Half-Past Seven Stories Part 1

Half-Past Seven Stories.

by Robert Gordon Anderson.

"THE TOP OF THE MORNING"

That's what the Toyman used to say. And I am sure if you ever go to the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road the Toyman will say it still, whatever the weather.

And when you hear him call that over the fence so cheerily, from his smile you will know at once what he means,--that he wishes for you the _very_ top of the morning, not only the finest of weather, but the best of happiness and fun, in whatever you do and wherever you go.

If you have read all about him in the _Seven O'Clock Stories_ you will remember his name. Of course, it won't matter whether you've read them or not--you can make his acquaintance at any time--but the sooner the better, for, as all who know him will tell you, he's worth knowing.

His name is Frank Clarke, but his real name isn't really as real as the one the children gave him,--"the Toyman." For he is forever making them things,--kites and tops, and sleds and boats, and jokes and happiness and laughter.

His face is as brown as saddle leather, with a touch of apple red in it from the sun. There are creases in it, too, because he laughs and jokes so much. Sometimes when he appears to be solemn you want to laugh most, for he's only pretending to be solemn. And, best of all, if you hurt yourself, or if your pet doggie hurts himself, the Toyman will know how to fix it, to "make it all well" again.

The Three Happy Children love him. That's what we always call them, though they, too, have other names--funny ones, you will think,--Jehosophat, Marmaduke, and Hepzebiah Green, but they are family names and came from some very old uncles and aunts.

They still live in the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road--that is, when they aren't sliding down hill, or fis.h.i.+ng in the Pond, or riding on the hay, or to town with the Toyman and Ole Methusaleh. Mother and Father are still there. Home wouldn't be home without them. And they have many playmates and friends--of all sorts --two-legged and four-legged, in serge and corduroy, in feathers and fur.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "When they aren't riding on the hay, or to town with the Toyman and Ole Methusaleh."]

What they all did, the fun they had, and the trouble they got in and out of, you'll find if you turn these pages.

One thing more--a secret--in _absolute_ confidence, though.--After all, it isn't really so _very_ necessary to read these stories at _Half-Past Seven_. You can read them, or be read to, "any ole time," as the Toyman used to say--Monday morning, Thursday noon, or Sat.u.r.day night--as long as it doesn't interfere with those lessons.

Still, the very best time is at twilight in summer when the lights and the fireflies begin to twinkle through the dusk, or in the winter around the fire just before you go to bed--with Father or Mother--or the Toyman.

P.S.--

The Toyman says to send his love and "The Top o' the Morning."

I

THE LITTLE LOST FOX

Marmaduke was sitting on the fence. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, just looking around. Jehosophat called to him from the barnyard,--

"Come'n an' play 'I spy.'"

But Marmaduke only grumbled,--

"Don't want to."

"Well, let's play 'Cross Tag' then," Jehosophat suggested.

"Don't want to," repeated his brother again, not very politely.

Jehosophat thought for a moment, then he suggested something worth-while:

"I'll tell you what, let's play 'Duck-on-the-Rock.'"

Now as every boy in the world--at least in America--knows, that is a wonderful game, but Marmaduke only said very crossly,--

"I don't want to play any of your ol' games." Now when Marmaduke acted that way there must have been something the matter. Perhaps he had gobbled down his oatmeal too fast--in great big gulps--when he should have let the Thirty White Horses "champ, champ, champ," all those oats. They were cooked oats, but then the Thirty White Horses, unlike Teddy and Hal and ole Methusaleh, prefer cooked oats to raw.

Perhaps he had eaten a green apple. Sometimes he did that, and the tart juice puckered his mouth all up, and--what was worse--puckered his stomach all up, too.

Any way, he felt tired and out-of-sorts; tired of his toys, tired of all the games, even such nice ones as "Duck-on-the-rock" and "Red Rover."

There was nothing to do but sit on the fence.

Still, the world looked pretty nice from up there. It always looked more interesting from a high place, and sometimes it gave you an excited feeling. Of course, the big elm was a better perch, or the roof of the barn, and Marmaduke often wondered what it would be like to see the world from a big balloon, but the fence was good enough. It curved up over a little hill, and he could see lots of the world from there.

He looked over towards the West, where the Sun marched into his barn every night. Fatty Hamm declared that the Sun kept a garage behind that hill, but Marmaduke insisted it was a _barn_, for he liked horses best, and the Sun _must_ drive horses. There was a real hill there, not little like the one where he sat on the fence, but a big one, 'most as big as a mountain, Marmaduke thought. Sometimes it was green, and sometimes grey or blue, and once or twice he had seen it almost as purple as a pansy.

But it was Fall now, and the hill had turned brown. Over it he could see little figures moving. He looked at them very carefully, with one eye shut to see them the better. Then he decided that the bigger ones were men on horses, the little ones dogs. They all looked tiny because they were so far away.

As they came nearer and the sun shone on them, he was pretty sure the men had red coats. Could they be _soldiers_?

Just then the Toyman came by, with coils of wire and clippers in his hand. He was on his way to mend the fence in the North Pasture.

"'Llo Toyman!" said Marmaduke.

"Howdy, little fellow!" replied the Toyman, "what are you doing there?

Settin' on the top of the world and enjoyin' yourself?"

"I was wondering what those men over there were doing." And the boy waved his hand towards the little black figures on the hill.

"Why, that's the hunt," explained the Toyman. "The rich folks, having nothing better to do, are killin' time."

Marmaduke was puzzled.

"Are they really hunting _Time_?" he asked. "I thought maybe they were hunting lions or tigers."

"No, not today," the Toyman responded, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but they're only after Reddy."

"Reddy Toms?" the little boy exclaimed. "_Why, whatever did he do?_"

Now Reddy Toms was a boy in his own cla.s.s, and you could always tell him a long way off because his head was covered with red hair as thick as a thatched roof, and his face was spotted all over, like a snake's, with freckles.

However, the Toyman said it was all a mistake.