And when Henry Hagglyhoagly walked home on his long legs, stepping long steps, he said to his mittens, “This Spanish Spinnish Splishy guitar made special will bring us luck.” And when he turned his face up, the sky came down close, and he could see stars fixed like numbers and the arithmetic writing of a girl going to school learning to write number 4 and number 7 and 4 and 7 over and over.
NEVER KICK A SLIPPER AT THE MOON
WHEN A GIRL is growing up in the Rootabaga Country, she learns some things to do, some things not to do.
“Never kick a slipper at the moon if it is the time for the Dancing Slipper Moon when the slim early moon looks like the toe and the heel of a dancer’s foot,” was the advice Mr. Wishes, the father of Peter Potato Blossom Wishes, gave to his daughter.
“Why?” she asked him.
“Because your slipper will go straight up, on and on to the moon, and fasten itself on the moon as if the moon is a foot ready for dancing,” said Mr. Wishes.
“A long time ago there was one night when a secret word was passed around to all the shoes standing in the bedrooms and closets.
“The whisper of the secret was: ‘Tonight all the shoes and the slippers and the boots of the world are going walking without any feet in them. Tonight when those who put us on their feet in the daytime are sleeping in their beds, we all get up and walk and go walking where we walk in the daytime.’
“And in the middle of the night, when the people in the beds were sleeping, the shoes and the slippers and the boots everywhere walked out of the bedrooms and the closets. Along the sidewalks on the streets, up and down stairways, along hallways, the shoes and slippers and the boots tramped and marched and stumbled.
“Some walked pussyfoot, sliding easy and soft just like people in the daytime. Some walked clumping and clumping, coming down heavy on the heels and slow on the toes, just like people in the daytime.
“Some turned their toes in and walked pigeon-toe; some spread their toes out and held their heels in, just like people in the daytime. Some ran glad and fast; some lagged slow and sorry.
“Now there was a little girl in the Village of Cream Puffs who came home from a dance that night. And she was tired from dancing round dances and square dances, one steps and two steps, toe dances and toe and heel dances, dances close up and dances far apart, she was so tired she took off only one slipper, tumbled onto her bed, and went to sleep with one slipper on.
“She woke up in the morning when it was yet dark. And she went to the window and looked up in the sky and saw a Dancing Slipper Moon dancing far and high in the deep blue sea of the moon sky.
“‘Oh—what a moon—what a dancing slipper of a moon!’ she cried with a little song to herself.
“She opened the window, saying again, ‘Oh, what a moon!’—and kicked her foot with the slipper on it straight toward the moon.
“The slipper flew off and flew up and went on and on and up and up in the moonshine.
“It never came back, that slipper. It was never seen again. When they asked the girl about it, she said, ‘It slipped off my foot and went up and up, and the last I saw of it the slipper was going on straight to the moon.’”
And these are the explanations why fathers and mothers in the Rootabaga Country say to their girls growing up, “Never kick a slipper at the moon if it is the time of the Dancing Slipper Moon when the ends of the moon look like the toe and the heel of a dancer’s foot.”
One Story—“Only the Fire-Born Understand Blue”
PEOPLE:
Fire the Goat
Flim the Goose
Shadows
SAND FLAT SHADOWS
FIRE THE GOAT and Flim the Goose slept out. Stub pines stood over them. And away up next over the stub pines were stars.
It was a white sand flat they slept on. The floor of the sand flat ran straight to the Big Lake of the Booming Rollers.
And just over the sand flat and just over the booming rollers was a high room where the mist people were making pictures. Gray pictures, blue, and sometimes a little gold, and often silver, were the pictures.
And next just over the high room where the mist people were making pictures, next just over were the stars.
Over everything, and always last and highest of all, were the stars.
Fire the Goat took off his horns. Flim the Goose took off his wings. “This is where we sleep,” they said to each other, “here in the stub pines on the sand flats next to the booming rollers and high over everything and always last and highest of all, the stars.”
Fire the Goat laid his horns under his head. Flim the Goose laid his wings under his head. “This is the best place for what you want to keep,” they said to each other. Then they crossed their fingers for luck and lay down and went to sleep and slept. And while they slept, the mist people went on making pictures. Gray pictures, blue, and sometimes a little gold but more often silver, such were the pictures the mist people went on making while Fire the Goat and Flim the Goosewent on sleeping. And over everything, and always last and highest of all, were the stars.
They woke up. Fire the Goat took his horns out and put them on. “It’s morning now,” he said.
Flim the Goose took his wings out and put them on. “It’s another day now,” he said.
Then they sat looking. Away off where the sun was coming up, inching and pushing up far across the rim curve of the Big Lake of the Booming Rollers, along the whole line of the east sky, there were people and animals, all black or all so gray they were near black.
There was a big horse with his mouth open, ears laid back, front legs thrown in two curves like harvest sickles.
There was a camel with two humps, moving slow and grand like he had all the time of all the years of all the world to go in.
There was an elephant without any head, with six short legs. There were many cows. There was a man with a club over his shoulder and a woman with a bundle on the back of her neck.
And they marched on. They were going nowhere, it seemed. And they were going slow. They had plenty of time. There was nothing else to do. It was fixed for them to do it, long ago it was fixed. And so they were marching.
Sometimes the big horse’s head sagged and dropped off and came back again. Sometimes the humps of the camel sagged and dropped off and came back again. And sometimes the club on the man’s shoulder got bigger and heavier and the man staggered under it, and then his legs got bigger and stronger and he steadied himself and went on. And again sometimes the bundle on the back of the neck of the woman got bigger and heavier and the bundle sagged, and the woman staggered and her legs got bigger and stronger and she steadied herself and went on.
This was the show, the hippodrome, the spectacular circus that passed on the east sky before the eyes of Fire the Goat and Flim the Goose.
“Which is this, who are they, and why do they come?” Flim the Goose asked Fire the Goat.
“Do you ask me because you wish me to tell you?” asked Fire the Goat.
“Indeed it is a question to which I want an honest answer.”
“Has never the father or mother nor the uncle or aunt nor the kith and kin of Flim the Goose told him the what and the which of this?”
“Never has the such of this which been put here this way to me by anybody.”
Flim the Goose held up his fingers and said, “I don’t talk to you with my fingers crossed.”
And so Fire the Goat began to explain to Flim the Goose all about the show, the hippodrome, the mastodonic cyclopean spectacle which was passing on the east sky in front of the sun coming up.
“People say they are shadows,” began Fire the Goat. “That is a name, a word, a little cough, and a couple of syllables.
“For some people shadows are comic and only to laugh at. For some other people shadows are like a mouth and its breath. The breath comes out, and it is nothing. It is like air, and nobody can make it into a package and carry it away. It will not melt like gold, nor can you shovel it like cinders. So to these p
eople it means nothing.
“And then there are other people,” Fire the Goat went on. “There are other people who understand shadows. The fire-born understand. The fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are.
“Long ago, when the Makers of the World were done making the round earth, the time came when they were ready to make the animals to put on the earth. They were not sure how to make the animals. They did not know what shape animals they wanted.
“And so they practiced. They did not make real animals at first. They made only shapes of animals. And these shapes were shadows, shadows like these you and I, Fire the Goat and Flim the Goose, are looking at this morning across the booming rollers on the east sky where the sun is coming up.
“The shadow horse over there on the east sky with his mouth open, his ears laid back, and his front legs thrown in a curve like harvest sickles, that shadow horse was one they made long ago when they were practicing to make a real horse. That shadow horse was a mistake, and they threw him away. Never will you see two shadow horses alike. All shadow horses on the sky are different. Each one is a mistake, a shadow horse thrown away because he was not good enough to be a real horse.
“That elephant with no head on his neck, stumbling so grand on six legs—and that grand camel with two humps, one bigger than the other—and those cows with horns in front and behind—they are all mistakes. They were all thrown away because they were not made good enough to be real elephants, real cows, real camels. They were made just for practice, away back early in the world before any real animals came on their legs to eat and live and be here like the rest of us.
“That man—see him now staggering along with the club over his shoulder—see how his long arms come to his knees and sometimes his hands drag below his feet. See how heavy the club on his shoulders loads him down and drags him on. He is one of the oldest shadow men. He was a mistake, and they threw him away. He was made just for practice.
“And that woman. See her now at the end of that procession across the booming rollers on the east sky. See her the last of all, the end of the procession. On the back of her neck a bundle. Sometimes the bundle gets bigger. The woman staggers. Her legs get bigger and stronger. She picks herself up and goes along shaking her head. She is the same as the others. She is a shadow, and she was made as a mistake. Early, early in the beginnings of the world she was made for practice.
“Listen, Flim the Goose. What I am telling you is a secret of the fire-born. I do not know whether you understand. We have slept together a night on the sand flats next to the booming rollers, under the stub pines with the stars high over—and so I tell what the fathers of the fire-born tell their sons.”
And that day Fire the Goat and Flim the Goose moved along the sand flat shore of the Big Lake of the Booming Rollers. It was a blue day, with a fire-blue of the sun mixing itself in the air and the water. Off to the north the booming rollers were blue sea-green. To the east they were sometimes streak purple, sometimes changing bluebell stripes. And to the south they were silver blue, sheet blue.
Where the shadow hippodrome marched on the east sky that morning was a long line of bluebird spots.
“Only the fire-born understand blue,” said Fire the Goat to Flim the Goose. And that night as the night before, they slept on a sand flat. And again Fire the Goat took off his horns and laid them under his head while he slept, and Flim the Goose took off his wings and laid them under his head while he slept.
And twice in the night, Fire the Goat whispered in his sleep, whispered to the stars, “Only the fire-born understand blue.”
Two Stories About Corn Fairies, Blue Foxes, Flongboos, and Happenings That Happened in the United States and Canada
PEOPLE:
Spink
Skabootch
A man
Corn fairies
Blue foxes
Flongboos
A Philadelphia policeman
Passenger conductor
Chicago newspapers
The Head Spotter of the Weather Makers at Medicine Hat
HOW TO TELL CORN FAIRIES IF YOU SEE ’EM
IF YOU HAVE ever watched the little corn begin to march across the black lands and then slowly change to big corn and go marching on from the little corn moon of summer to the big corn harvest moon of autumn, then you must have guessed who it is that helps the corn come along. It is the corn fairies. Leave out the corn fairies, and there wouldn’t be any corn.
All children know this. All boys and girls know that corn is no good unless there are corn fairies.
Have you ever stood in Illinois or Iowa and watched the late summer wind or the early fall wind running across a big cornfield? It looks as if a big, long blanket were being spread out for dancers to come and dance on. If you look close and if you listen close, you can see the corn fairies come dancing and singing—sometimes. If it is a wild day and a hot sun is pouring down while a cool north wind blows—and this happens sometimes—then you will be sure to see thousands of corn fairies marching and countermarching in mocking grand marches over the big, long blanket of green and silver. Then too they sing, only you must listen with your littlest and newest ears if you wish to hear their singing. They sing soft songs that go pla-sizzy pla-sizzy-sizzy, and each song is softer than an eye wink, softer than a Nebraska baby’s thumb.
And Spink, who is a little girl living in the same house with the man writing this story, and Skabootch, who is another little girl in the same house—both Spink and Skabootch are asking the question, “How can we tell corn fairies if we see ’em? If we meet a corn fairy, how will we know it?” And this is the explanation the man gave to Spink who is older than Skabootch, and to Skabootch who is younger than Spink:
All corn fairies wear overalls. They work hard, the corn fairies, and they are proud. The reason they are proud is because they work so hard. And the reason they work so hard is because they have overalls.
But understand this. The overalls are corn gold cloth, woven from leaves of ripe corn mixed with ripe October corn silk. In the first week of the harvest moon, coming up red and changing to yellow and silver, the corn fairies sit by thousands between the corn rows weaving and stitching the clothes they have to wear next winter, next spring, next summer.
They sit cross-legged when they sew. And it is a law among them each one must point the big toe at the moon while sewing the harvest moon clothes. When the moon comes up red as blood early in the evening, they point their big toes slanting toward the east. Then toward midnight when the moon is yellow and halfway up the sky, their big toes are only half slanted as they sit cross-legged sewing. And after midnight when the moon sails its silver disk high overhead and toward the west, then the corn fairies sit sewing with their big toes pointed nearly straight up.
If it is a cool night and looks like frost, then the laughter of the corn fairies is something worth seeing. All the time they sit sewing their next year clothes, they are laughing. It is not a law they have to laugh. They laugh because they are half tickled and glad because it is a good corn year.
And whenever the corn fairies laugh, then the laugh comes out of the mouth like a thin gold frost. If you should be lucky enough to see a thousand corn fairies sitting between the corn rows and all of them laughing, you would laugh with wonder yourself to see the gold frost coming from their mouths while they laughed.
Travelers who have traveled far and seen many things say that if you know the corn fairies with a real knowledge, you can always tell by the stitches in their clothes what state they are from.
In Illinois the corn fairies stitch fifteen stitches of ripe corn silk across the woven corn leaf cloth. In Iowa they stitch sixteen stitches, in Nebraska seventeen, and the farther west you go, the more corn silk stitches the corn fairies have in the corn cloth clothes they wear.
In Minnesota one year there were fairies with a blue sash of cornflowers across the breast. In the Dakotas the same year all the fairies wore pumpkin-flower neckties, yellow four-in-hands, an
d yellow ascots. And in one strange year it happened in both the states of Ohio and Texas the corn fairies wore little wristlets of white morning glories.
The traveler who heard about this asked many questions and found out the reason why that year the corn fairies wore little wristlets of white morning glories. He said, “Whenever fairies are sad, they wear white. And this year, which was long ago, was the year men were tearing down all the old zigzag rail fences. Now those old zigzag rail fences were beautiful for the fairies because a hundred fairies could sit on one rail and thousands and thousands of them could sit on the zigzags and sing pla-sizzy pla-sizzy, softer than an eye wink, softer than a baby’s thumb, all on a moonlight summer night. And they found out that year was going to be the last year of the zigzag rail fences. It made them sorry and sad, and when they are sorry and sad, they wear white. So they picked the wonderful white morning glories running along the zigzag rail fences and made them into little wristlets and wore those wristlets the next year to show they were sorry and sad.”
Of course, all this helps you to know how the corn fairies look in the evening, the nighttime, and the moonlight. Now we shall see how they look in the daytime.
In the daytime the corn fairies have their overalls of corn gold cloth on. And they walk among the corn rows and climb the corn stalks and fix things in the leaves and stalks and ears of the corn. They help it to grow.
The Sandburg Treasury Page 8