Then, without hesitating a moment, he took his sharp axe to strip off the bark and the rough part of the wood. But just as he raised the axe for the first blow, he stopped with his arm in the air, for he heard a very tiny voice, begging him gently, ‘Don’t strike me too hard!’
You can imagine old Mr Cherry’s surprise.
He looked round the room to see where the tiny voice had come from, but he saw nobody. He looked under the bench – nobody. He looked in the cupboard which was always shut; but there was nobody. He looked in the basket of chips and sawdust – no one. He opened the door and looked out into the street – no one! What was to be done?
‘I see,’ he said at last, laughing and scratching his wig, ‘I must have imagined that tiny voice. Now let’s to work!’
He raised his axe again, and down it went on the piece of wood.
‘Oh, you hurt me!’ complained the same tiny voice.
This time Mr Cherry was struck all of a heap. His eyes stood out of his head, his mouth was wide open, and his tongue hung out over his chin, as you see on some fountain masks.
As soon as he could speak he said, trembling and stuttering with fright, ‘But where did that tiny voice come from that cried “Oh”? There’s not a living soul here. Is it possible that this piece of wood has learnt to cry and complain like a baby? I can’t believe it. This piece of wood – just look at it! It’s nothing but a piece of firewood, like all the others; when you put it on the fire it will make a kettle boil. Well, then? Is someone hidden inside it? If there is, so much the worse for him. I’ll attend to him!’
And he took the poor piece of wood in both hands and, without mercy, started to beat it against the wall.
Then he stopped and listened to hear if any tiny voice were complaining this time. He waited two minutes – nothing; five minutes – nothing; ten minutes – and still nothing!
‘Now I understand!’ he exclaimed, laughing and pulling his wig. ‘I must have imagined that tiny voice that said “Oh!” I’d better do my work.’ And, because he was very frightened, he began singing to encourage himself.
Meanwhile he put the axe down and, taking his plane, began planing and shaping the piece of wood.
But while the plane went to and fro, he again heard that tiny voice which said, laughing, ‘Stop! you’re tickling me!’
This time, poor Mr Cherry dropped as if struck by lightning.
When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor. He was so changed you could hardly have recognized him. Even the end of his nose, which was always red, had turned blue with fright.
Mr Cherry gives the piece of wood to his friend, Geppetto, who plans a marvellous puppet that can dance, and fence, and turn somersaults in the air
At that moment somebody knocked on the door. ‘Come in!’ said the carpenter; but he was too weak to stand up.
A little, jolly old man came into the shop. His name was Geppetto, but when the boys in the neighbourhood wanted to tease him they called him by his nickname of Polendina, because of his yellow wig which looked very like a dish of polenta.
Geppetto was very short-tempered. Woe betide anybody who called him Polendina! He simply went wild, and no one could do anything with him.
‘Good morning, Mr Antonio,’ said Geppetto. ‘What are you doing down there?’
‘I am teaching the ants how to read.’
‘Much good may it do you!’
‘What brought you here, Mr Geppetto?’
‘My legs. Mr Antonio, I have come to ask you a favour.’
‘Here I am, ready to serve you,’ answered the carpenter, getting to his knees.
‘I had an idea this morning.’
‘Let us hear it.’
‘I thought I would make a fine wooden puppet – a really fine one, that can dance, fence, and turn somersaults in the air. Then, with this puppet, I could travel round the world, and earn my bit of bread and my glass of wine. What do you think about it?’
‘Bravo, Polendina!’ cried that same tiny, mysterious voice.
When he heard the name Polendina, Mr Geppetto became so angry that he turned as red as a ripe pepper. He turned to the carpenter, and said in a fury, ‘Why do you annoy me?’
‘Who is annoying you?’
‘You called me Polendina!’
‘No, I didn’t!’
‘Oh! Perhaps I did it! But I say that it was you.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
And, as they grew more and more excited, from words they came to blows. They seized one another’s wigs, and even hit and bit and scratched each other.
At the end of the fight Geppetto’s yellow wig was in Mr Antonio’s hands, and the carpenter’s grey wig between Geppetto’s teeth.
‘Give me my wig!’ said Mr Antonio.
‘You give me mine, and let us make a peace treaty!’
So the two little old men, each taking his own wig, shook hands, and promised to be good friends for ever.
‘Now, neighbour Geppetto,’ said the carpenter, to prove that they were friends again, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I would like to have a little piece of wood to make my marionette. Will you give it to me?’
Mr Antonio, pleased as Punch, hurried to his bench, and took the piece of wood which had frightened him so much. But, just as he was giving it to his friend, it shook so hard that it slipped out of his hands, and struck poor Geppetto’s shin.
‘Ah! This is a fine way to make me a present, Mr Antonio! You have almost lamed me.’
‘Upon my honour, I didn’t do it!’
‘Oh! So I did it then!’
‘It’s all the fault of this piece of wood –’
‘Yes, I know the wood hit me, but you threw it at my legs!’
‘I did not throw it at you!’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘Geppetto, don’t insult me! If you do, I shall call you Polendina.’
‘Blockhead!’
‘Polendina!’
‘Donkey!’
‘Polendina!’
‘Ugly monkey!’
‘Polendina!’
When he heard himself called Polendina for the third time Geppetto, blind with rage, rushed at the carpenter, and the second fight was worse than the first.
When it was over, Mr Antonio had two more scratches on his nose, and Geppetto two buttons less on his jacket. Honours thus being even, they shook hands again, and vowed to be good friends for ever. Then Geppetto took the piece of wood and, thanking Mr Antonio, went limping home.