Chapter VI: Part TWO: How the Bakers Wished They Hadn’t 251 (5)

One stormy night as Offero stood behind the throne, a minstrel came to play his harp before the king. He sang of war, of dangers and temptations; and Offero stood drinking in with all his heart the music and the story. But the king fidgeted in his great chair, and Offero could see his gold crown tremble. One hand would grip the carved, gilt lion by his side, while the other made a nervous sign upon his forehead.

Offero watched, troubled. It was when the minstrel sang of Satan that the king shuddered. It was at that name he made the sign upon his forehead.

When the minstrel had done, and the courtiers had taken their leave, Offero knelt before the throne. “Oh, king,” he cried, “why did you shake at Satan’s name?—you who are afraid of no one!”

The king smiled sadly. “Ah, Offero,” he said, “the mightiest monarch of the earth must fear Satan. For he is more powerful than any king of us all; and only that sign of the cross can save us from him.”

Offero sprang up, his huge shadow darkening the throne.

“Then you are not the greatest king!” he thundered. “Farewell. I go to serve him whom you fear,—King Satan!”

And like a cyclone Offero was gone through the palace gate.

All night he strode through the storm; and when day cleared, he found himself on a wide, pleasant road thronged with people all going down a hill.

“Ho, there!” shouted Offero from his height. “Can any of you tell me the way to King Satan?”

“Follow us,” cried the foremost; “we are bound that way.”

Now, the leaders, who went so fast ahead, looked mean and crafty; and those who shuffled along behind were pale and wild, with restless eyes. But Offero, towering so far above, could not see their faces. He was only glad in his great, honest heart to be with such a large, gay company.

“For,” he said to himself, “does it not show that Satan is the greatest king of all when so many people willingly leave other kings, to serve him?”

The road went down steeper and steeper. And the faster it fell, the gayer and more reckless the travelers became. They shouted and danced along so riotously that even Offero’s huge strides hardly kept up with them.

Suddenly there was a shriek. In an instant all the gay cries were changed to rasping screams. Offero stopped in bewilderment. Directly before him the road was swallowed up in a vast, smoking cavern. It was into that his companions had gone.

The shrieks grew fainter, and above them came a hoarse, sneering laugh.

“A cruel king, this Satan!” thought Offero. “But I have vowed to serve the greatest, and I must go on.”

He stepped to the cavern’s mouth. A blast of black smoke choked him; and as it cleared, he saw coming toward him, a haughty figure with a crown of flames.

Offero bowed low.

“A handsome recruit!” snarled Satan. “Well, friends, a fellow like this will be useful on our errand in the world up there.” And without a word to the giant, Satan beckoned him to fall behind.

Offero followed sadly while Satan and his train swept jeering up the hill. All along the way people cringed and shook at Satan’s coming. Dukes and princes, ladies and laborers, all scurried at his glance. A whole army marching to battle turned in terror at sight of him. Satan went on, haughty and regardless.

Little by little, Offero began to forget his cruelty in admiration for his boldness. “At last,” thought the honest giant, “I have found the greatest king, who is afraid of no one.” And he stepped along proudly to think that his search was done.

The road gave a sudden turn. Over the heads of Satan and his train Offero could see a rough cross of wood against the sky, and at its foot a child placing a handful of wild flowers.

The giant’s kind heart was troubled. “Such a baby!” he muttered. “If only Satan would not frighten her!”

As he spoke there was a snort of fear. But it was not the child who gave it. Satan, cowering, burst through his followers, and back along the road. Offero’s great form barred the way.

“Let me by!” shrieked Satan. “Let me by, I say!”

Offero’s mighty hand tightened on his shoulder. “Tell me first,” said the giant calmly, “of what you are afraid.”

“The cross!” screamed Satan. “The cross! The cross of Christ, my enemy!”

“This Christ,” said Offero, “is a greater king than you, then, or you would not fear his cross.”

“Let me go!” cried Satan, beating with his fists on Offero’s massive arm. “Save me!”

Offero loosened his grip. “Go,” he said scornfully, and stood aside while Satan and his train rushed by him down the hill.

The little girl stood wondering beneath the cross. “Good day,” said Offero. “Can you tell me the way to the king called Christ?”

“You must ask the hermit,” answered the child. “He knows the way. But the path to his hut is steep and jagged, up a high hill.”

“Thank you,” said Offero. “The path does not matter, if he can tell me how to find the greatest king.”

So the child pointed the way. All day long Offero climbed. The stones were so big and sharp that they cut even his huge, hardy feet; and it was sunset before he came to the hut on the mountain top.

The hermit was beginning his evening meal. “Welcome, friend,” he cried. “Come in and sup with me.”

As they ate, Offero told the hermit of his errand. “I would find this king called Christ,” he said. “For I have vowed to serve the greatest king, who is afraid of no one. My arms are strong. I can fight for him and make him more powerful than before.”

The hermit smiled. “To find Christ,” he said, “you must first serve him. And to serve him you must not kill your fellowmen, but help them.”

“What can I do then?” asked Offero ruefully. “I am strong to fight. How can I help?”

The hermit looked at him. “Good giant,” he said, “your shoulders are broad and sturdy. They should be able to carry great weights.”

“They can indeed,” cried Offero happily. “It is from them I have my name,—Offero,—the carrier.”

“Then, Offero,” said the hermit quietly, “why not use your shoulders to serve King Christ? There is a river not far from here, which runs deep and wild; and there are many people who come night and day to cross it over. The strongest and hardiest pass through safely, but the old and weak are often swept away by the flood.”

Offero’s eyes flamed with sudden pride. “I can carry them all safely across!” he cried. Then his face darkened. “But how shall I find King Christ?” he asked.

The hermit’s eyes looked far away. “You will not have to search,” he said gently. “If you serve him well, he will come to you.”

Next morning Offero and the hermit set out for the river. But hardly were they down the mountain when every traveler called out to them to turn back. “The river is in a fury,” they cried. “No man could reach the other side alive.”

The hermit shook his head. “Come and see,” he said. “For I have a trusty ferryman here who can weather any flood.” So Offero and the hermit kept on; and the travelers followed, wondering.

The river beat against its banks, and the waves rushed white with foam. Offero pulled up a stout green tree to steady himself, and waded in till he could feel the cruel whirlpools sweeping around his ankles. Then lifting the hermit to his broad, firm shoulder, he plunged fearlessly into the raging stream. The water swirled and hissed about him. It rose to his great chest, and wet the edge of the hermit’s robe. But it was of no avail against the giant. He towered through it as solid as a cliff, and set the hermit safely on the other side.

A great “bravo” went up from the watching people; and when Offero came back, they gathered about him, clamoring to be carried. So Offero began his service of the king whom he had never seen.

Day and night he kept at it,—in the spring when the river was high and surly, in the winter when it was chilling and swift. To be within call always, he built himself a hut on the bank; and there was no one who knocked, however haughty or humble, that Offero did not take upon his shoulder and carry safely through the river.

So every day Offero’s great face grew more kindly and his shoulders more patient. But always in his heart there was a kind of longing wonder whether the King would really seek him out, as the hermit had said; and whether Christ was indeed the greatest king, afraid of no one. “If Christ would only come!” he thought; and sometimes in the depths of night he would start up and unbar the door, thinking that he heard the knock of the King. But it was only the wind, or now and again some belated pilgrim begging to be carried across the river.

One black night when the rain lashed the hut, and the river ran high and wild, Offero awoke to a sound that was not the storm. “A knock!” said his listening heart. “A knock!” Or was it after all a dream? No pilgrim, not even the fearless King would travel a night like this.

Nevertheless Offero sprang up, lit his great, rude lantern, and threw open the door. A drenching blast blew away his breath, but there on the threshold, in the gusty light was a pilgrim indeed,—a little child with his cloak running with rain.

Offero caught him up with one grasp of his great arm. “Poor little one!” he cried. “Come in from the storm.”

“No, no, kind giant,” pleaded the child. “I cannot stay. I must cross the river to-night. It runs deep and wild for my small strength, and I come to ask if you will carry me through.”

So Offero took his staff, and settling the child gently on his shoulder, plunged out into the pelting storm.

Above the wind they could hear the river roaring through the dark. Offero strode to the edge and stepped in. At the very bank the water was knee-deep, and the waves washed high on his great body. The child clung closer to his neck, and Offero stopped and steadied himself. The bottom was slippery at best; and to-night, with the waves rushing against him, it was harder than ever to stand upright.

At every step the river grew deeper and more savage. The rapids snarled about his neck, and his eyes were blinded with foam. The child, who had been but a featherweight, seemed suddenly to become heavier than a man. Offero’s mighty shoulder bent under the load. The waves plunged into his face, choking him. And still the child pressed him down. The water was smothering him, and he felt the current sweeping him off his feet. Firmly as he held to his staff, he could not go on. The child was like a mountain, bearing him down. His limbs were numb and cramped, and all his strength seemed gone. A daze came over him, and the water surged in above his head.

With one last struggle, he straightened himself, raising the child above the foam. Offero gasped, staggered forward, and stopped, trembling and weak. But he had passed the channel and stepped into the shallower water on the other side. No matter how heavily the child bore upon him now, he could keep his head above the waves. So he stood, bowed and panting, beaten by the river and the rain.

Then slowly he felt his way through the blackness out of the torrent and up the solid bank. Gently he set the child down and stooped beside it. “Are you quite safe and well, little one?” asked he.

“Quite safe, good Offero,” said the child, “thanks to your kind care. For you have served me bravely, carrying me and my great burden through the raging river.”

“I saw no burden,” said Offero, wondering; “I only felt it.”

And as he spoke, the sky brightened, the storming of the wind and river ceased, and the rain fell in gentle, shining drops.

“My burden,” said the child gravely, “is the greatest any man has ever borne. For I have taken on my shoulders all the sins and sorrows of the world.”

Offero fell back, dumb with wonder. For before him stood no longer the child, but a stately figure, serene, triumphant, with a crowning light about his head.

“For I,” said the kind, deep voice, “am Christ, the king whom you have served. And because you have borne me faithfully, you shall be called not Offero, the carrier, but Christoffero, the Christ-carrier. So all men shall know that you are my brave and loyal servant.”

The giant dropped on his knees, but for wonder and joy he could not find his voice. He could only gaze with grateful eyes. And as he looked, the King turned, and walked majestically over the hills toward the sunrise.

But Christoffero knelt on, lost in ecstasy. For he knew that he had found the greatest king, who was afraid of nothing, not even the sins and sorrows of the whole world.

So Offero, by serving, became the giant saint,—Christopher.

X

Gargantua

The giant Grangousier, of feasters the first,
Hated that any should hunger or thirst;
To all at his table, the low or the high,
“Eat, eat,” said Grangousier, “and drink ere you’re dry!”

When the babe of this generous giant was yet
But a lusty young guzzler of all he could get,
He made his convivial father rejoice
By shouting “Drink, drink!” at the top of his voice.

Now, one would have thought that for eating, indeed,
The babe and his father had perished of greed;
But kindness as keen as his hunger was then
Made baby Gargantua greatest of men.

_Seymour Barnard._

X

Gargantua

Part One: How Gargantua Learned His Latin

Of all the giants that ever lived, the fattest and the jolliest was good old King Grangousier. From morning till night, and around again from night till morning, there was nothing but one continual banquet at his palace. Whenever you might happen in, there were always pigs roasting, puddings steaming, spits turning, pies baking, chickens broiling, jellies hardening, cakes frying, cooks stirring, butlers pouring, and pages running to and fro with platters. There was always, in fact, such a cloud of savory odors streaming out of the palace that the people for miles around did nothing but eat the air.

In the midst of all the bustle sat King Grangousier at the head of his table, singing and laughing, and letting out his belt at the end of each course. And the best of it was that there was no one so rich and no one so poor that he was not invited to sit down too and eat and drink and laugh and sing as much as he was able. Prince and pauper, beggar and baron, all flocked together about Grangousier’s board.

“Eat, eat, my good people,” Grangousier would cry, beaming down at his small guests. “Here, boy, bring puddings, pheasants, capons,—and chitterlings for the lady. Fill up the glasses. Fall to, comrades! Eat before you’re hungry; drink before you’re thirsty,—that’s the palace rule.”

And it must be said for Grangousier that he followed his own rule very well. Every day he grew broader and rounder and bulgier; and as for his chins, some said there were nine, and some that there were ten, but anyway there was a cascade of them that fell down over the royal shirt frills.

And so, when one day the hearty old king was blessed with a son, no one was in the least surprised that the youngster was the biggest, lustiest, thirstiest baby that ever was born. His baby carriage was a great wooden cart as big as a house, drawn by a hundred oxen. And it took seven thousand, nine hundred and thirteen cows to supply him with milk.

The very moment he was born, in fact, instead of crying, “Mie, mie, mie!” like other babies, he shouted out at the top of his lungs, “Drink, drink, drink!”

When father Grangousier heard _that_, his joy nearly choked him so that he could just gasp out in his queer old French, “Que grand tu as!”—by which he meant, “What a big throat you have!”

And all the lords and neighbors who were feasting with him, clapped their flagons on the table and vowed that the baby could not have a better name.

“Here’s to Prince Que-grand-tu-as!” they cried.

Now, the very oldest of the king’s old neighbors, who I am afraid was a little tipsy, shouted the toast out after the others, and in his haste, slurred the four words together. So it happened that the young giant was named for all time: GARGANTUA.

Up to the time he was five years old, Gargantua was educated much like the other children of the kingdom, in

Drinking, eating, and sleeping;
Eating, sleeping, and drinking;
Sleeping, drinking, and eating.

From dawn till dark he was continually full of frolic. He would roll about in the mud; slide down the palace towers; run after hawks and eagles with a net, as other children chase butterflies. When his playmates ran about with their paper whirligigs, he would pick up a convenient windmill and go charging down with it across the kingdom.

Best of all he liked his horses. To make a good rider of him, his father had built a great horse of wood as high as a church. Across its back Gargantua would throw himself, and make it trot, jump, amble, gallop, or pace just as he liked. Of a huge post he made himself a hunting-nag; and of a beam, a work-horse. Besides these he had ten or twelve poles that did for race-horses, and seven great boards that were horses for his coach. All of them he kept in his own room, tied securely to his bed.

One day Lord Breadinbag, the Duke of Free-meal, and the Earl of Dry-throat, with all their followers, came to visit King Grangousier. With so many guests all at once, the palace was crowded, and in the stables for the visitors’ horses there was not a stall to be had.

Lord Breadinbag’s steward and his first gentleman-of-horse came on Gargantua just as he was sliding down off the palace roof. “Aha!” thought they, “we can find out from _him_ where the king’s own stables are.”

“Good prince,” said the steward, “can you show us where the giant horses are kept?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Gargantua, “come with me.”

And taking them both by the hand, he dragged them after him up the great staircase of the palace. Through a long hall he led them up into a tower.

“This is some trick!” gasped the gentleman-of-horse. “The stables are never at the top of the house.”

As for the poor steward, he was too breathless to reply. “You—never—can—tell,” he panted. “Things—so—odd—in—these—giants’—countries.”

But Gargantua kept on dodging around corners and dashing up staircases, and there was nothing for it but to stumble after. Finally he flung open his bedroom door.

“Here are my great horses!” he cried. “Here is my roan, here is my bay, here is my race horse!” And with that he gave a lash at the beams and poles.

As soon as the steward and the gentleman-of-horse got their breath, they laughed indeed, and fairly tripped over each other in rushing downstairs to tell the joke in the banquet hall.

When Grangousier heard it, he roared till his chins shook again. “The young rogue!” he bellowed. “The rascal! If he is old enough to be up to mischief, he is old enough to go to SCHOOL!”

From that moment Gargantua’s fate was sealed. The next day an old schoolmaster named Tubal Holofernes came to teach him his letters. Now, Master Holofernes was a little, wizened man whom Gargantua could have lifted up in one of his big hands. Standing on the ground he had to shout through a trumpet to reach Gargantua’s ears. So, in order to get on faster with the teaching, Grangousier had him lifted up on one of the wooden horses, and ordered Gargantua to stand quietly alongside.

“A, B, C,” Holofernes would shout into his pupil’s tremendous ear. And Gargantua, who thought the whole thing a fine new game, would roar the letters out gaily after him.

So well did he learn them, in fact, that by the time he was ten years old, he could say the whole alphabet by heart backwards, to the immense delight of his father and all the banqueters.

“And now,” cried Grangousier, fairly bursting with pride and pudding, “he must be at his Latin.” For the truth of it was Grangousier did not know a word of Latin himself, and so he was determined that his son should be a great scholar.

Gargantua did not mind in the least. It meant new playthings for him. For, since there were no printed books in those days, Gargantua had first of all to learn to write books of his own. So Grangousier had made for him a great blank book about an acre square, a pen-holder as long as the pillar of Enay, and a horn that would hold a whole black lake of ink.

Master Holofernes would stand on the writing-desk and make his little, correct letters down in one corner of the book. Then Gargantua would take his pen and splash and scrawl and scratch in great lines and arcs all over the huge pages. Each letter Gargantua made, in fact, was so big that poor Holofernes had to look at it through a reducing glass to see the whole of it at once. All this took some time of course, but Grangousier was hugely pleased when, in thirteen years, six months and two weeks after he began, Gargantua could make any letter in the alphabet.

Then began the Latin. For thirty-four years Master Holofernes read to him out of the most learned books, and Gargantua was supposed to write down, in his own, every word that he heard. But by this time, I am sorry to say, Gargantua was a little tired of study, and though he scribbled busily enough, instead of writing Latin words, he drew pictures of elephants and camels and lions and tigers. And old Master Holofernes, who did not look over the work with the glass till long after, was none the wiser. As for King Grangousier and his friends, Gargantua had one Latin piece that he could recite either backwards or forwards for them, and they all vowed that his learning was wonderful.

Everything was going happily enough when one day there came a guest to Grangousier’s table who knew something about Latin. When he saw how much Gargantua had learned in all his years of study, his eyes twinkled.

“How would it be,” said he to Grangousier, “if to-night I should bring Eudemon, a young neighbor of mine, to talk Latin with Gargantua?”

Grangousier laid down his fork and vowed that it was the very best plan he ever had heard.

So, that evening Eudemon came,—an ordinary-sized boy about twelve years old. Pulling off his cap and bowing politely to all the company, he began immediately in the best Latin to thank Grangousier for allowing him to come to the palace, and then to tell Gargantua how glad he was to have the chance of talking with him.

When Gargantua heard that torrent of Latin of which he could not understand a single word, he grew so red that he had to hide his face in his cap, and stood there as dumb as a cow. As for Master Holofernes, he sneaked quietly out of the back door of the palace, and ran away as fast and as far as his legs would carry him.

For the first time in his life Grangousier was angry.

“_What!_” he bellowed, glaring at Gargantua and trembling in all his chins. “Not a word to say for yourself! Well then, well then, _well then_, not a minute longer do you stay here! Off to Paris with you, and get some sense put into your great, stupid head!”

The very next day Gargantua, with Eudemon and several other boys of the neighborhood, set out for Paris in charge of a new tutor named Ponocrates. Now, Ponocrates was not so very big, but somehow or other Gargantua knew by looking at him that it would not be wise to be drawing lions and tigers while _he_ was reading Latin.

And partly because Ponocrates was that kind of man, and partly because Gargantua was thoroughly ashamed of himself, he went to his new master as soon as they got to Paris. “How do you wish me to begin?” he asked quite humbly.

Wise old Ponocrates looked at him kindly. “Suppose, at first,” he said, “you do just as you used to at home.”

Nothing could have pleased Gargantua better. The next morning he began as usual, by getting up about nine o’clock. He never bothered much about dressing, for his one idea was to get to breakfast as soon as possible. So, he scrambled into a shabby old suit lined with fox skins which was easy to put on, and smoothed his hair with a “German comb,”—which meant, that he ran his fingers through his great, tousled locks. Then yawning and stretching his arms, he jumped down over a whole staircase in his eagerness to get to breakfast.

Once there, he made short work of seven or eight hams, a dozen rashers of bacon, a huge bowl of chopped meat, and an acre of bread and gravy. After that he was ready for a walk through Paris to get up an appetite for dinner. Coming home a little early, he sat down for half an hour to study, to satisfy his conscience. But, while his eyes were on his book, his mind was down in the kitchen, peeping into the great steaming pots.

Even at that, he was at the table playing tunes on the glasses with his knife and fork long before dinner was served. When it did begin, four of his servants took their places on the table in front of him. And while Gargantua ate his usual number of steaks, hams, roasts, tongues, and sausages, they shoveled mustard down his great throat.

When every platter was clean, Gargantua leaned back in his chair and cried, “Spread the carpet!”

Down climbed the four servants from the table. Three of them unrolled a huge rug, while the other brought in trays piled high with checkers, chessmen, cards, and dice. Then the fun began. Gargantua and his friends started in on the two hundred and fifteen games they liked best. That afternoon they played:

Flaying the Fox,
Charming the Hare,
Trudge, Pig,
Pinch without Laughing,
Riding the Wild Mare,
The Whirligig,
Rogue and Ruffian,
I Take you Napping,
The Hobgoblin,
Climb the Ladder, Billy,
and
Gunshot Crack.

By that time Gargantua’s great head was nodding, and before the cards were shuffled again, he was stretched out on the floor fast asleep. About five o’clock he rubbed his great eyes open, and calling his friends, dashed out, mounted his horse and rode away to see a rabbit-catching just outside of Paris.

By supper-time, Gargantua had forgotten entirely about his Latin, his new tutor, and the reason why he had been sent to Paris. His mind was on the good supper and all the games they could play before midnight. His great fork flew from plate to mouth, and back again from mouth to plate. And between gulps he roared out his favorite song, while all his friends beat time on the table with their knives:

“One, two, three, four!
Much to eat and maybe more:
Five, six, seven, eight!
Polish platter, polish plate:—”

Just an instant Gargantua paused for breath, when suddenly a new voice, brisk and decisive, took up the refrain:

“Nine, ten!—Finish then!
Now for knowledge, gentlemen.”

Gargantua stopped, mouth agape, with a whole pudding poised on his fork. That was a new ending to the song, and there just inside the opened door, stood the singer,—Master Ponocrates!

But Ponocrates did not hesitate. He poured out a black liquid from a bottle into a great spoon, and striding up the table to Gargantua, dashed it into his open mouth.

For all the time Gargantua had been eating and playing, Ponocrates had been looking on. And when he saw what Gargantua’s habits were, he knew that it would take more than a new course of study to change them. So he had gone to Doctor Theodore, a famous physician of Paris, and got from him a medicine which should make Gargantua forget his old ways entirely.

So well did it work, that hardly had Gargantua swallowed it when he laid down his fork and looked wonderingly at the table as if he were trying to make out what all the puddings and pastries were there for.

“And now,” said Ponocrates, “you will oblige me, young gentlemen, by starting off to bed. I want clear heads for to-morrow’s study.”

Gargantua was the first one up from the table; and before eight o’clock had struck, he was asleep for the first time in his life without dreaming of banquets.

Early next morning a new kind of life began for him. For Ponocrates had laid out such a course of study that he should not lose a single hour of the day. At four o’clock he was called; and while he was being rubbed down after his bath, a page read the Latin lesson aloud to him. As he dressed, Ponocrates would come in to explain the hard points; and after a day or two Gargantua himself could repeat the lessons off by heart. And all the time he would be carefully parting his hair with a real comb instead of a German one, and never thinking of breakfast at all. Indeed after a few more doses of the black medicine, Ponocrates had to remind him that it was time to be eating or he would rush off to the schoolroom as soon as he was dressed.

After breakfast Ponocrates talked for three hours in Latin, and then, as the boys began to look a trifle sleepy, sent them out for a game of tennis till dinner-time. After dinner they would sing for a while, and then get at their Latin books again for three hours more. And after six months of _that_, Eudemon himself could not outdo Gargantua in talking Latin. He thought in it, dreamed in it, and was as anxious to be at his book as he was before to be at his dinner.

Even when he swam, of an afternoon, down the river Seine, he took a book in one hand, and holding it up dry out of the water, read aloud from it, all the way, in a voice to split your ear-drums. Coming out of the water, he laid the book on the bank and dried himself off by leaping over trees and houses, and vaulting over churches, pricking his hand on the steeples.

But that was not the end of his day. For then came his lessons with Squire Gymnast, who taught him to leap nimbly from one great galloping horse to another; to shatter a thick stone tower with one thrust of his huge lance; and to hold two lead weights each weighing eight hundred and seventy thousand pounds above his head for three-quarters of an hour. Last of all he would stand with his arms folded, in an open field, and dare the whole French army to move him with crowbars.

But one day as the soldiers ranged themselves, ten to a bar, ready to pry at Gargantua’s great boots, there came a pelting of hoofs across the turf. Another moment, and a rider, shouting and spurring, burst in among them to Gargantua’s very feet.

“Your Royal Highness,” he cried, “your father, King Grangousier, sends for you!”

That was enough for Gargantua. The French crowbars rattled to the ground like toothpicks, as he sprang leaping over the army to saddle his great mare.

Part Two: How The Bakers Wished They Hadn’t

Now, the reason Grangousier sent for Gargantua so hastily was because he had had the ill luck to get mixed up in a war. And all because he praised a cake!

Next to Grangousier’s kingdom was the country of Lerné, famous far and near for its delicious little cakes. Twice a week, for years and years, the proud cake-bakers of Lerné had driven in along the king’s highway with ten cartloads of cakes,—five for the palace, and five to sell in town. From the hilltops beside the road Grangousier’s shepherds watched for them to come, and rushed down to buy a few cakes to go with their midday meal.

Now, it happened one day that King Grangousier in his usual kindly mood praised especially one of the little cakes from Lerné, which was made by a man named Marquet. At that, Marquet, who was already the proudest of the proud cake-bakers, marked all his cakes with a huge “M” and a little crown above, to show that he was baker to the King. And the next time he drove into Grangousier’s kingdom he held his nose higher than ever. Down the hill as usual came the shepherds for their cakes, but Marquet drove straight along.

“Hey, hey, hey,” cried the shepherds good-naturedly, “where are our cakes to-day?”

Marquet gave them one scornful glance. “I’m not selling to country folk,” said he. “_My_ cakes are for the King.”

“Come, come, Marquet,” said one of the shepherds named Forgier, taking the horse’s bridle. “We’ve bought your cakes too many years to be treated this way. Here’s your money; now give us our cakes.”

Marquet rose up insolently. “_Take_ your cakes!” he cried. “_Take_ your cakes!” And with that he gave Forgier two great lashes across the face.

Out came Forgier’s stout oak cudgel. One blow, and Marquet reeled back senseless.

By that time the other bakers had driven up, and seeing Marquet fall, they set on the shepherds with their whips.

“Bumpkins! Boobies!” they shouted. “We’ll teach you to strike a cake-baker!”

But the shepherds replied so sturdily with their crooks and cudgels that it was not long before the bakers were glad to jump into their carts again, and drive as fast as they could back toward Lerné.

“Stop, stop, stop,” cried the hungry shepherds, “we want our cakes.” And giving chase, they seized four or five dozen of the cakes, throwing their money into the carts, in payment.

Then they bound up Forgier’s bleeding face; and made merry over their meal, laughing at the proud cake-bakers who had lost a day’s trade by their insolence.

As for the bakers, they drove furiously, straight to the palace of their king, Picrochole, and dashed, disheveled and breathless, into the throne room.

“Your Majesty,” they cried, “we have been set upon by the shepherds of old King Grangousier,—our heads broken, our coats torn, our cakes stolen, our trade ruined, and Marquet nearly killed.” And with that, two of them brought in Marquet himself, groaning horribly.

Now, Picrochole was as proud and passionate as any cake-baker of them all.

“What!” he roared, turning purple in the face. “Killing our subjects! Spoiling our trade! Well, we’ll teach them to eat our cakes indeed! Marshals, sound the call to arms. Get out the cannon, double cannon, serpentines. Every vassal, rich and poor, noble and peasant, to arms! And all in the square by the hour of noon. For to-day we teach Grangousier’s scoundrels to eat our cakes!”

Then there was a bustle indeed. By noon the great square was swarming with soldiers,—glittering officers, solid infantry, dashing cavalry, bold cannoneers, all gathered under the royal standard. Around the edges were the common people, without uniforms, but armed with pikes and broadswords and eager to be at the fighting. In the center of things was Marquet, fully recovered, and the cake-bakers around him, all very important-looking and armed up to their eyes. The cannon shone in the sun; the royal standard waved; the officers dashed to and fro; and all the people cheered.

Finally King Picrochole called his captains about him. “The army is to march in two divisions,” he said. “Half go east with me to Rock Clermond; half go west under Earl Swashbuckler to the Ford of Vede.”

Then detailing the captains, he commanded the army to advance immediately. So, all in disorder, the soldiers poured out of the square in two great streams, half by the east gate under Picrochole, half by the west gate under Earl Swashbuckler.

But no matter which way they went, as soon as they got to Grangousier’s country, they took to the fields, trampling crops, tearing hedges, shaking fruit trees, picking grapes, beating down nuts. Before them, in an uproar of fright, they drove cows, oxen, sheep, lambs, goats, pigs, hens, chickens and geese. Grangousier’s poor shepherds and farmers, hearing the bleats and the bellowings mingled with the songs and shouts of the soldiers, took to the woods; but many were captured nevertheless.

“Alas!” they cried, “we have always been good neighbors to you. We are unarmed and at peace, and you come on us like this! Spare us! Spare us!”

“Humph!” said Picrochole’s men grimly. “You are learning to eat our cakes.”

So that night, just as he had planned, Picrochole surprised and took the town of Rock Clermond, and Earl Swashbuckler quartered his army in the castle at the Ford of Vede.

Meanwhile the shepherd Forgier was posting with all speed to tell Grangousier. He arrived at a pause in the banquet, when the chestnuts were roasting over the fire. And Grangousier, with his chair turned about, was drawing pictures with a burnt stick in the ashes of the hearth and telling stories of the old times.

“Bravo! Bravo!” cried all the guests, smacking their lips over the hot chestnuts.

As for Queen Gargamelle on the other side of the fireplace, she smiled across at Grangousier, and thought that however good the old times might have been, they did not compare with the cozy present, with a warm blaze and the chestnuts roasting on the hearth.

Just then Forgier came, breathless, pulling off his cap. “Your Majesty,” he cried, “King Picrochole’s men swarm through the country. They trample the crops. They take our cattle and our sheep. Earl Swashbuckler plunders the Ford of Vede, and King Picrochole himself holds Rock Clermond.”

“What! What!” gasped Grangousier, turning from his story, all a-tremble. “Picrochole, you say!—Our old neighbor, with whom we have lived so many years in kindness and peace! What is it starts him against us? Is he mad, to turn so on his old friend, Grangousier?”

Forgier told the story of the cakes; and as he spoke, the good giant’s face which had been so troubled, became as bland and beaming as before.

“If it is only a matter of a few cakes,” he cried joyously, “we shall soon satisfy them. For Grangousier’s cooks can make cakes too. And this week the bakers of Lerné need not send cakes to the King; but the King himself will send cakes to the bakers of Lerné. And Marquet shall have a special cartload, all marked with my crown and scepter, to make up for those he lost. Hey, hey, hey, cooks and bakers! Grangousier calls.”

So all the cooks and bakers of the palace scurried up from the kitchen, spoons in hand and caps askew, and stood bowing before Grangousier’s chair.

“Good cooks,” said Grangousier kindly, “can we make here in our kitchen as fine cakes as those of Lerné?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” roared the cooks, bowing as low as they could.

“Well, then,” cried Grangousier, “take all the butter, all the sugar, all the spice in the palace. Spare nothing; but bake me cakes hot and fresh and fragrant enough to make friends again of the proud cake-bakers of Lerné. Five cartloads I would send them by dawn to-morrow, to comfort them for the five dozen the shepherds took.”

The cooks and bakers scuttled out again to be at their mixing and their stirring. And Grangousier rubbed his great hands in glee.

“Nothing like good cakes to end a war!” he chuckled.

But Forgier stood there, waiting and unhappy. “Your Majesty,” he burst out, “you do not know this Picrochole and his bakers. Once get them aroused, and there will have to be fighting before it is done. Picrochole will not give up Rock Clermond for all the cakes in the kingdom.”

Grangousier’s great face, which had been as jolly and round as a dinner plate, grew as solemn and long as a platter. “Can it be?” he asked sadly. “Can it be?” and sank into patient gloom.

Queen Gargamelle rustled anxiously in her chair. “Why not send for Gargantua?” she suggested timidly.

Grangousier beamed again. “The very thing!” he cried. “With all the reading and the fighting he’s been taught in Paris he’ll know in a minute what’s best to be done. Forgier, mount the fastest little horse in our stables. Post to Paris, and say to Gargantua that his old father needs him.”

Forgier dashed out of the banquet hall; and Grangousier, turning his chair again, sat all night, marking with his stick among the ashes and quite forgetting about his chestnuts.

At the very first gleam of dawn he raised his head, and his great nostrils puffed out like balloons. Up from the kitchen came wave on wave of warm, delicious baking. “The clever rascals!” muttered Grangousier. “The cakes are done!”

The oldest and trustiest cook of all rushed respectfully in. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the cakes are being piled on the carts. Who shall go with them to Rock Clermond?”

“You, Ulrich Gallet!” cried Grangousier happily. “Drive, yourself, the cart of cakes for Marquet; and say to him that he shall have not only the cakes, but these seven hundred thousand gold crowns besides, and one of our best apple orchards for him and his family forever.

“Say to Picrochole that we are full of grief at this trouble between his subjects and ours; give him the cakes, and tell him that we will make any other return he wishes. Only ask him to leave our town in peace. And to show him that you come as a friend, deck your carts with willow boughs.”

Trusty Ulrich bowed, and after he had gone, Grangousier himself lumbered out to the terrace to watch the carts with their nodding branches creep slowly over the hill.

The captain of Picrochole’s guard on the ramparts of Rock Clermond snuffed the morning air. “A good breakfast somewhere!” he muttered, and paced greedily around the wall, sniffing down the chimneys. But the savory odor did not come from any house of them all.

The captain turned, and gazed about the desolate country beyond the town. Suddenly his astonished eye caught four or five carts waving with willows, drawing up to the great gate.

“Ho, there!” he cried sharply. “Who comes to Rock Clermond?”

Honest Ulrich started. “It is I,—Ulrich Gallet,—” he shouted, “on an errand of peace from King Grangousier to King Picrochole and to Marquet.”

Just then the captain spied the cakes. It was those, then, that made the air so appetizing. He gave a long, loud whistle, and sprang down the embankment into the town. In another instant he burst out the gate, with the soldiers of the guard at his heels. Without a word they clambered over the carts and began seizing the cakes.

“Hold! Hold!” cried Ulrich stoutly, raising his whip. “The cakes are meant for you at any rate. Only let me give them with my message to King Picrochole and Marquet. Wait! Wait!”

The captain laughed insolently. “We will give your message,—never fear,” he shouted; and with a sudden grasp pulled the bag of gold-pieces for Marquet from Ulrich’s clenched hand.

“We ourselves,” he taunted, “will drive the carts to King Picrochole.” And with that two of the soldiers, climbing up treacherously from behind, threw Ulrich down into the dust. The next moment the poor cook heard the carts rumbling off through the gate. He scrambled up and shouted as loud as he could, but for reply there were only the sneering jibes of the captain and his men, as they closed the gates behind them.

So Ulrich turned sadly, and limped back down the road to the palace. It was twilight when he got there, but Grangousier was still watching from the terrace. Ulrich snatched off his cap with its dusty willow twig, and told his story. As he went on, all the jolly curves and dimples in the good giant’s face changed to stern, straight lines.

“The curs!” he cried. “Perhaps they will understand our cannon better than our cakes.” And he peered anxiously down the road toward Paris. “If only Gargantua would come!” he sighed.

Meanwhile Gargantua had left Paris, listening to Forgier’s story on the road. “My good old father!” he cried hotly. “To think that they should dare abuse his peaceful country! Well, Forgier, we pass the Ford of Vede, and we may as well look in on Earl Swashbuckler on our way.”

And with that the young giant spurred ahead so furiously that the ground for miles around rocked with the hoof beats of his great mare. Straight ahead over hill and dale lay the castle at the Ford of Vede. Gargantua cleared the distance like a cyclone till he could see the castle towers. Then reining in his steed, he measured their height and breadth with his practised eye. Turning to the roadside, he pulled up a pine tree as sturdy and as straight as a bar of iron, and held it upright like a lance.

“Hail, cake-bakers of Lerné!” he cried grimly, and rode on to the castle.

But there was not a man to be seen. For at the jar of Gargantua’s coming, every plunderer of them all had hidden himself safely inside.

“Ho, there, bakers!” called Gargantua. “Come out, as you value your miserable lives.”

There was no reply, only a furious burst of cannon balls from the towers. Up into Gargantua’s eyes they flew,—over his head and shoulders in a vicious shower. But they struck the giant as harmlessly as so many grape seeds.

“Stop your pesky shot-guns!” cried Gargantua, annoyed. “Listen to me.”

But the cannon balls came faster and thicker than ever. Gargantua brushed them from his eyes, raised his great tree in a fury, and rode full tilt against the castle.

There was a shock and a crash. The towers shuddered and splashed, stone after stone, into the water beyond. As for Earl Swashbuckler and his bakers, there was not one of them left for Gargantua’s great eyes to spy out.

The young giant turned with a sorry shrug of his shoulders, and rode toward his father’s palace. It was nearly midnight when he got there, but Grangousier was still on the terrace, watching through the shadows for his big son to come looming up against the moon.

“My boy!” cried Grangousier gladly, and went lumbering down to meet him.

“Father!” shouted Gargantua. But when he heard how Ulrich Gallet had fared, his big eyes blazed. “They shall soon learn,” he cried, “how to treat your servants, sire. Call out the army. Send them post haste along the road to Rock Clermond, and leave the rest to me!” And Gargantua sprang again to his horse’s back.

“Not so fast! Not so fast, my son!” said Grangousier. “Get your sword. Get your lance. Refresh yourself with supper. Even then you will soon overtake the army.”

Gargantua yielded. He himself sounded the war alarm, and watched the soldiers scramble, musket in hand, to their ranks.

“March on to Rock Clermond,” he said to the general. “Fight fearlessly, for I shall come behind to help you.”

So the army set out along the dark road, and Gargantua sped to his room. He took out his great sword and lance shining like flashes of lightning. Then with his huge comb, each tooth of which was an elephant’s tusk, he began smoothing his tousled hair. As he did so, there was a bump on the floor,—another, another and another.

A servant knocked upon the door. “Prince Gargantua,” he cried, “sounds like thunder come from your room. The ceiling below trembles. Is something amiss?”

“Why, no,” laughed Gargantua, “I am but combing some small shot out of my hair.”

The servant gaped, with round eyes. “They are cannon balls, your Highness!” he cried in alarm.

“So they fired their cannon at me at the Ford of Vede,” muttered Gargantua in surprise.

Then taking up his arms, he went down for a bite of supper with his father; and just at dawn galloped off down the road.

Meanwhile the army drew near Rock Clermond. Picrochole’s captain of the guard saw them coming, and dashed to tell his king.

Picrochole roused up angrily. “Is Grangousier with them?” he snapped.

“No, sire, I saw no giants,” said the captain of the guard.

Picrochole reflected. “Of course not, of course not,” he cried testily. “Grangousier is too old after all; and that son of his is off at school in Paris. A mere handful of shepherds coming to surprise us, no doubt! Well, then, sound the charge; and follow me, every mother’s son. We shall teach these blockheads once again to eat the cakes of Lerné.”

So, in a vain fury of boldness, Picrochole led his men helter-skelter through the gate and down the hill upon Grangousier’s army. He drew his sword to charge, when suddenly against the morning sky, he saw Gargantua’s great figure looking down.

Picrochole staggered; then turned and scurried like a rabbit across the dewy grass. “The giant!” he shrieked. “The giant!” And his men scampered breathlessly after.

Gargantua stooped, and scooped up four or five of them in each of his great hands. As for the rest, his army chased them so hard that every baker of them was caught. Only Picrochole got away; but perhaps it was just as well, for the kingdom was rid of him, as he was never seen or heard of afterward.

When every captive was brought back, Gargantua called them all about him. “Cake-bakers of Lerné,” he boomed, “my father, Grangousier, is the mildest king in all the world, and the first friend of cooks.”

“Aye, aye,” cried all the bakers, waving their caps.

“And because you have served him with good cakes these many years,” went on Gargantua, “he will not throw you into prison as you deserve, but he will let you all go free and forgiven to your homes _on one condition_,”—and here the giant’s voice grew stern,—“that you and your families forever give his shepherds as many good cakes as they wish to buy. As for Marquet and the captain of the guard, Grangousier orders them to his palace kitchen. There they shall bake every day six cakes for every one he sent by Ulrich Gallet.”

“Long live good King Grangousier, and his son Gargantua!” cried the cake-bakers.

Gargantua turned his horse, and pranced joyously toward home, with his army streaming after. Last of all came Marquet and the captain of Picrochole’s guard, very humble and crestfallen, marched between four strong soldiers.

Grangousier saw them coming. “Cooks, cooks, cooks!” he cried. “Fire up your ovens, and spread the finest banquet since the days of King Ahasuerus!”

And the cooks did. That day Gargantua feasted with his father, and Ponocrates, Gymnast, and Eudemon (who arrived just in time), and all the victorious army. And this is what they ate, according to Ulrich Gallet’s list:

Sixteen roasted beeves,
Thirty-two calves,
Sixty-three kids,
Ninety-five sheep,
Two hundred and twenty partridges,
Four hundred capons,
Seven hundred snipe,
Twelve thousand pullets and pigeons,
Fourteen hundred hares,
One hundred and forty pheasants;

and deer, turkeys, ducks, geese, and vegetables without number. And after they had finished _that_, there was served up a whole ton of the hottest, most fragrant little cakes in all the world, baked by Marquet and the captain of Picrochole’s guard.

“A fine feast!” cried Gargantua.

“A fine son!” beamed Grangousier, happy as only a giant can be.

“A fine father!” called Gargantua.

“And fine cakes!” said Queen Gargamelle.

—_Adapted from Rabelais’ “Gargantua.”_

XI

The Man Who Went to the Giants’ Country

You who scoff at tales of giants,
Only sure of what you’ve seen,
Listen to this man of science
Who had long with giants been:

Then when doubting folk confront you,
Flout your faith or mock your fear,
Tell them of this wise man, won’t you?
Read them what’s recorded here.

_Seymour Barnard._

XI

The Man Who Went to the Giants’ Country

As the world grew older and ways became stiffer, there came a
dreadfully dull time when nothing ever happened by magic, and
everything could be explained by a Reason. Worn out by this
heavy atmosphere, the gods left the earth for the clouds, and
the fairies vanished into moonlight and mist.