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To Chrysanthemum-Pearl
(aged 89 months, going on 90)
EBOOK VERSION
This edition first published in paperback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019
™ & © 1938, 1965, 2019 by Dr. Seuss Enterprises L.P.
SOURCE EDITION ISBN-13: 978-0-00-831391-3
Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 978-0-00-834279-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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I
N THE beginning, Bartholomew Cubbins didn’t have five hun- dred hats. He had only one hat. It was an old one that had be- longed to his father and his father’s father before him. It was probably the oldest and the plainest hat in the whole Kingdom of Didd, where Bartholomew Cubbins lived. But Bartholomew liked it—especially because of the feather that always pointed straight up in the air.
The Kingdom of Didd was ruled by King Derwin. His palace stood high on the top of the mountain. From his balcony, he looked down over the houses of all his subjects—first, over the spires of the noblemen’s castles, across the broad roofs of the rich men’s mansions, then over the little houses of the townsfolk, to the huts of the farmers far off in the fields.
It was a mighty view and it made King Derwin feel mighty im-portant.
Far off in the fields, on the edge of a cranberry bog, stood the hut of the Cubbins family. From the small door Bartholomew looked across the huts of the farmers to the houses of the townsfolk, then to the rich men’s mansions and the noblemen’s castles, up to the great towering palace of the King. It was exactly the same view that King Derwin saw from his balcony, but Bartholomew saw it backward.
It was a mighty view, but it made Bartholomew Cubbins feel mighty small.
Just after sunrise one Saturday morning Bartholomew started for town. He felt very happy. A pleasant breeze whistled through the feather in his hat. In his right hand he carried a basket of cranberries to sell at the market. He was anxious to sell them quickly and bring the money back home to his parents.
He walked faster and faster till he got to the gates of the town.
The sound of silver trumpets rang through the air. Hoof beats clattered on the cobbled streets.
‟Clear the way! Clear the way! Make way for the King!”
All the people rushed for the pavements. They drove their carts right up over the kerbstones. Bartholomew clutched his basket tighter.
Around the corner dashed fifty trumpeters on yellow-robed horses. Behind them on crimson-robed horses came the King’s Own Guards.
‟Hats off to the King!” shouted the Captain of the King’s Own Guards.
On came the King’s carriage — white and gold and purple. It rumbled like thunder through the narrow street.
It swept past Bartholomew. Then suddenly its mighty brakes shrieked. It lurched—and then it stopped. The whole procession stood still.
Bartholomew could hardly believe what he saw. Through the side window of the carriage, the King himself was staring back—straight back at him! Bartholomew began to tremble.
‟Back up!” the King commanded the Royal Coachman.
The Royal Coachman shouted to the royal horses. The King’s Own Guards shouted to their crimson-robed horses. The trumpeters shouted to their yellow-robed horses. Very slowly the whole proces-sion backed down the street, until the King’s carriage stopped right in front of Bartholomew.
The King leaned from his carriage window and fixed his eyes di-rectly on Bartholomew Cubbins. ‟Well . . .? Well . . .?” he demanded.
Bartholomew shook with fright. ‟I ought to say something,” he thought to himself. But he could think of nothing to say.
‟Well?” demanded the King again. ‟Do you or do you not take off your hat before your King?”
‟Yes, indeed, Sire,” answered Bartholomew, feeling greatly re-lieved. ‟I do take off my hat before my King.”
‟Then take it off this very instant,” commanded the King more loudly than before.
‟But, Sire, my hat is off,” answered Bartholomew.
‟Such impudence!” shouted the King, shaking an angry finger. ‟How dare you stand there and tell me your hat is off!”
‟I don’t like to say you are wrong, Sire,” said Bartholomew very politely, ‟but you see my hat is off.” And he showed the King the hat in his hand.
‟If that’s your hat in your hand,” demanded the King, ‟what’s that on your head?”
‟On my head?” gasped Bartholomew. There did seem to be some-thing on his head. He reached up his hand and touched a hat!
The face of Bartholomew Cubbins turned very red. ‟It’s a hat, Sire,” he stammered, ‟but it can’t be mine. Someone behind me must have put it on my head.”
‟I don’t care how it got there,” said the King. ‟You take it off.” And the King sat back in his carriage.
Bartholomew quickly snatched off the hat. He stared at it in as-tonishment. It was exactly the same as his own hat—the same size, the same colour. And it had exactly the same feather.
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