CHAPTER XIII
“MARY’S LITTLE LAMB”
As far as Buddie could see in either direction stretched a wide, straight road, bordered with small firs and floored with springy moss. In winter this road, which had been made by lumbermen, was smooth and level; in the spring it was all water, for it ran through a swamp; but as summer advanced it gradually dried out and made a very pleasant highway for little girls, who seldom or never came there, and for the people of the wood, who used it a great deal. Both sides of the road were white with the blossoms of Enchanter’s Nightshade; but as Buddie had seen no other flower since she entered the wood, she had grown rather tired of it, and would have welcomed a little variety.
“I wish these were violets,” she said, picking another bouquet. “Violets are prettier and smell nicer. Why, they _are_ violets!” she continued, surprised and delighted to find that not only the blossoms in her hand, but those along the road had changed into her favorite flower--blue and white and yellow.
So she rambled along, gathering violets until her two hands could hold no more. And presently she began to wish she might see some roses. Violets are pretty and sweet, but one can get too much even of violets, don’t you think, Little One? Anyhow, Buddie thought so, and she wished again, out loud (for that is the only way to wish if you expect your wish to come true), that the violets were roses. And behold, they _were_ roses! The swamp road was gay with them.
Luckily Buddie did not suspect that these wonders proceeded from the bouquet of Enchanter’s Nightshade, now forgotten, which was fastened in her hair; for had she wished it were something else, only to throw it away after it had become a bouquet of violets and roses, her adventures would have come to a sudden end.
[Illustration: AND BEHOLD, THEY _WERE_ ROSES]
She was not long exhausting the list of flowers she knew. Promptly at her wish the roses became harebells, the harebells became daisies, the daisies became marsh marigolds, and so on, until she could no longer think of a new flower to wish for. I think it was nice of her to be content with flowers, don’t you? She might have wished for candy, or oranges; or, as all the trees along the road were Christmas trees, she might have wished them decorated with toys and sweets. I am not at all sure she would have resisted the temptation if it had come to her; nor that such wishes would have come true. All I can tell you is, she was quite satisfied with the flowers, and walked for a long way before she got tired of the wishing game.
At first it was a relief to be alone in the wood--there had been so much talking and singing, and such a deal going on; but after a while Buddie began to think it would be pleasant to meet some of her wood friends again. There was her engagement with the Rabbit, who was to escort her to the Greenwood Club. What if it were past two o’clock, and the Rabbit had tired of waiting for her at the Corner, wherever that might be? One can tell time, the Donkey had said, by the way it flies, as one can tell a sandpiper or a crow; but he had neglected to explain just how to do it. No doubt time was flying--it always is; but Buddie, looking up at the blue sky, could make nothing of time’s flight.
While she was puzzling over this matter, which a grown-up would have found difficult, she came to a place where the roads forked, or, rather, where two roads met; for when a road forks, the tines of the fork should be smaller than the handle; but these roads were of the same width, and as like as two peas. However, there was no doubt which she should take, for there was a sign-board that read:
+----------------------------------------+ | [pointing hand] THIS WAY TO THE CORNER | +----------------------------------------+
I don’t know who put up the sign-board, Little One. Since Buddie told me her story I have been over the swamp road, but I saw nothing of a sign-board, although everything else was as she described it, even to the very tall Christmas tree that stood just where the two roads came together.
The hand on the sign-board pointed up the right road, and Buddie was reminded of the Rabbit’s directions for putting back the Guinea-Pig’s eyes: whichever one you choose first is _right_. But after she had walked another long way the Corner seemed as far off as ever. As the road was perfectly straight she could see ahead for a long distance, and there was no sign of anything that looked like a corner.
“I don’t believe I should know it if I came to it,” she thought. The Rabbit had not explained what sort of corner it was.
Was that something moving up the road? Yes, it was; and it was coming her way.
“Why, it’s a lamb!” she cried, when it drew nearer. “But is it a lamb? It’s black, and lambs are white.”
[Illustration]
But it _was_ a lamb, nevertheless, and a remarkably self-possessed and easy-going lamb, too; not the sort that runs about bleating, scared out of its wits.
“I’m very well, thank you,” said the Lamb, before Buddie had a chance to ask, “How do you do?”
“No; most lambs have black fleece,” continued the Lamb, anticipating another question. “I had an elder brother who was different: he was the white sheep of the family. We seldom speak of him. Yes; I know what you are thinking of; but Mary’s Little Lamb died years ago. You may recite it if you wish.”
Buddie could not help doing so; for the old jingle had come into her head and insisted on getting out again. So she began:
“Mary had a little lamb Whose fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go.”
“That’s not the way I learned it,” the Lamb interrupted. “Try another verse.”
Buddie went on:
“He followed her to school one day, Which was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school.
“And so the teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about For Mary to appear.
“‘What makes the lamb love Mary so?’ The eager children cry. ‘Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,’ The teacher did reply.
“That’s all I know,” said Buddie.
“Try to forget it,” advised the Lamb. “It’s all nonsense, especially that part about the school. Now, this is the way it really goes:
“Mary had a little lamb Whose fleece was white as snow; But manywhere that Mary went No little lamb could go.
“For Mary was a healthy child, With spirits naught could check, And any lamb that followed her Would break his little neck.
“She’d jump a fence or climb a tree As nimbly as a cat; But Mary’s little lamb, alas! Was not an acrobat.
“When up the ladder Mary went, To hunt the hay for eggs, He wept because he could not go-- He had such brittle legs.
“He also heaved a hopeless sigh When Mary trudged to school; He could not follow her, because It was against the rule.
“When after supper Mary climbed The attic stair to bed, The lamb, who was not built that way, In tears away was led.
“When to the circus Mary went, The lamb with grief was bowed; For on the tent were posted signs-- ‘No little lambs allowed.’
“What made the lamb love Mary so? I never could decide. I only know he pined away, And one day up and died.”
This was not the version Buddie had learned, though perhaps it was the way the story _ought_ to go. It really was too much to believe that _everywhere_ that Mary went the Lamb was sure to go.
Meantime the Black Lamb had moved along, cropping the wild mint that grew along the road, as much as to say: “That will give you something to think about until you see me again.”
“Before you go,” said Buddie, “I wish you would tell me where the Corner is.”
“There’s a sign right in front of your nose,” said the Lamb, saucily. Eating mint always makes a Lamb saucy.
Sure enough; tacked on a tree was another sign-board:
+----------------------------------------+ | [pointing hand] THIS WAY TO THE CORNER | +----------------------------------------+
It was exactly like the first, except that the hand pointed _down_ the road.
“Why, I must have passed the Corner,” said Buddie. “Could you tell me--”
But the Lamb had disappeared. Doubtless he had wandered in among the trees.
[Illustration]
Something else was in sight, however. Away down the road was a large bird, and Buddie hastened toward it.
“It’s a crane,” she said. “No; it’s a heron. No; it’s a--” _What_ was it?
Closer inspection proved it to be neither heron nor crane, for it was white, with black-tipped wings, and it had a certain grand manner about it foreign to cranes and herons.
“Oh, I know what it is now!” cried Buddie. “It’s a stork.”
The Stork turned his head slowly as Buddie approached, and regarded her with a most amiable expression.
“It isn’t so,” he remarked, before she could frame a question. “I never carried one in my life.”
“Never carried one what?” asked Buddie.
“Baby,” said the Stork.