Read Online The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate DiCamillo
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princess wearing her own crown and riding on a little white, tippy-toed horse.”
“What are ye going on about?” said Uncle.
“I saw a king and a queen and a itty-bitty princess,” shouted Mig.
“So?” shouted Uncle back.
“I would like . . .,” said Mig shyly. “I wish to be one of them princesses.”
“Har,” laughed Uncle. “Har. An ugly, dumb thing like you? You ain’t even worth the enormous lot I paid for you. Don’t I wish every night that I had back that good hen and that red tablecloth in place of you?”
He did not wait for Mig to guess the answer to this question. “I do,” he said. “I wish it every night. That tablecloth was the color of blood. That hen could lay eggs like nobody’s business.”
“I want to be a princess,” said Mig. “I want to wear a crown.”
“A crown.” Uncle laughed. “She wants to wear a crown.” He laughed harder. He took the empty kettle and put it atop his head. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m a king. See my crown? I’m a king just like I always wanted to be. I’m a king because I want to be one.”
He danced around the hut with the kettle on his head. He laughed until he cried. And then he stopped dancing and took the kettle from his head and looked at Mig and said, “Do ye want a good clout to the ear for such nonsense?”
“No, thank you, Uncle,” said Mig.
But she got one anyway.
“Look here,” said Uncle after the clout had been delivered. “We will hear no more talk of princesses. Besides, who ever asked you what you wanted in this world, girl?”
The answer to that question, reader, as you well know, was absolutely no one.
YEARS PASSED. Mig spent them scrubbing the kettle and tending the sheep and cleaning the hut and collecting innumerable, uncountable, extremely painful clouts to the ear. In the evening, spring or winter, summer or fall, Mig stood in the field as the sun set, hoping that the royal family would pass before her again.
“Gor, I would like to see that little princess another time, wouldn’t I? And her little pony, too, with his tippy-toed feet.” This hope, this wish, that she would see the princess again, was lodged deep in Mig’s heart; lodged firmly right next to it was the hope that she, Miggery Sow, could someday become a princess herself.
The first of Mig’s wishes was granted, in a roundabout way, when King Phillip outlawed soup. The king’s men were sent out to deliver the grim news and to collect from the people of the Kingdom of Dor their kettles, their spoons, and their bowls.
Reader, you know exactly how and why this law came to pass, so you would not be as surprised as Uncle was when, one Sunday, a soldier of the king knocked on the door of the hut that Mig and Uncle and the sheep shared and announced that soup was against the law.
“How’s that?” said Uncle.
“By royal order of King Phillip,” repeated the soldier, “I am sent here to tell you that soup has been outlawed in the Kingdom of Dor. You will, by order of the king, never again consume soup. Nor will you think of it or talk about it. And I, as one of the king’s loyal servants, am here to take from you your spoons, your kettle, and your bowls.”
“But that can’t be,” said Uncle.
“Nevertheless. It is.”
“What’ll we eat? And what’ll we eat it with?”
“Cake,” suggested the soldier, “with a fork.”
“And wouldn’t that be lovely,” said Uncle, “if we could afford to eat cake.”
The soldier shrugged. “I am only doing my duty. Please hand over your spoons, your bowls, and your kettle.”
Uncle grabbed hold of his beard. He let go of his beard and grabbed the hair on his head. “Unbelievable!” he shouted. “I suppose next the king will be wanting my sheep and my girl, seeing as those are the only possessions I have left.”
“Do you own a girl?” said the soldier.
“I do,” said Uncle. “A worthless one, but still, she is mine.”
“Ah,” said the soldier, “that, I am afraid,
“What are ye going on about?” said Uncle.
“I saw a king and a queen and a itty-bitty princess,” shouted Mig.
“So?” shouted Uncle back.
“I would like . . .,” said Mig shyly. “I wish to be one of them princesses.”
“Har,” laughed Uncle. “Har. An ugly, dumb thing like you? You ain’t even worth the enormous lot I paid for you. Don’t I wish every night that I had back that good hen and that red tablecloth in place of you?”
He did not wait for Mig to guess the answer to this question. “I do,” he said. “I wish it every night. That tablecloth was the color of blood. That hen could lay eggs like nobody’s business.”
“I want to be a princess,” said Mig. “I want to wear a crown.”
“A crown.” Uncle laughed. “She wants to wear a crown.” He laughed harder. He took the empty kettle and put it atop his head. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m a king. See my crown? I’m a king just like I always wanted to be. I’m a king because I want to be one.”
He danced around the hut with the kettle on his head. He laughed until he cried. And then he stopped dancing and took the kettle from his head and looked at Mig and said, “Do ye want a good clout to the ear for such nonsense?”
“No, thank you, Uncle,” said Mig.
But she got one anyway.
“Look here,” said Uncle after the clout had been delivered. “We will hear no more talk of princesses. Besides, who ever asked you what you wanted in this world, girl?”
The answer to that question, reader, as you well know, was absolutely no one.
YEARS PASSED. Mig spent them scrubbing the kettle and tending the sheep and cleaning the hut and collecting innumerable, uncountable, extremely painful clouts to the ear. In the evening, spring or winter, summer or fall, Mig stood in the field as the sun set, hoping that the royal family would pass before her again.
“Gor, I would like to see that little princess another time, wouldn’t I? And her little pony, too, with his tippy-toed feet.” This hope, this wish, that she would see the princess again, was lodged deep in Mig’s heart; lodged firmly right next to it was the hope that she, Miggery Sow, could someday become a princess herself.
The first of Mig’s wishes was granted, in a roundabout way, when King Phillip outlawed soup. The king’s men were sent out to deliver the grim news and to collect from the people of the Kingdom of Dor their kettles, their spoons, and their bowls.
Reader, you know exactly how and why this law came to pass, so you would not be as surprised as Uncle was when, one Sunday, a soldier of the king knocked on the door of the hut that Mig and Uncle and the sheep shared and announced that soup was against the law.
“How’s that?” said Uncle.
“By royal order of King Phillip,” repeated the soldier, “I am sent here to tell you that soup has been outlawed in the Kingdom of Dor. You will, by order of the king, never again consume soup. Nor will you think of it or talk about it. And I, as one of the king’s loyal servants, am here to take from you your spoons, your kettle, and your bowls.”
“But that can’t be,” said Uncle.
“Nevertheless. It is.”
“What’ll we eat? And what’ll we eat it with?”
“Cake,” suggested the soldier, “with a fork.”
“And wouldn’t that be lovely,” said Uncle, “if we could afford to eat cake.”
The soldier shrugged. “I am only doing my duty. Please hand over your spoons, your bowls, and your kettle.”
Uncle grabbed hold of his beard. He let go of his beard and grabbed the hair on his head. “Unbelievable!” he shouted. “I suppose next the king will be wanting my sheep and my girl, seeing as those are the only possessions I have left.”
“Do you own a girl?” said the soldier.
“I do,” said Uncle. “A worthless one, but still, she is mine.”
“Ah,” said the soldier, “that, I am afraid,
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