“We never do that. We shouldn’t like to be counted.”
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t be smooth. We would rather not know.”
“Where do the babies come from first?”
“From the wood—always. There is no other place they can come from.”
She knew where they came from last, and thought nothing else was to be known about their advent.
“How often do you find one?”
“Such a happy thing takes all the glad we’ve got, and we forget the last time. You too are glad to have him—are you not, good giant?”
“Yes, indeed, I am!” I answered. “But how do you feed him?”
“I will show you,” she rejoined, and went away—to return directly with two or three ripe little plums. She put one to the baby’s lips.
“He would open his mouth if he were awake,” she said, and took him in her arms.
She squeezed a drop to the surface, and again held the fruit to the baby’s lips. Without waking he began at once to suck it, and she went on slowly squeezing until nothing but skin and stone were left.
“There!” she cried, in a tone of gentle triumph. “A big-apple world it would be with nothing for the babies! We wouldn’t stop in it—would we, darling? We would leave it to the bad giants!”
“But what if you let the stone into the baby’s mouth when you were feeding him?” I said.
“No mother would do that,” she replied. “I shouldn’t be fit to have a baby!”
I thought what a lovely woman she would grow. But what became of them when they grew up? Where did they go? That brought me again to the question—where did they come from first?
“Will you tell me where you lived before?” I said.
“Here,” she replied.
“Have you never lived anywhere else?” I ventured.
“Never. We all came from the wood. Some think we dropped out of the trees.”
“How is it there are so many of you quite little?”
“I don’t understand. Some are less and some are bigger. I am very big.”
“Baby will grow bigger, won’t he?”
“Of course he will!”
“And will you grow bigger?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not. I am the biggest. It frightens me sometimes.”
“Why should it frighten you?”
She gave me no answer.
“How old are you?” I resumed.
“I do not know what you mean. We are all just that.”
“How big will the baby grow?”
“I cannot tell.—Some,” she added, with a trouble in her voice, “begin to grow after we think they have stopped.—That is a frightful thing. We don’t talk about it!”
“What makes it frightful?”
She was silent for a moment, then answered,
“We fear they may be beginning to grow giants.”
“Why should you fear that?”
“Because it is so terrible.—I don’t want to talk about it!”
She pressed the baby to her bosom with such an anxious look that I dared not further question her.
Before long I began to perceive in two or three of the smaller children some traces of greed and selfishness, and noted that the bigger girls cast on these a not infrequent glance of anxiety.
None of them put a hand to my work: they would do nothing for the giants! But they never relaxed their loving ministrations to me. They would sing to me, one after another, for hours; climb the tree to reach my mouth and pop fruit into it with their dainty little fingers; and they kept constant watch against the approach of a giant.
Sometimes they would sit and tell me stories—mostly very childish, and often seeming to mean hardly anything. Now and then they would call a general assembly to amuse me. On one such occasion a moody little fellow sang me a strange crooning song, with a refrain so pathetic that, although unintelligible to me, it caused the tears to run down my face. This phenomenon made those who saw it regard me with much perplexity. Then first I bethought myself that I had not once, in that world, looked on water, falling or lying or running. Plenty there had been in some long vanished age—that was plain enough—but the Little Ones had never seen any before they saw my tears! They had, nevertheless, it seemed, some dim, instinctive perception of their origin; for a very small child went up to the singer, shook his clenched pud in his face, and said something like this: “ ’Ou skeeze ze juice out of ze good giant’s seeberries! Bad giant!”
“How is it,” I said one day to Lona, as she sat with the baby in her arms at the foot of my tree, “that I never see any children among the giants?”
She stared a little, as if looking in vain for some sense in the question, then replied,
“They are giants; there are no little ones.”
“Have they never any children?” I asked.
“No; there are never any in the wood for them. They do not love them. If they saw ours, they would stamp them.”
“Is there always the same number of the giants then? I thought, before I had time to know better, that they were your fathers and mothers.”
She burst into the merriest laughter, and said,
“No, good giant; we are their firsters.”
But as she said it, the merriment died out of her, and she looked scared.
I stopped working, and gazed at her, bewildered.
“How can that be?” I exclaimed.
“I do not say; I do not understand,” she answered. “But we were here and they not. They go from us. I am sorry, but we cannot help it. They could have helped it.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, more and more puzzled—in the hope of some sidelight on the matter.
“Always, I think,” she replied. “I think somebody made us always.”
I turned to my scraping.
She saw I did not understand.
“The giants were not made always,” she resumed. “If a Little One doesn’t care, he grows greedy, and then lazy, and then big, and then stupid, and then bad. The dull creatures don’t know that they come from us. Very few of them believe we are anywhere. They say nonsense!—Look at little Blunty: he is eating one of their apples! He will be the
