“Uncle Munch1,” said Diavolo as he clambered up into the old warrior’s lap, “I don’t suppose you could tell us a story about Decoration Day could you?”
“I think I might try,” said Mr. Munchausen, puffing2 thoughtfully upon his cigar and making a ring with the smoke for Angelica to catch upon her little thumb. “I might try—but it will all depend upon whether you want me to tell you about Decoration Day as it is celebrated3 in the United States, or the way a band of missionaries4 I once knew in the Cannibal Islands observed it for twenty years or more.”
“Why can’t we have both stories?” said Angelica. “I think that would be the nicest way. Two stories is twice as good as one.”
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Mr. Munchausen. “You see the trouble is that in the first instance I could tell you only what a beautiful thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their lives in defence of their country. I’m not much of a poet and it takes a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so I should be afraid to try it. Besides it might sadden your little hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless5 number of heroes who let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in peace and happiness. I’d have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds of graves scattered6 over the battle fields that no one knows about, and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all, unless Nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot down and never heard of afterwards.”
“Does all heroes get killed?” asked Angelica.
“No,” said Mr. Munchausen. “I and a great many others lived through the wars and are living yet.”
“Well, how about the missionaries?” said Diavolo. “I didn’t know they had Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands.”
“I didn’t either until I got there,” returned the Baron7. “But they have and they have it in July instead of May. It was one of the most curious things I ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it they’d either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. I don’t know whether I ever told you about my first experience with the cannibals—did I?”
“I don’t remember it, but if you had I would have,” said Diavolo.
“So would I,” said Angelica. “I remember most everything you say, except when I want you to say it over again, and even then I haven’t forgotten it.”
“Well, it happened this way,” said the Baron. “It was when I was nineteen years old. I sort of thought at that time I’d like to be a sailor, and as my father believed in letting me try whatever I wanted to do I took a position as first mate of a steam brig that plied8 between San Francisco and Nepaul, taking San Francisco canned tomatoes to Nepaul and bringing Nepaul pepper back to San Francisco, making several dollars both ways. Perhaps I ought to explain to you that Nepaul pepper is red, and hot; not as hot as a furnace fire, but hot enough for your papa and myself when we order oysters9 at a club and have them served so cold that we think they need a little more warmth to make them palatable10 and digestible. You are not yet old enough to know the meaning of such words as palatable and digestible, but some day you will be and then you’ll know what your Uncle means. At any rate it was on the return voyage from Nepaul that the water tank on the Betsy S. went stale and we had to stop at the first place we could to fill it up with fresh water. So we sailed along until we came in sight of an Island and the Captain appointed me and two sailors a committee of three to go ashore11 and see if there was a spring anywhere about. We went, and the first thing we knew we were in the midst of a lot of howling, hungry savages12, who were crazy to eat us. My companions were eaten, but when it came to my turn I tried to reason with the chief. ‘Now see here, my friend,’ said I, ‘I’m perfectly13 willing to be served up at your breakfast, if I can only be convinced that you will enjoy eating me. What I don’t want is to have my life wasted!’ ‘That’s reasonable enough,’ said he. ‘Have you got a sample of yourself along for me to taste?’ ‘I have,’ I replied, taking out a bottle of Nepaul pepper, that by rare good luck I happened to have in my pocket. ‘That is a portion of my left foot powdered. It will give you some idea of what I taste like,’ I added. ‘If you like that, you’ll like me. If you don’t, you won’t.’”
“That was fine,” said Diavol............