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EVEN when you get gas for cooking, that doesn't solve all problems. The gas stove hadn't been put in very long before there was the famous quarrel between the Pilot Light and the Big Burner. They were really rather fond of each other, and secretly each one admired the other's good qualities; but they quarrelled terribly!
You know what a Pilot Light is in a gas stove. It's a very small hidden flame that is kept going all the time for the purpose of lighting a Big Burner when that is needed. You push down a little valve, the Pilot Light shoots out a long streamer of bright flame. It is very interesting to watch. Turn on the gas in the Big Burner, then press the valve. The dainty streak of yellow fire darts from the Pilot like a magic wand: the Big Burner seizes it and blossoms into a roaring blue flower.
You would have thought the Pilot Light would be rather proud of itself, pleased to have such fairylike work to do. Perhaps the trouble was that the other burners had teased it a little too much; perhaps, like many people with magic powers, it was temperamental. It had a fiery nature, which after all was not surprising. You know how in the old stories there is often a fairy who has a habit of imagining that she has been slighted or disregarded or offended in some way or other. It was like that with this clever but rather foolish Pilot Light. It was terribly jealous of the Big Burner. It complained bitterly of having to work all the time while the other burners were resting. It was even ashamed because its own flame was tiny and yellow while the Big Burner was so large and blue and powerful; it was annoyed that the Big Burner got all the fun and glory of cooking the food.
So the Pilot Light sulked in its little hole at the back of the stove. While the Big Burner, too busy to think about such differences, was blazing away, cooking soup or frying eggs or heating cocoa, the Pilot Light grumbled and whined and was sorry for itself. It never stopped to think that though the Big Burner did a lot of loafing, also when it did work it worked furiously. The Pilot Light was so sensitive it imagined that everyone was making fun of it. When it heard all the pleasant sounds of cooking, it thought the others were mocking it. There was the bubble and hiss of water steaming in the big white kettle, the bump-bump of potatoes joggling in the boiler, the sharp snapping of frying bacon, the gentle simmer of vegetables stewing in pots, the deep rumbling crackle of the oven below them all. And these voices seemed to the angry Pilot Light to be saying: "You silly little drudge! Working all the time! Only useful to light up the Big Fellows and let them get all the fun and glory! Just a kind of office-boy! You're not much!"
One day the Pilot Light was so indignant that he simply went out, quit. The family had got so accustomed to depending on him that there were no matches at all in the kitchen. Mr. Mistletoe, who always had matches in his pocket, was away that day. No cooking could be done until they had gone next door and borrowed some matches from Mrs. Hopkins.
The Pilot Light was so peevish that he stayed out for several days. He made trouble, too, because when he was not burning there was a nasty little smell of gas in the kitchen at night, which gave Fourchette a headache. The gas-man came and fixed him so that he had to burn whether he wanted to or not. This made him grumble more than ever.
Then something happened that taught the Pilot Light a lesson.
One winter night there was great anxiety in the pot-closet. Ferdinand, the mouse, was grown—up now, and he and his wife Isabella had a family of baby mice. If you have ever seen very young baby mice you know how pretty and quick they are, and can understand that their parents think highly of them. And one of these young mice had got bronchitis. It had gone down into the cellar, which was forbidden, and had got its feet wet in one of those puddles that appear after a heavy rain, and now it was very ill. It was very ill indeed: it had a high fever, its soft fur was all rumpled, its poor little pointed nose was burning hot, its pink patty-paws were shivering cold, it had a pain in its chest and could hardly breathe. It was very patient and lay without complaining in the custard cup that Ferdinand and Isabella used as a nursery, but its eyes were bright with fever and Ferdinand was very anxious. Suppose bronchitis should turn into pneumonia? It was chilly and draughty down in that corner of the pot-closet. There was only one thing to do: the sick mouse must have a hot compress on its chest immediately.
But how was anything to be heated, in the middle of the night? In this dreadful difficulty Ferdinand did what he would never have done except in case of necessity. He took a small drink of brandy from his flask, to encourage himself, then he put up a flag of truce and went boldly out into the kitchen to ask Fourchette's advice. He knew that Fourchette was a parent herself and would put aside old quarrels for the sake of a sick child.
Fourchette was certainly surprised to see Ferdinand (his whiskers trembling a little with nervousness) advance with a flag of truce. But she was always well-bred, and said politely but with a small touch of mischief, "It is a long time since I've seen you."
Ferdinand explained his anxiety, and at once Fourchette suggested the Pilot Light. Burning there quietly at the back of the stove while all the house was asleep, it was just what they needed.
They had to call Donny, and Fourchette gave him the Flag of Truce call which means. This is an Emergency, All the Usual Rules Are Suspended, This call is four quick burrps: a burrp, as you know, is a sound in between a purr and a miow. Donny came hurrying and opened the swinging door so that Fourchette could go through. She—rushed upstairs and got camphorated oil from the medicine cupboard and a doll's saucepan from Helen's doll-house. She brought these to the kitchen. Donny allowed Ferdinand to jump on his tall back and from there onto the gas stove, which was all cool and comfortable except just in the little circle over the Pilot Light. There they heated the camphorated oil and carried it to the pot-closet. Ferdinand rubbed the baby mouse's chest with it, and Isabella fixed a little bandage.
All that night Ferdinand was busy, running between the pot-closet and the Pilot Light, heating camphorated oil. Fourchette bit off pieces of dish-cloths to be used as compresses. They mixed a little mustard with the oil, to make a kind of plaster. Ferdinand knew, from long experience, where all the groceries were kept. The Pilot Light burned steadily and all went well. Towards morning the sick mouse showed a healthy perspiration and fell comfortably asleep. The fever was broken. They covered him over with a warm blanket of Corn Flakes and left him to rest.
The Pilot Light bragged about it next day. If it hadn't been for me, he said, that mouse would have died. This was quite true, and it gave the Pilot Light quite a new idea about his importance. He was no longer unhappy because he had to be ready for action at any time, day or night. He saw how silly it was to be jealous of the Big Burner because the latter is stronger and hotter and has a more showy job. And nowadays, when the Pilot shoots out his thin yellow glim, and the Big Burner catches it and leaps into a roaring circle of blue fire, each of them respects the other for his powers. "Thanks! Good kid!" says the Big Burner in his hoarse blustery voice. "Now watch me boil these potatoes. I'll make 'em bobble!" And the Pilot Light, as he flits back into his little socket, calls in a merry squeak "Go to it, Big Boy! I'll be here when you need me."
Mr. Mistletoe heard about all this later, and cheered the Pilot Light a great deal by something he said one evening while he and Pilot were getting ready to start the Big Burner on some midnight cocoa. "You see," he explained, "you're really just like an Editor running a magazine. He won't ever get as much praise as the people who write stories for his paper. He's all the time lighting up burners that are bigger than himself. But they know, and they don't forget, that they got the spark from him."
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