href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@39778@[email protected]#ILL_006" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">"These are the Kind His Majesty Prefers," said the girl

FOREWORD

INTRODUCING TWO HEROES AND A HEROINE

I.

There were three little folks, and one was fair—
Oh a rare little maid was she.
Her eyes were as soft as the summer air,
And blue as the summer sea.
Her locks held the glint of the golden sun;
And her smile shed the sweets of May;
Her cheek was of cream and roses spun,
And dimpled the livelong day.

II.

The second, well he was a rubber-doll,
Who talked through a whistling hat.
His speech ran over with folderol,
But his jokes they were never flat.
He squeaked and creaked with his heart care-free
Such things as this tale will tell,
But whether asleep or at work was he
The little maid loved him well.

III.

The third was a man—O a very queer man!
But a funny old chap was he.
From back in the time when the world began
His like you never did see.
The things he'd "know," they were seldom so,
His views they were odd and strange,
And his heart was filled with the genial glow
Of love for his kitchen range.

IV.

Now the three set forth on a wondrous trip
To visit the lands afar;
And what befel on the shore, and ship,
As she sailed across the bar,
These tales will make as plain as the day
To those who will go with me
And follow along in the prank and play
Of these, my travellers three.

I.

MOLLIE, WHISTLEBINKIE, AND THE UNWISEMAN

Mollie was very much excited, and for an excellent reason. Her Papa had at last decided that it was about time that she and her Rubber-Doll, Whistlebinkie, saw something of this great big beautiful world, and had announced that in a few weeks they would all pack their trunks and set sail for Europe. Mollie had always wanted to see Europe, where she had been told Kings and Queens still wore lovely golden crowns instead of hats, like the fairies in her story-book, and the people spoke all sorts of funny languages, like French, and Spanish, and real live Greek. As for Whistlebinkie, he did not care much where he went as long as he was with Mollie, of whom like the rest of the family he was very fond.

"But," said he, when he was told of the coming voyage, "how about Mr. Me?"

Now Mr. Me was a funny old gentleman who lived in a little red house not far away from Mollie's home in the country. He claimed that his last name was Me, but Mollie had always called him the Unwiseman because there was so much he did not know, and so little that he was willing to learn. The little girl loved him none the less for he was a very good natured old fellow, and had for a long time been a play-mate of the two inseparable companions, Mollie and Whistlebinkie. The latter by the way was called Whistlebinkie because whenever he became excited he blew his words through the small whistle in the top of his hat, instead of speaking them gently with his mouth, as you and I would do.

"Why, we'll have to invite him to go along, too, if he can afford it," said Mollie. "Perhaps we'd better run down to his house now, and tell him all about it."

"Guess-sweed-better," Whistlebinkie agreed through the top of his beaver, as usual.

And so the little couple set off down the hill, and were fortunate enough to find the old gentleman at home.

"Break it to him gently," whispered Whistlebinkie.

"I will," answered Mollie, under her breath, and then entering the Unwiseman's house she greeted him cheerily. "Good Morning, Mr. Me," she said.

"Is it?" asked the old gentleman, looking up from his newspaper which he was reading upside-down. "I haven't tasted it yet. I never judge a day till it's been cooked."

"Tasted it?" laughed Mollie. "Can't you tell whether a morning is good or not without tasting it?"

"O I suppose you can if you want to," replied the Unwiseman. "If you make up your mind to believe everything you see, why you can believe a morning's good just by looking at it, but I prefer to taste mine before I commit myself as to whether they are good or bad."

"Perfly-'bsoyd!" chortled Whistlebinkie through the top of his hat.

"What's that?" cried Mollie.

"Still talks through his hat, doesn't he," said the Unwiseman. "Must think it's one of these follytones."

"Never-erd-o-sutcha-thing!" whistled Whistlebinkie. "What's a follytone?"

"You are a niggeramus," jeered the Unwiseman. "Ho! Never heard of a follytone. Ain't he silly, Mollie?"

"I don't think I ever heard of one either, Mr. Unwiseman," said Mollie.

"Well-well-well," ejaculated the Unwiseman in great surprise. "Why a follytone is one of those little boxes you have in the house with a number like 7-2-3-J-Hokoben that you talk business into to some feller off in Chicago or up in Boston. You just pour your words into the box and they fall across a wire and go scooting along like lightning to this person you're talkin' to."

"Oh," laughed Mollie. "You mean a telephone."

"I call 'em follytones," said the Unwiseman coolly. "Your voice sounds so foolish over 'em. I never tried 'em but once"—here the old man began to chuckle. "Somebody told me