"And who is your master?" asked the traveller.

"He is a little old man," replied the cook; "and he lives down in this well."

"Why does he live there?" inquired the traveller.

"I do not know," answered the cook; "I never asked him."

"He must be a singular person," said the traveller. "I should like to see him. What does he look like?"

But this the cook could not tell him; for she had never seen the little old man, having come to work for him after he had gone down to live in the well.

"Does he like to receive visitors?" asked the traveller.

"Don't know," said the cook. "He has never had any to receive since I have been here."

"Humph!" said the other. "I think I will go down and pay my respects to him. Will you let me down in the bucket?"

"But suppose he should mistake you for his dinner, and eat you up?"

the cook suggested.

"Pooh!" he replied. "No fear of that; I can take care of myself. And as for his dinner," he added, "get him some radishes. There are plenty about here. I had nothing but radishes for my dinner, and very good they were, though rather biting. Let down the bucket, please! I am all right."

"What are radishes?" the cook called after him as he went down.

"Long red things, stupid! with green leaves to them!" he shouted; and then, in a moment, he found himself at the bottom of the well.

The little old man was delighted to see him, and told him that he had lived down there forty years, and had never had a visitor before in all that time.

"Why do you live down here?" inquired the traveller.

"Because I cannot get out," replied the little old man.

"But how did you get down here in the first place?"

"Really," he said, "it is so long ago that I hardly remember. My impression is, however, that I came down in the bucket."

"Then why, in the name of common-sense," said the traveller, "don't you go _up_ in the bucket?"

The little old man sprang up from the three-legged stool, and flung his arms around the traveller's neck. "My _dear_ friend!" he cried rapturously. "My precious benefactor! Thank you a thousand times for those words! I a.s.sure you I never thought of it before! I will go up at once. You will excuse me?"

"Certainly," said the traveller. "Go up first, and I will follow you."

The little old man got into the bucket, and was drawn up to the top of the well. But, alas! when the cook saw his long red nose and his long green coat, she said to herself, "This must be a radish! How lucky I am!" and seizing the poor little old man, she popped him into the kettle without more ado. Then she let the bucket down for the traveller, calling to him to make haste, as she wanted to send down her master's dinner.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Tis an ill wind that blows n.o.body any good!"]

Up came the traveller, and looking around, asked where her master was.

"Where should he be," said the cook, "but at the bottom of the well, where you left him?"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed the traveller. "He has just come up in the bucket!"

"_Oh!_" cried the cook. "Oh! _oh!!_ O-O-O-H!!! was that my master?

Why, I thought he was a radish, and I have boiled him for his own dinner!"

"I hope he will have a good appet.i.te!" said the traveller.

The cook was a good woman, and her grief was so excessive that she fell into the kettle and was boiled too.

Then the traveller, who had formerly been an ogre by profession, said, "'Tis an ill wind that blows n.o.body any good! My dinner was very insufficient;" and he ate both the little old man and the cook, and proceeded on his journey with a cheerful heart.

"The traveller was a sensible man," said Bruin. "Did you make up that story, Toto?"

"Yes," replied Toto. "I made it up the other day,--one of those rainy days. I found a forked radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little red man. So I thought that if there was a radish that looked like a man, there might be a man that looked like a radish, you see. And now--"

"Ahem!" said the racc.o.o.n softly. "_Did_ you say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I misunderstand you?" and he winked at the company in a very expressive manner.

Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the only ones that were heard, except the constant "click, click," of the grandmother's needles. Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl,--

"Excuse me, ma'am; do you make the gingerbread with those things?"

"With what things, Mr. Bruin?" asked the grandmother.

"Those bright things that go clickety-clack," said the bear. "I see some soft brown stuff on them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and I thought possibly--"

"Oh," said the grandmother, smiling, "you mean my knitting. No, Mr.

Bruin, gingerbread is made in a very different way. I mix it in a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?"

Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly at c.o.o.n. The latter, however, merely grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing; so he was obliged to answer the grandmother himself.

"Oh, of course," he said. "If you mix it with a _spoon_, I should say certainly. As far as a spoon goes, you know, I--ah--quite correct, I'm sure." Here the poor fellow subsided into a vague murmur, and glared savagely at the racc.o.o.n.

But now the gentle wood-pigeon interposed, with her soft, cooing voice. "Toto," she said, "were we not promised two stories to-day?

Tell us the other one now, dear boy, for the shadows are beginning to lengthen."

"I made this story myself, too," said Toto, "and it is called

THE AMBITIOUS ROCKING-HORSE.

There was once a rocking-horse, but he did not want to be a rocking-horse. He wanted to be a trotter. So he went to a jockey--

"What's a jockey?" inquired the bear.

A man who drives fast and tells lies.