Chapter XXIII: In Which Dan Spends a Night in the Valley of Tick Tock

As Dan, guided by Beader, entered the town that lay in the center of the Valley of Tick Tock, he saw that it had been built so that the trees stood at the foot of it while the corn patches and the wheat fields stretched on both sides and one end. From the fields and the woods streets ran hither and thither at all sorts of angles. These were lined with no end of queer houses. Some were of sticks, and some were of weeds and still others were made of very fine grass. Now and then appeared a dwelling more imposing than the rest. There was one that must have been quite three stories high. All the houses faced on extremely scant roadways that could not have been more than two-mouses wide.

But the street over which Beader took Dan was of a far different kind. Indeed, it was almost as broad as a path in a park. It was well sprinkled with sand and along both its sides were rows of tall corn. Dan was about to ask if the street had a name when he noted a sign fixed to the top of a stick. Stooping down he read:

CORNSTALK AVENUE
50 Dragoon Jumps to Public Square

And so, very shortly, he and his guide had reached the heart of the town. Here, looking down, the visitor saw that they had stopped before what he judged was the armory. In front of it stood a sentry box made from the half of a corncob with windows cut in the sides. Out of this stepped a mouse dressed exactly like Beader, only in place of a sword he carried a lantern.

“Dickory Dock,” said Dan’s guide.

“Dickory Dock,” said the other. Then the two of them came to salute after which Beader unbuckled his belt and handed it and the sword to the one with the lantern.

“Now, then,” cried he, “I’m off duty till to-morrow! So, if you don’t mind, I’ll come up there to your shoulder and conduct you wherever you may care to go.”

“Do so, by all means,” answered Diggeldy Dan; and soon the other was perched on the folds of his ruff.

“Of course,” began Beader, as he unbuttoned the top of his rather tight-fitting coat, “you must understand that this particular town is only one of several here in the valley. There is Stubbleton where the Fielders live and that’s over in that direction. And there is Nightsville, where most of the Muskers make their home. It’s back yonder at the edge of the pond. Then there’s Dorton—that’s the Dormice settlement and it lies well in among the trees. But it is here that we hold most of our gatherings. I do wish you had been with us last evening. There was a most exciting drill between the Jumping Dragoons and the Nightsville Musketeers. We beat them all hollow at marching but we couldn’t put up our tents quite as fast as they.”

“It must have been great sport,” said Dan, “I wish there was something for us to see to-night.”

“Goodness, I wish so too,” answered Beader. “If it were only Clock Night. But it isn’t for this is but the Day Before.”

“The day before,” repeated Dan, “the day before what?”

“The Day Before Clock Night. You see we of the Valley of Tick Tock have only two kinds of days. There is the Day Before Clock Night and Clock Night Day; then it becomes the Day Before Clock Night again; and so on—over and over and over again.”

“But why do you give them such curious names?”

“Why because—but listen! What is that?” and Beader stood up and put his head to one side. “Why, of course!” he exclaimed. “It’s the voices of the Fielders. They must be out harvesting. If you’ve never been to a moonlight harvest bee I know you’ll enjoy it. So come, let’s get over to the wheat field as fast as we can.”

Off they went, taking another path which led in a direction opposite from that by which they had entered the town. Soon they were at the edge of the field. As they neared it Dan’s guide had leaped to the ground and gone on in advance.

“Beader, of the Dragoons,” the clown heard him shout, “and I’m bringing a friend with me.”

“Come along, then,” cried voices in answer.

“Now,” said Beader to Dan, “if you don’t mind getting down on your knees, you’ll be able to see fairly well.”

Dan did still more; he stretched out quite flat and, with his chin propped in his hands, peered in among the stalks of sweet-smelling wheat. Of course there was the moon to help out but, as any one knows who has peeped into a field even on the brightest of nights, there is little save darkness in the depths underneath. So what was the visitor’s surprise to see there quite clearly whole dozens of workers as busy as bees.

Yes, there they all were, around a mite of a bonfire that was scarcely larger than five candle flames. Yet, small as it was, it sent out its flickerings in every direction and so lighted the wheat stalks for a full yard away. Still other Fielders rushed about through the forest, carrying lanterns and tiny leaf baskets. Up the stalks they would go, fill their baskets with wheat, scurry back to the ground, take their loads to the fireside, and then hurry away to do it all over again.

“The Fielders are the very best of all the harvesters,” said Beader, who had by now taken a seat just under the end of Dan’s long, funny nose. “They have a system for everything they do. Those that you see sitting near the fire are the sack makers. They gather leaves and fashion them into the bags that hold all the wheat. Those who are filling the bags are called the sackers. They are mostly the younger Fielders, as are those who bring straws to keep up the fire. The most important workers are the gleaners. They must be good climbers and able to judge the very best wheat. Hey, there, Friend Nibbler,” Beader suddenly cried to a rather large mouse who seemed to be directing the work, “can you spare a moment?”

“Never too busy to pass the time of night,” answered the one called Nibbler, as he came toward them.

“This is Diggeldy Dan,” introduced Beader. “It’s his first time at a harvest bee. Nibbler is in charge of the harvesting.”

“Glad to see you,” nodded the Fielder.

“It’s all very interesting,” returned Dan, “though from what I’ve seen it mustn’t be very difficult to keep things going.”

“Everything does move pretty smoothly so far as the older Fielders go,” agreed Nibbler, “but I have a number of youngsters among the sackers and some of them can’t count as well as they might. You see the bags are made to hold exactly fifty grains apiece and if more goes in—especially if they are unusually fat grains—two or three too many may mean the splitting of a bag. And then some of the other lads will stop to play when they are out gathering straws and so let the fire get low. See! It needs more fuel this very minute! So if you’ll excuse me I’ll go see to it.”

And away he went in search of the boys who, as Dan plainly saw, were at that moment in the midst of a game of hide-and-go-seek just beyond the edge of the light.

“After the grains have been sacked,” Beader continued to explain, “the bags are put away in storehouses for winter use. Our people of the town—that is to say, the House-mice—trade cheese and cakes for wheat. We also harvest quite a bit of corn.”

“Are those all the things you have to eat?” asked Dan.

“Oh, dear, no,” answered the other. “There are nuts, and the Muskers, for instance, simply dote on apples. We always have an apple-rolling when apples are ripe. That’s the best fun of all. Sometimes we get an apple well up the side of a slope and then somebody starts laughing and it slips away and goes scooting back again.”

“Does any one ever bother you here in the Valley of Tick Tock?” Dan asked.

“No, indeed. To begin with I guess no one but the Pretty Lady with the Blue-Blue Eyes and the White-White Horse would know how to find us. And,” Beader added, drawing himself up to his full height, “even if they did there are the Jumping Dragoons and the Nightsville Musketeers. Some of us are always on guard.”

“Of course, of course,” agreed Dan, very seriously, and very solemnly. “But tell me, how is it you call yourselves dragoons and yet have no horses?”

“Oh, but we have. You see, I’m a dragoon only on every Day Before Clock Night. On Clock Night Day I’m a horse. That’s the way we do in almost everything. We take turns. I wasn’t riding my mouse-horse to-night because we do that only when we drill.”

“I see,” said Dan, “but about the different clock days. You were to tell me—”

“Oh, look! Look!” broke in Beader. “There, coming down that biggest stalk. It’s Bounder, isn’t it? Why, of course it’s Bounder! Who but he could do such a thing. See! He’s bringing down a whole head at one time and I’ll warrant there isn’t a lean grain in all of it. I must speak to him.”

Off he sprang and in two jumps had reached the side of the one called Bounder. Up went one end of the head to his shoulder and then, amid the cheers of the others, the red-coated dragoon and the good-natured Bounder carried the prize to the feet of the sackers. Of course there was visiting and more or less handshaking that might have kept up even longer than it did had not Nibbler come up just then and ordered everybody back to their various tasks.

“Fine folks, those Fielders, fine folks,” vowed Beader, as he joined Dan a half-minute after. “I do hope you’ll have time to get over to Stubbleton to-morrow. They’d not be able to do enough for you.”

“Wha—what did you say,” asked Dan, suddenly lifting his head. “Please, do forgive me—I really believe I was nodding!”

“And no wonder!” cried Beader. “We’ve already visited well into the morning. But what a night it is! And what a moon! I say, it’s really too nice to sleep indoors even if we had a roof that would cover you. So what do you say if we both make our beds in the corn patch that lies just across from this field?”

“Nothing would suit me better,” declared Dan. So he and Beader set out for the patch.

“Here’s just the place for me,” said the mouse as he curled himself up at the foot of a stalk.

“While this space to the left must have been just measured for me,” echoed Dan.

“So, then, good night,” answered Beader. “And mind you, just sleep as long as you like for I assure you you’ll not be disturbed.”

But, though Dan had nodded while watching the Fielders, the walk to the corn patch had roused him again. As he lay there looking out through the leaves into the face of the moon he was reminded of the time when he had gone to sleep with his head on Gray Ears’ great trunk. The night was quite as still as the one he had passed in the depths of the woods. Yet, just as there had then been the song of the cricket so now was there a sound to accompany his thoughts. He had all but forgotten it while attending the harvest bee. But now he heard it more distinctly than ever. Whether it came from the south or the north, or came from the west or the east he could not be sure. Perhaps it was wafted on breezes that swung over the hills. But, from no matter whence, the sound floated toward him: “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.”

“Oh, Beader,” he called, determined to find out just what it was that gave forth the strange note. “Oh, Beader.”

But Beader was fast, fast asleep. So Dan said no more. And soon he, too, had followed the example of the little dragoon, while all through the valley went the voice that seemed never to sleep, saying “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock—”