TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.)
FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this afternoon.
[The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and takes the floor.]
TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and ladies of the road, comrades all,--I have the honour to make an announcement to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is determined from this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would say, dissolved. "What means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say. "Who has done this thing?" Ladies and gentles all, I answer you that young Cupid has done this thing. With unerring aim he has loosed his arrows. With the same happy arrow (taking the MOTHER'S hand) he has pierced the hearts of this gracious lady and myself, while yonder gallant gentleman I name no names, but the perspicacious will perceive whom I mean--is about to link his life with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side. There is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred--
FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go. Good-bye, and thank you.
MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.
TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish of (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should take up her abode with us.
FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--
DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she promised.
MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be much more suitable that she should live with _us_.
SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see you whenever she liked.
MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and come and see _you_ sometimes.
TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to this? For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year, she shall live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her habitation with us; whereas for the other six months--(They have been so busy discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have not noticed that she is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the fiddle is heard.) What's that?
[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in it. She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content again. She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them a little bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She goes out of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she goes past the windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she is gone they still listen until the music dies in the distance.]
HAPPY DAYS
BY A. A. MILNE
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
FOREWORD
This book is made up from my contributions to _Punch_--a casual selection from the four hundred or so which have appeared in the last nine years. It is offered to the American public as a sample of that _Punch_ humour (and perhaps, therefore, British humour) which Americans so often profess not to understand. According to whether they like it or do not like it, I hope they will consider it a representative or an unrepresentative sample.
A. A. M.
MARGERY
I. HER SOCK
I
When Margery was three months old I wrote a letter to her mother:
_Dear Madam_,--If you have a copy in Class D at 1/10d. net, I shall be glad to hear from you.
I am, ~The Baby's Uncle~.
On Tuesday I got an answer by the morning post:
_Dear Sir_,--In reply to yours: How dare you insult my child? She is in Class A1, priceless and bought in by the owner. Four months old (and two days) on Christmas Day. Fancy!
I am, ~The Baby's Mother~.
Margery had been getting into an expensive way of celebrating her birthday every week. Hitherto I had ignored it. But now I wrote:
_Dear Madam_,--Automatically your baby should be in Class D by now. I cannot understand why it is not so. Perhaps I shall hear from you later on with regard to this. Meanwhile I think that the extraordinary coincidence (all but two days) of the baby's birthday with Christmas Day calls for some recognition on my part. What would Margery like? You, who are in constant communication with her, should be able to tell me. I hear coral necklaces well spoken of. What do you think? I remember reading once of a robber who "killed a little baby for the coral on its neck"--which shows at any rate that they are worn. Do you know how coral reefs are made? It is a most fascinating business.
Then there is a silver mug to be considered. The only thing you can drink out of a mug is beer; yet it is a popular present. Perhaps you, with your (supposed) greater knowledge of babies, will explain this.
Meanwhile, I am, ~The Baby's Uncle~.
P. S.--Which is a much finer thing than a mother.
To which her mother:
_My Dear Boy_,--It is too sweet of you to say you would like to get Baby something. No, I don't know how coral reefs are made, and don't want to. I think it is wicked of you to talk like that; I'm sure I shan't dare let her wear anything valuable now. And I don't think she really wants a mug.
I'm sure I don't know what she does want, except to see her uncle (There!) but it ought to be something that she'll value when she grows up. And of course we could keep it for her in the meantime.
Her Father has smoked his last cigar to-day. Isn't it awful? I have forbidden him to waste his money on any more, but he says he must give me 500 for a Christmas present. If he does, I shall give him that sideboard that I want so badly, and then we shall both go to prison together. You will look after Baby, won't you?
I am, ~The Baby's Mother.~
P. S.--Which she isn't proud, but does think it's a little bit classier than an uncle.
And so finally, I:
_Dear Child_,--I've thought of the very thing.
I am, ~The Baby's Uncle.~
That ends Chapter I. Here we go on to
II
Chapter II finds me in the Toy Department of the Stores. "I want," I said, "a present for a child."
"Yes, sir. About how old?"
"It must be quite new," I said sternly. "Don't be silly. Oh, I see; well, the child is only a baby."
"Ah, yes. Now here--if it's at all fond of animals----"
"I say, you mustn't call it 'IT.' I get in an awful row if I do. Of course, I suppose it's all right for you, only--well, be careful, won't you?"
The attendant promised, and asked whether the child was a boy or girl.
"And had you thought of anything for the little girl?"
"Well, yes. I had rather thought of a sideboard."