Everychild Part 13

However, he paid not the slightest attention.

"Anyway," said Everychild, "it doesn't matter so much what road we take if we only find the truth at the end. We mustn't forget that's what we're looking for."

"You'll find that in a book," declared the harsh voice of Mr. Literal.

"I think we'll find it, no matter what road we take," said the giant.

"You'll find it in your hearts," another voice was heard to say. And now it was to be noted that the Masked Lady had also appeared.

"And when we find it," said Cinderella, "--then what shall we do?"

"When we find it we shall know what to do," said the giant.

"When you find it you'll be prepared to die," declared Mr. Literal.

"When they find it they shall be prepared to live," the voice of the Masked Lady was heard to say.

A laugh like the crackling of dry f.a.gots was heard; and Mr. Literal exclaimed musingly: "The little simpletons! They seek to find the truth at their age! Little do they know that I have spent my whole life anxiously seeking it!"

The Masked Lady said softly: "It is found by those who have ceased to seek it anxiously."

Then the members of the band sat in silence for a time, each trying to decide what the truth would mean. Hansel was thinking that it would mean the secret of getting something to eat at every hour of the day and night. Cinderella decided it would mean a way of finding the prince who had danced with her at the ball. And Everychild got no further than the decision that it would mean something that would make every day perfectly delightful.

In the meantime the forest had become glorious with the heat and light of the ascending sun. The waking noises of the birds had given place to the business of being boldly active. And the children, with a common impulse, would have resumed their journey. But just at that moment a traveler was seen to be approaching.

It was Everychild who went forward to salute the traveler, who proved to be a boy with hanging head and lagging feet. His hands were thrust into his pockets and there were tear-stains on his cheeks.

"Good morning," said Everychild.

"Don't bother me," said the boy. "I'm running away."

"I didn't see you run," said Everychild.

The boy stopped and looked at Everychild reproachfully. "It's called running away," he said; "though everybody knows you don't run, and for that matter, there's no _away_ about it. Mostly you turn around and go back. But I call it running away just the same. It takes a load off my mind."

"I know how it is," declared Everychild. "My friends and I have taken to the road, too; and if you like, you may join us."

The boy thought this over a moment; and at length he said, "I'll do it.

I'll not get any further away, being with others, and it'll not be any harder to go back, when I weaken. I'm ready to join you now, only it might look better if I just drop in on my mother for a minute to tell her good-by."

If seemed to Everychild that perhaps this would be a wise thing to do.

"And shall we wait for you?" he asked.

"You might just go along with me, if the others will wait, to make sure there isn't any foul play."

To this plan Everychild readily agreed; and after he had explained the situation to his companions, he set off with the new boy along a path which branched off from the road.

"My name is Tom," explained the boy. "Tom Hubbard." And after that they continued their way in silence.

They arrived, after no great journey, at a very prim little house, set down in a very prim little garden. Curtains hung in the windows just so, and the door-k.n.o.b shone like gold. The only friendly thing about the place was a little black dog with a rough coat and great wistful eyes, which came running down the walk to leap up before the boy Tom, trying to lick his hands.

They entered the house, and the instant Everychild crossed the threshold he realized that he had never seen a house quite like this one. It made you think of a very careful drawing. Everything was at right angles with everything else. A small table stood precisely in the middle of the floor, and two really silly little chairs were placed before it. A spick-and-span cupboard, with a perforated tin front, stood over against the wall.

The little black dog ran over to the cupboard immediately and stood on his hind legs, gazing at the perforated doors.

"We'd better sit on the floor." said Tom, after he had glanced uneasily about the room.

This seemed a bit strange to Everychild, but he said politely, "I'm very fond of sitting on the floor myself."

And so they sat down on the floor and clasped their hands about their knees.

"And so this is where you live!" said Everychild, looking about him with frank interest.

"It is where I _did_ live. I'll live here no more, now that I've found somebody to run away with. When she comes in--my mother, I mean--I'll just say good-by and light out."

"What's been the matter?" asked Everychild.

"It's no fit place for a boy to live," said Tom. "In the first place, n.o.body's ever home. Mother's always gadding about somewhere. She gives lectures on _The Home_, and she's never here except between lectures. And even then her mind is somewhere else. You don't dare to speak to her. She stares at nothing--so. And all she says is, 'For goodness' sake, don't shout so;' or '_Must_ you make that noise when you're eating?' or 'Can't you walk without shaking the floor like that?' and finally, 'I think you'll drive me insane at last--such a careless creature you are!'"

"It must be very bad," said Everychild.

"I've been so I was afraid to move, knowing she would complain. I've sat for hours studying her, trying to understand her. I used to think the fault was all mine."

"It does make you feel that way, doesn't it?" said Everychild. "And sometimes I've thought fathers were as bad as mothers about making you feel so."

Tom lapsed into a dreamy mood. "Fathers . . . I don't remember much about my father," he said. "But he used to be uncomfortable about the house the same as me. The things she says to me--they come easy to her now, because she learned to say them long ago, to my father. He couldn't have a friend in to see him. It was always: 'Why don't they go home for their meals?' or 'Why don't they track dirt into their own houses?' or 'Why don't they fill their own curtains with tobacco smoke?' You know how they talk. And he quit bringing his friends home. He stayed away more and more himself. I've not seen him now for years."

"I'm not sure I ever heard of your father," said Everychild.

"You wouldn't have heard of him. Mother always made so much noise that you only heard of her. You wouldn't have overlooked _her_, with her finding fault all the time, and pretending not to be appreciated at home. She was always pitied by the neighbors, who knew only her side of the story. Oh, everybody's heard of Old Mother Hubbard. But who ever heard of Old Father Hubbard? She drove him away with her precise little ways, and now he's forgotten."

Everychild could scarcely conceal his surprise. He hadn't supposed it was _that_ Hubbard. "And so this is where Old Mother Hubbard lives,"

he said, looking about him with new interest.

"It's where you'll find her at odd times," said Tom, "when she hasn't got a committee meeting to attend, or a board meeting, or a convention, or something. I shouldn't say she _lives_ anywhere."

"Still, everything is nice enough in its way," remarked Everychild, "and I always thought she was very poor."

"Not at all," said Tom. "It was her 'poor dog.' That's what you have in mind, I suppose. And there never was a poor dog except one with a mean master or mistress."

At that moment, the little black dog, weary of looking at the cupboard, approached Tom and flopped down beside him.

"And that's her dog," said Everychild musingly.

"He's mine, really," explained Tom, "though I always try to think of him as hers. You take a fellow like me and he'd rather not own a dog.

He has to go out into the world sooner or later; and if he has a dog he keeps thinking about him when he's away, and about there not being any one to put water in his bowl, and open the gate for him or go with him for a run. A dog likes to be with you, you know; and when you're gone you keep seeing him all the while: waiting at the gate for you, or outside your door. And you know all the time that some day when you're gone he'll grow old at last, and lie alone dreaming of you, and looking--while there's none but strangers by to spurn him. No, sometimes I think it's better not to have a dog for a friend."

Everychild was thinking about this when Tom suddenly reached for his hat, which he had placed by his side. "Perhaps we'd better be getting along," he said, "without waiting to tell her good-by. After all, there's no telling when she'll be here."