The minor demon was a wistful, sentimental creature, to be sure, but still he could be quick when he had to be. So, although he trembled, he thought for an instant and said, “It’s harvest time. I’m harvesting my thorns.”
“Thorns, my grandmother,” said the Devil. “That’s a rosebush.”
“Oh no, sir,” said the minor demon. “Excuse me, but this is a thorn bush. Why, just see for yourself. It’s got many more thorns than blossoms. I planted it especially, and I’m giving all the thorns to you when the crop is in.”
“Indeed!” said the Devil. “Well, the fact is, that white thing you’re holding there happens to be a rose.”
“Dear me!” said the minor demon. “Is it really? Isn’t that a shame! And the thorns were so ideal.”
The Devil knew perfectly well that the minor demon knew the bush was a rosebush. And what’s more, the minor demon knew the Devil knew he knew it. But still, the idea of a crop of thorns was appealing to the Devil, for thorns were useful in a number of ways. So at last he merely shrugged and said, “Very well. You can be my first and only thorn farmer if you want to. But pull up that terrible rosebush at once and plant a nice big cactus instead. Oh, and while you’re at it, take a can of black enamel and give that porcelain vase a good thick coat. There’ll be no roses of any kind in Hell as long as I’m around.”
So the minor demon had to pull up the rosebush and throw it away and plant a cactus behind the hemlock, and this made him very sad. And it made him even sadder to paint the porcelain vase. Still, he knew he was lucky to get off with so small a punishment, so he tended his garden without another murmur and harvested many a bumper crop of thorns.
He kept on guarding the treasure room as well, though it gave him no pleasure to look at the porcelain vase now that it was painted black. And then one day long after, the Devil came in for some reason or other, and when he saw the vase, he said, “What’s that ugly thing doing in here? Take it out and throw it away.” For he had forgotten all about the roses.
Well, the minor demon did as the Devil asked. He took the porcelain vase out and dropped it on the trash pile. But when it landed, it broke into a great many pieces and some of the black enamel chipped off. And there, on one of the fragments where the paint had come away, a rose was clearly visible, looking white and silky as a baby’s fist.
Then the minor demon took the fragment and filed down its sharp and jagged edges, and carried it home to keep under his pillow forever and ever. And in this way he had a treasure of his own, which made Hell a little nicer place for him to be even if he didn’t belong there, since Heaven knows there was nowhere else for him to go. The painted rose wasn’t as good as the real thing, of course, but still it was better than nothing. And knowing it was there under his pillow made the minor demon happy in a small and secret way that no one ever knew about but him.
THE POWER OF SPEECH
A LOT of people believe that once a day every goat in the World has to go down to Hell to have his beard combed by the Devil, but this is obvious nonsense. The Devil doesn’t have time to comb the beards of all the goats in the World even if he wanted to, which of course he doesn’t. Who would? There are far too many goats in the first place, and in the second place their beards are nearly all in terrible condition, full of snarls, burrs, and dandelion juice.
Nevertheless, whether he wants to comb their beards or not, the Devil is as fond of goats as he is of anything, and always has one or another somewhere about, kept on as a sort of pet. He treats them pretty well too, considering, and the goats give back as good or as bad as they get, which is one reason why the Devil likes them so much, for goats are one hundred percent unsentimental.
Now, there was a goat in the World once that the Devil had had his eye on for some time, a great big goat with curving horns and a prize from every fair for miles around. “I want that goat,” said the Devil to himself, “and I mean to have him even if he has to be dragged down here by his beard.” But that was a needless thing to say, and the Devil knew it, for animals, and especially goats, are nothing at all like people when it comes to right and wrong. Animals don’t see much to choose between the two. So, Heaven or Hell, it’s all one to them, especially goats. All the Devil had to do was go up there, to the cottage that the goat called home, and lead him away.
The only trouble was that the old woman who owned the goat was no dummy. She knew how much the Devil liked goats and she also knew how much he hated bells. So she kept the goat—whose name was Walpurgis—tied up to a tree in her yard and she fastened a little bell around his neck with a length of ribbon. Walpurgis hated bells almost as much as the Devil did; but there was no way he could say so and nothing he could do about his own bell except to stand very still in order to keep it from jangling. This led some passers-by to conclude that he was only a stuffed goat put there for show and not a real goat at all. So many people came up to the old woman’s door to ask about it that at last she put up a sign which said: THIS IS A REAL GOAT. And after that she got a little peace and quiet. Not that any of it mattered to Walpurgis, who didn’t give a hoot for what anybody thought one way or another.
The Devil didn’t care what anybody thought either. But he still wanted the goat. He turned the whole problem of the bell over in his mind, considering this solution and that, and at last, hoping something would occur to him, he went up out of Hell to the old woman’s door to have a little talk with her. “See here,” he said as soon as she answered his knock. “I mean to have your goat.”
The old woman looked him up and down, and wasn’t in the least dismayed. “Go ahead and take him,” she said. “If you can do that, he’s yours.”
The Devil glanced across the yard to where Walpurgis stood tied up to the tree. “If I try to untie him, that bell will ring, and I can’t stand bells,” he said with a shudder.
“I know,” said the old woman, looking satisfied.
The Devil swallowed his annoyance and tried a more familiar tack. “I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, “if you’ll go over there and take away that wretched bell. I’ll even make you Queen of the World.”
The old woman cackled. “I’ve got my cottage, my goat, and everything I need,” she said. “Why should I want to buy trouble? There’s nothing you can do for me.”
The Devil ground his teeth. “It takes a mean mind to put a bell on a goat,” he snapped. “If he were my goat, I’d never do that. I’ll bet a bucket of brimstone he hates that bell.”
“Save your brimstone,” said the old woman. “He’s only a goat. It doesn’t matter to him.”
“He’d tell you, though, if he could talk,” said the Devil.
“May be,” said the old woman. “I’ve often wished he could talk, if it comes to that. But until he can, I’ll keep him any way I want to. So goodbye.” And she slammed the door between them.
This gave the Devil the very idea he was looking for. He hurried down to Hell and was back in a minute with a little cake into which he had mixed the power of speech, and he tossed it to Walpurgis. The goat chewed it up at once and swallowed it and then the Devil changed himself into a field mouse and hid in the grass to see what would happen.
After a while Walpurgis shook himself, which made the bell jangle, and at that he opened his mouth and said a very bad word. An expression of great surprise came over his face when he heard himself speak, and his eyes opened wide. Then they narrowed again and he tried a few more bad words, all of which came out clear and unmistakable. Then, as much as goats can ever smile, Walpurgis smiled. He moved as far from the tree as the rope would allow, and called out in a rude voice: “Hey there, you in the cottage!”
The old woman came to the door and put her head out. “Who’s there?” she asked suspiciously, peering about.
“It’s me! Walpurgis!” said the goat. “Come out here and take away this bell.”
“You can talk, then!” observed the old woman.
“I can,” said Walpurgis. “And I want this bell off. Now. And be q
uick about it.”
The old woman stared at the goat and then she folded her arms. “I had no idea you’d be this kind of goat,” she said.
“To the Devil with that,” said Walpurgis carelessly. “What’s the difference? It’s this bell I’m talking about. Come over here and take it off.”
“I can’t,” said the old woman. “If I do, the Devil will steal you away for sure.”
“If you don’t,” said the goat, “I’ll yell and raise a ruckus.”
“Yell away,” said the old woman. “I’ve got no choice in the matter that I can see.” And she went back inside the cottage and shut the door.
So Walpurgis began to yell. He yelled all the bad words he knew and he yelled them loud and clear, and he yelled them over and over till the countryside rang with them, and before long the old woman came out of her cottage with her fingers in her ears. “Stop that!” she shouted at the goat.
Walpurgis stopped yelling. “Do something, then,” he said.
“All right, I will!” said the old woman. “And serve you both right. If I’d known what kind of a goat you were, I’d have done it in the first place. The Devil deserves a goat like you.” She took away the bell and set Walpurgis free and right away the Devil leaped up from the grass and took the goat straight back to Hell.
Now the funny thing about the power of speech is that the Devil could give it away but he couldn’t take it back. For a while it was amusing to have a talking goat in Hell, but not for very long, because Walpurgis complained a lot. He’d always been dissatisfied but being able to say so made all the difference. The air was too hot, he said, or the food was too dry, or there was just plain nothing to do but stand around. “I might as well be wearing a bell again, for all the moving about I do in this place,” said Walpurgis.
“Don’t mention bells!” said the Devil.
This gave Walpurgis the very idea he was looking for. He began to yell all the bell-ringing words he knew. He yelled them loud and clear—clang, ding, jingle, bong—and he yelled them over and over till Hell rang with them.
At last the Devil rose up with his fingers in his ears. “Stop that!” he shouted at the goat.
Walpurgis stopped yelling. “Do something, then,” he said.
“All right, I will!” said the Devil. And with that he changed Walpurgis into a stuffed goat and took him back up to the old woman’s cottage and left him there in the yard, tied up to the tree.
When the old woman saw that the goat was back, she hurried out to see how he was. And when she saw how he was, she said to herself, “Well, that’s what comes of talking too much.” But she put the bell around his neck and kept him standing there anyway, and since the sign was still there too, and still said THIS IS A REAL GOAT, nobody ever knew the difference. And everyone, except Walpurgis, was satisfied.
The Devil’s Other Storybook
THE FORTUNES OF MADAME ORGANZA
THERE WAS a fortuneteller once who wasn’t much good at her work. No matter who came to her door to get a fortune told, she could never think of any but the same old three : “You will meet a tall, dark stranger”; “You will take a long journey”; and “You will find a pot of gold.” She went through the usual rigmarole, with a crystal ball and chanting, all in a gloomy little parlor lit with one candle, and she even wore a turban with a big glass jewel glued to it, right on the front where it showed. But of course, though this was very nice, the fortunes themselves were what mattered, and since none of them ever came true, it wasn’t long before no one came to her door at all and she was forced to take in washing to keep herself going. But she kept the sign on her door saying FORTUNES BY MADAME ORGANZA—though her name in fact was Bessie—just in case.
Now, it happened that one dark night a couple of burglars eased through the village with a satchel of money stolen somewhere else, and they hid themselves in a barn, where in the morning they were discovered snoring away by the farmer; and he ran them off with a pitchfork so all-of-a-sudden that they had to leave the loot behind, buried in the haymow, and didn’t dare go back.
Later the same morning, the farmer hired a milkmaid, who, being new to the place and no one thinking to warn her, went off with her first day’s wages to get her fortune told. Madame Organza put on the turban, lit the candle, muttered and hummed for a while, and then said, “You will find a pot of gold.”
“Goody!” said the milkmaid. And, tripping home, she climbed the ladder to the haymow to have a little peace and quiet for planning what she’d do when she was rich. And of course she sat down on the burglars’ satchel and pulled it out and opened it, and there was her gold, great handfuls of glittering coins, just as her fortune had predicted.
“Well! Goody again!” said the milkmaid. She closed up the satchel, climbed back down the ladder, and went to find the farmer. “Please,” she said, “does this belong to you?”
“No,” said the farmer, “it doesn’t.”
“Goody three!” said the milkmaid. “It’s mine, then, and just what Madame Organza said I’d find.” And she let the farmer peek inside at the gold. Then she went away to the city to begin a new life, and was never heard from again, though the farmer thought he saw her there, some time later, rolling by in a carriage, with plumes on her hat and a little white dog in her lap.
But in the meantime her story spread all over the village, and such a noise was made that down in Hell the Devil pricked up his ears and said, “What’s that hullabaloo?” And when he found out what had happened, he smiled a big smile and straightaway went up to the World to see what he could do to cause a little extra trouble and confusion, for he’d guessed that Madame Organza’s business would be taking a turn for the better.
This was indeed the case. The line of people waiting to get their fortunes told stretched clear to the river and halfway back, with everyone so excited that everything else was forgotten. Cows were left unmilked, pigs un-slopped, and bread sat so long in ovens that it burnt away to cinders. And Madame Organza, believing, herself, that she’d somehow got the knack of it at last, was telling fortunes at a great rate, though the fortunes were only the same old three from before.
During the days that followed, thanks to the Devil’s interference, the village changed completely. Twenty-two people found pots of gold and went to live in the city, which they soon found dismal to the utmost but were too proud to say so. Another thirty-seven went off on long journeys, ending up in such spots as Borneo and Peru with no way at all to get back, and so they were forced, for a living, to chop bamboo or to keep herds of Ilamas in the Andes.
All the rest had met with tall, dark strangers who hung about, getting in the way, and looking altogether so alarming in their black hats and cloaks and their long black beards that the villagers remaining were afraid to stay and hurried to move in with relatives in other villages, which caused no end of bad feeling.
At last there was no one left but Madame Organza and the strangers, and since the strangers had the orphaned cows and pigs to care for and didn’t want their fortunes told, Madame Organza put away her sign forever and went back full-time to being Bessie. She took in the strangers’ washing, all of which was black, and made the best of it she could without complaining. And she put her crystal ball in the garden, where it showed to great advantage, out among the pansies, whenever the sun was shining.
JUSTICE
THERE ARE few surprises in Hell. At least, the Devil has seldom been surprised—except for the time when someone spotted a rhinoceros.
“Absurd,” said the Devil.
“I know it,” said the major demon who’d brought in the news. “Nevertheless, I went and looked myself, and it’s out there all right, large as life, with a hole right through its horn. It’s out there shuffling and snuffling and breathing hard, and I’d say it looks impatient.”
“I wonder what it wants,” said the Devil. “Well, never mind. Perhaps it will go away.”
Now, on this very day a man named Bangs arrived unexpectedly in Hell. Bangs was a mighty
hunter who in life had crept about the wild parts of the World, shooting off his gun and making possible a steady stream of elephant’s-foot umbrella stands and rabbit-fur muffs and reindeer-antler coatracks and other lovely, useful things, till on the day in question he backed by accident into a boa constrictor. And the boa constrictor, seizing both the opportunity and Bangs himself, constricted the hunter so hard that, before he knew it, he found himself at the gates of Hell, out of breath and very much surprised.
“This is a piece of luck!” said the Devil when Bangs was sent in to see him. “As it happens, you’re the very type we need. We’ve got a rhinoceros loose, and we can’t have it snorting about, upsetting people. Go out and catch it. Then we’ll pen it up and charge admission.”
“Well now,” said Bangs, who’d recovered his breath and his swagger, “I don’t put much store in bringing ’em back alive.”
“Bangs, Bangs,” said the Devil. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Guns are no earthly use down here. You’ll have to do the job with a net. But be careful. This rhinoceros has a hole right through its horn and I’m told it looks impatient.”
“A hole right through its horn?” said Bangs, turning pale.
“That’s the situation,” said the Devil.
“Dear me,” said Bangs. “I may be the one who made that hole.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” said the Devil. “Now, run along and do what you’re told.”
So Bangs had to take a big rope net and creep out into the wild parts of Hell to look for the rhinoceros, and it goes without saying that, without his gun, he was very much afraid he would find it. He looked all the rest of the day and never saw a thing, but he could hear the shuffling and the snuffling and the breathing hard, always just out of sight. At sundown, however, he was setting up his tent when out through the bushes burst the rhinoceros, like a bus downhill with no brakes, and it chased Bangs all night long, up and down the wild parts till daybreak. And then it disappeared.