英文故事THE BLUE CROAKER

英文故事THE BLUE CROAKER, THE BRIGHT AGATE, AND THE LITTLE GRAY MIG
It is odd about Grownups—how mistaken they can be, how sadly mistaken. Now for instance, they will insist there are only four seasons when, as every one who has lived in Boyland knows, there are scores more than that.
There’s
Sled-time;
Ball-time;
Marble-time;
Top-time;
Kite-time;
Garden-time;
Hay-time;
Harvest-time;
Grape-time;
Nut-time;
Pumpkin-Pie-time;
and
a time
for

 
Hunting strawberries, elderberries, or red rasps; for orioles to move, for shad to run, and to go bobbin’ for eels; and a whole lot of other famous seasons as well, all happy ones, and too many to count, at least on one set of fingers and toes.
Any American boy will tell you this and—what is more to the point—prove it, too. And so can the Toyman, for, though he is six feet tall, and wears suspenders and long pants, and shaves and all that, he can get down on his knees in the good old brown earth and cry, “Knuckles down!,” with the youngest.

Well, then, it was—not Spring, as the grownups would say—but Marble-time—midway between Kite-time and the Time for Red Strawberries, which comes in June.
One day, at the very beginning of this sunny season, the Toyman came back from town. And as usual the children gathered around him. There was no delay, no dilly-dallying, as there was when kindlings were called for. It was funny to see how quickly they could gather when they heard the wheels come up the drive. Somehow their particular creak was different from that of any other wheels—and the children could tell it long before ever the wagon came in sight.
When they were younger, the children used to ask a question just as the reins fell over the dashboard and the Toyman jumped to the ground.

“What have you got for me, Toyman?” it always was.
But not now, for Mother had explained it was very bad manners. And Jehosophat and Marmaduke were trying hard to be “Little Gentlemen,” and to show Hepzebiah a “Good Example.”
Of course, just as Mother had expected, when she suggested all this, Marmaduke asked,—
“But how can a girl be a Little Gentleman?”
Mother made it clear.

“Well hardly,” she said, “we wouldn’t want her to be just that, but by being a Little Gentleman you can teach her to be a Little Lady.”
It was hard sometimes, and once in a while the boys didn’t think the Little Gentleman game quite so attractive. However, they remembered it pretty well, considering. And today they didn’t ask any rude questions, but just waited, though they danced on their toes.
This time he led them all into the kitchen without saying a word.
And then!!!—one after another he took from his pockets little round things—marbles, of course, of all sorts and sizes and colors.

“My!” exclaimed Marmaduke, “there’s most a hundred.”
And there was, sixty, to be exact. Twenty-seven little ones, colored like clay; six big ones of brown, with spots on them like the dapplings on horses; and six of blue dappled the same way; nine big glass ones with pink and blue streaks like the colorings in Mother’s marble cake; nine made of china; and three—one for each—of the beautiful agates—one of dark red and cream, one dark blue and cream, and one that was mostly pink.
“Now,” said Mother, when he had tumbled all the beautiful marbles out on the table, “you’ve got me in trouble, Frank.”

But she didn’t mean that. No, indeed. It was all said in fun. They said so many things in fun in the White House with the Green Blinds by the Side of the Road. So she got out her needle and thread, some pieces of flannel, and began.
She made three little bags, each with draw strings. On one she sewed a red J; on the second a blue M; on the third a pink H. You can probably guess for whom each was meant.
By this time it was too dark to see. Mother lit the lamp and started supper. And of course they ate it—they seldom skipped that of their own free will—but after it was over, the Toyman kneeled down on the floor, and Father got down on the floor, too, and they played marbles on the rag rug.
That was pretty nice and interesting, but they looked forward to the real game in the morning, for the real game must be played, not on a rug, but on the good brown earth.
Again the Toyman took a little, oh, just a little time from his work—that is, he meant to, but it turned out a longer “spell” than he had intended.
First they sorted the marbles. And when the sorting was over, each had nine of the little gray ones, which the Toyman told them were called “Migs”; two of the dappled brown ones which he said were “Croakers”; and two of the blue; three “Chineys”; three “Glasseys” with the pink and blue streaks; and one each of the most beautiful of all,—the agates. The blue and cream-colored agate Marmaduke took to match the blue M on his bag; Jehosophat the reddest one to match his letter J; and Hepzebiah the agate that looked most like a strawberry—almost pink it was, like her letter H.
These last beautiful ones, their old friend informed them, were agates, but had other names.
“They called them ‘Pures’ when I was a boy,” he remarked, “but in some places they called ‘em ‘Reals,’ just as in some cities they say pink is for boys and blue for girls, and in some the other way round.”
And don’t let any one tell you this question of “Reals” and “Pures” isn’t important, for it is, surely as much so as “hazards” and “simple honors” which the grownups are forever discussing. In fact this matter of “Reals” and “Pures” was one that had to be settled at once. And Jehosophat settled it.

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