THE BALLOON BOY

THE BALLOON BOY

Carlo was the brown-skinned boy who stood on the corner of the Avenue every morning with a great bunch of red and blue balloons tied to a stick. Carlo used to wait smiling for the children to come up with their nurses and pick out the balloons with which they loved to play. The balloons bobbed and danced above Carlo’s head as if they wanted to fly away. Indeed, one of them once succeeded in escaping, just after it had been bought by little Johnny Parker. Johnny had forgotten to hold it tight, and Pouf! Off it sailed over the trees. No one ever knew what became of that little red balloon, which soared up far beyond the reach of Johnny’s wailing. But the other little balloons were always trying to follow after, and sometimes they pulled so hard at the strings that they seemed almost ready to lift Carlo off his feet and bear him with them over the tree-tops.

Carlo was a happy boy, for he had come from a happy country where the people still believe in fairies, and he had not lived in this land long enough to catch the disease which makes one believe that there are “no such things as the Little People.” Carlo was a kind boy, and he loved the little children who bought balloons of him and paid their pennies into his rough, brown hand. Carlo had a little sister at home in the old country, and when he had earned money enough by selling red and blue balloons he meant to send for Nita to come and live with him, so they could have a little home of their own.

One morning it rained hard, oh, very hard! Carlo did not go out to the Avenue, for he knew that the children would all stay indoors that day, playing in their nurseries with their house toys. But in the afternoon, after dinner-time, the rain cleared away and the sun came out, hot and bright and beautiful, so that the sidewalks were soon as dry as dry. Then Carlo took his bunch of balloons and trudged to the corner, where he always stood. For he knew that all the nurses and all the babies, tired of being in the house, would soon be hurrying out for an airing in the Park. And of course they would need balloons.

Carlo took up his station as usual on the corner where the Avenue stops short before the high gates, and wishes it could go on into the Park. This was where the children looked to find him every day, and he had never yet disappointed them.

It was just the hour when the big boys are let out of school. Carlo had forgotten this. He did not like big boys. Suddenly—with a rush and a whoop—a crowd of them came tearing around the corner from the next street. They raced up and down the Avenue, shouting and laughing and full of mischief, for they had been shut up all this rainy day and were glad to be out of doors once more. As they came running back down the Avenue, one of them spied Carlo standing on the corner.

“Hallo! Balloons!” shouted the boy, and immediately the noisy crowd rushed upon Carlo and surrounded him.

“Give me a red one!”

“Hi! Blue’s my color!”

“Pass me down a red one, quick, or I’ll cut the whole string!” But they offered him no money in exchange. Carlo held back, trying to defend his balloons from their snatching fingers. Then one boy cried,—

“Ho! Let’s cut the whole string, anyway, and see them go!” And quick as a flash, before Carlo had time to do anything, a sharp penknife had severed the string above the stick, and away went forty balloons, sailing over the trees merrily, glad to be free.

The boys gave a yell and danced up and down. But some one cried, “Look out! Here’s a policeman!” and off they scampered in every direction, before Carlo fairly knew what they had done. Yes, there was a policeman, but he had not seen what had happened, and already he was turning the corner. Even if Carlo could catch up with him he could not speak enough English to tell the man his troubles. Besides, not even a policeman could bring back those flying balloons.

Poor Carlo! No customers for him this day. He looked down at the bare stick in his hand, and then up to where he could just see some tiny specks on the blue sky, far, far away. The balloons were seeking their little brother who escaped long before. Carlo’s eyes filled with tears, for he was not a very big boy, and this was a dreadful thing which had happened to him. Already the procession of babies was coming down the Avenue, eager to buy Carlo’s balloons. But he had nothing to sell them this afternoon.

Slowly and sadly he turned away and slunk down a side street toward another entrance to the Park. But the children wondered what had become of their balloon boy, who was always waiting for them on the corner, smiling pleasantly.

Carlo wandered into the Park and walked about the twisting paths, wondering what he should do. He had no money to buy more balloons. How could he start out afresh in business? He had sent his last earnings back across the water to the little sister in the land where they still believed in fairies, and she had saved almost enough to bring her here to him. But now, what was he to do now? How buy food and lodging, and especially how buy more balloons with which to pile up future pennies?

Carlo wandered about for a long time, thinking and puzzling, until the shadows began to lengthen, and it was almost night. Then he went to a little arbor in the Park, far from the place where the nurses and children mostly gathered. It was a spot that he loved, for it was full of grape-vines, which reminded him of the beautiful home from which he had come,—the country where the fairies still lived. He was very tired and hungry, and he curled up on a settee in the arbor and went to sleep.

THE LITTLE MAN

He must have slept a long time, for when he woke the Park was quite dark, save where the electric lights made queer patches of brightness among the leaves and on the grass and gravel walks. In the arbor itself hung a light which made the grape-vine with its half-ripened clusters look strange but very beautiful.

Carlo awoke with a start, for he had certainly felt something touch his knee. Yes! Carlo looked again, and rubbed his eyes. There at his knee stood a little man,—a little, thick man in a queer long gown, with a rope about his waist,—one of the very same Little Men of whom his mother had often told him in the land across the sea!

“What is the matter, Carlo?” asked the Little Man, in Carlo’s own home language. And Carlo answered in the same soft tongue:

“The boys have cut my balloons away, and I have nothing left with which to earn my living, that I may send money to Nita.”

“That is too bad!” exclaimed the Little Man. “What can we do about it?”

Carlo stared hard at him, for he had always wanted to see a Little Man. His hat was tall and had a broad brim, and on his feet were sandals. His brown gown clung tight about him, like the skin upon a russet apple, seeming ready to burst with the plumpness inside. His cheeks, too, seemed ready to burst with laughing, even when Carlo told him the story of the boys’ wicked deed.

“That is too bad!” he cried again, but not sadly. “What can we do about it?”

He glanced thoughtfully around the arbor in which they were sitting. It was a grape arbor, as I have said, and already the grapes were beginning to turn red and purple in the autumn coolness, though some were still green.

“The bad boys will steal them,” said the Little Man to himself, looking at the grapes. “They will not bring good to any one, only stomach-aches.” Carlo wondered what he could possibly mean. Still the Little Man stared around the arbor, nodding his head slowly up and down, as if making up his mind about something very important. At last he turned to Carlo and asked suddenly,—

“Do you know where I came from?”

“No,” said Carlo. “I have been wondering. You do not seem to belong to this country at all.”

“I don’t,” said the Little Man. “They don’t even believe in me here, so they never, never see me—how could they? The babies who play over there,”—and he twisted his thumb toward the fountain and the sand-heap,—“even if they were to come in here now, could not see me. For their stupid nurses have told them that I don’t exist. Perhaps there might be one or two who still believe; and of them I should have to be very careful. For I don’t want to be discovered. But they do not often come here.”

“I come here often,” said Carlo.

“Of course,” chuckled the Little Man, “naturally!”

“But how happens it that you are here?” asked Carlo, eagerly.

“Why, I came with you, to be sure. I am the Little Man of your father’s house. And when you left the dear old country over the sea you brought me with you.” The Little Man sighed. Carlo sighed too. But quickly he remembered to be polite. “It was very good of you to come,” he said.

“Not at all,” answered the Little Man. “I had to follow. Some of them bring poison creatures in the fruit which they sell,—tarantulas and scorpions. Some of them bring measles, and the evil-eye, and other dreadful things. But you brought me, and I have been watching over you ever since. I am glad you come here every day, so I can live in this very nice place. Now I am going to help you.”

Carlo thanked him, but he seemed not to hear. Nimbly as a squirrel he was climbing up the vine which draped the arbor with its leaves and grapes. Presently down he came again, and in his hand he held a fine bunch of grapes, purple and red and green.

“It is not stealing,” he said, in a whisper, “for this bunch has stopped ripening; I can tell by signs which a fairy knows. It would soon wither, and would not even attract the bad boys. So I will use it for my purposes. Now, please give me your stick.”

Carlo handed him the shorn stick, wondering. With a few deft knots the Little Man tied the bunch of grapes to the handle, where the balloons used to bob.

“What!” he cried, nodding delightedly, “There you are! Now of course you must go to sleep again. I cannot let you see how the last touches are done.” He tapped Carlo three times on the forehead. Immediately Carlo’s eyes began to close, his head nodded, and before he knew it he was lying on the bench in the arbor, snoring lustily and forgetting all his troubles.

Then the Little Man must have done something very strange and wonderful and marvelous; though no one saw him, and so no one knows just what that something was. But when in the morning Carlo awoke with a start, a baby in a pink dress stood in the arbor holding out a little hand in which was a silver dime, and he was saying,—

“Please, Boy, give me a green balloon!”

Carlo jumped up and reached for the stick, which was propped between the bars of the seat beside him. And what do you think? The bunch of purple and red and green grapes seemed to have grown and grown, and swelled and swelled, until each grape had turned into a beautiful big balloon of the same color! And that is why on that particular day Carlo had some green balloons in his bunch, although the children had never seen any like them before. And he sold one to the pink baby, and others to the other babies who came crowding around when he went out upon the Avenue, until the green balloons were all gone. For of course the babies wanted the unusual kind first. But after that he sold off the ordinary blue and red ones, and went home with his pockets full of dimes, and with nothing more on the end of his stick than when the bad boys let loose his bunch of balloons. But now there were no tears in his eyes—no, indeed!

Now I do not know just what happened next. But Carlo always looks smiling and happy about something. The children buy his balloons every day, and every night he carries home a pocketful of silver. Carlo is growing rich. And now little Nita has come across the sea to be with him. When the cold weather comes I daresay the Little Man will go to live in their house, as he did in their old home in the land where people still believe in fairies. But you may be sure that as long as he can he will stay in the pretty grape-vine arbor. If you are one of the wise children who believe in him, perhaps you will see him there yourself, some day. At any rate, whether you believe in the Little Man or not, if you go at the right time you will be sure to see the Balloon Boy, sitting on the bench and smiling happily at something, with the bunch of red and blue balloons bobbing over his head. And if you pay ten cents you may have a balloon all for your own, which will tug and tug and will try to get away, just as little Johnny Parker’s did.