The Zankiwank and The Bletherwitch: An Original Fantastic Fairy Extravaganza

No doubt the Zankiwank knew what he was talking about, but as the children did not – what did it signify? Therefore they asked no more questions, but went along the street marvelling at all they saw. The next shop at which they stopped was kept by

Jorumgander the Younger,Dealer in Magic and Mystery

"Jorumgander the Younger is not of much use now," said the Zankiwank sorrowfully. "He chiefly aims at making a mystery of everything, but so many people not engaged in trade make a mystery of nothing every day, that he is sadly handicapped. And most sensible people hate a mystery of any kind, unless it belongs to themselves, so that he finds customers very shy. Once upon a time he would get hold of a simple story and turn it into such a gigantic mystery that all the world would be mystified. But those happy days are gone, and he thinks of turning his business into a company to sell Original Ideas, when he knows where to find them."

"I don't see what good can come of making a mystery of anything – especially if anything is true," sagaciously remarked Maude.

"But anything is not true. Nor is anything untrue. There is the difficulty. If anything were true, nothing would be untrue, and then where should we be?"

"Nowhere," said Willie without thinking.

"Exactly. That is just where we are now, and a very nice place it is. There is one thing, however, that Jorumgander the Younger – there he is with the pink eye-brows and green nose. Don't say anything about his personal appearance. What I was going to say he will say instead. It is a habit we have occasionally. He is my grandfather, you know."

"Your grandfather! What! that young man? Why, he is not more than twenty-two and three quarters, I'm sure," replied Maude.

"You are right. He is twenty-two and three quarters. You don't quite understand our relationships. The boy, as you have no doubt heard, is father to the man. Very well. I am the man. When he was a boy on my aunt's side he was father to me. That's plain enough. He has grown older since then, though he is little more than a boy in discretion still, therefore he is my grandfather."

"How very absurdly you do talk, Mr Zankiwank," laughed Willie; "but here is your grandfather," and at that moment Jorumgander the Younger left his shop and approached them with a case of pens which he offered for sale.

"Try my Magic Pens. They are the best in the market, because there are no others. There is no demand for them, and few folk will have them for a gift. Therefore I can highly recommend them."

"How can you recommend your pens, when you declare that nobody will buy them?" demanded Willie.

"Because they are a novelty. They are Magic Pens, you know, and of course as nobody possesses any, they must be rare. That is logic, I think."

"Buy one," said the Zankiwank, "he has not had any supper yet."

"In what way are they Magic Pens?" enquired Maude.

"Ah! I thought I should find a customer between Michaelmas and May Day," cried Jorumgander the Younger, quite cheerfully. "The beauty of these pens is that they never tell a story."

"But suppose you want to write a story?"

"That is a different thing. If you have the ability to write a story you won't want a Magic Pen. These pens are only for every-day use. For example: if you want to write to your charwoman to tell her you have got the toothache, and you haven't got the toothache, the Magic Pen refuses to lend itself to telling a – a – "

"Crammer," suggested Willie.

"Crammer. Thank you. I don't know what it means, but crammer is the correct word. The Magic Pen will simplify the truth whether you wish to tell it or not."

"I do not understand," whispered Maude.

"Let me try to explain," said Jorumgander the Younger politely. "The Magic Pen will only write exactly what you think – what is in your mind, what you ought to say, whether you wish to or not."

"A very useful article, I am sure," said the Zankiwank. "I gave six dozen away last Christmas, but nobody used them after a few days, and I can't think why."

"Ah!" sighed Jorumgander the Younger, "and I have had all my stock returned on my hands. The first day I opened my shop I sold more than I can remember. And the next morning all the purchasers came and wanted their money back. They said if they wanted to tell the truth, they knew how to do it, and did not want to be taught by an evil-disposed nib. But I am afraid they were not speaking the truth then, at any rate. Here, let me make you a present of one a-piece, and you can write and tell me all about yourselves when you go home. Meanwhile, as the streets are crowded, and our policeman is not looking, let us sing a quiet song to celebrate the event."

We sing of the Magic PenThat never tells a story,That in the hands of menWould lead them on to glory.For what you ought to do,And you should all be saying,In fact of all things trueThis pen will be bewraying.So let us sing a roundelay —Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think should please all.

What the chorus had to do with the song nobody knew, but they all sang it – everybody in the street, and all the customers in the shops as well, and even the policeman sang the last line.

You take it in your handAnd set yourself a-writing;No matter what you've planned,The truth 'twill be inditing.And thus you cannot fail,To speak your mind correctly,And honestly you'll sail,But never indirectly.So let us sing a roundelay —Pop goes the Weazel;Treacle's four pence a pound to-day,Which we think will please all!

Again everybody danced and sang till the policeman told them to "move on," when Jorumgander the Younger put up his shutters and went away.

"A most original man," exclaimed the Zankiwank; "he ought to have been a postman!"

"A postman! – why?"

"Because he was always such a capital boy with his letters. He knew his alphabet long before he could spell, and now he knows every letter you can think of."

"I don't see anything very original in that," said Willie. "There are only twenty-six letters in the English language that he can know!"

"Only twenty-six letters! Dear me, why millions of people are writing fresh letters every day, and he knows them all directly he sees them! I hope you will go to school some day and learn differently from that! Only twenty-six letters," repeated the Zankiwank in wonderment, "only twenty-six letters." Then he cried suddenly, "How convenient it would be if everybody was his own Dictionary!"

"That is impossible. One cannot be a book."

"Oh yes, nothing simpler. Let everybody choose his own words and give his own meaning to them!"

"What use would that be?" asked Willie.

"None whatever, because if you always had your own meaning you would not want anybody else to be meaning anything! What a lot of trouble that would save! I'll ask the Jackarandajam to make one for me – why, here he is!"

The children recognised the Jackarandajam immediately and shook hands with him.

"I am so glad to see you all. I have just been suffering from a most severe attack of Inspiration."

"How very inexplicable – I beg your pardon," moaned the Zankiwank. "It is a little difficult, but it is, I believe, a strictly proper word – though I do not pretend to know its meaning."

The Jackarandajam accepted the apology by gracefully bowing, though neither felt quite at ease.

"What is the use of saying things you don't mean?" asked Maude.

"None at all, that is the best of it, because we are always doing something without any reason."

To attempt to argue with the Zankiwank Maude knew was futile, so she merely enquired how the Jackarandajam felt after his attack of Inspiration, and what he took for it.

"Nothing," was the simple rejoinder. "It comes and it goes, and there you are – at least most of the time."

"What is Inspiration?" said Willie.

The Zankiwank and the Jackarandajam both shook their heads in a solemn manner, and looked as wise as the Sphinx. Then the former answered slowly and deliberately —

"Inspiration is the sort of thing that comes when you do not fish for it."

"But," said Willie, who did not quite see the force of the explanation, "you can't fish for a great many things and of course nothing comes. How do you manage then?"

This was a decided poser, beating them at their own game, so the Zankiwank sent another telegram, presumably to the Bletherwitch, and the Jackarandajam made a fresh cigarette, which he carefully refrained from smoking. Then he turned to the two children and said mournfully —

"Have you seen my new invention? Ah! it was the result of my recent attack of Inspiration. Come with me and I will show you." Thereupon he led the way to a large square, with a nice garden in the centre, where all the houses had bills outside to inform the passers by that these

Desirable Revolving Residenceswere to beLET or SOLD

"All my property. I had the houses built myself from my own plans. Come inside the first."

So they followed the Jackarandajam and entered the first house.

"The great advantage of these houses," he declared, "is that you can turn them round to meet the sun at will. They are constructed on a new principle, being fixed on a pivot. You see I turn this handle by the hall door, and Hey Presto! we are looking into the back garden, while the kitchen is round at the front!"

And such was the fact! The house would move any way one wished simply by turning the electric handle.

"It is so convenient, you see, if you don't want to be at home to any visitor. When you see anyone coming up the garden path, you move the crank and away you go, and your visitor, to his well-bred consternation, finds himself gazing in at the kitchen window. And then he naturally departs with many misgivings as to the state of his health. Especially if the cook is taken by surprise. You should never take a cook by surprise. It always spoils her photograph."

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" cried Maude, "why will you say such contradictory things! I don't see the sense of having such a house at all. It would upset things so."

"Besides," chimed in Willie, "you would never have any aspect or prospect."

"Are they both good to eat?" said the Jackarandajam, eagerly.

"Of course not. I meant that your house would first be facing the East, and then South, and then West, and then North, and what would be the use of that?"

"No use whatever. That's why we do it. Oh, but do not laugh. We are not quite devoid of reason, because we are all mad!"

"Are you really mad?"

"Yes," was the gay response, "we don't mind it a bit. We are all as crooked as a teetotaler's corkscrew! I am glad you do not like the Revolving Houses, because I am going to sell them to the Clerk of the Weather and his eight new assistants!"

"I did not know the Clerk of the Weather required any assistance," exclaimed Willie, though personally he did not know the Clerk of the Weather.

"Oh yes, he must have assistants. He does things so badly, and with eight more he will, if he is careful, do them worse."

Here was another one of those contradictions that the children could not understand. I hope you can't, because I don't myself, generally. The Jackarandajam went on reflectively: —

"It is bound to happen. The Clerk of the Weather has only one assistant now, and it takes the two of them to do a Prog – Prog – don't interrupt me – a Prog – Prognostication! – phew, what a beautiful word! – Prognostication ten minutes now. Therefore it stands to reason, as the Sun Dial remarked, that nine could do it in much less time!"

"You will excuse me," halloed the Zankiwank down the next door dining-room chimney, "I beg to differ from you. That is to say on the contrary. For instance: – If it takes two people ten minutes to do a prog – you must fill in the rest yourself – prog – of course, as there are so many more to do the same thing, it must take them forty-five minutes."

"What a brain," exclaimed the Jackarandajam, ecstatically; "he ought to have been born a Calculating Machine. He beats Euclid and that fellow named Smith on all points. I never thought of it in the light of multiplying the addition."

"More nonsense," observed Willie to Maude. "What does it all mean?" They looked out of window and saw the Zankiwank arguing with the Clerk of the Weather and the Weather Cock on top of the vane of a large building outside. Every minute they expected to see them tumble down, but they did not, so to cheer them up the Jackarandajam stood on his head and sang them this comic song: —

The Clerk of the Weather

The Clerk of the Weather went out to walkAll down Victoria Street;Of late his ways had caused much talk,And chatter indiscreet.So he donned a suit of mingled sleet,With a dash of falling snow,A rainy tie, and a streaky skyeWhich barked where'er he'd go.

Then, to the surprise of Willie and Maude, the Jackarandajam began to dance wildly, while the Weather Cock sang as follows: —

O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine —If it does not sleet or hail or snow,And if it does not big guns blow,And the sun looks out to shine.

The Jackarandajam stood on his head again and sang the second verse: —

Wrapt up in his thoughts he went along,His manner sad and crossed;With a windy strain he hummed a song,Of thunderbolts and frost.He strode with a Barometrical stride,With forecasts on his brow;Till he tripped up Short upon a slide,Which made him vow a vow.

The Weather Cock at once sang the chorus and the Jackarandajam danced as before.

O Cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine —If there is no fog, or drenching rain,And thunder does not boom again,And the sun looks out to shine.

Now came the third and last verse: —

His prophesies got all mixed and mulled,The Moon began to blink;And all his faculties were dulledWhen he saw the Dog Star wink!And up on the steeple tall and blackThe Weather Cock he crew!He crew and he crowed till he fell in the road,O cock-a-doodle-doo!

And sure enough the Weather Cock did tumble into the road, and the Clerk of the Weather and the Zankiwank tumbled helter skelter after him. Immediately they got up again and rushed through the window, and catching hold of the children, they whirled them round and round, singing the final chorus all together: —

O cock-a-doodle-doo!The weather will be fine —If lightning does not flash on high,Nor gloomy be the azure sky,And the sun peeps out to shine.

After which they all disappeared except the Zankiwank, and once again they found themselves in the street.

"They were both wrong," muttered the Zankiwank to himself, "and yet one was right."

"How could they both be wrong then? One was right? Very well. Then only one was wrong," corrected Maude.

"No, they were both wrong – because I was the right one after all. Besides, you can't always prove a negative, can you?"

"How tiresome of you! You only mentioned two and now say three. I do not believe you know what you do mean."

"Not often, sometimes, by accident, you know – only do not tell anybody else."

"You are certainly very extraordinary persons – that is all I can say," said Willie. "You do not do anything quite rationally or naturally."

"Naturally. Why should we? We are the great Middle Classes – neither alive nor dead. Betwixt and between. Half and half, you know, for now we are in the Spirit World only known to poets and children. But do come along, or the bicycles will start without us, and we have an appointment to keep."

Now, how could one even try to tell such an eccentric creature as the Zankiwank that he was all wrong and talking fables and fibs and tarra-diddles? Neither of them attempted to correct these erroneous ideas, but wondering where they were going next, Maude and Willie mounted the bicycles that came as if by magic, and rode off at a terrific rate, though they had never ridden a machine before.

They were almost out of breath when the Zankiwank called out "stop," and away went the bicycles, and they found themselves standing in front of an immense edifice with a sign-board swinging from the gambrel roof, on which was painted in large golden letters —

There was no opportunity to ascertain what the sign meant, for all at once there darted out of the shop Mr Swinglebinks with whom they had travelled from Charing Cross.

"Don't waste your time like that! Make haste, let me have five minutes. I am in a hurry."

"Have you got five minutes to spare?" asked the Zankiwank of Maude.

"Oh yes," she replied. "Why?"

"Let me have them at once then. A gentleman left twenty-five minutes behind him yesterday and I want to make up half-an-hour for a regular customer!" screamed Mr Swinglebinks to the bewildered children.

"But – but – O what do you mean? I have got five minutes to spare and I'll devote them to you if you like, but I can't give them to you as though they were a piece of toffee," answered Maude with much perplexity, while Willie stood awe-struck, not comprehending Mr Swinglebinks in the least.

"Time is a tough customer, you know. He is here, he is there, he is gone! He is, he was, he will be. Yet you cannot trap Time, for he is like a sunbeam," muttered the Zankiwank as though he never was short of Time.

"There, that five minutes is gone – wasted, passed into the vast vacuum of eternity! With my friend Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon I can tell you all about time! 'Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal!' Oh, I know Father Time and all his tricks. I have counted the Sands of Time. I supply him with his Hour Glass. Don't you apprehend me?"

They certainly did not. Mr Swinglebinks was more mystifying than all the other persons they had encountered put together. So they made no reply.

"I am collecting Time. Time, so my copy books told me, was meant for Slaves. I always felt sorry for the Slaves. They have no Time, you know, because it is meant for them. Lots of things are meant for you, only you won't get them. Britons never will be Slaves, so they'll never want for Time. However, as Time was meant for Slaves, I mean to let them have as much as I can. So every spare minute or two I can get, I of course send them over to them."

"It is ridiculous. You cannot measure time and cut off a bit like that," ventured Willie.

"Oh yes, you can. A client of mine was laid up the other day – in fact he was in bed for a fortnight, so, as he had no use for the time he had on hand before him, he just went to sleep and sent ten days round to me!"

"Oh, Mr Zankiwank, what is this gentleman saying?" said Maude.

"It's all perfectly true," answered the Zankiwank. "You often hear of somebody who has half an hour to spare, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Very good. Sometimes you will hear, too, of somebody who has lost ten minutes."

"I see," said Willie.

"And somebody else will tell you they do not know what to do with their Time?"

"Go on," cried both children, more puzzled than ever.

"Well, instead of letting all the Time be wasted, Mr Swinglebinks has opened his exchange to receive all the spare time he can, and this he distributes amongst those who want an hour or a day or a week. But they have to pay for it – "

"Pay for it?"

"Time is money," called out Mr Swinglebinks.

"There you are. If Time is money you can exchange Time for money and money for Time. Is not that feasible?"

Did anybody ever hear of such queer notions? Maude and Willie were quite tired through trying to think the matter out.

Time was meant for slaves. – Time is money. – Time and Tide wait for no man. – Take Time when Time is. – Take Time by the forelock. – Procrastination is the thief of Time. – Killing Time is no murder. – Saving Time is no crime. As quick as thought Mr Swinglebinks exhibited these statements on his swinging sign, one after the other, and then he came to them once again.

"Are you convinced now? Let me have a quarter of an hour to send to the poor slaves. Time was meant for them, you know, and you are using their property without acknowledgment!"

The Zankiwank looked on as wise as an owl, but said nothing.

"Dear me, how you are wasting your time sitting there doing nothing!" said Mr Swinglebinks distractedly. "Time is money – Time is money. Give me some of the Time you are losing."

"Let us go, Willie," said Maude. "Do not waste any more Time. We have no Time to lose, let alone time to spare! Shall we kill Time?"

She had barely finished speaking when Mr Swinglebinks and his Time Exchange disappeared, and they were alone with the Zankiwank. But not for long, for almost immediately a troop of school children came bounding home from school, but children with the oddest heads and faces ever seen. They were all carrying miniature bellows in their hands, which they were working up and down with great energy.

"Oh, Mr Zankiwank, what is the matter with those children in short frocks and knickerbockers? Look at their heads!"

The Zankiwank gazed, but expressed no surprise, and yet the children, if they were children, certainly looked very queer, for the boys had got aged, care-worn faces with moustaches and whiskers, while the little girls, in frocks just reaching to their knees, had women's faces, with their hair done up in plaits and chignons and Grecian knot fashion, with elderly bonnets perched on the top.

"That," said the Zankiwank, "is the force of habit."

"What habit, please? It does not suit them," said Maude.

"You are mistaken. Good habits become second nature."

"And what do bad habits become?" queried Willie.

"Bad habits," answered the Zankiwank severely, "become no one."

"And these must be bad habits," exclaimed Willie, pointing to the children, "for they do not become them."

"I thought their clothes fitted them very well."

"We don't mean their clothes," cried Maude. "We mean their general appearance."

"Ah! you are referring to the unnatural history aspect of the case. You mean their heads, of course. They do not fit properly. I have noticed it myself. It comes of expecting too much, and overdoing it; it is all the result of what so many people are fond of doing – putting old heads on young shoulders."

So the mystery was out. The old heads were unmistakably on young shoulders. And how very absurd the children looked! Not a bit like happy girls and boys, as they would have been had they possessed their own heads instead of over-grown and over-developed minds and brains. Old heads never do look well on young shoulders, and it is very foolish of people to think they do. It makes them children of a larger growth before their time, and is just as bad as having young heads on old shoulders. The moral of which is, that you should never be older than you are nor younger than you are not.

"But what are they doing with those bellows?" enquired Willie and Maude together.

"Raising the wind," promptly responded the Zankiwank, "or trying to. When folk grow old before their time you will generally find that it is owing to the bother they had in raising the wind to keep the pot boiling."

"But you don't keep the pot boiling with wind," they protested.

"Oh yes you do, in Topsy-Turvey Land, though personally I believe it to be most unright!"

"Un – what?" exclaimed Maude.

"Unright. When a thing is wrong it must be unright. Just the same as when a thing is right it is unwrong."

While the Zankiwank was giving this very lucid explanation the "Old heads on young shoulders" children went sedately and mournfully away, just as a complete train of newspaper carts dashed up to a large establishment with these words printed outside —

Atnagagdlintit RalinginginarmikLusaruminassumik

"Good gracious, what awful looking words! It surely must be Welsh?" The two children put the question to the Zankiwank.

"No, that is not Welsh. That is the way the Esquimaux of Greenland speak. It is the name of their paper, and means something to read, interesting news of all sorts. But in this newspaper they never print any news of any sort. They supply the paper to the Topsy-Turveyites every morning quite blank, so that you can provide yourself with your own news. Being perfectly blank, the editors succeed in pleasing all their subscribers."

"Well, I do not see any advantage in that."

"There you go again!" cried the Zankiwank. "You always want something with an advantage. What's the use of an advantage, I should like to know? You can only lose it. You cannot give it away. Do try to be original. But listen, Nobody's coming."