Chapter XXXII

HOW WE ENTERED THE LAND OF THE HAPPY FORGETTERS.—SOMETHING MORE
ABOUT THESE CURIOUS FOLK.—THEIR DREAD OF BULGER AND ME.—ONLY A
STAY OF ONE DAY ACCORDED US.—DESCRIPTION OF THE PLEASANT HOMES OF
THE HAPPY FORGETTERS.—THE REVOLVING DOOR THROUGH WHICH BULGER AND
I ARE UNCEREMONIOUSLY SET OUTSIDE OF THE DOMAIN OF THE
RATTLEBRAINS.—ALL ABOUT THE EXTRAORDINARY THINGS WHICH HAPPENED TO
BULGER AND ME THEREAFTER.—ONCE MORE IN THE OPEN AIR OF THE UPPER
WORLD, AND THEN HOMEWARD BOUND.

The Happy Forgetter pursued his way calmly along the winding path that skirted the glowing river, apparently, and no doubt really, unconscious of the fact that Bulger and I were following close at his heels. After half an hour or so of this silent tramp, he suddenly came to a standstill, and with his placid countenance turned toward the light seemed to be so far away in thought that for several moments I hesitated to address him. But as there were no signs of his showing any disposition to come to himself, I made bold to ask him the cause of the delay.

“I’m happy to say,” he remarked, without so much as deigning to turn his head, “that I’ve forgotten which of these two roads leads to the homes of our people.”

Well, this was a pleasant outlook to be sure, and, I don’t know what we should have done had not Bulger solved the difficulty for us by making choice of one of the paths and dashing on ahead with a bark of encouragement for us to follow.

When I assured the Happy Forgetter that he need have no fear as to the wisdom of the choice, he gave a start of almost horror at the information; for you must know, dear friends, that the Happy Forgetter has more dread of knowledge than we have of ignorance. To him it is the mother of all discontent, the source of all unhappiness, the cause of all the dreadful ills that have come upon the world, and the people in it.

“The world,” said one of the Happy Forgetters to me sadly, “was perfectly happy once, and man had no name for his brother, and yet he loved him even as the turtle-dove loves his mate, although he has no names to call her by. But, alas, one day this happiness came to an end, for a strange malady broke out among the people. They were seized with a wild desire to invent names for things; even many names for the same thing, and different ways of doing the same thing. This strange passion so grew upon them that they spent their lives in making them in every possible way harder to live. They built different roads to the same place, they made different clothes for different days, and different dishes for different feasts. To each child they gave two, three, and even four different names; and different shoes were fashioned for different feet, and one family was no longer satisfied with one drinking-gourd. Did they stop here?

“Nay, they now busied themselves learning how to make different faces to different friends, covering a frown with a smile, and singing gay songs when their hearts were sad. In a few centuries a brother could no longer read a brother’s face, and one-half the world went about wondering what the other half was thinking about; hence arose misunderstandings, quarrels, feuds, warfare. Man was no longer content to dwell with his fellow-man in the spacious caverns which kind nature had hollowed out for him, piercing the mountains with winding passages beside which his narrow streets dwindled to merest pathways.”

In the Land of the Happy Forgetters care never comes to trouble sleep, nor anxious thought to wear the dread mask of To-morrow!

Happy the day on which this child of nature might exclaim: “Since morn I’ve forgotten something! I’ve unloaded my mind! It’s one thought lighter than it was!”

He was the happiest of the Happy Forgetters who could honestly say, I know not thy name, nor when thou wast born, not where thou dwellest, nor who thy kinsmen are; I only know that thou art my brother, and that thou wilt not see me suffer if I should forget to eat, or perish of thirst if I forget to drink, and that thou wilt bid me close my eyes if I should forget that I had laid me down to sleep.

Bulger’s and my arrival in the Land of the Happy Forgetters filled the hearts of these curious folk with secret dread. At sight of my large head they all began to tremble like children in the dark stricken with fear of bogy or goblin, and with one voice they refused to permit me to sojourn a single brief half-hour among them; but gradually this sudden terror passed off a bit, and after a council held by a few of the younger men, whose brains as yet completely filled their heads, it was determined that I might bide for another day in their land, but that then the revolving door should be opened, and Bulger and I be thrust outside of their domain.

From what Don Fum had written about the Happy Forgetters, I knew only too well that it would be useless for me to attempt to reverse this decree; so I held my peace, except to thank them for this great favor shown me.

The daylight, if I may call it so, now began to wane, or rather the thousands of light-giving creatures swarming in the river now began to draw in their long tentacles, close their flower-like bodies, and slowly sink to the bottom of the stream. I was quite anxious to see whether the Happy Forgetters would make any attempt to light up their cavernous homes, or whether they would simply creep off to bed and sleep out the long hours of pitchy darkness. To my surprise, I now heard the clicking of flints on all sides, and in a moment or so a thousand or more great candles made of mineral wax with asbestos wicks were lighted, and the great chambers of white marble were soon aglow with these soft and steady flames.

The Happy Forgetters were strictly vegetable eaters, feeding upon the various fungous plants growing in these caverns in great profusion, together with a very nutritious and pleasant tasting jelly made from a hardened gum of vegetable origin which abounded in the crevices of certain rocks. There was still another source of food; namely, the nests of certain shellfish, which they built against the face of the rock, just above the surface of the river. These dissolved in boiling water made an excellent broth, very much like the soup from edible birds’ nests.

The clothes worn by the Happy Forgetters were entirely woven from mineral wool, which in these caverns gave a long and strong fibre of astonishing softness. The Rattlebrains were tolerably good metal-workers too, but contented themselves with fashioning only such articles as were actually necessary for daily use. Their beds were stuffed with dried seaweed and lichens, and Bulger and I passed a very comfortable night.

As I was forbidden to speak aloud, to ask a question, or to walk abroad unless in company with one of the selectmen, I was not sorry when the moment came for the revolving door to be opened. The Happy Forgetters had been led to believe that Bulger and I were a thousand times more dangerous than scaly monsters or black-winged vampires, and hence they held themselves aloof from us, the children hiding behind their mothers, and the mothers peering through crack and crevice at us.

The size of my head inspired them with a nameless dread, and even the half-a-dozen of the younger and more courageous drew aside instinctively to let me pass.

For the first time in my life I was an object of horror to my fellow-creatures, but I had no hard thoughts against them! Timid children of nature that they were, to them I was as terrible an object as the torch-armed demon of destruction would be to us were he let loose in one of our fair cities of the upper world.

And now the guard of Happy Forgetters had halted in front of what seemed to me to be a huge cask fashioned of solid marble, and set one-half within the white wall of the cavern to which they had led me. But on second glance I saw that there was a row of square holes around its bulge, like those in the top of a capstan.

The Happy Forgetters now disappeared for a moment, and when they joined me again each bore in hand a metal bar, the end of which he set in one of these holes, and then at a signal from the leader the huge half-circle of marble began to turn noiselessly around, exactly like a capstan. As each man’s lever came to the wall, he shifted it to the front again. Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw that the great marble cask was hollow, like a sentry box; and you may judge of my feelings, dear friends, upon being politely requested to step inside.

Did I refuse to obey?

Not I. It would have been useless, for was not the whole tribe of Rattlebrains there to lay hands upon me and thrust me in?

So taking off my hat and making a low bow to the little group of Happy Forgetters, I stepped within the hollow cask and Bulger did the same; but not with so good a grace as his master, for, casting an angry glance at the inhospitable dwellers in these chambers of white marble, he growled and laid bare his teeth to show his contempt for them.

Now the great marble cask began to revolve the other way and in a moment it was back in place again.

I heard several sharp clicks as if a number of huge spring latches had snapped into place, and then all was silent as the tomb, and I had almost said as dark too; but no, I could not say that, for I looked out into a low tunnel which ran past the niche in which Bulger and I were standing, and to my more than wonder it was dimly lighted.

I stepped out into it; it was as round as a cannon bore and just high enough for me to stand erect; and now I discovered whence the light proceeded. In the cracks and crevices of its walls grew vast masses of those delicate light-giving fungous rootlets, the glow of which was so strong that I had no difficulty in reading the writing on my tablets; in fact, I stood there for several minutes making entries by the light of these bunches of glowing rootlets.

Then the thought dashed through my mind,—

“Which way shall I turn, to the right or to the left?”

Bulger comprehended the cause of my vacillation and made haste to come to my rescue. After sniffing the air, first in one direction and then in the other, he chose the right hand, and I followed without a thought of questioning his wisdom. Strange to say, he had not advanced more than a few hundred rods before I noticed that there was a strong current of air blowing through the tunnel in the direction Bulger had taken.

Every moment it increased in violence, fairly lifting us from our feet and bearing us along through this narrow bore made by nature’s own hands and lighted too by lamps of her own fashioning. The motion of the air through this vast pipe caused bursts of mighty tones as if peeled forth by some gigantic organ played by giant hands. It was strange, but yet I felt no terror as I listened to this unearthly music, although its depth of tone jarred painfully upon my ear-drums.

By the dim light of the luminous rootlets, I could see Bulger just ahead of me, and I was content. No shiver of fear ran down my back, or robbed my limbs of their full power to resist the ever-increasing pressure of the air. But as it grew stronger and stronger, half of my own accord and half because Bulger set the example, I broke into a run. Our pace once quickened it was impossible for me to slow up again. On, on, in a mad race, my feet scarcely touching the bottom of the tunnel, I sped along, while the great pipe through which I was borne on the very wings of the gale sent forth its deep and majestic peal.

There was something strangely and mysteriously exciting in this race, and all that kept me from enjoying it to my full bent was the thought that a sudden increase in the violence of the blast might toss me violently on my face and possibly break an arm for me or injure me in some serious way.

All at once the deep pealing forth of the organ-like tone ceased, and in its stead came the awful sound of rushing water. Before I had time to think, it was upon me, striking me like a terrific blow from some gigantic fist wearing a boxing-glove. The next instant I was caught up like a cork on a mountain torrent, swayed from side to side, twisted, turned, sucked down and cast up again, whirled over and over, tossed and tumbled, rolled along like a wheel, my arms and legs the spokes!

Wonderful to relate, I did not lose consciousness as this terrible current shot me like a stick of timber through a flume, whither I knew not, only that the speed and volume went ever on increasing until at last the tumultuous torrent filled the tunnel, and robbed me of light, of breath, of life, of everything, including my faithful and loving Bulger!

How long it lasted—this fearful ride in the arms of these mad waters, rushing as if for life or death through this narrow bore—I know not; I only know that my ears were suddenly assailed with a mighty whizz and rush of water as through the nozzle of some gigantic hose, and that I was shot out into the glorious sunshine, out into the grand, free, open air of the upper world, and sent flying up toward the dear, blue sky with its flecks of fleecy cloudlets, and Bulger some twenty feet ahead of me, and that then, with a gracefully curved flight through the soft and balmy air of harvest time, we both were gently dropped into a quiet little lake nestled at the foot of a hillside yellow with ripened corn. In a moment or so we had swum ashore. Bulger wanted to halt and shake the water from his thick coat, but I couldn’t wait for that. Wet as he was, I clasped him to my heart while he showered caresses on me. But not a word was said, not a sound was uttered. We were both of us too happy to speak, and if you have ever been in that state, dear friends, you know how it feels.

I can’t describe it to you.

At this moment some men and boys clad in the garb of the Russian peasant came racing across the fields to see what I was about, no doubt, for I had stripped off my heavy outside clothing, and was spreading it out in the sun to dry.

Upon sight of these red-cheeked children of the upper world I was so overcome with joy that for a minute or so I couldn’t get a syllable across my lips, but making a great effort I cried out,—

“Fathers! Brothers! Where am I? Speak! dear souls!”

“In north-eastern Siberia, little soul,” replied the eldest of the party, “not far from the banks of the Obi; but whence comest thou? By Saint Nicholas, I believe thou wast spit out of the spouting well! What art thou doing here alone?”

I paid no attention to the question. I was thinking of something else of more importance to me, to wit: my splendid achievement, the marvellous underground journey I had just completed, fully five hundred miles in length, passing completely under the Ural Mountains! After a short stay at the nearest village, I engaged the best guide that was to be had, and crossing the Urals by the pass in the most direct line, re-entered Russia and made haste to join the first government train on its way to St. Petersburg.

Having despatched an _avant courier_ with letters to my beloved parents, informing them of my good health and whereabouts, I passed several weeks very pleasantly in the Russian capital, and then by easy stages set out for home.

The elder baron came as far as Riga to meet me, and brought me the best of news from Castle Trump, that my dear mother was in perfect health, and that she and every man, woman, and child in and about the castle were anxiously waiting to give me a real German welcome back home again. And here, dear friends, _mit herzlichen Grüsse_, Bulger and I take our leave of you.

By INGERSOLL LOCKWOOD

THE TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES OF LITTLE BARON TRUMP AND HIS WONDERFUL
DOG BULGER

Illustrated by GEORGE WHARTON EDWARDS Cloth $2.00

THE WONDERFUL DEEDS AND DOINGS OF LITTLE GIANT BOAB AND HIS TALKING
RAVEN TABIB

Illustrated by CLIFTON JOHNSON Cloth $2.00

EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCES OF LITTLE CAPTAIN DOPPELKOP ON THE SHORES
OF BUBBLELAND

Illustrated by CLIFTON JOHNSON Cloth $2.00

BARON TRUMP’S MARVELLOUS UNDERGROUND JOURNEY

Illustrated by CHARLES HOWARD JOHNSON Price $2.00

Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger

PRESS NOTICES

=BOSTON TIMES.= “Mr. Ingersoll Lockwood is nothing if not
original—and he _is_ original. The most partial critic would not
dare to deny him that desirable gift after a glance at his ‘Little
Baron Trump.’ Like the great Munchausen, the little Baron has a
passion for travel, a lust of adventure, a fever of imagination.
He sees, says, and does queer things; accidents never heard of
outside the lunatic asylums and Mr. Lockwood’s pages test his
resources at every hand; to ‘grapple with an emergency’ is beneath
him—he simply walks over it. We owe Mr. Lockwood thanks, too, for
that he has neglected to wrap a moral around his tales, and has
given us simply a delightful example of the art of sustained
fooling.”

=UTICA HERALD.= “A book which might easily be rated one of the
posthumous chapters of the ‘Arabian Nights,’ so far as its style
goes, and possessing, as the little Baron observes, ‘an almost
Oriental exuberance of fancy.’ The pictures by Mr. Edwards are
very comical, and as ingenious as they are quaint. But they are
hardly as wonderful as the doings of the young Baron and his more
wonderful confidant, Bulger. Surely never was such another dog as
he.”

=NATIONAL TRIBUNE.= “The travels and adventures of Baron Trump and
the bulldog are indeed extraordinary, even more so than those of
‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ The book is full of quaint humor,
side-splitting at times. The Baron is an extremely precocious
youngster, and Bulger, though he cannot talk, is gifted with the
worldly wisdom and acuteness of a Prime Minister.”

=WOMAN’S CYCLE.= “Poor Munchausen won his reputation in the nick of
time. A few generations later and he would have had no chance at
all. His inventive genius would have fallen below that of a
reporter for a ‘great’ daily. Imagination is accustomed nowadays
to astounding flights. It performs a series of them in this book,
which is also illustrated so comically as to make the small boy
sit on the floor and wriggle with delight, while his elders guffaw
boisterously. It is, in fact, a ‘funny’ book.”

=NEW YORK SUN.= “A very whimsical and ingenious tale is that
entitled ‘Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger.’ Young
or old readers will appreciate the humor of the author. The
illustrations by George Wharton Edwards admirably supplement the
text.”

=ALTA CALIFORNIAN.= “Heathen mythology, ‘The Arabian Nights,’ and
the modern fairy tale are brought to mind by the wonderful scenes,
but there is no evidence of plagiarism, startling originality
being far more in the author’s line than surreptitious imitation.
Many of the marvels are ingeniously founded on the scientific
theories of recent years, and satires on popular shortcomings or
delusions are conveyed in the guise of some perilous experience.
The author has evidently given full but harmless rein to an
original and prolific imagination.”

=PORTLAND TELEGRAM.= “One of the most interesting stories for young
people ever issued by an American publisher. Its humor is
contagious, its fun rollicking, while the variety and astonishing
nature of the experiences of the pair holds the reader captive
until the end. The illustrations by Wharton Edwards lend an added
charm to the work.”

=N. Y. TRIBUNE.= “Mr. Lockwood’s clever book, though modelled, no
doubt, on Munchausen’s narrative, has a whimsical originality of
invention which the first Baron might have envied. It is a
question whether the very youthful reader will fully appreciate
all the fun which an older reader finds therein; but it is certain
that the book will not be dropped until the last prodigious
adventure is absorbed. As a book of fantastic impossibilities,
gravely set forth, it is the most attractive devised in many a
season.”

=PUBLIC OPINION.= “One of the jolliest and most rollicking stories
of the year. It is an old-time children’s story, full of marvel,
mystery, and adventure. The author, Ingersoll Lockwood, has
succeeded in writing a capital boy’s book that is at once
fascinating and wholesome, as well as being good literature. The
abundant illustrations, drawn by George Wharton Edwards, are
admirably executed, and form a strong re-enforcement to the
interest as well as the beauty of the work.”

=SACRAMENTO BEE.= “A clean, well written, interesting children’s
book, but its adventures are so wonderful and so quaintly told
that many a parent who would buy the book as a Christmas present
for his children would be beguiled into reading it for his own
amusement.”

=ST. PAUL DISPATCH.= “It is a fanciful tale with a healthy tone
throughout. Moreover, it is put in an attractive form, the cover
being an unique combination of gray, black and brown, while the
print is clear and the illustrations very attractive. ‘Bulger’ was
Little Baron Trump’s companion from his birth; the relation of his
attachment for his master and their adventures among strange
peoples and in new countries is very entertaining. The book will
be heartily welcomed by both boys and girls, and it is a safe book
to place in their hands.”

=BROOKLYN EAGLE.= “A delightfully absurd and sarcastic boy’s story
is ‘Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger,’ with equally
absurd and wonderful illustrations. It is as remarkable for its
powers of absurdity as ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ or ‘Alice in
Wonderland,’ if not so sarcastic as the first, and the
illustrations are not merely absurd travesties, but works of art
characteristically and in drawing. Bulger is truly a wonderful
dog, but no more wonderful than his phenomenally brainy young
master and the great variety of preposterous people he falls in
with.”

=CHRISTIAN STANDARD.= “One of those strange, whimsical, julesvernish
romances which, while they have neither mission nor moral, plot or
purpose, are strangely fascinating to children. This quaint and
curious volume of never-to-be-forgotten lore is rendered the more
attractive by numerous grotesque, giggles-begetting illustrations,
by George Wharton Edwards.”

=HEALTH AND HOME.= “This work will delight both young and old. It
gives a series of ludicrous adventures of the Little Baron and his
famous dog that are not only amusing, but, in many cases, point
useful morals. It contains over 300 pages, all of which brim over
with genuine humor, and is just the book for boys who are wearing
their first pants, or even of a larger growth.”

=MINNEAPOLIS TRIBUNE.= “A romance of wonderland, for old and young.
It would be difficult to find a volume of adventures which would
surpass Mr. Lockwood’s presentations of the wonders of travel, and
of the deeds of the valiant heroes who trumpet their bravery and
daring after laughable and amusing style.”

Little Captain Doppelkop on the Shores of Bubbleland

PRESS NOTICES

=CLEVELAND PLAINDEALER.= “Ingersoll Lockwood, who delighted and
bewildered readers young and old with those queer extravaganzas,
‘Little Baron Trump’ and ‘Little Giant Boab,’ has perpetrated
another joke of the same kind in his ‘Extraordinary Experiences of
Little Captain Doppelkop on the Shores of Bubbleland.’ The boy,
who was twins in himself, a sort of juvenile Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde, has a lot of surprising and comical adventures that are
narrated by himself—or perhaps we ought to say more truthfully,
though ungrammatically, ‘themself’—with delightful simplicity.”

=BOSTON HOME JOURNAL.= “For its quaint conceptions it has never been
surpassed, if equalled, by anything of the kind. The idea of
creating a character like that of Little Captain Doppelkop was a
great stroke of genius. The adventures of the Little Captain in
Bubbleland are of the most marvellous character, and constantly
lead from one surprise to another still more surprising, and they
are related with a sparkle and naturalness that keep the reader’s
high interest continually on the topmost round of expectancy. If
Mr. Lockwood can beat his own record on this extravaganza, then he
will indeed stand the champion imaginator of the world.”

=NORTHWESTERN MAGAZINE.= “Ingersoll Lockwood has quite outdone
himself this time. The trouble is there are 287 large pages of
pure enjoyment and fun for your open-mouthed boys, and the small
ones won’t let you stop till you’ve read them every one, not to
speak of letting them take the book at every page or two to look
at the droll pictures which Clifton Johnson has so fitted to the
text. ‘Little Captain Doppelkop’ was two children rolled into one,
and their adventures in Glaucus’ Gluepot, Bubbleland, the Castle
of Indolence, and elsewhere—all kept even poor old me interested.
The book is bound prettily in gray-green, touched up with darker
and gold; just the book for your boy’s Xmas tree.”

=THE HOUSEKEEPER.= “‘Little Captain Doppelkop,’ being the
extraordinary experiences of the oddest and most amusing little
fellow that ever made or found his way from wonderful babyhood and
its mysteries out into the big, crazy world. Ingersoll Lockwood,
the author of this book, makes it his business to stow away a lot
of sense into a hundred small packets of nonsense, so that the boy
or girl who reads the three hundred pages that tell all about the
impossible absurdities of the little Captain will be the happier
and the wiser.”

=BOSTON COURIER.= “This we confess to finding one of the most
amusing and ingenious books of its kind that has been written in
our time. It is spontaneous and sparkling, and there is throughout
an unfailing succession of novel surprises such as only the most
fantastically fertile fancy could have devised. The central idea,
that of the boy who was really two persons, is a capital one, good
enough to make the fortune of any book, and it is capitally
carried out.”

=NEW LONDON TELEGRAPH.= “‘Little Captain Doppelkop’ is an
extravaganza as curious as was ever conceived and depicted in
prose and picture. Ingersoll Lockwood showed in ‘Little Baron
Trump’ how possible it was to be a delightful yet perfectly
unobjectionable Munchausen. ‘Little Captain Doppelkop,’ from
beginning to end, is filled with entrancing and absorbing
adventures, and the facile pencil fully supplements the pen. No
such work has been attempted by American writers, and the great
success which attended Mr. Ingersoll in his former achievement
cannot fail to be repeated now. The spirit, energy, and simple way
in which the narrative seems to hug the possible render it so
effective that whoever takes it up finds himself turning page
after page until he unwillingly comes to the last.”

=BOSTON GLOBE.= “‘Little Captain Doppelkop’—why ‘Doppelkop’ it is
necessary to read—is bound to be a tremendous success, and
deserves a place as a child’s classic with those which delighted
our boyhood.”

Little Giant Boab and His Talking Raven Tabib

PRESS NOTICES

=NEW YORK TRIBUNE.= “‘The Wonderful Deeds and Doings of Little Giant
Boab and his Talking Raven Tabib’ takes higher rank than any other
book of the season intended for young people, and is indeed even
cleverer than its amusing predecessor, which recounted the
adventures of Baron Trump and his delightful dog Bulger. In this
story of a mighty young Spanish giant, Tabib, the raven, plays the
guiding, protecting, and humorous part taken by Bulger in Mr.
Ingersoll Lockwood’s first story, and his somewhat cynical
shrewdness and hearty affection for his master make the ‘little
gentleman in black’ a very winning figure. With the humorous tone
of the book is blent a sweet and kindly spirit that much enhances
the charms of its wild adventures.”

=CRITIC, NEW YORK.= “‘Boab’ is short for Boabdil de Clavigero, and
the appellative ‘Little Giant’ but faintly indicates the prodigies
of strength and valor performed by this marvellous child, in an
elaborately erudite introduction, bristling with indisputable
citations in black-letter from sixteenth-century travellers, our
clever author seeks to dispel any possible doubt as to the real
existence of his hero. Ingenious Mr. Lockwood! don’t you know that
the day is past when we youngsters used to query ‘Is it true?’ Few
will concern themselves, as they follow with breathless eagerness
the career of this precocious boy, to discover the dividing line
between fact and fancy. There seems to be no limit to the author’s
imagination, and Boab is brought bravely out of one combination of
perils only to be involved in another still more alarming. Nothing
is impossible to his strong arm and quick wit, and whether
shouldering a massive castle-door, or tripping up El Gran Capitan
and pinning him to the floor with a two-ton statue, or vanquishing
the frightful man-bat, or getting ahead of the wall of living
stones, or driving the cardinal through night and tempest, over
the mountains to the Malaga, he is in all the same plucky,
invincible, good-natured little fellow—with whom every year will
be loth to part. Fun, novelty, satire, pathos—these are a few of
the elements that make this a most attractive book for the young.”

=BROOKLYN STANDARD UNION.= “It is a pretty hard thing to invent a
really new fairy tale, so completely has the ground been gone over
by the old veteran story-tellers; but in ‘Little Giant Boab’ Mr.
Lockwood has given the young folk a tale which is in many respects
original, which contains many new situations and ingenious
inventions, which is whimsical to the last degree, full of subtle
humor and rollicking fun. It is a delightful tale, that will be
quite as successful as ‘Little Baron Trump and his Wonderful Dog
Bulger,’ which made such a hit last season. The funny and
wonderful doings of Giant Boab and his raven, with the humorous
account of Boab’s ancestors, his appearance in Queen Isabel’s
court, his feats of strength, his exploits in the Spanish camp,
together with all his subsequent journeyings, will be read and
listened to and talked over in many a household during the coming
holidays. The illustrations, too, are in admirable keeping with
the spirit of the story, and fitly supplement as well as adorn the
text. Giant Boab is destined to be a formidable rival to Baron
Munchausen himself.”

=BOSTON BEACON.= “Ingersoll Lockwood has seized an old Moorish
legend and made use of it to furnish a first-rate fairy tale which
will delight the children almost as much as older folk are
delighted with ‘Don Quixote.’ Little Giant Boab is as interesting
a character as Hop O’ My Thumb of English birth, and incidental to
his adventures valuable insight into the customs and ways of Spain
is afforded. The book has many wood-cuts by Clifton Johnson. Mr.
Lockwood displays astonishing versatility, unlimited powers of
invention, unfailing humor, and a satirical purpose which seems to
be so closely interwoven with the whole narrative that its force
depends altogether on the reader’s capacity of comprehension. Like
Swift’s ‘Gulliver’ tales, the stories of the exploits of the
Little Giant will be a source of unending entertainment to the
young, while their elders will relish the clever manner in which
all sorts of human weaknesses are exhibited in the light of
wholesome ridicule. Mr. Clifton Johnson has added a large number
of illustrations admirably suited to the text.”

=ZION’S HERALD.= “This is a fairy tale which will especially delight
the children. Tabib was a sly and cunning bird, but Boab was a
good and brave boy; and putting these two together and setting
them off, to take together whatever adventures may befall them, is
sure to create a fascinating interest in them for the young. And
then, too, the pictures are so many, and in many cases so funny,
that this will be another source of pleasure to the reader.”

LEE AND SHEPARD Publishers Boston

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Moved the beginning advertising page to the beginning of the advertising section at the end. 2. Changed “just us the” to “just as the” on p 66. 3. “Strepholofidgeguaneriusfum” is later spelled as “Strephalofidgeguaneriusfum”. No change. 4. Silently corrected typographical errors. 5. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 6. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.