Part 30 (2/2)

”It's pretty nice to be home again, isn't it,” said Mollie.

”Nice?” echoed the old gentleman. ”I can just tell you, Miss Mollie Whistlebinkie, that the finest thing I've seen since I left home, finer than all the oceans in the world, more beautiful than all the Englands in creation, sweeter than all the Frances on the map, lovelier than any Alp that ever poked its nose against the sky, dearer than all the Venices afloat--the greatest, most welcome sight that ever greeted my eyes was my own bra.s.s front door k.n.o.b holding itself out there in the twilight of yesterday to welcome me home and twinkling in the fading light of day like a house afire as if to show it was glad to see me back. That's why the minute I came into the yard I took off my hat and knelt down before that old bra.s.s k.n.o.b and kissed it.”

The old man's voice shook just a little as he spoke, and a small teardrop gathered and glistened in a corner of his eye--but it was a tear of joy and content, not of sorrow.

”And then when I turned the k.n.o.b and opened the door,” he went on, ”well--talk about your Palaces with all their magnificent s.h.i.+ny floors and gorgeous gold framed mirrors and hall-bedrooms as big as the Madison Square Garden--they couldn't compare to this old parlor of mine with the piano over on one side of the room, the refrigerator in the other, the leak beaming down from the ceiling, and my kitchen-stove peeking in through the door and sort of keeping an eye on things generally. And not a picture in all that 9643 miles of paint at the Loover can hold a candle to my beloved old Was.h.i.+ngton Crossing the Delaware over my mantel-piece, with the British bombarding him with snow-b.a.l.l.s and the river filled to the brim with ice-bergs--no sirree! And best of all, n.o.body around to leave their aitches all over the place for somebody else to pick up, or any French language to take a pretty little bird and turn it into a wazzoh, or to turn a good honest hard boiled egg into an oof, but everybody from Me myself down to the kitchen-stove using the good old American language whenever we have something to say and holding our tongues in the same when we haven't.”

”Hooray for us!” cried Whistlebinkie, dancing with glee.

”That's what I say,” said the Unwiseman. ”America's good enough for me and I'm glad I'm back.”

”Well I feel the same way,” said Mollie. ”I liked Europe very much indeed but somehow or other I like America best.”

”And for a very good reason,” said the Unwiseman.

”What?” asked Mollie.

”Because it's Home,” said the Unwiseman.

”I guess-tha.s.sit,” said Whistlebinkie.

”Well don't guess again, Fizzled.i.n.kie,” said the Unwiseman, ”because that's the answer, and if you guessed again you might get it wrong.”

And so it was that Mollie and the Unwiseman and Whistlebinkie finished their trip abroad, and returned better pleased with Home than they had ever been before, which indeed is one of the greatest benefits any of us get out of a trip to Europe, for after all that fine old poet was right when he said:

”East or West Home is best.”

In closing I think I ought to say that the Unwiseman's umbrella turned up in good order the next morning, and where do you suppose?

Why up on the roof where the kind-hearted burglar had placed it to protect the Unwiseman's leak from the rain!

So he seems to have been a pretty honest old burglar after all.

THE END.

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