Читать книгу Tales from the Storyteller's House - Thornton Waldo Burgess - Страница 6

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For a few minutes there was no sound save the crackling and snapping of red-hot coals. The lights had been turned out and in the glow of the fire the half circle of intent faces watched the story-log, little Mary’s face the most intent of all. Suddenly Mary began to dance and clap her hands.

“Goody! goody! My story-log has begun to burn!” she cried excitedly.

“Why so it has, Mary. So it has,” said the Storyteller. “Well, my dear, of whom shall the story be to-night?”

“Peter Rabbit! Please! oh please! I just love Peter!” cried the little girl, jumping up and down as an excited small girl can.

The Storyteller laughed. “I guess we all do, Mary,” said he. “All right, about Peter it shall be. Have I ever told you children how Peter once found the most precious thing in all the great world?”

A chorus in the negative was the prompt response. “What was it—a great big di’mond’?” Robert asked.

The Storyteller shook his head. “No, Robert,” said he. “No, not a diamond; something a great deal more precious than that. Something so precious that it is without price and many people have gladly given their lives for it. Luckily Peter didn’t have to do that. Do any of you know why Old Mother Nature gave Peter Rabbit long ears?”

“Sure. So he can hear things,” replied Robert.

The Storyteller’s eyes twinkled. “Of course,” said he. “Sometimes they are things that it is intended he should hear. Sometimes they are things not meant for his ears at all. I suspect that often it is these things that Peter enjoys most. A lot of people are that way, you know. They listen to things they have no business to listen to.”

The Storyteller paused to look around that half circle of faces, and chuckled as not an eye met his, but all gazed somewhat self-consciously into the fire. After a moment he continued.

“Anyway Peter is full of curiosity and is always listening. If he isn’t curious about one thing he is curious about another thing. Sometimes he is curious about many things all at once.

“It happened one day that Peter was taking a nap. He was safely hidden in a bramble-tangle beside the Crooked Little Path. He was wakened by voices. At first he opened his eyes only part way, for he was still half asleep. It wasn’t until he heard a low, sweet voice close by that he realized that someone was passing along the Crooked Little Path. Then his eyes flew wide open.

“ ‘There is just one thing without price—the most precious thing in all the Great World,’ said that low, sweet voice.

“Peter knew that voice. I wonder if any of you can guess whose voice it was.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Nancy ventured a guess. “I think it was the voice of Old Mother Nature,” said she.

“Right!” replied the Storyteller. “It was Mother Nature’s voice sure enough. Another almost as low and sweet made reply. ‘I know. What a pity it is that in so many places we do not find it. It ought to be everywhere in all the Great World, but it isn’t. It often seems as if those who most want and need it are the very ones who are denied it.’

“Peter knew that voice too. He heard it almost every day, but not always so sweet and low. It was the voice of the mother of some of Peter’s little friends, the Merry Little Breezes.”

“I know! Old Mother West Wind!” shouted Billy.

The Storyteller laughed. “Of course,” said he. “Who else could it have been? By this time Peter was wide awake. Old Mother Nature and Old Mother West Wind disappeared down the Crooked Little Path leaving behind them a long-eared bunch of curiosity.

“ ‘Now what,’ said Peter to himself, ‘can be the thing without price, the most precious thing in all the Great World?’ He lifted a long hind foot and—”

“Scratched a long ear with that long hind foot!” cried Jean.

Everybody laughed as the Storyteller reached over and pinched her ear. “Right you are, my dear,” said he. “That is just what he did. Then he scratched the other long ear with the other long hind foot. But the scratching was useless, for when he was through he was no wiser than before. He tried to forget the matter, but couldn’t. The more he tried to forget it the more he thought about it and the more curious he became. At last, with the question fairly burning the tip of his tongue, he started out to look for the answer. The first person he met was his cousin, Jumper the Hare.

“ ‘Oh Cousin Jumper,’ cried Peter, ‘do you know what is the most precious thing in all the Great World?’

“It was Jumper’s turn to scratch a long ear with a long hind foot. ‘No,’ said he. ‘What is it?’

“ ‘I don’t know. I’m looking for it,’ replied Peter.

“ ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Jumper. So away they went—”

“Lipperty-lipperty-lipperty-lip!” cried little Mary.

“Just so, for that is the way those two always run,” chuckled the Storyteller. “So presently they came to the home of Unc’ Billy Possum. Unc’ Billy was sitting in his doorway. ‘Mornin’, Brer Rabbit. Mornin’, Brer Hare,’ said Unc’ Billy. ‘Whar yo’all goin’ in such a hurry?’

“Peter’s reply was prompt. ‘We are looking for the most precious thing in all the Great World. Do you know where it is, Unc’ Billy’?’

“Unc’ Billy shook his head. ‘If yo’ all will tell me what the most precious thing in all the Great World is Ah reckon Ah may be able to tell yo’ all whar it is,’ said he.

“ ‘We don’t know, but we thought that of course you would know,’ replied Jumper.

“Unc’ Billy grinned. ‘Prob’ly Ah would if Ah should see it. Let me know if yo’ find it,’ said he.

“Peter and Jumper promised that they would and off they raced—”

“Lipperty-lipperty-lipperty-lip!” chanted all the children together.

The Storyteller pushed back some embers that had fallen to one side of the fire and then continued. “Pretty soon they came to the house of Bobby Coon. Bobby was sitting on his doorstep. ‘Oh, Bobby,’ they cried, ‘Do you know where the most precious thing in all the Great World is?’

“Now Bobby didn’t like to admit his ignorance, but though he tried and tried he couldn’t think what the most precious thing in all the Great World might be. He was honest enough to say so. ‘I would go with you,’ he added, ‘but I am so fat, and you fellows are in such a hurry, that I couldn’t keep up with you. Let me know if you find it.’

“ ‘We will,’ promised Peter and Jumper and—”

“Away they went—” interrupted Willis.

“Lipperty-lipperty-lipperty-lip!” chanted the chorus.

The Storyteller’s eyes twinkled. “Who is telling this story?” he demanded. “Over at the Smiling Pool they found Billy Mink, but they got no help from him. Back to the Green Forest they ran and there they met Lightfoot the Deer. Lightfoot shook his handsome head and admitted that he was no wiser than they. Next they visited the pond of Paddy the Beaver. Paddy was cutting down a tree. He stopped work long enough to confess that he never had heard of the most precious thing in all the Great World. What is it Billy? What are you squirming around so for?”

“I just want to know if it was a big tree, a really, truly big tree, that Paddy was cutting,” replied Billy.

The Storyteller smiled. “Yes, Billy,” said he, “it was a really, truly tree and quite a big one, much, very much, bigger than you would think anyone with only teeth for tools could possibly cut down. Well, as I said, Paddy didn’t know what was the most precious thing in all the Great World. Nor did Happy Jack the Gray Squirrel, nor Chatterer the Red Squirrel, nor Thunderer the Grouse. None ever had heard of it, this thing without price. Peter and Jumper even ventured to ask Buster Bear, from a safe distance of course.

“ ‘There isn’t any such thing,’ growled Buster Bear in his deepest, most rumbly, grumbly voice. ‘If there was I would know it. There isn’t any such thing.’

“It was then that Jumper gave up. He was tired. He, too, had come to doubt that there was any such thing. So Jumper refused to go any farther. Peter, however, was just as full of curiosity as ever. After leaving Jumper the Hare he consulted Sammy Jay. Sammy didn’t know. Blacky the Crow didn’t know. Peter even inquired of Reddy Fox when Reddy happened to pass the bramble-tangle in which Peter was resting. Reddy was no wiser than the others. All this made Peter more curious than ever.

“After a while he returned to the Smiling Pool. First he asked Jerry Muskrat. Then he hunted up Grandfather Frog. Peter was sure that Grandfather Frog would know, he being old and so accounted wise.

“ ‘Chuga-rum!’ said Grandfather Frog. ‘Chuga-rum! It is something that you must first lose to really know what it is.’

“ ‘But one must have a thing before he can lose it, and how can one have a thing without knowing it?’ cried Peter.

“ ‘Chuga-rum! That is for you to find out, Peter Rabbit,’ retorted Grandfather Frog, and with a long neat dive from his big green lily pad he disappeared in the Smiling Pool.

“ ‘He doesn’t talk sense,’ grumbled Peter and away he went—”

“Lipperty-lipperty-lipperty-lip!” shouted the children.

“Just so, lipperty-lipperty-lipperty-lip!” continued the Storyteller.

“So busy trying to puzzle out what Grandfather Frog could have meant was Peter that he failed to watch where he was going and so almost ran smack into Farmer Brown’s boy and Bowser the Hound. In fact he heard Bowser before he saw him. Fortunately for Peter there was a hollow log not far away. He reached it just one good jump ahead of Bowser, and in he dived. Bowser could get only his nose in that log. He sniffed and sniffed and sniffed and with each sniff little shivers chased each other all over Peter. To make matters worse Farmer Brown’s boy thrust an arm in and pulled Peter out.”

“Was Peter scared?” ventured Jean.

“Was Peter scared?” The Storyteller laughed. “I should say he was! He was about as badly scared as ever he had been in all his life. He shivered and shook and wondered what would happen next. He had learned through experience that Farmer Brown’s boy was a friend, but for all that he couldn’t help feeling scared, terribly scared. I suppose Peter was as scared a Rabbit as ever wobbled a wobbly little nose.

“Farmer Brown’s boy made Bowser lie down. Then he carried Peter over to a bramble-tangle. All the time he was talking to Peter in a low soothing voice and lightly stroking him. At the entrance to a little path leading into the bramble-tangle he put Peter on the ground and let go of him. Peter didn’t stop even to say thank you. He darted into that tangle. He heard Farmer Brown’s boy laugh. Then the boy called Bowser and together they went away down the Crooked Little Path. Hardly were they out of sight when Old Mother Nature and Old Mother West Wind appeared. They stopped at the bramble-tangle.

“ ‘Well, Peter, have you found the most precious thing in all the Great World?’ asked Old Mother Nature.

“Peter looked quite as he felt, which was very foolish indeed. He hadn’t guessed that Old Mother Nature knew of his search. ‘No, Mother Nature. No, I haven’t found it,’ he replied politely.

“Old Mother Nature laughed. It was a lovely laugh. ‘Well, Peter, you may not have found it, but it has just been given you,’ said she.

“Peter looked all around on every side. He didn’t see anything that had been given him. He said so, and his face bore the funniest expression. It made both Mother Nature and Mother West Wind laugh. Peter didn’t know just what to make of that laughter. It made him feel still more foolish.

“ ‘If you please, Mother Nature, I don’t know what you mean,’ he ventured timidly.

“ ‘What did Farmer Brown’s boy do to you just now?’ asked Old Mother Nature.

“Peter thought this over for a minute. ‘Why,’ said he slowly, ‘Farmer Brown’s boy let me go.’

“Mother Nature smiled. ‘Yes, Peter,’ said she softly, ‘he let you go. He gave you—freedom.’

“Then Peter understood. He made a funny little jump. ‘Why!’ he cried. ‘Why, freedom is the thing without price—the most precious thing in all the Great World! Is that it, Mother Nature?’

“ ‘Yes, Peter,’ replied Mother Nature, while Old Mother West Wind nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, freedom is the thing without price—the most precious thing that anyone, great or small, can possess. Never forget that, Peter. There is another name for it. It is called liberty.’

“Peter never has forgotten it. He never will. I hope you boys and girls never will forget it even for one little minute—not even when you are grown up. Most decidedly not then. Now the story-log is nothing but embers and it is time for you to start for home and bed. Whose turn is it to bring a story-log next time?”

“Mine!” cried Billy. “I’ve got it all picked out, and it’s a snappy one, I betcha.”

“Good,” replied the Storyteller, laughing. “And I suppose a snappy log calls for a snappy story. All right, Billy. You bring a good log and I’ll try to bring a good story. Now get your things on and straight home with you, every one of you!”

For a few minutes the Storyteller stood in the doorway listening to one of the sweetest sounds in all the world—the voices of happy children. And back on the ridge of Esker Hill the great buck lifted his head to listen also.