CHAPTER VI

_Fairy Tales, Allegories, Parables and Fables_

In this section are included several types of stories which, though

different in certain particulars, are clearly related to one another.

In general, they are fictitious stories, often of supernatural

events, told to teach a moral lesson. To modern ears, this is not

an attractive description, but the stories, nevertheless, remain

perennial favorites. La Fontaine, the great French writer of fables,

says:

“Fables in sooth are not what they appear;

Our moralists are mice, and such small deer.

We yawn at sermons, but we gladly turn

To moral tales, and so amused, we learn.”

From earliest times, fables, parables, and fairy tales have been

popular devices for teaching without provoking yawns.

“Mice and such small deer” are characteristic figures in fables,

where we usually find animals moved by human motives and speaking

and acting like human beings. The longevity of such stories appears

when we trace _The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_ back to the

_Satires_ of Horace, and _Chanticleer_ to the _Nun’s Priest’s Tale_

in Chaucer. The moral of the fable is simple and obvious, some bit of

indisputable folk wisdom. The style of the typical fable is equally

direct and simple. Æsop gives you no setting, no description, and

no elaborate characterizations; his stories have survived because

of their unmistakable agreement with human experience. Stevenson’s

_The Frog and the Tadpole_ consists of nothing more than translating

familiar human relationships and words into parallel ones for animals.

The term “parable” has often been limited to those in the New

Testament, but the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ says that there is no

clear line of demarcation between the fable and the parable except

that supernaturally gifted animals are usually confined to the

former. The parable is longer than the fable, uses familiar objects

and events in a normal way, and may teach a more elaborate lesson.

In _A Parable for Philanthropists_, for example, you will observe

that the cat, though important, is in no way supernatural, and does

not contribute to the conversation. The situation is very simple and

familiar, and drives home the moderate moral, “You may waste your

time and do more harm than good if you insist upon trying to help

those whose circumstances you do not understand.”

The fairy tale is a more widely varied type than either of the others

mentioned; it has wide ramifications, and has been loved by people in

many times and places. At first glance, it may seem almost futile to

include it here, for most fairy tales, folk lore, and mythology have

sprung out of the imaginations of primitive peoples, and do not lend

themselves readily to sophisticated invention. Nevertheless, the old

favorites demand retelling for almost every generation, and we have

some lovely modern tales in which the old elements are recombined

most effectively. What these elements are, any child can tell you:

that in fairy tales all sorts of kinships between people and animals

may well be expected, that stepmothers are always cruel, that younger

sisters triumph, and that beauty and virtue are vindicated through

patience and fortitude. Besides these familiar rules, collections of

folk lore or books on mythology will furnish a host of other stock

situations and introduce a variety of superhuman characters from

the Toomtegoobe of the Scandinavians to the Banshee of the Irish.

The fairy tale is often written very simply, but it permits of a

more elaborate style, and sometimes illustrates the effectiveness of

refrains by the repetition of a formula such as the doves’ warning

in _Cinderella_, “There’s blood on the shoe! There’s blood on the

shoe!” Vivid descriptions help to create atmosphere, and a graceful

and colorful style carries the modern reader into an appreciation of

the imaginative material, which might otherwise seem only unreal.

In _The King’s Barn_ are to be found one after another of the stock

situations and characters of fairy lore, the maiden in distress, the

lad subjected to magical tests, the supernatural smithy, and many

others, bound into a radiant whole by the serenely picturesque style

of the author.

Not all people can appreciate fairy tales, and only those with

sensitive and exuberant imaginations will be able to write them, but

the selections in this section show something of the charm that may

be given them by an artist’s hand.

In beginning, it may be well to remember the following suggestions:

1. Make your style plain and simple in fables, dignified and

serious in parables, and as graceful and colorful as you can in

fairy tales.

2. Retell some of your childhood favorites without reference to any

book, paying particular attention to style.

3. Try expanding proverbs into fables, using familiar animals, and

remembering to keep each true to his traditional character.

4. From such a collection as _English and Scottish Popular

Ballads_, choose a ballad and turn it into a fairy tale, retaining

any suitable refrain.

F. del P.

THE KING’S BARN

ELEANOR FARJEON

There was once, dear maidens, a King in Sussex of whose kingdom and

possessions nothing remained but a single Barn and a change of linen.

It was no fault of his. He was a very young king when he came into

his heritage, and it was already dwindled to these proportions. Once

his fathers had owned a beautiful city on the banks of the Adur, and

all the lands to the north and the west were theirs, for a matter

of several miles indeed, including many strange things that were on

them: such as the Wapping Thorp, the Huddle Stone, the Bush Hovel

where a Wise Woman lived, and the Guess Gate; likewise those two

communities known as the Doves and the Hawking Sopers, whose ways

of life were as opposite as the Poles. The Doves were simple men,

and religious; but the Hawking Sopers were indeed a wild and rowdy

crew, and it is said that the King’s father had hunted and drunk with

them until his estates were gambled away and his affairs decayed of

neglect, and nothing was left at last but the solitary Barn which

marked the northern boundary of his possessions. And here, when his

father was dead, our young King sat on a tussock of hay with his

golden crown on his head and his golden scepter in his hand, and ate

bread and cheese thrice a day, throwing the rind to the rats and the

crumbs to the swallows. His name was William, and beyond the rats and

the swallows he had no other company than a nag called Pepper, whom

he fed daily from the tussock he sat on.

But at the end of a week he said:

“It is a dull life. What should a King do in a Barn?”

So saying, he pulled the last handful of hay from under him, rising

up quickly before he had time to fall down, and gave it to his nag;

and next he tied up his scepter and crown with his change of linen

in a blue handkerchief; and last he fetched a rope and a sack and

put them on Pepper for bridle and saddle, and rode out of the Barn

leaving the door to swing.

“Let us go south, Pepper,” said he, “for it is warmer to ride into

the sun than away from it, and so we shall visit my Father’s lands

that might have been mine.”

South they went, with the great Downs ahead of them, and who knew

what beyond? And first they came to the Hawking Sopers, who when they

saw William approaching tumbled out of their dwelling with a great

racket, crying to him to come and drink and play with them.

“Not I,” said he. “For so I should lose my Barn to you, and such as

it is it is a shelter, and my only one. But tell me, if you can, what

should a King do in a Barn?”

“He should dance in it,” said they, and went laughing and singing

back to their cups.

“What sort of advice is this, Pepper?” said the King. “Shall we try

elsewhere?”

The nag whinnied with unusual vehemence, and the King, taking this

for yea, and not observing that she limped as she went, rode on to

the Doves: the gentle gray-gowned Brothers who spent their days in

pious works and their nights in meditation. Between the twelve hours

of twilight and dawn they were pledged not to utter speech, but the

King arriving there at noon they welcomed him with kind words, and

offered him a bowl of rice and milk.

He thanked them, and when he had eaten and drunk put to them his

riddle.

“What should a King do in a Barn?”

They answered, “He should pray in it.”

“This may be good advice,” said the King. “Pepper should we go

further?”

The little nag whinnied till her sides shook, which the King took,

as before, to be an affirmative. However, because it was Sunday he

remained with the Doves a day and a night, and during such time as

their lips were not sealed they urged him to become one of them, and

found a new settlement of Brothers in his Barn. He spent his night in

reflection, but by morning had come to no decision.

“To what better use could you dedicate it?” asked the Chief Brother,

who was known as the Ringdove because he was the leader.

“None that I can think of,” said the King, “but I fear I am not good

enough.”

“When you have passed our initiation,” said the Ringdove, “you will

be.”

“Is it difficult?” asked William.

“No, it is very easy, and can be accomplished within a month. You

have only to ride south till you come to the hills, on the highest

of which you will see a Ring of beech-trees. Under the hills lies

the little village of Washington, and there you may dwell in comfort

through the week. But on each of the four Saturdays of the lunar

month you must mount the hill at sunset and keep a vigil among the

beeches till sunrise. And you must see that these Saturdays occur on

the four quarters of the moon--once when she is in her crescent, once

at the half, again at the full, and lastly when she is waning.”

“And is this all?” said William. “It sounds very simple.”

“Not quite all, but the rest is nearly as simple. You have but to

observe four rules. First, to tell no living soul of your resolve

during the month of initiation. Second, to keep your vigil always

between the two great beeches in the middle of the Ring. Third, to

issue forth at midnight and immerse your head in the Dewpond which

lies on the hilltop to the west, and having done so to return to your

watch between the trees. And fourth, to make no utterance on any

account whatever from sunset to sunrise.”

“Suppose I should sneeze?” inquired the King anxiously.

“There’s no supposing about it,” said the Ringdove. “Sneezing, seeing

that your head will be extremely wet, is practically inevitable. But

the rule applies only to such utterance as lies within human control.

When the fourth vigil has been successfully accomplished, return to

us for a blessing and the gray robe of our Order.”

“But how,” asked the King, “during my vigils shall I know when

midnight is due?”

“In the third quarter after eleven a bird sings. At the beginning of

its song go forth from the Ring, and at the ending plunge your head

into the Pond. For on these nights the bird sings ceaselessly for

fifteen minutes, but stops at the very moment of midnight.”

“And is this really all?”

“This is all.”

“How easy it is to become good,” said William cheerfully. “I will

begin at once.”

So impatient was he to become a Brother Dove--that he abandoned his

idea of visiting the Huddle Stone and the Wapping Thorp (which would

have taken him out of his course), and, without even waiting to break

his fast, leaped on to Pepper’s back and turned her head southwest

towards the hills. And in his eagerness he failed to remark how

Pepper stumbled at every second step. Before he had gone a mile he

came to the Guess Gate.

Of the Guess Gate, as you may know, all men ask a question in passing

through, and in the back-swing of the Gate it creaks an answer. So

nothing more natural than that the King, having flung the Gate open,

should cry aloud once more:

“Gate, Gate! what should a King do in a Barn?”

“Now at last,” thought he, “I shall be told whether to dance or to

pray in it.” And he stood listening eagerly as the Gate hung an

instant on its outward journey and then began to creak home.

“He--should--rule--in--it--he--should--rule--in--it--he--should--”

squeaked the Guess Gate, and then the latch clicked and it was silent.

This disconcerted William.

“Now I am worse off than ever,” he sighed. “Pray, Pepper, can this

advice be bettered?”

As usual when he questioned her, the nag pricked up her ears and

whinnied so violently that he nearly fell off her back. Nevertheless,

he kept Pepper’s head in a beeline for Chanctonbury, never noticing

how very ill she was going, and presently crossed the great High Road

beyond which lay the Bush Hovel. The Wise Woman was at home; from

afar the King saw her sitting outside the Hovel mending her broom

with a withe from the Bush.

“Here if anywhere,” rejoiced William, “I shall learn the truth.”

He dismounted and approached the old woman, cap in hand.

“Wise Woman,” he said respectfully, “you know most things, but do you

know this--whether a King should dance or pray or rule in his Barn?”

“He should do all three, young man,” said the Wise Woman.

“But--!” exclaimed William.

“I’m busy,” snapped the Wise Woman. “You men will always be

chattering, as though pots need never be stewed nor cobwebs swept.”

So saying, she went into the Hovel and slammed the door.

“Pepper,” said the poor King, “I am at my wits’ ends. Go where yours

lead you.”

At this Pepper whinnied in a perfect frenzy of delight, and the King

had to clasp both arms round her neck to avoid tumbling off.

Now the little nag preferred roads to beelines over copses and

ditches, and she turned back and ambled along the highway so very

lamely that it became impossible even for her preoccupied rider not

to perceive that she had cast all her four shoes.

“Poor beast!” he cried dismayed, “how has this happened, and where?

Oh, Pepper, how could you be so careless? I have not a penny in my

purse to buy you new shoes, my poor Pepper. Do you not remember where

you lost them?”

The little nag licked her master’s hand (for he had dismounted to

examine her trouble), and looked at him with great eyes full of

affection, and then she flung up her head and whinnied louder than

ever. The sound of it was like nothing so much as laughter. Then

she went on, hobbling as best she could, and the King walked by her

side with his hand on her neck. In this way they came to a small

village, and here the nag turned up a by-road and halted outside the

blacksmith’s forge. The smith’s Lad stood within, clinking at the

anvil, the smuttiest Lad smith ever had.

“Lad!” cried the King.

The Lad looked up from his work and came at once to the door, wiping

his hands upon his leather apron.

“Where am I?” asked the King.

“In the village of Washington,” said the Lad.

“What! Under the Ring?” cried the King.

“Yes, sir,” said the Lad.

“A blessing on you!” said the King joyfully, and clapped his hand on

the Lad’s shoulder. “Pepper, you have solved the problem and led me

to my destiny.”

“Is Pepper your nag’s name?” asked the blacksmith’s Lad.

“It is,” said the King; “her only one.”

“Then she has one more name than she has shoes,” said the Lad. “How

came she to lose them?”

“I didn’t notice,” confessed the King.

“You must have been thinking very deeply,” remarked the Lad. “Are you

in love?”

“I am not quite twenty-one,” said the King.

“I see. Do you want your nag shod?”

“I do. But I have spent my last penny.”

“Earn another then,” said the Lad.

“I did not even earn the last one,” said the King shamefacedly. “I

have never worked in my life.”

“Why, where have you lived?” exclaimed the Lad.

“In a Barn.”

“But one works in a Barn----”

“Stop!” cried the King, putting his fingers in his ears. “One prays

in a Barn.”

“Very likely,” said the Lad, looking at him curiously. “Are you going

to pray in one?”

“Yes,” said the King. “When is the New Moon?”

“Next Saturday.”

“Hurrah!” cried the King. “That settles it. But what’s to-day?”

“Monday, sir.”

“Alas!” sighed William, wondering how he should make shift to live

for five days.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said the Lad.

“I would tell you my meaning,” said the King, “but am pledged not to.”

Then the Lad said, “Let it pass. I have a proposal to make. My father

is dead, and for two years I have worked the forge single-handed. Now

I am willing to teach you to shoe your nag with four good shoes and

strong, if you will meanwhile blow the bellows for whatever other

jobs come to the forge; and if the shoes are not done by dinner-time

you shall have a meal thrown in.”

The King looked at the Lad kindly.

“I shall blow your bellows very badly,” he said, “and shoe my nag

still worse.”

Said the Lad, “You’ll learn in time.”

“Not before dinner-time, I hope,” said the King, “for I am very

hungry.”

“You look hungry,” said the Lad. “It’s a bargain then.”

The King held out his hand, but the Lad suddenly whipped his behind

his back. “It’s so dirty, sir,” he said.

“Give it me all the same,” said the King; and they clasped hands.

The rest of that morning the King spent in blowing the bellows, and

by dinner-time not so much as the first of Pepper’s hoofs was shod.

For a great deal of business came into the forge, and there was no

time for a lesson. So the King and the Lad took their meal together,

and the King was by this time nearly as black as his master. He

would have washed himself, but the Lad said it was no matter, he

himself having no time to wash from week’s end to week’s end. In the

afternoon they changed places, and the King stood at the anvil and

the Lad at the bellows. He was a good teacher, but the King made a

poor job of it. By nightfall he had produced shoes resembling all the

letters of the alphabet excepting U, and when at last he submitted

to the Lad a shoe like nothing so much as a drunken S, his master

shrugged and said:

“Zeal is praiseworthy within its limits, but the best of smiths does

not attempt to make two shoes at once. Let us sup.”

They supped; and afterwards the Lad showed the King a small bedroom

as neat as a new pin.

“I shall sully the sheets,” said William, “and you will excuse me if

I fetch the kettle, which is on the boil.”

“As you please,” said the Lad, and took himself off.

In the morning the King came clean to breakfast, but the Lad was as

black as he had been.

Tuesday passed as Monday had passed; now William took the bellows,

marveling at his youthful master’s deftness, and now the Lad blew,

groaning at his pupil’s clumsiness. By nightfall, however, he had

achieved a shoe faintly recognizable as such. For a second time the

King washed himself and slept again in the little trim chamber, but

the Lad in the morning resembled midnight. In this way the week went

by, the King’s heart beating a little faster each morning as Saturday

approached, and he wondered by what ruse he could explain his absence

without creating suspicion or breaking his pledge.

On Saturday morning the Lad said to the King: “This is a half-day.

You must make your shoe this morning or not at all. It is my custom

at one o’clock to close the forge and go to visit my Great-Aunt.

I will be at work again on Monday, till when you must shift for

yourself.”

The King could hardly believe his luck in having matters so well

settled, and he spent the morning so diligently that by noon he had

produced a shoe which, if not that of a master craftsman, was at

least adaptable to the purpose for which it had been fashioned.

The Lad examined it and said reluctantly, “It will do,” and proceeded

to show the King how to fasten it to Pepper’s hoof.

“Why,” said the King, having the nag’s off forefoot in his hand,

“here’s a stone in it. Small wonder she limped.”

“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, extracting it, “it is a ruby.”

And he exhibited to the King a ruby of such a glowing red that it was

as though the souls of all the grapes of Burgundy had been pressed to

create it.

“You are a rich man now,” said the Lad quietly, “and can live as you

will.”

But William closed the Lad’s fingers over the stone. “Keep it,” he

said, “for you have filled me for a week, and I have paid you with

nothing but my breath.”

“As you please,” said the Lad carelessly, and, tossing the stone upon

a shelf, locked up the forge. “Now I am going to my Great-Aunt.

There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying, he strolled away, and the King was left to his own

devices. These consisted in bathing himself from head to foot till

his body was as pure without as he desired his heart to be within;

and in donning his fresh suit of linen. He would not break his fast,

but waited, trembling and eager, till an hour before sundown, and

then at last he set forth to mount the great hill with the sacred

crown of trees upon its crest.

When at last he stood upon the boundary of the Ring, his heart

sprang for joy in his breast, and his breath nearly failed him with

amazement at the beauty of the world which lay outspread for leagues

below him.

“Oh, lovely earth!” he cried aloud, “never till now have I known what

beauty I lived in. How is it that we cannot see the wonder of our

surroundings until we gaze upon them from afar? But if you look so

fair from the hilltops, what must you appear from the very sky?” And

lost in delight he turned his eyes upward, and was recalled to his

senses by the sight of the sinking sun. “Lovely one, how nearly you

have betrayed me!” he said, and smiling waved his hand to the dear

earth, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring.

And here between the two midmost beeches he knelt down and buried his

face in his hands, and prayed the spirits of that place to make him

worthy.

The hours passed, quarter by quarter, and the King stayed motionless

like one in a dream. Presently, however, the dream was faintly shaken

by a little lirrup of sound, as light as rain dropping from leaves

above a pool. Again and again the sweet round notes fell on the

meditations of the King, and he remembered with entrancement that

this was the tender signal by which he was summoned to the Pond. So,

rising silently, he wandered through the trees, and keeping his eyes

fixed on the soft dim turf, lest some new beauty should tempt him

to speech, he went across the open hill to the Pond. Here he knelt

down again, listening to the childlike bird, until at last the young

piping ceased with a joyous chuckle. And at that instant, reflected

in the Pond, he saw the silver star that watches the invisible young

moon, and dipped his head.

Oh, my dear maids! when he lifted it again, all wet and bewildered,

he saw upon the opposite border of the Pond, a figure, the white

figure of--a woman? a girl? a child? He could not tell, for she lay

three parts in the shadowy water with her back towards him, and his

gaze and senses swam; but in that faint starlight one bare and lovely

arm, as white as the crescent moon, was clear to him, upcurved to

her shadowy hair. So she reclined, and so he knelt, both motionless,

and his heart trembled (even as it had trembled at the bird’s song)

with a wish to go near to her, or at least to whisper to her across

the water. Indeed, he was on the point of doing so, when a sudden

contraction seized him, his eyes closed in a delicious agony, and he

sneezed once vigorously; and in that moment of shattering blackness

he recalled his vow, and rising turned his back upon the vision and

groped his way again to the shelter of the trees.

Here he remained till dawn in meditation, but as to the nature of

his meditations I am, dear maidens, ignorant. Nor do I know in what

restless wise he passed his Sunday.

It is enough to know that on Monday when he went into the forge he

found the Lad already at work, and if he had been pitch-black at

their parting he was no less so at their meeting. He appeared to

be out of humor, and for some time regarded his apprentice with

dissatisfaction, but only remarked at last:

“You look fatigued.”

“My sleep was broken with dreams,” said the King. “I am sorry if I

am late. Let me to my shoeing. Since Saturday ended in success, I

suppose I shall now finish the business without more ado.”

He was, however, too hopeful as it appeared, for though he managed to

fashion a shoe which was in his eyes the equal of the other, the Lad

was captious and would not commend it.

“I should be an ill craftmaster,” said he, “if I let you rest content

on what you have already done. I made such a shoe as this on my

thirteenth birthday, and my father’s only praise was, ‘You must do

better yet.’”

So particular was the young smith that William spent the whole of

another week in endeavoring to please him. This might have chafed

the King, but that it agreed entirely with his desires to remain in

that place, sleeping and eating at no cost to himself, and working so

strenuously that his hands grew almost as hard as the metal he worked

in; for the Lad now began to entrust him with small jobs of various

sorts, although in the matter of the second shoe he refused to be

satisfied.

When Saturday came, however, the King contrived a shoe so much

superior to any he had yet made that the Lad, examining it, was

compelled to say, “It is better than the other.” Then Pepper, who

always stood in a noose beside the door awaiting her moment, lifted

up her near forefoot of her own accord, and the King took it in his

hand.

“How odd!” he exclaimed a moment later. “The nag has a stone in this

foot also. It is not strange that she went so ill.”

“It is not a stone,” said the Lad. “It is a pearl.”

And he held out to the King a pearl of such a shining purity that it

was as though it had been rounded within the spirit of a saint.

“This makes you a rich man,” said the Lad moodily, “and you can

journey whither you please.”

But the King shook his head. “Keep it,” he said, “for you have lodged

me for a week, and I have given you only the clumsy service of my

hands.”

“Very well,” said the Lad simply, and put the pearl in his pocket.

“My Great-Aunt is expecting me. There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying he walked off, and the King was left alone. As before, he

bathed himself and changed his linen, and left the contents of the

larder untouched; and an hour before sunset he climbed the hill for

the second time, and presently stood panting on the edge of the Ring.

And again a pang of wonder that was akin to pain shot through his

heart at the loveliness of the world below him.

“Beautiful earth!” he cried once more, “how fair and dear you are

become to me in your remoteness. But oh, if you appear so beautiful

from this summit, what must you appear from the summit of the

clouds?” And he glanced from the earth to the sky, and saw the sun

running down his airy hill. “Dear Temptress!” he said, “how cunningly

you would snare me from my purpose.” And he kissed his hand to her

thrice, sealed up his lips, and entered the Ring.

Between the two tall beeches he knelt down, and drowned the following

hours in thought and prayer; till that deep lake of meditation was

divided by the sound of singing, as though a shoal of silver fishes

swam and leaped upon its surface, putting all quietness to flight,

and troubling its waters with a million lovelinesses. For now it was

as though the bird’s enchanting song came partly from within and

partly from without, and if the fall of its music shattered his dream

like falling fish, certain it seemed to him that the fish had first

leaped from his own heart, out of whose unsuspected caves darted a

shoal of nameless longings. He too leaped up and darted through the

trees, and with head bent down, for fear of he knew not what, made

his way to the Pond. Here he knelt again, drinking in the tremulous

song of the bird, as tremulous as youth and maidenhood, until at

last it ceased with a sweet uncompleted cry of longing. And at that

instant, in the mirror of the Pond, he saw the uncompleted disc of

the half-moon, and dipped his head.

Ah wonder! when he lifted it again, dazzled and dripping, he saw

across the Pond a figure rising from the water, the figure, as he

could now perceive in the fuller light, of a girl, clear to the

waist. Her face was half turned from him, and her hair flowed half to

him and half away, but within that cloudy setting gleamed the lines

of her lovely neck and one white shoulder and one moonlit breast,

whose undercurve appeared to float upon the Pond like the petal of a

waterlily. So he knelt on his side and she on hers, both motionless,

and his heart leaped (even as it had leaped at the bird’s song)

with a longing to kneel beside and ever touch that loveliness; or,

if he could not, at least to call to her across the Pond so that

she would turn and reveal to him what still was hidden. He was in

fact about to do so, when suddenly his senses were overwhelmed with

a sweet anguish, darkness fell on him, and from its very core he

sneezed twice, violently. This interruption of the previous spell was

sufficient to bring him to a realization of his peril, and rising

hastily he ran back to the Ring, where he remained till morning. But

to what pious thoughts he then committed himself I cannot tell you;

neither in what feverish fashion he got through Sunday.

On Monday morning when he arrived at the forge he found the Lad at

work before him, and ebony was not blacker than his face. He glanced

at the King with some show of temper, but only said:

“You look worn out.”

“I have had bad dreams,” said the King. “Excuse me for being behind

my time. I will try to make up for it by wasting no more, and

fashioning instantly two shoes as good as that I made on Saturday.”

But though he handled his tools with more dexterity than he had yet

exhibited, the Lad petulantly pushed aside the first shoe he made,

which to the King appeared to be, if anything, superior to the one he

had made on Saturday. The Lad, however, quickly explained himself,

saying:

“A master-smith who intends to make his apprentice his equal will not

let him rest at the halfway house. I made a shoe like this when I was

fourteen, and all my father said was, ‘I have hopes for you.’”

So for yet another week the King’s nose was kept to the grindstone,

and it would have irritated most men to find their good work

repeatedly condemned; but William was, as you may have observed,

singularly sweet-tempered, besides which he desired nothing so much

as to remain where he was. And for another five days he slept and

ate and worked, until the muscles of his arms began to swell, and

he swung the hammer with as much ease as his master, who now left a

great part of the work entirely in his hands. Although in the matter

of the third shoe he refused to be satisfied.

Nevertheless on Saturday morning the King, making a last effort

before the forge was shut, submitted a shoe so far beyond anything

he had yet achieved, that the Lad could not but say, “This is a good

shoe.” And Pepper, seeing them coming, lifted her off hind-foot to be

shod.

“Now as I live!” cried the King. “Another stone! And how she

contrived to hobble so far is a miracle.”

“It isn’t a stone,” said the Lad, “it is a diamond.”

And he presented to the King a diamond of such triumphant brilliance

that it might have been conceived of the ambitions of the mightiest

monarch of the earth.

“You now own surpassing wealth,” said the Lad dejectedly, “and you

have no more need to work.”

But William would not even touch the stone. “Keep it,” he said, “for

you have befriended me for a week, and I have given you only the

strength of my arms.”

“Let it be so,” said the Lad gently, and put the diamond in his belt.

“I must not keep my Great-Aunt waiting. There’s a cake in the larder.”

So saying he went his way, and the King went his; which, as you may

surmise, was to the bath and his clean clothes. He did not go into

the larder, and an hour before sunset made the ascent of the hill,

and for the third time stood like a conqueror upon the crest. And as

he gazed over the lands below his heart throbbed with a passion for

the earth that was half agony and half love, unless indeed it was the

whole agony of love.

“Most beautiful earth!” he cried aloud, “only as you recede from me

do I realize how necessary it is for me to possess you. How is it

that when I possess you I know you not as I know you now? But oh! if

you are so wonderful from these great hills, what must you be from

the greater hills of the air?” And he looked up, and saw the sun

descending in the west. “Sweet earth,” he sighed, “you would hold me

when I should be gone, and never remind me that the moment to depart

is due.” And he stretched out his arms to her, sealed up his lips,

and went into the Ring.

Once more he knelt between the giant beeches, and sank all thoughts

in pious contemplation; till suddenly those still waters were

convulsed as though with stormy currents, and a wild song beat

through his breast, so that he could not believe it was the bird

singing from a short distance: it was as though the storm of music

broke from his singing heart--yes, from his own heart singing for

some unexpressed fulfillment. He was barely conscious of going

through the trees, with eyes tight shut against the outer world, but

soon he was kneeling at the brink of the Pond, while a surge of joy

and pain in the song broke on his spirit like waves upon a shore,

or love upon a man and a woman--washed back, towered up, and broke

on him again. At last on one full glorious phrase it ceased. And at

that instant, deep in the Pond, he saw the full orb of the moon, and

dipped his head.

Oh, when he lifted it, startled and illuminated, he saw on the

further side of the Pond a woman standing. The moonlight bathed her

form from head to foot, her hair was thrown behind her, and she

stood facing him, so that in the cold clear light he could see her

fully revealed: her strong tender face, her strong soft body, her

strong slim legs, her strong and lovely arms. As white as mayblossom

she was, and beauty went forth from her like fragrance from the

shaken bough. So he knelt on his side and she stood on hers, both

motionless, but gazing into each other’s eyes, and his heart broke

(even as it had broken at the bird’s song) with a passion to take

her in his arms, for it seemed to him that this alone would mend

its breaking. Or if he might not do this, at least to send his need

of her in a great cry across the Pond. And as his passion grew she

slowly lifted her arms and opened them to him as though to bid him

enter; and her lips parted, and she cried out, as though she were

uttering the cry of his own soul:

“Beloved!”

All the joy and the pain, unfulfilled, of the bird’s song were

gathered in that word.

Glorified he leaped up, his whole being answering the cry of hers,

but before his lips could translate it he was gripped by a mighty

agony, and sneeze after sneeze shook all his senses, so that he was

utterly helpless. When he was able to look up again he saw the woman

moving towards him round the Pond, and suddenly he clapped his hands

over his eyes and fled towards the Ring, as though pursued by demons.

Here he passed the remainder of the night, but in what sort of

prayers I leave you to imagine; as also amid what ravings he passed

his Sunday.

On Monday the Lad was again before him at the forge, and a crow’s

wing looked milky beside his face. He did not raise his eyes as the

King came in, but said:

“You look very ill.” He said it furiously.

“I have had nightmares,” said the King. “Pardon me if you can. I will

get to work and make my final shoe.”

But though he now had little more to learn in his craft, the Lad,

when the shoe was made, picked it up in his pincers and flung it to

the other end of the forge; yet the King now knew enough to know that

few smiths could have made its equal. So he looked surprised; at

which the Lad, controlling himself, said:

“When I pass your fourth shoe you will need no more masters--I forged

a shoe like that one yonder when I was fifteen, and my father said of

it, ‘You will make a smith one day.’”

And on neither Tuesday nor Wednesday nor Thursday nor Friday could

the King succeed in pleasing the Lad; the better his shoes the

angrier grew his young master that they were not good enough. Yet

between these gusts of temper he was gentle and remorseful, and once

the King saw tears in his eyes, and another time the Lad came humbly

to ask for pardon. Then William laughed and put out his hand, but, as

once before, the Lad slipped his behind his back and said:

“It is so dirty, friend.”

And this time he would not let William take it. So the King was

forced instead to lay his arm about the Lad’s shoulder, and press

it tenderly; but the Lad made no response, and only stood hanging

his head until the King removed his arm. All the same, when next the

King made a shoe he was full of rage, and stamped on it, and ran out

of the forge. Which surprised the King all the more because it was

so excellent a shoe. Yet he was secretly glad of its rejection, for

he felt it would break his heart to go away from that place; and he

could think of no good cause for remaining, once Pepper was shod. So

there he stayed, eating, sleeping, and working, while the thews of

his back became as strong under the smooth skin as the thews of a

beech-tree under the smooth bark; and his craft was such that the Lad

at last left the whole of the work of the forge in his charge. For

there was nothing he could not do surpassingly well. And this the Lad

admitted, save only in the case of the fourth shoe.

But on Saturday, just before closing-time, the King set to and made a

shoe so fine that when the Lad saw it he said quietly, “I could not

make a better.” Had he not said so he must have lied, or proved that

he did not know a masterpiece when he saw it. And he was too good a

craftsman for that, besides being honest.

Pepper instantly lifted up her near hind-foot.

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the King, “the world is full of stones, and

Pepper has found them all. The wonder is that she did not fall down

on the road.”

“This is not a stone,” said the Lad, “it is an opal.”

And he displayed an opal of such marvelous changeability, such milk

and fire shot with such shifting rainbows, that it was as though it

had had birth of all the moods of all the women of all time.

“This enriches you for life,” said the Lad gloomily, “and now you are

free of masters for ever.”

But William thrust his hands into his pockets. “Keep it,” he said,

“for this week you have given me love, and I have given you nothing

but the sinews of my body.”

The Lad looked at him and said, “I have given you hard words, and

fits of temper, and much injustice.”

“Have you?” said William. “I remember only your tenderness and your

tears. So keep the opal in love’s name.”

The Lad tried to answer, but could not; and he slipped the opal under

his shirt. Then he faltered, “My Great-Aunt--” and still he could not

speak. But he made a third effort, and said, “There is a cake in the

larder,” and turned on his heel and went away quickly. And the King

looked after him till he was out of sight, and then very slowly went

to his bath and his fresh linen. But he left the cake where it was.

And he sat by the door of the forge with his face in his hands until

the length of his shadow warned him that he must go. And he rose and

went for the last time up the hill, but with a sinking heart; and

when he stood on the top and gazed upon the beauty of the earth he

had left below, in his breast was the ache of loss and longing for

one he had loved, and with his eyes he tried to draw that beauty into

himself, but the void in him remained unfulfilled. Yet never had her

beauty been so great.

“Beloved and lovely earth!” he whispered, “why do you appear most

fair and most desirable now that I am about to lose you? Why when

I had you did you not hold me by force, and tell me what you were?

Only now I discover you from mid-heaven--but oh! in what way should

I discover you from heaven itself?” And he looked upward, and lo! a

blurred sun shone upon him, swimming to its rest. But the blurring

was caused by his own tears in his eyes. “Farewell, dear earth!” said

the King. “Since you cannot mount to me, and I may not descend to

you.” And he knelt upon the turf and laid his cheek and forehead to

it, and then he rose, sealed up his lips, and passed into the Ring.

Between the two tall beeches he sank down, and all sense and thought

and consciousness sank with him, as though his being had become a

dead forgotten lake, hidden in a lifeless wood; where birds sang

not, nor rain fell, nor fishes played, nor currents moved below the

stagnant waters. But presently a wind seemed to wail among the trees,

and the sound of it traveled over the King’s senses, stirred them,

and passed. But only to return again, moan over him, and trail away;

and so it kept coming and going till first he heard, then listened

to, and at last realized the haunting signal of the bird. And he went

forth into the open night, his eyes wide apart but seeing nothing

until he stumbled at the Pond and crouched beside it. The bird grew

fainter and fainter, and presently the sound, like a ghost at dawn,

ceased to exist; and at that instant, under the Pond, he beheld the

lessening circle of the moon, and dipped his head.

Alas! when he lifted it, shivering and stunned, he saw the form he

longed to see on the other side of the Pond; but not as he had longed

to see it, gazing at him with the love and glory of seven nights

ago. Now she stood on the turf, half turned from him, and the wave of

her hair blew to and fro like a cloud, now revealing her white side,

now concealing it. And he looked, but she would not look. So he knelt

on his side and she remained on hers, both motionless. And suddenly

the impulse to sneeze arose within him, and at that instant she began

to move--not towards him, as before, but away from him, downhill.

At that he could bear no more, and quelling the impulse with a mighty

effort, he got upon his feet crying, “Beloved, stay! Beloved, stay,

beloved!”

And he staggered round the Pond as quickly as his shaking knees would

let him; but quicker still she slid away, and when he came where she

had been the place was as empty as the sky in its moonless season.

He called and ran about and called again; but he got no answer,

nor found what he sought. All that night he spent in calling and

running to and fro. What he did on Sunday you may know, and I may

know, but he did not. On Sunday night he stayed beside the Pond, but

whatever his hopes were they received no fulfillment. On Monday night

he was there again, and on Tuesday, and on Wednesday; and between

the mornings and the nights he went from hill to hill, seeking her

hiding-place who came to bathe in the lake. There was not a hill

within a day’s march that did not know him, from Duncton to Mount

Harry. But on none of them he found the Woman. How he lived is a

puzzle. Perhaps upon wild raspberries.

After the sun had set on Chanctonbury on Saturday night, he came

exhausted to the Ring again, and stood on that high hill gazing

earthward. But there was no light above or below, and he said:

“I have lost all. For the earth is swallowed in blackness, and the

Woman has disappeared into space, and I myself have cast away my

spiritual initiation. I will sit by the pond till midnight, and if

the bird sings then I will still hope, but if it does not I will dip

my head in the water and not lift it again.”

So he went and lay down by the Pond in the darkness, and the hours

wore away. And as the time of the bird’s song drew near he clasped

his hands and prayed. But the bird did not sing; and when he judged

that midnight was come, he got upon his knees and prepared to put his

head under the water. And as he did so he saw, on the opposite side

of the Pond, the feeble light of a lantern. He could not see who held

it, because even as he looked the bearer blew out the light; but in

that moment it appeared to him that she was as black as the night

itself.

So for awhile he knelt upon his side, and she remained on hers, both

trembling; but at last the King, dreading to startle her away, rose

softly and went round the Pond to where he had seen her.

He said into the night in a shaking voice, “I cannot see you. If you

are there, give me your hand.”

And out of the night a shaking voice replied:

“It is so dirty, beloved.”

Then he took her in his arms, and felt how she trembled, and he held

her closely to him to still her, whispering:

“You are my Lad.”

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “But wait.”

And she slipped out of his embrace, and he heard her enter the Pond,

and she stayed there as it seemed to him a lifetime; but presently

she rose up, and even in that black night the whiteness of her body

was visible to him, and she came to him as she was and laid her head

on his breast and said:

“I am your Woman.”

(“I want my apple,” said Martin Pippin.

“But is this the end?” cried little Joan.

“Why not?” said Martin. “The lovers are united.”

Joscelyn: Nonsense! Of course it is not the end! You must tell a

thousand other things. Why was the Woman a woman on Saturday night

and a lad all the rest of the week?

Joyce: What of the four jewels?

Jennifer: Which of the answers to the King’s riddle was the right

one?

Jessica: What happened to the cake?

Jane: What was her name?

“Please,” said little Joan, “do not let this be the end, but tell

us what they did next.”

“Women will be women,” observed Martin, “and to the end of time

prefer unessentials to the essential. But I will endeavor to

satisfy you on the points you name.”)

In the morning William said to his beloved:

“Now tell me something of yourself. How come you to be so masterful

a smith? Why do you live as a black Lad all the week and turn only

into a white Woman on Saturdays? Have you really got a Great-Aunt,

and where does she live? How old are you? Why were you so hard to

please about the shoeing of Pepper? And why, the better my shoes the

worse your temper? Why did you run away from me a week ago? Why did

you never tell me who you were? Why have you tormented me for a whole

month? What is your name?”

“Trust a man to ask questions!” said his beloved, laughing and

blushing. “Is it not enough that I am your beloved?”

“More than enough, yet not nearly enough,” said the King, “for there

is nothing of yourself which you must not tell me in time, from the

moment when you first stole barley sugar behind your father’s back,

down to that in which you first loved me.”

“Then I had best begin at once,” she smiled, “or a lifetime will not

be long enough. I am eighteen years old and my name is Viola. I was

born in Falmer, and my father was the best smith in all Sussex, and

because he had no other child he made me his bellows-boy, and in

time, as you know, taught me his trade. But he was, as you also know,

a stern master, and it was not until, on my sixteenth birthday, I

forged a shoe the equal of your last, that he said ‘I could not make

a better.’ And so saying he died. Now I had no other relative in all

the world except my Great-Aunt, the Wise Woman of the Bush Hovel,

and her I had never seen; but I thought I could not do better in my

extremity than go to her for counsel. So, shouldering my father’s

tools, I journeyed west until I came to her place, and found her

trying to break in a new birch-broom that was still too green and

full of sap to be easily mastered; and she was in a very bad temper.

‘Good day, Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I am your Great-Niece Viola.’ ‘I

have no more use for great nieces,’ she snapped, ‘than for little

ones.’ And she continued to tussle with the broomstick and took

no further notice of me. Then I went into the Hovel, where a fire

burned on the hearth, and I took out my tools and fashioned a bit

on the hob; and when it was ready I took it to her and said, ‘This

will teach it its manners’; and she put the bit on the broom, which

became as docile as a lamb. ‘Great-Niece,’ said she, ‘it appears

that I told you a lie this morning. What can I do for you?’ ‘Tell me,

if you please, how I am to live now that my father is dead.’ ‘There

is no need to tell you,’ said she; ‘you have your living at your

fingers’ ends.’ ‘But women cannot be smiths,’ said I. ‘Then become a

lad,’ said she, ‘and ply your trade where none knows you; and lest

men should suspect you by your face, which fools though they be they

might easily do, let it be so sooted from week’s end to week’s end

that none can discover what you look like; and if any one remarks on

it, put it down to your trade.’ ‘But Great-Aunt,’ I said, ‘I could

not bear to go dirty from week’s end to week’s end.’ ‘If you will be

so particular,’ she said, ‘take a bath every Saturday night and spend

your Sundays with me, as fair as when you were a babe. And before you

go to work again on Monday you shall once more conceal your fairness

past all men’s penetration.’ ‘But, dear Great-Aunt,’ I pleaded, ‘it

may be that the day will come when I might not wish----’”

And here, dear maidens, Viola faltered. And William put his arm about

her a little tighter--because it was there already--and said, “What

might you not wish, beloved?” And she murmured, “To be concealed

past one man’s penetration. And my Great-Aunt said I need not worry.

Because though men, she said, were fools, there was one time in every

man’s life when he was quick enough to penetrate all obscurities,

whether it were a layer of soot or a night without a moon.” And

she hid her face on the King’s shoulder, and he tried to kiss her

but could not make her look up until he said, “Or even a woman’s

waywardness?” Then she looked up of her own accord and kissed him.

“In this way,” she resumed, “it became my custom on each Saturday,

after closing the forge, to come here with my woman’s raiment, and

wait in a hollow until night had fallen, and make myself clean of

this week’s blackness. For I dared not do this by daylight or be seen

going forth from the forge in my proper person.”

“But why did you choose to bathe at midnight?” asked the King.

She was silent for a few moments, and then said hurriedly, “I did not

choose to bathe at midnight until a month ago.--For the rest,” she

resumed, “I was hard to please in the matter of the shoes because I

knew that when they were finished you would ride away. And therefore

the more you improved the crosser I became. And if I have tormented

you for a month it was because you tormented me by refusing to speak

when you saw me here, in spite of your hateful vow; and you would not

even look at my cake in the larder.”

“Women are strange,” said the King. “How do you know I did not look

at the cake?”

“I do know,” she said as hurriedly as before. “And if I would not

tell you who I was, it was because I could not bear, on the other

hand, to extort from you a love you seemed so reluctant to endure;

until indeed it became of its own accord too strong even for the

purpose which brought you every week to the Ring. For I knew that

purpose, since all dwellers in Washington know why men go up the hill

with the new moon.”

“But when my love did become too strong for my vow, and opened my

lips at last,” said the King, “why did you run away?”

Viola said, “Had you not run away the week before? And now I have

answered all your questions?”

“No,” said the King, “not all. You haven’t told me yet when you first

loved me.”

Viola smiled and said, “I first stole barley sugar when my father

said ‘This is for the other little girl over the way’; and I first

loved you when, seeing you had been too absent-minded to know that

Pepper had cast her shoes, I feared you were in love.”

“But that was three minutes after we met!” cried the King.

“Was it as much as that!” said she.

Now after awhile Viola said, “Let us get down to the world again. We

cannot stay here for ever.”

“Why not?” said the King. However, they walked to the brow of the

hill, and stood together gazing awhile over the sunlit earth that

had never been so beautiful to either of them; for their sight was

newly-washed with love, and all things were changed.

“Now I know how she looks from heaven,” said the King, “and that is

like heaven itself. Let us go; for I think she will still look so at

our coming, seeing that we carry heaven with us.”

So they went downhill to the forge, and there Viola said to her

lover, “I can stay no longer in this place where all men have known

me as a lad; and besides, a woman’s home is where her husband lives.”

“But I live only in a Barn,” said William the King.

“Then I will live there with you,” said Viola, “and from this very

night. But first I will shoe Pepper anew, for she is so unequally

shod that she might spill us on the road. And that she may be shod

worthily of herself and of us, give me what you have tied up in

your blue handkerchief.” The King fetched his handkerchief and

unknotted it, and gave her his crown and scepter; and she set him

at the bellows and made three golden shoes and shod the nag on her

two fore-feet and her off hind-foot. But when she looked at the near

hind-foot, which the King had shod last of all, she said: “I could

not make a better. And therefore, like his father, the Lad shut his

smithy, for he is dead.” Then she put the three shoes she had removed

into a bag with some other trifles; and while she did so the King

took what remained of the gold and made it into two rings. This done,

they got on to Pepper’s back, and with her three shoes of gold and

one of iron she bore them the way the King had come. When they passed

the Bush Hovel they saw the Wise Woman currying her broomstick, and

Viola cried:

“Great-Aunt, give us a blessing.”

“Great-Niece,” said the Wise Woman, “how can I give you what you

already have? But I will give you this.” And she held out a horseshoe.

“Good gracious,” said the King, “this was once Pepper’s.”

“It was,” said the Wise Woman. “In her merriment at hearing you ask

a silly question, she cast it outside my door.” A little further on

they came to the Guess Gate, but when the King, dismounting, swung it

open, it grated on something in the road. He stooped and lifted--a

horseshoe.

“Wonder of wonders!” exclaimed the King. “This also was Pepper’s.

What shall we do with it?”

“Hang--it--up--hang--it--up--hang--” creaked the Gate; and clicked

home.

In due course they reached the Doves, and at the sound of Pepper’s

hoofs the Brothers flocked out to meet them.

“Is all well?” cried the Ringdove, seeing the King only, “And have

you returned to us for the final blessing?”

“I have,” replied the King, “for I bring my bride behind me, and now

you must make us one.”

The gentle Brothers, rejoicing at the sight of their happiness and

their beauty, led them in; and there they were wedded. The Doves

offered them to eat, but the King was impatient to reach his Barn by

nightfall; so they got again on Pepper’s back, and as they were about

to leave the Ringdove said:

“I have something of yours which is in itself a thing of no moment;

yet, because it is of good augury, take it with you.”

And he gave the King Pepper’s third shoe.

“Thank you,” said the King, “I will hang it over my Barn door.”

Now he urged Pepper to her full speed, and they went at a gallop past

the Hawking Sopers, who, hearing the clatter, came running into the

road.

“Stay, gallopers, stay!” they cried, “and make merry with us.”

“We cannot,” called the King, “for we are newly married.”

“Good luck to you then!” shouted the Sopers, and with huzzas and

laughter flung something after them. Viola stretched out her hand and

caught it in mid-air, and it was a horseshoe.

“The tale is complete,” she laughed, “and now you know where Pepper

picked up her stones.”

Soon after the King said, “Here is my Barn.” And he sprang down and

lifted his bride from the nag’s back and brought her in.

“It is a poor place,” he said gently, “but it is all I have. What can

I do for you in such a home?”

“I will tell you,” said Viola, and putting her hand into her left

pocket, she drew out the ruby winking with the wine of mirth. “You

can dance in it.” And suddenly they caught each other by the hands

and went capering and laughing round the Barn like children.

“Hurrah!” cried William, “now I know what a King should do in a Barn?”

“But he should do more than dance in it,” said Viola; and putting

her hand into her right pocket she gave him the pearl, as pure as a

prayer; “beloved, he should pray in it too.”

And William looked at her and knelt, and she knelt by him, and in

silence they prayed the same prayer, side by side.

Then William rose and said simply, “Now I know.”

But she knelt still, and took from her girdle the diamond, as bright

as power, and she put it in his hand, saying very low, “Oh, my dear

King! but he should also rule in it.” And she kissed his hand. But

the King lifted her very quickly so that she stood equal with his

heart, and embracing her he said, with tears in his eyes:

“And you, beloved! what will a Queen do in a Barn?”

“The same as a King,” she whispered, and drew from her bosom the

opal, as lovely and as variable as the human spirit. “With the other

three stones you may, if you will, buy back your father’s kingdom.

But this, which contains all qualities in one, let us keep for ever,

for our children and theirs, that they may know there is nothing a

King and a Queen may not do in a Barn, or a man and a woman anywhere.

But the best thing they can do is to work in it.”

Then, going out, she came back with the bag which she had slung on

Pepper’s back, and took from it her father’s tools.

“In three weeks you learned all I learned in three years,” said she.

“When I shod Pepper this morning I did my last job as a smith; for

now I shall have other work to do. But you, whether you choose to get

your father’s lands again or no, I pray to work in the trade I have

given you, for I have made you the very king of smiths, and all men

should do the thing they can do best. So take the hammer and nail

up the horseshoes over the door while I get supper; for you look as

hungry as I feel.”

“But there’s nothing to eat,” said the King ruefully.

However, he went outside, and over the door he hung as many shoes as

there are nails in one--the four Pepper had cast on the road, and the

three he had first made her. As he drove the last nail home Viola

called:

“Supper is ready.”

And the King went into the Barn and saw a Wedding Cake.

By permission, from _Martin Pippin in the Apple

Orchard_ by Eleanor Farjeon. Copyright 1922 by

Frederick A. Stokes Company.

THE HAPPY PRINCE

OSCAR WILDE

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy

Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for

eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his

sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a

weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain

a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,”

he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he

really was not.

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of

her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never

dreams of crying for anything.”

“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,”

muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came

out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean

white pinafores.

“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen

one.”

“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the

Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not

approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had

gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for

he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in

the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth,

and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to

talk to her.

“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point

at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round

her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples.

This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she

has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was

quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his

ladylove. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that

she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And

certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful

curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love

travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.”

“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed

shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

“You have been trifling with me,” he cried, “I am off to the

Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city.

“Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made

preparations.”

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position with plenty

of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy

Prince.

“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked

round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting

his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a

curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky,

the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The

climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to

like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”

Then another drop fell.

“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he

said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly

away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked

up, and saw--Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were

running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the

moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I am the Happy Prince.”

“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite

drenched me.”

“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did

not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci,

where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my

companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the

Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared

to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My

courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if

pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am

dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness

and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead

yet I cannot choose but weep.”

“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too

polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away

in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is

open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face

is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the

needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers

on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to

wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her

little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges.

His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying.

Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby

out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I

cannot move.”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying

up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon

they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is

there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen,

and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green

jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not

stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so

thirsty, and the mother so sad.”

“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when

I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s

sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of

course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come

of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of

disrespect.”

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.

“It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one

night, and be your messenger.”

“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince. So the Swallow picked

out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in

his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were

sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A

beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful

the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of

love!”

“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she

answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it;

but the seamstresses are so lazy.”

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts

of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews

bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales.

At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing

feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so

tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the

woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s

forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be

getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he

had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now,

although it is so cold.”

“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And

the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking

always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a

remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was

passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long

letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was

full of so many words that they could not understand.

“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high

spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and

sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the

Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished

stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

“Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not

stay with me one night longer?”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my

friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches

there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God

Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning

star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon

the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have

eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the

cataract.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across

the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk

covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of

withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red

as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to

finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to

write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made

him faint.”

“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really

had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”

“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I

have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out

of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to

him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and

finish his play.”

“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to

weep.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command

you.”

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the

student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole

in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The

young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the

flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the

beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some

great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast

of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of

the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came

up. “I am going to Egypt,” cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and

when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not

stay with me one night longer?”

“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon

be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the

crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions

are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white

doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I

must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will

bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given

away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire

shall be as blue as the great sea.”

“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little

match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are

all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some

money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her

little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and

her father will not beat her.”

“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I

cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command

you.”

So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He

swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of

her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and

she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he

said, “so I will stay with you always.”

“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to

Egypt.”

“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the

Prince’s feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him

stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the

red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and

catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the

world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the

merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry

amber beads in their hand; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon,

who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great

green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to

feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake

on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous

things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and

of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city,

little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making

merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting

at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of

starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under

the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s

arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said.

“You must not lie here,” shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out

into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it

off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think

that gold can make them happy.”

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the

Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine

gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier,

and they laughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!”

they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets

looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and

glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the

eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little

boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not

leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside

the baker’s door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep

himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to

fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!”

he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”

“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said

the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on

the lips, for I love you.”

“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going

to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his

feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if

something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped

right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below

in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column

he looked up at the statue; “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince

looks!” he said.

“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed

with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is

golden no longer,” said the Mayor; “in fact, he is little better than

a beggar!”

“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.

“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the

Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not

to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the

suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no

longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at

the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a

meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the

metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it

shall be a statue of myself.”

“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.

When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the

foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We

must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead

Swallow was also lying.

“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one

of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the

dead bird.

“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise

this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the

Happy Prince shall praise me.”

Oscar Wilde, _A House of Pomegranates, The Happy

Prince and Other Tales_.

TRUTH

OLIVE SCHREINER

“‘In certain valleys there was a hunter. Day by day he went to hunt

for wild-fowl in the woods; and it chanced that once he stood on the

shores of a large lake. While he stood waiting in the rushes, for

the coming of the birds, a great shadow fell on him, and in the water

he saw a reflection. He looked up to the sky; but the thing was gone.

Then a burning desire came over him to see once again that reflection

in the water, and all day he watched and waited; but night came, and

it had not returned. Then he went home with his empty bag, moody and

silent. His comrades came questioning about him to know the reason,

but he answered them nothing; he sat alone and brooded. Then his

friend came to him, and to him he spoke.

“‘I have seen today,’ he said ‘that which I never saw before--a

vast white bird, with silver wings out-stretched, sailing in the

everlasting blue. And now it is as though a great fire burned within

my breast. It was but a sheen, a shimmer, a reflection in the water;

but now I desire nothing more on earth than to hold her.’”

“His friend laughed.

“‘It was but a beam playing in the water, or the shadow of your own

head. To-morrow you will forget her,’ he said.

“But to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow the hunter walked alone.

He sought in the forest and in the woods, by the lakes and among the

rushes, but he could not find her. He shot no more wild-fowl; what

were they to him?

“‘What ails him?’ said his comrades.

“‘He is mad,’ said one.

“‘No; but he is worse,’ said another; ‘he would see that which none

of us have seen, and make himself a wonder.’

“‘Come, let us forswear his company,’ said all.

“So the hunter walked alone.

“One night, as he wandered in the shade, very heartsore and weeping,

an old man stood before him, grander and taller than the sons of men.

“‘Who are you?’ asked the hunter.

“‘I am Wisdom,’ answered the old man; ‘but some men called me

Knowledge. All my life I have grown in these valleys; but no man sees

me till he has sorrowed much. The eyes must be washed with tears that

are to behold me; and, according as a man has suffered, I speak.’

“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, you who have lived here so long, tell me,

what is that great wild bird I have seen sailing in the blue? They

would have me believe she is a dream; the shadow of my own head.’

“The old man smiled.

“‘Her name is Truth. He who has once seen her never rests again. Till

death he desires her.’

“And the hunter cried, ‘Oh, tell me where I may find her.’

“But the man said, ‘You have not suffered enough,’ and went.

“Then the hunter took from his breast the Shuttle of Imagination, and

wound on it the thread of his Wishes; and all night he sat and wove a

net.

“In the morning he spread the golden net open on the ground, and into

it he threw a few grains of Credulity, which his father had left

him, and which he kept in his breast-pocket. They were like white

puff-balls, and when you trod on them a brown dust flew out. Then he

sat by to see what would happen. The first that came into the net was

a snow-white bird, with dove’s eyes, and he sang a beautiful song, ‘A

human-God! a human-God! a human-God!’ it sang. The second that came

was black and mystical, with dark, lovely eyes, that looked into the

depths of your soul, and he sang only this, ‘Immortality!’

“And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he said, ‘They are

surely of the beautiful Family of Truth.’

“Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a shrill voice, like

one crying in the market-place, ‘Reward after Death! Reward after

Death!’

“And he said, ‘You are not so fair; but you are fair too,’ and he

took it.

“And others came, brightly colored, singing pleasant songs, till

all the grains were finished. And the hunter gathered all his birds

together, and built a strong iron cage called a new creed, and put

all his birds in it.

“Then the people came about, dancing and singing.

“‘Oh, happy hunter!’ they cried. ‘Oh, wonderful man! Oh, delightful

birds! Oh, lovely songs!’

“No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how they had been

caught; but they danced and sang before them, and the hunter too was

glad, for he said, ‘Surely Truth is among them. In time she will

moult her feathers, and I shall see her snow-white form.’

“But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; but the

hunter’s heart grew heavy. He crept alone, as of old, to weep; the

terrible desire had awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat

alone weeping, it chanced that Wisdom met him. He told the old man

what he had done.

“And Wisdom smiled sadly.

“‘Many men,’ he said, ‘have spread that net for Truth; but they have

never found her. On the grains of Credulity she will not feed; in the

net of Wishes her feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys

she will not breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood of

Lies. Lovely and beautiful, but still lies; Truth knows them not.’

“And the hunter cried out in bitterness,----

“‘And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this great burning?’

“And the old man said: ‘Listen, and in that you have suffered much

and wept much, I will tell you what I know. He who sets out to search

for Truth must leave these valleys of Superstition forever, taking

with him not one shred that has belonged to them. Alone he must

wander down into the land of Absolute Negation and Denial; he must

abide there; he must resist temptation; when the light breaks he must

arise and follow it into the country of Dry Sunshine. The mountains

of Stern Reality will rise before him; he must climb them; beyond

them lies Truth.’

“‘And he will hold her fast! He will hold her in his hands!’ the

hunter cried.

“Wisdom shook his head.

“‘He will never see her, never hold her. The time is not yet.’

“‘Then there is no hope?’ cried the hunter.

“‘There is this,’ said Wisdom. ‘Some men have climbed on those

mountains; circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled; and

wandering there in those high regions some have chanced to pick up

on the ground, one white, silver feather dropped from the wing of

Truth. And it shall come to pass,’ said the old man, raising himself

prophetically and pointing with his finger to the sky, ‘it shall come

to pass, that, when enough of those silver feathers shall have been

gathered by the hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord,

and the cord into a net, that in _that_ net Truth may be captured.

_Nothing but Truth can hold Truth.’_

“The hunter arose. ‘I will go,’ he said.

“But Wisdom detained him.

“‘Mark you well--who leaves these valleys never returns to them.

Though he should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the

confines, he can never put his foot across them. Left,--they, are

left forever. Upon the road which you would travel, there is no

reward offered. Who goes, goes freely, for the great love that is in

him. The work is his reward.’

“‘I go,’ said the hunter; ‘but upon the mountains, tell me, which

path shall I take?’

“‘I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of Ages,’ said the man;

‘I can walk only where many men have trodden. On those mountains few

feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at

his own peril; my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but

I cannot go before him.’

“Then Knowledge vanished.

“And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke

down the bars, and jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier

to build than to break.

“One by one he took his plumed birds, and let them fly. But, when

he came to his dark-plumed bird, he held it, and looked into its

beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low deep cry,--‘Immortality!’

“And he said quickly, ‘I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it

eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.’

And he buried it there, and covered it over with his cloak.

“But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier,--till it

lay on his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not

leave those valleys with it. Then again he took it out, and looked at

it.

“‘Oh, my beautiful, my heart’s own!’ he cried, ‘may I not keep you?’

“He opened his hands sadly.

“‘Go,’ he said. ‘It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like

to yours; but I shall never hear it.’

“Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever.

“Then from the Shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his

Wishes and threw it on the ground, and the empty shuttle he put into

his breast; for the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle

came from an unknown country. He turned to go; but now the people

came about him, howling.

“‘Fool, hound, demented lunatic!’ they cried. ‘How dared you break

your cage and let the birds fly?’

“The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him.

“‘Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? Can you drink her? Who has ever

seen her? Your birds were real; all could hear them sing. Oh, fool,

vile reptile, atheist!’ they cried, ‘you pollute the air.’

“‘Come, let us take up stones and stone him!’ cried some.

“‘What affair is it of ours?’ said others. ‘Let the idiot go!’ and

went away. But the rest gathered up stones and mud, and threw at him.

At last, when he was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the

woods. And it was evening about him.”

At every word the stranger spoke the fellow’s eyes flashed back on

him,--yes, and yes, and yes. The stranger smiled. It was almost

worth the trouble of exerting oneself, even on a lazy afternoon, to

win those passionate flashes, more thirsty and desiring than the

love-glances of a woman.

“He wandered on and on,” said the stranger, “and the shade grew

deeper. He was on the borders now of the land where it is always

night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light there. With

his hands he groped; but each branch, as he touched it, broke off,

and the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his foot sank

in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up into his face; and

it was dark. So he sat down upon a stone, and buried his face in his

hands, to wait in that land of Negation and Denial till the light

came.

“And it was night in his heart also.

“Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose, and

closed about him. A fine imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and

great drops gathered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly,

and a numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two

merry whisp lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look at them.

Nearer, nearer, they came. So warm, so bright, they danced like

stars of fire. They stood before him at last. From the centre of the

radiating flame in one looked out a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled,

with streaming yellow hair. In the centre of the other were merry

laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced

before him.

“‘Who are you,’ asked the hunter, ‘who alone come to me in my

solitude and darkness?’

“‘We are the twins Sensuality!’ they cried. ‘Our father’s name is

Human-Nature, and our mother’s name is Excess. We are as old as the

hills and rivers,--as old as the first man; but we never die,’ they

laughed.

“‘Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!’ cried the first; ‘they are soft

and warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come

to me!’

“‘I will pour my hot life into you,’ said the second; ‘your brain is

numb, and your limbs are dead now, but they shall live with a fierce

free fire. Oh, let me pour it in!’

“‘Oh, follow us!’ they cried, ‘and live with us. Nobler hearts than

yours have sat here in this darkness to wait; and they have come to

us and we to them, and they have never left us,--never. All else is

a delusion; but we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the

valleys of Superstition are a farce; the earth is of ashes, the trees

all rotten; but we--feel us--we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us,

how warm we are! Oh, come to us! come to us!’

“Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops

melted on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling

him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said,----

“‘Yes; why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm,

they melt my frozen blood!’ and he stretched out his hands to take

them.

“Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he

had loved, and his hand dropped to his side.

“‘Oh, come to us!’ they cried.

“But he buried his face.

“‘You dazzle my eyes,’ he cried, ‘you make my heart warm; but you

cannot give me what I desire. I will wait here,--wait till I die. Go!’

“He covered his face with his hands, and would not listen; and when

he looked up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in

the distance.

“And the long, long night rolled on.

“All who leave the valley of Superstition pass through that dark

land; but some go through it in a few days, some linger there for

months, some for years, and some die there.

The boy had crept closer; his hot breath almost touched the

stranger’s hand; a mystic wonder filled his eyes.

“At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and

he rose to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped

into the broad sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains

of Dry-facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and

the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An

exultant cry burst from the hunter. He chose the straightest, and

began to climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song.

They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road

so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then

the top! Not one feather only would he pick up; he would gather all

that other men had found,--weave the net,--capture Truth,--hold her

fast,--touch her with his hands,--clasp her!

“He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. Victory was very

near. Nevertheless after a while the path grew steeper. He needed

all his breath for climbing, and the singing died away. On the

right and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in

the lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a sheen of

white bones. Now too the path began to grow less and less marked;

then it became a mere trace, with a foot-mark here and there; then

it ceased altogether. He sang no more, but struck forth a path for

himself, until he reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and without

break, stretching as far as the eye could see. ‘I will rear a stair

against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there,’ he

said bravely; and worked. With his Shuttle of Imagination he dug out

stones; but half of them would not fit, and half a month’s work would

roll down because those below were ill-chosen. But the hunter worked

on, saying always to himself, ‘Once this wall climbed, I shall be

almost there. This great work ended!’

“At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about him. Far below

rolled the white mist over the valleys of Superstition, and above

him towered the mountains. They had seemed low before; they were of

an immeasurable height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by

walls of rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty circles. Upon them

played the eternal sunshine. He uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself

on to the earth, and when he rose his face was white. In absolute

silence he walked on. He was very silent now. In those high regions

the rarefied air is hard to breathe by those born in the valleys;

every breath he drew hurt him, and the blood oozed out from the tips

of his fingers. Before the next wall of rock he began to work. The

height of this seemed infinite, and he said nothing. The sound of his

tool rang night and day upon the iron rocks into which he cut steps.

Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the wall towered up

always above him to heaven. Sometimes he prayed that a little moss or

lichen might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion to him;

but it never came.” The stranger watched the boy’s face.

“And the years rolled on; he counted them by the steps he had cut--a

few for a year--only a few. He sang no more; he said no more, ‘I will

do this or that’--he only worked. And at night when the twilight

settled down, there looked out at him from the holes and crevices in

the rocks strange wild faces.

“‘Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us,’ they cried.

“‘My salvation is in work. If I should stop but for one moment, you

would creep down upon me,’ he replied. And they put out their long

necks farther.

“‘Look down into the crevices at your feet,’ they said. ‘See what

lies there,--white bones! As brave and strong a man as you climbed to

these rocks. And he looked up. He saw there was no use in striving;

he would never hold Truth, never see her, never find her. So he lay

down here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever. He put

himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not lonely when

you are asleep, neither do your hands ache, nor your heart.’ And the

hunter laughed between his teeth.

“‘Have I torn from my heart all that was dearest; have I wandered

alone in the land of night; have I resisted temptation; have I dwelt

where the voice of my kind is never heard, and labored alone, to lie

down and be food for you, ye harpies?’

“He laughed fiercely; and the echoes of Despair slunk away, for the

laugh of a brave, strong heart is as a death-blow to them.

“Nevertheless they crept out again, and looked at him.

“‘Do you know that your hair is white?’ they said, ‘that your hands

begin to tremble like a child’s. Do you see that the point of your

Shuttle is gone? It is cracked already. If you should ever climb

this stair,’ they said, ‘it will be your last. You will never climb

another.’

“And he answered, ‘I know it!’ and worked on.

“The old, thin hands cut the stones ill and jaggedly, for the fingers

were stiff and bent. The beauty and the strength of the man was gone.

“At last an old, wizened, shrunken face looked out above the rocks.

It saw the eternal mountains rise with walls to the white clouds; but

its work was done.

“The old hunter folded his tired hands, and lay down by the precipice

where he had worked away his life. It was the sleeping time at last.

Below him over the valleys rolled the thick white mist. Once it

broke; and through the gap the dying eyes looked down on the trees

and fields of their childhood. From afar seemed born to him the cry

of his own wild birds, and he heard the noise of people singing as

they danced. And he thought he heard among them the voices of his old

comrades; and he saw far off the sunlight shine on his early home.

And great tears gathered in the hunter’s eyes.

“‘Ah! they who die there do not die alone,’ he cried.

“Then the mists rolled together again, and he turned his eyes away.

“‘I have sought,’ he said, ‘for long years I have labored; but I have

not found her. I have not rested, I have not ripened, and I have not

seen her; now my strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out, other

men will stand, young and fresh. By the steps that I have cut they

will climb; by the stairs that I have built they will mount. They

will never know the name of the man who made them. At the clumsy work

they will laugh; when the stones roll, they will curse me. But they

will mount, and on _my_ work; they will climb, and by _my_ stair.

They will find her, and through me. And no man liveth to himself, and

no man dieth to himself.’

“The tears rolled from beneath the shrivelled eyelids. If Truth had

appeared above him in the clouds now, he could not have seen her; the

mist of death was in his eyes.

“‘My soul hears their glad step coming,’ he said; ‘and they shall

mount! they shall mount!’ He raised his shrivelled hand to his eyes.

“Then slowly from the white sky above, through the still air, came

something falling, falling, falling. Softly it fluttered down, and

dropped on to the breast of the dying man. He felt it with his

hands. It was a feather. He died holding it.”

Olive Schreiner, _The Story of an African Farm_.

A PARABLE FOR PHILANTHROPISTS

Christopher and I were motoring through the Adirondacks; and, on

the morning in question, were traversing an unusually long stretch

of unbroken wilderness. For ten or fifteen miles we had passed not

a cottage, not a camp, not even a trail. Nothing but forest on both

sides of the road--wild, tangled forest, beautiful, fragrant, and

infinitely lonely. Its silence had fallen upon us. We felt as if we

had escaped forever from the troubled haunts of men, and could never

again be confronted with human problems. We drove slowly, with only a

half apprehensive eye on the gray sky, which threatened rain.

I was just thinking that it was strange we saw so little evidence

of the wild animal life with which the woods must abound, when

suddenly, like an answer to my mental challenge, there came a little

stir in the bushes ahead of us. A tiny, discreet stir. No suggestion

of a bear or a deer. Perhaps a hedgehog, however. As we passed, I

looked closely and, to my astonishment, saw, not a hedgehog, not

even a rabbit or a squirrel, but--of all things, in that uninhabited

wilderness--a shrinking, small gray kitten. I could hardly have been

more surprised by the appearance of a woodchuck on Fifth Avenue.

Christopher saw it as soon as I did, and he slid into neutral and

stopped the car. An indignant and disdainful look crept about his

mouth. I knew what he was thinking. We live in a summer-resorted

valley ourselves,--and we have had incredulously disgusting

experience with people who abandon pet cats when they close their

cottages. But not out in the wilderness like this, at the mercy of

all kinds of dangers, and so little and helpless, its mother’s milk

scarcely dry on its mouth. I was so angry that I could not speak, as

I got out of the car and went back along the road.

“I don’t know what in the world we’ll do with it,” said Christopher.

The point was well taken. We were planning to spend the night in a

hotel. Neither of us hesitated, however. Our duty seemed clear.

“I suppose we can leave it at some camp or farmhouse,” I suggested.

“And pay them for taking care of it!” Christopher added, ironically.

The kitten remained just where we had discovered it until we were

near enough to look it in the eye. It had evidently been a pet. Its

fur was sleek and its face wore the open, candid expression peculiar

to well-bred cats. It seemed glad to see us. Steadfastly it returned

our gaze, and its pink mouth opened in a plaintive meow.

“Kitty!” I murmured. I’m fond of cats, and this one quite went to

my heart. “Pick her up for me, Christopher. I’ll hold her while you

drive.”

So Christopher went to pick her up, and for the next hour and a half

he continued to repeat the motion.

Who could have believed it would be so hard to make connections with

a pet kitten? She was not afraid of us. On the contrary, the minute

we let her alone, she came stealing back to the side of the road

where she could see us and call to us. But she simply could not make

up her mind to let us rescue her.

First Christopher tried, with a confident method which left him

staring rather foolishly at his unexpectedly empty hand. Then I

tried.

“That’s not the way. Evidently, she’s been out here long enough to

get frightened. Poor little thing! We must coax her into confidence.”

So Christopher sat down on a rock and lighted a cigarette while,

slowly, slowly, discoursing, “Poor kitty! nice kitty!” in my most

mellifluous accents. I crossed the road and approached the spot where

the kitten crouched. It took me at least ten minutes, and, in the

end, she slipped from beneath my very fingers. My discomfiture was

worse than Christopher’s, for the retreating ball of fur turned and

spat at me.

“Hard luck!” said Christopher, sympathetically, if also a little

critically, “when you so nearly had her. I’ll try again next; but

we’d better sit still for a while till she gets over her scare.”

As we sat waiting, it became evident that it really was going to

rain. In fact, already a fine mist was in the air.

“Those bushes will soon be nice and wet,” remarked Christopher.

“Well,” I replied, much subdued, “she’s near the edge now. Go and get

her, and get it over with.”

Three minutes later, after a slow approach followed by a plunge on

Christopher’s part, the kitten was in the heart of the forest.

“Oh, I say!” cried Christopher. “This is hopeless. We might stay

here all day and all night and all another day. Don’t you think we’d

better conclude that we’ve done our best? After all, there are plenty

of mice and grass-hoppers in the woods.”

I recognized this as sound, sensible masculine advice, and I longed

to accept it. The prospect of spending indefinite hours dodging about

tangled bushes in the rain was not exhilarating. Moreover, the next

inn was leagues ahead, and we were hungry. But the sentiment of my

sex was too much for me.

“I’m afraid I could never look Shem in the face again,” I murmured.

Shem is our yellow cat at home.

Christopher was admirable. He always is, but on this occasion he

outdid himself. He said nothing further, but took off his hat and

coat, turned up his trousers, and went to work. For nearly an hour

he pursued that kitten, trying every method he could think of or

I could suggest. He stalked and coaxed, he waited and plunged, he

withdrew, he circumvented and headed off. The rain fell steadily, and

the bushes more than fulfilled their promise of wetness. I was very

unhappy. After all, I care more about Christopher than about kittens.

But something of the kitten’s perversity had infected me. As she

could not bring herself to be caught, so I could not bring myself to

abandon her.

“Well,” said Christopher finally (he spoke carefully; for the

last half hour when he had said anything at all, he had said it

carefully), “I’m going to make one more effort, and then----”

It was a thorough effort. He made a wide détour about the kitten’s

position, entering a part of the forest which he had not penetrated

before, and was about to close in on the maddening outcast, when, to

my perplexity, he suddenly desisted from the whole undertaking and

returned to the road, shaking the rain from his hair and turning down

his trousers with as dark an air of disgust as I have ever seen. I

wanted to ask, “What in the world is the matter?” but I thought I’d

better not.

He told me, however, presently. The situation was one which just

had to be shared. “There’s a trail over there,” he said concisely,

“leading to an occupied camp. We’ve spent the morning trying to

kidnap that kitten.”

Perhaps there is nothing more to be said. Certainly Christopher and I

said nothing for many miles. I was too humbly chastened, and he was

too--well, let us call it considerate. But we did some thinking; and,

after a most opportunely good dinner at an unexpected wayside inn, I

was relieved to hear Christopher begin to meditate aloud.

“It wasn’t crying at all,” he reflected. “It was just saying, as its

mother had taught it, ‘Welcome to our mountain home.’ How embarrassed

it must have been!”

“And frightened,” I added. “No wonder I thought it looked scared.

Several times we nearly had it.”

“Well,” Christopher concluded, with a grave glance at me,

“philanthropy’s a ticklish business.”

By kind permission of _The Atlantic Monthly_.

THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG

“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog. “When I was a tadpole, I had

no tail.”

“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole. “You never were a tadpole.”

Robert Louis Stevenson. _Fables._ By permission

of Charles Scribner’s Sons, the authorized

publishers.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FAIRY TALES, ALLEGORIES, PARABLES, AND FABLES

The editors have found the additional selections very useful in

teaching these forms of narrative:

Andersen, Hans Christian. _Fairy Tales._

Æsop. _Fables._

Frazer, Lady. _Leaves from the Golden Bough._ The Macmillan Company.

La Fontaine. _Fables._

Schreiner, Olive. _Dreams._

Stephens, James. _Irish Fairy Tales._ The Macmillan Company.

Stevenson, Robert Louis. _Fables_, particularly _The Cart Horse and

Saddle Horse_ and _The Sinking Ship_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.