Читать книгу Tommy Toddles - Albert Lee - Страница 5

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Tommy Toddles and his companion had advanced but a short distance into the woods when the little boy thought he heard some one laughing very loud and heartily, apparently at no great distance from them. He paused a moment to listen, and when the sounds of laughter were repeated he touched the Sheep on the shoulder and they both stopped.

“Did you hear that?” said Tommy.

“Yes.”

“Some one is laughing; let us go and ask about the animals.”

“Don’t ask him” exclaimed the Sheep, in a tone of deep scorn; “he wouldn’t know.”

“Why, who is it?” asked the little boy,

“That’s the Loon. He’s crazy,” and the Sheep started on down the road again.

“But he might have seen the animals, even if he is crazy,” persisted Tommy. “Let us go and ask him, anyway.”

The Sheep asserted that this would be an utterly useless proceeding and an absolute waste of time; but Tommy finally persuaded him to make the attempt, at least, and so they turned off from the main road and plunged into a thicket out of which the sounds of laughter appeared to come. As they broke their way through the bushes the noise of the Loon’s laughter grew plainer and plainer. Presently the thick growth of underbrush opened up into a sort of clearing surrounded by tall trees, and reaching down on the farther side to the edge of a lake. Near the shore stood the Loon, and when Tommy first caught sight of him he thought this was the most solemn-looking bird he had ever seen. He was standing beside a tree trunk which looked very much like a butcher’s block, and every few minutes he placed some imaginary or invisible object on the top of the trunk, and then struck it vigorously with a large hammer which he held. After every blow the Loon lifted up his head and laughed as if there had never been anything so funny.

“You see, he’s crazy,” said the Sheep, deprecatingly,

“What is he doing?” asked Tommy.

“I’m sure I don’t know; he’s just crazy.”

“Well, you ask him if he has seen the animals,” for by this time the two had approached quite close to the Loon, who, however, seemed to be entirely unconscious of their presence.

“Ba-ah!” said the Sheep.

“Quack!” said the Loon.

“How d’ye do?” said Tommy.

And then the Loon brought his hammer down hard on the block and laughed as though his sides would split.

“Have you seen the animals?” asked the Sheep.

“No,” answered the Loon, briefly, and then he pounded the block again.

After the laughter had subsided, Tommy spoke. "Have not you seen my animals go by here, Mr. Loon?”

“Not an animal,” responded the bird. “I have been too busy.”

“What are you doing?” asked Tommy.

“Can’t you see what I’m doing?” snapped the Loon; “I’m cracking jokes,” and he brought the hammer down once more with a vigorous blow.

“Cracking jokes?” repeated Tommy, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes—cracking jokes.”

“But where are the jokes?”

“The jokes are on the block.” replied the Loon.

“I don’t see any jokes,” and Tommy looked closely at the beaten top of the tree trunk.

“I did not suppose you could,” retorted the Loon, “You are as stupid as all the rest. No one ever sees my jokes.” Whereupon he rapped the block again and fairly shrieked with merriment.

“He is crazy,” said Tommy, turning to the Sheep.

“I told you so,” answered the latter, triumphantly, “Let us leave him alone with his jokes, and go up to the head of the lake. They’ll know up there.”

They did not even say good-bye to the Loon as they made their way out of the clearing, for the bird was not paying any attention to them. They turned into a narrow path that led off in the direction of the lake and then followed along the shore. It was a very pretty lake, with trees growing down close to the water, and Tommy wondered that he and his Uncle Dick had never discovered it before. As they trudged along, jumping over fallen logs now and then, they could hear the Loon’s laughs growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

Presently they came to a low point of land that jutted out into the water, and when they had walked out to the end of it Tommy noticed a queer-looking building standing in an open space about a quarter of a mile away at the head of the lake. It was a two-storied house with a shingled roof, and any quantity of windows in the sides. The most peculiar thing, however, was that the side of the house fronting the lake was painted white, and one end of the building was painted blue, and the other end was painted red. The little boy, of course, could not see the fourth side, and he wondered what color that was. He looked at the strange building as they advanced, and in a few moments said to the Sheep,

“What is that house?”

“The Poorhouse,” answered the Sheep.

‘“I never knew of a Poorhouse around here,” said Tommy, as be gazed at the queer structure, “Is there any one in it?”

“Only two poor people,” answered his companion, “but they are both very poor.”

“Who are they?”

“One is an ex-Pirate, and the other is a Reformed Burglar?”

“A Pirate and a Burglar!” exclaimed Tommy. “I did not know there were any more pirates.”

“There aren’t,” replied the Sheep, testily. “I said an ex-Pirate. He was driven out of the business.”

Tommy was a little abashed by the Sheep’s tone, but after a brief pause he resumed,

“Is he a real Pirate?”

“He was” answered the Sheep.

“And what does he do now?” continued the little boy.

“He is very poor now.”

“I thought all pirates got rich,” persisted Tommy.

“They did. Some got rich and some got killed. This Pirate got rich.”

“But you just said he was poor,” objected the little boy.

“He is now,” answered the Sheep, “You see, when things got into such a state that the pirate business was no longer profitable, this one sold his ship and all his hidden gold and retired. Then he started in to write poetry, and now he’s in the Poorhouse.”

Tommy could not quite follow this explanation, but he thought it must be all right, and as they walked along he tried, although without any very gratifying success, to think it out. After a while he said,

“Does the ex-Pirate still write poetry?”

“Yes,” answered the Sheep, “but he’s so poor now that it does not make any difference.”

“And the Burglar?” asked Tommy.

“Oh, he’s very good now; he has reformed entirely.”

“Does not he steal any more?”

“No, And, besides, there is nothing to steal at the Poor-house.”

“What does he do, then?”

“He does not do anything but paint the Poorhouse. Since his reform he has become a good man and a patriotic citizen, and so he paints the house red, white, and blue. He paints one side every day, so that every fourth day the sides have a different color.”

“He must use an awful lot of paint,” thought Tommy. But by this time the two had gotten almost up to the house, and the little boy could see the Reformed Burglar in a pair of overalls, with a pot of red paint in his hand, painting one end of the house.