How Mr Cherry, a carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed.
A LONG TIME AGO, in Italy, there lived . . . . what do you think, boys and girls? A king? a queen? a lovely young princess? Is my story going to start like this?
If you think so, you are wrong. No: this story does not begin that way at all.
Once upon a time there was . . . . a piece of wood.
It was just an ordinary piece of wood. There was nothing special about it. It was just one of those big logs you put on the fire in winter to make a cold room warm and comfortable.
Now, I do not know how this happened, but this is what I was told.
One day this piece of wood was in the shop of an old carpenter. His real name was Mr Antonio, but everyone called him Mr Cherry. That was because the end of his nose was round and red and shiny, and it looked like a cherry.
As soon as Mr Cherry saw that piece of wood, he smiled happily.
"Just what I want. My table is broken. I'll use this to make a new table leg," he said to himself.
He picked up his axe to cut the wood. But just as he was going to start work, he heard something very strange. A tiny voice said, quietly but quite clearly, you know: "Please be careful! Don't hit me too hard!"
Mr Cherry stood still, holding the axe a little way above the wood. Think how surprised he was when he heard those words!
He looked all around the room. He wanted to know where that little voice had come from. He saw no one.
He looked under his table --no one was there.
He looked inside the cupboard --no one was there!
He searched among some old pieces of wood --no one!
He opened the door to look up and down the street --still no one!
"Oh, I know!" he said, laughing. "I was dreaming. That's what it was. I only thought I heard a little voice saying those words! Well, well --back to work."
He hit the piece of wood hard, cutting right into it.
"Ow! Oh! You're hurting me!" cried the same far-away little voice.
Mr Cherry's eyes opened wide. His mouth opened even wider. His tongue fell out of his mouth and hung right down onto his chin.
After standing there like that for a minute, he began to get over the surprise, but he was still so frightened that he could not speak properly. He said:
"W-w-w-w-where did that v-v-v-voice come from, when there is n-n-n-no one here? Is it p-p-p-possible that this piece of w-w-w-wood has learned to cry like a ch-ch-ch-child? I c-c-c-can't believe it. Here is a p-p-p-piece of ordinary wood, good only for b-b-b-burning, y-y-y-yet I really think someone is h-h-h-hiding in it? He had better be c-c-c-c-careful. I'll s-s-s-soon f-f-f-find h-h-h-him!"
Then he picked up the piece of wood with both hands and started to throw it about.
He threw it down onto the floor.
He threw it against the walls of the room.
He even threw it up at the ceiling.
Then he waited to hear that tiny voice crying and asking him to stop.
He waited one minute, two minutes --nothing; five minutes --nothing; ten minutes --nothing.
"Oh, I know," he said, beginning to feel braver, and laughing again. "It is quite easy to understand: I did not really hear that little voice. I only thought I heard it! Well, well --back to work again!"
Poor Mr Cherry was still a little frightened, so he tried singing a happy song. That made him feel better.
He put down the axe and picked up his plane. That's a tool that carpenters use to make wood smooth and even. Slowly and easily, the plane went along the wood, up and down, up and down.
And then Mr Cherry heard the same tiny voice again. This time it laughed as it spoke:
"Oh, ha, ha, ha! Oh, stop it! Stop it! Oh, stop doing that! Ha, ha, ha! It feels so funny. You are making me laugh!"
This time poor Mr Cherry fell down on the floor. He lay there with his eyes shut. He looked as if someone had shot him.
When he opened his eyes, his face no longer looked the same. He was so frightened that the colour of the end of his nose had changed. It was no longer red. It was a dark blue colour.