Chapter VIII: The Vale of Tears

Such a thing had never happened before, and how it happened this time I am at a loss to understand: but when Sara entered the Garden on this particular morning her eyes were full of tears. She had to fumble blindly around for her dimples, and when she did find them they were buried quite deep in her little wet cheeks. She would have strayed right on into the Garden without removing them, except that as soon as she saw the Snimmy's wife, absorbed in some simple domestic task, and sitting on her own toadstool at the door of the prose-bush with her tail wrapped so tightly around the base, she felt that she might smile after a while, and then it might be too late to save the dimples from the Snimmy. But before they had touched the whipped cream cushion in the bottom of the holder, two Gunki rushed forward in great excitement, and seizing her by the arms, began to hurry her through the Garden, crying hoarsely,

"She's crying! She's crying! She mustn't cry here!"

Sara had never had a Gunkus touch her before; but, though they hurried her so fast that she was breathless, and the tears hung where they were on her lashes without having time to fall, they were as gentle with her as possible, and she understood that their anxiety was all on her account. She was further reassured when she saw the Teacup fluttering and hopping along--now on one side, now on the other, and now in front--and murmuring, "What in Zeelup, my dear?" with the utmost solicitude expressed on her gentle old face. Sara knew that the Teacup was timid, and seldom left the Garden; and she realized that her affection and concern for her must be very deep, to bring her fluttering along with her in this fashion, without stopping to ask the Plynck, or to think of the consequences to herself and her consanguineous handle.

By this time they had passed through the hawthorn hedge that bounded the Garden, and could see just below them a beautiful little Vale, with a rainbow arching over the entrance to it, like a gate. Inside the Vale the view was not very distinct, for streamers of light mist blew across its green moss, and its white boulders, and the little stream that wound down the middle of it. It was rather a sad-looking little place, of course, but not bitter-looking or very long; and now and then a sun-pencil struck across it, and for a moment made more rainbows like the one at the entrance.

As soon as they had passed through the hedge the Gunki stopped, breathing heavily and mopping their brows with their hatbands.

"Rest a minute, dear, and try to keep them from falling," said the Teacup, who was also breathless, but very kind. "Of course, if they should fall here it wouldn't be so bad; still, if you can keep them on your lashes till we reach the Vale--"

"What would they do," asked Sara, in awe, "if they fell in the Garden?"

The Teacup and the Gunki looked at each other with wide, horrified eyes, each waiting for the other to speak.

"Well, you see, none ever have fallen in the Garden," said the Teacup, at last, speaking in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "Before my Saucer was broken--"

"She's a widow, Miss," explained the Gunki, whispering to Sara behind their hands. One whispered in baritone, one in bass.

"Before my Saucer was broken," continued the Teacup, with a grateful look at the thoughtful Gunki, "I've heard him say that a little girl came into the Garden one day with tears in her eyes, and that one would have fallen, if a Gunkus had not caught it in his shoe. Haven't you noticed the old, gray-haired Gunkus, who always wears a wooden medal on his coat-tail--"

"Our grandfather," whispered the Gunki, behind their hands. This time they whispered in second bass and tenor.

"Yes, the grandfather of these dear boys," said the susceptible old lady. "He was showing the little girl about the Garden, and so had his shoe in his hand out of respect for her; so he caught the tear in his shoe with the greatest presence of mind, and ran down here with it before any actual harm was done. What the child was crying about I can't imagine; though, for that matter, why any nice child should bring tears into the Garden--"

"Would it be worse than the Fractions?" asked Sara, hastily.

"It would," said the First Gunkus, in bass.

"It would," said the Second Gunkus, in the solemnest second bass.

"Much, much worse," said the Teacup, in her soft, anxious tremolo. "One snow remedied that, you see; but if a tear fell--but oh, dear, let's don't talk about it! My handle is so consanguineous, and I forgot to ask the Plynck--and--and--"

The poor old lady was evidently growing hysterical herself; so the faithful Gunki hastily put up their hatbands, seized Sara by the arm, and again began hurrying toward the Rainbow Gate. The Teacup, having again to put her mind on the task of keeping up with them, regained her composure--at least as much of it as she had ever had since her Saucer was broken.

Once inside the little arch, the Gunki stopped and relaxed their hold on Sara's arm. "Now you can cry, Miss," they said, with evident relief.

"But I don't want to, now," said Sara, wonderingly.

"Treatment successful," said the First Gunkus.

"That's what usually happens," explained the Teacup. "At least I've heard my Saucer say that that's what happened to the other little girl. But here, boys, you must attend to these two she's already cried."

The two Gunki stepped up with alacrity, a little ashamed of having to be reminded of their duties.

"Mad or sad?" they asked.

"Wh-what?" stammered Sara.

"Mad or sad?" repeated the Gunki, twirling their thumbs.

"They mean, my dear," explained the Teacup, "were you crying because you were angry, or for some more or less legitimate reason--because you cut your finger, for instance, or broke one of the charming children you had with you the other day? Because--"

"It was because Jimmy wouldn't play what I wanted--" began Sara, hanging her head, and thinking she might as well get it out and over with.

"Mad!" commented the Gunki in unison, with great professional interest. "Then they'll have to go to the fishes. Steady, now--"

As he said the last words the First Gunkus stepped up and deftly removed the tear from Sara's right eyelashes, while the Second Gunkus, with almost equal skill, captured the one from her left ones. They ran with them toward the little stream, and Sara was so curious to know what they meant to do with them that she followed unconsciously.

Now this was, indeed, the saddest little stream Sara had ever seen. Its source was hidden in mist, and after it passed through the rainbow arch it disappeared somewhere, as if the earth had swallowed it. But all along its banks, where Sara could see it, sat great frogs, with their green pocket handkerchiefs to their eyes; and every now and then the most dismal sounds escaped them. Sara did not need to be told that they were Sobs--anybody would have known it.

Looking closely, Sara could see in the water hundreds of little black fish, decorated with silver dots and streaks. As the Gunki approached the stream with Sara's tears, all the Sobs began to sob at once, and at the sound the little black fish all stuck their wide, greedy mouths up out of the water. The Gunki fed the tears to the two nearest, and then they all sank again, with a great splashing and flouncing.

"You see, Miss," explained the First Gunkus (who seemed to have taken a great liking to Sara, in spite of all the trouble she had caused him), "we have to feed 'em all the mad tears. The sad ones turn into these."

Sara looked where he pointed, and there, at her feet, she saw numbers of little blue-eyed flowers. They were extremely pretty, and by far the pleasantest things she had seen in this Vale; but even they had a sad little fragrance, and each eye had a dewdrop on it. Sara found that, if she looked at them long, she felt a lump coming in her throat; and at last she turned to her friends and said what she had been trying to get up courage to say from the first, "Please--I don't like this place! I want to go!"

"There, there, dear," said the Teacup, soothingly, looking as if she had been dreading the worst, and it had come.

"We has orders, Miss," said the First Gunkus, stepping up, "that we must keep you here three-quarters of an hour, and show you the whole Vale, Miss."

"Whose orders?" faltered Sara.

For a moment the Gunki looked quite wild and disorganized. Then the First Gunkus collected himself and said quite firmly,

"Just orders, Miss--without any whose."

"But I can tell you why, dear," interrupted the Teacup soothingly, as if she hoped to distract Sara's mind. "I've heard my Saucer say why. It's so children can understand what kind of a place mothers have to stay in, when they cry. So cheer up, dear, and try to enjoy the scenery. The trip through the Vale won't last long."

Sara felt a good deal like crying again--but it was like carrying coals to Newcastle to cry in a place like this! Besides, she was thinking of what the Teacup had said about mothers. Was it possible that she brought anything like this on her own dear, self-willed Mother every time she indulged in a few natural tears?

And the more she thought of it, the more strongly she decided that she just wouldn't cry. And just at that moment one of those lovely pencils of sunlight, that looked brighter in this misty green place than anywhere she had ever been, fell across her path.

"What's that?" she asked the Teacup.

"Why, dear, that comes from the Smiles. They live just over the way, you know. We'll go by and see them on our way home."

Here was good news, indeed! Sara had never felt more relieved. But at that very moment she drew back; for she had seen several disheveled, cross, black-browed children peering at her out of a sort of cave in the rock. Behind them was a very ill-natured-looking old man.

"Those are the Frowns," said the Teacup, holding Sara's hand reassuringly. "They live in that cave with their step-father, Old Man Scowl. Just come on by, as if you didn't notice them. But remember how they look. And listen to those sighs!"

So that was the doleful noise she had been hearing, up in the little pine-trees? Sara looked up, and for a minute could see them quite distinctly--little wispy, gray creatures, blowing about in the wind. They were better than the Frowns and the Sobs, she decided,--but dear me! Why should anybody be so dismal?

They had now followed the windings of the little Vale till they came to a great wall of rock that rose across it. In the rock was an opening closed by a sagging, worm-eaten door, and in front of the door hung a rusty black curtain.

"Children don't go in there, dear," said the Teacup, as Sara stood gazing at it, fascinated. But indeed she had no wish to go in; and it was with a skip of joy that she heard the First Gunkus say, "Time's up, Miss!"

At that word, back they all went scampering through the Vale, till they came to a bridge, which was made of another rainbow. On this bridge they crossed the stream, and found themselves at the entrance of a little opening between the hills that shut in the Vale. The sunshine streamed through it, and looking down it Sara could see that it opened into a meadow full of daffodils and buttercups and black-eyed Susans. There seemed to be children playing in it, and a few lambs; and down the path toward it waddled a long line of snowy geese. Altogether, it seemed to Sara she had never beheld so peaceful and ravishing a scene.

"This way out," said the First Gunkus, touching Sara's arm, and pointing up to a signpost, marked "Exit," beside the path. Drops of water, like tears, dripped continually from this sign; but the sunshine falling upon them from beyond the valley made them look like jewels.

The Teacup had told Sara that the Smiles lived in a peaceful village just beyond the valley; so she knew that the children playing among the flowers were their children. She would have been glad to stop and join in the gay, fairy-like games the little Smiles were playing; but she could see that the Teacup was getting a little nervous, and anxious to be back in the Garden. And, since the kind little Teacup had broken into her regular habits, and braved so many dangers and discomforts just to keep her company through the dismal Vale, she felt that she ought to be very considerate. So she followed her down the path, which was now turning into a little lane, though she walked backward part of the way, with her eyes on the children and the lambs.

When she turned around she could see a lovely little old village ahead of her. It nestled at the foot of a mountain, and it had vine-covered cottages with thatched roofs, and spreading trees that made a velvety shade underneath and winked in the sunshine above. The air was full of the prettiest sounds; and Sara, listening, thought they must come from the mountain. The mountain itself looked like Fairyland; it was covered with ferns and blossoming laurel and festoons of jessamine; and the sounds that seemed forever playing and skipping about from wall to wall and rock to rock were like the echoes (or was it the reflection?) of happy bells. Sara thought she ought to know what they were, but she could not quite make out.

"Why, that's where Laughter lives, my dear," said the Teacup when she asked her. "That's where your own little Laugh was making off to, the day you caught him. Listen--there are some as little as he was."

And indeed Sara could distinguish many sorts--small, gurgly Baby-Laughs, dimpled Little-Girl Laughs, Chuckles like Jimmy's, soft Laughs like Mother's, and--almost the pleasantest of all,--deep, delighted Father-Laughs that almost made her homesick. They seemed to be having such a very good time up there that she would have liked to listen to them forever; besides, she kept thinking she might catch sight of one. But, though she several times saw the vines swaying, or something flashing behind a laurel-bush, she was obliged to go on without really seeing any.

At the shady door of almost every cottage a pleasant Smile in a very white, old-fashioned kerchief and cap sat spinning at a queer sort of wheel; and the Teacup explained to Sara that this was where the dimples were made.

"It's the chief occupation of the women," said the Teacup. "The thread they use is something like spun-glass, and this is the only place in the world where the secret of making it is known. They weave it into this fabric that looks something like cloth, and then cut it into the different shapes with their scissors. You see now why dimples are so fragile."

The Smiles all spoke to them with pleasant looks, and gladly stopped their work to talk to Sara, as she stood admiringly beside their wheels. She saw a good many gentleman Smiles going happily about their work--drawing water, watering the flowers, or (since it was getting late) milking the little buttercup-colored cows. Here and there, too, a happy Smile, too little to go with the other children, rolled about and gurgled at its Mother's feet like a Cupid escaped from a Valentine.

All this time Sara had been struggling with a plan that had been shaping itself in her mind as she looked at basket after basket full of shimmering, shining dimples, sitting beside the spinning wheels. After trying to start several times, she finally managed to ask of one of the pleasantest Smiles,

"Do you--do you sell them?"

"Well, we don't usually sell them here," she answered doubtfully. "We ship them, you see, to the Stork. He takes our entire output. But, if you like, I could let you have a dozen for a kiss or two."

Sara clapped her hands, and drew the Teacup aside. "I'd like to take some to the Snimmy," she explained. "He wanted mine so. Do you think I might?"

"Why, bless the child!" cried the Teacup. She looked pleased and flustered and doubtful, all at once; for she wasn't used to taking so much responsibility. "That's very dear and generous of you, I'm sure. It's never been done, has it?" she asked, turing to the Gunki, who, for their part, were so surprised that they only blinked. "No, I'm sure it's never been done; but I don't see how it can do the least harm. Why, yes, my dear--I wouldn't refuse you the pleasure."

So Sara picked out a dozen of the largest dimples, and paid gladly with two kisses. Then, though she could hardly bear to leave the pretty village, with the laughter always echoing over it like bells, she grew all at once terribly impatient to take the Snimmy his dimples.

"It will be such fun to feed him," she said.

For a while Sara was too much absorbed in anticipation to notice that something was the matter with the Gunki. Then, all of a sudden, she noticed that they were looking crestfallen and chagrined.

Sara was sorry to notice this because they had been very kind to her all through this rather trying day. She began to feel sure that she had in some way hurt or offended them; and while she was wondering how she could have done it, and how she might make amends, the First Gunkus saw her looking at him.

"I'd be willing to do anything I could for you, Miss," he blurted out, turning his shoe awkwardly round and round in his hand.

"What's more, we done all we could," said the Second Gunkus, looking deeply hurt.

"Oh!" said Sara, who now understood. "Why-why! You've been so kind to me! I'd love to repay you in some way! I haven't any money with me," she went on doubtfully,--"or any postage stamps,--or any ginger-snaps-- Do you--do you like kisses?"

The First Gunkus drew the back of his hand across his mouth and giggled.

The Second Gunkus dropped his shoe, and fumbled about trying to pick it up.

"Don't we, though!" said both of them, at last.

So Sara gave the faithful creatures two kisses apiece, which left them beaming.

"Do--do you like them as well as dimples?" she asked. "Because, if you'd like dimples, I'll give you some of the Snimmy's."

But the Gunki felt themselves honored beyond any Snimmy who had ever sniffed. They stuck their noses into the air and strutted along like drum-majors.

"Dimples is for folks with tails," said the First Gunkus.

It was blue dusk and starlight when they reentered the Garden. Sara, with her friends standing a little apart to enjoy the fun, slipped unseen quite close to the prose-bush, where the Snimmy lay with his long debilitating nose on his paws, looking up at the stars. Sara waited until the nose began to quiver and twitch; and then she suddenly emptied her whole handkerchief full of dimples out before him.

Sniff-gobble-gulp! Was there ever such haste and excitement? Sara jumped up and down with delight, and everybody in the Garden laughed. As for the Snimmy, he was quite overcome, and began to shed gum-drops of joy.

"For once he's had a full meal," said his wife, grimly indulgent. As for Sara, she ran off, laughing, to tell Jimmy how funny he had looked.

The Plynck waked up from her first nap and rustled her fragrant plumes.

"Was that Sara?" she asked of her Echo.

"Of course," said the Echo. "You've been asleep."

"Then it wasn't Sara this morning--the strange child with the tears?"

Her more practical Echo shrugged her wings. "Go explain to her," she said to the Teacup.

So the little Teacup, very glad to be safe at home again, fluttered up to her place beside her mistress; and they talked about Sara and her strange adventures far into the night.