THE SAD STORY OF THE WOLLERPERLECK

So they trudged along the curious road

Till the village was quite in view,—

A funny old town with crooked lanes

And houses all askew;

And some of them seemed to be tumbling down,

And not a thing was new.

And the place seemed wrapped in a drowsy calm

Which pervaded the very air,

And nobody took the slightest heed

That one of the weary pair

Was a little boy from some distant sphere,—

And nobody seemed to care:

64And the sleepy bell on the little church,

Which was chiming sadly and low,

Seemed lost in a dreamy reverie,

In its swinging to and fro;

Seemed lost in a vision of other things,

In the days of long ago.

They hastened along to the Hairspring Inn,

(’Twas the place where they’d seen the lights)

And said, “We have brought four tired legs,

And two splendid appetites.

Have you room, mine host, for a little boy

Who wants to see the sights?”

“We have,” said the host, “but my house is old,

And I shouldn’t neglect to state

That I’m doubtful if the place would do

For a boy who is up to date;

For the china we use is quite passé—

As well as the silver plate.

“And the bread that we serve is quite antique—

Though it’s thought to be very fine

By antiquarians living here,

Who frequently stop to dine—

And all of our biscuits and pies were made

In seventeen twenty-nine.”

65“You see,” said the Imp, drawing the little boy aside, “he is inclined to be perfectly honest; he doesn’t want to have you stop here and then be dissatisfied.”

“Is he an hour?” asked the little boy.

“Certainly, every imp you meet here is an hour. Just look on his badge and you’ll see what hour he is; Fourth of July, 1776, 4 P. M.—That was the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, wasn’t it? He ought to have some interesting things to tell.”

Then the Imp walked back to the counter where the innkeeper was standing, and said:

“Pardon me, good host, I interrupted you; you were telling us about your house, I believe. Pray continue.”

“And I haven’t a doubt,” the host remarked,

As the Imp and the boy sat down,

“That you’ll want to see our quaint, old club,

Which enjoys a wide renown.

It meets in a tumble-down, queer, old house,

At the other end of town.

“There’s a little poem which I used to know,

From a paper in Tickerleen,

By some one who spent the summer here,

And went to the club, I mean,

And he wrote the poem on arriving home,

Describing the things he’d seen.”

66“Oh, try to remember it,” said the child,

“And I hope that you surely can,

For I am old-fashioned, people say,—

Can’t you think how it began?”

And the host he smiled and presently said,

“I think that the stanzas ran,—

“‘When the twilight slowly lowers,

On the Fields of Fragrant Flowers,

Then the good, old-fashioned hours,

With their quaint, old-fashioned ways,

“‘With their pointed, antique noses,

And their doublets and their hoses,

Meet to talk when business closes,

Of the good, old-fashioned days.

“‘All unheedful of each mocker,

Each arrives and bangs the knocker,

And proceeding to his rocker,

He begins at once to flay

“‘Every sociable and smoker,

Every modern, flippant joker,

And observes how mediocre

Is the joking of to-day.

67“‘All unheedful of inventions,

In their queer, old-time conventions,

Not a member even mentions

Such a word as “telephone.”

“‘And they scorn all modern folly,

And denounce the useful trolley,

And are seized with melancholy

If they hear a megaphone!

“‘And upon a quaint old bracket,

Each one hangs his funny jacket,

And they have a quaint old racket,

In the queer old house they use.

“‘You can hear their solemn laughing,

And their Puritanic chaffing,

And suspicious sounds of quaffing,

As they tell their good old news.

“‘Of the quaint old times, untainted,

Of events quite often painted,

And with which we’re all acquainted,

But which never lose their spell;

68“‘Of the knowledge they acquired,

Ere their time on earth expired,

And they quietly retired

To the town of Minutel.’”

“We’ll take that in,” laughed the gay little Imp,

“Is there any especial date?

For we’re on our way to Tickerleen;

How long shall we have to wait?”

“They meet,” said the host, “as I understand,

On Fridays, at half-past eight.”

“And the train next starting for Tickerleen,—

May I ask you when that will leave?”

“The train will depart,—now, let me see,

On Saturday, I believe.

It will get back here at Saturday noon,

And start on Saturday eve.”

69“Ah, that will be fine!” said the little Imp,

“And our plans will come out just right;

It’s Thursday now, and we’ll do the club

When it meets to-morrow night,

And to-night we’ll stay in this cosy inn,

And sit by the fire bright.”

So they drew close up to the cheerful blaze,

And the host began to employ

The time in relating many tales

Which the child received with joy;

And the fire smiled on the genial host,

The Imp, and the little boy.

And the sound borne in on the soft, still air

From the drowsily chiming bell,

Seemed to say, “Those good, old-fashioned tales

Are ones that I know quite well,

For they’re all about things I saw myself

In the village of Minutel.”

“May I ask you, please,” said the little boy,

“There’s a story of old folk-lore

That I heard about, and I want to know—

Would you tell me just one more?

It’s the legend about those funny roads

In the Land of Tockerlore.”

70“I will,” said the host, as he settled down,

“But you’ll think it is sad, I fear.

You know the valley you came across

Before you arrived up here?

The valley that separates Minutel

From the mountainous frontier?

“Did you notice along a narrow stream

A ruin, all mossy and old,

And near it a little vender’s stand,

Where souvenir cards are sold?

It’s about the ruin along that stream

The following tale is told—”

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