THE LAST DRAGON
DAN TOTHEROH
THE LAST DRAGON
By
DAN TOTHEROH
Author of “DAVID HOTFOOT”
Illustrated by
ELEANOR OSBORN EADIE
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1927,
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
THE LAST DRAGON
-- A --
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO KAY
WHO FIRST SAW
THE LAST DRAGON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MEADOW AND THE WOODLOT 13
II PETER ENTERS THE WOODLOT 23
III MR. DRAGON MEETS THE CHILDREN 30
IV GRANDMA MEETS THE DRAGON 44
V GOODBYE, DRAGON 57
VI THE DRAGON TAPS ON THE WINDOW 64
VII GOING BACKWARDS 74
VIII CRUBBY 85
IX THE ENCHANTED SILVER TOES 97
X ALLAN THE ARMORER 110
XI ON THE KING’S GREAT HIGHWAY 116
XII PETER GOES TO THE FAIR AND WHAT HE FINDS THERE 126
XIII THE PRINCESS WITH TOES OF SILVER 137
XIV PETER AND MIG, THE MAGICIAN 151
XV ON TOWARD GIGGLETOWN 159
XVI DALLAHAN 164
XVII ONCE MORE ON THE KING’S GREAT HIGHWAY 168
XVIII BACK AGAIN 179
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“ON WITH YE FIGHT!” 25
“LOOK AT THEM RUNNING FROM ME” 33
GRANDMA 45
PETER WAS STANDING ON THE DRAGON’S NECK 78
SILVER TOES ESCAPES FROM THE OLD WITCH 106
GRANDMA AND THE CHILDREN COME TO BE MEASURED FOR SUITS OF MAIL 111
BEPPO BALANCES PETER’S SWORD ON HIS CHIN 130
“YES, YOU HAVE ME ALWAYS, DEAR DRAGON!” 183
THE LAST DRAGON
THE LAST DRAGON
CHAPTER I
THE MEADOW AND THE WOODLOT
The meadow and the adjoining woodlot were just right for valiant knights and fair ladies that springy Saturday afternoon. The meadow, soft and green and open, was right for the pavilion where the jousting match could take place,--the big beech tree at the far, sun-rising end made such a delightful canopy over the king’s judgment throne--and then after the bout, and the victorious knight was sent forth to do battle with the dragon, there was no more mysterious lurking place for a coily, fire-breathing beast than the shadowy woodlot with its thick thimble berry thicket; its black cave under the drippy spring-shelf, and its close-grown oaks and maples.
Indeed, there was always something terrifying to the children about the woodlot, even when the sun pierced through its wall of branches and leaves. The thimble berry thicket had never been completely explored, and as for the oozy cave--well, Johnathan had ventured in as far as the first bend once, holding a bit of lighted candle, but the candle had been blown out, and he had rushed back to wide-eyed Peter and Janet Jane who had stayed outside, peering in at the cave’s black mouth.
Johnathan, when he could get his breath, vowed he saw something strange around the bend, just before the candle flickered out, but Johnathan had a vivid imagination (it was he who made-up all the plays and all the games that took place in the meadow and spilled over into the woodlot on Saturdays) and whether he really did see something strange around the bend or had just imagined it, Peter and Janet Jane could not be sure. Their mother said he had just imagined it, of course! “What nonsense, Johnathan! You’re too old to imagine such things! No wonder you were so poor in arithmetic this month!” Johnathan really didn’t see the connection.
But that wasn’t all about the woodlot! Peter, just six, said he had heard a lion roaring in the thimble berry thicket one stilly evening when he had gone back to find his lost cap in the meadow, but then Peter had a generous share of imagination too. “Lions are only in Africa or in a circus,” Janet Jane had said with feminine authority, but Peter replied in his well-known lisp and with his head cocked, that there was no good reason why a lion couldn’t be found in a thimble berry thicket just as well as a badger or a chipmunk, and no amount of argument could convince him otherwise. Suppose lions didn’t eat thimble berries? Couldn’t one have been in the thicket for some other reason, or couldn’t one have been there for no reason at all? Why should there always be a reason for things? Peter liked to go places for no reason. Maybe lions did too!
Janet Jane pretended to be skeptical about the possibility of unknown and terrifying things lurking in the woodlot, until one morning early, having gone alone to the meadow to find mushroom buttons, she had seen a pixie stick his head out and grin broadly at her, wriggling his pointed ears like a rabbit at the same time. As Janet Jane stared at him, another pixie, wearing a pink sunbonnet, although he looked very much like a boy-pixie, otherwise, bobbed up over the first pixie’s shoulder and wriggled his long nose at her, just like a rabbit too.
Then Janet Jane, who stood rooted to the spot with astonishment, declared that the two pixies began to sing, one in tenor and one in bass. Strangely enough, she remembered the words of the song. It went:
Butter and eggs, butter and eggs,
Mushroom buttons and spider legs.
Mix them up and bake them brown,
And you’ll have a dish that will tempt the town.
Now, this sounded suspicious to Johnathan because Janet Jane was just learning to cook, and she was always singing receipts, and some of her proposed dishes were queer indeed. Therefore, it was strange that the two pixies she saw that early morning should sing receipts too, but Janet Jane said, “Not at all!” They were doing it just to poke fun at her. Pixies always poked fun, anyhow. They were like brownies in that respect, and not at all like fairies who are too well brought up to poke fun.
They sang the song through twice with a different tune each time, and after that Janet Jane managed to say, “Shooo!” at the pixies, and they had vanished into the woodlot. Stooping to pick up her spilled mushroom basket, Janet Jane heard the rude fellows laughing at her--Oh, high, shrill laughter like a tree-squirrel’s bark.
So you see, since Janet Jane was sure she had seen the pixies, and since Peter was sure he had heard the lion, and Johnathan was sure of something mysterious in the cave, around the first bend, there was no doubt that the woodlot was terrifying, and that the victorious knight who ventured into it with drawn wooden sword was almost sure to meet with adventure.
It was just after breakfast that memorable Saturday morning when the children congregated in the soft, green and open meadow sprinkled with cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups. The little troop broke through the willow clump at the sunsetting end of the meadow, and advanced solemnly in the direction of the big beech tree where the king’s throne was already waiting. Johnathan and Billy Rose had fixed it after school on Friday.
Their appearance scattered two chubby meadow mice into a desperate rush for their holes, and a flock of Jenny wrens fled chittering, indignant at being disturbed, like little gray ladies at a tea party. There was quite an impressive procession advancing toward the king’s throne. It had formed at the back door of the Baxter house, under the alert eyes of Grandma, watching from her upstairs window, and led by Johnathan who of course was king, King Arthur, no less, it wound through the rose garden, up the lane past the fish pond, over the creek bridge, through the truck garden, skirted the barn and wriggling through the orchard it bobbed its ten small heads to escape hitting the low branches of the willow clump, filing through a tunnel of green leaves to the open spaces of the dewy meadow.
Yes, there were ten in that procession, including the Irish setter named Nap, and the airedale named Jerry. First, as we said before, there was Johnathan Baxter, King Arthur, dressed in the green and red portiere with tassels, that had graced so many courtly ceremonies. The paper crown was on the kingly head, and in the royal hand was the oak-wood scepter. Close on his majesty’s heels walked her majesty, Queen Guinevere, Janet Jane Baxter, resplendent in a long pink mother hubbard, one of Mrs. Baxter’s cast-off garments, made theatrical and queenly by the silver paper stars that were pinned around the hem. Following her was Susan Oliver, five years old, bearing up the queen’s train, a child with eyes like mulberries and a blue-black cloud of hair. She was pouting because she felt it was her turn to be the queen, and before the procession started it was very doubtful if she would play at all. The promise of queenship next Saturday finally quieted her, although she carried the train with a disdainful air that ruined the dignity of the queen, since it dragged the ground on one side and looped up too far on the other, showing the queen’s long, spindly legs.
After Susan Oliver came the two knights carrying their wooden swords, the chubby and blond-curled Peter Baxter as Sir Launcelot, and the taller and older Billy Rose as Sir Galahad. They walked heads high, little noses up, wearing tin-can armor with pride. Their broomstick horses were waiting for them, tied to saplings under the beech tree.
Directly behind the knights was the public, three small girls, Mary, Kath and Polly, who were allowed to furnish their own costumes. Mary wore fluffy skirts like a bare-back rider; Kath dragged a green train that rivalled the queen’s in length and caused a serious argument before the procession started, and Polly’s seven years were lost in a riding suit of her mother’s, with boots that might have belonged to the famous Puss.
The procession went twice around the meadow, stopping after the second circuit before the throne. King Arthur took his seat on a bench covered with a piece of red, white and blue bunting, and his queen sat down beside him. The pouting Susan Oliver stood behind the queen and stared down at the top of her sandy head. Sandy hair wasn’t nearly as nice for a queen as black hair--no, not nearly! Susan was supposed to fan the queen, but she had purposely forgotten the fan, which is as much as we’ll say right here regarding Susan’s disposition. The public of three scattered itself right and left of the throne and took postures of deep interest.
After a silence, the king rose and pushing back his crown that had worked down over his eyes, he spoke in tones that seemed to arise from his shoes, his chin pressed down against his throat to produce the effect. “On with ye fight, and the victor will enter yonder forest to slew ye dragon who has been spreading terror and destruction through out ye countryside.”
He sat down, and the queen smiled at him and said, “Ye spoke well, O King,” but the king did not answer her. A queen should never speak in public unless the king asked her a question, and then she should only reply in as few words as possible.
At the king’s command, the knights drew their swords and pointed them down to the ground and bowed very low to the king. Then they went to the saplings and untied their horses and mounted them. The fiery steeds leaped up and down and nearly threw the knights off, and the grass of the meadow was torn up by whirling feet.
“Quiet with ye horses and on with ye fight!” finally commanded the king and at once, just as if they understood, the horses calmed down, and the knights drew apart, lifting their swords to wait for the final signal from King Arthur.
King Arthur stood up; raised his hand; held it steady for a breathless moment; then let it drop quickly to his side. The public showed renewed interest. The blond and chubby knight, Sir Launcelot, made the first dash for his opponent. The wooden swords clashed and the furious battle was on.
CHAPTER II
PETER ENTERS THE WOODLOT
Although the opponents were so unevenly matched, the fight was an exciting one and not a bit one-sided. Small Peter fought with tiger ferocity and a definite show of assurance, for it had been arranged before hand that Sir Launcelot should win. Galahad had won the Saturday before.
With a sturdy lunge of his wooden sword, Peter unhorsed Billy Rose who executed a trick fall and lay on his back, legs and arms in the air like some huge beetle turned over on its shell. Peter was on him in a moment; drove home the sword; pulled it out and wiped away the gore on his sky-blue cape.
Billy Rose did a spectacular death scene consisting of many kicks and contortions, adding much to the pleasure of the court and the public. It was a very long death scene, many minutes elapsing before Sir Galahad was quiet enough for the victorious Sir Launcelot to put his foot on the corpse and raise his sword to the king in salute.
“Go ye now into the forest and find ye dragon that eats every week a maiden from our smiling village!” commanded the great king Arthur, and Sir Launcelot bowed and stalked away toward the thick foliage of the woodlot.
It was strange and terrifying that at the moment the chubby Peter reached the first maple, the one that breaks from the group and runs out into the meadow, a cloud, very black and heavy, passed over the sun, swimming up out of nowhere in an otherwise clear blue sky. A wind sighed through the maple leaves and whispered about something all through the thimble berry thicket. The meadow darkened. Peter’s hand tightened on his sword. He looked straight before him; then looked back. The court and the public and his rival, Sir Galahad, and the two dogs seemed to be miles and miles away--shadowy, blurred figures. Peter felt all alone in the big world and very small. What chance would he have against that lion he had heard roaring in the thicket that fearful evening? Oh, but he had his sword. Didn’t he always want to do noble deeds? Didn’t he envy Johnathan because Johnathan was a Boy Scout and did a good deed every day? To kill a lion would be a good deed, wouldn’t it, that is if the lion were aching to eat somebody, right at that moment. Of course, if the lion were minding his own business, that would be different. Again Peter looked forward; again looked back.
“ON WITH YE FIGHT!”
King Arthur pointed with his scepter and like a voice in a dream came his command: “Pause not, Sir Launcelot! Go kill ye dragon!”
“All right, King,” replied Peter in a tiny, trembly voice, and advanced a few more steps.
He passed the maple; passed the second maple; passed the third. He was in the woodlot now, almost hidden from his companions. How very still it was. The wind had finished whispering to the thimble berry thicket and had frisked away. Not a leaf stirred any place. Far off, Peter could hear the dripping of the spring. He thought of the black cave and of what Johnathan had told him about the strange something around the first bend. He paused, hearing his heart beating.
To give himself courage, he spoke aloud, addressing himself in that well-known lisp: “Go on, Peter Baxter. Don’t be scared. Don’t you know that there’s no more dwagons? In the whole, whole world there’s not a dwagon any place. They’re all dead.”
But even as he spoke he doubted the truth of his words. If there were pixies there could be dragons. Why should all the dragons be dead? People went on living and dragons were dead. To small Peter, dragons seemed much more important than people. Yes, somehow, somewhere dragons lived, and there was no reason to doubt that a dragon might live in the shadowy woodlot along with the lion and the pixies.
Peter’s feet ventured down the twisting path that would eventually arrive at the spring, and found himself safely past the thimble berry thicket. That was a relief. Nothing had broken the silence save the barking of Jerry, the airedale, and that was a comforting sound. Still, he wondered why Jerry and Nap had not followed him. They usually did. That was strange!
Now, here was the spring and the drippy, over-hanging shelf of stones and black earth, all sewn together with tiny root-threads, and right beyond the shelf was the entrance of the cave! Small Peter planted his stocky legs before the black hole; gulped once or twice; mustered up all his courage and spoke in a squeaking lisp that was meant to be a rumbling growl. “Come forth, Dwagon!” His wooden sword was clutched tightly in his little hand. Nothing happened so Peter repeated his command: “Come forth, Dwagon!”
Still nothing happened and becoming more bold, Peter stepped closer to the cave’s mouth; thrust his sword into the hole and rumbling it at last, cried for the third time, “Come forth, Dwagon!”
A long-drawn hissing sound answered him. He fell back. The hissing sound died. What was the matter with him? His imagination was doing strange things. He hadn’t really heard a hissing sound. He hadn’t really heard anything.
Well, he had done his duty. He had called three times and nothing had happened. He would return to the court and tell his story to the king. He was turning to go, when there issued from the hole a deep, deep sigh; then a yawn and then another deep, deep sigh. Before Peter even had time to think, the deep, deep sigh ended in the most entrancing little chuckle, and two fiery eyes blazed in the hole. A long green nose was thrust slowly forth, followed by a broad and lazy smile. The eyes came into the daylight. The fire faded out of them. They were a soft, light blue, like the sky, and looked as if they had just opened from a deep and dreamless sleep.
“Did you call me, little boy?” asked the dragon, as yards and yards of him, bright green like the meadow grass, oozed from the cave.
“Y-yes-yes, sir, I did,” gasped Peter, “but--but I didn’t think--”
The dragon continued to smile, oh, so sweetly, and tears gathered in his light blue eyes. “You didn’t think dragons lived any more,” he sighed, stretching out his great gold claws like a sleepy cat, “and you’re almost right, because I am the last dragon in all the world”--and two big tears the size of cups of clear water, dropped to the ground.
CHAPTER III
MR. DRAGON MEETS THE CHILDREN
“I wonder what’s keeping Peter so long in the woodlot?” wondered Janet Jane, remembering the pixie in the pink sunbonnet.
“I don’t know,” said Johnathan, remembering the strange something he had sensed behind the bend in the black cave.
“I bet he’s eating thimble berries,” guessed Billy Rose who was always practical. “That’s no fair, you know.”
“I’m not going to play any more!” announced small Susan Oliver, tossing her dark head and dropping the queen’s train. She was one of those children who always cry and spoil the game just at the wrong moment.
“Let’s play something more exciting,” suggested Mary in the bare-back rider’s costume. “How about circus?”
“No!” thundered Johnathan. “Wait till Sir Launcelot comes back. He’ll tell us how he slew the dragon and that will be exciting enough.”
“I’m going right straight home,” wailed Susan Oliver, her face all puckered up, just as though she had bitten into a crab apple.
“All right, if you go home, Susan Oliver, you won’t be Queen Guinevere next Saturday!” began Janet Jane, when somebody shouted, “Here comes Peter now!” And they all looked toward the woodlot.
There was Peter advancing with a very important stride, his sword clasped firmly, a smile of triumph on his round, shining face. Nap, the setter, and Jerry, the airedale, began to bark, their hair on end.
“Look! What’s that behind him?” cried Billy Rose.
“Where?”
“There!”
A gasp went up from all the children. “Why, it’s a--it’s a--”
“It’s a real dragon!” squealed Janet Jane, and the rest of them took it up--“A real dragon! A real dragon!”
Susan Oliver opened her mouth like a red O and began to scream. Nap and Jerry fled, yelping. The group broke and began to run in all directions.
Peter stopped advancing and raised his sword over his curly head. “Hey, Johnathan! Wait a minute! Wait a minute, Johnathan!”
Behind him, the last dragon chuckled. “Look at them running from me, just like old times,” he said, with the slightest touch of pride in his voice; and then in a tone tinged with melancholy, “If they only knew.”
On the edge of the meadow, the frightened children paused and looked back, just to make sure they had really seen the dragon. They saw small Peter sympathetically shake his blonde head and then reach over and pat the dragon on his broad, green back.
Johnathan and Billy Rose were together near the willow clump, and Johnathan said: “He looks like a very nice dragon, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and very tame,” agreed Billy. “He’s smiling, I believe.”
“Peter’s patting him!”
“LOOK AT THEM RUNNING FROM ME”
“He can’t be very vicious.”
“He doesn’t seem to breathe fire,” observed the well-informed Johnathan.
Peter called again. “Hey, Johnathan! Don’t run away!”
“I’m going back,” said Johnathan, sticking out his chest. “Come on, Billy.”
“Sure! Who’s afraid?”
The two boys started back across the meadow. The sun was bright again. All the cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups were standing erect, and the Jenny wrens were chirping in the maples. A cheerful little wind romped through the green grass. There was no terror and no mystery. It was all very clear and simple. There was just a dragon in the woodlot.
Peter and the last dragon met the children in the middle of the meadow. As soon as Janet Jane saw Johnathan and Billy Rose start back, she came too and that gave the others courage. Susan Oliver tiptoed up last, ready to fly at a moment’s notice, her little dancing feet as restless on the meadow grass as tufts of thistledown. They formed in a new-moon crescent and stared at the curious dragon. Jerry sat down very politely beside Nap, they didn’t even sniff, and stared with their tongues sticking out.
“Mr. Dwagon,” introduced Peter, “this is Johnathan Baxter, my brother. Johnathan, I want you to meet Mr. Dwagon, the last dwagon in the whole, whole world.”
Again the dragon smiled. “Delighted to meet you, Johnathan,” he said. “You’ve got Peter’s small nose, haven’t you, and there’s something about your eyes that are alike, but why do you wear a crown?”
Johnathan blushed. “Oh, I was just playing King Arthur,” he apologized.
“Ah, King Arthur,” sighed the dragon, “there was a king!”
“Oh, did you know him?” exclaimed Johnathan.
“Very well indeed. Of course, he was a great enemy of my family, and I was taught to hate him from my cradle, but”--And here he winked very slowly, “deep down in my heart I really admired him.”
Janet Jane spoke breathlessly: “And, and did you know Queen Guinevere?”
“Oh, yes, and a very beautiful queen she was. I saw her once, dressed in a bright red velvet gown with gold slippers on her little feet. Is that who you’re supposed to be?”
“Y-yes, sir,” blushed Janet Jane, hanging her sandy head and pulling at the pink mother hubbard.
“Mr. Dwagon, that’s my sister, Janet Jane Baxter,” Peter continued with his introductions.
The dragon cocked his head. “Yes, I can see a resemblance--Yes, the nose again--and the eyes. Pleased indeed to meet you, Janet Jane.”
“And the boy with the freckles is Billy Rose.”
“Delighted to meet you too, Billy, but I’m sorry to see that your armor’s rusted. You should take better care of it. In my day, the knights were very careful of their armor. Those who were careless soon lost their heads.”
“Y-yes, sir,” stammered Billy Rose.
Finally they were all introduced, even Nap and Jerry, and right away questions began to fly.
“Were you in the woodlot all the time?” this from Janet Jane.
“No, not all the time,” replied the dragon.
“I know,” cried Johnathan, “you were behind the first bend in the cave and you blew out my candle.”
“I can’t answer that correctly,” returned the dragon, “because I’m not sure where I was. You see, I got lost and then I went to sleep for ages and ages and ages.”
“Oh, I see. And are you really the last dragon in the whole, whole world?”
“Don’t talk about that, Janet Jane!” reprimanded Peter. “He’ll cry if you ask him that. See?”
The dragon’s big blue eyes were again filling with tears, but he managed to blink them back, and then he said in a trembly voice: “I’m the last dragon because we’ve lost our purpose in life, and when a thing loses its purpose it dies out. Once upon a time, brave knights used to go out to fight dragons, and we served our purpose in that way--making heroes, you know,--but that’s long past.” In spite of his efforts a tear ran down his cheek. “So you see, I’ve become gentle and sweet, and I don’t think I like myself a bit this way.”
“Oh, but we like you!” cried the children in a shrill chorus, and Nap and Jerry barked, quivering all over.
The dragon broke into happy smiles. “Do you honestly?”
“Oh, yes, we do!”
“Well, that makes it so pleasant,” purred the dragon, again stretching out his great gold claws like a sleepy cat.
Billy Rose jumped in with: “What do you eat, dragon? I thought--”
The dragon interrupted. “Well, I used to eat fire out of volcanoes, but since most of the volcanoes are extinct now, I’ve taken to eating grass.” Again he looked disgusted, just as you might look if you had to eat milk-toast all the time.
“Is--is that what makes you so green?” ventured Janet Jane.
“No, I don’t think so. My dear mother was green. I take after her.”
“And did she have blue eyes too?”
“Yes,” said the dragon. “She was a very beautiful lady. People said all sorts of cruel things about her, but she really had a fine soul. She was killed by a knight who had a flaming sword. It wasn’t a fair fight at all because the sword was a magic one.”
“Oh, how unfortunate,” sympathized Janet Jane, and her voice trembled.
“Oh, please don’t cry,” requested the dragon, “because then I’ll cry and I’m trying very hard to break myself of that habit.”
Indeed, he was blinking so fast with his long lashes that the children could feel a little breeze against their cheeks.
“But--but what are you going to do now?” Johnathan asked quickly, feeling he must change the subject.
The dragon thought for a moment; seemed to find the question difficult; turned his head this way and that way; looked up at the blue sky; looked down again; blinked his eyes; smiled; sighed; reached out and plucked a Johnny-jump-up; held it to his long green nose; smelled it; threw it aside, and finally said, rather coquettishly, “I’d--I’d like to stay with you children for awhile.”
“Oh, that would be fine!” Johnathan said.
“But--but mother says we can’t have any more pets,” said Janet Jane, sadly, “Jerry was the last.”
“A dragon isn’t a pet,” spoke up the practical Billy Rose, “but if you don’t want him, I’ll take him!”
There had leaped up in Billy’s mind a vivid picture of a side-show with a great canvas sign over the front reading, “The Last Dragon.” He himself would be the barker in long checked trousers and high silk hat--“Here you are, folks! Here you are! The only dragon in the whole world! Step right up, folks! Step right up!”
The Baxter family cried in a chorus: “But we do want him!”
“But you just said you couldn’t have any more pets,” argued Billy.
“And you just said a dragon isn’t a pet!” returned Janet Jane, tossing her head.
“Well, in a way it isn’t and in a way it is,” replied Billy.
“I found him, didn’t I?” Peter demanded, glaring at Billy Rose.
The dragon chuckled, quivering all the way down his sides. “Don’t fight over me, children. I belong to all of you, but of course--” He turned to Peter and smiled broadly-- “Of course Peter really woke me up. He believed I was asleep in the cave, and because he called me I came out. He doesn’t think that he really thought I was there, but--” And he put out one of his arms and took Peter to him and hugged him. The hug was so gentle that the rest of the children became very encouraged, and before long they were perched all over the dragon, and the dragon purred with contentment.
“I tell you what we’ll do!” announced Johnathan, putting his cheek against the dragon’s cheek. “Mother’s out shopping, right now. We can hide Mr. Dragon in the nursery without her knowing a thing about it.”
“But there’s Grandma,” said Janet Jane.
“Oh, Grandma’s all right,” piped up Peter, pressing his cheek against the dragon’s other cheek. “She knows a lot of stories about dwagons.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” asked the dragon. “I’d like to meet your grandmother, if that’s the case.”
“You certainly may!” thrilled Janet Jane. “She’s awfully sweet. She has peppermints in her pocket and under her pillow at night. She’ll probably give you one.”
“Peppermints?” enquired the dragon.
“Yes, little round candies. They’re good for indigestion and things like that.”
“Then I’ll ask her for one,” the dragon said. “I never used to have indigestion when I ate fire, but since I’ve taken to grass--oh, me, oh, my!” And an expression of remembered pain passed over the dragon’s brow.
“Do you want to come and hide in our nursery, Mr. Dragon?” timidly pursued Johnathan.
“Yes, if I won’t get you into trouble,” the dragon returned, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid your mother won’t understand it if she should discover me in the nursery.”
“Well, we could explain it,” spoke up small Peter. “We explained a squirrel once, and a long pink worm, and--and--”
“And a potato bug!” cried Janet Jane.
“Yes, an’ a potato bug. Now, it’s awful hard to explain a potato bug!”
“But it’s harder to explain a dragon,” the dragon said, and sighed again. “I know because I’ve had experience.”
Johnathan looked up at the sun. “Well, if you’re going to take a chance we’ll have to do it right away, because it’s almost twelve o’clock, and Mother will be back home to fix lunch. Please come on, won’t you, Mr. Dragon?”
“Well, all right--if you insist!” said the dragon, and he started for the house, led by small Peter striding ahead in all his glory, the wooden sword clutched tightly in his hand.
CHAPTER IV
GRANDMA MEETS THE DRAGON
They filed through the willow clump tunnel, wriggled through the orchard, skirted the barn, passed over the truck garden, the dragon stepping daintily to avoid trampling the new carrots and beets, passed over the creek bridge, went up the lane past the fish pond, and winding through the rose garden they saw Grandma Baxter, in her lavender cap, at the window of her upstairs bedroom.
Now, Grandma Baxter had been dreaming all by herself in the little room, seated in her famous rocking chair. Why was the rocking chair famous? Well, because in the first place, it came clear across the Atlantic ocean in the May Flower, and had rocked through many a storm; and in the second place, George Washington once sat in it, and in the third place, it could talk--a creaky sort of talk that only Grandma could understand, and it told her fascinating stories of the English forest in which it was born, and of all its adventures; and it was heard to chuckle in the middle of the night and rock back and forth when no one was in it, and Grandma would chuckle with it.
GRANDMA
Did I say Grandma was dreaming? Yes. She had been dreaming of things that had happened ever so long ago, before there were automobiles, before there were electric lights, before there were phonographs, before there was Jello and corn-flakes; Oh, before there were many, many things ready and waiting, but not thought of yet. And as Grandma sat there dreaming, she wore a funny little smile. It wasn’t only a funny little smile--it was also a wise little smile, and a kind little smile, and somewhere, mixed up in it, was a sad little smile. Grandma was that way, anyhow. She was all sorts of things at once. You never knew exactly what was going to pop out next from Grandma.
From her dreams she awoke to see the children and the dragon, and you won’t be surprised when I say that Grandma, for the moment, believed she was still dreaming. She rubbed her eyes; she looked again; she said, “Dear me!” She rubbed her eyes a second time. But the next minute she had hopped up like a purple finch in her lavender gown, the rustle of a bag of peppermints in the silk pocket, and out of the window popped her little head with the lavender cap all awry. “Heigho!” cried Grandma, “what’s all this?” And the dragon heard her at once, and stopped. He looked up at the window and his blue eyes twinkled, and he said to Peter who stood by his ear. “Is that Grandma?”
“Yes, that’s Grandma,” said Peter, and he waved his sword at the old lady, calling: “Hello, Grams, I want you to meet Mr. Dwagon, the last dwagon in the whole, whole world.”
“Oh, how-do-you-do, Mr. Dragon?” replied Grandma, leaning far out of the window. “So delighted you called. Bring him around the front way, Peter. Never take a dragon through the kitchen.” And before Peter, or Johnathan, or any one else could reply, Grandma had popped out of sight.
“Quite delightful, isn’t she?” chuckled the dragon.
“We told you she was,” thrilled Janet Jane.
“Keep to the right of the tulips, if you don’t mind, Mr. Dragon,” directed Johnathan.
On the front steps of the Baxter house Grandma was impatiently waiting, her sharp eyes, behind their spectacles, just twinkling, and her pretty white hands fluttering with excitement, just like butterflies all on a summer day. You would have thought the dragon and she were old, old friends to have seen the way they greeted each other, and indeed it occurred to Johnathan that perhaps Grams had seen the dragon before, some strange place or another. Grams was tricky that way.
“Well, I’ll just have to kiss you, that’s all there is to it!” Grandma exclaimed, and down the steps she flew, all in a rustle of silk, and pressed her lips against the dragon’s green cheek.
“The nicest thing that’s ever happened to me,” purred the dragon, “since my lady mother kissed me.” And his gold claws stretched out like velvet.
“I found him, Grams!” Peter crowed, sticking out his chest.
“Of course you did!” Grandma chortled, hugging Peter. “Who else is more likely to find a beautiful dragon?”
“And now we’ve got to hide him some place,” said Janet Jane, “but I’m afraid he’s a little large.”
On the road that winds up the hill from the town, was heard the hum of a motor car. Johnathan was the first to hear the warning sound. “There comes Mother,” he shouted. “Get Mr. Dragon upstairs, quick!”
Never was there such a frantic scramble. If you’ve never tried to put a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal, full-sized dragon into a modern house that was built for perfectly normal people, you’ll have no idea of the difficulty. Let me tell you it took strategy! It was push and pull and grunt and squeal with all the children bracing their legs and straining their backs, and the dragon puffing and holding in his waist-line and letting it out, and crying: “Oh, dear me, dear, dear me, this will never, never do! No, never, never do!” every two or three seconds. If Grandma hadn’t been there to superintend it is very doubtful whether the children would have manœuvered him into the house, but she was full of helpful suggestions, and the dragon’s glittering tail was half way up the hall stairs by the time Mrs. Baxter had driven her bright blue automobile around to the garage.
However, and unfortunately, half way up the stairs was not in the nursery and under Peter’s bed as Johnathan had planned. It was indeed far from that. The dragon’s head was in the nursery and his shoulders and part of his back, but that distressingly long tail of his was certainly a problem. “Couldn’t you curl it around you like a cat?” Grandma suggested.
“Under the present cramped circumstances that’s impossible,” the dragon told her, a helpless tear in each eye.
“Seems to me,” said Johnathan, pondering, “that I read some place where dragons could turn themselves into any size they wished.”
Janet Jane clapped her hands, gleefully. “Yes, I read that too. It’s in my red fairy book. Can’t you turn yourself into a little green worm, Mr. Dragon, just for the time being?”
“I’m sorry but I can’t do that either. I’ve lost the formula.”
“Gracious! Can’t you possibly remember it?” Grandma urged, frantically.
“No. I always had a remarkably poor memory. It was a very complicated formula and there was a magic verse tacked onto it that was extremely difficult. When I was little I got many a spanking from my stern father for not remembering it.”
“There’s a magic verse in my red fairy book,” said Janet Jane. “Maybe that will help? It begins:
Blue, blue earth,
And black, black sky,
Pink, pink frog
That cannot fly.”
The dragon shook his head and said mournfully: “That doesn’t help me a bit, I’m sorry to say. It has to be your own particular magic verse, like your own particular porridge bowl or your own particular napkin ring, before it does any good. Well, I suppose I’d better withdraw and go back to the cave. It’s no good staying here and getting all you children into trouble.” And the dragon sighed so deeply that all the curtains in the nursery were blown out of the windows and one of the fat feather pillows flew off Peter’s little bed.
The children sent up a cry of disapproval that was interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Baxter who had just entered the house through the French doors on the side porch. “What are you children doing in doors?” called up Mrs. Baxter. “I thought I told you to play in the meadow until luncheon?”
“We--we--” began Johnathan, but Grandma silenced him. “Let me attend to this, Johnathan,” she said, and started down stairs, stepping daintily so as not to tread on the dragon’s tail. She had hoped to meet Mrs. Baxter in the living room and prevent her from coming into the hall, but she was too late. At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Baxter was standing gazing in horror at the long green tail.
“What is that ugly thing?” she demanded.
“Be calm, Kate, be calm,” said Grandma, “it’s only a dragon.”
“A dragon? For heaven’s sake, where did it come from?”
“Peter found it.”
“Found it? How could he find a dragon?”
“Very easily--easier than finding a pocket-book,” said Grandma.
“Oh, isn’t it terrible? Where are the children? Has it eaten any of them yet? I’ll run and phone for the police and the fire department.”
Grandma stopped her before she could get to the telephone. “Don’t be nonsensical, Kate!” she snapped, standing on her tiptoes. “The children are perfectly safe. It’s an adorable dragon.”
“Adorable? Who ever heard of an adorable dragon?” cried Mrs. Baxter. “Why, that long green tail was perfectly hideous. What is it doing upstairs?”
“The children were trying to hide it in the nursery, and I was helping them,” replied Grandma, her head wagging proudly.
“Are you insane, Grandma Baxter? Helping the children to hide a dragon in the nursery! It was bad enough when you bought them that vicious nanny goat.”
“That nanny goat wasn’t vicious,” returned Grandma with dignity. “It butted no one but the butcher’s boy and he deserved it because he hit the perfectly innocent beast with a sling-shot.”
Grandma had no sooner spoken than a sharp shriek came from upstairs, followed by frightened sobs. It was Susan Oliver doing just the wrong thing at the wrong time, as usual. It seemed that in trying to wriggle further upstairs, the dragon had accidentally flipped Susan with one of his fin-like scales, not hurting her a bit, but frightening her into tears. Quite naturally, Mrs. Baxter believed that the dragon was doing harm to the children, and she ran to the foot of the stairs and called, “Children! Come down here at once! All of you!”
Susan Oliver stopped crying, and there was silence and a pause. Mrs. Baxter called again: “Children! Do you hear me? Come down at once!”
What was her surprise to see them all come sliding down on the dragon’s back and off his tail, just as if he were a nice, shiny bannister, the exciting kind, long and smooth with a curve in it. First came Peter in his armor, and then Johnathan in his kingly robes, and then Janet Jane in the pink wrapper, and then Billy Rose in his rusty armor, and then Kath in her green train, and then Mary in the circus rider’s costume, and then Polly in her mother’s riding habit. Susan Oliver was the only one who did not take the slide. She was too busy crying and missed an experience that the other children talked about for ages afterwards. To slide down a real dragon’s back is something that doesn’t happen to every one, let me tell you.
The children landed together in a heap on the floor at Mrs. Baxter’s feet, and instantly they untangled themselves and the three little Baxter’s encircled their mother and began to plead: “Oh, please don’t be cross with him, Mother!” “Please let us keep him, Mother!” “Please don’t send him away, Mother!” “He’s beautiful, Mother!” “We love him, Mother!”
Billy Rose drew apart with Kath and Polly and Mary, ready any moment to say: “Let me take him, Mrs. Baxter. My mother won’t mind.” And this was quite true. Billy’s mother allowed him to do quite as he pleased and consequently he was always getting into trouble. Even practical people find themselves in trouble if they are permitted to do exactly as they please. Now isn’t that so?
“Children, be quiet!” Mrs. Baxter commanded. “It’s nonsense to think that you could keep a big monster like that in our house. Why, we couldn’t even go upstairs without stepping on him. Besides, he may be gentle now but no dragon could live around children for any length of time without desiring to eat one of them for his breakfast.”
“No, Mother, he only eats grass,” piped Peter.
“Hush, Peter. And another thing, you know how your father feels about pets in the house. If he objects to dogs and cats, what would he say about a great big dragon? No, my dears, your dragon has to go!”
CHAPTER V
GOODBYE, DRAGON
Now you really can’t blame Mrs. Baxter, if you look at her side of it. To her dragons were vicious, ugly beasts and she just didn’t have imagination enough to see one of them smile. She was a very, very fond mother and wanted to protect her children from all harm, which is not at all unusual for very, very fond mothers from tiny humming-bird mothers clear up to mothers like yours and mine. Maybe Mrs. Baxter gave all her own share of imagination to the children when they were born and had none left for herself, and maybe it was because when she was a little girl she had been taught to fear dragons.
At any rate, there was no help for it now, and so out the dragon had to go. He backed out sheepishly, because there wasn’t room for him to turn around and depart with dignity. When his drooping head passed Mrs. Baxter’s skirts, he raised his big blue eyes and looked at her so sweetly, but Mrs. Baxter, poor Mrs. Baxter, could only see his ugly, ugly nose and his big white teeth. That was really too bad because she might have relented had she seen that sad, sad smile all quivery with threatening tears.
“Goodbye, children!” the dragon called, lingering on the gravel walk.
“Goodbye, dear, dear dragon,” they replied in a gulpy chorus.
And now he was going away from them, dragging his green tail slowly, looking back longingly over his shoulder.
“It’s an outrage to send that poor beast away like this,” stormed Grandma, wagging a finger in Mrs. Baxter’s face. “Don’t you know that he’s all alone in the world?”
“He hasn’t a single friend!” half-sobbed Johnathan.
“Thank heavens he hasn’t,” said Mother Baxter. “Suppose there were lots of them, all trying to hide in children’s nurseries?”
“Maybe there are,” said Grandma, the strangest expression in her eyes. “Maybe there are, who knows?”
The dragon’s tail was just disappearing around the corner of the front porch when Mr. Baxter, the tall, nice-looking father of Johnathan, Janet Jane and Peter, drove up in his own automobile, having just come from the city. When he saw the group standing in the doorway, strangely agitated, he rushed up to Mrs. Baxter and demanded to know what had happened. He thought it couldn’t be anything less than robbers or a fire, from the expressions on all their faces.
“Don’t get excited, James!” Grandma said sternly, before Mrs. Baxter could speak. “Kate has just sent a dragon away.”
“A what away?”
“A dragon.”
Mr. Baxter threw back his head and burst into loud laughter. “A dragon? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t understand,” snapped Grandma, irritated.
“He’s going around the house, this very minute, back to the woodlot, poor thing!” Janet cried. “Go and look for him, Daddy. He’s the sweetest, the dearest, the--”
Peter and Johnathan had swooped down upon their father. “Yes, yes, Dad!” they both shouted--“Come and see how nice he looks!” And they pulled him over to the end of the veranda and pointed out the dragon, who was slowly dragging himself toward the rose garden.
“See, there he is!” Johnathan said. “I wish he’d turn around.”
“Oh, dwagon! Dwagon! Turn around!” called Peter, and the dragon turned, but his face was still very, very sad, and his checks were drenched with tears.
“Smile nice, Dragon,” instructed Johnathan--“smile nice for Daddy.”
The dragon hesitated a moment; blinked fiercely; sniffed so loudly that Peter and Johnathan could hear him plainly, and then forced a smile. It was a weak, watery smile and quickly vanished.
“You children are talking the greatest lot of nonsense I’ve ever listened to,” said their father. “Where did you get such imaginations?”
“It’s not imagination, Daddy,” protested Johnathan. “The dragon’s standing right there by the red rose bush. Can’t you see him, honest?” His big eyes were searching his father’s face.
“No, and you can’t either. What is this, April fool? Come on, let’s stop this joking and go into luncheon. This is Daddy’s Saturday afternoon off and we’re going to take a long auto ride up to Sulphur Springs and the Indian Rocks.”
Now, you really must feel sorry because Daddy Baxter could not see the dragon. Once he could see dragons and pixies and everything else that’s delicious and exciting, but the crystal key that opens the door to that magic world had been lost somewhere along the twisting road that runs in and out from childhood days to middle age. Big cities had done it, and high, high office buildings, and crowds on street cars, and business deals, and the rattle, rattle, rattle of the subway trains. Heigho, where was there room for a dragon in all that, may I ask you? He would have had his tail cut off as quick as a wink, and even a tiny pixie would have to be pretty spry, I tell you!
And so the dragon went on his lonesome way and the children took off their garments of Arthur’s court, and washed up for luncheon which they tried to swallow, but couldn’t very well because of annoying little sob-lumps in their throats. Even the thought of Sulphur Springs and Indian Rocks could not cheer them up.
This is rather a belittling thing to tell on Billy Rose, but since nothing really came of it, I suppose there’s no harm in telling. That practical boy can stand a little chuckle at his expense, anyhow. The door of the Baxter house had no sooner closed before Billy had slipped away from Kath, Polly, Mary and Susan Oliver, and rushing around the veranda, he began calling, “Oh, Mr. Dragon! Wait a minute, Mr. Dragon! Oh, Mr. Dragon!”
He ran through the rose garden, up the lane skirting the fish pond, over the creek bridge, through the truck garden, past the barn, calling and calling, “Oh, Mr. Dragon! Mr. Dragon! I want to talk business with you, Mr. Dragon!” Not a sound answered him, and there wasn’t a glimpse of the dragon anywhere--just the marks of his golden claws on the gravel paths of the garden, and the sweep of his bright green tail.
“That’s funny,” said Billy Rose, standing still and scratching his puzzled head. “Where could he have disappeared so soon?”
Finally he had to give up his quest and go home, thoroughly disgusted, wondering if this dragon business weren’t just a lot of nonsense, but of course, you must remember that Billy Rose was practical. He did not hear as he went through the rose garden what the silver snail said to the green grasshopper, and he did not hear what the green grasshopper replied to the silver snail. Nor did he hear a tiny chuckle that came from a polka-dot lady bug as she sat swinging her feet on the edge of a rose petal. If he had heard those little, velvet sounds and had put two and two together, just like an arithmetic of voices,--snail’s voice, grasshopper’s voice, lady bug’s voice, he might have known where the dragon went, after looking back from the place where the red rose bush grows.
CHAPTER VI
THE DRAGON TAPS ON THE WINDOW
That night there was a full moon that rose above the woodlot and poured silver into the meadow, and all the little owls were out, talking it over with each other. The yellow-striped spiders were very, very busy with their spinnerets, spinning great silver webs to catch the dew diamonds, and I think the mushrooms were up to some pearly mischief in the silvery grass.
The night was as bright as a polished coin, a coin that’s kept by a miser man and is polished every day with a green, green rag. Up in the nursery the children slept, if you could really call it sleeping--Peter, Johnathan and Janet Jane. Across the hall, Grandma sat, sat all night in her famous rocking chair--rocking, rocking, rocking--the gentle creak, creak, creak like the tick of a clock in the stillness of the house. Oh, Grams, how your little eyes are snapping; how your fingers are weaving in and out; how your silken gown is rustling, and the peppermints are clicking. What are you up to, Grams, in your famous rocking chair? Rock, rock, rock,--creak, creak, creak.
All night, sitting there, watching the moon through your little window, seeing it slowly climb up over the tree-tops. Now, you look like a pixie, Grams--Now, you look like an elf--And now you look young and fragile and all spun-glass like a fairy--and yet sometimes, Grams--Oh, sometimes you look like a dragon!
And what is disturbing the children? What dreams make them toss and breathe funny little noises into the nursery, so that Peter’s rocking horse opens its glassy eyes so round, and rocks a little on its rockers, and Janet Jane’s Raggedy Ann turns and speaks to Johnathan’s china pig who is so haughty and superior because he holds so many pennies in his round, china stomach.
One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock--the hours are noiselessly running away, tiptoeing off to the place where all the hours meet--the place where all the yesterdays live and the yesteryears, and the once upon a times, and the spirits of all the clocks that have run down for good.
The moon begins to sink in the west. There is the promise of something bright in the east. The little owls know it and put their dark glasses on, to prepare for the unwelcome glare of the sun. Four o’clock! Grandma is still rocking. Now her ears are pricked up sharp like the ears of a dog, and under her lavender cap that’s all awry there are two little bumps like a pair of horns, soft and tender like mushroom buttons.
Five o’clock! A faint red ribbon in the east. There is such a quiet over everything--such a breathlessness. If you listened real hard, you could hear the tiny beating of the lady bug’s heart as she slept on the silk of the rose petal.
What’s that? What’s that sound? Tap, tap, tap,--The branches of the white oak against the windows? No, it couldn’t be that. There’s not a breath of wind, and besides it’s too regular for that. Tap, tap, tap. Somebody throwing colored creek-pebbles at the windows of the nursery? No. Too regular for that, also. Must be the tapping of fingers, but what hand could reach way up to the second story?
Tap, tap, tap. Now, three pair of eyes are opened at once in the nursery, and three pair of ears listen, and three hearts go pump, pump, pump. Johnathan, Peter and Janet Jane sit up straight in their white night clothes and look at each other with the roundest, roundest eyes. There is a little prickling all along the roots of their bright, bright hair.
Tap, tap, tap again, and there in the wide nursery window, the one on the east side over the veranda, was the smiling face of the dragon, and one gently-tapping golden claw.
“Dragon!” cried the three little Baxters all together, and from their beds they leaped and ran to the window. Johnathan unlatched it and flung it wide open, and three small mouths were kissing the dragon’s cheeks. He was standing on his hind legs, and he was so tall that he could easily have rested his forelegs on the roof of the Baxter house if he had so desired.
“Dwagon--Dwagon, where did you go?” cried Peter.
“Oh, just around the corner,” returned the dragon, mysteriously.
“Around what corner, Dwagon?”
“Oh, the same old corner--the one just out of sight. You know--there’s one every place”--And he winked broadly.
“Oh, that corner,” said Johnathan, smiling wisely. “Yes, I know. I go around that corner all the time. It’s nice around there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, full of pleasant surprises, always different, you know. But as soon as you get around that corner, you come to another corner, and so you keep on going, around and around.”
“Yes, until you almost forget to come back,” pursued Johnathan, “and you’re almost lost, and then your mother calls you.”
The dragon smiled. “Yes, and then your mother calls you, and you have to go in and wash your neck and ears--but, by the sword of St. George, this is no time to moralize. The sun’s already warm on my back--(his voice sank down to a gentle whisper) so it’s time we’re going, children.”
“Going?” echoed Janet Jane.
“Going where?” asked Peter, all breathless.
“Going with me, on my back, for a long, long ride.”
For a moment the children appeared utterly astonished, their red mouths open like baby birds in a nest at feeding time, and then it all became very simple and not a bit unusual, just as it had felt when the dragon first entered the meadow.
“Will you come with me?” the dragon asked, and the children answered in a chorus, “Yes, Dragon, because we love you.”
“Shh, not so loud,” warned the dragon, a gold finger to his lips, “we don’t want to wake up your father and mother. They won’t understand in the least, and it would be so hard and take so long to explain. Now, put your arms around my neck, and I’ll hoist you on my back.”
“But can we go this way?” asked Janet Jane, indicating her white night gown.
“Certainly. It will be so nice, riding through the springy world, just with your night gowns on,” said the dragon.
“Oh, yes,” cried Peter, “I like that!”
“And so do I,” added Johnathan.
“Won’t we catch cold, though?” asked Janet Jane, always the little mother.
“Not in the least. It’s as warm as a stove on my back from the fire I used to eat, you know, and in the night”--
“Ooh, will we stay all night, Dwagon?”
“Maybe,” smiled the dragon. “Who can tell what you’ll do when you go riding on a dragon’s back. Come along.”
There were giggles, and breathless Oooohs! and shrill Weeeeees!--and the next moment, the nursery was emptied of its children, and the dragon’s face had vanished from the window. Only the sun was there, peeping through on the three empty beds with their three dented pillows and their tumbled sheets and comforters.
Quickly the dragon walked around the house, proudly carrying his precious burden, and the dogs, Nap and Jerry, came running as fast as they could from their round beds in the barn. They looked quite amazed when they saw the little Baxters perched on the dragon’s back, but they did not bark. Instead, they began to smile, their tongues sticking out, and as the dragon stopped to look up at Grandma’s window, they leaped aboard and sat, still smiling, at the bare feet of the children.
“Is it all right for Nap and Jerry to come, too?” Janet Jane enquired of the dragon.
“Why, certainly! Do you think we’d leave them behind when we’re going adventuring?” The dragon seemed indignant.
I said he was looking up at Grandma’s window, didn’t I? Well, he continued to look up steadily, and the children followed his eyes. Slowly the little window under the eaves opened out, slowly, slowly, as if hands were gently pushing it, but there were no hands to be seen.
Do you remember how apples bob on the water after you’ve ducked for them on Halloween, and they’ve fooled you, and seem to laugh at you as they bob and bob, higher and higher? Well, that was the way Grandma’s head bobbed up over the window sill after the windows had opened very wide. First bobbed the lavender cap; then the soft white hair; then the bright eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles, the crinkly mouth, the proud, defiant chin, all creased with little furrows like crumpled silk, and now the lavender silk shoulders encased in the lavender shawl with tiny white butterflies.
What was Grams doing? Why, she was rising, higher and higher. Now, her tiny hands are seen--now her tiny feet. She was sitting in her famous rocking chair and rising like a bird, or like a giant mushroom that springs up over night. In her lap was her knitting bag that was filled with the strangest, most fascinating things under the bright balls of colored yarn.
“Grams!” the children called in frightened wonder. “Grams! Look out!”
But Grandma only smiled serenely and sailed through the window, seated calmly in her rocker, coming straight down to the dragon’s back, where the rocking chair lighted, oh, so nice and gently, and rocked a little, creaking contentedly. “Well!” breathed Grandma, “here I am!”
“Oh, Grams, are you going with us?” asked Peter.