Читать книгу The Adventures of Peterkin - Gilbert W. Gabriel - Страница 11

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AN old farmer came hobbling out of his house, along the little path that ran to the edge of the haystack. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes well-nigh popped from his head at the sight of so strange a fellow in his haystack.

“Heigh!” cried the farmer, “what are you doing in my stack, eh? And what’s that silly, pearly thing you have at your side? What are you doing in this peaceful valley, eh?”

“I’m flying,” replied Peterkin, climbing down to the ground. “I’ve flown from there to here, from the earth to the stars, from the moon to the sun ... and here I am, hungry as hungry can be. So come along, old farmerman, and feed me full of all the best things of your cupboard.”

“Not I!” cried the toothless old farmer. “Not until you tell me your whole story.”

So they sat themselves down in the shade of a blossoming tree, and Peterkin told the tale of his adventures; of how he had lived in the pumpkin patch, and the wind had swept him away, in his pumpkin house, far upon the sea; and of the storms and the frisky whale, and the desert shore, and the loss of Pumperkin, and of how he made his final escape in the cup of the flying shell ... and here he was!

The old farmer listened, with growing wonder. He could only shake his head and lick his toothless gums with his long tongue and say, “Tut, tut, what a queer affair! Tut, tut, tut!”

Then he scratched himself very long and hard, and broke into a red-faced chuckling. It was plain to see he had just had a new, sly thought!

“I’ve never seen a shell,” said he, “because I’ve never seen the sea. The sea is so far away from here ... it doesn’t touch our little valley at all. The thunder of its waves never comes to our ears, and the sting of its spray never flicks us. Perhaps that’s why we’re called the peaceful valley. We never mind anything excepting our own business, nor care for anyone who dwells outside the boundary of our hills. Tut, tut!” And he sighed.

“And yet, for all your happy valley,” declared Peterkin, “you seem to be sighing unhappily for something. Tell me, what is it?”

“A new set of teeth,” wept the old fellow. “That’s what I need. I lost my old set—oh, so many years ago. And there’s no place to find a new one in all the valley.”

“Ho, ho, that’s easily fixed,” laughed Peterkin. “You shall come with me on my sea-shell, up into the sky, over the hills, until we reach some huge and busy city. I have no doubt of it—you may find a new set of teeth there.”

Now, that was just what the old farmer was wanting. When he heard this generous offer, he wasted no time, but ran to sit himself on the shell.

“But, ho, what about my reward?” said Peterkin. “Not so fast, please. First you must feed me a fine meal—a meal to take away all my two days’ hunger and to make me fat and glad.”

“Agreed!” cried the farmer.

So he took the starving Peterkin into his house and set before him a whole tableful of dishes: thick soups and red, juicy meats and white slabs of fish from the brookside, and frothy-leaved salads, ripening fruits ... and a whole mountain of desserts. Peterkin did not know where to begin, and having once begun, did not know where to end. The result was that he ate the whole tableful, from the first soup to the last dessert.

But little did he guess what a wicked trick his appetite had played him.

“So they sat themselves on the flying sea-shell”