Then he met an old widow woman whose husband had been killed in a sewer explosion when he was digging sewer ditches. And the old woman was carrying a bundle of picked-up kindling wood in a bag on her back because she did not have money enough to buy coal.
Bevo the Hike told her, “You have troubles. So have I. You are carrying a load on your back people can see. I am carrying a load and nobody sees it.”
“Tell me your troubles,” said the old widow woman. He told her. And she said, “In the next block is an old umbrella handle maker. He has a ladder with a whistle. He climbs on the ladder when he makes long, long umbrella handles. And he has the whistle on the ladder to be whistling.”
Bevo the Hike went to the next block, found the house of the umbrella handle maker, and said to him, “The wind changed, and Bimbo the Snip’s thumb is fastened to his nose and will not come loose till it is hit with the end of a traffic policeman’s club six times, and the traffic policeman cannot leave the corner where he is telling the traffic which way to go unless a monkey takes his place, and the monkey cannot take his place unless he has a ladder with a whistle to stand on and whistle the wagons and cars which way to go.”
Then the umbrella handle maker said, “Tonight I have a special job because I must work on a long, long umbrella handle, and I will need the ladder to climb up and the whistle to be whistling. But if you promise to have the ladder back by tonight, you can take it.”
Bevo the Hike promised. Then he took the ladder with a whistle to the monkey, the monkey took the place of the traffic policeman while the traffic policeman went to the home of Bevo the Hike, where Bimbo the Snip was sitting on the front steps with his thumb fastened to his nose wiggling his fingers at everybody passing by on the street.
The traffic policeman hit Bimbo the Snip’s thumb five times with the club. And the thumb stuck fast. But the sixth time it was hit with the end of the traffic policeman’s thumb club, it came loose.
Then Bevo thanked the policeman, thanked the monkey, and took the ladder with the whistle back to the umbrella handle maker’s house and thanked him.
When Bevo the Hike got home that night, Bimbo the Snip was in bed and all tickled. He said to his father, “I will be careful how I stick my thumb to my nose and wiggle my fingers the next time the wind changes.”
Three Stories About Three Ways the Wind Went Winding
PEOPLE:
Two skyscrapers
The Northwest Wind
The Golden Spike Limited train
A tin brass goat
A tin brass goose
Newsies
Young Leather
Red Slippers
A man to be hanged
Five jackrabbits
The Wooden Indian
The Shaghorn Buffalo
The night policeman
THE TWO SKYSCRAPERS WHO DECIDED TO HAVE A CHILD
TWO SKYSCRAPERS STOOD across the street from each other in the Village of Liver-and-Onions. In the daylight when the streets poured full of people buying and selling, these two skyscrapers talked with each other the same as mountains talk.
In the nighttime when all the people buying and selling were gone home and there were only policemen and taxicab drivers on the streets, in the night when a mist crept up the streets and threw a purple and gray wrapper over everything, in the night when the stars and the sky shook out sheets of purple and gray mist down over the town, then the two skyscrapers leaned toward each other and whispered.
Whether they whispered secrets to each other or whether they whispered simple things that you and I know and everybody knows, that is their secret. One thing is sure: they often were seen leaning toward each other and whispering in the night the same as mountains lean and whisper in the night.
High on the roof of one of the skyscrapers was a tin brass goat looking out across prairies and silver blue lakes shining like blue porcelain breakfast plates, and out across silver snakes of winding rivers in the morning sun. And high on the roof of the other skyscraper was a tin brass goose looking out across prairies and silver blue lakes shining like blue porcelain breakfast plates, and out across silver snakes of winding rivers in the morning sun.
Now the Northwest Wind was a friend of the two skyscrapers. Coming so far, coming five hundred miles in a few hours, coming so fast always while the skyscrapers were standing still, standing always on the same old street corners always, the Northwest Wind was a bringer of news.
“Well, I see the city is here yet,” the Northwest Wind would whistle to the skyscrapers.
And they would answer, “Yes, and are the mountains standing yet way out yonder where you come from, Wind?”
“Yes, the mountains are there yonder, and farther yonder is the sea, and the railroads are still going, still running across the prairie to the mountains, to the sea,” the Northwest Wind would answer.
And now there was a pledge made by the Northwest Wind to the two skyscrapers. Often the Northwest Wind shook the tin brass goat and shook the tin brass goose on top of the skyscrapers.
“Are you going to blow loose the tin brass goat on my roof?” one asked.
“Are you going to blow loose the tin brass goose on my roof?” the other asked.
“Oh, no.” The Northwest Wind laughed, first to one and then to the other. “If I ever blow loose your tin brass goat and if I ever blow loose your tin brass goose, it will be when I am sorry for you because you are up against hard luck and there is somebody’s funeral.”
So time passed on, and the two skyscrapers stood with their feet among the policemen and the taxicabs, the people buying and selling,—the customers with parcels, packages, and bundles—while away high on their roofs stood the goat and the goose looking out on silver blue lakes like blue porcelain breakfast plates and silver snakes of rivers winding in the morning sun.
So time passed on, and the Northwest Wind kept coming, telling the news and making promises.
So time passed on. And the two skyscrapers decided to have a child.
And they decided when their child came, it should be a free child.
“It must be a free child,” they said to each other. “It must not be a child standing still all its life on a street corner. Yes, if we have a child, she must be free to run across the prairie, to the mountains, to the sea. Yes, it must be a free child.”
So time passed on. Their child came. It was a railroad train, the Golden Spike Limited, the fastest long distance train in the Rootabaga Country. It ran across the prairie, to the mountains, to the sea.
They were glad, the two skyscrapers were, glad to have a free child running away from the big city, far away to the mountains, far away to the sea, running as far as the farthest mountains and seacoasts touched by the Northwest Wind.
They were glad their child was useful, the two skyscrapers were, glad their child was carrying a thousand people a thousand miles a day, so when people spoke of the Golden Spike Limited, they spoke of it as a strong, lovely child.
Then time passed on. There came a day when the newsies yelled as though they were crazy. “Yah yah, blah blah, yoh yoh,” was what it sounded like to the two skyscrapers who never bothered much about what the newsies were yelling.
“Yah yah, blah blah, yoh yoh,” was the cry of the newsies that came up again to the tops of the skyscrapers.
At last the yelling of the newsies came so strong the skyscrapers listened and heard the newsies yammering, “All about the great train wreck! All about the Golden Spike disaster! Many lives lost! Many lives lost!”
And the Northwest Wind came howling a slow, sad song. And late that afternoon a crowd of policemen, taxicab drivers, newsies, and customers with bundles, all stood around talking and wondering about two things next to each other on the streetcar track in the middle of the street. One was a tin brass goat. The other was a tin brass goose. And they lay next to each other.
THE DOLLAR WATCH AND THE FIVE JACKRABBITS
LONG AGO, LONG before the waylacks lost the wonderful
stripes of oat straw gold and the spots of timothy hay green in their marvelous curving tail feathers, long before the doo-doo-jangers whistled among the honeysuckle blossoms and the bitter-basters cried their last and dying wrangling cries, long before the sad happenings that came later, it was then, some years earlier than the year Fifty Fifty, that Young Leather and Red Slippers crossed the Rootabaga Country.
To begin with, they were walking across the Rootabaga Country. And they were walking because it made their feet glad to feel the dirt of the earth under their shoes, and they were close to the smells of the earth. They learned the ways of birds and bugs, why birds have wings, why bugs have legs, why the gladdy-whingers have spotted eggs in a basket nest in a booblow tree, and why the chizzywhizzies scrape off little fiddle songs all summer long while the summer nights last.
Early one morning they were walking across the corn belt of the Rootabaga Country singing, “Deep Down Among the Dagger Dancers.” They had just had a breakfast of coffee and hot hankypank cakes covered with cow’s butter. Young Leather said to Red Slippers, “What is the best secret we have come across this summer?”
“That is easy to answer,” Red Slippers said with a long flish of her long black eyelashes. “The best secret we have come across is a rope of gold hanging from every star in the sky, and when we want to go up, we go up.’
Walking on, they came to a town where they met a man with a sorry face. “Why?” they asked him.
And he answered, “My brother is in jail.”
“What for?” they asked him again.
And he answered again, “My brother put on a straw hat in the middle of the winter and went out on the streets laughing; my brother had his hair cut pompompadour and went out on the streets bareheaded in the summertime laughing; and these things were against the law. Worst of all, he sneezed at the wrong time, and he sneezed before the wrong persons; he sneezed when it was not wise to sneeze. So he will be hanged tomorrow morning. The gallows made of lumber and the rope made of hemp—they are waiting for him tomorrow morning. They will tie around his neck the hangman’s necktie and hoist him high.”
The man with a sorry face looked more sorry than ever. It made Young Leather feel reckless, and it made Red Slippers feel reckless. They whispered to each other. Then Young Leather said, “Take this dollar watch. Give it to your brother. Tell him when they are leading him to the gallows, he must take this dollar watch in his hand, wind it up, and push on the stem winder. The rest will be easy.”
So the next morning when they were leading the man to be hanged to the gallows made of lumber and the rope made of hemp, where they were going to hoist him high because he sneezed in the wrong place before the wrong people, he used his fingers winding up the watch and pushing on the stem winder. There was a snapping and a slatching like a gas engine slipping into a big pair of dragonfly wings. The dollar watch changed into a dragonfly ship. The man who was going to be hanged jumped into the dragonfly ship and flew whonging away before anybody could stop him.
Young Leather and Red Slippers were walking out of the town laughing and singing again, “Deep Down Among the Dagger Dancers.” The man with a sorry face, not so sorry now any more, came running after them. Behind the man and running after him were five long-legged spider jackrabbits.
“These are for you,” was his exclamation. And they all sat down on the stump of a booblow tree. He opened his sorry face and told the secrets of the five long-legged spider jackrabbits to Young Leather and Red Slippers. They waved good-by and went on up the road leading the five new jackrabbits.
In the next town they came to was a skyscraper higher than all the other skyscrapers. A rich man dying wanted to be remembered and left in his last will and testament a command they should build a building so high it would scrape the thunderclouds and stand higher than all other skyscrapers, with his name carved in stone letters on the top of it, and an electric sign at night with his name on it, and a clock on the tower with his name on it.
“I am hungry to be remembered and have my name spoken by many people after I am dead,” the rich man told his friends. “I command you, therefore, to throw the building high in the air because the higher it goes, the longer I will be remembered and the longer the years men will mention my name after I am dead.”
So there it was. Young Leather and Red Slippers laughed when they first saw the skyscraper, when they were far off along a country road singing their old song, “Deep Down Among the Dagger Dancers.”
“We got a show, and we give a performance, and we want the whole town to see it,” was what Young Leather and Red Slippers said to the mayor of the town when they called on him at the city hall. “We want a license and a permit to give this free show in the public square.”
“What do you do?” asked the mayor.
“We jump five jackrabbits, five long-legged spider jackrabbits over the highest skyscraper you got in your city,” they answered him.
“If it’s free and you don’t sell anything nor take any money away from us while it is daylight and you are giving your performance, then here is your license permit,” said the mayor, speaking in the manner of a politician who has studied politics.
Thousands of people came to see the show on the public square. They wished to know how it would look to see five long-legged spider jackrabbits jump over the highest skyscraper in the city.
Four of the jackrabbits had stripes. The fifth had stripes—and spots. Before they started the show, Young Leather and Red Slippers held the jackrabbits one by one in their arms and petted them, rubbed the feet and rubbed the long ears, and ran their fingers along the long legs of the jumpers.
“Zingo,” they yelled to the first jackrabbit. He got all ready. “And now zingo!” they yelled again. And the jackrabbit took a run, lifted off his feet, and went on and on and up and up till he went over the roof of the skyscraper and then went down and down till he lit on his feet and came running on his long legs back to the public square where he started from, back where Young Leather and Red Slippers petted him and rubbed his long ears and said, “That’s the boy.”
Then three jackrabbits made the jump over the skyscraper. “Zingo,” they heard and got ready. “And now zingo,” they heard, and all three together in a row, their long ears touching each other, they lifted off their feet and went on and on and up and up till they cleared the roof of the skyscraper. Then they came down and down till they lit on their feet and came running to the hands of Young Leather and Red Slippers to have their long legs and their long ears rubbed and petted.
Then came the turn of the fifth jackrabbit, the beautiful one with stripes and spots. “Ah, we’re sorry to see you go, ah-h, we’re sorry,” they said, rubbing his long ears and feeling of his long legs.
Then Young Leather and Red Slippers kissed him on the nose, kissed the last and fifth of the five long-legged spider jackrabbits.
“Good-by, old bunny, good-by. You’re the dandiest bunny there ever was,” they whispered in his long ears. And he, because he knew what they were saying and why they were saying it, he wiggled his long ears and looked long and steady at them from his deep eyes.
“Zango,” they yelled. He got ready. “And now zango!” they yelled again. And the fifth jackrabbit with his stripes and spots lifted off his feet and went on and on and on and up and up and when he came to the roof of the skyscraper he kept on going on and on and up and up till after a while he was gone all the way out of sight.
They waited and watched, they watched and waited. He never came back. He never was heard of again. He was gone. With the stripes on his back and the spots on his hair, he was gone. And Young Leather and Red Slippers said they were glad they had kissed him on the nose before he went away on a long trip far off, so far off he never came back.
THE WOODEN INDIAN AND THE SHAGHORN BUFFALO
ONE NIGHT A milk-white moon was shining down on Main Street. The sidewalks and the stones, the walls and the windows, all stood out milk white. And there was a thin blue mist drifted
and shifted like a woman’s veil up and down Main Street, up to the moon and back again. Yes, all Main Street was a mist blue and a milk white, mixed up and soft all over and all through.
It was past midnight. The Wooden Indian in front of the cigar store stepped down off his stand. The Shaghorn Buffalo in front of the haberdasher shop lifted his head and shook his whiskers, raised his hoofs out of his hoof tracks.
Then—this is what happened. They moved straight toward each other. In the middle of Main Street they met. The Wooden Indian jumped straddle of the Shaghorn Buffalo. And the Shaghorn Buffalo put his head down and ran like a prairie wind straight west on Main Street.
At the high hill over the big bend of the Clear Green River they stopped. They stood looking. Drifting and shifting like a woman’s blue veil, the blue mist filled the valley, and the milk-white moon filled the valley. And the mist and the moon touched with a lingering, wistful kiss the clear green water of the Clear Green River.
So they stood looking, the Wooden Indian with his copper face and wooden feathers and the Shaghorn Buffalo with his big head and heavy shoulders slumping down close to the ground.
And after they had looked a long while and each of them got an eyeful of the high hill, the big bend, and the moon mist on the river all blue and white and soft, after they had looked a long while, they turned around, and the Shaghorn Buffalo put his head down and ran like a prairie wind down Main Street till he was exactly in front of the cigar store and the haberdasher shop. Then whisk! both of them were right back like they were before, standing still, taking whatever comes.
The Sandburg Treasury Page 6