Half-Past Seven Stories | Page 2

his acquaintance at any time--but the sooner
the better, for, as all who know him will tell you, he's worth knowing.
His name is Frank Clarke, but his real name isn't really as real as the
one the children gave him,--"the Toyman." For he is forever making
them things,--kites and tops, and sleds and boats, and jokes and
happiness and laughter.
His face is as brown as saddle leather, with a touch of apple red in it
from the sun. There are creases in it, too, because he laughs and jokes
so much. Sometimes when he appears to be solemn you want to laugh
most, for he's only pretending to be solemn. And, best of all, if you hurt
yourself, or if your pet doggie hurts himself, the Toyman will know
how to fix it, to "make it all well" again.
The Three Happy Children love him. That's what we always call them,
though they, too, have other names--funny ones, you will
think,--Jehosophat, Marmaduke, and Hepzebiah Green, but they are
family names and came from some very old uncles and aunts.
They still live in the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of
the Road--that is, when they aren't sliding down hill, or fishing in the
Pond, or riding on the hay, or to town with the Toyman and Ole
Methusaleh. Mother and Father are still there. Home wouldn't be home
without them. And they have many playmates and friends--of all sorts
--two-legged and four-legged, in serge and corduroy, in feathers and
fur.

[Illustration: "When they aren't riding on the hay, or to town with the
Toyman and Ole Methusaleh."]
What they all did, the fun they had, and the trouble they got in and out
of, you'll find if you turn these pages.
One thing more--a secret--in absolute confidence, though.--After all, it
isn't really so very necessary to read these stories at _Half-Past Seven_.
You can read them, or be read to, "any ole time," as the Toyman used
to say--Monday morning, Thursday noon, or Saturday night--as long as
it doesn't interfere with those lessons.
Still, the very best time is at twilight in summer when the lights and the
fireflies begin to twinkle through the dusk, or in the winter around the
fire just before you go to bed--with Father or Mother--or the Toyman.
* * * * *
P.S.--
The Toyman says to send his love and "The Top o' the Morning."

I
THE LITTLE LOST FOX
Marmaduke was sitting on the fence. He wasn't thinking of anything in
particular, just looking around. Jehosophat called to him from the
barnyard,--
"Come'n an' play 'I spy.'"
But Marmaduke only grumbled,--
"Don't want to."
"Well, let's play 'Cross Tag' then," Jehosophat suggested.

"Don't want to," repeated his brother again, not very politely.
Jehosophat thought for a moment, then he suggested something
worth-while:
"I'll tell you what, let's play 'Duck-on-the-Rock.'"
Now as every boy in the world--at least in America--knows, that is a
wonderful game, but Marmaduke only said very crossly,--
"I don't want to play any of your ol' games." Now when Marmaduke
acted that way there must have been something the matter. Perhaps he
had gobbled down his oatmeal too fast--in great big gulps--when he
should have let the Thirty White Horses "champ, champ, champ," all
those oats. They were cooked oats, but then the Thirty White Horses,
unlike Teddy and Hal and ole Methusaleh, prefer cooked oats to raw.
Perhaps he had eaten a green apple. Sometimes he did that, and the tart
juice puckered his mouth all up, and--what was worse--puckered his
stomach all up, too.
Any way, he felt tired and out-of-sorts; tired of his toys, tired of all the
games, even such nice ones as "Duck-on-the-rock" and "Red Rover."
There was nothing to do but sit on the fence.
Still, the world looked pretty nice from up there. It always looked more
interesting from a high place, and sometimes it gave you an excited
feeling. Of course, the big elm was a better perch, or the roof of the
barn, and Marmaduke often wondered what it would be like to see the
world from a big balloon, but the fence was good enough. It curved up
over a little hill, and he could see lots of the world from there.
He looked over towards the West, where the Sun marched into his barn
every night. Fatty Hamm declared that the Sun kept a garage behind
that hill, but Marmaduke insisted it was a barn, for he liked horses best,
and the Sun must drive horses. There was a real hill there, not little like
the one where he sat on the fence, but a big one, 'most as big as a

mountain, Marmaduke thought. Sometimes it was green, and
sometimes grey or blue,