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Page 26
"I soon forgot him in the sight before me. I had reached the open place
with the lights and the music; but how shall I describe the spectacle
that I beheld?
"I have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. Now imagine
a toy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen,
held in an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind the
glittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads,
brilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. At the moment of my entrance
all was silent and quiet. The toys lay in their places looking so
incredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my ready
cash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the
tawdry fascinations of a village booth. I was counting the coppers
(sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddles
leaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizes
joined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpets
sounded, and the yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, and
bore it away through the trees. It was weird fairy-music, but quite
delightful. The nearest approach to it that I know of above ground is
to hear a wild dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte
accompaniment.
"When the music began, all the toys rose. The dolls jumped down and
began to dance. The poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged their
ears, the wind-mills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, the
bricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battledores
and shuttlecocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropes
went round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks ran after them, the
cobbler's wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and they
jumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madly
about with nobody inside. It was most exhilarating.
"I soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow.
"'There are some beautiful toys here,' I said.
"'Well, yes,' he replied, 'and some odd-looking ones too. You see,
whatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right
to come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, I
assure you. Look there.'
"I looked, and said, 'It seems to be a potato.'
"'So it is,' said the beetle. 'It belonged to an Irish child in one of
your great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don't know, and I
don't think he knew himself. He lived in the corner of a dirty,
overcrowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. It
was the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it for
eyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during the
day, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it
out and played with it. He was often hungry, but he never ate that
potato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into
the ashes. Then it came down here.'
"'What a sad story!' I exclaimed.
"The beetle seemed in no way affected.
"'It is a curious thing,' he rambled on, 'that potato takes quite a
good place among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here is
entirely a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any
plaything has been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly
old things hold the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful
works of art have often been smashed or lost by the spoilt children of
rich people in two or three days. If you care for sad stories, there is
another queer thing belonging to a child who died.'
"It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of
needlework upon it.
"'It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,' the beetle
continued; 'she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots of
her toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to make
caterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certain
stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy
caterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool
of every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all
colours. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into
butterflies. However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she
went on, hoping that they would do so, and making new ones. One day she
was heard talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all
the caterpillars had become butterflies of many colours, and that the
room was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.'
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