audience gazed fascinated, and instead of closing eyes as he squeaked, they hardly dared wink for fear they might miss some of that raisin country.
“Where is he now?” one and another whispered as he paused and twirled, crying:
“There! There is the very spot where many of my cousins live, and because they live there instead of in California they are much sweeter.”
“Tell us why, tell us why,” clamoured the audience.
“For a very good reason. We are picked in bunches and dried in an oven in sugar. They are dried in the sun, and are called sun raisins. Their leaves are taken off, and a jolly time they have in the sunshine and fresh air. A much better way than to be shut in an oven in the dark.
“However, we have to make the best of it; the cool nights and heavy dews would ruin us if we stayed out, so we just cuddle up in the nice warm dark, and look forward to the moment when the big oven door will fly open, then we know something nice is to happen, for America sends millions of pounds of raisins to other countries, and we just love to go.
“The sun raisins are the kind used for Christmas goodies, and are packed between layers of paper in large wooden boxes.
“Other places they come from are here, and here, and here, and here.”
As he spoke, he twirled over various parts of the globe, touching Persia, Greece, Italy, and Southern France.
“It is quite grand to be a sun raisin and come in a box looking so large and delicious, and to know you are the finest of your kind, but I’d just about as soon be a pudding raisin, when the Cook comes in and says:
“ ‘Dear suz me, Missus, we can’t have pudding to-day!’
“Then all the children set up a dismal wail and Missus says, ‘Why not, I’d like to know!’
“ ‘Because we are just out of pudding raisins,’ but she adds cheerfully, ‘We have the layer kind. Could we use those?’
“ ‘Certainly not,’ says the Missus, with her head up like this and her mouth turned down like this. ‘They cost too much. We’ll have to have something else.’
“Then at dinner the Mister cries, ‘Why didn’t we have pudding to-day; we always have it on Tuesday!’
“ ‘Cause no pudding raisins in the house,’ cry the children, sniffing again.
“Behold, the Story Sprite!”
“ ‘Send for a barrel of them,’ orders the Mister. ‘When that gives out, get another at once. When I have my mouth made up for pudding on Tuesdays I don’t want to be disappointed.’
“Wouldn’t that make a cute little pudding raisin hug herself?
“Another kind of raisin grows here in Smyrna; they are the small seedless kind.”
“The Corinthian raisin currant—”
“Boo! hoo! hoo!” interrupted somebody, apparently much grieved.
“Who’s crying like that?” asked the Raisin Doll.
“I am,” came in sobbing tones.
“Why?” asked everybody, standing on tip toe to see the weeping one.
“He’s telling my story. There isn’t much to tell about me, and if he tells it, I can’t; then I won’t get a gift!”
“To be sure you won’t!” said the tall Stick Doll. “Mr. Raisin, are you going to tell everybody’s story, may I ask?”
“Why, no,” said the Raisin Doll, a bit fussed over the uproar; “I forgot that one of my cousins was present.
TALE OF THE CURRANT DOLL
“Allow me to introduce to you the light-hearted, joyous-natured Corinthian raisin Currant.”
The light-hearted, joyous-natured Currant Doll wiped his tears away as he bowed and wailed:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am, though maybe I don’t look it.”
“Am what?” queried the audience sympathetically.
“Am what he said—light hearted and gay—and though my story is short I am just as important as any of you. What good would a bun be without currants? Just tell me that!” he cried in tragic tones, striking such a funny attitude even Mother stifled a giggle.
“I came from a beautiful vine that grows in the lowlands of Zante of the Ionian Islands belonging to Greece. I’ll show you the very spot.”
Here the audience was much surprised to see the light-hearted creature turn a somersault down the slippery side of the globe and land in a nest of small dots.
“These are islands,” he announced, “and here the vines are planted in neat little rows three feet apart. Our grapes are like berries no larger than a pea, and grow in clusters about three inches long.
“When about three years old the vine produces bunches of three kinds; red, black, and white grapes without seeds. We play hide and seek under the large leaves which protect us from the strong winds and hot sun.
“When we have grown as large as we can we are picked, dried, packed, and sent many miles away. That’s all.”
And he sat down so hard he bounced up again like a rubber ball.
“Three cheers for the Currant!” cried the Stick Doll. “He seems to have grown up under the figure three, and that brings good luck.
“Now, who wants to tell next?”
Nobody moved, and the Stick Doll cried:
“We’ll decide it by playing Ring around a Rosy. The last one down will be it. Come, hold hands, circle, and sing.”
TALE OF THE CLOVE DOLL
Round and round they went, singing to an accompaniment of rollicking laughter, and at the words: “Hush, hush, hush, we all fall down,” they fell in a heap, the Clove Doll being the last to fall.
“Allow me,” cried the Stick Doll, as he gallantly set Miss Clove on her feet.
“We will now have the pleasure of listening to this spicy creature. She surely has a fine story to tell.”
Miss Clove had been slyly studying the dictionary, and longed to impress the audience with the wonderful story of her life. She smoothed her crimson sash, perked the butterfly bow on her hair till it seemed almost ready to fly away, and with cheeks as red as her ribbons began timidly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I am an undeveloped bud—”
“Ha! Ha!” cried one, who looked much like a vinegar cruet. “That is a joke!”
“Why?” demanded the Stick Doll.
“She said undeveloped.”
“So she did, what of it? You may tell us what the word means.”
The sour-looking one, much confused, stalked away as he murmured under his breath,
“We aren’t to learn anything here, I thought.”
“No, but if you knew the meaning of it, you would answer very promptly, so the joke is on you. The speaker can, of course, tell us.”
The Clove Doll’s cheeks flushed