Adventures in Toyland/III.

Here the little Marionette paused.

"That is all," she said.

"What a good thing that the Mouse had his head bitten off," said the little girl thoughtfully.

"It was just as well," the Marionette answered, "since he could use it to no better purpose."

"Some of the toys were very wicked in that story, I think; dreadfully wicked."

"I think the same. They were bad, wicked toys, with bad, wicked ways."

"Are many of the toys you know as wicked as that?" asked Molly.

"Oh, dear no!" said the little Marionette, quite shocked. "Most of my friends and acquaintances are really wonderfully well-behaved."

"Do you know, I should like you next time to tell me about one of them."

"About some one simple, perhaps?"

"Yes, I think so."

The little Marionette thought a moment.

Then she said: "I know of no one more simple than Belinda."

"Tell me about her, if you please."

"Very good. You shall hear of Belinda and her simplicity."

So the next day she told her friend the story of

Belinda was a little wax doll who had a most charming way of opening and shutting her eyes. When Mortals were about, she could not do it unless they helped by pulling a wire. But when once the shop was closed, and the toys, left to themselves, could move at pleasure, then Belinda pulled her own wires and opened and shut her eyes as she pleased. She did this in so simple and unaffected a fashion that it delighted everyone to see her.

"What simplicity! what delightful simplicity!" said the other toys. "'Tis really charming!"

"Singularly simple," repeated the Butcher, who always stood at the door of his shop, watching for the customers that so seldom came. "She is like an innocent lamb," he added, his thoughts turning to his trade; "a simple, harmless lamb."

"Elle est très gentille, la petite Belinde," remarked Mademoiselle Cerise, the French doll just arrived from Paris. "Elle est une jeune fille fort bien élevée; elle ferme les yeux d'une façon vraiment ravissante."

"Here we are again, Simplicity and Self!" said the Clown, turning a somersault and landing by Belinda's side with a broad grin upon his face.

She made no reply, but instantly closed her eyes. She was not quite sure but that he was laughing at her, so she thought it more prudent not to see him.

"There! did you notice?" ... "Wasn't it pretty and simple?" said all the Toys to one another as they looked at Belinda. I must, however, make an exception when I say "all" the Toys. There was one who did not utter a word. This was Jack, the curly-headed Sailor-Boy, who was deeply in love with Belinda. He was so unhappy about the matter that he feared to speak of her lest in so doing the thought of his sorrow should make him shed unmanly tears in public.

I will tell you the cause of his grief. He could not make her see how much he loved her. Whenever he came near her she immediately closed her eyes. So that it did not matter what expression he assumed, it was all wasted on Belinda. He worried himself about it very much.

"Is it," said he to himself, "because she doesn't happen to see, or because she doesn't wish to see? How can I make her open her eyes? Shall I speak to her coldly or gently, with mirth or with melancholy, in poetry or in prose?"

"I will be poetical," he resolved; "I will sing her a song of love. That may induce her to open her eyes."

Now Jack was only a simple Sailor-Lad; he knew little music and less poetry. A few sea-songs and one or two little ballads, these were all he had to trust to, and he could think of none that seemed suitable to the occasion.

He thought long, and finally remembered the beginning of an old song which, with a little alteration, would, he decided, do very well. So, in a rough but tender voice, he thus sang to his lady-love:—

"Of all the girls I love so well,       There's none I love like 'Linder;      She is the darling of my heart,—        And Linder rhymes with cinder."

"This," he said to himself, "will teach her how deep and how true my love is for her. This should open her eyes."

But Belinda, quite unmoved, sat with them tightly closed.

"I will try again," he said to himself. And he sang the verse once more, though this time his voice shook so greatly with emotion that he was obliged to stop in the middle in order to steady it.

After this he sat silent, hoping that Belinda would even now open her eyes.

"Then," said he, "she will see how sad I look, and she will surely be touched."

But disappointment was again his lot. She never opened even half an eye.

"Shiver my timbers!" said the luckless Sailor-Lad, "she'll be the death of me."

And he went away mournfully whistling "The Death of Nelson."

Then he tried to startle her by suddenly shouting within her hearing a few seafaring expressions he knew. "Hard-a-port! Lay aft! Yo, heave ho!"

She half-opened her eyes, but immediately closed them again. "Those expressions sound a little rough," she remarked.

He felt sorely tried.

"None so blind as those who won't see, my lass," he said one day.

"I should have thought," she answered with unaffected surprise, "it was those who can't see."

"Have you looked up through the sky-light this afternoon?" he asked. "The sunset is glorious."

"Describe it to me. I love descriptions," she said with simple enthusiasm. “You had better see it for yourself,” he said crossly and turned away. He felt so wretched that really he would have liked to go to sea.

He sighed again,—and looked back at Belinda. Why, her eyes were open! He hurried over to her, pinching with great energy his arm as he went, in order to make himself tearful, and thus, if possible, appear more miserable than he already did. The tears did come, but just as he got to Belinda she closed her eyes once more.

“The sunset is indeed perfect,” she said, “I have been watching it till my eyes ache, and I cannot keep them open any longer.”

“I look just as if I had a cold in my head. You can see that for yourself, can’t you?” he asked, hoping that this question would induce her to glance at him and observe his tears.

“Why, no,” she answered, “I can’t because my eyes are closed. But if you say so, I suppose you must be correct.”

“Belinda, I love you,” said he.

“Thank you very much,” answered she. “Isn’t it extraordinary weather for this time of the year? I can hardly believe that we are in the middle of summer.”

Poor Jack left in despair, and this time he whistled a funeral march.

But like a true-hearted sailor, he resolved to try again. So the next day he said to her:

“Belinda, I’m afraid we are going to have heavy weather, there are so many clouds overhead. Look up out of the sky-light and you will see for yourself.”

“I would rather not,” she said, keeping her eyes tightly closed. “I don’t like seeing clouds; it depresses my spirits.”

“You can look out of the sky-light now,” he said to her later, “without being afraid of seeing the clouds. They have all cleared away and it is blue again.”

“Then I can enjoy my afternoon nap,” she remarked simply, “without fear of thunder.”

And on this occasion the poor curly-headed Sailor felt too miserable even to attempt whistling; he went away in dumb despair!

It was just about this time that Mademoiselle Cerise was bought by a lady as a present for her little god-daughter.

“But the color of the doll’s dress has become faded,” said the lady. “She must have a new one before I take her.”

“That can easily be arranged in a day,” said the owner of the shop.

“Very well,” answered the lady, “then I will buy her. You need not send her. I will bring my little friend with me to-morrow afternoon when we shall be passing your shop. She will like to carry her new doll through the streets.”

Next morning when Mademoiselle Cerise was brought back to the shop after having been absent since the previous afternoon, the Sailor-Lad was struck by something very familiar about the appearance of her new blue muslin dress. At first he could not think why. Then he understood; the muslin was—so it seemed to him—of exactly the same pattern and exactly the same color as Belinda’s dress. As he realized this a sudden thought struck him, upon which he acted without delay.

Coming up to Belinda softly, who was sitting with her eyes closed, he exclaimed loudly and suddenly in her ear: "Belinda, Belinda! Mademoiselle Cerise has on a dress precisely like yours!"

"No!" she said, and opened her eyes in a moment. She gazed around anxiously for Mademoiselle Cerise, but the Sailor-Boy placed himself right before her and looked at her as adoringly as he knew how.

"Oh, Belinda," he said, "how I love you!"

"Do you?" said she with great surprise. "Well, you don't love me more than I love you."

"You make me very happy, my lass," said he. "But why are you astonished at my saying I love you? Have I not told you so before?"

"I thought you were quizzing," she answered.

"The sad expression of my face should have told you I was not quizzing," he replied.

"How could I tell what your expression was when I never saw it?" she asked with some reproach.

"You did not see it because you always closed your eyes when I spoke to you," he replied. "What made you do that?"

Belinda thought a moment

"It was merely a habit I had fallen into," said she.

"You should never become a slave to a habit," replied the curly-headed Sailor-Lad. He spoke reprovingly, as he thought of his many heart-aches.

She did not like to be reproved, so she changed the subject.

"You made a mistake," she said. "Mademoiselle Cerise's dress is very pretty, but it is not precisely like mine; the pattern is larger and a little louder, and the color is lighter and a little harsher."

"Well, perhaps," said the Sailor-Lad. He spoke very cheerful now, he felt in such good spirits.

"I am very glad that the Sailor-Boy was happy at last," said the little girl. "I was afraid Belinda never meant to open her eyes."

"It certainly looked like it at one time," answered the little Marionette. "However, it was all right in the end, for she opened them in time to prevent her Sailor-Boy's heart from breaking."

"I wonder why she kept them closed so long."

"I wonder," reflected the little Marionette. And she smiled.

"Force of habit, I suppose, as she herself said," she remarked after a pause. "We all have our little ways. Now what sort of story would you like to-morrow?"

The little girl thought deeply for a few moments. Then she said: "You have told me a story about a sailor, so I should like the next one to be about a soldier."

"A soldier—a soldier—" the Marionette answered. "I don't think I know one about a soldier—Yes, stay; there is the story of the Officer and the Elephant. That is about a soldier."

"An Officer and an Elephant! How nice!" exclaimed the little girl eagerly. "I am quite certain it must be very funny."

"I don't think the Officer found it so," the little lady replied, giving a sweet, little tinkling laugh.

"Didn't he?" asked her listener with much interest.

"I wish you would tell me all about it now," she continued; "I want so much to hear it."

"Not now," replied the little Marionette, "it is getting too late; all the animals in the Noah's Ark are fast asleep. Listen, they are snoring loudly. Come to-morrow at the same time. Be punctual, for the story is a long one."

"Yes, I will," promised the little girl.