Simon And The Garuly
by
Chicken Little fixed herself up in her new rocking-chair, set her mouth in a very prim fashion, leaned her head on one side, and began to rock with all her might, jerking her feet from the floor every time.
“I yish,” she began, “I yish somebody yould tell some stories yat yould be little for me to hear.”
And having made this speech, which was meant as a hint for me, she rocked harder than ever, nearly upsetting herself two or three times.
“What shall it be about?” I said.
“‘Bout some naughty boy or ‘nother.”
She likes to hear of naughty boys, but not of naughty girls. She thinks stories of naughty girls are a little personal. And so, with her chair going and her shining eyes peering out from under her overhanging forehead, I began
THE STORY.
Simon was a selfish fellow. He was always willing anybody should divide good things with him, but was never willing, himself, to divide with anybody else. He was never willing to play with others, for fear he would not be treated right. His two brothers and his sister had their playthings together, but Simon would not play with them, for fear he should not get his rights in all things, and so he took his little stock and set up for himself. His brothers and sister, of course, by putting theirs together, had many more than he. Then, too, by working together, they managed to fix up many nice things. But poor Simon had nobody to help him, and nobody to play with him. So he came to feel very bad. He thought everybody was angry with him.
One sunny afternoon, when the other children were laughing and shouting merrily, poor Simon tried in vain to be happy by himself. Something in his throat kept choking him.
(“I guess it was the cry that choked him,” broke in the Small Chicken. “I had a cry in my throat yesterday. It was bigger than my fist, and most choked me to death, till I let it out.”)
Yes, that was what hurt him, and presently he let it out, as you say, and had a good, hard cry. Then gradually he went off into a sort of doze. Soon he felt something strike him on the head.
“Wake up! wake up!”
Simon opened his eyes, and saw a funny, little, old man standing over him, who kept one of his eyes shut all the time, and looked out of the other with the queerest twinkle in the world. He had a knotty stick in his hand, and was tapping Simon over the head with it.
“What do you want?” growled Simon.
With that the old man hit him another sharp blow over the head.
“Get up,” he said, “and come with me, and I will show you where I live. I am one of the Garulies.”
Simon got to his feet, partly because he was afraid of another blow from the cudgel, and partly because he had a very great desire to know something of the Garulies.
“Come along! come along!” said the queer little man, as he gave Simon another tap.
He took the road through the woods pasture, down under Swallow Hill, and then through the blackberry patch, until they came to the brook known as “Bee Tree Run.” Here, just at the foot of a large sycamore, and among its roots, was fastened a curious boat, made of a large turtle shell turned upside down.
“Get in! get in!” squealed the little old Garuly.
“I am too large,” said Simon; “that craft will sink if I step in.”
In an instant the little man whirled round and hit him three tremendous raps over the head with his cudgel, shouting, or rather squeaking,
“Smaller! smaller! smaller!”
The blows made Simon’s head ring, but when he recovered himself, he found that the turtle-shell boat appeared a great deal larger than before. Not only that, but every thing about him appeared larger. He soon discovered, however, that he was smaller, and that that was what made other things seem larger. For you know we measure everything by ourselves.