Chapter VI: Part 6

“I was in one for telling a lie,” Betty admitted reluctantly. “And Margaret Amelia was in one for wading in the creek. She was in a downstairs one. And I took a chair round outside to help her out--but she wouldn’t do it.”

“Pooh! I was in one lots of times,” Delia capped it. And, as usual, we looked at her with respect as having experiences far transcending our own. “I’ll be in one again if I don’t go home and take care of my canary,” she added. “Mamma said I would.”

“Putting sugar on the stove isn’t as wicked as telling a lie, is it?” Mary Elizabeth inquired.

We weighed it. On the whole, we were inclined to think that it was not so wicked, “though,” Delia put in, “you do notice the sugar more.”

“Why do they shut you in the same way for the different wickeds?” Mary Elizabeth demanded.

None of us knew, but it was Delia who had the theory.

“Well,” she said, “you’ve _got_ to know you’re wicked. It don’t make any difference how wicked. Because you stop anyhow.”

“No, you don’t,” Betty said decidedly, “you’re always getting a new thing to be shut in about. Before you mean to,” she added perplexedly.

Mary Elizabeth looked away at Grandmother Beers, snipping sweet-peas. Abruptly, Mary Elizabeth threw herself on the grass and stared up through the branches of the Eating Apple tree, and then laid her arms straight along her sides, and began luxuriously to roll down a little slope. The inquiry was too complex to continue.

“Let’s go see if the horse-tail hair is a snake yet,” she proposed, sitting up at the foot of the slope.

“I’ll have to do my canary,” said Delia, but she sprang up with the rest of us, and we went round to the rain-water barrel.

The rain-water barrel stood at the corner of the house, and reflected your face most satisfyingly, save that the eaves-spout got in the way. Also, you always inadvertently joggled the side with your knee, which set the water wavering and wrinkled away the image. At the bottom of this barrel invisibly rested sundry little “doll” pie-tins of clay, a bottle, a broken window-catch, a stray key, and the bowl of a soap-bubble pipe, cast in at odd intervals, for no reason. There were a penny doll and a marble down there too, thrown in for sheer bravado and bitterly regretted.

Into this dark water there had now been dropped, two days ago, a long black hair from the tail of Mr. Branchett’s horse, Fanny. We had been credibly informed that if you did this to a hair from a horse’s tail and left it untouched for twenty-four hours or, to be _perfectly_ safe, for forty-eight hours, the result would inevitably be a black snake. We had gone to the Branchetts’ barn for the raw material and, finding none available on the floor, we were about to risk jerking it from the source when Delia had perceived what we needed caught in a crack of the stall. We had abstracted the hair, and duly immersed it. Why we wished to create a black snake, or what we purposed doing with him when we got him created, I cannot now recall. I believe the intention to have been primarily to see whether or not they had told us the truth--“they” standing for the universe at large. For my part, I was still smarting from having been detected sitting in patience with a handful of salt, by the mouse-hole in the shed, in pursuance of another recipe which I had picked up and trusted. Now if this new test failed....

We got an old axe-handle from the barn wherewith to probe the water. If, however, the black snake were indeed down there, our weapon, offensive and defensive, would hardly be long enough; so we substituted the clothes-prop. Then we drew cuts to see who should wield it, and the lot fell to Betty. Gentle little Betty turned quite pale with the responsibility, but she resolutely seized the clothes-prop, and Delia stood behind her with the axe-handle.

“Now if he comes out,” said Betty, “run for your lives. He might be a blue racer.”

None of us knew what a blue racer might be, but we had always heard of it as the fastest of all the creatures. A black snake, it seemed, might easily be a blue racer. As Betty raised the clothes-prop, I, who had instigated the experiment, weakened.

“Maybe he won’t be ready yet,” I conceded.

“If he isn’t there, I’ll never believe anything anybody tells me again--ever,” said Delia firmly.

The clothes-prop Betty plunged to the bottom, and lifted. No struggling black shape writhed about it. She repeated the movement, and this time we all cried out, for she brought up the dark discoloured rag of a sash of the penny doll, the penny doll clinging to it and immediately dropping sullenly back again. Grown brave, Betty stirred the water, and Delia, advancing, did the same with her axe-handle. Again and again these were lifted, revealing nothing. At last we faced it: No snake was there.

“So that’s a lie, too,” said Delia, brutally.

We stared at one another. I, as the one chiefly disappointed, looked away. I looked down the street: Mr. Branchett was hoeing in his garden. Delivery wagons were rattling by. The butter-man came whistling round the house. Everybody seemed so busy and so _sure_. They looked as if they knew why everything was. And to us, truth and justice and reason and the results to be expected in this grown-up world were all a confusion and a thorn.

As we went round the house, talking of what had happened, our eyes were caught by a picture which should have been, and was not, of quite casual and domestic import. On the side-porch of Delia’s house appeared her mother, hanging out Delia’s canary.

“Good-bye,” said Delia, briefly, and fared from us, running.

We lingered for a little in the front yard. In five minutes the curtains in Delia’s room stirred, and we saw her face appear, and vanish. She had not waved to us--there was no need. It had overtaken her. She, too, was “in her room.”

Delicacy dictated that we withdraw from sight, and we returned to the back yard. As we went, Mary Elizabeth was asking:

“Is telling a lie and not feeding your canary as wicked as each other?”

It seemed incredible, and we said so.

“Well, you get shut up just as hard for both of ’em,” Mary Elizabeth reminded us.

“Then I don’t believe any of ’em’s wicked,” said I, flatly. On which we came back to the garden and met Grandmother Beers, with a great bunch of sweet-peas in her hand, coming to the house.

“Wicked?” she said, in her way of soft surprise. “I didn’t know you knew such a word.”

“It’s a word you learn at Sunday school,” I explained importantly.

“Come over here and tell me about it,” she invited, and led the way toward the Eating Apple tree. And she sat down in the swing! Of course whatever difference of condition exists between your grandmother and yourself vanishes when she sits down casually in your swing.

My Grandmother Beers was a little woman, whose years, in England, in “New York state,” and in her adopted Middle West, had brought her only peace within, though much had beset her from without. She loved Four-o’clocks, and royal purple. When she said “royal purple,” it was as if the words were queens. She was among the few who sympathized with my longing to own a blue or red or green jar from a drug store window. We had first understood each other in a matter of window-sill food: This would be a crust, or a bit of baked apple, or a cracker which I used to lay behind the dining-room window-shutter--the closed one. For in the house at evening it was warm and light and Just-had-your-supper, while outside it was dark and damp and big, and I conceived that it must be lonely and hungry. The Dark was like a great helpless something, filling the air and not wanting particularly to be there. Surely It would much rather be light, with voices and three meals, than the Dark, with nobody and no food. So I used to set out a little offering, and once my Grandmother Beers had caught me paying tribute.

“Once something _did_ come and get it,” I defended myself over my shoulder, and before she could say a word.

“Likely enough, likely enough, child,” she assented, and did not chide me.

Neither did she chide me when once she surprised me into mentioning the Little Things, who had the use of my playthings when I was not there. It was one dusk when she had come upon me setting my toy cupboard to rights, and had commended me. And I had explained that it was so the Little Things could find the toys when they came, that night and every night, to play with them. I remember that all she did was to squeeze my hand; but I felt that I was wholly understood.

What child of us--of Us Who Were--will ever forget the joy of having an older one enter into our games? I used to sit in church and tell off the grown folk by this possibility in them--“She’d play with you--she wouldn’t--she would--he would--they wouldn’t”--an ancient declension of the human race, perfectly recognized by children, but never given its proper due.... I shall never forget the out-door romps with my Father, when he stooped, with his hands on his knees, and then ran _at_ me; or when he held me while I walked the picket fence; or set me in the Eating Apple tree; nor can I forget the delight of the play-house that he built for me, _with a shelf around_.... And always I shall remember, too, how my Mother would play “Lost.” We used to curl on the sofa, taking with us some small store of fruit and cookies, wrap up in blankets and shawls, put up an umbrella--possibly two of them--and there we were, lost in the deep woods. We had been crossing the forest--night had overtaken us--we had climbed in a thick-leaved tree--it was raining--the woods were infested by bears and wolves--we had a little food, possibly enough to stave off starvation till daylight. Then came by the beasts of the forest, wonderful, human beasts, who passed at the foot of our tree, and with whom we talked long and friendly--and differently for each one--and ended by sharing with them our food. We scraped acquaintance with birds in neighbouring nests, the stars were only across a street of sky, the Dark did its part by hiding us. Sometimes, yet, when I see a fat, idle sofa in, say, an hotel corridor, I cannot help thinking as I pass: “What a wonderful place to play Lost.” I daresay that some day I shall put up my umbrella and sit down and play it.

Well--Grandmother Beers was one who knew how to play with us, and I was always half expecting her to propose a new game. But that day, as she sat in the swing, her eyes were not twinkling at the corners.

“What does it mean?” she asked us. “What does ‘wicked’ mean?”

“It’s what you aren’t to be,” I took the brunt of the reply, because I was the relative of the questioner.

“Why not?” asked Grandmother.

Why not? Oh, we all knew that. We responded instantly, and out came the results of the training of all the families.

“Because your mother and father say you can’t,” said Betty Rodman.

“Because it makes your mother feel bad,” said Calista.

“Because God don’t want us to,” said I.

“Delia says,” Betty added, “it’s because, if you are, when you grow up people won’t think anything of you.”

Grandmother Beers held her sweet-peas to her face.

“If,” she said after a moment, “you wanted to do something wicked more than you ever wanted to do anything in the world--as much as you’d want a drink to-morrow if you hadn’t had one to-day--and if nobody ever knew--would any of those reasons keep you from doing it?”

We consulted one another’s look, and shifted. We knew how thirsty that would be. Already we were thirsty, in thinking about it.

“If I were in your places,” Grandmother said, “I’m not sure those reasons would keep me. I rather think they wouldn’t,--always.”

We stared at her. It was true that they didn’t always keep us. Were not two of us “in our rooms” even now?

Grandmother leaned forward--I know how the shadows of the apple leaves fell on her black lace cap and how the pink sweet-peas were reflected in her delicate face.

“Suppose,” she said, “that instead of any of those reasons, somebody gave you this reason: That the earth is a great flower--a flower that has never _really_ blossomed yet. And that when it blossoms, life is going to be more beautiful than we have ever dreamed, or than fairy stories have ever pretended. And suppose our doing one way, and not another, makes the flower come a little nearer to blossoming. But our doing the other way puts back the time when it can blossom. _Then_ which would you want to do?”

Oh, make it grow, make it grow, we all cried--and I felt a secret relief: Grandmother was playing a game with us, after all.

“And suppose that everything made a difference to it,” she went on, “every little thing--from telling a lie, on down to going to get a drink for somebody and drinking first yourself out in the kitchen. Suppose that everything made a difference, from hurting somebody on purpose, down to making up the bed and pulling the bed-spread tight so that the wrinkles in the blanket won’t show....”

At this we looked at one another in some consternation. How did Grandmother know....

“Until after a while,” she said, “you should find out that everything--loving, going to school, playing, working, bathing, sleeping, were all just to make this flower grow. Wouldn’t it be fun to help?”

Yes. Oh, yes, we were all agreed about that. It would be great fun to help.

“Well, then suppose,” said Grandmother, “that as you helped, you found out something else: That in each of you, say, where your heart is, or where your breath is, there was a flower trying to blossom too! And that only as you helped the earth flower to blossom could your flower blossom. And that your doing one way would make your flower droop its head and grow dark and shrivel up. But your doing the other way would make it grow, and turn beautiful colours--so that bye and bye every one of your bodies would be just a sheath for this flower. Which way _then_ would you rather do?”

Oh, make it grow, make it grow, we said again.

And Mary Elizabeth added longingly:--

“Wouldn’t it be fun if it was true?”

“It is true,” said Grandmother Beers.

She sat there, softly smiling over her pink sweet-peas. We looked at her silently. Then I remembered that her face had always seemed to me to be somehow _light within_. Maybe it was her flower showing through!

“Grandmother!” I cried, “is it true--is it true?”

“It is true,” she repeated. “And whether the earth flower and other people’s flowers and your flower are to bloom or not is what living is about. And everything makes a difference. Isn’t that a good reason for not being ‘wicked’?”

We all looked up in her face, something in us leaping and answering to what she said. And I know that we understood.

“Oh,” Mary Elizabeth whispered presently to Betty, “hurry home and tell Margaret Amelia. It’ll make it so much easier when she comes out to her supper.”

* * * * *

That night, on the porch alone with Mother and Father, I inquired into something that still was not clear.

“But how can you _tell_ which things are wicked? And which ones are wrong and which things are right?”

Father put out his hand and touched my hand. He was looking at me with a look that I knew--and his smile for me is like no other smile that I have ever known.

“Something will tell you,” he said, “always.”

“Always?” I doubted.

“Always,” he said. “There will be other voices. But if you listen, something will tell you always. And it is all you need.”

I looked at Mother. And by her nod and her quiet look I perceived that all this had been known about for a long time.

“That is why Grandma Bard is coming to live with us,” she said, “not just because we wanted her, but because--_that_ said so.”

In us all a flower--and something saying something! And the earth flower trying to blossom.... I looked down the street: At Mr. Branchett walking in his garden, at the lights shining from windows, at the folk sauntering on the sidewalk, and toward town where the band was playing. We all knew about this together then. _This_ was why everything was! And there were years and years to make it come true.

What if I, alone among them all, had never found out?

XIV

KING

There was a certain white sugar bear and a red candy strawberry which we had been charged not to eat, because the strawberry was a nameless scarlet and the bear, left from Christmas, was a very soiled bear. We had all looked at these two things longingly, had even on occasion nibbled them a bit. There came a day when I crept under my bed and ate them both.

It was a bed with slats. In the slat immediately above my head there was a knot-hole. Knot-hole, slat, the pattern of the ticking on the mattress, all remain graven on the moment. It was the first time that I had actually been conscious of--indeed, had almost _heard_--the fighting going on within me.

Something was saying: “Oh, eat it, eat it. What do you care? It won’t kill you. It may not even make you sick. It is good. Eat it.”

And something else, something gentle, insistent, steady, kept saying over and over in exactly the same tone, and so that I did not know whether the warning came from within or without:--

“It must not be eaten. It must not be eaten. It must not be eaten.”

But after a little, as I ate, this voice ceased.

Nobody knew that I had eaten the forbidden bear and strawberry. Grandmother Beers squeezed my hand just the same. Mother was as tender as always. And Father--his kind eyes and some little jest with me were almost more than I could bear. I remember spending the evening near them, with something sore about the whole time. From the moment that it began to get dark the presence of bear and strawberry came and fastened themselves upon me, so that I delayed bed-going even more than usual, and interminably prolonged undressing.

Then there came the moment when Mother sat beside me.

“Don’t ask God for anything,” she always said to me. “Just shut your eyes and think of his lovingness being here, close, close, close--breathing with you like your breath. Don’t ask him for anything.”

But that night I scrambled into bed.

“Not to-night, Mother,” I said.

She never said anything when I said that. She kissed me and went away.

_Then!_

There I was, face to face with it at last. What was it that had told me to eat the bear and the strawberry? What was it that had told me that these must not be eaten? What had made me obey one and not the other? Who was it that spoke to me like that?

I shut my eyes and thought of the voice that had told me to eat, and it felt like the sore feeling in me and like the lump in my throat, and like unhappiness.

I thought of the other gentle voice that had spoken and had kept speaking and at last had gone away--and suddenly, with my eyes shut, I was thinking of something like lovingness, close, close, breathing with me like my breath.

So now I have made a story for that night. It is late, I know. But perhaps it is not too late.

* * * * *

Once upon a time a beautiful present was given to a little boy named Hazen. It was not a tent or a launch or a tree-top house or a pretend aeroplane, but it was a little glass casket. And it was the most wonderful little casket of all the kinds of caskets that there are.

For in the casket was a little live thing, somewhat like a fairy and somewhat like a spirit, and so beautiful that everyone wanted one too.

Now the little fairy (that was like a spirit) was held fast in the casket, which was tightly sealed. And when the casket was given to Hazen, the Giver said:--

“Hazen dear, until you get that little spirit free, you cannot be wise or really good or loved or beautiful. But after you get her free you shall be all four. And nobody can free her but you yourself, though you may ask anybody and everybody to tell you how.”

Now Hazen’s father was a king. And it chanced that while Hazen was yet a little boy, the king of a neighbour country came and took Hazen’s father’s kingdom, and killed all the court--for that was the way neighbour countries did in those days, not knowing that neighbours are nearly one’s own family. They took little Hazen prisoner and carried him to the conquering king’s court, and they did it in such a hurry that he had not time to take anything with him. All his belongings--his tops, his football, his books, and his bank, had to be left behind, and among the things that were left was Hazen’s little glass casket, forgotten on a closet shelf, upstairs in the castle. And the castle was shut up and left as it was, because the conquering king thought that maybe he might like sometime to give to his little daughter, the Princess Vista, this castle, which stood on the very summit of a sovereign mountain and commanded a great deal of the world.

In the court of the conquering king poor little Hazen grew up, and he was not wise or _really_ good or loved or beautiful, and he forgot about the casket or thought of it only as a dream, and he did not know that he was a prince. He was a poor little furnace boy and kitchen-fire builder in the king’s palace, and he slept in the basement and did nothing from morning till night but attend to drafts and dampers. He did not see the king at all, and he had never even caught a glimpse of the king’s little daughter, the Princess Vista.

* * * * *

One morning before daylight Hazen was awakened by the alarm-in-a-basin at the head of his cot--for he was always so tired that just an alarm never wakened him at all, but set in a brazen basin an alarm would waken _anybody_. He dressed and hurried through the long, dim passages that led to the kitchens, and there he kindled the fires and tended the drafts and shovelled the coal that should cook the king’s breakfast.

Suddenly a Thought spoke to him. It said:--

“Hazen, you are not wise, or _really_ good, or loved, or beautiful. Why don’t you become so?”

“I,” Hazen thought back sadly, “_I_ become these things? Impossible!” and he went on shovelling coal.

But still the Thought spoke to him, and said the same thing over and over so many times that at last he was obliged to listen and even to answer.

“What would I do to be like that?” he asked almost impatiently.

“First go up in the king’s library,” said the Thought.

So when the fires were roaring and the dampers were right, Hazen went softly up the stair and through the quiet lower rooms of the palace, for it was very early in the morning, and no one was stirring. Hazen had been so seldom above stairs that he did not even know where the library was and by mistake he opened successively the doors to the great banquet room, the state drawing rooms, a morning room, and even the king’s audience chamber before at last he chanced on the door of the library.

The king’s library was a room as wide as a lawn and as high as a tree, and it was filled with books, and the shelves were thrown out to make alcoves, so that the books were as thick as leaves on branches, and the whole room was pleasant, like something good to do. It was impossible for little Hazen, furnace boy though he was, to be in that great place of books without taking one down. So he took at random a big leather book with a picture on the cover, and he went toward a deep window-seat.

Nothing could have exceeded his surprise and terror when he perceived the window-seat to be occupied. And nothing could have exceeded his wonder and delight when he saw who occupied it. She was a little girl of barely his own age, and her lovely waving hair fell over her soft blue gown from which her little blue slippers were peeping. She, too, had a great book in her arms, and over the top of this she was looking straight at Hazen in extreme disapproval.

“Will you have the goodness,” she said--speaking very slowly and most _freezing_ cold--“to ’splain what you are doing in my father’s library?”

At these words Hazen’s little knees should have shaken, for he understood that this was the Princess Vista herself. But instead, he was so possessed by the beauty and charm of the little princess that there was no room for fear. Though he had never in his life been taught to bow, yet the blood of his father the king, and of _his_ father the king, and of _his_ father the king, and so on, over and over, stirred in him and he bowed like the prince he was-but-didn’t-know-it.

“Oh, princess,” he said, “I want to be wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful, and I have come to the king’s library to find out how to do it.”

“Who are you, that want so many ’surd things?” asked the princess, curiously.

“I am the furnace boy,” said the poor prince, “and my other name is Hazen.”

At this the princess laughed aloud--for when he had bowed she had fancied that he might be at least the servant to some nobleman at the court, too poor to keep his foot-page in livery.

“The furnace boy indeed!” she cried. “And handling my father’s books. If you had what you ’serve, you’d be put in pwison.”

At that Hazen bowed again very sadly, and was about to put back his book when footsteps sounded in the hall, and nursery governesses and chamberlains and foot-pages and lackeys and many whose names are as dust came running down the stairs, all looking for the princess. And the princess, who was not frightened, was suddenly sorry for little Hazen, who was.

“Listen,” she said, “you bow so nicely that you may hide in that alcove and I will not tell them that you are there. But don’t you come here to-morrow morning when I come to read my book, or I can’t tell _what_ will happen.”

Hazen had just time to slip in the alcove when all the nursery governesses, chamberlains, foot-pages, and those whose names are as dust burst in the room.

“I was just coming,” said the princess, haughtily.

But when she was gone, Hazen, in his safe alcove, did not once look at his big leather book. He did not even open it. Instead he sat staring at the floor, and thinking and thinking and thinking of the princess. And it was as if his mind were opened, and as if all the princess thoughts in the world were running in, one after another.

Presently, when it was time for the palace to be awake, he stirred and rose and returned the book to its place, and in the midst of his princess thoughts he found himself face to face with a great mirror. And there he saw that, not only was he not beautiful, but that his cheek and his clothes were all blackened from the coal. And then he thought that he would die of shame; first, because the princess had seen him looking so, and second, because he looked so, whether she had seen him or not.

He went back to the palace kitchen, and waited only to turn off the biggest drafts and the longest dampers before he began to wash his face and give dainty care to his hands. In fact, he did this all day long and sat up half the night trying to think how he could be as exquisitely neat as the little princess. And at last when daylight came and he had put coal in the kitchen ranges and had left the drafts right and had taken another bath after, he dressed himself in his poor best which he had most carefully brushed, and he ran straight back up the stair and into the king’s library.

The Princess Vista was not there. But it was very, very early this time and the sun was still playing about outside, and so he set himself to wait, looking up at the window-seat where he had first seen her. As soon as the sun began to slant in the latticed windows in earnest, the door opened and the princess entered, her waving hair falling on her blue gown, and the little blue slippers peeping.

When she saw Hazen, she stood still and spoke most _freezing_ cold.

“Didn’t I tell you on no ’count to come here this morning?” she wished to know.

Generations of kings for ages back bowed in a body in little Hazen.

“Did your Highness not know that I would come?” he asked simply.

“Yes,” said the princess to that, and sat down on the window-seat. “I will punish you,” said she, “but you bow so nicely that I will help you first. Why do you wish to be wise?”

“I thought that I had another reason,” said Hazen, “but it is because you are wise.”

“I’m not so very wise,” said the princess, modestly. “But I could make you as wise as I am,” she suggested graciously. “What do you want to know?”

There was so much that he wanted to know! Down in the dark furnace room he had been forever wondering about the fires that he kindled, about the light that he did not have, about everything. He threw out his arms.

“I want to know about the whole world!” he cried.

The princess considered.

“Perhaps they haven’t teached me everything yet,” she said. “What do you want to know about the world?”

Hazen looked out the window and across the palace garden, lying all golden-green in the slow opening light, with fountains and flowers and parks and goldfish everywhere.

“What makes it get day?” he asked. For since he had been a furnace boy, Hazen had been taught nothing at all.

“Why, the sun comes,” answered the princess.

“Is it the same sun every day?” Hazen asked.

“I don’t think so,” said the princess. “No--sometimes it is a red sun. Sometimes it is a hot sun. Sometimes it is big, big, when it goes down. Oh, no. I am quite sure a different sun comes up every day.”

“Where do they get ’em all?” Hazen asked wonderingly.

“Well,” the princess said thoughtfully, “suns must be like cwort (she never could say “court”) processions. I think they always have them ready somewheres. What else do you want to know about?”

“About the Spring,” said Hazen. “Where does that come from? Where do they get it?”

“They never teached me that,” said the princess, “but _I_ think Summer is the mother, and Winter the father, and Autumn is the noisy little boy, and Spring is the little girl, with violets on.”

“Of course,” cried Hazen, joyfully. “I never thought of that. Why can’t they talk?” he asked.

“They ’most can,” said the princess. “Some day maybe I can teach you what they say. What else do you want to know?”

“About people,” said Hazen. “Why are some folks good and some folks bad? Why is the king kind and the cook cross?”

“Oh, they never teached me that!” the princess cried, impatiently. “What a lot of things you ask!”

“One more question, your Highness,” said Hazen, instantly. “Why are you so beautiful?”

The princess smiled. “Now I’ll teach you my picture-book through,” she said.

She opened the picture-book and showed him pictures of castles and beasts and lawns and towers and ladies and mountains and bright birds and pillars and cataracts and wild white horses and, last, a picture of a prince setting forth on a quest. “Prince Living sets out to make his fortune,” it said under the picture, and Hazen stared at it.

“Why shouldn’t I set out to make _my_ fortune?” he cried.

The princess laughed.

“You are a furnace boy,” she explained. “_They_ don’t make fortunes. Who would mind the furnace if they did?”

Hazen sprang to his feet.

“That can’t be the way the world is!” he cried. “Not when it’s so pretty and all stuck full of goldfish and fountains and flowers and parks. If I went, I _would_ make my fortune!”

The princess crossed her little slippered feet and looked at him. And when he met her eyes, he was ashamed of his anger, though not of his earnestness, and he bowed again; and all the kings of all the courts of his ancestors were in the bow.

“After all,” said the princess, “we don’t have the furnace in Summer. And you bow so nicely that I b’lieve I will help you to make your fortune. _Anyhow_, I can help you to set out.”

Hazen was in the greatest joy. The princess bade him wait where he was, and she ran away and found somewhere a cast-off page boy’s dress and a cap with a plume and a little silver horn and a wallet, with some bread. These she brought to Hazen just as footsteps sounded on the stairs, and nursery governesses and chamberlains and foot-pages and many whose names are as dust came running pell-mell down the stairs, all looking for the princess.

“Hide in that alcove,” said the princess, “till I am gone. Then put on this dress and go out at the east gate which no one can lock. And as you go by the east wing, do not look up at my window or I will wave my hand and somebody may see you going. Now good-bye.”

But at that Hazen was suddenly wretched.

“I can’t leave _you_!” he said. “How can I leave _you_?”

“People always leave people,” said the princess, with superiority. “Play that’s one of the things I teached you.”

At this Hazen suddenly dropped on one knee--the kings, his fathers, did that for him too--and kissed the princess’s little hand. And as suddenly she wished very much that she had something to give him.

“Here,” she said, “here’s my picture-book. Take it with you and learn it through. _Now_ good-bye.”

And Hazen had just time to slip in the alcove when all the n. g.’s, c.’s, f. p.’s, and l.’s, whom there wasn’t time to spell out, as well as all those whose names are now dust, burst in the room.

“I was just coming,” said the princess, and went.

Hazen dressed himself in the foot-page’s livery and fastened the wallet at one side and the little silver horn at the other, and put on the cap with a plume; and he stole into the king’s garden, with the picture-book of the princess fast in his hand.

He had not been in a garden since he had left his father’s garden, which he could just remember, and to be outdoors now seemed as wonderful as bathing in the ocean, or standing on a high mountain, or seeing the dawn. He hastened along between the flowering shrubs and hollyhocks; he heard the fountains plashing and the song-sparrows singing and the village bells faintly sounding; he saw the goldfish and the water-lilies gleam in the pool and the horses cantering about the paddock. And all at once it seemed that the day was his, to do with what he would, and he felt as if already that were a kind of fortune in his hand. So he hurried round the east wing of the palace and looked up eagerly toward the princess’s window. And there stood the Princess Vista, watching, with her hair partly brushed.

When she saw him, she leaned far out.

“I told you not to look,” she said. “Somebody will see you going.”

“I don’t care if anyone does,” cried Hazen. “I _had_ to!”

“How fine you look now,” the princess could not help saying.

“You are beautiful as the whole picture-book!” he could not help saying back.

“_Now_, good-bye!” she called softly, and waved her hand.

“Good-bye--oh, good-bye!” he cried, and waved his plumed cap.

And then he left her, looking after him with her hair partly brushed, and he ran out the east gate which was never locked, and fared as fast as he could along the king’s highway, in all haste to grow wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful.

Hazen went a day’s journey in the dust of the highway, and toward nightfall he came to a deep wood. To him the wood seemed like a great hospitable house, with open doors between the trees and many rooms through which he might wander at will, the whole fair in the light of the setting sun. And he entered the gloom as he might have entered a palace, expecting to meet someone.

Immediately he was aware of an old man seated under a plane tree, and the old man addressed him with:--

“Good even, little lad. Do you travel far?”

“Not very, sir,” Hazen replied. “I am only going to find my fortune and to become wise, _really_ good, beautiful, and loved.”

“So!” said the old man. “Rest here a little and let us talk about it.”

Hazen sat beside him and they talked about it. Now, I wish very much that I might tell you all that they said, but the old man was so old and wise that his thoughts came chiefly as pictures, or in other form without words, so that it was not so much what he said that held his meaning as what he made Hazen feel by merely being with him. Indeed, I do not know whether he talked about the stars or the earth or the ways of men, but he made little Hazen somehow know fascinating things about them all. And when time had passed and the dusk was nearly upon them, the old man lightly touched Hazen’s forehead:--

“Little lad,” he said, “have you ever looked in there?”

“In my own head?” said Hazen, staring.

“Even so,” said the old man. “No? But that might well be a pleasant thing to do. Will you not do that, for a little while?”

This was the strangest thing that ever Hazen had heard. But next moment, under the old man’s guidance, he found himself, as it were, turned about and seeing things that he had never seen, and looking back into his own head as if there were a window that way. And he did it with no great surprise, for it seemed quite natural to him, and he wondered why he had never done it before.

Of the actual construction of things in there Hazen was not more conscious than he would have been of the bricks and mortar of a palace filled with wonderful music and voices and with all sorts of surprises. Here there were both surprises and voices. For instantly he could see a company of little people, _every one of whom looked almost like himself_. And it was as it is when one stands between two mirrors set opposite, and the reflections reflect the reflections until one is dizzy; only now it was as if all the reflections were suddenly to be free of the mirror and be little living selves, ready to say different things.

One little Self had just made a small opening in things, and several Selves were peering into it. Hazen looked too, and he saw to his amazement that it was a kind of picture of his plans for making his fortune. There were cities, seas, ships, men, forests, water-falls, leaping animals, glittering things, all the adventures that he had been imagining. And the Selves were talking it over.

“Consider the work it will be,” one was distinctly grumbling, “before we can get anything. _Is_ it worth it?”

He was a discouraged, discontented-looking Self, and though he had Hazen’s mouth, it was drooping, and though he had Hazen’s forehead, it was frowning.

A breezy little Self, all merry and fluffy and light as lace, answered:--

“O-o-o-o!” it breathed. “I think it will be fun. That’s all I care about it--it will be fun and _nothing else_.”

Then a strange, fascinating Self, from whom Hazen could not easily look away, spoke, half singing.

“Remember the beauty that we shall see as we go--as we go,” he chanted. “We can live for the beauty everywhere and for _nothing else_.”

“Think of the things we shall learn!” cried another Self. “Knowledge--knowledge all the way--and _nothing else_.”

Then a soft voice spoke, which was sweeter than any voice that Hazen had ever heard, and the Self to whom it belonged looked like Hazen when he was asleep.

“Nay,” it said sighing, “there are many dangers. But to meet dangers bravely and to overcome them finely is the way to grow strong.”

At this a little voice laughed and cracked as it laughed, so that it sounded like something being broken which could never be mended.

“Being strong and wise don’t mean making one’s fortune,” it said. “Just one thing means fortune, and that is being rich. To be rich--rich! That’s what we want and it is all we want. And I am ready to fight with everyone of you to get riches.”

Hazen looked where the voice sounded, and to his horror he saw a little Self made in his own image, but hideously bent and distorted, so that he knew exactly how he would look if he were a dwarf.

“Not me!” cried the breezy little Fun Self then. “You wouldn’t fight me!”

“Yes, I would,” said the dwarf. “I’d fight everybody, and when we were rich, you’d thank me for it.”

“Ah, no,” said the Knowledge Self. “I am the only proper ruler in this fortune affair. Knowledge is enough for us to have. Knowledge is what we want.”

“Beauty is all you need!” cried the fascinating Beauty Self. “I am the one who should rule you all.”

“Well, rich, rich, rich! Do I not say so? Will not riches bring beauty and fun and leisure for knowledge?” said the dwarf. “Riches do it all. Do as I say. Take me for your guide.”

“Strength is the thing!” said a great voice, suddenly. “We want to be big and strong and _nothing else_. I am going to rule in this.” And the voice of the Strong Self seemed to be everywhere.

“Not without me ... not without me!” said the Wise Self. But it spoke faintly, and could hardly be heard in the clamour of all the others who now all began talking at once, with the little Fun Self dancing among them and crying, “I’m the one--you all want me to rule, _really_, but you don’t know it.”

And suddenly, in the midst of all this, Hazen began to see strange little shadows appearing and lurking about, somewhat slyly, and often running away, but always coming back. They were tiny and faintly outlined--less like reflections in a mirror than like reflections which had not yet found a mirror for their home. And they spoke in thin little voices which Hazen could hear, and said:--

“We’ll help you, Rich! We’ll help you, Strength! We’ll help you, Fun! Only let us be one of you and we’ll help you win, and you shall reign. Here are Envy Self and Lying Self and Hate Self and Cruel Self--we’ll help, if you’ll let us in!”

And when he heard this, Hazen suddenly called out, with all his might:--

“Stop!” he cried, “I’m the ruler here! I’m Hazen!”

And of course he was the ruler--because it was the inside of his own head.

Instantly there was complete silence there, as when a bell is suddenly struck in the midst of whisperings. And all the Selves shrank back.

“Hazen!” they said, “we didn’t know you were listening. You be king. We’ll help--we’ll help.”

“As long as I live,” said little Hazen then, “not one of you shall rule in here without me. I shall want many of you to help me, but only as much as I tell you to, and no more. I’m only a furnace boy, but I tell you that I am king of the inside of my own head, and I’m going to rule here and nobody else!”

Then, nearer than any of the rest--and he could not tell just where it came from, but he knew how near it was--another voice spoke to him. And somewhat it was like the Thought that had spoken to him in the king’s kitchen and bidden him go up to the king’s library--but yet it was nearer than that had been.

“Bravely done, Hazen,” it said. “Be king--be king, even as you have said!”

With the voice came everywhere sweet music, sounding all about Hazen and in him and through him; and everywhere was air of dreams--he could hardly tell whether he was watching these or was really among them. There were sweet voices, dim figures, gestures of dancing, soft colours, lights, wavy, wonderful lines, little stars suddenly appearing, flowers, kindly faces, and then one face--the exquisite, watching face of the Princess Vista at the window, with her hair partly brushed ... and then darkness....

... When he woke, it was early morning. The sun was pricking through the leaves of the forest, the birds were singing so sweetly and swiftly that it was as if their notes overlapped and made one sound on which everything was threaded like curious and beautiful beads on a silver cord. The old man was gone; and before Hazen, the way, empty and green, led on with promise of surprise.

And now as he went forward, eating his bread and gathering berries, Hazen had never felt so able to make his future. It was as if he were not one boy but many boys in one, and they all ready to do his bidding. Surely, he thought, his fortune must lie at the first turn of the path!

But at the first turn of the path he met a little lad no older than himself, who was drawing a handcart filled with something covered, and he was singing merrily.

“Hello,” said the Merry Lad. “Where are _you_ going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” said Hazen. And though he had readily confided to the old man what he was hoping to find, someway Hazen felt that if he told the Merry Lad, he would laugh at him. And that no one likes, though it is never a thing to fear.

“Come on with me,” said the Merry Lad. “I am going in the town to sell my images. There will be great sport.”

And, without stopping to think whether his fortune lay that way, Hazen, whose blood leapt at the idea of the town and its sports, turned and went with him.

The Merry Lad was very merry. He told Hazen more games and riddles than ever he had heard. He sang him songs, did little dances for him in the open glades, raced with him, and when they reached the dusty highway, got him in happy talk with the other wayfarers. And by the time they gained the town, they were a gay little company. There the Merry Lad took his images to the market-place and spread them under a tree--little figures made to represent Mirth, Merriment, Laughter, Fun, Fellowship, and Delight--no end there was to the variety and charm of the little images, and no end to all that the Merry Lad did to attract the people to them. He sang and danced and whistled and even stood on his head, and everyone crowded about him and was charmed.

“Pass my cap about,” he said, while he danced, to Hazen. “They will give us money.”

So Hazen passed the Merry Lad’s cap, and the people gave them money. They filled the cap, indeed, with clinking coins, and went away carrying the images. And by nightfall the Merry Lad and Hazen had more money than they knew how to use.

“Oh,” the Merry Lad cried, “we shall have a glorious time. Come!”

Now Hazen had never been in the town at night, and he had never been in any town at any time without some of the king’s servants for whom he had had to fetch and carry. To him the streets were strange and wonderful, blazing with lights, filled with gayly dressed folk, and sounding now and again to strains of music. But the Merry Lad seemed wholly at home, and he went here and there like a painted moth, belonging to the night and a part of it. They feasted and jested and joyed, and most of all they spent the money that they had earned, and they spent it on themselves. I cannot tell you the things that they bought. They bought a wonderful, tropical, talking bird; they bought a little pony on which they both could ride, with the bird on the pony’s neck; they bought a tiny trick monkey and a suit of Indian clothes with fringed leggings and head-feathers; and a music-box that played like a whole band. And when the evening with its lights and pantomimes was over, they pitched their tent on the edge of the town, picketed the pony outside, brought the other things safely within, and lay down to sleep.

Now, since they had no pillows, Hazen took the picture-book which the princess had given him and made his pillow of that. And as soon as everything was quiet, and the Merry Lad and the talking bird were asleep and the pony was dozing at its picket, the princess’s picture-book began to talk to Hazen. I do not mean that it said words--it is a great mistake to think that everything that is said must be said in words--but it talked to him none the less, and better than with words. It showed him the princess in her blue gown sitting in the window-seat with her little blue slippers crossed. It showed him her face as she taught him about the sun and the world, and taught him her picture-book through. It reminded him that his page-boy’s dress was worn because, in his heart, he was her page. It brought back the picture of her standing at the window, with her hair partly brushed, to wave him a good-bye--“_Now_, good-bye,” he could hear her little voice. He remembered now that he had started out to find his fortune and to become wise, _really_ good, loved, and beautiful. And lo, all this that he had done all day with the Merry Lad--was it helping him to any of these?

As soon as he knew this, he rose softly and, emptying his pockets of his share of the money earned that day, he laid it near the Merry Lad’s pillow, took the picture-book, and slipped away.

The Merry Lad did not wake, but the talking bird stirred on his perch and called after him: “Stay where you are! Stay where you are!” And the words seemed to echo in Hazen’s head and were repeated there as if another voice had said them, and while he hesitated at the door of the tent, he knew what that other voice was: It was within his head indeed, and it was the voice of that breezy little Self, all merry and fluffy and light as lace--the Fun Self itself!

And then he knew that all day long that was the voice that he had been obeying when he went with the Merry Lad, and all day long that Self had been guiding him, and had been his ruler. And he himself had not been king of the Selves at all!

Hazen slipped out into the night and ran as fast as he could. Nearly all that night he travelled without stopping, lest when day came the Merry Lad should overtake him. And when day did come, Hazen found himself far away, and passing the gate of a garden where, in the dawn, a youth was walking, reading a book. Him Hazen asked if he might come in the garden and rest for a little.