The Garden of the Plynck | Page 8

on purpose to
lead you on. And not many are placed, as this one seemed to be, in the
middle of a sort of amphitheatre, with distant mountains rising like
walls about it, golden and pansy-colored, a million miles away. The
space that lay between the hedge and the mountain-walls seemed to be
filled with sunrises and sunsets, like the Grand Canyon. I said, all
around; but, really, the walls of the amphitheatre didn't quite meet. On
one side, over the hedge, Sara could see a marble balcony, with
box-trees in vases on the balustrades; and beyond and beneath it there
was Nothing--Nothing-at-All. Sometimes, as Sara afterward learned,
the sun came to that place to set; but usually it was too lonesome, and
he set nearer the Garden.
You may well imagine that it was not easy for Sara to look cross in
such a strange, delicious place. But she knew she owed it to the poor
little Zizz, so she tried with all her might to think only of fractions and
asparagus. (Her mother had an obstinate conviction that that, too, was
good for children.)
They were all so interested in listening to the deepening blueness of the
sound the Zizz made that they kept quite still. Suddenly Schlorge
thought of something.
"Where's the Snimmy?" he asked, sharply.
"He's gone with his wife to bathe the Snoodle," answered the Echo of
the Plynck. "They have to bathe it every three days, you know, in castor
oil. That's what keeps it white. And there isn't any here."

"Thank goodness!" thought Sara, who had nearly jumped off the stump
at the sound of those baleful syllables. It would be good to think of,
anyhow, she decided; and as she thought of it, the wings of the Zizz
began to dry so fast that they fairly sang. And suddenly it zizzed right
out of Schlorge's forceps and went buzzing straight off to the flowery
hedge.
"Well!" said Schlorge, with much satisfaction, "that's over." Then, as
Sara's face twinkled into smiles, he added, excitedly, "Bless my
bellows! She's still got on her dimples! Won't you learn, Sara? Course I
didn't notice 'em while you frowned. Come, now--"
"And it's time for the Snimmy to be back," interrupted the Teacup, who
had fluttered down and perched on the edge of the moon-dial to see
what time it was. "They said they'd only be gone two hours."
"Then there's no time to lose," said Schlorge. He pressed Sara's
shoe-button decidedly and she floated softly down upon the blue plush,
like a milk-weed seed in the fall. And then Schlorge deftly took off her
dimples--it felt very funny to have them removed with the forceps--and
put them in the dimple-holder where they belonged. Then, drawing a
deep breath, he rubbed his hands and smiled at her, saying, "What's the
next thing you'd like to do?"
Sara saw that, though he was still rather bashful, Schlorge had taken a
great fancy to her. It pleased her very much; he was such a useful and
accommodating person. While she was trying to decide which one of
several places she would ask him to show to her, the Plynck remarked,
gently,
"Avrillia's at home."
Avrillia--that was it! Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no
harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder,
and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only
jarred them a little. It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned to
work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them.
But it didn't worry her. Avrillia--that was it. She had come this time

especially to see Avrillia.
"Do you know where she lives?" she asked Schlorge.
"Avrillia? I should say so. Everybody knows Avrillia. At least I know
her to speak to. As to what goes on inside of her, I can't say. She's
queer. She writes poetry, you know."
"But she's nice?" asked Sara anxiously.
"Oh, she's pleasant-spoken," said Schlorge, "and pretty. Some like her,
and some don't. The Plynck, here," he spoke respectfully, though
dissentingly, "thinks the sun rises and sets in her. For myself, I like
folks of a more sensible turn."
"Even fairies?" asked Sara, half inclined to protest.
For the first time Schlorge was almost rude to her. "Well, do you take
me for a human? And I can do something besides write poetry on
rose-leaves." He replaced the forceps in his hair with obvious
professional pride--and, of course, when he put them in in that way,
they stayed.
But Sara echoed delightedly, "On rose-leaves?"
"Well, go and see her, then," said Schlorge, ungraciously. Then,
relenting a little, "Come on, I'll take you--if you're stuck on
verse-writing females."
He took Sara by the hand, and of course his hand was kinder than his
voice.