She was filled with joy when one morning she ran out to her flower-garden after breakfast and found the dingle-bells and cowslips were actually blossoming, while even the cockle-shells were showing their white buds. They looked rather comical, all standing in stiff, straight rows, one after the other; but Mary did not mind that.
While she was working she heard the tramp of a horse’s hoofs, and looking up saw the big bluff Squire riding toward her. The big Squire was very fond of children, and whenever he rode near the little white cottage he stopped to have a word with Mary. He was old and bald-headed, and he had side-whiskers that were very red in color and very short and stubby; but there was ever a merry twinkle in his blue eyes, and Mary well knew him for her friend.
Now, when she looked up and saw him coming toward her flower-garden, she nodded and smiled to him, and the big bluff Squire rode up to her side, and looked down with a smile at her flowers.
Then he said to her in rhyme (for it was a way of speaking the jolly
Squire had),
”Mistress Mary, so contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all in a row!”
And Mary, being a sharp little girl, and knowing the Squire’s queer ways, replied to him likewise in rhyme, saying,
”I thank you, Squire, that you enquire
How well the flowers are growing;
The dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are blowing!”
The Squire laughed at this reply, and patted her upon her head, and then he continued,
”‘T is aptly said. But prithee, maid,
Why thus your garden fill
When ev’ry field the same flowers yield
To pluck them as you will?”
“That is a long story, Squire,” said Mary; “but this much I may tell you,
”The cockle-shell is father’s flower,
The cowslip here is Robart,
The dingle-bell, I now must tell,
I ‘ve named for Brother Hobart
”And when the flowers have lived their lives
In sunshine and in rain,
And then do fade, why, papa said
He ‘d sure come home again.”
“Oh, that ‘s the idea, is it?” asked the big bluff Squire, forgetting his poetry. “Well, it ‘s a pretty thought, my child, and I think because the flowers are strong and hearty that you may know your father and brothers are the same; and I ‘m sure I hope they ‘ll come back from their voyage safe and sound. I shall come and see you again, little one, and watch the garden grow.” And then he said “gee-up” to his gray mare, and rode away.
The very next day, to Mary’s great surprise and grief; she found the leaves of the dingle-bells curling and beginning to wither.
“Oh, mamma,” she called, “come quick! Something is surely the matter with brother Hobart!”
“The dingle-bells are dying,” said her mother, after looking carefully at the flowers; “but the reason is that the cold winds from the sea swept right over your garden last night, and dingle-bells are delicate flowers and grow best where they are sheltered by the woods. If you had planted them at the side of the house, as I wished you to, the wind would not have killed them.”
Mary did not reply to this, but sat down and began to weep, feeling at the same time that her mother was right and it was her own fault for being so contrary.
While she sat thus the Squire rode up, and called to her
”Fie, Mary, fie! Why do you cry;
And blind your eyes to knowing
How dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are growing?”
”Oh, Squire!” sobbed Mary, “I am in great trouble
”Each dingle-bell I loved so well
Before my eyes is dying,
And much I fear my brother dear
In sickness now is lying!”
“Nonsense!” said the Squire; “because you named the flowers after your brother Hobart is no reason he should be affected by the fading of the dingle-bells. I very much suspect the real reason they are dying is because the cold sea wind caught them last night. Dingle-bells are delicate. If you had scattered the cockle-shells and cowslips all about them, the stronger plants would have protected the weaker; but you see, my girl, you planted the dingle-bells all in a row, and so the wind caught them nicely.”
Again Mary reproached herself for having been contrary and refusing to listen to her mother’s advice; but the Squire’s words comforted her, nevertheless, and made her feel that brother Hobart and the flowers had really nothing to do with each other.
The weather now began to change, and the cold sea winds blew each night over Mary’s garden. She did not know this, for she was always lying snugly tucked up in her bed, and the warm morning sun usually drove away the winds; but her mother knew it, and feared Mary’s garden would suffer.
One day Mary came into the house where her mother was at work and said, gleefully,
“Papa and my brothers will soon be home now.”
“Why do you think so?” asked her mother.
“Because the cockle-shells and cowslips are both fading away and dying, just as the dingle-bells did, and papa said when they faded and withered he and the boys would come back to us.”
Mary’s mother knew that the harsh winds had killed the flowers before their time, but she did not like to disappoint her darling, so she only said, with a sigh,
“I hope you are right, Mary, for we both shall be glad to welcome our dear ones home again.”
But soon afterward the big bluff Squire came riding up, as was his wont, to where Mary stood by her garden, and he at once asked,
”Pray tell me, dear, though much I fear
The answer sad I know,
How grow the sturdy cockle-shells
And cowslips, all in a row?”
And Mary looked up at him with her bright smile and answered,
”Dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips are all dead,
And now my papa’s coming home,
For so he surely said.”
“Ah,” said the Squire, looking at her curiously, “I ‘m afraid you are getting way ahead of time. See here, Mary, how would you like a little ride with me on my nag?”
“I would like it very much, sir,” replied Mary.
“Then reach up your hand. Now! — there you are, little one!” and Mary found herself seated safely in front of the Squire, who clasped her with one strong arm so that she could not slip off.
“Now, then,” he said “we ‘ll take a little ride down the hill and by the path that runs beside the wood.”
So he gave the rein to his mare and they rode along, chatting merrily together, till they came to the wood. Then said the Squire,
”Take a look within that nook
And tell me what is there.”
And Mary exclaimed,
”A dingle-bell, and truth to tell
In full bloom, I declare!”
The Squire now clucked to his nag, and as they rode away he said,
”Now come with me and you shall see
A field with cowslips bright
And not a garden in the land
Can show so fair a sight.”
And so it was, for as they rode through the pastures the cowslips bloomed on every hand, and Mary’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as she thought of her poor garden with its dead flowers.
And then the Squire took her toward the little brook that wandered through the meadows, flowing over the pebbles with a soft, gurgling sound that was very nearly as sweet as music; and when they reached it the big Squire said,
”If you will look beside the brook
You ‘ll see, I know quite well,
That hidden in each mossy nook
Is many a cockle-shell.”
This was indeed true, and as Mary saw them she suddenly dropped her head and began to weep.
“What ‘s the matter, little one?” asked the Squire in his kind, bluff voice. And Mary answered,
”Although the flowers I much admire,
You know papa did say
He won’t be home again, Squire,
Till all have passed away.”
“You must be patient, my child,” replied her friend; “and surely you would not have been thus disappointed had you not tried to make the field flowers grow where they do not belong. Gardens are all well enough for fancy flowers to grow in, but the posies that God gave to all the world, and made to grow wild in the great garden of Nature, will never thrive in other places. Your father meant you to watch the flowers in the field; and if you will come and visit them each day, you will find the time waiting very short indeed.”
Mary dried her eyes and thanked the kindly old Squire, and after that she visited the fields each day and watched the flowers grow.
And it was not so very long, as the Squire said before the blossoms began to wither and fall away; and finally one day Mary looked out over the sea and saw a little speck upon the waters that looked like a sail. And when it came nearer and had grown larger, both she and her mother saw that it was the “Skylark” come home again, and you can imagine how pleased and happy the sight of the pretty little ship made them.
And soon after, when Mary had been hugged by her two sunburned brothers and was clasped in her father’s strong arms, she whispered,
“I knew you were coming soon, papa.”
“And how did you know, sweetheart?” he asked, giving her an extra kiss.
“Because I watched the flowers; and the dingle-bells and cowslips and cockle-shells are all withered and faded away. And did you not say that, God willing, when this happened you would come back to us?”
“To be sure I did,” answered her father, with a happy laugh; “and I must have spoken truly, sweetheart, for God in His goodness was willing, and here I am!”
The Wond’rous Wise Man
There was a man in our town
And he was wond’rous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush
And scratched out both his eyes.
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush
And scratched them in again!
Our town is a quiet little town, and lies nestling in a little valley surrounded by pretty green hills. I do not think you would ever have heard our town mentioned had not the man lived there who was so wise that everyone marvelled at his great knowledge.
He was not always a wise man; he was a wise boy before he grew to manhood, and even when a child he was so remarkable for his wisdom that people shook their heads gravely and said, “when he grows up there will be no need of books, for he will know everything!”
His father thought he had a wond’rous wise look when he was born, and so he named him Solomon, thinking that if indeed he turned out to be wise the name would fit him nicely, whereas, should he be mistaken, and the boy grow up stupid, his name could be easily changed to Simon.
But the father was not mistaken, and the boy’s name remained Solomon.
When he was still a child Solomon confounded the schoolmaster by asking, one day,
“Can you tell me, sir, why a cow drinks water from a brook?”
“Well really,” replied the abashed schoolmaster, “I have never given the subject serious thought. But I will sleep upon the question, and try to give you an answer to-morrow.”
“But the schoolmaster could not sleep; he remained awake all the night trying to think why a cow drinks water from a brook, and in the morning he was no nearer the answer than before. So he was obliged to appear before the wise child and acknowledge that he could not solve the problem.
“I have looked at the subject from every side,” said he, “and given it careful thought, and yet I cannot tell why a cow drinks water from a brook.”
“Sir,” replied the wise child, “it is because the cow is thirsty.”
The shock of this answer was so great that the schoolmaster fainted away, and when they had brought him to he made a prophecy that Solomon would grow up to be a wond’rous wise man.
It was the same way with the village doctor. Solomon came to him one day and asked,
“Tell me, sir, why has a man two eyes?”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the doctor, “I must think I a bit before I answer, for I have never yet had my attention called to this subject.”
So he thought for a long time, and then he said, “I must really give it up. I cannot tell, for the life of me, why a man has two eyes. Do you know?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy.
“Then,” said the doctor, after taking a dose of quinine to brace up his nerves, for he remembered the fate of the schoolmaster, “then please tell me why a man as two eyes.
“A man has two eyes, sir,” returned Solomon, solemnly, “because he was born that way.”
And the doctor marvelled greatly at so much wisdom in a little child, and made a note of it in his note-book.
Solomon was so full of wisdom that it flowed from his mouth in a perfect stream, and every day he gave new evidence to his friends that he could scarcely hold all the wise thoughts that came to him. For instance, one day he said to his father,
“I perceive our dog has six legs.”
“Oh, no!” replied his father, “our dog has only four legs.”
“You are surely mistaken, sir,” said Solomon, with the gravity that comes from great wisdom, “these are our dog’s fore legs, are they not?” pointing to the front legs of the dog.
“Yes,” answered his father.
“Well,” continued Solomon, “the dog has two other legs, besides, and two and four are six; therefore the dog has six legs.”
“But that is very old,” exclaimed his father.
“True,” replied Solomon, “but this is a young dog.”
Then his father bowed his head in shame that his own child should teach him wisdom.
Of course Solomon wore glasses upon his eyes — all wise people wear them, — and his face was ever grave and solemn, while he walked slowly and stiffly so that people might know he was the celebrated wise man, and do him reverence.
And when he had grown to manhood the fame of his wisdom spread all over the world, so that all the other wise men were jealous, and tried in many ways to confound him; but Solomon always came out ahead and maintained his reputation for wisdom.
Finally a very wise man came from Cumberland, to meet Solomon and see which of them was the wisest. He was a very big man, and Solomon was a very little man, and so the people all shook their heads sadly and feared Solomon had met his match, for if the Cumberland man was as full of wisdom as Solomon, he had much the advantage in size.
They formed a circle around the two wise men, and then began the trial to see which was the wisest.
“Tell me,” said Solomon, looking straight up into the big man’s face with an air of confidence that reassured his friends, “how many sisters has a boy who has one father, one mother, and seven brothers?”
The big wise man got very red in the face, and scowled and coughed and stammered, but he could not tell.
“I do not know,” he acknowledged; “nor do you know, either, for there is no rule to go by.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” replied Solomon; “he has two sisters. I know this is the true answer, because I know the boy and his father and his mother and his brothers and his sisters, so that I cannot be mistaken.”
Now all the people applauded at this, for they were sure Solomon had got the best of the man from Cumberland.
But it was now the big man’s turn to try Solomon, so he said,
”Fingers five are on my hand;
All of them upright do stand.
One a dog is, chasing kittens;
One a cat is, wearing mittens;
One a rat is, eating cheese;
One a wolf is, fu
ll of fleas;
One a fly is, in a cup
How many fingers do I hold up?”
“Four,” replied Solomon, promptly, “for one of them is a thumb!”
The wise man from Cumberland was so angry at being outwitted that he sprang at Solomon and would no doubt have injured him had not our wise man turned and run away as fast as he could go. The man from Cumberland at once ran after him, and chased him through the streets and down the lanes and up the side of the hill where the bramble-bushes grow.
Solomon ran very fast, but the man from Cumberland was bigger, and he was just about to grab our wise man by his coat-tails when Solomon gave a great jump, and jumped right into the middle of a big bramble-bush!
The people were all coming up behind, and as the big man did not dare to follow Solomon into the bramble-bush, he turned away and ran home to Cumberland.
All the men and women of our town were horrified when they came up and found their wise man in the middle of the bramble-bush, and held fast by the brambles, which scratched and pricked him on every side.
“Solomon! are you hurt?” they cried.
“I should say I am hurt!” replied Solomon, with a groan; “my eyes are scratched out!”
“How do you know they are?” asked the village doctor.
“I can see they are scratched out!” replied Solomon; and the people all wept with grief at this, and Solomon howled louder than any of them.
Now the fact was that when Solomon jumped into the bramble-bush he was wearing his spectacles, and the brambles pushed the glasses so close against his eyes that he could not open them; and so, as every other part of him was scratched and bleeding, and he could not open his eyes, he made sure they were scratched out.
“How am I to get out of here?” he asked at last.
“You must jump out,” replied the doctor, “since you have jumped in.”
So Solomon made a great jump, and although the brambles tore him cruelly, he sprang entirely out of the bush and fell plump into another one. This last bush, however, by good luck, was not a bramble-bush, but one of elderberry, and when he jumped into it his spectacles fell off, and to his surprise he opened his eyes and found that he could see again.
“Where are you now?” called out the doctor.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 815