Mr. Rabbit at Home by Joel Chandler Harris (good books to read for adults TXT) 📖
- Author: Joel Chandler Harris
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“Well, Tar-Baby,” replied Mr. Rabbit with some dignity, “he hasn’t never come out yet. That’s all that can be said in that line. He may come out, but if he does you’ll be in no danger at all. The Woog would never mistake you for a fairy, no matter whether he had his green goggles on or whether he had them off.”
“No matter ’bout dat,” remarked Drusilla. “I mayn’t look like no fairy, but I don’t want no Woog fer ter be cuttin’ up no capers ’roun’ me. I tell you dat, an’ I don’t charge nothin’ fer tellin’ it. Black folks don’t stan’ much chance wid dem what knows ’em, let ’lone dem ar Woog an’ things what don’t know ’em. Ef you all hear ’im comin’, des give de word, and I boun’ you’ll say ter yo’se’f dat Drusilla got wings. Now you min’ dat.”
“What does the Woog want to kill the fairies for?” asked Sweetest Susan. “He must be very mean and cruel.”
“He’s all of that, and more,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “The fairies please the children, and give them something beautiful to think about in the day and to dream about at night, and the Woog doesn’t like that. He hates the fairies because it pleases the children to hear about them, and he hates the children because they like to hear about the fairies.”
“Well, I never want to see him until I am big enough to tote a gun,” said Buster John. “After that, I don’t care how soon I meet him.”
“Now,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to Mrs. Meadows with a solemn air, “didn’t you say that all this about the Woog was a tale, or something of that sort.”
“I believe I did,” replied Mrs. Meadows. “What about it?”
“Just this,” said Mr. Rabbit,—“a tale’s a tale, and it never stops until all is told.”
“If that’s the case, I’ve heard some here that overshot the mark,” remarked Mrs. Meadows.
“No doubt, no doubt,” responded Mr. Rabbit. “But what became of the Woog?”
“I know! I know!” cried Tickle-My-Toes, who had been listening to all that was said about the Woog.
“Very well; let’s hear about it,” suggested Mr. Rabbit.
“’Taint much,” said Tickle-My-Toes modestly. “The chap in the Looking-glass that looks like me, he was the one that fell into the hands or the claws of the Woog. He could have got away with the rest, but a piece of straw was caught between his toes, and it tickled him so that he laughed until he couldn’t run. He just fell on the ground and rolled over and over, laughing all the time. In this way the Woog caught up with him and grabbed him, and carried him away off in the woods in the Looking-glass country. They were away off in that part of the country where there was no green grass on the ground. There were no green leaves on the trees, no flowers blooming, and no birds singing.
“The Woog carried the little chap that looks like me to that dark place, and nearly scared him to death.
“‘You pretend to be something or somebody, do you?—you, a shadow in a glass,’ growled the Woog.
“‘I’m what I am,’ said the little chap.
“‘You are not,’ cried the Woog. ‘You are nothing. Why do you pretend to be somebody or something?’
“The little chap didn’t say anything in reply, because there was nothing to say. There’s no use in disputing when you can’t help yourself. So the Woog took him and tied him to a dead tree, leaving his big book lying near. There is no telling what would have happened to the little chap; but just as soon as the Woog got out of sight, a strong, tall man, with gray hair combed straight back over his head, suddenly made his appearance, and untied the cords, and set the little chap free.
“‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the tall man; ‘I am the Weeze. I have been hunting the Woog for many a long day, and now I think I’ll put an end to him.’
“Presently the Woog came back growling and grumbling. When he looked up and saw the Weeze, it was too late for him to escape. But he turned and tried to run. Just then the Weeze seized the big book and threw it at the Woog. As it hit him, there was a big explosion, and the Woog and his big book both disappeared.
“The little chap that looks like me,” said Tickle-My-Toes, “was telling me about it to-day; and he said that it wasn’t long after the explosion before the flowers began to bloom in that place, and the birds to sing, and the leaves began to grow on the trees. And after awhile the fairies began to peep out from their hiding-places; and when the little chap came away he could see them playing Ring-Around-Rosy on the green grass.
“It was mighty funny, wasn’t it?” asked Tickle-My-Toes, in conclusion.
UNCLE RAIN AND BROTHER DROUTH.
“Now I’m not so mighty certain that that is a real tale after all,” said Mr. Rabbit, “although it took two to tell it. There’s something the matter with it somewhere. The running-gear is out of order. I’m not complaining, because what might suit me might not suit other people. It’s all a matter of taste, as Mrs. Meadows’s grandmother said when she wiped her mouth with her apron and kissed the cow.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger, “there’s no telling what happens in a Looking-glass when nobody is watching. I’ve often wanted to know. The little that I’ve heard about the Woog and the Weeze will do me until I can hear more.”
“I remember a story that I thought was a very good one when I first heard it,” said Mrs. Meadows. “But sometimes a great deal more depends on the time, place, and company than on the stories that are told. I’m such a poor hand at telling tales that I’m almost afraid to tell any that I know. I’ve heard a great many in my day and time, but the trouble is to pick out them that don’t depend on a wink of the eye and a wave of the hand.”
“Give us a taste of it, anyhow,” suggested Mr. Rabbit. “I’ll do the winking, the Tar-Baby can do the blinking, and Mr. Thimblefinger can wave his hands.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Meadows, “once upon a time there lived in a country not very far from here a man who had a wife and two children,—a boy and a girl. This was not a large family, but the man was very poor, and he found it a hard matter to get along. He was a farmer, and farming, no matter what they say, depends almost entirely on the weather. Now, this farmer never could get the weather he wanted. One year the Rain would come and drown out his crops, and the next year the Drouth would come and burn them up.
“Matters went from bad to worse, and the farmer and his wife talked of nothing else but the Rain and the Drouth. One year they said they would have made a living but for the Drouth, and the next they said they would have been very well off but for the Rain. So it went on from year to year until the two children,—the boy and the girl,—grew up large enough to understand what their father and mother were talking about. One year they’d hear they could have no Sunday clothes and shoes because of the Drouth. The next year they’d hear they could have no shoes and Sunday clothes because of the Rain.
“All this set them to thinking. The boy was about ten years old and the girl was about nine. One day at their play they began to talk as they had heard their father and mother talk. It was early in the spring, and their father was even then ploughing and preparing his fields for planting another crop.
“‘We will have warm shoes and good clothes next winter if the Rain doesn’t come and stay too long,’ said the boy.
“‘Yes,’ replied the girl, ‘and we’ll have good clothes and warm shoes if the Drouth doesn’t come and stay too long.’
“‘I wonder why they’ve got such a spite against us,’ remarked the boy.
“‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ replied the girl. ‘If we go and see them, and tell them who we are, and beg them not to make us so cold and hungry when the ice grows in the ponds and on the trees, maybe they’ll take pity on us.’
“This plan pleased the boy, and the two children continued to talk it over, until finally they agreed to go in search of the Rain and the Drouth. ‘Do you,’ said the boy, ‘go in search of Brother Drouth, and I will go in search of Uncle Rain. When we have found them, we must ask them to visit our father’s house and farm, and see the trouble and ruin they have caused.’
“To this the girl agreed; and early the next morning, after eating a piece of corn bread, which was all they had for breakfast, they started on their journey, the boy going to the east and the girl to the south. The boy traveled a long way, and for many days. Sometimes he thought he would never come to the end of his journey; but finally he came to Cousin Mist’s house, and there he inquired his way.
“‘What do you want with Uncle Rain?’ asked Cousin Mist. ‘He is holding court now, and he is very busy. Besides, you are not dressed properly. When people go to court, they have to wear a certain kind of dress. In your case, you ought to have a big umbrella and an oilcloth overcoat.’
“‘Well,’ replied the boy, ‘I haven’t got ’em, and that’s the end of that part of it. If you’ll show me the way to Uncle Rain’s house, I’ll go on and be much obliged to boot.’
“Cousin Mist looked at the boy and laughed. ‘You are a bold lad,’ he said, ‘and since you are so bold, I’ll lend you an umbrella and an oilcloth overcoat, and go a part of the way with you.’
“So the boy put on the overcoat and hoisted the umbrella, and trudged along the muddy road toward the house of Uncle Rain. When they came in sight of it, Cousin Mist pointed it out, told the boy good-by, and then went drizzling back home. The boy went forward boldly, and knocked at the door of Uncle Rain’s house.
“‘Who is there?’ inquired Uncle Rain in a hoarse and wheezy voice. He seemed to have the asthma, the choking quinsy, and the croup, all at the same time.
“‘It’s only me,’ said the boy. ‘Please, Uncle Rain, open the door.’
“With that, Uncle Rain opened the door and invited the little fellow in. He did more than that: he went to the closet and got out a dry spot, and told the boy to make himself as comfortable as he could.”
“Got out a—what?” asked Buster John, trying hard to keep from laughing.
“A dry spot,” replied Mrs. Meadows solemnly. “Uncle Rain went to the closet and got out a dry spot. Of course,” she continued, “Uncle Rain had to keep a supply of dry spots on hand, so as to make his visitors comfortable. It’s a great thing to be polite. Well, the boy sat on the dry spot, and, after some remarks about the weather, Uncle Rain asked him why he had come so far over the rough roads. Then the boy told Uncle Rain the whole story about how poor his
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