Monica the Moon Child
I — This Side of the Moon
It was one of those late afternoons in winter when the countryside looks very white, very still, and hushed to sleep under its coverlet of snow—just the time when the bright fire at home is thought of with delightful longing. The gentleman who drove the phaeton that was bowling along the frosty road must have thought so too, for he cracked his whip so smartly that it sounded loud in the silent landscape, startling the cob to a more hurried remembrance of his snug stable.
“Not very far now, Doctor,” he remarked to the friend who sat next to him. “Home soon, Toodleums,” he added, turning towards a big bundle of shawls at the back of the carriage.
“I’m in no hurry, Papa,” replied a childish voice; “I call this lovely!”
“Quite warm, eh?”
“Quite, thank you, Papa.”
The bundle, answering to the name of Toodleums, was Monica—her father’s constant companion. She was an only child. Her mother had always been delicate, and Monica was not allowed to be much with her. She even forgot that the invalid at home was ailing rather more than usual to-day, and that their long drive was to fetch her old friend the Doctor for his opinion, for she was listening with so much interest to an explanation which her father was giving of the new airship he had invented. He was still describing his successful trial trip, when Monica noticed that the moon and stars seemed to have assembled all at once to make a night of it. Never before had she driven out after dark, and soon she became all absorbed, in a state of muffled-up rapture, at the unusual sights and aspect of mystery about.
“Hi! Toodleums, do you hear? What do you say to going up with me in my airship next time I go? Will you come?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered eagerly; “I’ll come, Papa.”
“You’re not afraid of bumping up against the moon?” asked the doctor playfully, leaning over to pat her cheek. And both gentlemen laughed. Monica didn’t answer. She didn’t know if she was being made fun of or not.
At last they were in the hall at home, amidst the lights and bustling of the servants. As no one seemed to notice her, Monica took herself up to the nursery. She had dressed there near the fire, and the boxes and things had not been tidied away. Monica stared around, thinking this very unusual, and was just beginning to feel uncomfortably lonely when a little wrinkled old woman with very bright eyes hurriedly trotted in.
“Oh, Grandnurse,” exclaimed Monica, “no one is looking after me. How’s Mamma?”
“Much better, Dearie. But I’m wanted downstairs; can you spare me, Poppets? Put yourself to bed, and I’ll be back directly with your hot milk.” Without waiting for an answer she bustled into the adjoining night nursery, where Monica heard her busily opening and shutting the great cupboards.
The cheery old body was called Grandnurse because she had been in the family for ever so long—so long as to have become, as it were, a member of it. Passing through the nursery again she stopped and said—
“What would my Poppets say to a little sister, I wonder! A tiny new baby!”
“Oh, Grandnurse!” And before the old woman could hurry out of the door Monica sprang forward, her face all aglow with excitement, and holding her tight by the arm cried all in a breath—
“Is it true? Where is it? When’s it coming? Who’s going to bring it?”
“Patience; I can’t wait now. Let me go, Dearie,” said Grandnurse, disengaging herself from the little girl.
“But is it true?”
“Quite true.”
“What will it come in?”
“A bandbox, of course,” answered Grandnurse, laughing gaily as she went out of the room.
“Can I fetch it? When can I fetch it?” persisted Monica, following her downstairs.
“When there’s a blue moon. Now go back, there’s a dear.”
“Yes, but who’s going to bring it?”
“Don’t ask me—ask the man in the moon,” said the little old woman over her shoulder in a hushed voice as she disappeared down a dark passage of the large house.
Monica, standing there, laughed a little scornful laugh. “Ask the man in the moon, indeed!” she muttered. “As though there were one! She often says that, but I’m not so silly as to believe it.” And full of thought of the new little sister she re-entered the nursery.
The heavy curtains had not been drawn, and the moon was looking at her just as it had done during the drive. How lovely it was, that drive! She went to the large window seat and curled herself up in her favourite corner. Outside it looked so cold and white that she drew the curtain close around her with a little shiver.
“Can Grandnurse really think there is a man in the moon?” pondered Monica as she gazed up at it; and confusedly she thought on: “I wonder if there is, after all. Can he be going to bring the baby? I should so like to know, and when, or who is going to—I wish he’d tell me—perhaps if I were to ask—who spoke about bumping up against the moon? Ah!!”
Monica had conceived a grand idea. Quietly she stole to the table, snatched up the empty hatbox which ought to have been tidied away, and then—and then she crept stealthily downstairs—everything was quiet—stealthily out into the night she went. Now she was in the great shed, where the airship was—quite an old friend. She had seen her father start on his journey in it, and had heard it all explained. The precious bandbox was placed in the car, and the next moment Monica was beside it. She touched a button. The great structure moved. She held her breath, and her heart thumped surprisingly. Then she clapped her hands with delight—the airship slowly moved forward out of the shed, and when she pulled a lever thing, close at hand, she was soaring like a bird right out into the night, soaring right up towards the heavens. She was going to ask the Man in the Moon to be kind enough to give her the new baby she had come to fetch.
How cold and crisp the air was! Monica was glad to have on her coat and cap of fur. Higher, higher she went until she lost consciousness of everything except the cold and a sense of loneliness.
And the airship rose upwards, upwards, carrying its pretty burden with eyes fast closed, and the curly brown head lay helplessly low, supported by the staring white empty bandbox.
Bump! There was a crunching noise as of carriage wheels on a gravel path. The airship was aground on something, and Monica realised she must get her wits about her. She quickly pushed back the lever thing and the noise ceased, the movement also.
In the brilliant light, like sunlight, Monica saw she had alighted on some rocks, whilst round about was nothing but mountains, craters, caverns, and awful stillness. There was not a creature about, nor a sign of anything living. It was dreary to a degree.
“Wherever am I?” exclaimed little Monica. She scrambled out of the car, and slung the bandbox on her arm—somehow there was company in that. Above her a moon was shining—not the moon she was accustomed to see, but one about four times larger, as though suffering from a swollen face, with a pattern on it like the map of Europe.
“That does look queer,” she muttered aloud. “Bumped against the moon!” she thought to herself unconsciously. For now she remembered her father having told her what the earth must look like from there; and she realised that she had reached her destination, and was actually walking about in the moon, and that the larger moon was really the earth. This fact was so exciting that she sat down to consider it, enjoy its importance, and decide what to do.
She determined to go on, and so she rose and went gaily forward, the bandbox swinging from her arm. But it was very difficult walking, steep and rocky.
At last she found herself in a large plain of broken stones—“much in want of a steam roller,” thought Monica as she bravely hobbled along—and all around were caves.
Out of the largest one of these there emerged a tall and majestic figure, which, to her astonishment, slowly glided sideways towards her, wrapped in a cloudy drapery. Then Monica was convinced; and she no longer had any doubt whatever but that there was a Man in the Moon, and that this was he. So very slowly did he advance that she had plenty of time to recover from her surprise, and went forward to meet him and introduce herself.
His steely blue eye had a peculiar cold beam in it as he said—
“I bid you unwelcome! Are you not frightened?”
“No,” replied the child. “Why should I be? I’ve done no harm.”
“Do you call coming here no harm?” All the time he never stopped still a second, but kept gloomily mooning about, his profile with its protruding nose and chin in sharp outline always turned towards her.
“I’ve come to—to fetch—” stammered Monica, chilled by her reception.
“You’re a trespasser! You’re evidently a poacher, too,” he added, glancing angrily at the bandbox. “Begone!”
“But, please sir, do tell me——”
With a warning gesture the Man slowly raised his arm till its cloud-like drapery hid his face, and he disappeared.
“Dear me! I don’t like him a little bit!” murmured Monica, staring vacantly about, and found that where he had stood there was a big board on which in big letters was inscribed—
Trespassers will be Moonstruck.
By Order.
At the sight of it Monica quickly took refuge in the smallest of the caves.
“Who are you?” said a voice; and as soon as her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom she saw a queer creature resembling a great toad swathed in a long white beard.
“Whoever you are,” said the quaint inhabitant, “I’m too blind to see you. Just lead me to the further corner, there’s a good trespasser.”
Monica did not quite like being talked to like that, but she held out the bandbox and, supporting himself by it, her new acquaintance limped to where he was led and sat down.
“Thanks, and many of them. It’s not so draughty here,” he said.
“Have you been long in this cave?” asked Monica.
“A few thousand years or so—I can’t tell to a minute,” he mumbled. “But who are you, my dear? By birth, of course, a Lunarian, but not by accent.”
Monica mentioned who she was. Whereupon he became quite talkative, and began telling her about the moon, but only what she had read in her lesson books.
“Have you a House of Parliament?” she asked, anxious to glean useful information. She had recently been to hear her father speak in theirs at home, and was very proud of that.
“We’ve only a moonicipality, you know,” said her strange companion, rambling on until he became quite drowsy. Emboldened by his kind manner, she told him why she had come, and begged for his advice. To her dismay the only reply she got was a series of the loudest snores she had ever heard. He was sound asleep.
“Do tell me what I had better do,” she implored, and she shook and pinched him till he awoke.
“Get on the right side of him, and don’t bother me,” croaked the old creature, and snored louder than ever. Delighted at the hint, Monica came out on to the plain, and saw the Man gliding slowly on, sideways, as before. He frowned heavily on seeing her there, and seemed speechless with indignation.
“Get on the right side of him,” repeated Monica to herself as she made a dart forward to do so. This proved unsuccessful, for just then he turned so blue that she stopped, wondering if he was getting a fit. Grandnurse’s words, “When there’s a blue moon,” suddenly occurred to her, and she knew that now was her chance. She took courage in his slowness, and without looking at him a second time she rushed, stooping low, into a very small cave on the other side of him.
II — The Other Side of the Moon
It was not a cave at all. It was an arbour, the beams of which were moonbeams, so that Monica stepped straight through into it and sat down upon a bench.
“Evidently the moon is not made of green cheese, as Grandnurse always thought,” pondered Monica with the pride of the discoverer. “I must remember to tell her that.” And she was just tying a knot in her handkerchief to remind herself when she was startled to hear a musical voice say—
“Are you aware that you are on the wrong side of the moon?” It belonged to a tiny figure no bigger than Monica’s doll, dressed like a lady gardener, with apron, straw hat, and big gloves.
“The little blind man in the cave told me it is the right side for me,” replied Monica politely.
“Oh!! He’s never done so before. But if Toady told you that, then no one can blame the Gardeness. Who are you?”
“I am Monica.”
“It’s a strange name. Some parents have queer fancies. You are the first moon child who has ever come back. How you have grown, to be sure; I shouldn’t have known you!” When she heard Monica’s errand and had refreshed her memory as to where she lived, she remarked with surprise, “We’ve had an order for one to be sent to your address to-day. We always forward to customers’ houses. But people never come and fetch them. It’s a most unheard-of proceeding!” added the little lady with a toss of her pretty head. “Where’s your check?”
“Cheque? Have I got to buy it? I’ve just spent all my money on a new doll,” said Monica, her eyes filling with tears, “and now I might have bought the new baby instead!”
“We’re on the check system here,” said the little lady, smiling. “Come with me and I’ll show you round, then you’ll see what nonsense you’re talking.”
Monica brightened up, and they proceeded down a trim gravel path that had a moonstone wall on either side and a big door at the end.
“Who are you, please?” asked Monica as they went along.
“Where you come from, clever people call me Selene. Here, I am the Gardeness.—Your pass check,” she added in a business-like way. “To Order or Bearer—which do you want?” The child hesitated. “You want to order a baby, I suppose?” The Gardeness was becoming rather impatient.
“Oh yes, I’ve come to fetch it.”
“But you can’t have a cheque to Order and Bearer at the same time.”
“Can’t I?” inquired Monica plaintively. “How can I take it, then?”
“That will be my business,” whispered her companion mysteriously; then added loudly: “The little ones are being checked in the Counting House now. Be quick, or the pick of the choice will be gone.”
“To Order,” faltered Monica.
Whereupon her companion pushed the great door, which swung open, and the quaint pair quickly passed through. “They are always on order,” remarked the Gardeness as she led Monica up a high flight of steps, “but we forward them in our own way. Excuse my question; it was a matter of form.”
Now they were in the loveliest garden ever seen, and Monica gave a little sob of delight as she noticed that all around about her in every flower nestled the dearest, wee-est little baby imaginable, whilst hundreds of tiny creatures were tending them, drying the dew-drops from their big round eyes, and turning their little bald heads for more air, all the while humming a refrain which Monica recognised as her Mother’s favourite one, called the “Bee’s Wedding.”
At first she marvelled silently at the beauty of the scene. Then, as she basked in the pervading warmth, she remembered having been surprised at seeing the moon and sun out at the same time, and now realised the moon was sunning its garden of babies.
“I’ve brought my bandbox,” she remarked, laughing gaily.
“That’s a good thing,” replied her companion, “as it has to be a private transaction. Stoop down,” and she drew Monica closer to the rows upon rows of the beautifullest roses, gently moved the petals of one of them, and revealed embedded in the heart of the rose its own sweet little baby.
Then the Gardeness told Monica with infinite pride about the flower infants under her care. To her visitor’s remark on their resemblance to each other, she replied touchily, “I suppose you’ve seen many girls called Rose, who were alike when born, but they differ enough later! It’s the same with the rest.”
The Gardeness pointed out to her the children with the names of Lily, Daisy, Sweet William, and others, all borne up by their especial flower; her own flower, the Gardenia; and the Marigold’s Mary; and told her how in some flowers the children imbibe their tastes from their surroundings. Thus, as they strolled around, Monica heard that the Dandelion turns out too foppish a child: that amongst the wild oats the harum-scarum boys develop: that the Blue Cornflower babies remain true to their liking for farinaceous food: and in Love-lies-bleeding, little Cupids are born.
Monica went through the vegetable garden and saw the turnips, where the noses of the infants looked so funny. “They generally take a dislike to vegetables later on,” explained the Gardeness; “now those over there,” pointing to a bed of 18-carrots, “are as good as gold. But we must not linger here. You shall have a peep at the orchard, and visit the Counting House; then you must be quick and make your choice.”
In the orchard were only boy babies, some sweet-tempered, others sour. The Gardeness wouldn’t recommend a gooseberry one, for it was apt to grow up silly. There were some rosy, apple-cheeked ones, but they looked all cheek. Little gipsy-faced babies peeped with black eyes from out of the blackberry bushes; whilst in the fruit and nut trees close by were many pairs of hard-headed little twins, all Philips and Philippines.
“There’s no time,” observed the Gardeness, “to visit the Indian garden, or the Chinese, or the others; I should like to have shown you some quaint little baby girls called Peach Blossom in the Japanese garden. But after all, I suppose you prefer an English one? They are generally chosen according to climate.” And seeing Monica smile and nod, she hurried her off to the Counting House.
Monica had not been considering at all what she should choose, for she had lost her heart to that first little Rose baby.
Very soon they reached their destination—a long, low building. “Listen!” said the Gardeness, drawing her to an open window. “They are actually quarrelling over it again!” There was a fearful hubbub going on inside, above which could be distinguished—
“If one times six is six—six times one must be one! So that fat infant weighs more than one and six!”
“Ah!” exclaimed her guide, “a stupid wrangle! No wonder that complaints arise, and that the children don’t always arrive at their destinations in time. It causes no end of bother. Pass in!” The noise ceased, and in the enormous room hundreds of babies freshly gathered from the garden were being numbered and ticketed by a regular little army of miniature hospital nurses, who received instructions from their superiors standing behind the counter. As she entered, Monica heard that No. 47,859,056—a dear little Indian baby—was to be forwarded to some strange-sounding address in Calcutta, where it was expected in 27 days, 7 hours, 48 minutes, and 11.5 seconds (very business-like, but it would have been simpler to say that day next month, for it was a lunar month).
As it was carried away, Monica and her guide followed and entered the Packing and Forwarding Department, and saw it wrapped up in cabbage leaves, packed in one of the numerous bandboxes which lined the walls, and gently warned that if it cried much it would crack its voice. Then the box was labelled “FRAGILE! WITH CARE!” and put down a trap-door in the floor, where it disappeared from view.
The babies were being brought in rapidly, packed with all despatch, and each received advice, such as, to sleep as much as it could after the journey; when bored, to suck its thumb; to try and get its own way whenever possible; and when it disapproved, to express the same in the usual manner.
Immediately they got outside the Gardeness advised Monica, as her parents were well-to-do, to choose a set of twins, which were not welcome everywhere, and thus save them being planted on a poor family, for they had to be got off somehow, so were always sent (as if by mistake) where least expected. But Monica mentioned her choice, and begged very hard for it. So the Gardeness took the bandbox from her, bade her wait behind a tree, and with that little toss of the head went to gather the Rose baby which had been sent for in so unheard-of a way. Monica waited there so long that she became very anxious.
At last the Gardeness returned, pale and out of breath, hurriedly warned her not to let in any cold air on to the child, which was packed all snug and comfortable in the bandbox, and, above all, to make all speed or she would meet some one she wouldn’t like, showed her a short cut to the boundary, kissed her hand, and was gone.
Monica, trembling all over with excitement, hastened away with her precious burden, the difference in weight being scarcely perceptible. She ran quickly towards the spot where she had left the airship, quickly placed her treasure and herself inside, and had just touched the “drop spring” when the Man in the Moon appeared, approaching slowly. His face was turned fully towards her, and looked quite different from what it had been before, calm and expressionless. But she did not trust it, and was thankful when she pushed off and felt the airship was moving away. Feeling safe at last, Monica smiled in triumph; with one hand she raised her bandbox on high, with the other she waved a farewell. Then the Man, as if in protest, lifted his arm so that his face once more was hidden in gloom.
And Monica felt herself dropping, dropping rapidly into the blackness of the icy cold night.
She was thinking: “My book says that no one on earth has ever seen the other side of the moon, so no one knows what on earth is on the other side of it. That’s why Grandnurse couldn’t answer my questions properly—and the Man wouldn’t. Perhaps even he has never seen the Garden of Babies, as he was far too tall to enter that small cave. How lucky I found it all out for myself!”—when, with a great start she came to earth and confusedly recognised the lighted windows of her home. How she got the airship back into its shed and how she entered the nursery window she never quite remembered. Throwing back the heavy curtain from the window seat, without noticing Grandnurse, who was in the room, Monica took off her coat and cap, hurriedly placed them in the night-nursery, ran back, and peeped eagerly under the lid of the bandbox on the table. It was empty!! “Goodness gracious me, Missie!” cried Grandnurse. “Not put yourself to bed yet!”
“Oh, Grandnurse, what have you done with the new baby?” asked Monica piteously, great tears brimming over her eyes.
“They must always be unpacked at once, you know, without a moment’s delay. Come and see, my Poppets, for I’m sure you won’t rest without,” added the kind old woman, leading her away.
And there, in a dressing-room, in a bassinette, already cosily asleep but still sucking its thumb, Monica beheld with rapture the tiny Rose baby she had chosen in that lovely garden high up in the moon—in Cloudland far away.
The End