jimmieboy was thinking very hard. he was also blinking quite as hard because he was undeniably sleepy. his father had been reading something to his mamma about a curious thing that lived up in the sky called a comet. jimmieboy had never seen a comet, nor indeed before that had he even heard of one, so of course his ideas as to what it looked like were rather confused. his father's description of it was clear enough, perhaps, but nevertheless jimmieboy found it difficult to conjure up in his mind any reasonable creature that could in any way resemble a comet. finally, however, he made up his mind that it must look like a queer kind of a dog with nothing but a head and a tail—or perhaps it was a sort of fiery pollywog.
at any rate, while he thought and blinked,[pg 147] what should he see peeping in at him through the window but the comet itself. jimmieboy knew it was the comet because the comet told him so afterward, and besides it wore a placard suspended about its neck which had printed on it in great gold letters: "i'm the comet. come out and take a ride through the sky with me."
"me?" cried jimmieboy, starting up as soon as he had read the invitation.
immediately the word "yes" appeared on the placard and jimmieboy walked over to the window and stepping right through the glass as though it were just so much air, found himself seated upon the comet's back, and mounting to the sky so fast that his hair stood out behind him like so many pieces of stiff wire.
"are you comfortable?" asked the comet, after a few minutes.
"yes," said jimmieboy, "only you kind of dazzle my eyes. you are so bright."
the comet appeared to be very much pleased at this remark, for he smiled so broadly that jimmieboy could see the two ends of his mouth appear on either side of the back of his neck.
"you're right about that," said the comet. "i'm the brightest thing there ever was. i'm all the time getting off jokes and things."
[pg 148]
"are you really?" cried jimmieboy, delighted. "i am so glad, for i love jokes and—and things. get off a joke now, will you?"
"certainly," replied the obliging comet. "you don't know why the moon is called she, do you?"
"no," said jimmieboy. "why is it?"
"because it isn't a sun, so it must be a daughter," said the comet. "isn't that funny?"
"i guess so," said jimmieboy, trying to look as if he thought the joke a good one. "but don't you know anything funnier than that?"
"yes," returned the comet. "what do you think of this: what is the only thing you can crack without splitting it?"
"that sounds interesting," said jimmieboy, "but i'm sure i never could guess."
"why, it's a joke, of course," said the comet. "you can crack a joke eight times a day and it's as whole as it ever was when night comes."
"that's so," said jimmieboy. "that's funnier than the other, too. i see now why they call you a comic."
"i'm not a comic," said the comet, with a laugh at jimmieboy's mistake. "i'm a comet. i end with a t like the days when you have dinner in the afternoon. they end with a tea, don't they?"
[pg 149]
"that's the best, yet," roared jimmieboy. "if you give me another like that i may laugh harder and fall off, so i guess you'd better hadn't."
"how would you like to hear some of my poetry?" asked the comet. "i'm a great writer of poetry, i can tell you. i won a prize once for writing more poetry in an hour than any other comet in school."
"i'm very fond of it," said jimmieboy. "specially when it don't make sense."
"that's the kind i like, too," agreed the comet. "i never can understand the other kind. i've got a queer sort of a head. i can't understand sense, but nonsense is as clear to me as—well as turtle soup. ever see any turtle soup?"
"no," said jimmieboy, "but i've seen turtles."
"well, turtle soup is a million times clearer than turtles, so maybe you can get some idea of what i mean."
"yes," said jimmieboy. "i think i do. nonsense poetry is like a window to you. you can see through it in a minute."
"exactly," said the comet. "only nonsense poetry hasn't any glass in it, so it isn't exactly like a window to me after all."
[pg 150]
"well, anyhow," put in jimmieboy. "let's have some of the poetry."
"very good," said the comet. "here goes. it's about an animal named the speeler, and it's called 'the speeler's lament.'
"oh, many years ago,
when jack and jill were young,
there wandered to and fro,
along the glistening snow,
a speeler, much unstrung.
"i asked the speeler why
he looked so mortal sad?
he gazed into my eye,
and then he made reply,
in language very bad,
"'i'm sad,' said he, 'because
a speeler true i be;
and yet, despite my jaws,
my wings, and beak, and claws,
despite my manners free,
"'despite my feathers fine,
my voice so soft and sweet,
my truly fair outline,
my very handsome spine,
and massive pair of feet,
"'in all this world of space—
on foot, on fin, on wing—
from nature's top to base,
there never was a trace
[pg 151]of any such strange thing.
"'and it does seem to me—
indeed it truly does—
'tis dreadful, sir, to be,
as you can plainly see,
a thing that never was!'"
"what's a speeler?" said jimmieboy.
"it isn't anything. there isn't any such thing as a speeler and that's what made this particular speeler feel so badly," said the comet. "i know i'd feel that way myself. it must be dreadful to be something that isn't. i was sorry after i had written that poem and created the poor speeler because it doesn't seem right to create a thing just for the sake of making it unhappy to please people who like poetry of that kind."
"i'm afraid it was a sensible poem," said jimmieboy. "because, really, mr. comet, i can't understand it."
"well, let me try you on another then, and take away the taste of that one. how do you like this. it's called 'wobble doo, the squaller.'
"the wobble doo was fond of pie,
he also loved peach jam.
but what most pleased his eagle eye,
was pickled cakes and ham.
"but when, perchance, he got no cake,
jam, ham, or pie at all,
he'd sit upon a garden rake,
[pg 152]and squall, and squall, and squall.
"and as these never came his way,
this hero of my rhyme,
i really do regret to say,
was squalling all the time."
"your poems are all sad, aren't they?" said jimmieboy. "couldn't you have let wobble doo have just a little bit of cake and jam?"
"no. it was impossible," replied the comet, sadly, "i couldn't afford it. i did all i could for him in writing the poem. seems to me that was enough. it brought him glory, and glory is harder to get than cakes and peach jam ever thought of being. perhaps you'll like this better:
"abadee sollaker hollaker moo,
carraway, sarraway mollaker doo—
hobledy, gobbledy, sassafras sam,
taramy, faramy, aramy jam."
"i don't understand it at all," said jimmieboy. "what language is it in?"
"one i made up myself," said the comet, gleefully. "and it's simply fine. i call it the cometoo language. nobody knows anything about it except myself, and i haven't mastered it yet—but my! it's the easiest language in the world to write poetry in. all you have to do is to go right ahead and make up words to suit yourself,[pg 153] and finding rhyme is no trouble at all when you do that."
"but what's the good of it?" asked jimmieboy.
"oh, it has plenty of advantages," said the comet, shaking his head wisely. "in the first place if you have a language all your own, that nobody else knows, nobody else can write a poem in it. you have the whole field to yourself. just think how great a man would be if he was the only one to understand english and write poetry in it. he'd get all the money that ever was paid for english poetry, which would be a fortune. it would come to at least $800, which is a good deal of money, considering."
"considering what?" asked jimmieboy.
"considering what it would bring if wisely invested," said the comet. "did you ever think of what $800 was worth in peanuts, for instance."
jimmieboy laughed at the idea of spending $800 in peanuts, and then he said: "no, i never thought anything about it. what is it worth in peanuts?"
"well," said the comet, scratching his head with his tail, "it's a very hard bit of arithmetic, but, i'll try to write it out for you. peanuts, you know, cost ten cents a quart."
"do they?" said jimmieboy. "i never bought a[pg 154] whole quart at once. i've only paid five cents a pint."
"well, five cents a pint is english for ten cents a quart," said the comet, "and in $800 there are eight thousand ten centses, so that you could get eight thousand quarts of peanuts for $800. now every quart of peanuts holds about fifty peanut shellfuls, so that eight thousand quarts of peanuts equal four hundred thousand peanuts shellfuls. each peanut shell holds two small nuts so that in four hundred thousand of them there are eight hundred thousand nuts."
"phe-e-ew!" whistled jimmieboy. "what a feast."
"yes," said the comet, "but just you wait. suppose you ate one of these nuts a minute, do you know how long it would take you, eating eight hours a day, to eat up the whole lot?"
"no," said jimmieboy, beginning to feel a little awed at the wondrous possibilities of $800 in peanuts.
"four years, six months, three weeks and six days, and you'd have to eat sundays to get through it in that time," said the comet. "in soda water it would be quite as awful and in peppermint sticks at two cents a foot it would[pg 155] bring you a stick forty thousand feet, or more than seven miles long."
"isn't $800 wonderful," said jimmieboy, overcome by the mere thought of so much peppermint candy.
"yes—but really i am much more wonderful when you think of me. you haven't been on my back more than ten minutes and yet in that time i have taken you all around the world," said the comet.
"all the way!" said jimmieboy.
"yes," said the comet, stopping suddenly. "here we are back at your window again."
"but i didn't see china, and i wanted to," said the boy.
"can't help it," said the comet. "you had your chance, but you preferred to talk about poetry and peanuts. it isn't my fault. off with you, now."
and then the comet bucked like a wild western broncho, and as jimmieboy went over his head through the window and landed plump in his papa's lap, the queer creature with the fiery tail flew off into space.
