Davy and the Goblin/Chapter V

Chapter V. Jack and the Bean-Stalk’s Farm.

It was quite an ordinary-looking farm-yard and quite an ordinary-looking Cow, but she stared so earnestly up at Davy that he felt positively certain she had something to say to him. “Every creature I meet does have something to say,” he thought, as he felt about for the window-fastening, “and I should really like to hear a Cow”—and just at this moment the window suddenly flew open, and he pitched head-foremost out upon a pile of hay in the farm-yard, and rolled from it off upon the ground. As he sat up, feeling exceedingly foolish, he looked anxiously at the Cow, expecting to see her laughing at his misfortune, but she stood gazing at him with a very serious expression of countenance, solemnly chewing, and slowly swishing her tail from side to side. As Davy really didn’t know how to begin a conversation with a Cow, he waited for her to speak first, and there was consequently a long pause. Presently the Cow said, in a melancholy, lowing tone of voice, “The old gray goose is dead.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Davy, not knowing what else to say.

“She is,” said the Cow, positively, “and we’ve buried her in the vegetable garden. We thought gooseberries would come up, but they didn’t. Nothing came up but feathers.”

“That’s very curious,” said Davy.

“Curious, but comfortable,” replied the Cow. “You see, it makes a feather-bed in the garden. The pig sleeps there, and calls it his quill pen. Now I think that pig-pens should be made of porcupine quills.”

“So do I,” said Davy, laughing. “What else is there in the garden?”

“Nothing but the bean-stalk,” said the Cow. “You’ve heard of ‘Jack and the Bean-stalk,’ haven’t you?”

“Oh! yes, indeed!” said Davy, beginning to be very much interested. “I should like to see the bean-stalk.”

“You can’t see the beans talk,” said the Cow, gravely. “You might hear them talk; that is, if they had anything to say, and you listened long enough. By the way, that’s the house that Jack built. Pretty, isn’t it?”

Davy turned and looked up at the house. It certainly was a very pretty house, built of bright red brick, with little gables, and dormer-windows in the roof, and with a trim little porch quite overgrown with climbing roses. Suddenly an idea struck him, and he exclaimed:—

“Then you must be the Cow with a crumpled horn!”

“It’s not crumpled,” said the Cow, with great dignity. “There’s a slight crimp in it, to be sure, but nothing that can properly be called a crump. Then the story was all wrong about my tossing the dog. It was the cat that ate the malt. He was a Maltese cat, and his name was Flipmegilder.”

“Did you toss him?” inquired Davy.

“Certainly not,” said the Cow, indignantly. “Who ever heard of a cow tossing a cat? The fact is, I’ve never had a fair chance to toss anything. As for the dog, Mother Hubbard never permitted any liberties to be taken with him.”

“I’d dearly love to see Mother Hubbard,” said Davy, eagerly.

“Well, you can,” said the Cow, indifferently. “She isn’t much to see. If you’ll look in at the kitchen window you’ll probably find her performing on the piano and singing a song. She’s always at it.”

 Mother Hubbard sings a song. Davy stole softly to the kitchen window and peeped in, and, as the Cow had said, Mother Hubbard was there, sitting at the piano, and evidently just preparing to sing. The piano was very remarkable, and Davy could not remember ever having seen one like it before. The top of it was arranged with shelves, on which stood all the kitchen crockery, and in the under part of it, at one end, was an oven with glass doors, through which he could see several pies baking.

Mother Hubbard was dressed, just as he expected, in a very ornamental flowered gown, with high-heeled shoes and buckles, and wore a tall pointed hat over her nightcap. She was so like the pictures Davy had seen of her that he thought he would have recognized her anywhere.

She sang in a high key with a very quavering voice, and this was the song:— I had an educated pug, His name was Tommy Jones; He lived upon the parlor rug Exclusively on bones.

And if, in a secluded room, I hid one on a shelf, It disappeared; so I presume He used to help himself.

He had an entertaining trick Of feigning he was dead; Then, with a reassuring kick, Would stand upon his head.

I could not take the proper change, And go to buy him shoes, But what he’d sit upon the range And read the latest news.

And when I ventured out, one day To order him a coat, I found him, in his artless way, Careering on a goat.

I could not go to look at hats But that, with childish glee, He’d ask in all the neighbors’ cats To join him at his tea.

And when I went to pay a bill (I think it was for tripe), He made himself extremely ill By smoking with a pipe.

There was something about the prim language of this song that sounded very familiar to Davy, and when Mother Hubbard chanced to turn her face towards him he was surprised to see that she looked very like old Miss Peggs, his school-teacher. While she was singing the song little handfuls of gravel were constantly thrown at her through one of the kitchen windows, and by the time the song was finished her lap was quite full of it.

“I’d just like to know who is throwing that gravel,” said Davy, indignantly.

“It’s Gobobbles,” said the Cow, calmly. “You’ll find him around at the front of the house. By the way, have you any chewing-gum about you?”

“No,” said Davy, greatly surprised at the question.

“So I supposed,” said the Cow. “It’s precisely what I should expect of a person who would fall out of a window.”

“But I couldn’t help that,” said Davy.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said the Cow, yawning indolently. “It’s precisely what I should expect of a person who hadn’t any chewing-gum.” And with this the Cow walked gravely away, just as Mother Hubbard made her appearance at the window.

“Boy,” said Mother Hubbard, beaming mildly upon Davy through her spectacles, “you shouldn’t throw gravel.”

“I haven’t thrown any,” said Davy.

“Fie!” said Mother Hubbard, shaking her head; “always speak the truth.”

“I am speaking the truth,” said Davy, indignantly. “It was Gobobbles.”

“So I supposed,” said Mother Hubbard, gently shaking her head again. “It would have been far better if he had been cooked last Christmas instead of being left over. Stuffing him and then letting him go has made a very proud creature of him. You should never be proud.”

“I’m not proud,” replied Davy, provoked at being mixed up with Gobobbles in this way.

“You may define the word proud, and give a few examples,” continued Mother Hubbard; and by this time she had grown to be so surprisingly like Miss Peggs that Davy immediately clasped his hands behind him, according to rule, and prepared to recite.

“Proud means being set up, I think,” he said, respectfully; “but I don’t think I know any examples.”

“You may take Gobobbles for an example,” replied Mother Hubbard. “You’ll find him set up in front of the house, and mind you don’t aggravate him;” and after again beaming mildly through her spectacles she disappeared from the window, and Davy went cautiously around the corner of the house, curious to see what Gobobbles might be like. As he approached the front of the house he heard a loud, thumping noise, and presently he came in sight of Gobobbles, who proved to be a large and very bold-mannered turkey with all his feathers taken off except a frowzy tuft about his neck. He was tied fast in a baby’s high chair, and was thumping his chest with his wings in such a violent and ill-tempered manner that Davy at once made up his mind not to aggravate him under any circumstances. As Gobobbles caught sight of him he discontinued his thumping, and, after staring at him for a moment, said sulkily:—

“I can’t abide boys!”

“Why not?” said Davy.

“Oh, they’re so hungry!” said Gobobbles, passionately. “They’re so everlastingly hungry. Now don’t deny that you’re fond of turkey.”

“Well, I do like turkey,” said Davy, seeing no way out of the difficulty.

“Of course you do!” said Gobobbles, tossing his head. “Now you might as well know,” he continued, resuming his thumping with increased energy, “that I’m as hollow as a drum and as tough as a hat-box. Just mention that fact to any one you meet, will you? I suppose Christmas is coming, of course.”

“Of course it is,” replied Davy.

“It’s always coming!” said Gobobbles, angrily; “I never knew a time yet when it wasn’t coming!”

“I don’t mind having it come,” said Davy, stoutly.

“Oh, don’t you, indeed!” said Gobobbles. “Well, then, I don’t mind having you go!” and here he began hopping his chair forward in such a threatening manner that Davy turned and walked away with as much dignity as he could assume.

As he went around the corner of the house again he found himself in a pleasant lane, bordered on either side by a tall hedge, and, as he was now out of sight of Gobobbles, he started off on a gentle run by way of getting out of the neighborhood as soon as possible. Before he had gone a dozen steps, however, he heard a thumping sound behind him, and, looking back, he saw, to his dismay, that Gobobbles had in some way got loose from his high chair, and was coming after him, thumping himself in a perfect frenzy. In fact, his appearance was so formidable that Davy did not pause for a second look, but started off at the top of his speed.

Gobobbles, however, proved himself to be a capital runner, and, in spite of all Davy’s efforts, he could hear the dreadful thumping sound coming nearer and nearer, until it seemed to be just at his heels. At this instant something sprang upon his back; but, before he could cry out in his terror, a head was suddenly thrust over his shoulder, and he found the Goblin, who was now of a bright purple color, staring him in the face and laughing with all his might.