Bikey the Skicycle and Other Tales of Jimmieboy

It was a fine sled, one of the finest he had ever seen. It had a red back, yellow runners and two swan heads standing erect in front of it to tell it which way it should go. On the red surface of the back was painted its name in very artistic blue letters, and that name was nothing more nor less than "Magic."

"Hooray," he cried as he rushed to the window and saw the dazzling silver coating on the lawn and street. "Snow at last! Now I can see if Magic can slide."

He dressed hastily – so hastily in fact that he had to undress again, because it was discovered by his mother, who came to see how he was getting along, that he had put on his stocking wrong side out, and that his left shoe was making his right foot uncomfortable.

"Don't be in such a hurry," said his Mamma. "There was a man once who was always in such a hurry that he forgot to take his head down town with him one day, and when lunch time came he hadn't anything with him to eat his lunch with."

"But I want to slide," said Jimmieboy, "and I'm afraid there'll be a slaw come along and melt the snow."

Jimmieboy always called thaws slaws, so his mother wasn't surprised at this remark, and in a few minutes the boy was ready to coast.

"Come along, Magic!" he said, gleefully catching up the rope. "We'll see now if Uncle Periwinkle was right when he said he didn't think you'd go more'n a mile a minute, unless you had a roller-skate on both your runners."

And then, though Jimmieboy did not notice it, the left-hand swan-head winked its eye at the other swan-head and whispered, "Humph! It's plain Uncle Periwinkle doesn't know that we are a magic sled."

"Well, why should he?" returned the other swan-head, with a laugh. "He never slode on us."

"I'm glad I'm not an uncle," said the left-hand head. "Uncles don't know half as much as we do."

"And why should they!" put in the other. "They haven't had the importunities we have for gaining knowledge. A man who has lived all his days in one country and which has never slad around the world like us has, don't see things the way us would."

And still Jimmieboy did not notice that the swan-heads were talking together, though I can hardly blame him for that, because, now that he was out of doors he had to keep his eyes wide open to keep from bumping his head into the snow balls the hired man was throwing at him. In a few minutes, however, he did notice the peculiar fact and he was so surprised that he sat plump down on the red back of the sled and was off for – well, where the sled took him, and of all the slides that ever were slid, that was indeed the strangest. No sooner had he sat down than with a leap that nearly threw him off his balance, the swans started. The steel runners crackled merrily over the snow, and the wind itself was soon left behind.

"C-can you sus-swans tut-talk?" Jimmieboy cried, in amazement, as soon as he could get his breath.

"Oh, no, of course not," said the right-hand swan. "We can't talk, can we Swanny?"

"No, indeed, Swayny," returned the other with a laugh. "You may think we talk, you may even hear words from our lips, we might even recite a poem, but that wouldn't be talk – oh, no, indeed. Certainly not."

"It's a queer question for him to ask, eh Swanny?" said the right-hand head.

"Extraordinary, Swayny," said the one on the left. "Might as well ask a locomotive if it smokes."

"Well, I only wanted to know," said Jimmieboy.

"He only wanted to know, Swanny," said Swayny.

"I presume that was why he asked – as though we didn't know that," said Swanny. "He'd ask a pie-man with a tray full of pies, if he had any pies, I believe."

"Yes, or a cat if he could miaou. Queer boy," returned Swayny. And then he added:

"I think a boy, who'd waste his timeIn asking questions such as that,Would ask a man, who dealt in rhymeIf he'd a head inside his hat."

Jimmieboy laughed.

"You know poetry, don't you," he said.

"Well, rather," said Swayny. "That is to say, I can tell it from a church steeple."

"Which reminds me," put in Swanny, as strange to say, this wonderful sled began to slide up a very steep hill, "of a conundrum I never heard before. What's the difference between writing poetry the way some people do and building a steeple as all people do?"

"I can't say," said Swayny, "though if you'll tell me the answer now next time you ask that conundrum I'll be able to inform you."

"Some people who write poetry run it into the ground," said Swanny, "and all people who build steeples, run 'em up into the air."

"That's not bad," said Jimmieboy, with a smile.

"No," said Swanny, "it is not – but you don't know why."

"I don't indeed," observed Jimmieboy. "Why?"

"Because my conundrums never are," said Swanny.

"Europe!" cried Swayny. "Five minutes for refreshments."

"What do you mean?" said Jimmieboy, as the sled came to a standstill.

"What does any conductor mean when he calls out the name of a station?" said Swayny scornfully. "He means that's where you are at of course. Which is what I mean. We've arrived at Europe. That's the kind of a fast mail sled we are. In three minutes we've carried you up hill and down dale, over the sea to Europe."

"Really?" cried Jimmieboy, dumfounded.

"Certainly," said Swanny. "You are now in Europe. That blue place you see over on the right is Germany, off to the left is France and that little pink speck is Switzerland. See that glistening thing just on the edge of the pink speck?"

"Yes," said Jimmieboy.

"That's an Alp," said Swanny. "It's too bad we've got to get you home in time for breakfast. If we weren't in such a hurry, we'd let you off so that you could buy an Alp to take home to your brother. You could have snow-balls all through the summer if you had an Alp in your nursery, but we can't stop now to get it. We've got to runaway immediately. Ready Swayny?"

"Yes," said Swayny. "All Aboard for England. Passengers will please keep their seats until the sled comes to a standstill in the station."

And then they were off again.

"How did you like Europe?" asked Swanny, as they sped along through a beautiful country, which Swayny said was France.

"Very nice what I saw of it," said Jimmieboy. "But, of course I couldn't see very much in five minutes."

"Hoh! Hear that, Swayny?" said Swanny. "Couldn't see much in five minutes. Why you could see all Europe in five minutes, if you only looked fast enough. You kept your eye glued on that Alp, I guess."

"That's what he did," said Swayny. "And that's why it was so hard to get the sled started. I had to hump three times before I could get my runner off and it was all because he'd glued his eye on the Alp! Don't do it again, Jimmieboy. We haven't time to unglue your eye every time we start."

"I don't blame him," said Swanny. "Those Alps are simply great, and I sometimes feel myself as if I'd like to look at 'em as much as forty minutes. I'd hate to be a hired man on an Alp, though."

"So would I," said Swayny. "It would be awful if the owner of the Alp made the hired man shovel the snow off it every morning."

"I wasn't thinking of that so much as I was of getting up every morning, early, to push the clouds away," said Swanny. "People are very careless about their clouds on the Alps, and they wander here and there, straying from one man's lawn onto another's, just like cows where Jimmieboy lives. I knew a man once who bought the top of an Alp just for the view, and one of his neighbor's clouds came along and squatted down on his place and simply killed the view entirely, and I tell you he made his hired man's life miserable. Scolded him from morning until night, and fed him on cracked ice for a week, just because he didn't scare the cloud off when he saw it coming."

"I don't see how a man could scare a cloud off," said Jimmieboy.

"Easy as eating chocolate creams," said Swayny. "You can do it with a fan, if you have one big enough – but, I say, Swanny, put on the brakes there quick, or we'll run slam-bang into – "

"LONDON!" cried Swanny, putting on the brakes, and sure enough that's where they were. Jimmieboy knew it in a minute, because there was a lady coming out of a shop preceded by a band of music, and wearing a big crown on her head, whom he recognized at once as the great and good Queen, whose pictures he had often seen in his story books.

"Howdy do, little boy," said the Queen, as her eye rested on Jimmieboy.

"I'm very well, thank you, Ma'am," said Jimmieboy, holding out his hand for Her Majesty to shake.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm sliding until breakfast is ready," he replied.

"Until breakfast is ready?" she cried. "Why, what time do you have breakfast?"

"Eight o'clock, so's papa can catch the 8:30 train, Ma'am," said Jimmieboy.

"But – it is now nearly one o'clock!" said the Queen.

"That's all right, Your Roily Highnishness," said Swanny. "This is an American boy and he breakfasts on the American plan. It isn't eight o'clock yet where he lives."

"Oh, yes – so it isn't," said the Queen. "I remember now. The sun rises earlier here than it does in America."

"Yes, Ma'am," put in Swayny. "It has to in order to get to America on time. America is some distance from here as you may have heard."

And before the Queen could say another word, the sled was sliding merrily along at such a rapid pace that Jimmieboy had to throw his arms about Swayny's neck to keep from falling overboard.

"W-where are we g-g gug-going to now?" he stammered.

"China," said Swanny.

"Egypt," said Swayny.

"I said China," cried Swanny, turning his eyes full upon Swayny and glaring at him.

"I know you did," said Swayny. "I may not show 'em, but I have ears. I, on the other hand said Egypt, and Egypt is where we are going. I want to show Jimmieboy the Pyramids. He's never seen a Pyramid and he has seen Chinamen."

"No doubt," said Swanny. "But this time he's not going to Egypt. I'm going to show him a Mandarin. He can build a Pyramid with his blocks, but he never in his life could build a Mandarin. Therefore, Ho for China."

"You mean Bah! for China," said Swayny, angrily. "I'm not going to China, Mr. William G. Swanny and that's all there is about that. Last time I was there a Chinaman captured me and tied me to his pig-tail and I vowed I'd never go again."

"And when I was in Egypt last time, I was stolen by a mummy, who wanted to broil and eat me because he hadn't had anything to eat for two thousand years. So I'm not going to Egypt."

Whereupon the two strange birds became involved in a dreadful quarrel, one trying to run the sled off toward China, the other trying, with equal vim, to steer it over to Egypt. The runners creaked; the red back groaned and finally, there came a most dreadful crash. Swanny flew off with his runner to the land of Flowers, and Swayny, freed from his partner, forgetting Jimmieboy completely, sped on to Egypt.

And Jimmieboy.

Well, Jimmieboy, fell in between and by some great good fortune, for which I am not at all prepared to account, landed in a heap immediately beside his little bed in the nursery, not dressed in his furs at all but in his night gown, while out of doors not a speck of snow was to be seen, and strangest of all, when he was really dressed and had gone down stairs, there stood Magic and the two swan heads, as spick and span as you please, still waiting to be tried.

THE STUPID LITTLE APPLE-TREE

Jimmieboy was playing in the orchard, and, as far as the birds and the crickets and the tumble-bugs could see, was as happy as the birds, as lively as the crickets, and as tumbly as the tumble-bugs. In fact, one of the crickets had offered to bet an unusually active tumble-bug that Jimmieboy could give him ten tumbles start and beat him five in a hundred, but the tumble-bug was a good little bug and wouldn't bet.

"I'm put here to tumble," said he. "That's my work in life, and I'm going to stick to it. Other creatures may be able to tumble better than I can, but that isn't going to make any difference to me. So long as I do the best I can, I'm satisfied. If you want to bet, go bet with the dandelions. They've got more gold in 'em than we tumble-bugs have."

Now, whether it was the sweet drowsiness of the afternoon, or the unusual number of tumbles he took on the soft, carpet-like grass in and out among the apple-trees, neither Jimmieboy nor I have ever been able to discover, but all of a sudden Jimmieboy thought it would be pleasant to rest awhile; and to accomplish this desirable end he could think of nothing better than to throw himself down at the foot of what he had always called the stupid little apple-tree. It was a very pretty tree, but it was always behind-time with its blossoms. All the other trees in the orchard burst out into bloom at the proper time, but the stupid little apple-tree, like a small boy in school who isn't as smart as some other boys, was never ready, when the others were, and that was why Jimmieboy called it stupid.

"Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy!"

He turned about to see who had addressed him, but there was nothing in sight but a huge bumblebee, and he was entirely too busy at his daily stint to be wasting any time on Jimmieboy.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Jimmieboy asked.

"I'm – I'm a friend of yours," said the voice. "Oh, a splendid friend of yours, even if I am stupid. Do you want to earn an apple?"

"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "I'm very fond of apples – though I can get all I want without earning 'em."

"That's true enough," returned the voice; "but an apple you have given you isn't half so good as one you really earn all by yourself – that's why I want you to earn one. Of course I'll give you all the apples I've got, anyhow, but I'd like to have you earn one of 'em, just to show you how much better it tastes because you have earned it."

"All right," said Jimmieboy, politely. "I'm very much obliged to you, and I'll earn it if you'll tell me how. But, I say," he added, "I can't see you – who are you?"

"Can't see me? That's queer," said the voice. "I'm right here – can't you see the stupid little apple-tree that's keeping the sun off you and stretching its arms up over you?"

"Yes," Jimmieboy replied. "I can see that, but I can't see you."

"Why, I'm it," said the voice. "It's the stupid little apple-tree that's talking to you. I'm me."

Jimmieboy sat up and looked at the tree with a surprised delight. "Oh! that's it, eh?" he said. "You can talk, can you?"

"Certainly," said the tree. "You didn't think we poor trees stood out here year in and year out, in cold weather and in warm, in storm and in sunshine, never lying down, always standing, without being allowed to talk, did you? That would be dreadfully cruel. It's bad enough not to be able to move around. Think how much worse it would be if we had to keep silent all that time! You can judge for yourself what a fearfully dull time we would have of it when you consider how hard it is for you to sit still in school for an hour without speaking."

"I just simply can't do it," said Jimmieboy. "That's the only thing my teacher don't like about me. She says I'm movey and loquacious."

"I don't know what loquacious means," said the tree.

"Neither do I," said Jimmieboy, "but I guess it has something to do with talking too much when you hadn't ought to. But tell me, Mr. Tree, how can I earn the apple?"

"Don't be so formal," said the tree. "Don't call me Mr. Tree. You've known me long enough to be more intimate."

"Very well," said Jimmieboy. "I'll call you whatever you want me to. What shall I call you?"

"Call me Stoopy," said the tree, softly. "Stoopy for short. I always liked that name."

Jimmieboy laughed. "It's an awful funny name," he said. "Stoopy! Ha-ha-ha! What's it short for?"

"Stupid," said the tree. "That is, while it's quite as long as Stupid, it seems shorter. Anyhow, it's more affectionate, and that's why I want you to call me by it."

"Very well, Stoopy," said Jimmieboy. "Now, about the apple. Have you got it with you?"

"No," returned the tree. "But I'm making it, and it's going to be the finest apple you ever saw. It will have bigger, redder cheeks than any other apple in the world, and it'll have a core in it that will be just as good to eat as marmalade, and it'll be all for you if you'll do something for me to-morrow."

"I'll do it if I can," said Jimmieboy.

"Of course – that's what I mean," said Stoopy. "Nobody can do a thing he can't do; and if you find that you can't do it, don't do it; you'll get the apple just the same, only you won't have earned it, and it may not seem so good, particularly the core. I suppose you know that to-morrow is Decoration Day?"

"Yes, indeed," said Jimmieboy. "Mamma's going to send a lot of flowers to the Committee, and papa's going to take me to see the soldiers, and after that I'm going over to the semingary to see them decorate the graves."

"That's what I thought," said the tree, with a sigh. "I wish I could go. There's nothing I'd like to do better than to go over there and drop a lot of blossoms around on the graves of the men who went to war and lost their lives so that you might have a country, and we trees could grow in peace without being afraid of having a cannon-ball shot into us, cutting us in two – but I want to tell you a little story about all that. You didn't know I was planted by a little boy who went to the war and got killed, did you?"

"No," returned Jimmieboy, softly. "I didn't know that. I asked papa one day who planted you, and he said he guessed you just grew."

"Well, that's true, I did just grow," said Stoopy, "but I had to be planted first, and I was planted right here by a little boy only ten years old. He was awfully good to me, too. He used to take care of me just as if I were a little baby. I wasn't more than half as tall as he was when he set me out here, and I was his tree, and he was proud as could be to feel that he owned me; and he used to tell me that when I grew big and had apples he was going to sell the apples and buy nice things for his mother with the money he got for 'em. We grew up together. He took such good care of me that I soon got to be taller than he was, and the taller I became the prouder he was of me. Oh, he was a fine boy, Jimmieboy, and as he grew up his mother and father were awfully proud of him. And then the war broke out. He was a little over twenty years old then, and he couldn't be kept from going to fight. He joined the regiment that was raised here, and after a little while he said good-by to his mother and father, and then he came out here to me and put his arms around my trunk and kissed me good-by too, and he plucked a little sprig of leaves from one of my branches and put it in his buttonhole, and then he went away. That was the last time I saw him. He was killed in his first battle."

Here Stoopy paused for an instant, and trembled a little, and a few blossoms fell like trickling tear-drops, and fluttered softly to the ground.

"They brought him home and buried him out there in the semingary," the tree added, "and that was the end of it. His father and mother didn't live very long after that, and then there wasn't anybody to take care of his grave any more. When that happened, I made up my mind that I'd do what I could; but around here all the apple-blossoms are withered and gone by the time Decoration Day comes, and nobody would take plain leaves like mine to put on a soldier's grave, so I began to put off blossoming until a little later than the other trees, and that's how I came to be called the stupid little apple-tree. Nobody knew why I did it, but I did, and so I didn't mind being called stupid. I was doing it all for him, and every year since then I've been late, but on Decoration Day I've always had blossoms ready. The trouble has been, though, that nobody has ever come for 'em, and I've had all my work and trouble so far for nothing. It's been a great disappointment."

"I see," said Jimmieboy, softly. "What you want me to do is to take some of your blossoms over there to-morrow and put 'em – put 'em where you want 'em put."

"That's it, that's it!" cried the stupid little apple-tree, eagerly. "Oh, if you only will, Jimmieboy!"

"Indeed I will," said Jimmieboy. "I'll come here in the morning and gather up the blossoms, and take every one you have ready over in a basket, and I'll get papa to find out where your master's grave is, and he'll have every one of them."

"Thank you, thank you," returned Stoopy; "and you'll find that all I've said about your apple will come true, and after this I'll be your tree forever and forever."

Jimmieboy was about to reply, when an inconsiderate tumble-bug tripped over his hand, which lay flat on the grass, and in an instant all of the boy's thoughts on the subject fled from his mind, and he found himself sitting up on the grass, gazing sleepily about him. He knew that he had probably been dreaming, although he is by no means certain that that was the case, for, as if to remind him of his promise, as he started to rise, a handful of blossoms loosened by the freshening evening breezes came fluttering down into his lap, and the little lad resolved that, dream or no dream, he would look up the whereabouts of the young soldier-boy's grave, and would decorate it with apple-blossoms, and these from the stupid little apple-tree only.

And that is why one long-forgotten soldier's grave in the cemetery across the hills back of Jimmieboy's house was white and sweetly fragrant with apple-blossoms when the sun had gone down upon Decoration Day.

As for the stupid little apple-tree, it is still at work upon the marvelously red-cheeked apple which Jimmieboy is to claim as his reward.