编辑故事

故事标题 *

所属国家/地区 * (可选择多个，适用于历史区域如朝鲜半岛)

澳大利亚

语言版本

出处/来源

故事摘要

主题标签

主要角色

故事正文 *

CHAPTER I. baron thimble.

A winter night, with a thick fog rising above the Sandridge marshes,
and spreading itself over the city of Melbourne. People released from
toil were hurrying home to tea and a pleasant fireside. Others, who
neither toil nor spin, and had no home or fireside, glided slowly and
noiselessly through the mist like ghosts, or stood shivering before the
damp window-panes or lit-up shops and dining-rooms, feasting their
hungry eyes on the good things within.

Business in the city was very dull, and money very scarce. Money is
scarce at all times with a great many mortals, I am aware, but the
present depression was felt everywhere throughout the colony.

Tom Brock, the barber, standing in his little shop at the corner of
Gertrude Street Fitzroy, felt the hardness of the times as keenly as
any member of the community, inasmuch as Tom had a large family of
growing children to provide for, and customers had been anything but
numerous of late. Indeed, the poor shaver was beginning to think that
the primeval fashion of suffering the hair and beard to grow in wild
luxuriance on the heads and faces of his race had become the order of
the day, and from henceforth he could exclaim with Shakespeare’s
gallant Moor—“Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

On this winter night the barber was alone in his shop, busy stropping
his razors for want of more lucrative employment. Like most of his
craft, Tom Brock was a great talker. It was part and parcel of his
stock-in-trade; and, by the way, it is wonderful to note upon what a
variety of subjects barbers can talk. Our hero was no exception to the
rule in this respect. Having no one in the place to engage in
conversation, he ceased stropping, and gazing into the large mirror
opposite, addressed himself to what he saw there with charming irony in
his tone.

“You’re a handsome fellow, Tom Brock, a very pretty fellow indeed. Only
I’m afraid looks won’t go for much in this case. Here you are from
eight o’clock this morning, and you’ve almost earned one and sixpence,
according to the multiplication table. Just fancy this grand sum of
eighteen pence per diem, sir, for the maintenance of eleven
persons—father, mother, and nine young Brocks, whose appetites this
cold weather are something to astonish Soyer the Frenchman. Don’t smile
at me, sir; I’m in no humour for jesting. Humph! how foolish to try and
quarrel with one’s shadow! Yet I’ve known men do that, before
to-night.”

He settled himself down with a sigh in the easy chair, and crossed his
legs one over the other. “I wonder if the portrait and the
superscription of Her Majesty the Queen is still upon the coinage of
this realm?” continued the barber, speaking at the image in the mirror.
“It’s such a time since I handled a golden coin that, upon my life, I
almost forget what they are like; perhaps that is the reason why I feel
such an uncontrollable desire to look upon one at this moment. Nay, not
one, but several—in short, several hundreds. Pooh, what rubbish you’re
talking, Tom Brock, you penniless rascal!”

The poor barber smiled at the idea of the thing, and the fellow in the
mirror smiled in company. “Ready cash is a very handy thing to have at
one’s command, especially when it is urgently needed, as in my case,”
said Tom, looking sternly at his reflection. “I’ve often heard fellows
sneer at money, and call it strange names; yet I’ve noted that these
same revilers were always mighty eager to gather it in when they have
had an opportunity. Moreover, I——”

Brock the barber paused suddenly in his soliloquy; for he beheld within
the radius of the looking-glass another form besides the reflection of
himself. A little man, with a peculiar cast of face and features, stood
behind the chair, with his arms akimbo, and his old-looking head on one
side, listening greedily to the barber’s utterances.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Tom, starting to his feet. “Cold night?”

The little man only grinned like a monkey in reply.

“Shave, or hair cut, sir?” asked the barber, rubbing his lean hands
with professional expectancy.

“Shave?” echoed the customer in a voice like a croaking raven. “Do I
look as if I wanted shaving? No man shall take me by the nose, and I
know you can’t shave without doing that.”

“No offence, sir. Shall I cut your hair?”

“Yes, Tom Brock. Cut it short, very short.” And the wee fellow chuckled
heartily as he divested himself of a cloak, in which he had been
wrapped from head to heel, and seated himself in the chair before the
mirror. The new-comer, although very small for his age, was quite cool
and self-possessed. He gave all manner of directions respecting the
mode in which he required his hair trimmed, made faces at the glass,
and laughed at the grimaces reflected there.

Tom Brock had had many queer customers during the twelve years he had
been in business, but he had never seen such a quaint, small mite of a
man as this one before him. In fixing the wrapper about his shoulders
Tom could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at the colour and
texture of his companion’s apparel. Of what material were they
composed—cloth, tweed, silk, cotton? No; mortal warp or weft never
manufactured such fabrics. Some other agency—subtle and mysterious as
many unexplained things we see around us—had perchance woven these
articles. For in this lower world there are cloaks much less
substantial than a fairy’s jerkin—cloaks for which Dr. Johnson and his
followers have been unable to find a name, but which are indispensable
to many of us in our daily lives.

Had the barber been less engaged in taking stock of the manner and
appearance of his strange customer, he might have discovered at once
that to shorten this fellow’s hair was an utter impossibility, for as
fast as the keen scissors severed the long, yellow locks the particles
became instantly attached again. The barber’s eyes were too intent
watching the grimaces in the mirror to observe the startling fact.

“Been long in the colony, sir?” insinuated he, by way of opening a
conversation.

The wee man chuckled mightily, and narrowly escaped having a portion of
his ear severed by the barber’s sharp scissors.

“I know the colony, Tom Brock,” he replied. “No one better. Ha, ha!”

The hairdresser was staggered, but he came again to the charge.

“Beautiful hair, yours, sir, fine and soft as silk. It doesn’t seem to
be much shorter, after all I’ve cut off.”

“Cut it short, Tom. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Very dull times, sir,” said Tom, not relishing his customer’s
disagreeable laugh.

“It’s very dull indeed for you, Tom Brock,” answered the wee man, with
a knowing leer.

“Why for me, sir?”

“Because the lease of your shop expires next Monday, Tom, and you
haven’t a penny saved to renew it. That’s why,” responded the customer
quietly.

Some people when they are astonished can be tumbled over with a
feather, but it would have taken a blow from a large stick to have
knocked our hero down. He appeared rooted to the boards, and his eyes
and mouth opened considerably.

“Very good, sir. You’re a wizard. Perhaps you have no objection to tell
me what I had for dinner to-day!” ejaculated Tom, when he found the use
of his tongue.

“Not in the least. You hadn’t anything, my friend. Your mind was not
upon eating to-day, but rather the consideration of where boots for the
children are to come from—a bonnet for Mrs. B. likewise, the cash for
your business, eh? Care has taken away your appetite, Tom. Ha, ha! I
know. No one knows better than Thimble. That’s me.”

The comb and scissors fell from the barber’s hand to the floor.

“Want to know anything else, Tom Brock?” asked the visitor.

“Nothing more, thank ye,” replied the barber in a bewildered tone.

“Listen to me, then.” And the little fellow faced about in the chair.
“I am Baron Thimble, of Faydell Twilight. Ours is a vast kingdom in the
centre of Australia, of which very little is known by man. The
Anglo-Saxon has penetrated into every corner of the known globe, and
thrust his inquisitive nose into the socket of the North Pole, but he
has never set foot in the land of Twilight. Now I need your services,
Tom Brock, and if you will promise to go with me, I will reward you
handsomely.”

“Twilight,” repeated Brock thoughtfully. “I never heard mention of such
a country before.”

“I trow not,” replied Baron Thimble, smiling. “Nevertheless, it is a
great realm, whose people have often visited these cities, reared on
the sea border. Thou art poor, and in need, and faith, I repeat, I have
need of thee.”

“How long will you require me?”

“For just one moon. No more.”

“And the reward?” inquired Tom eagerly.

“Two hundred golden coins.”

“Thank you, I am at your service. Stop! Is Twilight far away, Baron
Thimble?”

“Yes, but our conveyance will be swift and safe. Thou wilt go?”

“With the greatest pleasure, sir.”

“Enough! Here are one hundred sovereigns in part payment of my
promise.” And the Twilight nobleman drew forth a heavy purse and
counted the money into the barber’s palm. “Go home at once and bank the
money with thy wife; then meet me afterwards on the right bank of the
river Yarra, beyond the Lunatic Asylum. You understand?”

And the Baron, chuckling to himself, folded his poncho about his
person, and strode out at the doorway.

Tom Brock could hardly believe but that the whole affair had been a
joke. There lay the money, though. That was real enough. And he felt it
was no joke to have it in his possession. So he packed up his shaving
appliances in a bag, closed his shop, and went home to his better half.

CHAPTER II. prince picnic.

The inhabitants of Twilight have a more facile means of transition than
the sons of men. While we have our steamboats, railways, telegraphs,
and all other nurslings of science as our slaves, the races of the dim
region can command the services of the powerful Air King Fancy. Swifter
is he than the Wind, and stronger than the fabled Griffin of the
Ancients. He can accommodate any number and all manner of travellers at
a moment’s notice.

Baron Thimble, standing by the Yarra bank, invoked the rapid harbinger
to his aid, and when Tom Brock the barber joined him there, they were
fully prepared to start on their voyage.

“Humbug-loo-boo! Tictoleroo! Pish-bosh! Fudge!” cried the son of
Twilight, and they were off. The electrical current, girdling the
storm-tossed waters, where ships are broken and engulfed, could not
outpace the conveyance of the fairy and the barber. The most elegant
saloon could not afford more comfort than those trance-stuffed cushions
upon which they reclined and gazed out upon the newly brightened
landscape.

Then the fairy man spoke and unfolded his mission.

“I am the Baron Thimble. Know, O mortal, that the wise Prince Picnic is
Ruler and Governor of Twilight. The Prince hath a beautiful daughter
named Bi-ba-be-bi, which in the language of the country implies the
Lady Lollypop. Twelve months ago, while the Prince was hunting in the
Leap Frog Mountains, he was made prisoner by a huge, powerful chief of
the Baboon country, named Gorilla, who demanded the Prince’s daughter
in marriage, as ransom. My master consented to the terms, but begged
that Gorilla would not press his suit for the space of one year and a
day, so that Bi-ba-be-bi might be prepared for the ceremony. The
monster agreed. And now, the time specified having elapsed, the horrid
creature has crossed the mountains to demand his bride.”

The voice of Baron Thimble trembled with emotion as he continued:
“Prince Picnic is full of sorrow, for he cannot think of suffering his
lovely daughter to mate with such a monster as Gorilla. Bribes have
been offered, gold and silver and gems, besides a large tract of
territory known as Shadowsflit, bordering on our country, but the
monster will have nothing in lieu of the lady.”

“Why don’t you call out the volunteers, and drive the beast back into
the mountains?” inquired the barber.

“Ah, there lies the difficulty,” answered Thimble. “The Governor of
Twilight has never broken his word to man or monster, and he will not
go from it in this instance. The nobles and churchmen have tried to
persuade him that, under the circumstances, he is not bound to redeem
his word with Gorilla; but he will not listen to our advice, and I’m
afraid the lovely girl, Lady Lollypop, will be sacrificed.”

“What is the Baboon chief like?” asked the barber.

“Tall as a giant, and as strong as a dozen giants combined,” replied
his companion. “The Prince quartered him in the summer palace, and the
rogue has almost torn it down piecemeal. He has eaten up the shrubs and
flowers, and destroyed every animal within his reach.”

“Has Lady Lollypop seen her affianced husband?”

“No; poor Bi-ba-be-bi remains as yet in blissful ignorance of the fact,
yet to-morrow the whole matter must be made known to her, except——” and
the Baron paused, and looked fixedly at Tom Brock.

“Except what?” said the barber.

“Except you aid us,” rejoined the fairy. “We held a Council
yesterday—Gaboon, the Prince’s jester, being President. The Chairman,
who understands the manners, customs, and language of Gorilla-land,
stated that this monster was not in his opinion a real native Gorilla,
inasmuch as the beings of the Baboon regions had only four toes,
whereas the visitor had five; further, in conversing with the intended
husband of the fair Bi-ba-be-bi, he had discovered that the creature
spoke the language of the country with a strong foreign accent—these,
together with other matters he did not wish at that meeting to
particularise, induced him (the Chairman) to conclude that the monster
was other than what he appeared, and that the only way to test the
truth or otherwise of his suggestion, with reference to the unwelcome
guest, would be to engage a smart barber to shave the Gorilla from head
to heel. I need scarcely add that the proposition of the President was
unanimously agreed to. And here you are!”

Wee Baron Thimble chuckled and rubbed his hands together until the
joints cracked again.

“Why, you surely didn’t engage me to shave a Gorilla?” cried the poor
barber in astonishment.

“I certainly did, Tom Brock.”

“What! All over—body and all?” inquired he, with starting eyeballs.

“Body, head and feet, Tom. Wherever there is a hair you must cut it
off,” replied Thimble.

“Well, I’ve often heard of a pig being shaved, but never a Gorilla.
What do you want to shave the beast for, eh?”

The Baron remained thoughtful for a moment ere he replied. “It will be
a sure test to prove whether this monster is really the chief of the
Baboon realm or not,” he said. “If he is not, so much the better for
Lollypop, and if he is the real Simon Pure, his enormous strength will
depart with his heavy coat. He will become docile, and we can then
dress him as becomes the bridegroom of a Princess. That is the opinion
of Gaboon.”

“Bother Gaboon!” cried the barber. “I only wish the President of the
Council had to shave the creature, that’s all.”

“There are no barbers in Twilight,” answered Thimble; “else I had not
come to thee; besides, thou hast received thy reward.”

“This monster may kill me,” replied Tom.

“True. Then again he may not. Come, man, whatever thou may’st value
thyself at shall be paid to thee when thy task is ended. Great results
hang upon thy skill and on the keen edge of thy tools. Although shaving
is unknown here, there is a potent influence about it amongst thy race,
whether it may be upon their faces or upon their consciences. Here we
are at the mansion of Prince Picnic.”

A charming edifice rises to view, nestling its gables and turrets
’midst clouds of richest foliage, upon whose glistening tops rest every
shade of green, with brown and russet and yet a colour of amber
between, encircling the wave like hills in the distance. Kingdom of
Twilight! how I love thee! Not as a stranger do I enter thy gates. I
have been here before, long, long ago, when the years were young and
full of promise for me; when she was by my side who was too frail, too
good for earth. Here we have lingered silently, side by side, while the
nightingale warbled forth its soft notes in love for the rose, and the
roses gave forth their fragrance until the air became an essence of
perfume. Oh, sweet bird of Twilight, thy song yet fills the air, but
silent and cold the fond heart that beat in unison with thy sweet
music. Will she listen for thy singing when the twilight gathers its
shadows o’er her lowly grave on the hillside? Oh, nightingale! oh,
twilight memories! Ye preach to my yearning soul more eloquently than
words of man. Patience, love, hope, are borne to me upon your voice,
and fall gently as the breath of mercy and forgiveness upon the
quickened sense, that sees revealed for one brief moment a glimpse of
Paradise and its forms of unperishable glory.

The approach of the two travellers was observed by the captain of the
guard at the palace gates, who immediately sent a message to the
Prince; whereupon, as soon as they arrived they were ushered into the
presence of the Ruler of Twilight, who received the Baron and the
barber very graciously. Refreshments were ordered to be set before
them, and when Tom had satisfied the cravings of hunger, Prince Picnic
asked him many questions respecting his journey, and desired to inspect
the articles in the bag. While Prince Picnic was engaged with the
razors and lather box, our hero had time to have a good look at him. He
appeared much smaller than the Baron, and a trifle older looking, yet
the Prince was still what many ladies would term a handsome fellow. His
white pointed beard was very long and strongly scented, yet his eyes
were as keen as a hawk, and his step as supple and light as a boy of
fifteen. If Tom Brock had wondered at the richness and texture of Baron
Thimble’s clothing, he wondered still more at the magnificence of
Prince Picnic’s dressing-gown, and also at the lavish display of pure
gold in everything he saw about the room. In fact, the barber had yet
to learn that the country was one vast gold mine, which in the absence
of other metals was employed for everything in common use.

It was time to retire to rest when the Prince broke up the audience.

The Baron conducted Tom to an elegant sleeping apartment. “The Gorilla
has found his way here,” he said at parting. “The beast has selected
the sward of the lawn in preference to a bed. Remember, your task must
be finished before the assembling of the Court to-morrow. Sleep well.
Good-night.”

CHAPTER III. lady lollypop.

The barber was honoured with a perfumed bath ere he retired to rest,
which caused him to sleep soundly until daylight began to peep through
the windows of his chamber. His slumbers would have been prolonged had
it not been for a feeling of sudden pain across the bridge of his nose.
He awoke hastily, and beheld the form of a very ancient dame standing
by his bedside. That puppet, known as the spouse of Mr. Punch, was the
only creature that our hero could liken her to, as she bent her thin
profile over him and held up her skinny hand in token of silence and
attention. Fixing her keen eyes upon Tom, she chanted, rather than
spoke, the following incantation:—

“Draw a circle round the beast
        When he sleeps in peaceful rest;
        If strong thy arm and keen thy blade
        So thy task is easy made.
        Shave the monster, head and toe,
        Round him fold this robe of snow;
        Then lead him forth towards the Throne.
        Fe-fi-fum, my charm is done.”

Ere the last words were well out of her mouth the old dame vanished
like a puff of smoke—when or how Tom Brock had no idea whatever. He
rubbed his eyes, and was under the impression that the whole thing was
an illusion, until his glance rested upon a square white wrapper lying
at the foot of the bed. He sprang up immediately, and found a soft
cloak large enough to robe a giant. There was no fancy about that, at
any rate. He dressed himself hastily, at the same time attempting to
repeat the utterances of his strange visitor:—

“‘Draw a circle round the beast
        When he sleeps in peaceful rest.’

Very good,” he muttered quickly; “there may be a charm in these words
that I cannot conceive. I have a very dangerous task before me, and
I’ll try it. Luckily this is just the time of day to catch Mr. Gorilla
asleep. What’s the next line?—

“‘If strong thy arm and keen thy blade
        So thy task is easy made.’

Humph! I can answer for the razors. They’re sharp enough to cut the
throat of my ugly customer, if he tries any of his tricks. Then:—

“‘Shave the monster, head and toe,
        Round him fold this robe of snow.’

“All right so far. After which I’m to lead him into the reception-hall
before Prince Picnic. Just so. Now to set about it.”

The barber prepared his razors and lather, and taking the white robe on
his arm he went out along the broad corridor towards the garden. Within
a small grass plot encircled by tall trees Tom discovered the Gorilla
fast asleep. With noiseless footsteps our hero formed a wide ring round
the sleeping monster with his fingers, and then stepped within the
charmed circle and approached his subject. Strange to relate, the
Gorilla never stirred—not even when Tom, with the taste of a genuine
artist, began operations upon his capacious chin. Nature seemed hushed
while the barber performed his business. Above, below, and around a
deep stillness reigned, save for the scraping, grating sound of Tom
Brock’s blade.

Meanwhile Prince Picnic held a grand council of state in the
magnificent reception-hall of his palace. Previously an edict had gone
forth which summoned the rank, beauty, and fashion of the land to
witness the marriage of Lady Lollypop and Gorilla. And here they were
assembled for the imposing event, which should unite the Beauty and the
Beast.

Ah, me! Who shall attempt to describe the splendour of that gathering?
The Ruler of Twilight was seated on a throne of pure gold, which had
been oxidized to every shade of colour, and wrought in the most
beautiful mosaic imaginable. At her father’s side reclined the
Bi-ba-be-bi, receiving the homage of the young nobles and the
long-bearded functionaries of state. The walls and ceiling of the
throne chamber were entirely covered with wide sheets of burnished gold
to reflect as mirrors. On each side of the dais there extended rank
upon rank of high-born dames and courtiers robed in stuffs of silk and
gold, embroidered with flowers so as to present the most perfect
imitations of nature.

Soothingly soft, sweetly, lovingly soft, were the dulcet tones of the
choir of fairy musicians, hidden from view—now ebbing, now flowing in
tender gushes of melody. Down the sides of the lofty pillared hall a
bright band of dancing fays, each as lovely as a child’s dream,
advanced and retired, crossed and interlaced in a whirling maze of
shifting light, which defeated the eye in following their quick and
graceful evolutions. Amongst that fair galaxy of beauty, Bi-ba-be-bi
stood out peerless in her loveliness. Round the soft cushions on which
she reclined were gathered her four handmaids, See-Saw, Hide and Seek,
Marjory Daw, and Down-Dilly.

Behind the throne stood Ride-a-cock-horse, the prime minister, Gaboon,
the jester, and the high officials of the kingdom. At a sign from Baron
Thimble the music ceased and the dancers dispersed. Then Prince Picnic
rose, and said briefly,—

“People of Twilight, I have called you together to witness the marriage
of our daughter, the Lady Lollypop. I am aware that this Court had
decided that our dear and lamented nephew Prince Pippin should have
been her husband; but the gallant youth perished three years ago on
those self-same Leap Frog Mountains where I and my retinue were
captured by Gorilla. The chief of Gorilla-land is now here to claim the
bond I gave him for our release.”

A deep hush had fallen o’er the vast crowd as the Prince paused.

“Prince Pippin was a handsome youth and a gallant gentleman,” whispered
See-Saw.

“True, and our lady loved him well,” replied Down-Dilly.

The daughter of Prince Picnic heard the whispering, and sighed audibly.

“Ay, but the young Prince is dead. Hush!”

“Dames and nobles,” continued His Highness mournfully, “we have given
our sacred word that this monster shall marry Bi-ba-be-bi. Therefore we
cannot depart from that pledge in the smallest particular. What, ho
there! Let the bridegroom come forth and claim his bride.”

As the Ruler of Twilight uttered the words, every eye was directed
towards the great folding doors at the farther end of the audience
chamber, which were instantly drawn apart, and Tom Brock entered,
leading the tall figure of his patient, muffled from head to feet in
the white cloak.

Poor Lady Lollypop uttered a stifled shriek of fear as her gaze fell
upon the muffled form of her intended lord and master.

The barber advanced with his companion to the foot of the throne, and
there halted for a moment, then retired behind the throng of courtiers,
leaving the closely covered monster standing alone.

“Art thou still resolved to have the Pearl of Twilight for thy wife?”
asked Ride-a-cock-horse in a loud voice.

The mantled figure trembled visibly, but held his peace.

“Let the chief of Gorilla-land show himself, if he is not afraid,”
cried Gaboon, advancing from out of the ring of nobles by which he was
surrounded. Swifter than the electrical fire athwart a thunder-cloud
the folding mantle vanished from that form, and revealed—not the
hateful beast, but a tall, handsome young man, robed in a superb
hunting costume of the country. The gaze of Bi-ba-be-bi had no sooner
rested upon him than she sprang from the midst of her ladies with a
glad cry of recognition, and cast herself upon his bosom. “Prince
Pippin! Cousin! My own dear love, you are not dead!”

Dead, not at all. Twilight is a region of enchantment, dear readers.
Dame Trot, the witch of the Leap Frog Ranges, had fallen across the
young Prince while hunting in the mountains, and had changed him into a
Gorilla. Such he had remained and had taken his uncle prisoner. When
the news, however, of the marriage between Lady Lollypop and the
supposed monster reached the old magician she relented of her
wickedness by appearing at the bedside of the barber and speaking the
words which annulled the charm.

There was great rejoicing at the court of Prince Picnic over the event;
but the gladness and the display were increased a hundredfold when the
cousins were married.

Tom Brock, loaded with substantial presents, returned home to his wife
and family, and brought a piece of the wedding-cake for the former,
which quite dissipated any lurking jealousy there might have been in
her mind respecting his absence.

The little corner shop knows our friend the barber no more. His
residence is now in the aristocratic suburb of Toorak—a magnificent
mansion known as “Faydell,” and for which he may thank Bi-ba-be-bi and
her royal husband Prince Pippin.