Rootabaga Stories | Page 2

either open or shut, we are always either upstairs or
downstairs—everything is the same as it always was."
After a while they began asking each other in the cool of the evening
after they had eggs for breakfast in the morning, "Who's who? How
much? and what's the answer?"
"It is too much to be too long anywhere," said the tough old man,
Gimme the Ax.
And Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions, the tough son and the
tough daughter of Gimme the Ax, answered their father, "It is too much
to be too long anywhere."
So they sold everything they had, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers,
pitchforks, everything except their ragbags and a few extras.

When their neighbors saw them selling everything they had, the
different neighbors said, "They are going to Kansas, to Kokomo, to
Canada, to Kanakakee, to Kalamazoo, to Kamchatka, to the
Chattahoochee."
One little sniffer with his eyes half shut and a mitten on his nose,
laughed in his hat five ways and said, "They are going to the moon and
when they get there they will find everything is the same as it always
was."
All the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures,
pepper pickers, pitchforks, Gimme the Ax put in a ragbag and slung on
his back like a rag picker going home.
The he took Please Gimme, his oldest and youngest and only son, and
Ax Me No Questions, his oldest and youngest and only daughter, and
went to the railroad station.
The ticket agent was sitting at the window selling railroad tickets the
same as always.
"Do you wish a ticket to go away and come back or do you wish a
ticket to go away and never come back?" the ticket agent asked wiping
sleep out of his eyes.
"We wish a ticket to ride where the railroad tracks run off into the sky
and never come back—send us far as the railroad rails go and then forty
ways farther yet," was the reply of Gimme the Ax.
"So far? So early? So soon?" asked the ticket agent wiping more sleep
out of his eyes. "Then I will give you a new ticket. It blew in. It is a
long slick leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it."
Gimme the Ax thanked the ticket agent once, thanked the ticket agent
twice, and then instead of thanking the ticket agent three times he
opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money he got for
selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, and paid
the spot cash money to the ticket agent.

Before he put it is his pocket he looked once, twice, three times at the
long yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it.
Then with Please Gimme and Ax Me No Questions he got on the
railroad train, showed the conductor his ticket and they started to ride
to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky and then forty
ways farther yet.
The train ran on and on. It came to the place where the railroad tracks
run off into the blue sky. And it ran on and on chick chick-a-chick
chick-a-chick chick-a-chick.
Sometimes the engineer hooted and tooted the whistle. Sometimes the
fireman rang the bell. Sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog's
nose choked and spit pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost. But no
matter what happened to the whistle and the bell and the steam hog, the
train ran on and on to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky.
And then it ran on and on more and more.
Sometimes Gimme the Ax looked in his pocket, put his fingers in and
took out the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch
across it.
"Not even the Kings of Egypt with all their climbing camels, and all
their speedy, spotted, lucky lizards, ever had a ride like this," he said to
his children.
Then something happened. They met another train running on the same
track. One train was going one way. The other was going the other way.
They met. They passed each other.
"What was it—what happened?" the children asked their father.
"One train went over, the other train went under," he answered. "This is
the Over and Under country. Nobody gets out of the way of anybody
else. They either go over or under."
Next they came to the country of the balloon pickers. Hanging down

from the sky strung on strings so fine the eye could not see them at first,
was the balloon crop of that summer.
The sky was thick with balloons. Red, blue, yellow balloons, white,
purple and orange balloons—peach, watermelon and potato
balloons—rye loaf and wheat loaf balloons—link sausage and pork
chop balloons—they floated