The Sandburg Treasury

by Carl Sandburg

  This is the story as it came from the night policeman of the Village of Cream Puffs. He told the people the next day, “I was sitting on the steps of the cigar store last night watching for burglars. And when I saw the Wooden Indian step down and the Shaghorn Buffalo step out, and the two of them go down Main Street like the wind, I says to myself, ‘Marvelish, ’tis marvelish, ’tis marvelish.’”

  Four Stories About Dear, Dear Eyes

  PEOPLE:

  The White Horse Girl

  The Blue Wind Boy

  The Gray Man on Horseback

  Six girls with balloons

  Henry Hagglyhoagly

  Susan Slackentwist

  Two wool yarn mittens

  Peter Potato Blossom Wishes

  Her father

  Many shoes

  Slippers

  A Dancing Slipper Moon

  THE WHITE HORSE GIRL AND THE BLUE WIND BOY

  WHEN THE DISHES are washed at nighttime and the cool of the evening has come in summer or the lamps and fires are lit for the night in winter, then the fathers and mothers in the Rootabaga Country sometimes tell the young people the story of the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy.

  The White Horse Girl grew up far in the west of the Rootabaga Country. All the years she grew up as a girl she liked to ride horses. Best of all things for her was to be straddle of a white horse loping with a loose bridle among the hills and along the rivers of the west Rootabaga Country.

  She rode one horse white as snow, another horse white as new-washed sheep wool, and another white as silver. And she could not tell because she did not know which of these three white horses she liked best.

  “Snow is beautiful enough for me any time,” she said, “new-washed sheep wool or silver out of a ribbon of the new moon, any or either is white enough for me. I like the white manes, the white flanks, the white noses, the white feet of all my ponies. I like the forelocks hanging down between the white ears of all three—my ponies.”

  And living neighbor to the White Horse Girl in the same prairie country, with the same black crows flying over their places, was the Blue Wind Boy. All the years he grew up as a boy he liked to walk with his feet in the dirt and the grass listening to the winds. Best of all things for him was to put on strong shoes and go hiking among the hills and along the rivers of the west Rootabaga Country, listening to the winds.

  There was a blue wind of daytime, starting sometimes six o’clock on a summer morning or eight o’clock on a winter morning. And there was a night wind with blue of summer stars in summer and blue of winter stars in winter. And there was yet another, a blue wind of the times between night and day, a blue dawn and evening wind. All three of these winds he liked so well he could not say which he liked best.

  “The early morning wind is strong as the prairie, and whatever I tell it I know it believes and remembers,” he said, “and the night wind with the big dark curves of the night sky in it, the night wind gets inside of me and understands all my secrets. And the blue wind of the times between, in the dusk when it is neither night nor day, this is the wind that asks me questions and tells me to wait and it will bring me whatever I want.”

  Of course, it happened as it had to happen, the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy met, she straddling one of her white horses, and he wearing his strong hiking shoes in the dirt and the grass. It had to happen they should meet among the hills and along the rivers of the west Rootabaga Country where they lived neighbors.

  And of course, she told him all about the snow-white horse and the horse white as new-washed sheep wool and the horse white as a silver ribbon of the new moon. And he told her all about the blue winds he liked listening to, the early morning wind, the night sky wind, and the wind of the dusk between, the wind that asked him questions and told him to wait.

  One day the two of them were gone. On the same day of the week the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy went away. And their fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts wondered about them and talked about them because they didn’t tell anybody beforehand they were going. Nobody at all knew beforehand or afterward why they were going away, the real honest why of it.

  They left a short letter. It read:

  To All Our Sweethearts, Old Folks and Young Folks:

  We have started to go where the white horses come from and where the blue winds begin. Keep a corner in your hearts for us while we are gone.

  The White Horse Girl.

  The Blue Wind Boy.

  That was all they had to guess by in the west Rootabaga Country, to guess and guess where two darlings had gone.

  Many years passed. One day there came riding across the Rootabaga Country a Gray Man on Horseback. He looked like he had come a long ways. So they asked him the question they always asked of any rider who looked like he had come a long ways, “Did you ever see the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “I saw them.

  “It was a long, long ways from here I saw them,” he went on. “It would take years and years to ride to where they are. They were sitting together and talking to each other, sometimes singing, in a place where the land runs high and tough rocks reach up. And they were looking out across water, blue water as far as the eye could see. And away far off the blue waters met the blue sky.

  “‘Look!’ said the Boy. ‘That’s where the blue winds begin.’

  “And far out on the blue waters, just a little this side of where the blue winds begin, there were white manes, white flanks, white noses, white galloping feet.

  “‘Look!’ said the Girl. ‘That’s where the white horses come from.’

  “And then nearer to the land came thousands in an hour, millions in a day, white horses, some white as snow, some like new-washed sheep wool, some white as silver ribbons of the new moon.

  “I asked them, ‘Whose place is this?’ They answered, ‘It belongs to us; this is what we started for; this is where the white horses come from; this is where the blue winds begin.’”

  And that was all the Gray Man on Horseback would tell the people of the west Rootabaga Country. That was all he knew, he said, and if there was any more, he would tell it.

  And the fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts of the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy wondered and talked often about whether the Gray Man on Horseback made up the story out of his head or whether it happened just like he told it.

  Anyhow this is the story they tell sometimes to the young people of the west Rootabaga Country when the dishes are washed at night and the cool of the evening has come in summer or the lamps and fires are lit for the night in winter.

  WHAT SIX GIRLS WITH BALLOONS TOLD THE GRAY MAN ON HORSEBACK

  ONCE THERE CAME riding across the Rootabaga Country a Gray Man on Horseback. He looked as if he had come a long ways. He looked like a brother to the same Gray Man on Horseback who said he had seen the White Horse Girl and the Blue Wind Boy.

  He stopped in the Village of Cream Puffs. His gray face was sad, and his eyes were gray deep and sad. He spoke short and seemed strong. Sometimes his eyes looked as if they were going to flash, but instead of fire they filled with shadows.

  Yet—he did laugh once. It did happen once he lifted his head and face to the sky and let loose a long ripple of laughs.

  On Main Street near the Roundhouse of the Big Spool, where they wind up the string that pulls the light little town back when the wind blows it away, there he was riding slow on his gray horse when he met six girls with six fine braids of yellow hair and six balloons apiece. That is, each and every one of the six girls had six fine long braids of yellow hair, and each braid of hair had a balloon tied on the end. A little blue wind was blowing, and the many balloons tied to the braids of the six girls swung up and down and slow and fast whenever the blue wind went up and down and slow and fast.

  For the first time since he had been in the village, the eyes of the Gray Man filled with lights, and his
face began to look hopeful. He stopped his horse when he came even with the six girls and the balloons floating from the braids of yellow hair.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “Who—hoo-hoo? Who—who—who?” the six girls cheeped out.

  “All six of you and your balloons, where you going?”

  “Oh, hoo-hoo-hoo, back where we came from,” and they all turned their heads back and forth and sideways, which of course turned all the balloons back and forth and sideways because the balloons were fastened to the fine braids of hair which were fastened to their heads.

  “And where do you go when you get back where you came from?” he asked just to be asking.

  “Oh, hoo-hoo-hoo, then we start out and go straight ahead and see what we can see,” they all answered just to be answering, and they dipped their heads and swung them up, which of course dipped all the balloons and swung them up.

  So they talked, he asking just to be asking and the six balloon girls answering just to be answering.

  At last his sad mouth broke into a smile, and his eyes were lit like a morning sun coming up over harvest fields. And he said to them, “Tell me why are balloons—that is what I want you to tell me—why are balloons?”

  The first little girl put her thumb under her chin, looked up at her six balloons floating in the little blue wind over her head, and said:

  “Balloons are wishes. The wind made them. The west wind makes the red balloons. The south wind makes the blue. The yellow and green balloons come from the east wind and the north wind.”

  The second little girl put her first finger next to her nose, looked up at her six balloons dipping up and down like hill flowers in a small wind, and said:

  “A balloon used to be a flower. It got tired. Then it changed itself to a balloon. I listened one time to a yellow balloon. It was talking to itself like people talk. It said, ‘I used to be a yellow pumpkin flower stuck down close to the ground; now I am a yellow balloon high up in the air where nobody can walk on me and I can see everything.’”

  The third little girl held both of her ears like she was afraid they would wiggle, while she slid with a skip, turned quick, and looking up at her balloons, spoke these words:

  “A balloon is foam. It comes the same as soap bubbles come. A long time ago it used to be sliding along on water, river water, ocean water, waterfall water, falling and falling over a rocky waterfall, any water you want. The wind saw the bubble and picked it up and carried it away, telling it, ‘Now you’re a balloon—come along and see the world.’”

  The fourth little girl jumped straight into the air so all six of her balloons made a jump like they were going to get loose and go to the sky—and when the little girl came down from her jump and was standing on her two feet with her head turned looking up at the six balloons, she spoke the shortest answer of all, saying:

  “Balloons are to make us look up. They help our necks.”

  The fifth little girl stood first on one foot, then another, bent her head down to her knees and looked at her toes, then swinging straight up and looking at the flying spotted yellow and red and green balloons, she said:

  “Balloons come from orchards. Look for trees where half is oranges and half is orange balloons. Look for apple trees where half is red pippins and half is red pippin balloons. Look for watermelons too. A long green balloon with white and yellow belly stripes is a ghost. It came from a watermelon said good-by.”

  The sixth girl, the last one, kicked the heel of her left foot with the toe of her right foot, put her thumbs under her ears and wiggled all her fingers, then stopped all her kicking and wiggling, and stood looking up at her balloons all quiet because the wind had gone down—and she murmured like she was thinking to herself:

  “Balloons come from fire chasers. Every balloon has a fire chaser chasing it. All the fire chasers are made terrible quick, and when they come, they burn quick, so the balloon is made light so it can run away terrible quick. Balloons slip away from fire. If they don’t, they can’t be balloons. Running away from fire keeps them light.”

  All the time he listened to the six girls the face of the Gray Man kept getting more hopeful. His eyes lit up. Twice he smiled. And after he said good-by and rode up the street, he lifted his head and face to the sky and let loose a long ripple of laughs.

  He kept looking back when he left the village, and the last thing he saw was the six girls each with six balloons fastened to the six braids of yellow hair hanging down their backs.

  The sixth little girl kicked the heel of her left foot with the toe of her right foot and said, “He is a nice man. I think he must be our uncle. If he comes again, we shall all ask him to tell us where he thinks balloons come from.”

  And the other five girls all answered, “Yes,” or “Yes, yes,” or, “Yes, yes, yes,” real fast like a balloon with a fire chaser after it.

  HOW HENRY HAGGLYHOAGLY PLAYED THE GUITAR WITH HIS MITTENS ON

  SOMETIMES IN JANUARY the sky comes down close if we walk on a country road and turn our faces up to look at the sky.

  Sometimes on that kind of January night the stars look like numbers, look like the arithmetic writing of a girl going to school and just beginning arithmetic.

  It was this kind of night Henry Hagglyhoagly was walking down a country road on his way to the home of Susan Slackentwist, the daughter of the rutabaga king near the Village of Liver-and-Onions. When Henry Hagglyhoagly turned his face up to look at the sky, it seemed to him as though the sky came down close to his nose, and there was a writing in stars as though some girl had been doing arithmetic examples, writing number 4 and number 7 and 4 and 7 over and over again across the sky.

  “Why is it so bitter cold weather?” Henry Hagglyhoagly asked himself. “If I say many bitter bitters, it is not so bitter as the cold wind and the cold weather.”

  “You are good, mittens, keeping my fingers warm,” he said every once in a while to the wool yarn mittens on his hands.

  The wind came tearing along and put its chilly, icy, clammy clamps on the nose of Henry Hagglyhoagly, fastening the clamps like a nipping, gripping clothespin on his nose. He put his wool yarn mittens up on his nose and rubbed till the wind took off the chilly, icy, clammy clamps. His nose was warm again; he said, “Thank you, mittens, for keeping my nose warm.”

  He spoke to his wool yarn mittens as though they were two kittens or pups, or two little cub bears, or two little Idaho ponies. “You’re my chums keeping me company,” he said to the mittens.

  “Do you know what we got here under our left elbow?” he said to the mittens. “I shall mention to you what is here under my left elbow.

  “It ain’t a mandolin, it ain’t a mouth organ nor an accordion nor a concertina nor a fiddle. It is a guitar, a Spanish Spinnish Splishy guitar made special.

  “Yes, mittens, they said a strong young man like me ought to have a piano because a piano is handy to play for everybody in the house and a piano is handy to put a hat and overcoat on or books or flowers.

  “I snizzled at ’em, mittens. I told ’em I seen a Spanish Spinnish Splishy guitar made special in a hardware store window for eight dollars and a half.

  “And so, mittens—are you listening, mittens?—after cornhusking was all husked and the oats thrashing all thrashed and the rutabaga digging all dug, I took eight dollars and a half in my inside vest pocket and I went to the hardware store.

  “I put my thumbs in my vest pocket, and I wiggled my fingers like a man when he is proud of what he is going to have if he gets it. And I said to the head clerk in the hardware store, ‘Sir, the article I desire to purchase this evening as one of your high-class customers, the article I desire to have after I buy it for myself, is the article there in the window, sir, the Spanish Spinnish Splishy guitar.’

  “And, mittens, if you are listening, I am taking this Spanish Spinnish Splishy guitar to go to the home of Susan Slackentwist, the daughter of the rutabaga king near the Village of Liver-and-Onions, to sing a serenade song.
”

  The cold wind of the bitter-cold weather blew and blew, trying to blow the guitar out from under the left elbow of Henry Hagglyhoagly. And the worse the wind blew, the tighter he held his elbow holding the guitar where he wanted it.

  He walked on and on with his long legs stepping long steps till at last he stopped, held his nose in the air, and sniffed.

  “Do I sniff something or do I not?” he asked, lifting his wool yarn mittens to his nose and rubbing his nose till it was warm. Again he sniffed.

  “Ah hah, yeah, yeah, this is the big rutabaga field near the home of the rutabaga king and the home of his daughter, Susan Slackentwist.”

  At last he came to the house, stood under the window, and slung the guitar around in front of him to play the music to go with the song.

  “And now,” he asked his mittens, “shall I take you off or keep you on? If I take you off, the cold wind of the bitter cold weather will freeze my hands so stiff and bitter cold, my fingers will be too stiff to play the guitar. I will play with mittens on.”

  Which he did. He stood under the window of Susan Slackentwist and played the guitar with his mittens on, the warm wool yarn mittens he called his chums. It was the first time any strong young man going to see his sweetheart ever played the guitar with his mittens on when it was a bitter night with a cold wind and cold weather.

  Susan Slackentwist opened her window and threw him a snowbird feather to keep for a keepsake to remember her by. And for years afterward many a sweetheart in the Rootabaga Country told her lover, “If you wish to marry me, let me hear you under my window on a winter night playing the guitar with wool yarn mittens on.”