Here's the charming story of a little boy whose greatest wish comes true thanks to an April Fools' joke. "Bergh" in this story refers to Henry Bergh, founder of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Also notice the long-gone chore of having to cut open the pages of your new magazine or book before being able to read it.The two aunties called him "Little Karl." That was one of his troubles, for his name was Charles Christopher Dimmock, Jr., and did n't everybody in the country know that Charles Christopher Dimmock, Sr., was the famous Greek professor of the University of X————?
The college lads called him "Pericles." that was another trouble. He had hoped they would not, when his long, fair curls were clipped short, and his kilts exchanged for trousers; but it had made no difference. "Halloo, Pericles," they shouted, just the same, and then they would add, "Don't you want to buy a dog?"
His father, very wise in everything else, would never consent to his having a dog. This was another of Karl 's troubles; but how the college boys got hold of it he could not tell. It was a comfort to hope that some day his troubles would be all over, and he be another Doctor Dimmock in a famous college, wearing gold spectables, and hearing Greek recitations; lecturing on Grecian art and philosophy, and settling everything by a wise shake of the head and saying:
"Yes, yes; certainly yet," or,
"No, no; certainly not."
Until that epoch, he would have trouble. One of the very first things he would have when he should reach that happy future would be a dog, and that dog should be treated "like folks," like one of the family. He would ask for no better companion than his good dog.
March 31st, only the other day, found Karl slightly cast down under another anxiety.
The morrow was All Fools' Day. The boys would be full of pranks. Think hard as ever he could—and the wise little face grew very serious—he could not devise a new trick,—something surprising in the way of fun. He scorned the old worn-out fooleries—cotton-batting pancakes, stuffed eggs, bricks under hats, false messages, and cheap surprises. If he could only get up something original, it would not matter who might be the subject of his jest. Why, a boy had called him "Dominie Dump" the other day! That was worse than Pericles.
Karl had come home from school and gone to his usual retreat for study, the deep bay-window of his father's library. It was his favorite nook; the heavy curtains shutting him out from the rest of the world. His books were there, and his writing-desk. He had often seen his father turn to the big encyclopedias when wanting to know something very much, so he had carried one of those weighty volumes to the bay-window, and a concordance and dictionary besides. but they failed to help him concerning April Fools' Day, and he was reading Oliver Twist, forgetful of times and seasons, when the doctor came in, his arms full of books and papers.
"Glad to find ourselves all alone," he possibly said to the owl over the door, when, having put on his dressing-gown and slippers, he drew his big chair before the blazing grate, and began cutting the leaves of the new book he was longing to enjoy—Logical Variations in New Analytics, or something of the kind. He had, perhaps, read two pages, when a sharp ring at the door-bell made him wish that he lived on Pitcairn Island,—at least he grumbled such a wish, and then smiled when Professor Greenaway, cheery and hurried as usual, bustled into the room, and began talking rapidly about microscopes and specimens, and some late discoveries; nothing which Karl might not hear.
Professor Greenaway was a hero of Karl's—his favorite of all the professors. He had a brown spaniel, and a Newfoundland, and a brace of setters, and so he understood one of Karl's troubles as no one else did or could. As long as the talk was about "Zygenema," or "Ephialtes," and such trifles, Karl thought he might remain concealed behind his curtains.
He was soon lost in his story again.
"Planning something for to-morrow, are they?" he heard his father say, at last. "Well, we must see nothing that we can avoid seeing."
The professor assented, and they fell into a low, cozy chat,—story-telling of their boyhood. "Oliver Twist" and "Chris Dimmock" were getting strangely confused with Karl. the doctor was telling in his slow, dreamy way—the professor's laugh often interrupting him—of a First of April when he was a boy.
"You see,"—and Karl was listening,—"my father was an old-school gentleman, one of an order now almost extinct; a stern, dignified parson, who never jested, seldom smiled, and looked upon all merrymaking as sinful. How I ever dared to play a prank upon him amazes me still. I am sure my boy would not venture such a thing with me, and I, you know, am not very severe with Karl."
"Save in the dog matter, Doctor; you don't yield there, as I perceive."
"No, no; certainly not."
"Perhaps you don't know your boy yet. I doubt if your father knew you before you amazed him."
"I had a bad shilling, you see," resumed the doctor, "and I meant it should bring me great sport on All Fools' Day. My big brother dared me to give it to my father for safe keeping, and then to ask him for it at night, get a good one, of course, and quietly enjoy the trick. He not only dared me, but bet two shillings I should not succeed. As my father was going out that April Fools' Day morning to visit his poor,—-there was great suffering among the fishermen's families,—I sidled up to him with a sheepish air, and asked him to please keep my shilling for me until night. He slipped it into his purse with due gravity, and walked away, leaving me to ask some hard questions of Chris. Dimmock. Before noon I tried to keep up my courage on peppermint drops, bought on credit, for all my brother declared I should be the fool of the day in the end, and he should laugh at my cost. I went home at night to draw the good shilling, but found my father in an excited state of mind, his study quite a court-room, in fact. You see, counterfeit money had been circulating in the village, and the authorities were trying to trace it. Suspicion had rested upon a well-known personage called Billy the Smuggler. He had passed a bad shilling at last, and had been arrested. His story was that the parson gave the same to his sick wife that morning. This the parson denied stoutly, and things looked very bad for Billy when I came in.
"'It was my shilling, Father,' I at last found courage to say. 'Don't you remember I gave you one to keep for me this morning?'
"I might have got off, even then, had not Smuggling Billy, overjoyed at his own release, forgotten himself so far as to say, 'April Fool on the parson, I vow!' The end of that was a flogging for me, and my going to bed without my supper. My brother consoled me by whispering that I had won the bet, and Smuggling Billy sent me a little ship not long after. But I always thought that story had a bad ending. It did not come out right for the hero, you see. I never saw any fun in it until years after; but it was worth something to hear Smuggling Billy tell it, showing how my teeth chattered, and my knees shook, when he called out: 'April Fool on the parson, I vow!'"
"Did you ever tell Karl that story?" asked the professor.
"No, no; certainly not," and the doctor laughed and rubbed his hands. "Karl is a different kind of boy, you see."
Little Karl went up to his room presently, and brought out his collection of advertising cards. He knew what he was after. There it was, the neuralgia medal. Did n't it look just like a silver quarter? Ah! Could he but get that into his father's pocket, that would be a celebration of April First worth having. "'Karl is a different kind of boy, you see.'"
He talked little that evening, as he sat by his father before the library fire, and read less, but he thought a great deal. How simple it seemed to pass a medal from his pocket to his father's! But, under the circumstances, it was, in fact, more difficult than sending a car-load of specie from Washington to San Francisco. A fairy could have done it beautifully; he dreamed out that plan, and saw her throw her ladders against pantaloon and waistcoat, and, with the aid of a host of elfins, finally drop the coin into the black cavern. But that would be the fairy's jest—not his. He thought of magicians and pickpockets, and how handy the Artful Dodger would be in such a dilemma.
The doctor was not unmindful of his little boy's meditation. "Karl is a very intellectual child," thought he, glancing at him over his spectacles,— reminded of Watts and the tea-kettle, of course. "Who knows what is growing in that boy's brain?"
Kitty, the housemaid, planned the success at last.
There was always what she called "a flurryblurry " in the doctor's hall every week-day morning, caused by his getting off to college in season, and Karl's starting for school. That morning, April 1st, the confusion was increased by the doctor's inability to find his umbrella at the last moment, when the car was coming. Other things were suffered to make the probability of his getting to college prayers rather uncertain. He was hurrying down the steps, Karl behind him, when Kitty called after them:
"Master Karl! Master Karl! See what you have dropped," and she tossed the medal after him.
"In luck, for once!" returned Karl. "Please, Papa,"—impatiently, for the car was stopping for them,—"keep it for me," and he fairly thrust it into the doctor's hand.
Professor Grecnaway was in the car, and so were several students. In many cities, you know, the horse-cars have no conductors. The passengers drop their fares into a money-box, or make change with the driver. The doctor, lacking a dime, passed up his medal for change, then opened his book, and was lost to all around him.
"Heard the news this morning?" asks Professor Greenaway, close to the doctor's car.
"No; anything important?"
"April First. Don't forget the students and Billy the Smuggler."
"No, no; certainly not;" without lifting his eyes from his book.
But why had the driver stopped the car? Jerking open the door, he stood looking at the passengers with an angry scowl.
"Who give this yere?" holding up the medal. Karl's face was a picture, but nobody saw it. "It's the last fare in," and he looked hard at the doctor—the only one in the car who did not hear. The college boys were in high glee.
"He means you, Doctor," said Professor Greenaway. "It's the bad shilling. Can you explain?"
A bewildered smile crept over the doctor's face.
"I did n't think that of you, Greenaway," and really the doctor looked severe.
"Here, pass up this for me," handing him a quarter.
"You misunderstand, if you think–" began the professor; but the driver had the floor.
"Yer can't pass yer quack medals onter me, if 't is April Fools' Day. Who's got it this time, I 'd like to know?" with a wink at the students.
The doctor muttered something to Professor Greenaway, who had turned his attention to Karl. The boy was wonderfully absorbed in looking out of the window.
"There, Karl, my boy," said the doctor, dropping the medal into his satchel, "I 'll give that to you. How it got into my pocket, I don't see," with a suspicious glance at Professor Greenaway.
"Please don't forget, Papa, what I gave you when I got into the car," said Karl, getting up and pulling the check-strap.
His eyes twinkled, and a musical laugh rippled in. "I want to buy a dog, you know, and I 've heard of one for a quarter."
Before the doctor realized the situation, the boy was gone. But Professor Greenaway made him understand how things stood.
"This 'Karl is a different kind of boy, you see,'" said he.
"Now, my dear Doctor," said the professor, as they crossed the campus together, "you must let me see that this story has a happy ending—that the hero gets his deserts."
"Yes, yes; certainly, yes."
"I shall send him a dog, to-night—a puppy. Let us name him Billy, in commemoration of today—and of that other First of April."
'Just fifty-five years ago to-day. Yes, send up the dog. I shall make his reception all it ought to be."
That night, when the doctor and Karl—as alike as two peas—one fully ripe for seed, the other green in the pod—sat reading before the study fire, Katie brought in a covered basket.
"Here is something for Master Karl."
He looked contemptuously at the basket. "They can't fool me. Take it back."
"Professor Greenaway sent it, with his card."
Two or three sharp, yelping barks from the basket, and Karl was beside himself with joy. A puppy—the prettiest, softest, sleekest, whitest, little puppy you ever saw—only one spot of black, and that over its left eye! It bore a card on which was printed: "Canis familiaris. Found from Maine to Florida, where there is anything to eat. This specimen is quite harmless. April ist, 1881."
"And we 'll call him Billy," said the good doctor, gazing upon the new pet with unfeigned admiration. "What a droll little fellow he is!"
"And you wont let my aunties send him away?" pleadingly. "No matter what they may say about him?"
"No, no; certainly not. Billy shall stay, come what may."
"No, I don't know that," returned the doctor, placidly, cutting the leaves of his Nineteenth Century rather nervously, nevertheless.
"Well, he has; and Karl talks of having its ears and tail cut, sporting style. You surely will not allow that, with all your concessions?"
The doctor said no, decidedly not, and when Karl came back from the stable, where he had settled with Jerry the coachman to have Billy improved at once, he was grieved and disappointed, for his father stood firm. Billy's ears and tail should be all that the Bergh society would have them to be.
"Bill Sykes is a pretty name for Doctor Dimmock's dog, I 'm sure!" exclaimed Aunt Helen. "And that is what the college boys will name him, of course. I think Professor Greenaway—"
"We won't forget Professor Greenaway," broke in the doctor, with a low, triumphant laugh. "He shall hear from us next year."
But Karl was looking dolefully at Billy's silky ears. It was the old story, you see. He had lost an old trouble to make room for a new one; and that is the way the world goes, if we are foolish enough to let it, from one April to another.
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