Chapter I: KNOW you have all heard of the little man who lived inside a pumpkin (2)

Yet here he was thirty leagues or more from his starting place, in a strange, new valley! He wondered what the name of it could be.... It was such a wild and woody-looking place. He could not see very much, of course, for the stars gave little light, and the moon was but a thin, pale crescent. But he saw that all was tangled forests here and that wild, thorny heather and tall weeds had spread across what should have been clean meadows. An old road went across the heath, but it was overgrown with ferns and brambles and ditched with great muddy pools as if no one mended or repaired it—and no one traveled it. It was all a vast desert of waste and decay, hid by the dark of the night.

Peterkin knew how useless it would be to try to make his way forward before morning. So he lay down under the branches of the trees and slept.

But early the next day, before the sun was up, Peterkin had started on his way. A difficult journey it was, too, along the deserted road. There were puddles to wade and vines to skip and rocky barriers to climb. There were ruts where the leaves of the past autumn had buried themselves in a soggy mass or where the summer dust had sifted into foolish heaps. There were trunks of fallen trees across the road, and lizards, frogs and hedge-hogs crawled or hopped or ran beside them. All was desolate and wild. It was a valley of mysterious decay.

Then, at last, where the road slanted down to meet another long stretch of brown heathered fields, Peterkin spied a house. A huge, tall house, too, which must have been a splendid mansion once upon a time. But now it was shabby and needed paint. The bricks of its walls were losing their mortar; the slates of the roof were falling to the ground; none of the windows had curtains and few of them glass. There was moss upon the steps and in the eaves. The chimney pots were crumbled, and the lawn was high with choking weeds.

Peterkin wondered, Could anyone live here?

As if in answer to his question, a little boy came around the corner of the house. He came slowly, though he never stopped or hesitated a moment when he was within sight of Peterkin. He stumbled unsteadily through the weeds, with his hands held out before him. His face was handsome, truly—but his hair was in a fearful tousle over his eyes and his clothes were all in rags.

“No wonder you can’t see a thing,” laughed Peterkin. “Take your hair out of your eyes!”

The little boy stopped short at the sound of a voice. He nodded his head sadly.

“What are eyes?” he asked. “I know I have two of them—but what use are they? Won’t you tell me, stranger?”

“Why, silly!” roared Peterkin. “Eyes are to see with!”

The little boy smiled more sadly than before. “No,” he sighed. “If you can see with your eyes, you are not of this valley. For I am blind. And so are my father and my mother, and all our neighbors, too. And so is everybody in this valley. All of us are blind!”

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XVI

THE VALE OF THE BLIND

THE little boy led Peterkin into the house to meet his father and mother. But they, like the boy, were in rags and tatters—and blind!

“You can _see_?” asked the father in wonder, when Peterkin had explained whence he came. “What does it mean to _see_? Isn’t all the world a thing of blackness? Is there anything more to it than the dark nothing of the blind?”

“Oh, yes, indeed!” cried Peterkin, his own eyes filling with tears of pity. “There’s the sunshine and the trees, and all the bright flowers of the garden. There are birds of bright plumage, and moonbeams on the surface of the water, and the smiles on people’s faces. Oh, the world is so full of things to see.... I could not tell you all of them.”

The mother nodded. “Yes, that is just the way my father’s father used to speak,” she said slowly. “It was in his youth that this became the Vale of the Blind. Before that, it was known in all the Four Kingdoms as the Vale of Bright Eyes. But now——” Her voice sank away and she sighed.

“Tell me the story,” begged Peterkin. “Tell me how this great misfortune came upon your grandfathers.”

It was the father who answered him. “Our valley,” he began, “was the happiest-hearted of all hereabouts fifty years ago. These things you speak of—these colors and sunshine which we do not know—were here in smiling plenty. The fields were neat and trim with golden grain. The pastures were like new-swept velvet, clean and green. The roads were smooth and bright. The houses were all handsome, with pretty lawns and gardens. Men wore fine clothes and took pride in themselves and in one another.

“But one day, there came into our Valley of Bright Eyes a haggard stranger. He was the saddest being that e’er trudged down over the boundary hills, my grandfather used to tell me. He wept, the whole day long, because he had no teeth. Think of it! he could not be happy for want of a set of teeth!

“Now, all their happiness had made my grandparents and their neighbors a kind, soft-hearted lot. No sooner did they see this man—who said he was a farmer—than they took pity on him. They fed him with porridge and honey—for they knew he could not eat what must be chewed—and they gave him a bed of fragrant blossoms to lie on when the night came.

“But he would not sleep, at once. He got up every little while to ask them: ‘And are you sure this Valley of Bright Eyes is one of the Four Kingdoms, hey? Are you sure that the King of the Four Kingdoms is its ruler, hey?’

“Every time they told him ‘Yes’ he would chuckle and mumble strange words through his toothless gums. In the middle of the night, he arose and looked out across the moonlit fields, where the grain was rich, and down the gleaming road, where the handsome houses stood in sleeping order. He laughed aloud, this time, the story goes. Then he strode out into the road and ran and ran—faster than ever a man had run before.

“‘I seek a set of teeth!’ he screamed as he ran. Up flew the windows, all the good folk roused from bed, rushing to see who could possibly be making such a racket. All along his way the people stared at him. They saw him take a torch from out of his pocket. They watched him set it aflame. They saw him touch it, hot and sputtering, to the tops of the fields of grain, to the hedges and trees.... _He_ _was setting fire to their valley!_ They rushed down, seized him, and stamped out the fearful blaze in just the nick of time.

“As for the toothless villain, he screamed with merry laughter when they caught him.

“‘Hee, hee, my Bright Eyes!’ he cried. ‘You have been spying on me all this while, eh? Your eyes are too bright. You have been watching my revenge upon my enemy, the King! Too bright, too bright! From now you shall be blind—fast blind—you and your wives and your sons and daughters and your neighbors. From the Vale of Bright Eyes you shall now become the Vale of the Blind. And yours shall henceforth be a valley of ruin and decay. Blind, blind—and never again shall you see the gold of the day or the silver of the moon until I come to give you back your eyes—your bright eyes—hee, hee, hee!’

“And thus he fled from us. For the dark of the blind had come over the valley many years ago ... and there is nothing left for us but tears.”

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XVII

PETERKIN PROMISES

“AND so our valley has gone to rack and ruin,” concluded the blind man.

Peterkin was silent for some minutes after he had finished. Then he shook his head wisely, sadly.

“Can you wait four days until I rescue you?” he asked.

“Four days?” The man, his wife and little son all burst into a bitter laughter. “We have waited for half a century already. We can wait a century, if only in the end we gain our eyes again, and win revenge upon our toothless enemy. Four days, ho, ho!”

“You shall have both your eyes and your revenge,” promised the stranger. “It was only three days ago that I sped through the air in the cup of a sea-shell, in company with this toothless farmer. Oh, if I had only known, then!”

“What? In his company? Are you a friend of his?” The blind family rushed in about him, as if to capture him and flay him.

“No, no,” smiled Peterkin. “Not a friend at all. He tried to throw me hundreds of feet down to the ground. But he disappeared—and I do not know where he is. But I shall search the whole world over till I find him. And then—woe to him!”

So saying, he put his hand on the blind man’s shoulder and bade them all good-by. They gave him a few wild herbs to put into his blouse for luncheon—it was all they had for food. And then he went on his way, singing all sorts of promises to them as he went on down the hill.

As he walked along the shabby road, he came to other houses, broken down and unpainted, all tangled in high weeds and matted vines. Each house was poorer than the last; each one more deserted than the other. And from each of them trooped little groups of blind folk, groping in darkness, to question him and to complain to him of their hard fate. All along his way he met the sight of their tears and heard the sound of their weeping. But wherever he went, Peterkin gave the same promise of happiness within four days and left a smile of hope behind him.

At length he came to the last house of the valley. It was high on the slope of one of the boundary mountains, almost at the edge of the gleaming white glacier of the summit. It was fast in the shadow of a huge, bluish ice cave, and long icicles dripped from its eaves and glittered like jewels in the sunshine.

“And are you, too, blind?” he asked of the man who lived in this high house.

“Yes,” replied the old man, sorrowfully. “I am no better than all the others in this valley, no matter how high I live above them. I, like them, am awaiting the rescuer who shall return my sight and bring revenge upon our toothless enemy.”

“That is just what you shall have,” promised Peterkin, “if only you tell me what is in the next valley, on the other side of the white mountains; and how I may reach there the best.”

“Alas,” sighed the old fellow, “those are two riddles which I cannot answer. I only know that in that valley beyond the ridge of the boundary, there is just as much sorrow as there is here. There is something wrong there—though I have never known what it is—and the great barrier of glacier ice has hedged us from each other. So come and rest here for to-day, and to-morrow, bright and early, you may come upon some scheme to cross into that unknown valley over the mountains.”

So Peterkin took shelter there, in the green shadows of the ice cave, and slept a troubled sleep until the morning.

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“A young peasant girl came toward him”
]

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XVIII

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE

AS soon as dawn was over the glacier the next day, Peterkin was on his feet and sipping a good gulp from his flask of the Water of Bounceability. You see, he dreamed about this magic gift of the princess’s as he lay a-sleeping ... and really, what an easy thing it was to cross the boundary mountains, now!

Just one little swallow—and then a hop, skip and jump! Up, up and over! Over the tree-tops, over the glacier itself ... then down into the valley on the other side.

As he floated to the earth there, a strange hush seemed to fall on him. It was the quiet sense of absolute stillness. He walked forward a little way, then stopped in bewilderment. Not a sound—not a whisper of anything. He could not hear even the crunch of his feet upon the greensward. He called out, but somehow his voice sank away into nothing. The trees rustled silently; a great, frothing brook went tumbling down through a bit of woods without a murmur. All was quiet.

A young peasant girl came toward him, leading a horse across the fields—but Peterkin could hear neither the patter of her feet nor the hoof-beats of the horse.

“What ho!” cried he, “I must have gone suddenly deaf! I can’t even hear myself speaking. Here, girl, tell me what’s wrong with my ears?”

The peasant maid halted her horse; she looked at Peterkin with startled wonder. Her gaze settled on his moving mouth—and her eyes grew larger and larger with surprise. Suddenly she snatched a little twig from the branch of a nearby tree, stripped it and commenced to trace queer letters with it in the dust of the road.

“Phew!” thought Peterkin. “She must be deaf herself. It’s a good thing I went to school and learned to read and write!” Then he looked down at what the little girl had traced upon the road—and this is what he read:

“What are you eating?”

Peterkin laughed a noiseless laugh. Then he snatched the twig from her and wrote in reply:

“Nothing.”

“Then what makes you move your mouth so queer?” she asked in writing.

“I’m talking,” he scribbled back.

“What does talking mean? That’s a word we know nothing about in this valley.”

“Then how do you understand one another? And why don’t you make words with your mouth?” he traced.

“We write to each other—like this. There would be no use in talking like you do. We are all deaf.”

“All of you?”

“Yes, everybody in the valley.”

“Oh, then this is a valley of silence,” wrote Peterkin.

“Silence? What is silence?”

“Why, silence is when there is no noise.”

“What is noise?” she scrawled.

Poor Peterkin had to give it up after that. He tried to describe to her what the wind was like when it roared in wintry weather—or how the birds sing at evening in the woods—or how men can understand each other’s smiles and scowls by simple noises which they make with their mouths. But she only shrugged her shoulders and sighed. At any rate, Peterkin thought it was a sigh—but he could not hear it.

So he marched along at her side in strange silence, making no noise and hearing none, until they came into the center of a little village.

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XIX

EARS TOO SHARP

THERE, in the silent village, they found a group of old men nodding on a bench in the warm sunlight. Across the brook a big mill wheel was turning; but it made no roar or clatter. A cart went by, but there was no rumble to its wheels. Down the street a blacksmith was hammering at his ruddy forge; but there was no clang or clatter to keep noisy company to the flying sparks. All was silence—dreary, unbroken silence.

The old men stirred when Peterkin approached. They knew him for a stranger. They rose and made a place for him beside them on the bench. Then one of them took a piece of white chalk from his vest pocket, turned to the brick wall behind him and began to write. The words he wrote were so many that, before he was through, he had covered the wall from top to bottom with this sad and mysterious tale:

“Once,” he wrote, “this was the Valley of the Rippling Brooks. All were happy here, then. It was in my youth, I remember, when in our ears there ran the murmur of a hundred gleaming, merry brooks that cross the woods and fields and tumble from the hills in frothy white. The music of our laughter was like the music of these brooks—never slowing, never saddening. We were the happiest of all the Four Kingdoms.

“Then, one spring day, when the brooks were swollen and roaring with gladness, there came into our midst, from I don’t know where, a strange and toothless man. He was a farmer, like ourselves, he told us—and he was forever muttering low words between his empty gums.”

“The toothless villain again!” thought Peterkin.

“We gave him shelter for the night,” continued the old man with his writing. “But long before the moon was up, he had stolen off to the fields where the brooks were white in the darkness—up the steeps to where the waterfalls were splashing into quiet pools with a cheery murmur. He reached over the low banks, listening greedily to the music of the water. He knelt, bent his face close to the gurgling eddies—and began to drink!

“We were all in bed by now and most of us asleep. It was so easy to fall asleep in those good days, with the murmur of the softly playing brooklets in our ears—not at all like to-day, when night is a black stretch of silent terror.

“Suddenly, in every household, someone sat up straight in bed. In every household, someone had noticed that the sound of the water was growing fainter and fainter. First one brook and then another seemed to die down—as if it were suddenly drying up!

“We rushed out into the village square, across the fields, up the hills. The moon came out and showed us, gleaming bare, the dry and empty beds of many of our beloved brooks. Yes, nothing but dry, pebbled ruts, where no stream trickled and no water sang. Where was the villain who had worked this trick of tricks?

“We found him soon bending down at the edge of one of the last of our brooks. He was drinking, drinking, drinking. He was sucking the pearly water up, up into his puffed cheeks. He struggled to his feet as we surrounded him; he brushed the drops from his sagging mouth and started to run away. But he was bloated and heavy with all the water he had gulped and he could not move. We seized him and flung him into the water. He splashed and puffed and staggered clumsily, dripping, back into our midst. Hate was in his wet face, and his red gums were like round, snapping tongs.

“‘You men of the Rippling Brooks,’ he hissed, ‘your ears are far too sharp! Your happiness is all in the ripple of water—and I am here to take away that happiness. So if I cannot steal your brooks—why, then, I shall steal your ears! From now on, I decree that you, your wives and your children and all your neighbors shall be deaf. You shall live henceforth in a valley of silence, where not even the whir of a wren on wing shall come to your ears. Henceforth, all who dwell in this valley shall be deaf—and all who enter it shall be deaf, too—until I come again to set you free from the spell of utter silence.’

“Then the moon plunged behind a black cloud. This toothless demon disappeared with a terrific burst of thunder.

“And that was the last sound that has been heard in this valley since he cursed us with silence and sorrow.”

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XX

THE VALLEY OF DANCING LEGS

PETERKIN’S next move, when he had sipped his Water of Bounceability and came flying across into the next valley, was to clap his hands over his ears. He had been deaf awhile ... and now that he could hear again, all the thousand noises of the earth and air frightened and bewildered him.

He was wondering what was wrong with _this_ valley. There must be _something_ wrong with it, of course. And he did not have to wait very long before he discovered.

A group of fat and puffing people jigged into view. Hop, hop—what could be the trouble with them? Why, they were dancing! Hop, hop—skippetty hop, with never a stop—puffing, panting, groaning with weariness, they danced a crazy path toward Peterkin.

“Hey, hey, stop!” cried he.

“We can’t stop,” grunted the chief of them. “If you want to talk to us, you’ll have to dance along.”

Then, before he could help himself, Peterkin had a dancing man, locked arms, on either side of him—and he was stamping, running, tripping, jigging along with them.

“Oh, heigh, stop! Let go of me—stop, stop!” he commanded, out of breath and red in the face.

“No, that’s just what we can’t do!” sighed the fat old chief. “We must dance on and on and on. Our legs are shot with pain, our lungs are like hot blasts, our feet are blistered and sore—but we cannot stop!”

Peterkin stumbled and fell flat. His two guides yanked him to his feet—then on and on in a breathless dance.

“Once,” went on the hoarse and puffing chief, “we were the happiest of all the Four Kingdoms. We were just plain, sensible, walk-along folk. We loved to rest and doze in the heat of the noon. We loved to lie about and let our fields grow of themselves with rich wheat and tasselled corn. We were content to take our ease.

“Then, one lazy noon, there came into our midst—I don’t know whence—a toothless man.”

“What a villain this toothless enemy must be!” thought Peterkin, remembering all that had gone before.

“He was a genial farmer, it seemed to us,” continued the breathless chief, as they whirled along the road, uphill, downhill, in their ceaseless jig. “He lay down with us in the shade of the trees and looked out across our fields and sucked his pipe through his toothless gums.

“‘Ah, this is rare comfort!’ he said in a cheery voice. ‘You seem to be a happy valleyful here.’

“‘Oh, aye,’ I answered him, ‘we love to take our ease.’

“‘Do you love that better than all else?’ he asked me slowly.

“I stretched my arms in sleepy comfort and nodded back with a smile. He looked at me slyly—ah, if I had only known what villainy was behind that twinkle in his eye! He rose slowly to his feet.

“‘I shall show you all a pretty dance,’ he said, baring his gums. ‘Just lie there in comfort—it will amuse you—yes, and give _me_ great pleasure, too!’

“Then slowly, gently, he began to shuffle his feet. You would never have thought that he could be so nimble. In and out and round-about he pranced with fancy steps. It was so pleasant to be lying there in the cool shade and watching.... Then it seemed as if he were inviting us to join him. His brawny hands were beckoning; his smile said plainly: ‘Up, up—come along up and dance at my side.’

“First one and then the other of us struggled to his feet, and fell into a merry, jigging step. We laughed at the fun of it—not a laggard in the valley but was dancing with him.

“We grew breathless and tired. We wanted to stop. _But we couldn’t!_ When the toothless man saw this, he burst into a cruel roar of laughter:

“‘You would take your ease, eh?’ he mocked. ‘You loved more than all else to loll in the shade, eh? Well, henceforth you shall jig and dance from noon till night and night till noon in a never-ending wandering. Your ease is gone—and so’s your happiness! From now on, until I come again to free you, you shall be known as the Valley of Dancing Legs. Hee hee!’ and he was gone.”

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“There came floating toward him in midair”
]

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XXI

THE VALLEY OF UP-IN-THE-AIR

THE chief of the dancing crew had scarcely finished his bitter story when Peterkin swore to have revenge on the toothless enemy—and to rescue these poor, tired folk in the bargain. Then he broke from their midst, took a long draught from his magic bottle, and bounced clear over into the next valley.

And the odd part of it was that he never touched ground there at all. Instead, he was caught in a swirl of strong and steady breezes which kept him aloft, floating, swimming through the air, high above the ground.

“Well,” thought Peterkin, amazed, “I wonder if this is the fate of everyone in this valley?”

Yes, sure enough, a few moments later, there came floating toward him in midair a family of children and parents and grandparents. Behind them, in a string, floated feather beds and kitchen tables, dishes, parlor chairs and stoves—and a hundred and one other things of a household. It was a home complete—but all up in the air!

Then other families floated past, with little tots in flying cradles and gray-haired patriarchs in cushioned easy chairs with blankets tucked about them. Wheelbarrows, topsy-turvy sheets and pillows, clothes and jugs and mugs and a thousand other things in helter-skelter spun along behind them in a far-away trail. Everyone, everything was up in the air. Aye, even Peterkin!

“Who are you? And what are you doing up here?” he cried to the father of one of the families which floated past.

“I’m Pater Familias,” came the answer, borne upon the wind. “And I and my dear ones are up here because we can’t be down below, on the ground.”

“Well, why can’t you?”

The Pater Familias steered his whole crew, table, bed and pots and pans and all, toward Peterkin. “We owe all our misery to——”

“What? To the toothless villain?” interrupted Peterkin.

The whole family groaned and the pots and pans leaped at the mention of this evil person. “Yes, yes, the toothless villain—the enemy of the Four Kingdoms!” wept the Pater Familias. “If it were not for him, we should now be down on the ground where we belong, living most sensible lives in our homes ... and not flying from horizon to horizon above the tree-tops. We were happiest of the Kingdoms.

“But one day, when we were folk of the earth, there came flying over our heads this wicked, toothless farmer—anyhow, he told us he was a farmer. He came down into our midst upon a grassy hill.

“‘Well, what do you love more than all else in this valley?’ he asked us.

“‘Ho, that’s an easy question!’ we told him. ‘We love to keep our feet upon the ground, as all good, sensible people should.’

“He thought for a sly moment. ‘But wouldn’t you love to fly?’ he asked us. ‘Come, hop up into the air with me—up, up, as lightly as the birds on wing. Come, just try it—it’s such a delightful sport, this flying!’

“Then, as if in obedience to his summons, a great breeze sprang up from out of nowhere and swept us all off our feet and up, up—up to where he was floating. And truly, for a few moments, it _was_ delightful sport. But when we wanted to return to earth again—why, the farmer was gone—and there was no returning! We had been tricked into the air and there we must remain, floating, drifting, useless, helpless—we and our families and all our neighbors, together with our household, tables, beds and rags and tags, until this toothless fellow comes again to free us from his cruel magic.”

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XXII

PETERKIN IN A MUDDLE

“AND so it is the toothless farmer who has caused all this misery in each of the four valleys,” mused Peterkin, as he floated along at the side of Pater Familias. “Well, here’s my solemn oath on it: I shall have revenge on him, and force him to substitute joy for sorrow in each of these stricken kingdoms.”

Then he bade farewell to the People-Up-in-the-Air and floated away on the breath of the air—away to the boundaries of their land.

But it was not high mountains and snowy cliffs which hemmed this valley from its neighbors. Instead, the land below grew flatter and more yellow. Peterkin passed over wide, misty stretches of marsh and bogs; in the distance he could hear the faint roar of waves. Yes, he was coming to the sea. He was drifting fast toward that golden line of sands where the ocean met the land in a jagged, wavering line of frothy white.

He must swoop down to earth now—else he might be carried out into midwater. He must set foot upon the ground! But alas! try as he would, he was still in the Land of Up-in-the-Air—and up in the air he must stay!

Then he thought of his precious bottle of the Water of Bounceability. Perhaps, if he took a sip, he might be able to break the spell and to leap to the marshes below. He would try it.

He took out the bottle and uncorked it. He lifted it to his lips and let half of what remained in it gurgle down his throat. Then down he dived, head first. Down, down—yes, the spell was broken! Down to earth, just where the narrow strip of sands met the straggly marshes. He landed with a mighty somersault, roly-poly, into the muddy bog. He rolled over and over, crashing through the slimy rushes and the sand, to where the waves were churning. He was sprawling face downward, dizzy and dazed. He staggered to his feet, looking about him mournfully.

“All sea and sand and dreary marsh,” he sighed. “Over there, lost in the blue of the sea, must be the city whence I set out—the city of Princess Clem. Well, I shall have to finish my bottle of Water of Bounceability now—and fly in that direction.”

So he groped in his pockets for the bottle. But oh, the saddest of all things had happened now! He found the bottle broken—and the water all spilled and wasted!

Aye, his fall had smashed the precious vial—and there was no more of the magic liquid left to carry him home!

What now? Peterkin looked mournfully out across the blue sea, towards where the city of the palace and the Princess Clem must lie; then he looked back across the marsh, where poisonous mists were gathering in low, curling clouds; he searched the shore in vain for the trace of anything or anybody.... No, he was alone and helpless!

Ah, well, he did not know the great surprise which was in store for him!

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XXIII

THE LOST PUMPERKIN

AND what do you think that surprise was?

The Pumperkin! Yes, his old, long-lost Pumperkin!

Peterkin caught his first, golden glimpse of it as it came up over the distant horizon. It was floating in on the tide from the far mid-ocean. It was dipping slowly, peacefully from one rippling wave to the next; it came up to the shore at last, bobbing in the surf, then pitching down with a last lurch into the soggy marsh.

Peterkin ran to it. Yes, there could be no doubt—it was his beloved Pumperkin, his old home—his boat-house of a pumpkin which had been torn away from him by the tempest wind.... He scaled up the side and peeked in through the ceiling window. Yes, all was as he had left it. There was his tumbled bed in the corner, there were the chairs, legs up. And there, sure enough, was his ladder, with its top peeping up above the edge of the roof. All that was missing was the cook-stove.

Peterkin climbed over the edge and down the ladder. He was safe now. He was hopeful and happy. He had only to push and shove a little bit and—away, away he went, bound for the home of his Princess Clem!

How good it seemed to be in his pumpkin house again! He wondered how many seas it had passed over, whither it had wandered, where it would lead him now. For, of course, there was no such a thing as steering these roly-poly pumpkins: wherever it floated, Peterkin must float along!

Away it sailed, over the waves, in the clutch of the lazy tide. Away, until the marshes and the golden strand were lost in a hazy mist. Up one wave and down the next, with the spray dashing in through the ceiling window. How like the first few days it all was—those first few days of the marvellous adventures. Peterkin smiled to think of them, and of how many wonderful things had happened to him since first his house was torn from his stem in the pumpkin patch.

And now he was on his way to the most thrilling adventure of them all. He was bound for the city from which he had been banished; he was returning either to his happiness or to his death. As he looked out across the waves, he wondered how it would all end; was he going to find that toothless old villain? Was he going to bring back joy into the Four Kingdoms, and a smile to the lips of their monarch? Was he going to win the hand of the gracious Princess Clem? Or, after all, would the whole search and struggle end with his being captured and put to death? Or with the toothless villain murdering him? Well, he swore he should put up a hard fight.... For he knew a way to bring this cruel enemy to his knees. At least, he thought he did!

So he sat and thought it all out, while his pumpkin boat sailed closer and closer to the other shore. Do you know what was on that shore?

Why, a city, of course! The very city for which our Peterkin so dearly yearned. The city of the golden palace—and of the Princess Clem!

And the city where he would find the toothless farmer! Perhaps Peterkin guessed that much ... for his cheeks grew a little white as he watched the distant spires and golden dome, all agleam in the sunset.

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XXIV

OUT OF HIDING

NOW we must return to the toothless old villain. Do you remember, we left him dozing snugly in his hiding place atop the roof of a deserted house? He was waiting for the gray dusk, when he might steal out upon his wicked business. Perhaps it was the King himself he wished to harm, this visit—but I can’t be positive of that.

Anyhow, when night had come and the streets were bare again of people and little dim lanterns were swinging in the shadows of the balconies, the old wizard crept down the stairs again, into the black vestibule. Then out he darted—out into the street.

“The windows in the palace were gleaming”
]

The windows in the palace, across the narrow street, were gleaming with bright cheer and threw big yellow squares of light across the cobbled gutters. The old villain, when he stood a-tiptoe, could see the gilded walls and the jeweled ceilings. He caught just a glimpse of a corner of the throne itself, all in a glory of precious stones and carvings. And once he thought he could make out the shadow of a man all decked in royal robes—and a crown on his head.

The wizard trembled and growled at this sight of his ancient enemy. He raised his crooked finger threateningly in the dark and snarled a terrible oath. Then he sped on, up one gloomy, lonely alley and down the other, across wide boulevards and empty squares, dodging into the shadows at every sudden creak of a shutter or rustle of a tree. Once a company of soldiers marched past him—left, right, left, right, with weary, lagging steps. He had just time to slink out of their way and flee into a little court-yard, darker than the cloudy sky—blacker than black itself. He could see nothing here. He groped, he stumbled, he felt his way warily. Just ahead of him he heard a strange gurgling of water, low and soft, as if from a distance. He stopped short, bewildered.

Then it seemed as if the tramp of those soldiers from whom he was fleeing was growing louder—that they were coming nearer and nearer. Had they discovered his whereabouts? Were they chasing him now?

He could not keep his toothless gums from chattering. In fear he rushed forward in the darkness. A couple of wild steps and—down he went! Down through a great sewer hole! Down, down, below the street, into the rushing, roaring water which was sweeping through the great brick tube of the underground sewer!

Whiz! What a roar! Whiz! What a rush and dash and smother of gurgling, thundering water! The old magician was swept swiftly along with the stream. He sank, rose again, coughed, sputtered, sank again. Then, as he rose a second time, he took a long breath and lay quite still. Yes, he was floating! He would not drown here, anyhow!

As he sped along, lying on his back atop the rushing water, with his gums tight shut and his eyes wide open to the dark, he wondered where he was floating. Where was this water rushing? Where did the great sewer end?

Then, of a sudden, the roar of the water grew louder than ever. He shot out, out into space—and then down, down, into the gushing spray of a waterfall. Then down, deep down, under the surface—and up again. He beat his hands frantically about in the churning froth. He shook the water from his eyes. Where had the great tube emptied him? Where was he?

Why, in the sea, to be sure—in the sea!

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XXV

A PRECIOUS PRISONER

IT was late in the night when Peterkin’s pumpkin boat came riding into the city’s calm harbor. The reflections of the stars which had winked up into the sky were dotting the black water with melted gold. Red and green lights from the prows of sleeping boats and piers lay glowing in the easy tide. Not a sound—excepting the soft slap of little waves along the bottom of the drifting Pumperkin.

Peterkin, as he stood on his ladder’s top rung, looked out across the harbor toward the huddled houses, gray and looming, with dim lit window panes blinking through the dark. Over the roofs he could make out the form of the huge dome of the palace—and he knew that there was the room of his princess. Aye, there was Princess Clem!

Could she be asleep? The hour was so late ... perhaps her nurse had tucked her, long ago, into her warm and comfy bed. But, no—oh, no! For, suddenly, he caught the gleam of a little light from the window just below the dome. Yes, he was sure it was from the princess’s window. She must be yet awake. She must still be watching—be waiting—for his return, as she promised she would do, and his heart gave a great throb for joy.

His Pumperkin drifted slowly in toward the shore. He heard a strange roaring, angry and deep. It was the rush of water he knew; perhaps some sewer, speeding its underground course and emptying itself, at the last, into the sea.

In the midst of the rumble of water, he thought he heard a short splash; something dark went down in the white froth of the water, then rose to the surface near his boat—then sank and rose again not an arm’s length away. Peterkin peered over the edge to see what it was. He gasped and almost shrieked; it was a man! He reached down, made a wild grab at the floating jacket—pulled, tugged, hoisted—ouf! and he had the drowning one inside his Pumperkin. He gazed down into the face of the rescued. A loud cry escaped him. It was the Toothless Farmer!

Yes, the toothless old villain—the arch-enemy whom he had set out to find! And you and I know how it happened that this old farmer came to be plunging into the sea so suddenly and without warning.... But Peterkin didn’t!

The toothless one had an unlucky time of it, didn’t he? For here he was in the very clutches of the hero—at the mercy of Peterkin, whom he had played so false—Peterkin, who had resolved revenge upon him for all the wrongs he had done in the Four Kingdoms!

No sooner did he open his eyes than he saw heroic Peterkin above him, fists clenched and anger in his eyes.

“Ow, ow,” chattered he, his red gums bobbing with fear and chill, “don’t threaten me! Why do you clinch your fists at me, eh? I’ve never met you before, have I?”

Peterkin laughed scornfully. “What a lie! Don’t you remember who it was who brought you into these Four Kingdoms, not so long ago, astride of a flying shell? Don’t you remember whom you tried to fling off, down to a crashing death? What! don’t remember me?”

The old man grew green with fright. He wrung his thin, crooked fingers. “I—I thought—I thought you were dead,” he moaned. “I didn’t dream of your escaping death ... dear, oh dear, I suppose you’ll kill me now, eh? Well, just let me tell you my story, first—oh, please, let me tell it—please, please, please!”

And, of course, who could resist such pleading? Certainly not Peterkin, who folded his arms sternly and waited for the end of the tale.

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XXVI

THE VILLAIN’S STORY

“ONCE,” began the old villain, “I was as young and as happy-hearted as you are, stranger. For I was handsome, rich and powerful. I was noble—aye, more than noble—for I was a prince of the court of the Four Kingdoms. I was the son of the King’s older brother—and some said that I, not he, should be the king upon the jeweled throne.

“This thought was like a flame to me. It burned and flared within my mind in jealous heat; I came to wish for my royal cousin’s death, so that I might succeed him to the honor of all honors of the kingdoms. I took a secret oath that ere I grew much older, I should murder him. Hee, hee, that’s the extraordinary sort of a villain I was!

“But I had one thing of which I was more proud than all the world: my set of teeth! A set of white, sharp, glistening teeth! They were more splendid than the teeth of any other nobleman at court. They were finer even than the King’s own teeth. They were my constant pride, my dearest joy! With them I could eat all the rarest things of the kitchen. I could chew tin pans and pots; I could crumple pewter kettles; I could crunch thick venison steaks and the horns of a full grown cow. My teeth were my greatest power—and my joy!

“But all the while my heart was black against my royal cousin. I coveted his crown, I longed for his scepter. My jealousy grew until I could hide it no longer. I made a journey into a far distant forest, where a famous witch lived in her cave. And there I dwelt for many months, learning all her wicked magic. She taught me how to curse whole valleys of people—how to bring sorrow to hundreds. But alas! she could not teach me how to kill my royal cousin.

“‘When shall I be King?’ I asked her each morning.

“And every eve, after a day of pondering over her caldron, she would answer: ‘When you have learned to kill man with the joy of your life’

“Then at last I understood. What could possibly be the joy of my life excepting these, my beautiful teeth? I must return and _bite_ my royal cousin to death!

“I hurried back to the Four Kingdoms. I met the King in his gilded dining hall. Before his host of cowardly courtiers, I threw myself upon him and sought to bury my teeth into his breast.

“But ah, under his velvet robes, he was wearing a coat of strong steel links. My teeth crunched against them—and could go no further. I fell back dismayed. A hundred men—courtiers and guards—were upon me, pinning me to the marble floor.

“‘Take him away!’ cried the King, my enemy. ‘Take him away, and pull out all his teeth!’

“And one by one, in the dark dungeon, they pulled out of my gums the joy of my life—my white, my sharp, my glistening teeth. Think of it! Think of the pain, of the deep shame!

“But I swore a deep revenge, and when I was banished, I went to live as a simple farmer in that neighboring valley where first you beheld me. I have spent all the rest of my toothless, joyless days in taking terrible revenge upon this cousin King—this royal wretch who stole my proud possessions. I have brought sorrow into each of his Four Kingdoms, and I shall kill him—him and his pretty daughter, Princess Clem! Hee, hee!” He gave an evil chuckle and gnashed his gums in hate.

Peterkin shuddered. “And is there nothing will satisfy you?” he pleaded.

“Yes!” snapped the old man. “A new set of teeth! Teeth as white and sharp and glistening as the set they robbed me of. A new set of teeth—or else revenge!”

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“She strained her eyes to watch the distant harbor”
]

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XXVII

IN THE CITY

WHILE the toothless villain was finishing his cruel story, the dawn began to flicker in the eastern sky. And, beyond the gray piers, in the houses of the city, the early risers were already up and stirring. Thin wisps of smoke commenced to float up out of the houses’ chimneys to prove that cooks and housewives were already at their ovens.

The dome of the palace was beginning to flash with the first rays of the sun. Just beneath it, the curtains of the little princess’s window were flapping strangely. It almost seemed as if she were standing behind them and peeking out upon the city’s roofs, as far as the harbor beyond.

Aye—and so she was! With her fair curls tumbling to the clean, sweet morning breeze and her little white nightie fluttering softly, she strained her eyes to watch the distant harbor. Perhaps she saw something strange there—something she had never seen before in all the Four Kingdoms. Perhaps she had guessed it was the Pumperkin—and that in its big yellow cup her wandering lover had drifted home again, in triumph and in glee.

* * * * *

Of course, her nurse was very shocked to find a royal princess with her head far out of the window; but Princess Clem never bothered to explain. She laughed and she laughed all the while her many maids were dressing her—and indeed they had not seen her in so happy a mood for many a weary week.

“Put on my prettiest gown,” she bade them. “Dress me in my gown of pale blue silk—the one on which white lilies are embroidered, tall and shimmering. And run blue ribbons through my golden braids—ribbons as blue as my eyes, and deck them with pearls as white as my teeth.”

At that the nurse looked shocked and horrified. “Oh, hush, Royal Highness,” whispered she. “Have you forgotten no one must mention that last word in this domain? Teeth are never spoken of here—_teeth_ is a banished word! And all because of that wicked villain——”

“Ha, ha,” broke in the princess gayly, “lots of good things are banished from this land—and lots of good heroes, too! But they always come sailing home again at the end of a hero’s task.... And as for that villain, he’ll soon be one no longer, mark my words.”

And mark her words they did, although they did not understand one of them. Yet, inasmuch as she was a Princess Royal, they dared not argue with her.

After this came breakfast in the great gilded dining hall, in her chair at the side of the throne, where Princess Clem must peel her father’s orange and break his egg and—oh, do everything a daughter ought to do, no matter whether she be a king’s or a beggar’s child. But this morning she did it all with such a strangely happy smile—and all in such a furious, giggling hurry....

“Bless my soul,” declared His Majesty, tilting one eyebrow up to meet his crown, “it would almost seem as if my little daughter had found a sweetheart, eh? Her smile is so bright—why, I’ll wager my crown she’s in love! Ho! I shall have to look into this.”

But he did not have to! For, before he had swallowed another mouthful, he knew the whole story!

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XXVIII

HOW PETERKIN TRICKED THEM ALL

AYE, he knew the whole story, did His Majesty. For enter at that very moment a dusty, breathless messenger—a sailor from the wharves which fronted on the harbor.

“A ship—a strange ship is in the port, Your Majesty!” he cried, as he knelt at the side of the table. “A ship more strange than any we have ever seen. A ship entirely round, with neither prow nor stern nor sails nor flag—a ship of golden brown, and the very shape and color of a huge garden pumpkin!”

Then the King remembered the famous story which Peterkin had told him weeks ago and he knew who had dared to come back to his city in spite of the order of exile.

“What?” bellowed His Majesty, his face growing purple with rage. “This bold adventurer, this scalawag Peterkin, back in our midst? Come sailing back in that pumpkin boat of his, eh? Well, he shall suffer for it, I promise you. He shall be caught and clapped back into the dungeon cell from which he so mysteriously escaped.”

At that, the little princess, at his side, blushed a very rosy blush and hung her head, so that they could not see her tears.

“I swore death to this fellow, if ever he came again into my power,” hissed the King. “And death it shall be! Ho, my trusty guards! Arm yourselves with ropes and heavy chains and run to the harbor, in search of the lost prisoner. We shall have to give him a taste of death, death, death!”

Whereupon all the soldiers, all the courtiers, all the nobles of the land, armed themselves, clattering, growling, thundering. And down to the wharves of the harbor they swept, leaving the gilded dining room deserted. Even the King himself left his half eaten eggs, and forgot to clap the cover on his dish of honey—and ran off, with his crown toppling over one ear and his royal robes dragging in the mud, all the way from the palace door to the planks of the piers. Only the little Princess Clem was left, in terror and in tears. She wept, poor thing—and made a sorry mixture of her tears in a pitcher of cream.

Out from the shore, in a hundred boats, dashed the King and his cohorts. Out and around they spun, circling the peaceful pumpkin. Then closer and closer—and always pushing closer.

“Heigh, wretch!” cried the King, who stood, straight and tall, in the bow of the royal barge. “You are captured and you cannot escape. You are surrounded by a thousand warriors, all armed with ropes and heavy chains. You are a prisoner again, and death shall be your punishment! Rush in, brave boatmen, and seize this dog of a Peterkin!”

So in sped the boats, crashing against the sides of the poor Pumperkin. Then up with ladders—up with the men, climbing the steep, bulging sides of Peterkin’s house. Then, one peek through the ceiling window and—what a cry went up!

_For Peterkin was gone!_

Nothing could be found of him, no matter how hard they searched—in every nook, behind the chairs, under the bed and everywhere. He was gone!

* * * * *

And only you and I shall know the secret of where he disappeared. For when the dawn was breaking, Peterkin had seized his old companion by the shoulders and had whispered into his hairy ear:

“Come, you shall have that set of teeth you crave. You shall have the whitest teeth in all the world, if only you do as I order. But if you do not, I shall have to punish you as all wicked villains must be punished. So take your choice, my toothless enemy. Will you do as I desire?”

To be sure, the ugly old man could only mumble a consent through his red gums. Whereupon Peterkin leaped upon his shoulders and cried:

“Fly first with me to the Valley of the Blind!”

And away they flew, leaving the Pumperkin just as the King and his cohorts found it: empty and alone.

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XXIX

PETERKIN BRINGS JOY

I’M not sure what the old villain thought of the scheme of flying to the Valley of the Blind—but he dared not disobey. For Peterkin’s grip was firm upon his shoulders—and Peterkin’s breath was hot against his cheek.

So over the mountains they flew, into the tumble-down, joyless valley of darkness—the valley where the toothless villain had stricken each innocent one with blindness.