April 6, 2011

The mad hutter, Jugglor, appears in a few chronicles, notably LITTLE HUTTER and THE ACROTWIST CLOWN. Below him is an excerpt from THE ACROTWIST CLOWN.

“Welcome! Welcome! Come up now! Come along! Step lively! Come in! Come in! Come in! What can I get you? Anything? You look hungry! I can fix that in a jif. Half a jif! Travelled far? Travelled long? How ’bout a song? I’ll sing while you eat. What shall I sing? No, better! I’ll juggle! Wait! I’ll juggle AND sing! As sure as my name is Jugglor, which it is, I’ll juggle and sing. I juggle well. My voice has been compared at times to satin elegance. I admit it. I am Jugglor. Isn’t this a stroke of good fortune or a kindly hand of fate that such an impressive group has been delivered to my doorstep? Come in, come in, come in. Welcome to the house of Jugglor.”

How much do you know about hutters? Not very much? Let me tell you something about the happy hutter who burst forth running and dancing from the purple and white striped conical dwelling and delivered that speech we just heard. He was not a typical hutter. Far from it. Oh, he was friendly. Hutters are friendly. Oh, he tended the orchard. Hutters tend orchards and fields, too. He wore the simple garb of a hutter, tunic and tannerbritches. He was a wonderful host, as are all hutters. But, strange to tell, he had been banished from his ancestral oat field near Fiddleeebod Castle. He had been sent to live alone in and tend to one of the Outerest Orchards. Why? He broke and continued to break daily the number one hutter rule. NO ONE MUST KNOW YOUR NAME. AFTER YOUR MOTHER WHISPERS IT TO YOU ON YOUR SECOND BIRTHDAY, IT MUST NEVER BE HEARD AGAIN. There it is. Rule #1. It’s a hutter tradition. The hutter herding the Prophesy’s chosen four into his sturdy conical cottage couldn’t help himself. He had to tell everyone he met his name was Jugglor. He repeated his name a hundred times a day. The ggl part was irresistible in his throat. Jugglor. Jugglor. Jugglor. A hutter speaking aloud his name might not have seemed odd to Jemby or to Nobb or to Malvina. To Prince Dale Lightly, however, it was shocking.

“You’re not supposed to say your name, are you, hutter?” asked Prince Dale as the group passed through the door of the conical cottage.

“Mishmash. Mishmash. All mishmash! Jugglor’s my name and my name is Jugglor! Sit down. Sit down! I’ll bring cakes! I’ll bring my Jugglor specialty, homemade mollywater! The best!” said the hutter, and he scampered up the ladder through a round hole in the round ceiling. There was a ladder. There was a round hole in the ceiling.

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