Andiron Tales by John Kendrick Bangs (finding audrey .txt) 📖

somehow or other and we'll do it, Tom, so don't be afraid."

"What kind of boy is he?" demanded the Flamingo. "One of these bean-snapping boys that go around shooting robins and hooking birds' eggs when they haven't anything else to do?"

"Not a bit of it," said Righty. "He never snapped a bean at a bird in all his life."

"Humph!" said the Flamingo. "I suppose he's been too busy pulling feathers out of peacocks' tails to decorate his room with to be bothering with robins and eggs."

"Never did such a thing in all my born days," retorted Tom indignantly.

"Probably not," sneered the Flamingo. "And why? Because you were so well satisfied keeping a canary locked up in a cage for your own pleasure that you hadn't any time to chase peacocks."

"I've lived in the family forty years," said the Righthandiron, "and to my knowledge there was never a caged bird in the house."

"Really?" said the Flamingo, looking at Tom with interest. "Rather a new kind of boy this. Very few boys have a good record where birds are concerned."

"Tom's no enemy to birds," observed the Bellows. "I know that because I've been in his family longer than he has, and I've watched him."

"Well," said the Flamingo, "if that's the case, maybe I can help him. One good turn deserves another. If he is good to birds I may be able at this time to do good to him. This trouble ahead of us doesn't bother me, because I have wings and can fly--" Here the Flamingo flapped his wings proudly--"and I could take Tom on my back and fly anywhere with him, for I am an extremely powerful bird. But I want to know one more thing about him before I undertake to save him. We birds must stand together, you know, and I'm not going to befriend a foe to my kind under any circumstances. Thomas!"

"Yes, sir," replied Tom, all of a tremble, for he hadn't the slightest idea what was coming, and as a truthful boy he knew that whatever the consequences to himself might be he must give the correct answer.

"Do you have Sunday breakfast at home?" asked the Flamingo.

"Yes, sir," Tom replied respectfully.

"You have coffee and hominy and toast and fried potatoes and all that?" queried the bird.

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, turning very pale, however, for he was in great dread of what he now saw was likely to come next.

"And--ah--fruit?" said the Flamingo.

"Oh, yes, plenty of fruit," replied Tom very nervously.

"And now, sir," said the Flamingo, severely, and ruffling his feathers like an angry turkey, "now for the main point. Thomas--and, mind you I want a truthful answer. Did you ever eat a broiled--Flamingo for your Sunday morning breakfast?"

Tom breathed a sigh of relief as the Flamingo blurted out the last part of his question.

"No, sir. Never!" he replied.

"Then hurry and climb up on my shoulders here," the Flamingo cried. "You're a boy after my own heart. I believe you'd be kind to a stuffed parrot. But hurry--there's the edge right ahead of us. Jump--"

Tom jumped and in a moment was sitting astride of the great bird's neck. In his right hand he grasped the claw of Righty, in his left that of Lefty, while these two clutched tightly hold of the Bellows and the Poker respectively. A moment later the Oscycle reached the edge and dashed wildly over it, the Kangaroo following out his plan of jumping higher still and fortunately for himself catching a passing trolley cloud by which he was borne back to the starting point again.

As for the Polar Bear and the Hippopotamus, they plunged out into space, while the group comprising our little party from home and the Flamingo soared gracefully back to earth again, where the generous-hearted bird deposited them safely on top of the most convenient Alp.

"Thanks very much," said Tom, as he clambered down from the bird's neck and stood upon solid ground again.

"Don't mention it," said the Flamingo. "It's a pleasure to serve a bird-defender and his friends," and with this he soared away.

"I'm glad he didn't ask me if I ever ate broiled chicken for Sunday breakfast," said Tom.

"Why?" asked the Poker. "Do you?"

"Do I?" cried Tom. "Well, I guess. I don't do anything else."


CHAPTER X.


Home Again

"And now," said the Lefthandiron as the Flamingo flew off and left them to themselves, "it strikes me that it is time we set about having some supper. I'm getting hungry, what with the excitement of that ride, and the fact I haven't eaten anything but a bowlful of kindling wood since yesterday morning."

"I'm with you there," said Tom. "I've been hungry ever since we started and that snow on the moon whetted my appetite."

"Never knew a boy who wasn't hungry on all occasions," puffed the Bellows. "Fact is, a boy wouldn't be a real boy unless he was hungry. Did you ever know a boy that would confess he'd had enough to eat, Pokey?"

"Once," said Poker, "I wrote a poem about him, but I never could get it published. Want to hear it?"

"Very much," said Tom.

"Well, here goes," said the Poker anxiously, and he recited the following lines:

THE WONDROUS STRIKE OF SAMMY DIKE.

Young Sammy Dike was a likely boy
Who lived somewhere in Illinois,
His father was a blacksmith, and
His Ma made pies for all the land.
The pies were all so very fine
That folks who sought them stood in line
Before the shop of Dike & Co.,
'Mid passing rain, in drifting snow,
For fear they'd lose the tasty prize
Of "Dike's new patent home-made pies."
One day, alas, poor Mrs. Dike,
Who with her pies had made the strike,
By overwork fell very ill,
And all her orders could not fill.
So ill was she she could not bake
One-half the pastry folks would take;
And so her loving husband said
He'd take her place and cook, instead
Of making horse-shoes. Kindly Joe,
To help his wife in time of woe!
He worked by night, he worked by day--
Yet worked, alas, in his own way
And made such pies, I've understood,
As but a simple blacksmith could.
He made them hard as iron bars;
He made them tough as trolley cars.
He seemed to think a pie's estate
Was to be used as armor plate.
And not a pie would he let go
That had not stood the sledge's blow
Upon the anvil in his sanctum,
Whence naught went out until he'd spanked 'em.
Result? With many alas and 'lack
The pies Joe made they all came back.
From folks who claimed they could not go
The latest pies of Dike & Co.
And here it was that Sammy came
To help his parents in the game.
"Can't eat 'em?" cried indignant Joe.
"Can't eat 'em? Well, I want to know!
Here, Sammy, show these people here
How most unjust their plaint, my dear.
Come, lad, and eat the luscious pies
That I have made and they despise."
Poor loyal Sammy then began
Upon those stodgy pies--the plan
Was very pleasing in his eyes,
For Sammy loved his mother's pies.
He nibbled one, he bit another,
And then began to think of mother.
He chewed and gnawed, he munched and bit,
But no--he could not swallow it;
And then, poor child, it was so tough
He had to say he'd had enough,
Though never in the world before
Was lad who had not wanted more.
And what became of Sammy's Ma?
And what became of Sammy's Pa?
Their profits gone, how could they eke
A living good from week to week?
They took the recipe for pies
That mother made and--Oh, so wise--
Let Father make them in his way
In form elliptical, they say.
And when the football season came
Won fortune great, and wondrous fame,
Beyond the wildest hope of dreams,
By selling these to football teams.
And those by whom this game is played
Called them the finest ever made.
"The Shuregood football" made of mince,
Has never quite been equaled since;
And few who kick them with their feet,
Know they're the pies Sam couldn't eat--
The only pies upon this orb
A healthy boy could not absorb.

"Great poem that, eh?" said the Bellows, poking Tom in the ribs, and grinning broadly.

"Splendid," said Tom. "New use for pies, that."

"It's beautifully long," said Lefty.

"But why couldn't it be published?" asked Righty. "Wasn't it long enough?"

"The editor said it wasn't true," sighed the Poker. "He had three boys of his own, you know, and he said there never was a boy who couldn't eat a pie even if it was made of crowbars and rubber, as long as it was pie."

"I guess he was right," observed Righty. "I knew a boy once who ate soft coal just because somebody told him it was rock-candy."

"Did he like it?" asked Tom.

"I don't think he did," replied Righty, "but he never let on that he didn't."

"Well, anyhow," put in Lefty, "it's time we had something to eat and we'd better set out for the Lobster shop or the Candydike--I don't care which."

"Or the what?" asked Tom.

"The Candydike?" said the Lefthandiron. "Didn't you ever hear of the Candydike?"

"Never," responded Tom. "What is it?"

"It's a candy Klondike," explained the Lefthandiron. "There are Gumdrop Mines and Marshmallow Lodes and Deposits of Chocolate Creams beyond the dreams of avarice. Remember 'em, Righty?"

"Oom, mh, mh!" murmured Righty, smacking his lips with joy. "Do I remember them! O, my! Don't I just. Why, I never wanted to come back from there. I had to be pulled out of the Peppermint mine with a derrick. And the river--O, the river. Was there anything ever like it?"

Tom's mouth began to water, he knew not why.

"What about the river?" he asked.

"Soda water flowing from Mountain to the Sea," returned the Righthandiron, smacking his lips again ecstatically. "Just imagine it, Tom. A great stream of Soda Water fed by little rivulets of Vanilla and Strawberry and Chocolate syrup, with here and there a Cream brook feeding the combination, until all you had to do to get a glass of the finest nectar ever mixed was to dip your cup into the river and there you were."

Tom closed his eyes with very joy at the mere idea.

"O--where is this river?" he cried, when he was able to find words to speak.

"In the Candydike,