The Zankiwank and the Bletherwitch/Part 4
Part IV
The Land of Topsy Turvey
The fairy minstrels play;
And the strains replete with fantastic dreams,
On the wild gusts flit away.
Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful song
On the blast to his slumber comes,
That his nose as the church’s spire is long,
And like its organ hums!
R. D. Williams.
Are played by one, the merry little Sprite?
I wing through air from the camp to the court,
From King to clown, and of all make sport,
Singing I am the Sprite
Of the merry midnight
Who laughs at weak mortals and loves the moonlight.
The Land of Topsy Turvey
Where ev’ry one is gay and bland,
And day is always night.
We welcome to all strangers give,
For by their custom we must live,
Because we’re so polite.
And all our goods are in demand,
By mortal, fay and sprite.
Our novelties are warranted,
And through the land their fame is spread,
Because we’re so polite.
Surely they had been whisked back to Charing Cross again without knowing it? The long wide thoroughfare in which the children now found themselves was just like one of the main shopping streets in London. Some parts reminded them of Regent Street, some of the Strand, and some of Oxford Street. Yes, and there was the Lowther Arcade, only somehow a little different. It was odd. Toy shops, novelty stores, picture shops, and shops of all sorts and sizes greeted them on either hand. Moreover, there were the shopkeepers and their assistants, and crowds of people hurrying by, jostling the loungers and the gazers; and the one policeman, who was talking to a fat person in a print gown who was standing at the area steps of the only private house they could
“Come along there! Now then, move on!” How rude of him. However, they “moved on,” and were nearly knocked down by the Zankiwank, who darted into the post-office to receive a telegram and to send one in reply.
They followed him, of course; they knew the telegram was from the Bletherwitch, and the Zankiwank read it out to them:—
“Now what does that mean,” murmured the expectant bridegroom. “My Bletherwitch cannot be well. I’ll send her some cough lozenges.” So he wrote a reply and despatched it:—
Maude scarcely believed that the Bletherwitch could possess so many charms, or she would not keep her future husband waiting so long for her. But she knew it was useless offering any advice on so delicate a subject, so she and Willie begged the Zankiwank to be their guide and to show them the Lions of Topsy Turvey, which he readily agreed to do.
And now, as they left the post-office, they turned their attention to the shops and were surprised to read the names over the windows of several individuals they had already met in the train. For instance, the Wimble lived next door to the Wamble, and each one had printed in the window a very curious legend.
This is what the Wamble had:—
Good Resolutions Bought, Sold and Exchanged.
a few bad, and some slightly damaged, to be disposed of—a bargain.
No connection with the business next door.
While the Wimble stated the nature of his wares as follows:—
Bad Resolutions Bought, Sold and Exchanged.
a few good, and some slightly indifferent, to be disposed of—a bargain.
No connection with the business next door.
“No connection with the business next door,” repeated Willie.
“Why, you told us that they were brothers—twins,” indignantly cried Maude.
“So they are! So they are! Don’t you see they are twins from a family point of view only. In business, of course, they are desperately opposed to each other. That is why they are so prosperous,” explained the Zankiwank.
“Are they prosperous? I never heard of such a thing as buying and selling Resolutions. How can one buy a Good Resolution?” enquired Maude.
“Or exchange Bad Resolutions,” said Willie. “It is quite wicked.”
“Not at all. Not at all. So many people make Good Resolutions and never carry them out, therefore if there were no place where you could dispose of them they would be wasted.”
“But Bad Resolutions? Nobody makes Bad Resolutions—at least they ought not to, and I don’t believe it is true!”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the Zankiwank. “If you make a Good Resolution and don’t carry it out—doesn’t it become a Bad Resolution? Answer me that.”
This, however, was an aspect of the question that had never occurred to them, and they were unable to reply.
“It seems to me to be nonsense—and worse than nonsense—for one brother to deal in Bad Resolutions and the other in Good Resolutions. Why do not they become a Firm and mix the two together?” responded Maude.
“You horrify me! Mix the Good and the Bad together? That would never do. The Best Resolutions in the world would be contaminated if they were all warehoused under one roof. Besides, the Wimble is himself full of Good Resolutions, so that he can mingle with the Bad without suffering any evil, while the Wamble is differently constituted!”
The children did not understand the Zankiwank’s argument a bit—it all seemed so ridiculous. A sudden thought occurred to Willie.
“Who, then, collects the Resolutions?”
“Oh, a person of no Resolution whatever. He commenced life with only one Resolution, and he lost it, or it got mislaid, or he never made use of it, or something equally unfortunate, and so he was christened Want of Resolution, and he does the collecting work very well, considering all things.”
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
Jornumgander 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.”
That never tells a story,
That in the hands of men
Would lead them on to glory.
And you should all be saying,
In fact of all things true
This pen will be bewraying.
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.
And 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.
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 Residences
were to be
LET 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 chem 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.
All 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 skye
Which 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:—
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:—
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.
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.
The Moon began to blink;
And all his faculties were dulled
When he saw the Dog Star wink!
And up on the steeple tall and black
The 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:—
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.
“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
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 tarradiddles? 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—
Time was meant for Slaves.
“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
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 Mande 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 Ralinginginarmik Lusaruminassumik.
“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
“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.”
They both looked round wondering what the Zankiwank meant by his strange perversities, but could not see anyone.
“We can see Nobody,” they said.
“Of course. Here he is!”
Well! Was it a shadow? Something was there without a doubt, and certainly without a body. It was a sort of skeleton, or a ghost, or perhaps a Mahatma! But it was not a Mahatma—it was in fact Nobody, of whom you have of course heard.
“At last, at last!” screamed the delighted Zankiwank, “with your eyes wide open and your faculties unimpaired you see Nobody! And what a memory Nobody has!”
“How can Nobody have a memory? Besides, we can see Nobody!” said Maude, more perplexed than she had ever been.
“Exactly, Nobody has a charming memory. Memory, as you know, is the sense you forget with it!”
“Memory,” corrected Willie, “is the sense, if it is a sense, or impression you remember with.”
“Oh, what dreadful Grammar! Remember with! How can you finish a sentence with a preposition? What do you remember with it?” demanded the Zankiwank reprovingly.
“Anything—everything you want to,” replied Willie.
“Another preposition! Ah, if we could only remember as easily as we forget!”
“You are wandering from the subject,” suggested Maude. “The subject is Nobody, and you have told us nothing about it.”
“H’m,” said the Zankiwank. “You have confessed that you can see Nobody, therefore I will request him to sing you a topical song. Now keep your attention earnestly directed towards Nobody and listen.
Knowing from past experience that the Zankiwank would have his own way, Maude and Willie, having no one else to think about, thought of Nobody, and to their amazement they heard these words sung as from a long way off, in a very hollow tone of voice:—
Nobody’s Nothing to Nobody.
And yet he is something too;
Though No-body’s No-Body it yet is so odd he
Always finds nothing to do!
They say it is the cat;
Though Nobody be long and strong
And very likely fat.
His name is heard from morn till night,
He’s known in ev’ry place;
He does the deeds that are unright,
Though no one sees his face.
Nobody ate the cream;
Nobody smashed that pipe of pa’s,—
It happened in a dream.
Nobody lost Sophia’s doll,
Nobody fired Jim’s gun;
Nobody nearly choked poor Poll—
Nobody saw it done!
Nobody steals the spoons;
Nobody in the kitchen sups,
Or talks of honeymoons!
Nobody courts the parlour-maid,
She told us so herself!
That Nobody, I’m much afraid,
Is quite a tricky elf.
That must be very clear;
Yet Nobody’s a constant dun,
Though no one saw him here.
As Nobody is ever seen
In Anybody’s shape,
Nobody must be epicene
And very like an ape!
For Nobody’s Nothing to Nobody,
And yet he is something too;
Though No-body’s No-Body it yet is so odd he
Always finds nothing to do!
Just as the song was finished, the Zankiwank cried out in alarm—
“There’s Somebody coming.”
And Nobody disappeared at once, for the children saw Nobody go!
“And now,” said the Zankiwank, “we may expect the Griffin from Temple Bar and the Phœnix from Arabia.”
A dark shadow enveloped the square in which they were standing; then there was a weird perfume of damp fireworks and saltpetre, and before any one could say Guy Fawkes, the Phœnix rose from his own funeral pyre of faded frankincense, mildewed myrrh, and similar luxuries, and flapped his wings vigorously, just as the Griffin jumped off his pedestal, which he had brought with him, and piped out—
“Here we are again!”
“Once in a thousand years,” responded the Phœnix somewhat hoarsely, for he had nearly swallowed some of his own ashes.
The Griffin, as everybody knows, is shaped like an eagle from its legs to the shoulder and the head, while the rest of his body is like that of a lion. The Phœnix is also very much like an intelligent eagle, with gold and crimson plumage and an exceptionally waggish tail. It has the advantage of fifty orifices in his bill, through which he occasionally sings melodious songs to oblige the company. As he never appears to anyone more than once in five hundred years, sometimes, when he has the toothache for instance, only once in a thousand years—which is why he is called a rara avis——if you ever meet him at any time take particular notice of him. And if you can draw, if it is only the long bow, make a sketch of him. He lives chiefly on poets—which is why so many refer to him. He has been a good friend to the poets of all ages, as your cousin William will explain. If you have not got a cousin William, ask some one who has.
Not having the gift of speech, neither of them spoke, but they could sing, and this is what they intended to say, duet-wise:—
And I am a Griffin bold;
In Arabia the blest
We feather our own nest,
To keep us from the cold.
Oh, that’s the Griffin straight!
We rise up from the flames,
To play old classic games,
Like a Phœnix up-to-date!
Then they spread out their wings and executed the most diverting feather dance ever seen out of a pantomime.
And I ama Phœnix smart;
From Shakespeare unto Jones—
The Welsh one—who intones,
We have played a striking part.
For we’re so very mystical,
Both off-springs of the brain;
The Mongoose is our pere,
And the Nightmare is our mere,
And we thrive on Fiction Plain!
“But where is the Bletherwitch, and how do you know?” asked Maude, somewhat incredulously.
“She is being arrayed for the marriage cclebration. At present she is in Spain gathering Spanish onions.”
“But Spanish onions don’t come from Spain!”
“You are right. It is pickled walnuts she is gathering from the Boot Tree in the scullery. However, that is of no consequence. Let us be joyful as befits the occasion. Who has got any crackers?”
Before any reply could be given a voice in the air screamed out:—“Beware of the Nargalnannacus!” At which the Zankiwank trembled and the whole place seemed to rock to and fro.
“What is the Nargalnannacus?”
“It’s a noun!”
“How do you mean?”
“A noun is the name of a person, place or thing, I believe?”
“It was yesterday.”
“It is to-day. And that is what the Nargalnannacus is. He, She, or It is a person, place or thing, and it travels about, and that is all I know of it. Nobody has ever seen a Nargalnannacus, and nobody ever will, not a real, proper, authen——”
“Authenticated,” assisted Maude.
“Thank you—authenticated one. Directly they do they turn yellow and green, and are seen no more.”
“What are we to do then?” anxiously enquired Willie.
“The best that offers. We have been expecting an outbreak for a long time, and here comes the Court Physician, Dr Pampleton, to happily confirm my worst suspicions!”
The children thought it extremely odd that having one’s worst suspicions confirmed should make any person happy. But they were accustomed to the Zankiwank’s curious modes of speech and lack of logic, so that they wisely held their tongues in silence. The newcomer was of very remarkable appearance. He was tall and slim like the Zankiwank, but instead of having the ordinary shaped head and face, he carried on his shoulders a sheep’s head, and in his veins (so they heard afterwards) ran sheep’s blood. At one period of his existence he had been well-known for his wool-gathering propensities, and he was now strongly recommended as being able to commit more mistakes and blunders in half-an-hour than a school boy could in a whole school term. He had one great virtue, however, and that was that he would always instantly apologise for any error he might make.
He never travelled without his medicine chest,
“There is danger ahead,” he whispered to the Zankiwank, “and a lot of visitors are coming to fight to the bitter end.”
“Tell me their names,” cried the Zankiwank excitedly, Whereupon, Dr Pampleton recited them as follows, the Zankiwank groaning as each cognomen was uttered:
| “The Wollypog” | (groan) |
| “The Fustilug” | (groan) |
| “What’s-His-Name” | (groan) |
| “Thing’um-a-Bob” | (groan) |
and
“The Woogabblewabble Bogglewoggle and all his Court.”
The last was too much for the Zankiwank, for he immediately climbed to the top of the tallest steeple in the town, saying with much discretion:—
“I will see that all is fair. I will be the judge.”
Maude had only just got time to eat some of the Fern Seeds she had saved from what Robin Goodfellow had given her, and to give some to Willie, when a rushing as of many waters and a roaring as of the bursting of several gasometers were heard, and a noise of some two or three hundred tramping soldiers smote upon their ears, and they knew that something dreadful was going to happen. As the Bogglewoggle and the Wollypog and all the others came upon the scene, both the children recognised them, from what they had once read in a fairy book, as being the monsters of the Secret Cavern.
It was not going to be a battle, as they could see—it was only to be a quiet fight between the important folk of the Secret Cavern and Topsy Turvey Land. The Jorumgander was there, and so was the Jackarandajam and Mr Swinglebinks, and all the others they had been introduced to. The Bogglewoggle was particularly noisy in calling out for the Zankiwank, but as he was engaged to be married, of course he could not risk his life just for the mere whim of a dragon, who was setting everything alight with his torch-like tail.
And then they all commenced to fight—cutting, slashing and crashing each other with double-edged swords, while the inhabitants applauded and the bands played the “Conquering Hero,” although there was not any creature who conquered, that one could distinguish. It was a terrible sight. They never ceased for a minute, but went on cutting each other to pieces until at last they all lay dead upon the ground. No one was left alive to tell the awful news but the Zankiwank and Dr Pampleton. And what was most remarkable about the fight was that it was all done out of pure friendship—but friendship does not seem to be much good when all your friends are scattered about, as these were. Heads and arms and legs everywhere, and there certainly did not appear to be much hope of their ever being able to do any more damage.
The Zankiwank crept cautiously down from his pinnacle and joined Dr Pampleton.
“Our friends are very much cut up,” said Dr Pampleton.
“What is to be done?” the Zankiwank enquired.
“Done? Why, with my special elixir I shall bring them all to life again,” said the Court Physician promptly.
“Will you? Can you?”
“Of course. You get all the bodies and lay them in a line, I’ll gather up the heads and stick ’em on with elastic glue. Then you find the arms and legs and we will soon have them ready for another bout.”
So the Zankiwank sent the rest of the populace, that had been looking on, indoors to get their tea, while he set to work and did as that absurd old Doctor instructed him.
Willie and Maude could scarcely keep their eyes open, but they were so interested in the proceedings that they managed to see that the Court Physician with his usual foresight was sticking the heads on the wrong bodies, and the arms and legs he put on just as they were handed to him, left on
It was the funniest thing they had ever seen—better than any pantomime, for sure enough they all came to life again, and naturally, seeing another person’s arms and legs on their bodies, they imagined themselves to be somebody else entirely. And then ensued the most deafening confusion conceivable, each one accusing the other of having robbed him in his sleep, for they were under the impression that they had been to bed in a strange place—and so they had.
It was the grandest transformation scene ever witnessed. The Zankiwank was in deep distress, but Dr Pampleton was in high glee and laughed immoderately.
“Such a funny mistake to make!” he crowed hysterically to the hopping, hobbling, jumping crowd of monsters and dwarfs, who were glaring at each other in a very savage manner.
“I beg your pardon—my fault—all lie down again, and I will cut you up once more and put you together correctly this time,” said the Court Physician pleasantly.
“So!” they all bellowed in chorus, “it is you who have done all this mischief. Come on! We will soon rectify your blunder,” and with a swish and a swirl they made one simultaneous movement towards the unfortunate Pampleton, and once again Pandemonium was let loose, when high above the din the voice of the Zankiwank was heard calling upon them to have patience and not to disturb the harmony, as the Bletherwitch had arrived at last. Meanwhile everybody rushed madly down the street after the Court Physician.
But the children could see nothing now. Everything was growing dim and dimmer, and the scene was fading, fading away into a blue light. And the last they heard was the Zankiwank speaking tenderly to the Bletherwitch, whom they were not destined to see after all, and saying:—
“Oh, my sweet Blethery, Blethery Bletherwitch! What a Bletherwitching little thing you are!”
Then there was a rumbling and a tumbling, and something stopped suddenly. A light was flashed before their eyes, and hey presto! there was John opening the carriage door for them to get out, and wonder of wonders, there were their dear mother and father standing in the hall of their own home
This, however, they stoutly denied. They knew better than that, and told their parents of all their adventures, which, as they declared, if they were not true they ought to be, and so they said goodnight and dreamt their dreams, if they were dreams, all over again.
THE END.
TURNBULL & SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.