Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 159 1920-09-29 by Various

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Ebook has 265 lines and 17235 words, and 6 pages

Ojeeg was in the lodge.

"Oh, my father," exclaimed Omeme, "all we little creatures are so cold! The squirrel tells me there is warmth in the Sky Land. Could you not go there and bring some of its warmth to the earth?"

Ojeeg was silent for a long, long time. He loved Omeme dearly. He was sorry that Omeme was cold. But the journey to the Sky Land was long. It was full of dangers.

So Ojeeg, the Fisher, called together his neighbors, the Otter, the Beaver, the Badger, the Lynx, and the Wolverine. Long and earnestly they considered the matter, and at length they decided to undertake the journey to the Sky Land.

Upon a given day they started. It was a great adventure, and Ojeeg felt sure that he would never return to his lodge, and never again would he see the little Omeme.

For a long, long distance they traveled and at last, tired and spent with hunger, they reached the top of a very high mountain. So high it was that the sky seemed almost to rest upon it.

There they found meat and a fire, as though some traveler had left them. So they rested and were refreshed.

Then Ojeeg said to the Otter, "Now we will try to gain entrance to the Sky Land. It is just above us. Jump, and see if you cannot break through, and we will follow."

The Otter tried, but he could not jump high enough, and he fell, and slid all the way down to the foot of the mountain. So he gave up and returned to his home.

Then Ojeeg said to the Beaver, "Jump, and see if you cannot do better than the Otter." The Beaver jumped; but neither could he jump high enough, and he too fell, and slid all the way down to the bottom of the mountain. So the Beaver gave up, and returned to his home.

Then Ojeeg said to the Badger, "Jump. Let us see if you cannot do better than the Otter and the Beaver."

The Badger jumped; but neither could he jump high enough, and back he slid to the bottom of the mountain. So the Badger gave up, and returned to his home.

Then Ojeeg said to the Lynx, "Surely you are stronger than the Otter, and the Beaver, and the Badger, and you can jump farther. Try, and see if you cannot break through into the Sky Land, and we will follow."

The Lynx jumped; but neither could he break through the Sky, though he made a deep scratch upon it with one of his sharp claws; and back he slid to the bottom of the mountain. So the Lynx gave up, and returned to his home.

Then said Ojeeg to the Wolverine, "You are stronger and more agile than the others. Jump, and see if you cannot break through, and I will follow you. Do your best. You must not fail me."

The Wolverine prepared for a mighty jump. He sprang upward, and touched the Sky just where the Lynx's claw had scratched it. He broke it, and sprang through the opening.

After him sprang Ojeeg, and now they two were in the Sky Land.

It was a beautiful country. There was no snow. The winds blew softly; the air was balmy; and all about them were flowers, and grass, and singing birds.

Ojeeg stamped hard with his foot, and a great hole was made where he stamped. Down through the hole rushed the singing birds, and the warm air of the Sky Land.

Down went Spring, and after Spring went Summer, and after Summer went Autumn. But just as Autumn disappeared, Ojeeg heard a great noise and shouting, for the people of the Sky Land were coming. He knew that they would punish him for his daring.

The Wolverine slipped through the hole and followed Autumn; but before Ojeeg could follow, the Sky people came, and the hole was closed.

Ojeeg ran, but the arrows of the Sky people were swift, and overtook him.

So Ojeeg gave up his life, but he had sent warmth to all the creatures of the earth, and since that time his people have had the four seasons, instead of one unbroken season of bitter cold and snow.

The little Omeme was proud of the mighty deed of his father. He was cold no more: and he grew up to be a mighty hunter, as his father the great Ojeeg had been before him.

And when the Indians look up at the stars and see the constellation of the fish, they say, "That is Ojeeg, the Fisher, who gave the summer to his people."

BIRTH OF THE ARBUTUS

LONG years ago, when only the red men lived among the hills and valleys of the land, an old, old man sat shivering over the low fire of his tepee. The old man was Peboan. He was chief of the winter spirits.

The outside world was covered with snow. The branches of the trees bent low with its weight. The sides of the tepee were heavy with snow. All the tracks of the bear and the rabbit were hidden.

The old man shivered, and bent over his fire. He was clothed in furs, and furs covered the floor of the tepee. But they could not keep out the chill winds, for the fire was low. There was no more wood to replenish it. Snow covered all the fallen branches, and the chief was old and feeble.

Peboan had been a mighty hunter. He had killed the moose and the bear. The skins of many deer were about him. But now his hair was white as the icy fringes of the frozen brook.

He blew upon the co Just think how you'd hate to go round on your own, Especially if it was gummy, And wherever you travelled you left on a stone The horrid imprint of your tummy!

Wherever you hid, by that glutinous trail Some boring acquaintance would follow; And this is the bitter complaint of the snail Who is pestered to death by the swallow.

But remember, he carries his house on his back, And that is a wonderful power; When he goes to the sea he has nothing to pack, And he cannot be caught in a shower.

After all there is something attractive in that; And then he can move in a minute, And it's something to have such a very small flat That nobody else can get in it.

But this is what causes such numbers of snails To throw themselves into abysses:-- They are none of them born to be definite males And none of them definite misses.

They cannot be certain which one of a pair Is the Daddy and which is the Mummy; And that must be even more awful to bear Than walking about on your tummy.

A.P.H.

The unlucky age.

SEPTEMBER IN MY GARDEN.

There are few things I find so sorrowful as to sit and smoke and reflect on the splendid deeds that one might have been doing if one had only had the chance. The PRIME MINISTER feels like this, I suppose, when he remembers how unkind people have prevented him from making a land fit for heroes to live in, and I feel it about my garden. There can be no doubt that my garden is not fit for heroes to saunter in; the only thing it is fit for is to throw used matches about in; and there is indeed a certain advantage in this. Some people's gardens are so tidy that you have to stick all your used matches very carefully into the mould, with the result that next year there is a shrubbery of Norwegian pine.

The untidiness of my garden is due to the fault of the previous tenants. Nevertheless one can clearly discern through the litter of packing-cases which completely surrounds the house that there was originally a garden there.

I thought something ought to be done about this, so I bought a little book on gardening, and, turning to September, began to read.

"September," said the man, "marks the passing of summer and the advent of autumn, the time of ripening ruddy-faced fruits and the reign of a rich and gloriously-coloured flora."

About the first part of this statement I have no observation to make. It is probably propaganda, subsidised by the Meteorological Office in order to persuade us that we still have a summer; it has nothing to do with my present theme. But with regard to the ripening ruddy-faced fruits I should like to point out that in my garden there are none of these things, because the previous tenants took them all away when they left. Not a ruddy-faced fruit remains. As for the rich and gloriously-coloured flora, I lifted the edges of all the packing-cases in turn and looked for it, but it was not there either. It should have consisted, I gather, of "gorgeously-coloured dahlias, gay sunflowers, Michaelmas daisies, gladioli and other autumn blossoms, adding brightness and gaiety to our flower-garden."

But what was even more bitter to me than all this ruin and desolation was the thought of the glorious deeds I might have been doing if the garden had been all right. Phrases from the book kept flashing to my eye.

"Thoroughly scrub the base and sides of the pots, and see that the drainage-holes are not sealed with soil." How it thrilled the blood!

"Damp the floors and staging every morning and afternoon, and see that the compost is kept uniformly moist." What a fascinating pursuit!

"Feed the plants once a week with liquid manure." It went like a clarion call to the heart.

"Wooden trays with open lath bottoms made to slide into a framework afford the best means of storing apples and pears. The ripening of pears may be accelerated by enclosing them in bran or dry clean sand in a closed tin box." It did not say how often one was to clean out the cage, nor whether you put groundsel between the bars.

I told the man next door of my sorrows.

"Well, there 's plenty to do," he said. "Get a spade and dig the garden all over."

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