“Well, we’ll have to do our conjuring act and hope for the best,” said Brother Botolph. “We can’t let the guests wait any longer; they’re getting noisier and noisier. Oh, why did we let ourselves in for this!” And he mopped his brow. He felt nervous. The audience was less friendly than before.
There was only slight applause when Brother Botolph came onto the stage for the first trick. There were murmurs of, “This had better be good, after all that waiting,” which disconcerted him. He blushed timidly and spread out a handkerchief. “Watch,” he said in a croaky voice. “Now you see it—and now you don’t.” He spread out miraculously empty hands, but unfortunately the handkerchief was hanging out of one of his sleeves. There was loud laughter, especially from the young folk, who pointed out the mistake with glee. Brother Botolph hastily stuffed the handkerchief up his sleeve, but it was too late.
He coughed. “Trick Number Two,” he announced hurriedly.
Now Brother Alban appeared with a pack of cards. He shuffled it and made Brother Botolph select one. Brother Botolph picked one out and held it up so that the audience could see it—but not Brother Alban. It was the queen of hearts.
“Put it back,” said Brother Alban, and he shuffled the pack again. “Here it is!” he cried, holding up a card. There was an explosion of laughter. It was the three of spades. Brother Alban had tears in his eyes. What had gone wrong? The trick had succeeded perfectly the day before!
Several young hares and badgers at the back of the audience got up and left. “Kid stuff,” they muttered. “Why waste our time?”
Mr. Skunk-Phoo looked impatiently at his gold watch.
“We have another trick,” Brother Botolph announced desperately. This time Brother Ubald appeared on the stage, carrying a tall hat. They had rented the hat from a witch who sold conjuring tricks. It had a double compartment in the top. Brother Ubald turned it upside down.
“Abracadabra,” he said. “We shall now witness a marvelous piece of magic. I shall break an egg in this tall hat and watch what happens!” There was an expectant sigh from the audience as the dwarfs broke an egg into the glossy black hat. Brother Botolph plunged in his hand to pull out the artificial paper chicken hidden in its false top. Instead his hand encountered only sticky egg stuff, and, looking closely, he saw the name Vincent Skunk-Phoo sewn on the hatband. Brother Ubald had brought the wrong hat!
The dwarfs exchanged anguished looks. What to do now? Already the audience was beginning to hiss. Oh, what to do? They were lost! Mr. Skunk-Phoo would be very angry; the party was spoiled. But suddenly they heard, “Cack, cack, cackle!” and a real little live hen crawled out of the hat, spread its wings, and flew away.
The audience began to clap furiously, but they were not more surprised than the dwarfs. What had happened? Had they suddenly become true magicians? They looked into the hat, and saw a beautiful bouquet of flowers in it. Brother Alban lifted it out with trembling hands.
“To Mrs. Skunk-Phoo,” it said on a label, in exquisitely fine handwriting. He tossed it to her, amid “oohs” and “aahs” from the audience. Next there was a silver watch in the hat, marked “For Archibald.” The dwarfs told Archibald to come and fetch it, which he did, amid deafening applause.
The dwarfs were more and more amazed. They pulled one thing after another out of Mr. Skunk-Phoo’s hat. There was a silk shawl for Mamma Squirrel, a small vacuum cleaner for Mrs. Powderpuff, a fountain pen for Professor Hoot, balloons for the children—in fact, no one was forgotten—and at last, most splendid of all, there was a plumed silver helmet for Mr. Squirrel.
That was the final gift. The hat was empty and immaculate. Not a trace of egg remained. Brother Botolph handed it politely to Mr. Skunk-Phoo, apologizing for having borrowed it. There were roars and cheers and clappings. The whole atmosphere had changed. People whispered how amazingly clever the dwarfs were, and how generous—what a nice idea to give everyone a present, and in such an original way too—they couldn’t imagine how it was done!
Indeed, neither could the dwarfs. They still felt dazed as they announced that supper would be served.
“Do you know,” whispered Brother Ubald to Brother Botolph, while the guests were trooping to the long tables on which Brother Alban, helped by Mamma Squirrel, was hurriedly placing food, “Do you know, I think I recognize the handwriting on the labels. It’s much better than it used to be, but Felix always did have difficulty making a proper ‘r.’”
“You mean—”
“It’s Felix, I’m certain. He is somewhere near and he helped us out when he saw that the party was going to be a failure.”
“But—it was magic.”
“We don’t know what happened to Felix. He may be able to do magic now,” said Brother Ubald. “I feel, somehow, that he is very close.”
“Don’t tell Brother Alban,” whispered Brother Botolph. “He’d get too excited.”
Brother Alban at that moment was too busy to be told anything. He was carrying big plates of doughnuts, enormous cakes, plates with sandwiches, nuts, and fruit, and serving them to the guests, who were eating away with passionate pleasure. They had got very hungry during the performance.
Each guest had his own way of eating. Mr. and Mrs. Skunk-Phoo ate with dignity, holding little plates under their chins and using forks even for cupcakes. The squirrel children ran to the table, chose something, and ran back to hide while they were eating it. Archibald sat down and steadily devoured everything within reach. Mrs. Powderpuff talked and ate at the same time, which caused her to choke frequently.
Mr. Squirrel, resplendent in his new helmet, which suited him to perfection, now raised his glass and stood up. “I propose a vote of thanks to our hosts!” he said. “Seldom have we attended a more gay and generous party. The dwarfs have outdone themselves. Here’s to them!”
“Hurray, hurray!” cried the guests. Someone began to sing, “For they are jolly good fellows.” There was a tumult of noise, during which the good dwarfs wept quietly, not only because they were touched by the kindness of their guests, but also because they felt that the party was a year too late. If only they’d had it last year, Felix might still be with them now. And how he’d have enjoyed it!
And then, gradually, the noise died down, and the moon, till now hardly visible in the sky, seemed to grow brighter and stronger and shed a silver light over the festive table. The guests stopped eating and looked up in wonder. Stronger and stronger waxed the silver light, until the leaves above their heads were bathed in it and seemed to sprout tinsel halos. The dark sky in between became luminous and quivered.
Was this another trick of the dwarfs? But they seemed as astonished as the rest. Now a bright beam shot through the trees from an unknown, hidden source of light. It was a dazzling beam of many colors, prettier than any fireworks. There were sighs of ecstasy from the guests. They all held their breath, and looked. The beam grew broader and thinner and seemed to fan out as it reached the ground. And suddenly, out of it, emerged a splendid knight on a winged milk-white horse that stamped its gold hoofs and champed a little gold bit. The knight was young and slender, clad in silver armor, with a shiny helmet on his fair waving curls. It was only when he smiled that they were able to recognize him.
“Felix!” they cried. “Felix! Felix!”
“Felix,” sobbed the dwarfs, hurriedly rising from the table. The silver light slowly ebbed, and Felix became more and more recognizable as the lantern light took over, casting shadows and revealing his solidity.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said simply, dismounting from his horse and throwing the reins over a branch. The forest children, who were more interested in the horse than in Felix, fed it sugar lumps and it soon could be heard crunching them contentedly.
The older guests were in a sort of stupor, watching the reunion of Felix and his foster parents with awe. Mrs. Powderpuff was so overcome that Ross had to throw a glass of lemonade over her to revive her. Such was the splendor of Felix that the dwarfs bowed before him, until he himself
embraced them, telling them not to be foolish.
“But, Felix—what happened to you?” stammered Brother Botolph, who was the first to find himself able to speak.
“Give me some of those delicious pies, and a glass of lemonade, and I’ll tell you,” said Felix.
Immediately there was a bustle of activity as Mamma Squirrel, her children, the dwarfs, and many other guests all vied with one another to offer him a chair, a plate, food, and drink and a napkin. After he was happily seated and duly refreshed (quite unconscious of the spectacle he provided), he began to talk, and even the crickets stopped chirping to listen to him.
He began by telling of his first encounter with the king and of the gift of the gold key. The dwarfs had not heard this before.
“I kept thinking about it,” Felix continued. “I wanted very much to be one of the king’s knights, but I was also afraid of the dragon. Then, on Halloween night last year, I was alone in my room, thinking about that dragon. I could almost smell him. And suddenly I wanted to crush him more than I wanted anything in the world. I wanted to be beside the king, to fight with him. I longed and longed for it, and then a queer light filled my room. It shone like a beam, and in the middle of the beam was a tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel was the door of the king’s palace. All I had to do was get up and go there and unlock the door. The king was waiting for me. I—I can’t tell about that—”
Felix faltered and blushed. His eyes were wet. No one spoke. After a while Felix continued. “The king was in trouble. You do not know, here in the forest, the troubles of your king. That dragon wants to grab this whole forest for his very own. If he got it he would take away its light, and it would be night and winter forever, and there’d be no friendship left. The king has to fight him all the time. Several times he thought he had killed him, but he appeared again at another side of the forest. The king was running out of knights, and he asked me if I would be one, and I said ‘Yes, oh yes.’”
Felix stopped for a moment, casting down his eyes and crumbling a bun. Then he took a deep breath and went on. “I went to a school where I learned to fight dragons. I also learned a little magic.” (Here he winked at the dwarfs.) “Now I have been knighted, I have my gold spurs, and I am called Sir Felix. I am free to go where I like. I shall visit you all often; I won’t forget you. Nor will the king, of course. He sends you all his greetings, and I have something special for my papas.”
Felix got up and went to his horse, who was having a wonderful time being petted, and out of his saddlebag he fetched a scroll. Unrolling it, he read out what was written on it. It was a formal declaration, conferring the order of the Knights of Oberon on the three dwarfs, for their labors in bringing up Sir Felix. It was signed by the king himself. While the dwarfs were speechlessly fingering the document in turns, their eyes filled with tears, Felix hung a scarlet ribbon with a gold medal around the neck of each of them.
Now the silence of attention that had reigned while Felix spoke was shattered by an explosion of joy and congratulations from the animals. The dwarfs did not know what to say. They were overwhelmed. Mr. Skunk-Phoo said it instead. He got up, tapped his glass, settled his monocle more firmly in his eye, and, forgetting his ridiculous costume, launched into a formal speech of thanks. Clearing his throat, he began, “Sir Felix, ladies and gentlemen of the forest. Words fail me on this momentous occasion. Little did we think that the orphan who lived among us would one day become the right hand of King Oberon. But those of us who knew him well in his childhood are not really surprised.” He glanced benignly at Sir Felix. “I for one, am not.”
He waited for the applause that followed this statement, and continued. “The ways of destiny are inscrutable. Who can say whether other circumstances might not have brought any one of us to the notice of King Oberon? Therefore we forest people, rejoicing at the honor conferred on the dwarfs, must regret the turn of fate”—here a note of bitterness crept into his voice—“which brought Felix to the home of the dwarfs rather than to any one of ours. This honor which is conferred on the dwarfs tonight, is, in a sense, shared by all the forest people, who were by fortune’s whim deprived of the privilege of opening their humble abodes to so illustrious a guest. Nevertheless we, as friends of the dwarfs, do not begrudge them their well-deserved honor, and we would ask Sir Felix to convey to His Majesty the warm sentiments of affection and loyalty with which this reward fills us. At the same time we hope he will not fail to inform King Oberon of the attachment, to him, of each and every one in this forest. I therefore venture to hope that this distinction may not be the last one to be conferred on one of his forest people.”
Amidst deafening applause Mr. Skunk-Phoo sat down.
“‘Turn of fate,’ ‘fortune’s whim,’ my eye!” cried Mr. Squirrel indignantly, jumping up so suddenly that his much prized new helmet slid over one ear. “I never heard such bunk in all my life. I may not be an orator, as Mr. Skunk-Phoo is, but I know the truth when I see it. Does Mr. Skunk-Phoo ask us to believe that he was anxious to adopt orphans? We all know he has only one child; we know he has plenty of goods; we know he has a large house; and we know that there are hundreds of orphans in this forest. As a not-too-perfect father of a large family I can appreciate fully what it must have cost the dwarfs—three bachelors unversed in child care—to accept the charge of a newborn baby. Let’s be honest and acknowledge that the forest deserves no credit at all. It was the dwarfs who had the troubles and the sorrows and who should now have the honor. May I add, Sir Felix,” the squirrel continued, humbly turning toward the knight, “that I should very much like to offer my services to the king—in whatever capacity—” Here emotion overcame him, and he sat down in confusion.
There was some applause, though Mrs. Skunk-Phoo was heard to hiss “Upstart,” and to make signs to her husband that she wanted to leave. Her husband, however, had just discovered that his costume was coming apart and was too busy trying to fix it to pay attention to his wife.
Brother Botolph and Brother Alban had been nudging Brother Ubald to get up and speak. Brother Ubald was slow to respond, but when an awkward silence seemed to settle over the table, he shyly rose.
“Thank you all very much,” he said in a quivering voice. “Thank you. We are not thinking of the honor at all—though we are grateful, of course. All we feel is that our boy is back, that he is alive and has grown into a splendid knight. That is what matters. Thank you.” And he sat down again.
This time the applause was so loud and long that it stopped only when Sir Felix arose in his turn. “I shall have to say good-by now,” he said. “I hope to be back soon and often, but now I must return to the king. I shall tell him of your loyalty.” Turning to Mr. Squirrel, he added with a smile, “I know that you would like to fight by my side. But you have other duties at present. However, hold yourself ready; the king may want you some time. Loyal hearts are what he needs most. Now, my dear friends, I must go. Thank you for all your kindness. Till we meet again.”
Felix waved his hand at the guests, embraced the dwarfs, and mounted his horse. The horse spread its broad white wings, moving them swiftly until they seemed to make a halo of silver light around horse and rider. This halo grew brighter and denser, until it looked like a soap bubble, and lightly floated off into the sky, where it could be seen no more.
The dwarfs had stared after it, and now gazed at their guests in a bewildered way. They fiddled with their medals.
“The poor creatures are overcome—let’s leave them in peace,” murmured Mamma Squirrel, coaxing the guests toward the cloakroom. Most of them departed willingly; they were growing sleepy and there was so much to think over. But Mrs. Powderpuff kept walking about the lawn, searching for various missing parts of her costume, while Mrs. Skunk-Phoo insisted on taking formal leave of the dwarfs. She first tried to find Archibald, to make him do the same, but Archibald had gone off to bring Annie home. Mr. Skunk-Phoo had also vanished. (He was trying to find his topcoat among a jumble of clothes in the cloakroom, and, rather
than go home as a perfume bottle, he was forced to put on someone else’s topcoat in the end.)
So it was only Mrs. Skunk-Phoo who finally went up to the dwarfs, shook hands with them, and thanked them for the party. “We’ve had a wonderful time,” she told them. “You went to so much trouble. If I can ever do anything for you, just let me know. We’d very much like you to come to dinner one night; perhaps you can persuade Sir Felix to come too. That will give you a change of company. You have been too good-natured, letting those common squirrels move into your tree. I’m sure they must be a trial to you—such a rowdy family …”
The dwarfs murmured something. They felt exhausted and were grateful that most of the guests tactfully left without formalities. They knew that their party had been a success, thanks to Felix, and were anxious to sit down and rest and talk things over.
“Go on in,” Mamma Squirrel told them, when she saw them waiting politely while Mrs. Powderpuff collected her belongings. “I’ll attend to her. You must be tired out.”
Gratefully the dwarfs withdrew into their little house. They were carrying a lantern, which they put on the table. Brother Alban looked pale. Brother Botolph made him sit in the easiest chair, with his feet up.
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