideas and a rhyming dictionary it would be agreat help."
"I'll ask him," said Mollie. "I'll ask him right away, and I haven't anydoubt that he'll say yes, because he always gives me things I want ifthey aren't harmful."
"Very well," said the Unwiseman. "And you may tell him for me, MissWhistlebinkie, that I'll show him how grateful I am to him and to youfor your kind assistance by letting him have the first thousand yards ofpoetry I write for his paper at fifty cents a yard, which is just halfwhat I shall make other people pay for them."
And so Mollie and Whistlebinkie bade the Unwiseman good-by for the timebeing, and went home. As Mollie had predicted, her father was very gladto give her the pencil and the pad and a rhyming dictionary; but as hehad no ideas to spare at the moment he had to deny the little maid thatpart of the request.
The Unwiseman becomes a poet.]
What the Unwiseman did with the pad and the pencil and the dictionary Ishall tell you in the next chapter.