The King Across the Mountains

Начало книги

A perilous moment at the puppet-theater. The audience — consisting mainly of the children of the poor, there by themselves, or those of the lower middle-class, accompanied by their country-girl nursemaids; of the meaner class of peasants, up to the city to hawk a wicker-basket-box of dubious eggs; and of super-annuated servants given a penny to spend by Young Master, or of the commonest of common laborers, smelling powerfully of the fish- market or the livery-stable — the audience at the puppet-theater are sitting at the edges of the benches, wondering if Little Handsome Hansli is going to be eaten up by The Ogre. Little Handsome Hansli is wondering, too.

“ Who will save muh from being eaten by The Ogre?” he cries (or, at any rate, a voice from behind the backdrop understood to be his, cries) allowing his dangling legs to buckle and his dangling hands to be twitched aloft in prayer; “who will save muh, will nobodduh save muh, will somebodduh save muh, will anybodduh save muh, and if so, who?” A good question. At this, the much bigger puppet, half-man and half-beast, chops its jaws to show its monstrous fangs and tushes, rubs its belly in the nummy-nummy sign, jumps up and down and makes menacing gestures and utters the famous gurgling-growling sound known world-wide* as “the chortle of The Ogre” —

Читать дальше →