The last dragon — Text and Context

tion too. “Lions are only in Africa or in a circus,” Janet Jane had said with feminine authority, but Peter replied in his well-known lisp and with his head cocked, that there was no _good_ reason why a lion couldn’t be found in a thimble berry thicket just as well as a badger or a chipmunk, and no amount of argument could convince him otherwise. Suppose lions _didn’t_ eat thimble berries? Couldn’t one have been in the thicket for some other reason, or couldn’t one have been there for no reason at all? Why should there always be a reason for things? Peter liked to go places for no reason. Maybe lions did too!

Janet Jane pretended to be skeptical about the possibility of unknown and terrifying things lurking in the woodlot, until one morning early, having gone alone to the meadow to find mushroom buttons, she had seen a pixie stick his head out and grin broadly at her, wriggling his pointed ears like a rabbit at the same time. As Janet Jane stared at him, another pixie, wearing a pink sunbonnet, although he looked very much like a boy-pixie, otherwise, bobbed up over the first pixie’s shoulder and wriggled his long nose at her, just like a rabbit too.

Then Janet Jane, who stood rooted to the spot with astonishment, declared that the two pixies began to sing, one in tenor and one in bass. Strangely enough, she remembered the words of the song. It went:

Butter and eggs, butter and eggs, Mushroom buttons and spider legs. Mix them up and bake them brown, And you’ll have a dish that will tempt the town.

Now, this sounded suspicious to Johnathan because Janet Jane was just learning to cook, and she was always singing receipts, and some of her proposed dishes were queer indeed. Therefore, it was strange that the two pixies she saw that early morning should sing receipts too, but Janet Jane said, “Not at all!” They were doing it just to poke fun at her. Pixies always poked fun, anyhow. They were like brownies in that respect, and not at all like fairies who are too well brought up to poke fun.

They sang the song through twice with a different tune each time, and after that Janet Jane managed to say, “Shooo!” at the pixies, and they had vanished into the woodlot. Stooping to pick up her spilled mushroom basket, Janet Jane heard the rude fellows laughing at her--Oh, high, shrill laughter like a tree-squirrel’s bark.

So you see, since Janet Jane was sure she had seen the pixies, and since Peter was sure he had heard the lion, and Johnathan was sure of something mysterious in the cave, around the first bend, there was no doubt that the woodlot was terrifying, and that the victorious knight who ventured into it with drawn wooden sword was almost sure to meet with adventure.

It was just after breakfast that memorable Saturday morning when the children congregated in the soft, green and open meadow sprinkled with cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups. The little troop broke through the willow clump at the sunsetting end of the meadow, and advanced solemnly in the direction of the big beech tree where the king’s throne was already waiting. Johnathan and Billy Rose had fixed it after school on Friday.

Their appearance scattered two chubby meadow mice into a desperate rush for their holes, and a flock of Jenny wrens fled chittering, indignant at being disturbed, like little gray ladies at a tea party. There was quite an impressive procession advancing toward the king’s throne. It had formed at the back door of the Baxter house, under the alert eyes of Grandma, watching from her upstairs window, and led by Johnathan who of course was king, King Arthur, no less, it wound through the rose garden, up the lane past the fish pond, over the creek bridge, through the truck garden, skirted the barn and wriggling through the orchard it bobbed its ten small heads to escape hitting the low branches of the willow clump, filing through a tunnel of green leaves to the open spaces of the dewy meadow.

Yes, there were ten in that procession, including the Irish setter named Nap, and the airedale named Jerry. First, as we said before, there was Johnathan Baxter, King Arthur, dressed in the green and red portiere with tassels, that had graced so many courtly ceremonies. The paper crown was on the kingly head, and in the royal hand was the oak-wood scepter. Close on his majesty’s heels walked her majesty, Queen Guinevere, Janet Jane Baxter, resplendent in a long pink mother hubbard, one of Mrs. Baxter’s cast-off garments, made theatrical and queenly by the silver paper stars that were pinned around the hem. Following her was Susan Oliver, five years old, bearing up the queen’s train, a child with eyes like mulberries and a blue-black cloud of hair. She was pouting because she felt it was her turn to be the queen, and before the procession started it was very doubtful if she would play at all. The promise of queenship next Saturday finally quieted her, although she carried the train with a disdainful air that ruined the dignity of the queen, since it dragged the ground on one side and looped up too far on the other, showing the queen’s long, spindly legs.

After Susan Oliver came the two knights carrying their wooden swords, the chubby and blond-curled Peter Baxter as Sir Launcelot, and the taller and older Billy Rose as Sir Galahad. They walked heads high, little noses up, wearing tin-can armor with pride. Their broomstick horses were waiting for them, tied to saplings under the beech tree.

Directly behind the knights was the public, three small girls, Mary, Kath and Polly, who were allowed to furnish their own costumes. Mary wore fluffy skirts like a bare-back rider; Kath dragged a green train that rivalled the queen’s in length and caused a serious argument before the procession started, and Polly’s seven years were lost in a riding suit of her mother’s, with boots that might have belonged to the famous Puss.

The procession went twice around the meadow, stopping after the second circuit before the throne. King Arthur took his seat on a bench covered with a piece of red, white and blue bunting, and his queen sat down beside him. The pouting Susan Oliver stood behind the queen and stared down at the top of her sandy head. Sandy hair wasn’t nearly as nice for a queen as black hair--no, not nearly! Susan was supposed to fan the queen, but she had purposely forgotten the fan, which is as much as we’ll say right here regarding Susan’s disposition. The public of three scattered itself right and left of the throne and took postures of deep interest.

After a silence, the king rose and pushing back his crown that had worked down over his eyes, he spoke in tones that seemed to arise from his shoes, his chin pressed down against his throat to produce the effect. “On with ye fight, and the victor will enter yonder forest to slew ye dragon who has been spreading terror and destruction through out ye countryside.”

He sat down, and the queen smiled at him and said, “Ye spoke well, O King,” but the king did not answer her. A queen should never speak in public unless the king asked her a question, and then she should only reply in as few words as possible.

At the king’s command, the knights drew their swords and pointed them down to the ground and bowed very low to the king. Then they went to the saplings and untied their horses and mounted them. The fiery steeds leaped up and down and nearly threw the knights off, and the grass of the meadow was torn up by whirling feet.

“Quiet with ye horses and on with ye fight!” finally commanded the king and at once, just as if they understood, the horses calmed down, and the knights drew apart, lifting their swords to wait for the final signal from King Arthur.

King Arthur stood up; raised his hand; held it steady for a breathless moment; then let it drop quickly to his side. The public showed renewed interest. The blond and chubby knight, Sir Launcelot, made the first dash for his opponent. The wooden swords clashed and the furious battle was on.

PETER ENTERS THE WOODLOT

Although the opponents were so unevenly matched, the fight was an exciting one and not a bit one-sided. Small Peter fought with tiger ferocity and a definite show of assurance, for it had been arranged before hand that Sir Launcelot should win. Galahad had won the Saturday before.

With a sturdy lunge of his wooden sword, Peter unhorsed Billy Rose who executed a trick fall and lay on his back, legs and arms in the air like some huge beetle turned over on its shell. Peter was on him in a moment; drove home the sword; pulled it out and wiped away the gore on his sky-blue cape.

Billy Rose did a spectacular death scene consisting of many kicks and contortions, adding much to the pleasure of the court and the public. It was a very long death scene, many minutes elapsing before Sir Galahad was quiet enough for the victorious Sir Launcelot to put his foot on the corpse and raise his sword to the king in salute.

“Go ye now into the forest and find ye dragon that eats every week a maiden from our smiling village!” commanded the great king Arthur, and Sir Launcelot bowed and stalked away toward the thick foliage of the woodlot.

It was strange and terrifying that at the moment the chubby Peter reached the first maple, the one that breaks from the group and runs out into the meadow, a cloud, very black and heavy, passed over the sun, swimming up out of nowhere in an otherwise clear blue sky. A wind sighed through the maple leaves and whispered about something all through the thimble berry thicket. The meadow darkened. Peter’s hand tightened on his sword. He looked straight before him; then looked back. The court and the public and his rival, Sir Galahad, and the two dogs seemed to be miles and miles away--shadowy, blurred figures. Peter felt all alone in the big world and very small. What chance would he have against that lion he had heard roaring in the thicket that fearful evening? Oh, but he had his sword. Didn’t he always want to do noble deeds? Didn’t he envy Johnathan because Johnathan was a Boy Scout and did a good deed every day? To kill a lion would be a good deed, wouldn’t it, that is if the lion were aching to eat somebody, right at that moment. Of course, if the lion were minding his own business, that would be different. Again Peter looked forward; again looked back.

King Arthur pointed with his scepter and like a voice in a dream came his command: “Pause not, Sir Launcelot! Go kill ye dragon!”

“All right, King,” replied Peter in a tiny, trembly voice, and advanced a few more steps.

He passed the maple; passed the second maple; passed the third. He was in the woodlot now, almost hidden from his companions. How very still it was. The wind had finished whispering to the thimble berry thicket and had frisked away. Not a leaf stirred any place. Far off, Peter could hear the dripping of the spring. He thought of the black cave and of what Johnathan had told him about the strange something around the first bend. He paused, hearing his heart beating.

To give himself courage, he spoke aloud, addressing himself in that well-known lisp: “Go on, Peter Baxter. Don’t be scared. Don’t you know that there’s no more dwagons? In the whole, whole world there’s not a dwagon any place. They’re all dead.”

But even as he spoke he doubted the truth of his words. If there were pixies there could be dragons. Why _should_ all the dragons be dead? People went on living and dragons were dead. To small Peter, dragons seemed much more important than people. Yes, somehow, somewhere dragons lived, and there was no reason to doubt that a dragon might live in the shadowy woodlot along with the lion and the pixies.

Peter’s feet ventured down the twisting path that would eventually arrive at the spring, and found himself safely past the thimble berry thicket. That was a relief. Nothing had broken the silence save the barking of Jerry, the airedale, and that was a comforting sound. Still, he wondered why Jerry and Nap had not followed him. They usually did. That was strange!

Now, here was the spring and the drippy, over-hanging shelf of stones and black earth, all sewn together with tiny root-threads, and right beyond the shelf was the entrance of the cave! Small Peter planted his stocky legs before the black hole; gulped once or twice; mustered up all his courage and spoke in a squeaking lisp that was meant to be a rumbling growl. “Come forth, Dwagon!” His wooden sword was clutched tightly in his little hand. Nothing happened so Peter repeated his command: “Come forth, Dwagon!”

Still nothing happened and becoming more bold, Peter stepped closer to the cave’s mouth; thrust his sword into the hole and rumbling it at last, cried for the third time, “Come forth, Dwagon!”

A long-drawn hissing sound answered him. He fell back. The hissing sound died. What was the matter with him? His imagination was doing strange things. He hadn’t really heard a hissing sound. He hadn’t really heard anything.

Well, he had done his duty. He had called three times and nothing had happened. He would return to the court and tell his story to the king. He was turning to go, when there issued from the hole a deep, deep sigh; then a yawn and then another deep, deep sigh. Before Peter even had time to think, the deep, deep sigh ended in the most entrancing little chuckle, and two fiery eyes blazed in the hole. A long green nose was thrust slowly forth, followed by a broad and lazy smile. The eyes came into the daylight. The fire faded out of them. They were a soft, light blue, like the sky, and looked as if they had just opened from a deep and dreamless sleep.

“Did you call me, little boy?” asked the dragon, as yards and yards of him, bright green like the meadow grass, oozed from the cave.

“Y-yes-yes, sir, I did,” gasped Peter, “but--but I didn’t think--”

The dragon continued to smile, oh, so sweetly, and tears gathered in his light blue eyes. “You didn’t think dragons lived any more,” he sighed, stretching out his great gold claws like a sleepy cat, “and you’re almost right, because I am the last dragon in all the world”--and two big tears the size of cups of clear water, dropped to the ground.

MR. DRAGON MEETS THE CHILDREN

“I wonder what’s keeping Peter so long in the woodlot?” wondered Janet Jane, remembering the pixie in the pink sunbonnet.

“I don’t know,” said Johnathan, remembering the strange something he had sensed behind the bend in the black cave.

“I bet he’s eating thimble berries,” guessed Billy Rose who was always practical. “That’s no fair, you know.”

“I’m not going to play any more!” announced small Susan Oliver, tossing her dark head and dropping the queen’s train. She was one of those children who always cry and spoil the game just at the wrong moment.

“Let’s play something more exciting,” suggested Mary in the bare-back rider’s costume. “How about circus?”

“No!” thundered Johnathan. “Wait till Sir Launcelot comes back. He’ll tell us how he slew the dragon and that will be exciting enough.”

“I’m going right straight home,” wailed Susan Oliver, her face all puckered up, just as though she had bitten into a crab apple.

“All _right_, if you go home, Susan Oliver, you won’t be Queen Guinevere next Saturday!” began Janet Jane, when somebody shouted, “Here comes Peter now!” And they all looked toward the woodlot.

There was Peter advancing with a very important stride, his sword clasped firmly, a smile of triumph on his round, shining face. Nap, the setter, and Jerry, the airedale, began to bark, their hair on end.

“Look! What’s that behind him?” cried Billy Rose.

A gasp went up from all the children. “Why, it’s a--it’s a--”

“It’s a _real_ dragon!” squealed Janet Jane, and the rest of them took it up--“A _real_ dragon! A _real_ dragon!”

Susan Oliver opened her mouth like a red O and began to scream. Nap and Jerry fled, yelping. The group broke and began to run in all directions.

Peter stopped advancing and raised his sword over his curly head. “Hey, Johnathan! Wait a minute! Wait a minute, Johnathan!”

Behind him, the last dragon chuckled. “Look at them running from me, just like old times,” he said, with the slightest touch of pride in his voice; and then in a tone tinged with melancholy, “If they only knew.”

On the edge of the meadow, the frightened children paused and looked back, just to make sure they had really seen the dragon. They saw small Peter sympathetically shake his blonde head and then reach over and pat the dragon on his broad, green back.

Johnathan and Billy Rose were together near the willow clump, and Johnathan said: “He looks like a very _nice_ dragon, don’t you think?”

“Yes, and very tame,” agreed Billy. “He’s smiling, I believe.”

“Peter’s patting him!”

“He can’t be very vicious.”

“He doesn’t seem to breathe fire,” observed the well-informed Johnathan.

Peter called again. “Hey, Johnathan! Don’t run away!”

“I’m going back,” said Johnathan, sticking out his chest. “Come on, Billy.”

“Sure! Who’s afraid?”

The two boys started back across the meadow. The sun was bright again. All the cowslips and Johnny-jump-ups were standing erect, and the Jenny wrens were chirping in the maples. A cheerful little wind romped through the green grass. There was no terror and no mystery. It was all very clear and simple. There was just a dragon in the woodlot.

Peter and the last dragon met the children in the middle of the meadow. As soon as Janet Jane saw Johnathan and Billy Rose start back, she came too and that gave the others courage. Susan Oliver tiptoed up last, ready to fly at a moment’s notice, her little dancing feet as restless on the meadow grass as tufts of thistledown. They formed in a new-moon crescent and stared at the curious dragon. Jerry sat down very politely beside Nap, they didn’t even sniff, and stared with their tongues sticking out.

“Mr. Dwagon,” introduced Peter, “this is Johnathan Baxter, my brother. Johnathan, I want you to meet Mr. Dwagon, the last dwagon in the whole, whole world.”

Again the dragon smiled. “Delighted to meet you, Johnathan,” he said. “You’ve got Peter’s small nose, haven’t you, and there’s something about your eyes that are alike, but why do you wear a crown?”

Johnathan blushed. “Oh, I was just playing King Arthur,” he apologized.

“Ah, King Arthur,” sighed the dragon, “there _was_ a king!”

“Oh, did _you_ know him?” exclaimed Johnathan.

“Very well indeed. Of course, he was a great enemy of my family, and I was taught to hate him from my cradle, but”--And here he winked very slowly, “deep down in my heart I really admired him.”

Janet Jane spoke breathlessly: “And, and did you know Queen Guinevere?”

“Oh, yes, and a very beautiful queen she was. I saw her once, dressed in a bright red velvet gown with gold slippers on her little feet. Is that who you’re supposed to be?”

“Y-yes, sir,” blushed Janet Jane, hanging her sandy head and pulling at the pink mother hubbard.

“Mr. Dwagon, that’s my sister, Janet Jane Baxter,” Peter continued with his introductions.

The dragon cocked his head. “Yes, I can see a resemblance--Yes, the nose again--and the eyes. Pleased indeed to meet you, Janet Jane.”

“And the boy with the freckles is Billy Rose.”

“Delighted to meet you too, Billy, but I’m sorry to see that your armor’s rusted. You should take better care of it. In my day, the knights were very careful of their armor. Those who were careless soon lost their heads.”