IV. A Call From the Unwiseman.In which Mollie's call is returned.
Mollie]
"Should any queen read these lines, the author hopes shewill see that her daughter is brought up to look after householdaffairs."]
had been very busy setting things to rights in Cinderella's house oneautumn afternoon not long after her visit to the Unwiseman. Cinderellawas a careless Princess, who allowed her palace to get into a veryuntidy condition every two or three weeks. Bric-a-brac would be strewnhere and there about the floor; clocks would be found standing upsidedown in the fire-places; andirons and shoe buttons would litter up thehalls and obstruct the stairways--in short, all things would gettopsy-turvy within the doors of the Princess' house, and all becausePrincesses are never taught house-keeping. Should any King or Queen readthese lines, the author hopes that his or her Majesty will take the hintand see to it that his or her daughters are properly brought up andtaught to look after household affairs, for if they do not, mostassuredly the time may come when the most magnificent palace in theworld will be allowed to go to ruin through mere lack of attention.
It was a long and hard task for the little mistress of the nursery, butshe finally accomplished it; apple-pie order once more ruled in thepalace, the Princess' diamonds had been swept up from the floor, andstored away in the bureau drawers, and Mollie was taking a well-earnedrest in her rocking-chair over by the window. As she gazed out upon thehighway upon which the window fronted, she saw in the dim light astrange shadow passing down the walk, and in a minute the frontdoor-bell rang. Supposing it to be no one but the boy with the eveningpaper, Mollie did not stir as she would have done if it had been herpapa returning home. The paper boy possessed very little interest toher--indeed, I may go so far as to say that Mollie despised the paperboy, not because he was a paper boy, but because he was rude, and had,upon several occasions recently made faces at her and told her shedidn't know anything because she was a girl, and other mean things likethat; as if being a girl kept one from finding out useful and importantthings. So, as I have said, she sat still and gazed thoughtfully out ofthe window.
Her thoughts were interrupted in a moment, however, by a mostextraordinary proceeding at the nursery door. It suddenly flew open witha bang, and Whistlebinkie came tumbling in head over heels, holding thesilver card-receiver in his hand, and whistling like mad fromexcitement.
"Cardfew," he tooted through the top of his hat. "Nwiseman downstairs."
"What are you trying to say, Whistlebinkie?" asked Mollie, severely.
"Here is a card for you," said Whistlebinkie, standing up and holdingout the salver upon which lay, as he had hinted, a card. "The gentlemanis below."
Mollie picked up the card, which read this way:
Mr. ME.
My House.
"What on earth does it mean?" cried Mollie, with a smile, the cardseemed so droll.
"It is the Unwiseman's card. He has called on you, and is downstairs inthe parlor--and dear me, how funny he does look," roared Whistlebinkiebreathlessly. "He's got on a beaver hat, a black evening coat like yourpapa wears to the theatre or to dinners, a pair of goloshes, and whitetennis trousers. Besides that he's got an umbrella with him, and he'ssitting in the parlor with it up over his head."
Whistlebinkie threw himself down on the floor in a spasm of laughter ashe thought of the Unwiseman's appearance. Mollie meanwhile was studyingthe visitor's card.
"What does he mean by 'My House'?" she asked.
"That's his address, I suppose," said Whistlebinkie. "But what shall Itell him? Are you in?"
"Of course I'm in," Mollie replied, and before Whistlebinkie could getupon his feet again she had flown out of the room, down the stairs tothe parlor, where, sure enough, as Whistlebinkie had said, the Unwisemansat, his umbrella raised above his head, looking too prim and absurd foranything.
"How do you do, Miss Whistlebinkie?" he said, gravely, as Mollie enteredthe room. "I believe that is the correct thing to say when you arecalling, though for my part I can't see why. People do so many thingsthat there's a different way to do almost all of them. If I said, 'howdo you do your sums?' of course there could be a definite answer. 'I dothem by adding, or by substracting.' If any one calling on me shouldsay, 'how do you do?' I'd say, 'excuse me, but how do I do what?'However, I wish to be ruled by etiquette, and as I understand that isthe proper question to begin with, I will say again, 'how do you do,Miss Whistlebinkie?' According to my etiquette book it is your turn toreply, and what you ought to say is, 'I'm very well, I thank you, howare you?' I'm very well."
"I'm delighted to hear it, Mr. Me," returned Mollie, glad of the chanceto say something. "I have thought a great deal about you lately."
"So have I," said the Unwiseman. "I've been thinking about myself allday. I like to think about pleasant things. I've been intending toreturn your call for a long time, but really I didn't know exactly howto do it. You see, some things are harder to return than other things.If I borrowed a book from you, and wanted to return it, I'd know how ina minute. I'd just take the book, wrap it up in a piece of brown paper,and send it back by mail or messenger--or both, in case it happened tobe a male messenger. Same way with a pair of andirons. Just return 'emby sending 'em back--but calls are different, and that's what I've cometo see you about. I don't know how to return that call."
"But this is the return of the call," said Mollie.
"I don't see how," said the Unwiseman, with a puzzled look on his face."This isn't the same call at all. The call you made at my house wasanother one. This arrangement is about the same as it would be in thecase of my borrowing a book on Asparagus from you, and returning a bookon Sweet Potatoes to you. That wouldn't be a return of your book. Itwould be returning _my_ book. Don't you see? Now, I want to be politeand return your call, but I can't. I can't find it. It's come and gone.I almost wish you hadn't called, it's puzzled me so. Finally, I made upmy mind to come here, and apologize to you for not returning it. That'sall I can do."
"Don't mention it," said Mollie.
"Oh, but I must! How could I apologize without mentioning it?" said theUnwiseman, hastily. "You wouldn't know what I was apologizing for if Ididn't mention it. How have you been?"
"Quite well," said Mollie. "I've been very busy this fall getting mydolls' dresses made and setting everything to rights. Won'tyou--ah--won't you put down your umbrella, Mr. Me?"
"No, thank you," said the unwiseman, with an anxious peepat the ceiling.]
"No, thank you," said the Unwiseman, with an anxious peep at theceiling. "I am very timid about other people's houses, MissWhistlebinkie. I have been told that sometimes houses fall down withoutany provocation, and while I don't doubt that your house is well builtand all that, some nail somewhere might give way and the whole thingmight come down. As long as I have the umbrella over my head I am safe,but without it the ceiling, in case the house did fall, would be likelyto spoil my hat. This is a pretty parlor you have. They call it whiteand gold, I believe."
"Yes," said Mollie. "Mamma is very fond of parlors of that kind."
"So am I," said the Unwiseman. "I have one in my own house."
"Indeed?" said Mollie. "I didn't see it."
"I don't like to get angry."]
"You were in it, only you didn't know it," observed the Unwiseman. "Itwas that room with the walls painted brown. I was afraid the white andgold walls would get spotted if I didn't do something to protect them,so I had a coat of brown paint put over the whole room. Good idea that,I think, and all mine, too. I'd get it patented, if I wasn't afraidsomebody would make an improvement on it, and get all the money thatbelonged to me, which would make me very angry. I don't like to getangry, because when I do I always break something valuable, and I findthat when I break anything valuable I get angrier than ever, and goahead and break something else. If I got angry once I never could stopuntil I'd broken all the valuable things in the world, and when theywere all gone where would I be?"
"But it seems to me," said Mollie, as she
puzzled over the Unwiseman'sidea, of which he seemed unduly proud, "it seems to me that if you covera white and gold parlor with a coat of brown paint, it doesn't stay awhite and gold parlor. It becomes a brown parlor."
"Not at all," returned the Unwiseman. "How do you make that out? Put itthis way: You, for instance, are a white girl, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Mollie.
"That is, they call you white, though really you are a pink girl.However, for the sake of the argument, you are white."
"Certainly," said Mollie, anxious to be instructed.
"And you wear clothes to protect you."
"I do."
"Now if you wore a brown dress, would you cease to be a white girl andbecome a nigrio?"
"A what?" cried Mollie.
"A nigrio--a little brown darky girl," said the Unwiseman.
"No," said Mollie. "I'd still be a white or pink girl, whatever color Iwas before."
"Well--that's the way with my white and gold parlor. It's white andgold, and I give it a brown dress for protection. That's all there isto it. I see you keep your vases on the mantel-piece. Queer notion that.Rather dangerous, I should think."
Mollie laughed.
"Dangerous?" she cried. "Why not at all. They're safe enough, and themantel-piece is the place for them, isn't it? Where do you keep yours?"
"I don't have any. I don't believe in 'em," replied the Unwiseman. "Theyaren't any good."
"They're splendid," said Mollie. "They're just the things to keepflowers in."
"What nonsense," said the Unwiseman, with a sneer. "The place to keepflowers is in a garden. You might just as well have a glass trunk inyour parlor to hold your clothes in; or a big china bin to hold oats orgrass in. It's queer how you people who know things do things. Butanyhow, if I did have vases I wouldn't put 'em on mantel-pieces, but onthe floor. If they are on the floor they can't fall off and break unlessyour house turns upside down."
"They might get stepped on," said Mollie.
"I'm fond of the wet."]
"Poh!" snapped the Unwiseman. "Don't you wise people look where youstep? I do, and they say I don't know enough to go in when it rains,which is not true. I know more than enough to go in when it rains. Istay out when it rains because I like to. I'm fond of the wet. It keepsme from drying up, and makes my clothes fit me. Why, if I hadn't stayedout in the rain every time I had a chance last summer my flannel suitnever would have fitted me. It was eight sizes too big, and it tooksixteen drenching storms to make it shrink small enough to be justright. Most men--wise men they call themselves--would have spent moneyhaving them misfitted again by a tailor, but I don't spend my money onthings I can get done for nothing. That's the reason I don't payanything out to beggars. I can get all the begging I want done on myplace without having to pay a cent for it, and yet I know lots and lotsof people who are all the time spending money on beggars."
"There is a great deal in what you say," said Mollie.
"There generally is," returned the Unwiseman. "I do a great deal ofthinking, and I don't say anything without having thought it all outbeforehand. That's why I'm so glad you were at home to-day. I mapped outall my conversation before I came. In fact, I wrote it all down, andthen learned it by heart. It would have been very unpleasant if afterdoing all that, taking all that trouble, I should have found you out.It's very disappointing to learn a conversation, and then not converseit."
"I should think so," said Mollie. "What do you do on such occasions?Keep it until the next call?"
"No. Sometimes I tell it to the maid, and ask her to tell it to theperson who is out. Sometimes I say it to the front door, and let theperson it was intended for find it out for herself as best she can, butmost generally I send it to 'em by mail."
Here the Unwiseman paused for a minute, cocking his head on one side asif to think.
"Excuse me," he said. "But I've forgotten what I was to say next. I'llhave to consult my memorandum-book. Hold my umbrella a minute--over myhead please. Thank you."
Then as Mollie did as the queer creature wished, he fumbled in hispockets for a minute and shortly extracting his memorandum-book from amass of other stuff, he consulted its pages.
"Oh, yes!" he said, with a smile of happiness. "Yes, I've got it now. Atthis point you were to ask me if I wouldn't like a glass of lemonade,and I was to say yes, and then you were to invite me up-stairs to seeyour play room. There's some talk scattered in during the lemonade, but,of course, I can't go on until you've done your part."
He gazed anxiously at Mollie for a moment, and the little maid, takingthe hint, smilingly said:
"Ah! won't you have a little refreshment, Mr. Me? A glass of lemonade,for instance?"
"Why--ah--certainly, Miss Whistlebinkie. Since you press me, I--ah--Idon't care if I do."
And the caller and his hostess passed, laughing heartily, out of thewhite and gold parlor into the pantry.