The Zankiwank and The Bletherwitch Part 9

"Not at all. Not at all. So many people make Good Resolutions and never carry them out, therefore if there were no place where you could dispose of them they would be wasted."

"But Bad Resolutions? n.o.body makes Bad Resolutions--at least they ought not to, and I don't believe it is true!"

"Pardon me," interrupted the Zankiw.a.n.k. "If you make a Good Resolution and don't carry it out--doesn't it become a Bad Resolution? Answer me that."

This, however, was an aspect of the question that had never occurred to them, and they were unable to reply.

"It seems to me to be nonsense--and worse than nonsense--for one brother to deal in Bad Resolutions and the other in Good Resolutions. Why do not they become a Firm and mix the two together?" responded Maude.

"You horrify me! Mix the Good and the Bad together? That would never do.

The Best Resolutions in the world would be contaminated if they were all warehoused under one roof. Besides, the Wimble is himself full of Good Resolutions, so that he can mingle with the Bad without suffering any evil, while the Wamble is differently const.i.tuted!"

The children did not understand the Zankiw.a.n.k's argument a bit--it all seemed so ridiculous. A sudden thought occurred to Willie.

"Who, then, collects the Resolutions?"

"Oh, a person of no Resolution whatever. He commenced life with only one Resolution, and he lost it, or it got mislaid, or he never made use of it, or something equally unfortunate, and so he was christened Want of Resolution, and he does the collecting work very well, considering all things."

No doubt the Zankiw.a.n.k knew what he was talking about, but as the children did not--what did it signify? Therefore they asked no more questions, but went along the street marvelling at all they saw. The next shop at which they stopped was kept by

JORUMGANDER THE YOUNGER, DEALER IN MAGIC AND MYSTERY.

"Jorumgander the Younger is not of much use now," said the Zankiw.a.n.k sorrowfully. "He chiefly aims at making a mystery of everything, but so many people not engaged in trade make a mystery of nothing every day, that he is sadly handicapped. And most sensible people hate a mystery of any kind, unless it belongs to themselves, so that he finds customers very shy. Once upon a time he would get hold of a simple story and turn it into such a gigantic mystery that all the world would be mystified.

But those happy days are gone, and he thinks of turning his business into a company to sell Original Ideas, when he knows where to find them."

"I don't see what good can come of making a mystery of anything--especially if anything is true," sagaciously remarked Maude.

"But _anything_ is not true. Nor is _anything_ untrue. There is the difficulty. If anything were true, nothing would be untrue, and then where should we be?"

"Nowhere," said Willie without thinking.

"Exactly. That is just where we are now, and a very nice place it is.

There is one thing, however, that Jorumgander the Younger--there he is with the pink eye-brows and green nose. Don't say anything about his personal appearance. What I was going to say he will say instead. It is a habit we have occasionally. He is my grandfather, you know."

"Your grandfather! What! that young man? Why, he is not more than twenty-two and three quarters, I'm sure," replied Maude.

"You are right. He _is_ twenty-two and three quarters. You don't quite understand our relationships. The boy, as you have no doubt heard, is father to the man. Very well. I am the man. When he was a boy on my aunt's side he was father to me. That's plain enough. He has grown older since then, though he is little more than a boy in discretion still, therefore he is my grandfather."

"How very absurdly you do talk, Mr Zankiw.a.n.k," laughed Willie; "but here is your grandfather," and at that moment Jorumgander the Younger left his shop and approached them with a case of pens which he offered for sale.

"Try my Magic Pens. They are the best in the market, because there are no others. There is no demand for them, and few folk will have them for a gift. Therefore I can highly recommend them."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"How can you recommend your pens, when you declare that n.o.body will buy them?" demanded Willie.

"Because they are a novelty. They are Magic Pens, you know, and of course as n.o.body possesses any, they must be rare. That is logic, I think."

"Buy one," said the Zankiw.a.n.k, "he has not had any supper yet."

"In what way are they Magic Pens?" enquired Maude.

"Ah! I thought I should find a customer between Michaelmas and May Day,"

cried Jorumgander the Younger, quite cheerfully. "The beauty of these pens is that they never tell a story."

"But suppose you want to write a story?"

"That is a different thing. If you have the ability to write a story you won't want a Magic Pen. These pens are only for every-day use. For example: if you want to write to your charwoman to tell her you have got the toothache, and you haven't got the toothache, the Magic Pen refuses to lend itself to telling a--a----"

"Crammer," suggested Willie.

"Crammer. Thank you. I don't know what it means, but crammer is the correct word. The Magic Pen will simplify the truth whether you wish to tell it or not."

"I do not understand," whispered Maude.

"Let me try to explain," said Jorumgander the Younger politely. "The Magic Pen will only write exactly what you think--what is in your mind, what you ought to say, whether you wish to or not."

"A very useful article, I am sure," said the Zankiw.a.n.k. "I gave six dozen away last Christmas, but n.o.body used them after a few days, and I can't think why."

"Ah!" sighed Jorumgander the Younger, "and I have had all my stock returned on my hands. The first day I opened my shop I sold more than I can remember. And the next morning all the purchasers came and wanted their money back. They said if they wanted to tell the truth, they knew how to do it, and did not want to be taught by an evil-disposed nib. But I am afraid they were not speaking the truth then, at any rate. Here, let me make you a present of one a-piece, and you can write and tell me all about yourselves when you go home. Meanwhile, as the streets are crowded, and our policeman is not looking, let us sing a quiet song to celebrate the event."

We sing of the Magic Pen That never tells a story, That in the hands of men Would lead them on to glory.

For what you ought to do, And you should all be saying, In fact of all things true This pen will be bewraying.

So let us sing a roundelay-- Pop goes the Weazel; Treacle's four pence a pound to-day, Which we think should please all.

What the chorus had to do with the song n.o.body knew, but they all sang it--everybody in the street, and all the customers in the shops as well, and even the policeman sang the last line.

You take it in your hand And set yourself a-writing; No matter what you've planned, The truth 'twill be inditing.

And thus you cannot fail, To speak your mind correctly, And honestly you'll sail, But never indirectly.

So let us sing a roundelay-- Pop goes the Weazel; Treacle's four pence a pound to-day, Which we think will please all!

Again everybody danced and sang till the policeman told them to "move on," when Jorumgander the Younger put up his shutters and went away.

"A most original man," exclaimed the Zankiw.a.n.k; "he ought to have been a postman!"

"A postman!--why?"

"Because he was always such a capital boy with his letters. He knew his alphabet long before he could spell, and now he knows every letter you can think of."

"I don't see anything very original in that," said Willie. "There are only twenty-six letters in the English language that he can know!"

"Only twenty-six letters! Dear me, why millions of people are writing fresh letters every day, and he knows them all directly he sees them! I hope you will go to school some day and learn differently from that!

Only twenty-six letters," repeated the Zankiw.a.n.k in wonderment, "only twenty-six letters." Then he cried suddenly, "How convenient it would be if everybody was his own Dictionary!"

[Ill.u.s.tration]