CHAPTER XIV

“ONE FROM TWO LEAVES FOUR”

“You see,” said the Stork, “in the first place I _couldn’t_ carry a baby; and in the second place, I _wouldn’t_ if I could. I think that disposes of the matter.”

There was no reason for the show of impatience that accompanied the disclaimer, as Buddie had said nothing about storks carrying babies and hadn’t intended to say anything, for the very good reason that she had never heard they did.

“The least reflection,” went on the Stork, although the matter had been disposed of, “will convince any one of the absurdity of the idea. I don’t know exactly how many storks there are in the world--the new census isn’t out yet; but I know there are so many more babies than storks that we simply couldn’t handle the business, even if we had nothing else to do; and we _have_ other things to do, I can assure you. Besides, I couldn’t carry such heavy bundles. Besides, I hate carrying bundles--it’s so vulgar. Besides--what are you staring at? Is there anything wrong about me?”

There _was_ something wrong about him; precisely what, Buddie was trying to make out.

“Oh, I see!” she suddenly burst out. “You’re standing on both legs.”

“So are you,” retorted the Stork; “but I don’t gawk at you as if you were a freak.”

“But I’m supposed to, and you’re not,” said Buddie.

“Well, I like that,” said the Stork, though it was easy to see he didn’t. “What are legs for--to keep off the sun, like a parasol?”

Buddie felt that she was in another losing argument, but she stood by her small guns.

“I’ve seen storks before,” said she; “not real live ones, you know, but in a picture-book; and they all stood on one leg, and looked--” She paused. Just how did they look?

“Foolish?” hazarded the Stork.

“Just like _four_,” said Buddie.

“Indeed?” remarked the Stork. “I’ve heard about looking like _sixty_, but never like _four_. And pray, how must one get one’s self up to look like _four_? I am curious to know.”

“You would have to hold up one leg,” said Buddie.

“Oh, one from two leaves four, does it?” said the Stork. “That’s a new kind of arithmetic.”

I think, Little One, that Buddie’s explanation was scarcely clear enough. A stork looks like four when he is wading,--stalking his game,--at which time he lifts one foot slowly and puts it down very carefully; but when he is resting he has to look like _one_ or _eleven_.

“I’m too old to begin gymnastics,” went on the Stork, as Buddie remained silent. “You can’t teach an old stork new tricks. Though I dare say I could stand on one leg if I tried.”

“You wouldn’t be very smart if you couldn’t,” said Buddie, tartly. The bird had a most provoking air about him.

“Tut! tut! I’m old enough, child, to be your grandfather. We’ll see about this gymnastic business.”

So saying, the stork lifted one leg, and attempted to balance on the other; but, to Buddie’s great delight he fell ingloriously on his head, his long bill running into the soft ground like a fork into a well-done potato.

It isn’t polite to laugh at one old enough to be your grandfather; so Buddie checked her glee and ran to help the unfortunate bird to rise.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, declining assistance, and making a great clatter with his bill, as all storks do when excited or angry. “Don’t be silly. You’ll be teaching a fish to swim next.”

A second and third attempt to stand on one leg met with no better success than the first, the Stork falling first one way and then another, and all the time working himself into an extremely bad temper.

“Perhaps if you leaned against a tree you could do it,” Buddie ventured to advise.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the Stork, slightly mollified; and he proceeded to put the idea into effect, with entire success. “Now, then,” said he, “take the tree away and see if I can stand alone.”

“I can’t take the tree away,” demurred Buddie; “but you can lean against me, if you like, and when you’re ready I’ll walk off.”

“That’s another good idea,” approved the Stork. “But don’t walk far, as I might fall before you returned.”

So Buddie placed her hands against the bird’s side and steadied him while he drew up one leg; and when she thought he was properly balanced she stepped back a little. But the Stork, like Jill, came tumbling after, and Buddie had to push him back. This operation was repeated a dozen times, until Buddie’s patience was exhausted and her arms were tired.

“If you began by holding up your foot just a little way,” said she, “you could put it down as quick as a wink when you felt yourself falling.”

“That’s the best idea yet,” said the bird. “We’ll rest a bit, and go at it again later.”

The Stork’s idea of resting was to plant himself firmly on both legs, with his feet wide apart and one foot a little in advance of the other. Standing thus there was no danger of falling. But Buddie’s notion of a breathing-spell was quite different. She sat down in the grass with her chin on her knees and her hands clasped around them.

“So I look like _four_ in your picture-book?” remarked the Stork. Buddie nodded. “It’s ridiculous to put such books in the hands of children. It gives them false ideas of natural history. They’re as bad as fairy tales; and I’d no more give a fairy tale to a child of mine than I’d stand on my head.”

“You came near standing on your head a little while ago,” said Buddie, mischievously. The Stork ignored the remark, and continued:

“Take the story of _The Three Bears_. I dare say you’ve read that.”

Buddie nodded eagerly.

“I like that story best of all,” said she.

“I suspected as much,” returned the Stork, severely. “It’s a most immoral story, much worse than the stories about cutting off giants’ heads. There is no danger of a child growing up with an ambition to cut off a giant’s head, because, in the first place, there are no more giants, and, in the second place, if there were there’d be a law against it; but there _is_ danger in letting children believe that it isn’t wrong to steal a bear’s porridge, and break his chair, and muss up his bed, as Goldenhair did.”

“It’s not so in _my_ story book,” Buddie protested. “It was a naughty old woman who ate the bear’s porridge.”

“You must have a new version,” said the Stork. “It was time they did something about that story; it was making criminals of children every day. And how about _Jack and the Beanstalk_? It was a fine thing for Jack to steal the giant’s bag of gold, wasn’t it?”

“He was a wicked giant, and Jack’s mother was dreadfully poor,” said Buddie.

“Hoighty, toighty!” cried the Stork. “That’s a nice excuse, isn’t it? What do you expect will become of you, child?”

This was a hard question, which Buddie did not attempt to answer, and the Stork went on, in the same scolding tone:

“Then those ridiculous stories about dragons. Why do little boys torture cats, and little girls pull bluebottle flies to pieces?” Buddie couldn’t say. “Because they like to pretend that cats and bluebottle flies are dragons, and they’re pulling them to pieces for the good of the country. Why do little girls like pretty dresses and new hair-ribbons?” Buddie had never analyzed this natural desire. “Because their heads are full of nonsense about princesses gowned in silks and satins. Why do little girls throw crackers to swans in the parks?” This was entirely beyond Buddie. “Because each one thinks she may be doing a service to some king’s son, who has been transformed by enchantment into a swan, and who will reward her by carrying her off to his father’s kingdom in a golden chariot drawn by butterflies. Such books, I say, are poison to a child’s mind; and if I had my way I’d burn every one of them.”

“You shan’t burn mine,” declared Buddie, stoutly.

“Well, go your way,” said the Stork, sadly. “I wash my feet of you. If you come to a bad end, don’t blame me.”

Buddie was not alarmed by the Stork’s gloomy forebodings, but she was the least bit disturbed by his denunciation of fairy tales and picture-books.

“What kind of books should little girls have?” she asked soberly.

[Illustration]

“Blank books,” was the reply. “They contain nothing one should not know, and they prove--I am speaking of blank books which are ruled--two things every one should know: that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points, and that parallel lines never meet.”

“I’d rather have my own books,” decided Buddie, after a little reflection.

“Go your way,” the Stork said again; and this time Buddie acted on the hint.

“I think I shall,” she said, rising. “Good-by!”

“Good-by!” said the Stork, not unpleasantly, and resumed his gymnastics.

Buddie turned once or twice to watch him, but he did not seem to be getting on a bit well.

“I’m afraid he will never look like _four_,” she thought. “He’s so stupid.”