King Oberon's Forest

by Hilda van Stockum

  “How do you do—pleased to meet you. Ah! There’s Mr. Fox. Mr. Fox, have you met our dwarfs? This is their first appearance after Brother Alban’s illness,” said Mrs. Hoot.

  “I have been longing to meet you,” the fox uttered huskily, with a deep bow and a glare through his lorgnettes. “I have heard so much of the good you have done in the forest lately, looking after our underprivileged children. Oh, Miss Badger, come and meet the dwarfs. We were talking of them only the other day, weren’t we, and praising the decline of juvenile delinquency since they started their charitable work.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Oakum, I did long to meet you. How delightful of you to think of those nurseries. It’s made all the difference, I assure you—”

  “How did you think of it?” twittered a Miss Nightingale, a fashionable opera singer who was languishing on the arm of an admirer. “I should love to amuse the kiddies if I did not have such a delicate constitution, but one gets such headaches from them, doesn’t one?”

  “How do you find time for it all!” exclaimed a snail, fanning herself.

  “It’s a gift,” sighed sentimental Miss Dove.

  The dwarfs were embarrassed. They had been so long away from society that they had forgotten what it feels like to be praised.

  “I think we’ll have to be going,” they muttered, nervously wiping their hands on their trousers.

  But now Mamma Squirrel had caught sight of them, with a delighted squeal. Mr. Squirrel was such a celebrity that he had long ago deserted her, and she had stood about awkwardly without a soul to talk to and been pushed around by gesticulating neighbors. The dwarfs had to chat with her for a while, and fetch her some cakes (she didn’t drink the nectar, she said). They warned her seriously against the cream buns, and one look at Mrs. Powderpuff, who was, at that moment, immersed in one without hope of deliverance (to the solid amusement of all around her), convinced Mamma Squirrel that they were to be avoided at all costs.

  “I’ve never been to a party like this before,” she told the dwarfs in a loud voice. “Red seems to enjoy them, but I don’t think they’re much fun, do you? I’d rather have tea with a friend, where I can sit down and exchange news. I can’t hear myself here, let alone anyone else.”

  “Hush,” said the dwarfs, looking around to see if the hostess had noticed.

  “It’s all very stylish, though; I can see that,” Mamma Squirrel went on. “Look at the mimsy-pimsy faces. It’s all dear so-and-so, and dear so-and-so, and when they move away you hear all the bad about them. Do you think they’d miss me if I left?”

  “Red might,” Brother Botolph told her.

  “Not at all,” said Mamma. “I think I’ll go home.”

  “We’re going too,” the dwarfs told her. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Skunk-Phoo, so we can say good-by?”

  But Mr. and Mrs. Skunk-Phoo had retired upstairs, where they were lying on their beds, reading novels and eating chocolates. They did not enjoy their own parties. So the dwarfs and Mamma Squirrel left without saying good-by.

  After this taste of society the dwarfs decided they would stay at home in the future. One can overdo it, they felt. They had nice neighbors, and that was enough.

  Even the write-up in the Gazette didn’t reconcile them to nectar parties. All it said about them was: “The Brothers McOakum, looking magnificent in real antique suits, were present.”

  They were even a little worried about the description. “It doesn’t sound right,” they told Mamma Squirrel. “I know an antique clock is a good thing, or an antique table—but an antique suit—”

  “I should worry,” said Mamma Squirrel, who was happily pottering about in her old housecoat and slippers. “I bet you they can’t think of enough new words to describe clothes.”

  That sounded reasonable, and the dwarfs forgot about it. All that oppressed them now was how to return hospitality. “We can’t give a nectar party,” they decided. “We haven’t the room.”

  Besides, they were too busy. Brother Alban hadn’t his full strength yet, and with all the extra work they had undertaken, the dwarfs had little free time. But whatever they did flourished in a way it hadn’t before. Brother Botolph’s garden was a joy to behold. The same animals who used to pester him now helped him, out of gratitude for his kindness—and also because they liked gardening. Never had his cucumbers been so fat, his corn so high, his tomatoes so red, his melons so sweet. He gave away a lot and yet kept more than he had ever had.

  Mamma Squirrel was especially glad of his gifts, for she now had three households to feed. Little as she had seen of Scarlet and Pinkie before they were married, now they were always under foot. They borrowed her milk, her bread, her vegetables (and never paid back, of course). They used her bobbypins, her scissors, her sewing materials. They walked off with her frying pans, her cookbooks, her dish towels.

  “Aren’t your husbands capable of supporting you?” Mr. Squirrel would remark angrily when he found out.

  “Oh yes,” they drawled, “but it’s so much easier to come to dear Mamma.”

  “I’ll ‘dear mamma’ you!” cried Mr. Squirrel, and bit them. That taught them a lesson. It was three days before they appeared again.

  The dwarfs felt sorry for Mamma Squirrel. “All the same,” they decided, “it’s her own fault. She is too kind. She has no discipline. Remember how we used to punish Felix? He’d never have behaved like that.” And they’d climb up on their little ladder to Mamma Squirrel’s house to tell her at least to whip the little ones before it was too late. They feared, though, that Mamma Squirrel was incorrigible. If only Mr. Squirrel had been there oftener— But he was getting more and more assignments from the Gazette to different parts of the forest and becoming a really famous reporter.

  Meanwhile the summer was dying, and again the leaves were beginning to fall.

  7. Felix Returns

  October had come round again. The forest children in Brother Botolph’s playground began to whisper the word “Halloween.” The dwarfs looked at one another and burst out laughing.

  “What a silly quarrel,” said Brother Alban, with a chuckle.

  “Why shouldn’t the children have some fun?” queried Brother Botolph.

  “What was the fuss about?” Brother Ubald wanted to know.

  “We are going to give a party this time,” Brother Botolph announced to his playground children. “You must all help prepare for it. We’ll hollow out our biggest pumpkin and scare the whole forest with it. We’ll make whistles and tooters and masks. We’ll put candles inside jack-o’-lanterns, and we’ll invite all the glowworms and fireflies we know.”

  The young creatures cried “Hurray!” and ran home to tell the news. Soon the whole forest was buzzing with excitement. The dwarfs were going to give a party—the first one in a hundred years!

  Presently invitations were sent out.

  The Brothers McOakum request the pleasure of your company at a garden party to be held at their residence: Oaklands, Cloverplace, King Oberon’s Forest, at 8 P.M. on October thirty-first inst. Fancy Dress optional. RSVP.

  They had debated a while about “RSVP,” having resented this on their own invitation; but after discussing it with Mr. Squirrel, they decided to put it in.

  “You will want to know how much food you’ll need,” he pointed out. “And a lot of the people you have invited are ignorant and unable to hold a pen well. They may have to go to Professor Hoot to have their answers written for them, which will mean they’ll have to pay him. If you won’t put in ‘RSVP’ they’ll never do it; you have no idea how rude some people are.” Mr. Squirrel was becoming so much the man of the world that his wife marveled at it and counted herself luckier than ever.

  Soon acceptances came pouring in—elegant, gilt-edged stationery from Mrs. Skunk-Phoo; a dirty little scrawl from Mrs. Powderpuff; and a lot of identical messages written in the beautiful script of Professor Hoot.

  The three dwarfs worked hard for the remaining weeks of October. It amazed them how much work there is to g
iving a party, and there were moments when they sat together at their table as of old, groaning that they wished they had never started the thing. But then they would remember the bright faces of their forest children and take heart again.

  It was an exceptionally beautiful fall. There were so many toadstools that there was no need to worry about seats, though the dwarfs made some wooden benches for bigger animals. They also made a little wooden stage, for there was to be a performance. Mr. Squirrel had written a play for the forest children, and the fairy ballet was to come and dance. Besides, the dwarfs hoped to perform as conjurers. Mamma Squirrel had made them lovely black magician’s cloaks with glittering gold stars, which suited them to perfection.

  Mr. Squirrel insisted on going as a knight and had made some sort of costume out of silver paper, but it was not very successful. The helmet just looked like a lot of silver paper crushed together. He had stolen a feather from Mrs. Pheasant to stick on it, but that did not really help. Mrs. Squirrel secretly thought it looked silly, though she did not like to tell him so. Ross said it. Ross said, “For goodness’ sake, Pa, don’t wear that. What will Griselda think?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Mr. Squirrel wanted to know, huffily.

  “It doesn’t look like anything, except a Christmas tree.”

  “It’s a perfectly good helmet,” insisted Mr. Squirrel. But privately he tried to give it a better shape. Sometimes it looked like a teapot and sometimes like a saucepan, but never like a helmet.

  “I’ve got to wear something,” he grumbled. At the last moment he grew so discouraged that he said he wasn’t going to the party at all and retired to bed with all his clothes on. Mamma Squirrel told the children to be quiet and got him out again by assuring him that the helmet looked magnificent.

  Luckily All Hallow’s Eve turned out to be fine—sunny, and not too cold. The dwarfs worked hard to get last-minute jobs done. Brother Alban baked delicious cakes and cookies for the buffet supper; Brother Ubald went over the words of the play with the actors; Brother Botolph and his helpers decorated the yard.

  At the appointed time the visitors arrived. The dwarfs received them in their lovely magicians’ costumes. Their garden looked as pretty as could be, with garlands of glowworms obligingly suspended from tree to tree and fireflies flitting in formation, making luminous patterns in the air. (It was rather late in the season for them, and they had to be paid overtime. They all had little fur wraps which they put on between their acts.) There were lighted jack-o’-lanterns, and a great big pumpkin grinning from ear to ear.

  Scarlet and Pinkie had consented to look after the cloakroom, which was a tent under a dogwood tree. They looked very pretty, dressed up as shepherdesses, and enjoyed themselves examining the various coats and hats and costumes. It has to be admitted that they were a little fresh and said to Mrs. Skunk-Phoo, who came wrapped in a mink cloak, which covered the dazzling costume of an Arabian princess, “Toss me your pelt, toots.” Luckily she didn’t hear this, because of the general noise.

  There were some magnificent costumes. Mr. Skunk-Phoo, when divested of coat and hat, stood revealed as an enormous perfume bottle, with loud advertisements on thelabels of the latest scent his company had produced. He made a good foil for the Arabian princess, who was sprinkled heavily with the same perfume and had tiny little sample bottles hanging from wrist and ankles. As a matter of fact, Mr. Skunk-Phoo had wanted his wife to go as the bottle. He wasn’t keen on dressing up. But his wife had refused. She said it was not a costume likely to flatter her figure. Mr. Skunk-Phoo had been so enamored of the idea of getting a little free advertisement that he had overcome his reluctance to don the costume himself. But he secretly felt that his wife had let him down, and was rather grumpy in consequence.

  Professor Hoot arrived dressed as a Spanish don, with a black wig, a velvet hat and drooping white feather. Mr. Soames Turtle had fixed a whole Noah’s ark on his back, filled with snails, ants, and crickets, which kept falling out and having to be waited for to climb on again, thus impeding Mr. Turtle’s already slow and ponderous advance. However, it was worth it, for there was general applause when he finally arrived at the party. The two Miss Doves came as cupids, with sweet little gold-paper bows and arrows. Mrs. Powderpuff had made herself up as Cinderella, but she had sewn her crepe-paper dress so carelessly that she not only lost her shoe but her whole costume before the evening was out. There was a crowd of young forest children in the usual disguises of clowns, gypsies, and Spanish dancers.

  Soon the lantern lights shone on a merry throng who were milling around and helping themselves to the lemonade, which was served by the five youngest squirrels, dressed prettily like flowers. The dwarfs walked around beaming at everyone. A cricket band began to play on a special podium, near the stage, and some young people began to dance. Mr. Squirrel—always the center of any fun—invited a shy young mole to do a foxtrot with him. She blinked behind her glasses and said she could not dance, so he went and did a bunny-hop with Sympathy Powderpuff instead.

  Ross and Griselda were already dancing, and Scarlet and Pinkie got so excited that their husbands thought it best for them to go home. As a result the cloakroom was left to look after itself, and for days afterward the dwarfs had people knocking at the door, asking for missing scarfs, gloves, and hats.

  Archibald had become a fashionable youngster. He’d been to dancing school and wore white gloves. He was waltzing away with his cousin, Annie Skunk, a girl of no importance, but pretty. His mother looked on tolerantly. She already had his bride picked out for him, and meanwhile he could amuse himself as he liked.

  “Doesn’t Mr. Squirrel look ridiculous with that silver paper wig on?” she said to her husband. “What’s he supposed to represent—a judge?”

  “Where, my dear?” asked Mr. Skunk-Phoo, who was not observant. “Oh, there? Oh, is that a wig? I thought it was a turban and that he was supposed to be one of those Eastern fellows.”

  Luckily Mr. Squirrel did not hear these remarks, or it would have spoiled the evening for him. He was trying to find out from his partner what she thought of his costume, but as she had a missing tooth it was hard to understand her answers. This was just as well, as she had been trying to tell him she thought him a “thplendid under-thea thwimmer.”

  “I think all the guests have arrived by now, and the little ones are getting impatient. We’d better put on our play,” Brother Botolph told his brothers. They were rather anxious to have it over with, as they were suffering from stage fright. The orchestra was told to stop playing. One of the forest children blew on his horn, and Brother Ubald climbed on the stage to deliver his opening speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a trembling voice, glancing down at a paper he had in his hand. Goodness, he had it upside down! There was a pause while he turned it around and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen—” He peered hard at the writing, but it was too small. He had not counted on the dim light. “Ladies and gentlemen— Oh, bother it, I can’t read this, I just wanted to tell you you’re all very welcome and we hope you’ll enjoy yourselves; we’ve got up a little performance we hope you’ll like and—I guess that’s about all. I had a lovely speech … but it can’t be helped.” There was a great cheering after this. Everyone felt secretly relieved to have been spared the speech.

  Mr. Squirrel’s play was no great thing, just an occasion for the forest offspring to show off pretty costumes, recite some poetry, and go through a few dancing steps. It was a success, however, for each parent melted as his own child came on and never bothered to look at the others. The best part was, of course, when the youngest came on—Mrs. Powderpuff’s week-old baby, three young mice, and a wee chipmunk. They were adorable, dressed in white ballet costumes and each of them totteringly trying to balance on one leg. There were “ooohs” and “aaahs” from the audience.

  “Aren’t they cute? Look at that wee Andy Chipmunk—he isn’t even listening to the music. Did you see him peering at his mother through his paws? Oh,
and Isolde Powderpuff—the rogue—she isn’t even trying. She is just sitting down, picking her wreath to pieces. Aren’t babies sweet!”

  The other children felt a little hurt, because they had really practiced, and the failure of the babies seemed to get more applause than their own successes, but Brother Botolph consoled them. “Everybody knows you’re better,” he said. “They are praising the little ones out of pity.” That made sense to them.

  The next item was to be the fairy ballet. But the fairy prima ballerina had not arrived yet. Agitated hobgoblins ran to the dwarfs, bearing pink messages from the fairies, who sat huddled in the cloakroom, which was also the dressing room for the performers. They didn’t care to mix with the audience, feeling themselves above mere animals and dwarfs. The pink messages conveyed the news in staccato sentences that until Milady Mirafleur, First Fairy, had arrived, there would be no dancing.

  The dwarfs felt worried. They had more or less counted on the fairies to carry off the brunt of the entertainment. The play had been slight and, though they planned to do some conjuring tricks themselves which they hoped would come off, they felt that there should be more solid entertainment first. And the fairy ballet was famous—no one who has not seen it can imagine the grace and subtlety and splendor of fairies dancing.

  They decided, therefore, to wait for Milady Mirafleur, telling the audience that there would be a short interval before the next act. They waited in vain. Milady Mirafleur was at that moment sailing off on a magic carpet with Queen Titania’s page. She was tired of being a ballerina, and preferred wedded life in a palace. No doubt she was right, but she should not have forgotten her promise to the dwarfs, and she might at least have let the other fairies in the ballet know.

  Meanwhile the guests were getting restive. They felt that the interval was too long. They began to whistle and giggle and make noises. The forest children who had acted in the play were overexcited and began to run around, asking for “tricks or treats,” which embarrassed the other guests. The atmosphere became unpleasant. Mrs. Powderpuff let her ear flop into the face of a rather narrow-minded, elderly mole, who objected in an ill-tempered way. Mrs. Powder-puff defended herself shrilly. Others joined in the argument and made tactless remarks that ruffled feelings further. The poor dwarfs were frantic. What was happening to their party? They went to the cloakroom and pleaded with the fairies to come on, anyway, but the fairies were indignant at the very suggestion; they said they had their professional honor to consider. In fact, they were so annoyed, they put on their wraps and left in a huff, the hobgoblins trotting after them and carrying their parcels.