The escape of Alice: A Christmas fantasy

								

ever thirteen?”
“Never!” declared the wooden man, firmly. “When my thirteenth birthday
approached, I tore off an entire year of the calendar, and passed
right into my fourteenth year. Of course, there was a fearful row
about it! But it’s really just like skipping a grade at school. If
you’re smart enough you can do it. We have some very nice calendars,”
he added, professionally.
Alice was frankly bewildered, but she had forgotten her wounded
dignity. In a moment her attention was attracted by a succession of
melodious sounds, ending on a queer upward inflection that seemed to
leave the phrase unfinished, and hanging in the air.
“Do listen!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that too sweet? It sounds like a
bird singing.”
“Most birds do,” said the wooden man, drily. “That’s your bird,” he
added, more politely. “You asked for a bird, you know.”
“But why does it end its song so abruptly?” asked Alice. “It doesn’t
seem to finish.”
“Confinement,” answered the little guide, briefly. “Its cage is too
small. Its notes only reach the top of the cage, and then echo back
into its own ears, which naturally surprises it into silence. It’s too
bad, for it’s losing its upper register. It once sang very well.”
“I shall let it go when I get it,” declared Alice, with decision.
“You may do as you please, of course,” agreed the wooden man, “but
you’ll only be wanting another one, next Christmas.”
They hurried forward, pressing through the crowd about the cage. It
was humorous the way the people fell back on either side of the wooden
man’s sharp-elbows. What they saw, when they reached the cage, was a
beautiful yellow bird with black wings, and big black eyes, swinging
and singing on a perch of gold.
“Wound up too tightly,” muttered the wooden man. “One of the monkeys
has been monkeying with the key.”
With a ferocious glare at the children around him, he reached in a
hand, and Alice heard a sharp click. The bird stopped singing in the
middle of a note. Then the wooden man lifted the little creature from
its perch and brought it forth with as little concern as if it were
made of wood, too.
“Oh!” cried Alice, in distress. “You mustn’t hurt the bird! It wasn’t
its fault that somebody monkeyed with the key.”
The word monkeyed puzzled her, but she supposed it was all right,
since that was what the wooden man had said.
But the wooden man only laughed and held out the bird for her
inspection. Then Alice saw that it was not a real bird at all, but was
made of thin metal so skilfully painted as to look real.
“You forget this is Toyland,” grinned the wooden man. “This bird is no
more real than I am, than these children are――than you are!”
“Ain’t I real?” asked Alice, in alarm. Quickly correcting herself, she
said: “Am I not real?”
“Real enough,” said the wooden man, casually. “A real nuisance,” he