There was a little boy with a pig in his arms, and now and then the pig squealed shrilly. There was a maid with a cap and apron, and her sleeves were so full of round, heavy things that the seams looked ready to burst. A pocket that hung at her side was full, too, and bumped against her as she walked. She came quite close to Ellen, and the child could tell by the smell that the things in her sleeves and pocket were oranges. There was one who Ellen knew must be a king by the crown on his head; he was a jolly-looking fellow, and had a pipe in one hand and a bowl in the other.
There were big people and little people, young people and old; and a dish and spoon came walking out with the rest. But what seemed almost the strangest of all to Ellen was to see an old lady come riding out through the door of the house on a white horse.
"I wonder where she keeps it," thought the little girl to herself. "I shouldn't think it would be very pleasant to have a horse in the house with you."
The old lady's hands were loaded with rings, and as the horse moved there was a jingling as of bells. The words of a nursery rhyme rang through Ellen's head in time to the jingling:--
"_Rings on her fingers And bells on her toes, She shall have music Wherever she goes._"
"Why," she cried, "it's the old lady of Banbury Cross. And"--she looked around at the crowd--"why, I do believe they're _all_ out of Mother Goose rhymes."
"Of course they are," said the little old woman with the pointed hat. "What did you suppose would live in Mother Goose's house?"
"Yes, I am. Don't you think I look like the pictures?"
"But--but--I didn't know you were alive. I thought you were only a rhyme."
"Only a rhyme! Well, I should think not. How do you suppose there could be rhymes unless there was something to make them about?"
"And all the rest, too," said Ellen dreamily, looking about her. "'Tom, Tom, the piper's son,' and 'Dingty, Diddlety, my mammy's maid,' and 'Old King Cole'--why, they're _all_ alive. How queer it seems! I wonder if the stories are alive, too."
"And the story grandmother forgot--oh, _do_ you suppose I could find that story?"
"The story she forgot!" answered Mother Goose thoughtfully. "What was it about?"
"Why, that's it; I don't know. Nobody knows only just grandmother, and she's forgotten."