FullReads

“Want your fortune told?” asked Miss Chim.

“I don’t mind,” replied the Woggle-Bug.

“I’ll read your hand,” said the Professor, with a yawn that startled the insect. “To my notion palmistry is the best means of finding out what nobody knows or cares to know.”

He took the upper-right hand of the Woggle-Bug, and after adjusting his spectacles bent over it with an air of great wisdom.

“You have been in love,” announced the Professor; “but you got it in the neck.”

“True!” murmured the astonished Insect, putting up his left lower hand to feel of the beloved necktie.

“You think you have won,” continued the Hip; “but there are others who have 1, 2. You have many heart throbs before you, during your future life. Afterward I see no heart throbs whatever. Forty cents, please.”

“Isn’t he just wonderful?” asked Miss Chim, with enthusiasm. “He’s the greatest fortune teller in the jungle.”

“On account of his size, I suppose,” returned the Woggle-Bug, as they walked on.

Soon they came to the Royal Palace, which was a beautiful bower formed of vines upon which grew many brilliant-hued forest flowers. The entrance was guarded by a Zebra, who barred admission until Miss Chim whispered the password in his ear. Then he permitted them to enter, and the Chimpanzee immediately ushered the Woggle-Bug into the presence of King Weasel.

This monarch lay coiled upon a purple silk cushion, half asleep and yet wakeful enough to be smoking a big cigar. Beside him crouched two prairie-dogs who were combing his hair very carefully, while a red squirrel perched near his head and fanned him with her bushy tail.

“Dear me, what have we here?” exclaimed the King of the Jungle, in a querulous tone, “Is it an over-grown pinch-bug, or is it a kissing-bug?”

“I have the honor to be a Woggle-Bug, your Majesty!” replied our hero, proudly.

“Sav, cut out that Majesty,” snapped the King, with a scowl. “If you can find anything majestic about me, I’d like to know what it is.”

“Don’t treat him with any respect,” whispered Miss Chim to the Insect, “or you’ll get him riled. Sneer at him, and slap his face if you get a chance.”

The Woggle-Bug took the hint.

“Really,” he told the King. “I have never seen a more despicable creature than you. The admirable perspicacity inherent in your tribe seems to have deteriorated in you to a hyperbolated insousancy.” Then he reached out his arms and slapped the king four times, twice on one side of his face and twice on the other.

“Thanks, my dear June-Bug,” said the monarch; “I now recognize you to be a person of some importance.”

“Sire, I am a Woggle-Bug, highly magnified and thoroughly educated. It is no exaggeration to say I am the greatest Woggle-Bug on earth.”

“I fully believe it, so pray do not play any more foursomes on my jaw. I am sufficiently humiliated at this moment to recognize you as a Sullivanthauros, should you claim to be a member of that extinct race.”

Then two little weasels–a boy weasel and a girl weasel–came into the bower and threw their school-books at the squirrel so cleverly that one hit the King upon the nose and smashed his cigar and the other caught him fairly in the pit of his stomach.

At first the monarch howled a bit; then he wiped the tears from his face and said:

“Ah, what delightful children I have! What do you wish, my darlings?”

“I want a cent for chewing gum,” said the Girl Weasel.

“Get it from the Guinea-Pig; you have my assent. And what does my dear boy want?”

“Pop,” went the Weasel, “our billy-goat has swallowed the hare you gave me to play with.”

“Dear me,” sighed the King, “how often I find a hair in the butter! Whenever I reign people carry umbrellas; and my son, although quite polished, indulges only in monkey-shines! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown! but if one is scalped, the loss of the crown renders the head still more uneasy.”

“Couldn’t they find a better king than you?” enquired the Woggle-Bug, curiously, as the children left the bower.

“Yes; but no worse,” answered the Weasel; “and here in the jungle honors are conferred only upon the unworthy. For if a truly great animal is honored he gets a swelled head, and that renders him unbearable. They now regard the King of the Jungle with contempt, and that makes all my subjects self-respecting.”

“There is wisdom in that,” declared the Woggle-Bug, approvingly; “a single glance at you makes me content with being so excellent a bug.”

“True,” murmured the King, yawning. “But you tire me, good stranger. Miss Chim, will you kindly get the gasoline can? It’s high time to eradicate this insect.”

“With pleasure,” said Miss Chim, moving away with a smile.

But the Woggle-Bug did not linger to be eradicated. With one wild bound he cleared the door of the palace and sprinted up the entrance of the Jungle. The bear soldiers saw him running away, and took careful aim and fired. But the gold-plated muskets would not shoot straight, and now the Woggle-Bug was far distant, and still running with all his might.

Nor did he pause until he had emerged from the forest and crossed the plains, and reached at last the city from whence he had escaped in the balloon. And, once again in his old lodgings, he looked at himself in the mirror and said:

“After all, this necktie is my love–and my love is now mine forevermore! Why should I not be happy and content?”