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XIII
WRIGGLETTO

It was in the afternoon of a beautiful summer day, and Mr. Munchausen had come up from the simmering city of Cimmeria to spend a day or two with Diavolo and Angelica and their venerable parents. They had all had dinner, and were now out on the back piazza overlooking the magnificent river Styx, which flowed from the mountains to the sea, condescending on its way thither to look in upon countless insignificant towns which had grown up on its banks, among which was the one in which Diavolo and Angelica had been born and lived all their lives. Mr. Munchausen was lying comfortably in a hammock, collecting his thoughts.

Angelica was somewhat depressed, but Diavolo was jubilant and all because in the course of a walk they had had that morning Diavolo had killed a snake.

“It was fine sport,” said Diavolo. “He was lying there in the sun, and I took a stick and put him out of his misery in two minutes.”

Here Diavolo illustrated the process by whacking the Baron over his waist-coat with a small malacca stick he carried.

“Well, I didn’t like it,” said Angelica. “I don’t care for snakes, but somehow or other it seems to me we’d ought to have left him alone. He wasn’t hurting anybody off there. If he’d come walking on our place, that would have been one thing, but we went walking where he was, and he had as much right to take a sun-bath there as we had.”

“That’s true enough,” put in Mr. Munchausen, resolved after Diavolo’s whack, to side against him. “You’ve just about hit it, Angelica. It wasn’t polite of you in the first place, to disturb his snakeship in his nap, and having done so, I can’t see why Diavolo wanted to kill him.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Diavolo, airily. “What’s snakes good for except to kill? I’ll kill ’em every chance I get. They aren’t any good.”

“All right,” said Mr. Munchausen, quietly. “I suppose you know all about it; but I know a thing or two about snakes myself that do not exactly agree with what you say. They are some good sometimes, and, as a matter of fact, as a general rule, they are less apt to attack you without reason than you are to attack them. A snake is rather inclined to mind its own business unless he finds it necessary to do otherwise. Occasionally too you’ll find a snake with a truly amiable character. I’ll never forget my old pet Wriggletto, for instance, and as long as I remember him I can’t help having a warm corner for snakes in my heart.”

Here Mr. Munchausen paused and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as a far-away half-affectionate look came into his eye.

“Who was Wriggletto?” asked Diavolo, transferring a half dollar from Mr. Munchausen’s pocket to his own.

“Who was he?” cried Mr. Munchausen. “You don’t mean to say that I have never told you about Wriggletto, my pet boa-constrictor, do you?”

“You never told me,” said Angelica. “But I’m not everybody. Maybe you’ve told some other little Imps.”

“No, indeed!” said Mr. Munchausen. “You two are the only little Imps I tell stories to, and as far as I am concerned, while I admit you are not everybody you are somebody and that’s more than everybody is. Wriggletto was a boa-constrictor I once knew in South America, and he was without exception, the most remarkable bit of a serpent I ever met. Genial, kind, intelligent, grateful and useful, and, after I’d had him a year or two, wonderfully well educated. He could write with himself as well as you or I can with a pen. There’s a recommendation for you. Few men are all that – and few boa-constrictors either, as far as that goes. I admit Wriggletto was an exception to the general run of serpents, but he was all that I claim for him, nevertheless.”

“What kind of a snake did you say he was?” asked Diavolo.

“A boa-constrictor,” said Mr. Munchausen, “and I knew him from his childhood. I first encountered Wriggletto about ten miles out of Para on the river Amazon. He was being swallowed by a larger boa-constrictor, and I saved his life by catching hold of his tail and pulling him out just as the other was getting ready to give the last gulp which would have taken Wriggletto in completely, and placed him beyond all hope of ever being saved.”

“What was the other boa doing while you were saving Wriggletto?” asked Diavolo, who was fond always of hearing both sides to every question, and whose father, therefore, hoped he might some day grow up to be a great judge, or at least serve with distinction upon a jury.

“He couldn’t do anything,” returned Mr. Munchausen. “He was powerless as long as Wriggletto’s head stuck in his throat and just before I got the smaller snake extracted I killed the other one by cutting off his tail behind his ears. It was not a very dangerous rescue on my part as long as Wriggletto was likely to be grateful. I must confess for a minute I was afraid he might not comprehend all I had done for him, and it was just possible he might attack me, but the hug he gave me when he found himself free once more was reassuring. He wound himself gracefully around my body, squeezed me gently and then slid off into the road again, as much as to say ‘Thank you, sir. You’re a brick.’ After that there was nothing Wriggletto would not do for me. He followed me everywhere I went from that time on. He seemed to learn all in an instant that there were hundreds of little things to be done about the house of an old bachelor like myself which a willing serpent could do, and he made it his business to do those things: like picking up my collars from the floor, and finding my studs for me when they rolled under the bureau, and a thousand and one other little services of a like nature, and when you, Master Diavolo, try in future to say that snakes are only good to kill and are of no use to any one, you must at least make an exception in favour of Wriggletto.”

“I will,” said Diavolo, “But you haven’t told us of the other useful things he did for you yet.”

“I was about to do so,” said Mr. Munchausen. “In the first place, before he learned how to do little things about the house for me, Wriggletto acted as a watch-dog and you may be sure that nobody ever ventured to prowl around my house at night while Wriggletto slept out on the lawn. Para was quite full of conscienceless fellows, too, at that time, any one of whom would have been glad to have a chance to relieve me of my belongings if they could get by my watch-snake. Two of them tried it one dark stormy night, and Wriggletto when he discovered them climbing in at my window, crawled up behind them and winding his tail about them crept down to the banks of the Amazon, dragging them after him. There he tossed them into the river, and came back to his post once more.”

“Did you see him do it, Uncle Munch?” asked Angelica.

“No, I did not. I learned of it afterwards. Wriggletto himself said never a word. He was too modest for that,” said Mr. Munchausen. “One of the robbers wrote a letter to the Para newspapers about it, complaining that any one should be allowed to keep a reptile like that around, and suggested that anyhow people using snakes in place of dogs should be compelled to license them, and put up a sign at their gates:

BEWARE OF THE SNAKE!

“The man never acknowledged, of course, that he was the robber, – said that he was calling on business when the thing happened, – but he didn’t say what his business was, but I knew better, and later on the other robber and he fell out, and they confessed that the business they had come on was to take away a few thousand gold coins of the realm which I was known to have in the house locked in a steel chest.

“I bought Wriggletto a handsome silver collar after that, and it was generally understood that he was the guardian of my place, and robbers bothered me no more. Then he was finer than a cat for rats. On very hot days he would go off into the cellar, where it was cool, and lie there with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut, and catch rats by the dozens. They’d run around in the dark, and the first thing they’d know they’d stumble into Wriggletto’s mouth; and he swallowed them and licked his chops afterwards, just as you or I do when we’ve swallowed a fine luscious oyster or a clam.

“But pleasantest of all the things Wriggletto did for me – and he was untiring in his attentions in that way – was keeping me cool on hot summer nights. Para as you may have heard is a pretty hot place at best, lying in a tropical region as it does, but sometimes it is awful for a man used to the Northern climate, as I was. The act of fanning one’s self, so far from cooling one off, makes one hotter than ever. Maybe you remember how it was with the elephant in the poem:

 
“‘Oh my, oh dear!’ the elephant said,
‘It is so awful hot!
I’ve fanned myself for seventy weeks,
And haven’t cooled a jot.’
 

“And that was the way it was with me in Para on hot nights. I’d fan and fan and fan, but I couldn’t get cool until Wriggletto became a member of my family, and then I was all right. He used to wind his tail about a huge palm-leaf fan I had cut in the forest, so large that I couldn’t possibly handle it myself, and he’d wave it to and fro by the hour, with the result that my house was always the breeziest place in Para.”

“Where is Wriggletto now?” asked Diavolo.

“Heigho!” sighed Mr. Munchausen. “He died, poor fellow, and all because of that silver collar I gave him. He tried to swallow a jibola that entered my house one night on wickedness intent, and while Wriggletto’s throat was large enough when he stretched it to take down three jibolas, with a collar on which wouldn’t stretch he couldn’t swallow one. He didn’t know that, unfortunately, and he kept on trying until the jibola got a quarter way down and then he stuck. Each swallow, of course, made the collar fit more tightly and finally poor Wriggletto choked himself to death. I felt so badly about it that I left Para within a month, but meanwhile I had a suit of clothes made out of Wriggletto’s skin, and wore it for years, and then, when the clothes began to look worn, I had the skin re-tanned and made over into shoes and slippers. So you see that even after death he was useful to me. He was a faithful snake, and that is why when I hear people running down all snakes I tell the story of Wriggletto.”

There was a pause for a few moments, when Diavolo said, “Uncle Munch, is that a true story you’ve been giving us?”

“True?” cried Mr. Munchausen. “True? Why, my dear boy, what a question! If you don’t believe it, bring me your atlas, and I’ll show you just where Para is.”

Diavolo did as he was told, and sure enough, Mr. Munchausen did exactly as he said he would, which Diavolo thought was very remarkable, but he still was not satisfied.

“You said he could write as well with himself as you or I could with a pen, Uncle Munch,” he said. “How was that?”

“Why that was simple enough,” explained Mr. Munchausen. “You see he was very black, and thirty-nine feet long and remarkably supple and slender. After a year of hard study he learned to bunch himself into letters, and if he wanted to say anything to me he’d simply form himself into a written sentence. Indeed his favourite attitude when in repose showed his wonderful gift in chirography as well as his affection for me. If you will get me a card I will prove it.”

Diavolo brought Mr. Munchausen the card and upon it he drew the following:

unclemunch

“There,” said Mr. Munchausen. “That’s the way Wriggletto always used to lie when he was at rest. His love for me was very affecting.”

XIV
THE POETIC JUNE-BUG, TOGETHER WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE GILLYHOOLY BIRD

“Uncle Munch,” said Diavolo one afternoon as a couple of bicyclers sped past the house at breakneck speed, “which would you rather have, a bicycle or a horse?”

“Well, I must say, my boy, that is a difficult question to answer,” Mr. Munchausen replied after scratching his head dubiously for a few minutes. “You might as well ask a man which he prefers, a hammock or a steam-yacht. To that question I should reply that if I wanted to sell it, I’d rather have a steam-yacht, but for a pleasant swing on a cool piazza in midsummer or under the apple-trees, a hammock would be far preferable. Steam-yachts are not much good to swing in under an apple tree, and very few piazzas that I know of are big enough – ”

“Oh, now, you know what I mean, Uncle Munch,” Diavolo retorted, tapping Mr. Munchausen upon the end of his nose, for a twinkle in Mr. Munchausen’s eye seemed to indicate that he was in one of his chaffing moods, and a greater tease than Mr. Munchausen when he felt that way no one has ever known. “I mean for horse-back riding, which would you rather have?”

“Ah, that’s another matter,” returned Mr. Munchausen, calmly. “Now I know how to answer your question. For horse-back riding I certainly prefer a horse; though, on the other hand, for bicycling, bicycles are better than horses. Horses make very poor bicycles, due no doubt to the fact that they have no wheels.”

Diavolo began to grow desperate.

“Of course,” Mr. Munchausen went on, “all I have to say in this connection is based merely on my ideas, and not upon any personal experience. I’ve been horse-back riding on horses, and bicycling on bicycles, but I never went horse-back riding on a bicycle, or bicycling on horseback. I should think it might be exciting to go bicycling on horse-back, but very dangerous. It is hard enough for me to keep a bicycle from toppling over when I’m riding on a hard, straight, level well-paved road, without experimenting with my wheel on a horse’s back. However if you wish to try it some day and will get me a horse with a back as big as Trafalgar Square I’m willing to make the effort.”

Angelica giggled. It was lots of fun for her when Mr. Munchausen teased Diavolo, though she didn’t like it quite so much when it was her turn to be treated that way. Diavolo wanted to laugh too, but he had too much dignity for that, and to conceal his desire to grin from Mr. Munchausen he began to hunt about for an old newspaper, or a lump of coal or something else he could make a ball of to throw at him.

“Which would you rather do, Angelica,” Mr. Munchausen resumed, “go to sea in a balloon or attend a dumb-crambo party in a chicken-coop?”

“I guess I would,” laughed Angelica.

“That’s a good answer,” Mr. Munchausen put in. “It is quite as intelligent as the one which is attributed to the Gillyhooly bird. When the Gillyhooly bird was asked his opinion of giraffes, he scratched his head for a minute and said,

 
“‘The question hath but little wit
That you have put to me,
But I will try to answer it
With prompt candidity.
 
 
The automobile is a thing
That’s pleasing to the mind;
And in a lustrous diamond ring
Some merit I can find.
 
 
Some persons gloat o’er French Chateaux;
Some dote on lemon ice;
While others gorge on mixed gateaux,
Yet have no use for mice.
 
 
I’m very fond of oyster-stew,
I love a patent-leather boot,
But after all, ’twixt me and you,
The fish-ball is my favourite fruit.’”
 

“Hoh” jeered Diavolo, who, attracted by the allusion to a kind of bird of which he had never heard before, had given up the quest for a paper ball and returned to Mr. Munchausen’s side, “I don’t think that was a very intelligent answer. It didn’t answer the question at all.”

“That’s true, and that is why it was intelligent,” said Mr. Munchausen. “It was noncommittal. Some day when you are older and know less than you do now, you will realise, my dear Diavolo, how valuable a thing is the reply that answereth not.”

Mr. Munchausen paused long enough to let the lesson sink in and then he resumed.

“The Gillyhooly bird is a perfect owl for wisdom of that sort,” he said. “It never lets anybody know what it thinks; it never makes promises, and rarely speaks except to mystify people. It probably has just as decided an opinion concerning giraffes as you or I have, but it never lets anybody into the secret.”

“What is a Gillyhooly bird, anyhow?” asked Diavolo.

“He’s a bird that never sings for fear of straining his voice; never flies for fear of wearying his wings; never eats for fear of spoiling his digestion; never stands up for fear of bandying his legs and never lies down for fear of injuring his spine,” said Mr. Munchausen. “He has no feathers, because, as he says, if he had, people would pull them out to trim hats with, which would be painful, and he never goes into debt because, as he observes himself, he has no hope of paying the bill with which nature has endowed him, so why run up others?”

“I shouldn’t think he’d live long if he doesn’t eat?” suggested Angelica.

“That’s the great trouble,” said Mr. Munchausen. “He doesn’t live long. Nothing so ineffably wise as the Gillyhooly bird ever does live long. I don’t believe a Gillyhooly bird ever lived more than a day, and that, connected with the fact that he is very ugly and keeps himself out of sight, is possibly why no one has ever seen one. He is known only by hearsay, and as a matter of fact, besides ourselves, I doubt if any one has ever heard of him.”

Diavolo eyed Mr. Munchausen narrowly.

“Speaking of Gillyhooly birds, however, and to be serious for a moment,” Mr. Munchausen continued flinching nervously under Diavolo’s unyielding gaze; “I never told you about the poetic June-bug that worked the typewriter, did I?”

“Never heard of such a thing,” cried Diavolo. “The idea of a June-bug working a typewriter.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Angelica, “he hasn’t got any fingers.”

“That shows all you know about it,” retorted Mr. Munchausen. “You think because you are half-way right you are all right. However, if you don’t want to hear the story of the June-bug that worked the type-writer, I won’t tell it. My tongue is tired, anyhow.”

“Please go on,” said Diavolo. “I want to hear it.”

“So do I,” said Angelica. “There are lots of stories I don’t believe that I like to hear – ‘Jack the Giant-killer’ and ‘Cinderella,’ for instance.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Munchausen. “I’ll tell it, and you can believe it or not, as you please. It was only two summers ago that the thing happened, and I think it was very curious. As you may know, I often have a great lot of writing to do and sometimes I get very tired holding a pen in my hand. When you get old enough to write real long letters you’ll know what I mean. Your writing hand will get so tired that sometimes you’ll wish some wizard would come along smart enough to invent a machine by means of which everything you think can be transferred to paper as you think it, without the necessity of writing. But as yet the only relief to the man whose hand is worn out by the amount of writing he has to do is the use of the type-writer, which is hard only on the fingers. So to help me in my work two summers ago I bought a type-writing machine, and put it in the great bay-window of my room at the hotel where I was stopping. It was a magnificent hotel, but it had one drawback – it was infested with June-bugs. Most summer hotels are afflicted with mosquitoes, but this one had June-bugs instead, and all night long they’d buzz and butt their heads against the walls until the guests went almost crazy with the noise.

“At first I did not mind it very much. It was amusing to watch them, and my friends and I used to play a sort of game of chance with them that entertained us hugely. We marked the walls off in squares which we numbered and then made little wagers as to which of the squares a specially selected June-bug would whack next. To simplify the game we caught the chosen June-bug and put some powdered charcoal on his head, so that when he butted up against the white wall he would leave a black mark in the space he hit. It was really one of the most exciting games of that particular kind that I ever played, and many a rainy day was made pleasant by this diversion.

“But after awhile like everything else June-bug Roulette as we called it began to pall and I grew tired of it and wished there never had been such a thing as a June-bug in the world. I did my best to forget them, but it was impossible. Their buzzing and butting continued uninterrupted, and toward the end of the month they developed a particularly bad habit of butting the electric call button at the side of my bed. The consequence was that at all hours of the night, hall-boys with iced-water, and house-maids with bath towels, and porters with kindling-wood would come knocking at my door and routing me out of bed – summoned of course by none other than those horrible butting insects. This particular nuisance became so unendurable that I had to change my room for one which had no electric bell in it.

“So things went, until June passed and July appeared. The majority of the nuisances promptly got out but one especially vigorous and athletic member of the tribe remained. He became unbearable and finally one night I jumped out of bed either to kill him or to drive him out of my apartment forever, but he wouldn’t go, and try as I might I couldn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. In sheer desperation I took the cover of my typewriting machine and tried to catch him in that. Finally I succeeded, and, as I thought, shook the heedless creature out of the window promptly slamming the window shut so that he might not return; and then putting the type-writer cover back over the machine, I went to bed again, but not to sleep as I had hoped. All night long every second or two I’d hear the type-writer click. This I attributed to nervousness on my part. As far as I knew there wasn’t anything to make the type-writer click, and the fact that I heard it do so served only to convince me that I was tired and imagined that I heard noises.

“The next morning, however, on opening the machine I found that the June-bug had not only not been shaken out of the window, but had actually spent the night inside of the cover, butting his head against the keys, having no wall to butt with it, and most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse which read:

 
“‘I’m glad I haven’t any brains,
For there can be no doubt
I’d have to give up butting
If I had, or butt them out.’”
 

“Mercy! Really?” cried Angelica.

“Well I can’t prove it,” said Mr. Munchausen, “by producing the June-bug, but I can show you the hotel, I can tell you the number of the room; I can show you the type-writing machine, and I have recited the verse. If you’re not satisfied with that I’ll have to stand your suspicions.”

“What became of the June-bug?” demanded Diavolo.

“He flew off as soon as I lifted the top of the machine,” said Mr. Munchausen. “He had all the modesty of a true poet and did not wish to be around while his poem was being read.”

“It’s queer how you can’t get rid of June-bugs, isn’t it, Uncle Munch,” suggested Angelica.

“Oh, we got rid of ’em next season all right,” said Mr. Munchausen. “I invented a scheme that kept them away all the following summer. I got the landlord to hang calendars all over the house with one full page for each month. Then in every room we exposed the page for May and left it that way all summer. When the June-bugs arrived and saw these, they were fooled into believing that June hadn’t come yet, and off they flew to wait. They are very inconsiderate of other people’s comfort,” Mr. Munchausen concluded, “but they are rigorously bound by an etiquette of their own. A self-respecting June-bug would no more appear until the June-bug season is regularly open than a gentleman of high society would go to a five o’clock tea munching fresh-roasted peanuts. And by the way, that reminds me I happen to have a bag of peanuts right here in my pocket.”

Here Mr. Munchausen, transferring the luscious goobers to Angelica, suddenly remembered that he had something to say to the Imps’ father, and hurriedly left them.

“Do you suppose that’s true, Diavolo?” whispered Angelica as their friend disappeared.

“Well it might happen,” said Diavolo, “but I’ve a sort of notion that it’s ’maginary like the Gillyhooly bird. Gimme a peanut.”