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[Transcriber's notes: _ before and after a word or phrase indicate
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THE WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE OF EUGENE FIELD
A LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES
NEW YORK 1901
By EUGENE FIELD.
TO MY SEVEREST CRITIC, MY MOST LOYAL ADMIRER, AND MY ONLY DAUGHTER, MARY
FRENCH FIELD, THIS LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED. E.F.
INTRODUCTION
I have never read a poem by Mr. Field without feeling personally drawn to
the author. Long after I had known him as a poet, I found that he had
written in prose little scraps or long essays, which had attracted me in
just the same way, when I had met with them in the newspapers, although I
had not known who the author was.
All that he writes indeed is quite free from the conventionalisms to which
authorship as a profession is sadly liable. Because he is free from them,
you read his poems or you read his prose, and are affected as if you met
him. If you were riding in a Pullman car with him, or if you were talking
with him at breakfast over your coffee, he would say just such things in
just this way. If he had any art, it was the art of concealing art. But I
do not think that he thought much of art. I do not think that he cared
much for what people say about criticism or style. He wrote as he felt, or
as he thought, without troubling himself much about method. It is this
simplicity, or what it is the fashion of the day to call frankness, which
gives a singular charm to his writing.
EDWARD E. HALE.
The Tales in this Little Book
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE
THE SYMBOL AND THE SAINT
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE
THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM
THE DIVELL'S CHRYSTMASS
THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SEA
THE ROBIN AND THE VIOLET
THE OAK-TREE AND THE IVY
MARGARET: A PEARL
THE SPRINGTIME
RODOLPH AND HIS KING
THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS
EZRA'S THANKSGIVIN' OUT WEST
LUDWIG AND ELOISE
FIDO'S LITTLE FRIEND
THE OLD MAN
BILL, THE LOKIL EDITOR
THE LITTLE YALLER BABY
THE CYCLOPEEDY
DOCK STEBBINS
THE FAIRIES OF PESTH
+THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE+
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE
Once upon a time the forest was in a great commotion. Early in the evening
the wise old cedars had shaken their heads ominously and predicted strange
things. They had lived in the forest many, many years; but never had they
seen such marvellous sights as were to be seen now in the sky, and upon
the hills, and in the distant village.
"Pray tell us what you see," pleaded a little vine; "we who are not as
tall as you can behold none of these wonderful things. Describe them to
us, that we may enjoy them with you."
"I am filled with such amazement," said one of the cedars, "that I can
hardly speak. The whole sky seems to be aflame, and the stars appear to be
dancing among the clouds; angels walk down from heaven to the earth, and
enter the village or talk with the shepherds upon the hills."
The vine listened in mute astonishment. Such things never before had
happened. The vine trembled with excitement. Its nearest neighbor was a
tiny tree, so small it scarcely ever was noticed; yet it was a very
beautiful little tree, and the vines and ferns and mosses and other humble
residents of the forest loved it dearly.
"How I should like to see the angels!" sighed the little tree, "and how I
should like to see the stars dancing among the clouds! It must be very
beautiful."
As the vine and the little tree talked of these things, the cedars watched
with increasing interest the wonderful scenes over and beyond the confines
of the forest. Presently they thought they heard music, and they were not
mistaken, for soon the whole air was full of the sweetest harmonies ever
heard upon earth.
"What beautiful music!" cried the little tree. "I wonder whence it comes."
"The angels are singing," said a cedar; "for none but angels could make
such sweet music."
"But the stars are singing, too," said another cedar; "yes, and the
shepherds on the hills join in the song, and what a strangely glorious
song it is!"
The trees listened to the singing, but they did not understand its
meaning: it seemed to be an anthem, and it was of a Child that had been
born; but further than this they did not understand. The strange and
glorious song continued all the night; and all that night the angels
walked to and fro, and the shepherd-folk talked with the angels, and the
stars danced and carolled in high heaven. And it was nearly morning when
the cedars cried out, "They are coming to the forest! the angels are
coming to the forest!" And, surely enough, this was true. The vine and the
little tree were very terrified, and they begged their older and stronger
neighbors to protect them from harm. But the cedars were too busy with
their own fears to pay any heed to the faint pleadings of the humble vine
and the little tree. The angels came into the forest, singing the same
glorious anthem about the Child, and the stars sang in chorus with them,
until every part of the woods rang with echoes of that wondrous song.
There was nothing in the appearance of this angel host to inspire fear;
they were clad all in white, and there were crowns upon their fair heads,
and golden harps in their hands; love, hope, charity, compassion, and joy
beamed from their beautiful faces, and their presence seemed to fill the
forest with a divine peace. The angels came through the forest to where
the little tree stood, and gathering around it, they touched it with their
hands, and kissed its little branches, and sang even more sweetly than
before. And their song was about the Child, the Child, the Child that had
been born. Then the stars came down from the skies and danced and hung
upon the branches of the tree, and they, too, sang that song,--the song of
the Child. And all the other trees and the vines and the ferns and the
mosses beheld in wonder; nor could they understand why all these things
were being done, and why this exceeding honor should be shown the little
tree.
When the morning came the angels left the forest,--all but one angel, who
remained behind and lingered near the little tree. Then a cedar asked:
"Why do you tarry with us, holy angel?" And the angel answered: "I stay to
guard this little tree, for it is sacred, and no harm shall come to it."
The little tree felt quite relieved by this assurance, and it held up its
head more confidently than ever before. And how it thrived and grew, and
waxed in strength and beauty! The cedars said they never had seen the
like. The sun seemed to lavish its choicest rays upon the little tree,
heaven dropped its sweetest dew upon it, and the winds never came to the
forest that they did not forget their rude manners and linger to kiss the
little tree and sing it their prettiest songs. No danger ever menaced it,
no harm threatened; for the angel never slept,--through the day and
through the night the angel watched the little tree and protected it from
all evil. Oftentimes the trees talked with the angel; but of course they
understood little of what he said, for he spoke always of the Child who
was to become the Master; and always when thus he talked, he caressed the
little tree, and stroked its branches and leaves, and moistened them with
his tears. It all was so very strange that none in the forest could
understand.
So the years passed, the angel watching his blooming charge. Sometimes the
beasts strayed toward the little tree and threatened to devour its tender
foliage; sometimes the woodman came with his axe, intent upon hewing down
the straight and comely thing; sometimes the hot, consuming breath of
drought swept from the south, and sought to blight the forest and all its
verdure: the angel kept them from the little tree. Serene and beautiful it
grew, until now it was no longer a little tree, but the pride and glory of
the forest.
One day the tree heard some one coming through the forest. Hitherto the
angel had hastened to its side when men approached; but now the angel
strode away and stood under the cedars yonder.
"Dear angel," cried the tree, "can you not hear the footsteps of some one
approaching? Why do you leave me?"
"Have no fear," said the angel; "for He who comes is the Master."
The Master came to the tree and beheld it. He placed His hands upon its
smooth trunk and branches, and the tree was thrilled with a strange and
glorious delight. Then He stooped and kissed the tree, and then He turned
and went away.
Many times after that the Master came to the forest, and when He came it
always was to where the tree stood. Many times He rested beneath the tree
and enjoyed the shade of its foliage, and listened to the music of the
wind as it swept through the rustling leaves. Many times He slept there,
and the tree watched over Him, and the forest was still, and all its
voices were hushed. And the angel hovered near like a faithful sentinel.
Ever and anon men came with the Master to the forest, and sat with Him in
the shade of the tree, and talked with Him of matters which the tree never
could understand; only it heard that the talk was of love and charity and
gentleness, and it saw that the Master was beloved and venerated by the
others. It heard them tell of the Master's goodness and humility,--how He
had healed the sick and raised the dead and bestowed inestimable blessings
wherever He walked. And the tree loved the Master for His beauty and His
goodness; and when He came to the forest it was full of joy, but when He
came not it was sad. And the other trees of the forest joined in its
happiness and its sorrow, for they, too, loved the Master. And the angel
always hovered near.
The Master came one night alone into the forest, and His face was pale
with anguish and wet with tears, and He fell upon His knees and prayed.
The tree heard Him, and all the forest was still, as if it were standing
in the presence of death. And when the morning came, lo! the angel had
gone.
Then there was a great confusion in the forest. There was a sound of rude
voices, and a clashing of swords and staves. Strange men appeared,
uttering loud oaths and cruel threats, and the tree was filled with
terror. It called aloud for the angel, but the angel came not.
"Alas," cried the vine, "they have come to destroy the tree, the pride and
glory of the forest!"
The forest was sorely agitated, but it was in vain. The strange men plied
their axes with cruel vigor, and the tree was hewn to the ground. Its
beautiful branches were cut away and cast aside, and its soft, thick
foliage was strewn to the tenderer mercies of the winds.
"They are killing me!" cried the tree; "why is not the angel here to
protect me?"
But no one heard the piteous cry,--none but the other trees of the forest;
and they wept, and the little vine wept too.
Then the cruel men dragged the despoiled and hewn tree from the forest,
and the forest saw that beauteous thing no more.
But the night wind that swept down from the City of the Great King that
night to ruffle the bosom of distant Galilee, tarried in the forest awhile
to say that it had seen that day a cross upraised on Calvary,--the tree on
which was stretched the body of the dying Master.
1884.
+THE SYMBOL AND THE SAINT+
THE SYMBOL AND THE SAINT
Once upon a time a young man made ready for a voyage. His name was Norss;
broad were his shoulders, his cheeks were ruddy, his hair was fair and
long, his body betokened strength, and good-nature shone from his blue
eyes and lurked about the corners of his mouth.
"Where are you going?" asked his neighbor Jans, the forge-master.
"I am going sailing for a wife," said Norss.
"For a wife, indeed!" cried Jans. "And why go you to seek her in foreign
lands? Are not our maidens good enough and fair enough, that you must need
search for a wife elsewhere? For shame, Norss! for shame!"
But Norss said, "A spirit came to me in my dreams last night and said,
'Launch the boat and set sail to-morrow. Have no fear; for I will guide
you to the bride that awaits you.' Then, standing there, all white and
beautiful, the spirit held forth a symbol--such as I had never before
seen--in the figure of a cross, and the spirit said: 'By this symbol shall
she be known to you.'"
"If this be so, you must need go," said Jans. "But are you well
victualled? Come to my cabin, and let me give you venison and bear's
meat."
Norss shook his head. "The spirit will provide," said he. "I have no fear,
and I shall take no care, trusting in the spirit."
So Norss pushed his boat down the beach into the sea, and leaped into the
boat, and unfurled the sail to the wind. Jan stood wondering on the beach,
and watched the boat speed out of sight.
On, on, many days on sailed Norss,--so many leagues that he thought he
must have compassed the earth. In all this time he knew no hunger nor
thirst; it was as the spirit had told him in his dream,--no cares nor
dangers beset him. By day the dolphins and the other creatures of the sea
gambolled about his boat; by night a beauteous Star seemed to direct his
course; and when he slept and dreamed, he saw ever the spirit clad in
white, and holding forth to him the symbol in the similitude of a cross.
At last he came to a strange country,--a country so very different from
his own that he could scarcely trust his senses. Instead of the rugged
mountains of the North, he saw a gentle landscape of velvety green; the
trees were not pines and firs, but cypresses, cedars, and palms; instead
of the cold, crisp air of his native land, he scented the perfumed zephyrs
of the Orient; and the wind that filled the sail of his boat and smote his
tanned cheeks was heavy and hot with the odor of cinnamon and spices. The
waters were calm and blue,--very different from the white and angry waves
of Norss's native fiord.
As if guided by an unseen hand, the boat pointed straight for the beach of
this strangely beautiful land; and ere its prow cleaved the shallower
waters, Norss saw a maiden standing on the shore, shading her eyes with
her right hand, and gazing intently at him. She was the most beautiful
maiden he had ever looked upon. As Norss was fair, so was this maiden
dark; her black hair fell loosely about her shoulders in charming contrast
with the white raiment in which her slender, graceful form was clad.
Around her neck she wore a golden chain, and therefrom was suspended a
small symbol, which Norss did not immediately recognize.
"Hast thou come sailing out of the North into the East?" asked the maiden.
"Yes," said Norss.
"And thou art Norss?" she asked.
"I am Norss; and I come seeking my bride," he answered.
"I am she," said the maiden. "My name is Faia. An angel came to me in my
dreams last night, and the angel said: 'Stand upon the beach to-day, and
Norss shall come out of the North to bear thee home a bride.' So, coming
here, I found thee sailing to our shore."
Remembering then the spirit's words, Norss said: "What symbol have you,
Faia, that I may know how truly you have spoken?"
"No symbol have I but this," said Faia, holding out the symbol that was
attached to the golden chain about her neck. Norss looked upon it, and lo!
it was the symbol of his dreams,--a tiny wooden cross.
Then Norss clasped Faia in his arms and kissed her, and entering into the
boat they sailed away into the North. In all their voyage neither care nor
danger beset them; for as it had been told to them in their dreams, so it
came to pass. By day the dolphins and the other creatures of the sea
gambolled about them; by night the winds and the waves sang them to sleep;
and, strangely enough, the Star which before had led Norss into the East,
now shone bright and beautiful in the Northern sky!
When Norss and his bride reached their home, Jans, the forge-master, and
the other neighbors made great joy, and all said that Faia was more
beautiful than any other maiden in the land. So merry was Jans that he
built a huge fire in his forge, and the flames thereof filled the whole
Northern sky with rays of light that danced up, up, up to the Star,
singing glad songs the while. So Norss and Faia were wed, and they went to
live in the cabin in the fir-grove.
To these two was born in good time a son, whom they named Claus. On the
night that he was born wondrous things came to pass. To the cabin in the
fir-grove came all the quaint, weird spirits,--the fairies, the elves, the
trolls, the pixies, the fadas, the crions, the goblins, the kobolds, the
moss-people, the gnomes, the dwarfs, the water-sprites, the courils, the
bogles, the brownies, the nixies, the trows, the stille-volk,--all came to
the cabin in the fir-grove, and capered about and sang the strange,
beautiful songs of the Mist-Land. And the flames of old Jans's forge
leaped up higher than ever into the Northern sky, carrying the joyous
tidings to the Star, and full of music was that happy night.
Even in infancy Claus did marvellous things. With his baby hands he
wrought into pretty figures the willows that were given him to play with.
As he grew older, he fashioned, with the knife old Jans had made for him,
many curious toys,--carts, horses, dogs, lambs, houses, trees, cats, and
birds, all of wood and very like to nature. His mother taught him how to
make dolls too,--dolls of every kind, condition, temper, and color; proud
dolls, homely dolls, boy dolls, lady dolls, wax dolls, rubber dolls, paper
dolls, worsted dolls, rag dolls,--dolls of every description and without
end. So Claus became at once quite as popular with the little girls as
with the little boys of his native village; for he was so generous that he
gave away all these pretty things as fast as he made them.
Claus seemed to know by instinct every language. As he grew older he would
ramble off into the woods and talk with the trees, the rocks, and the
beasts of the greenwood; or he would sit on the cliffs overlooking the
fiord, and listen to the stories that the waves of the sea loved to tell
him; then, too, he knew the haunts of the elves and the stille-volk, and
many a pretty tale he learned from these little people. When night came,
old Jans told him the quaint legends of the North, and his mother sang to
him the lullabies she had heard when a little child herself in the
far-distant East. And every night his mother held out to him the symbol in
the similitude of the cross, and bade him kiss it ere he went to sleep.
So Claus grew to manhood, increasing each day in knowledge and in wisdom.
His works increased too; and his liberality dispensed everywhere the
beauteous things which his fancy conceived and his skill executed. Jans,
being now a very old man, and having no son of his own, gave to Claus his
forge and workshop, and taught him those secret arts which he in youth had
learned from cunning masters. Right joyous now was Claus; and many, many
times the Northern sky glowed with the flames that danced singing from the
forge while Claus moulded his pretty toys. Every color of the rainbow were
these flames; for they reflected the bright colors of the beauteous things
strewn round that wonderful workshop. Just as of old he had dispensed to
all children alike the homelier toys of his youth, so now he gave to all
children alike these more beautiful and more curious gifts. So little
children everywhere loved Claus, because he gave them pretty toys, and
their parents loved him because he made their little ones so happy.
But now Norss and Faia were come to old age. After long years of love and
happiness, they knew that death could not be far distant. And one day Faia
said to Norss: "Neither you nor I, dear love, fear death; but if we could
choose, would we not choose to live always in this our son Claus, who has
been so sweet a joy to us?"
"Ay, ay," said Norss; "but how is that possible?"
"We shall see," said Faia.
That night Norss dreamed that a spirit came to him, and that the spirit
said to him: "Norss, thou shalt surely live forever in thy son Claus, if
thou wilt but acknowledge the symbol."
Then when the morning was come Norss told his dream to Faia, his wife; and
Faia said,--
"The same dream had I,--an angel appearing to me and speaking these very
words."
"But what of the symbol?" cried Norss.
"I have it here, about my neck," said Faia.
So saying, Faia drew from her bosom the symbol of wood,--a tiny cross
suspended about her neck by the golden chain. And as she stood there
holding the symbol out to Norss, he--he thought of the time when first he
saw her on the far-distant Orient shore, standing beneath the Star in all
her maidenly glory, shading her beauteous eyes with one hand, and with the
other clasping the cross,--the holy talisman of her faith.
"Faia, Faia!" cried Norss, "it is the same,--the same you wore when I
fetched you a bride from the East!"
"It is the same." said Faia, "yet see how my kisses and my prayers have
worn it away; for many, many times in these years, dear Norss, have I
pressed it to my lips and breathed your name upon it. See now--see what a
beauteous light its shadow makes upon your aged face!"
The sunbeams, indeed, streaming through the window at that moment, cast
the shadow of the symbol on old Norss's brow. Norss felt a glorious warmth
suffuse him, his heart leaped with joy, and he stretched out his arms and
fell about Faia's neck, and kissed the symbol and acknowledged it. Then
likewise did Faia; and suddenly the place was filled with a wondrous
brightness and with strange music, and never thereafter were Norss and
Faia beholden of men.
Until late that night Claus toiled at his forge; for it was a busy season
with him, and he had many, many curious and beauteous things to make for
the little children in the country round about. The colored flames leaped
singing from his forge, so that the Northern sky seemed to be lighted by a
thousand rainbows; but above all this voiceful glory beamed the Star,
bright, beautiful, serene.
Coming late to the cabin in the fir-grove, Claus wondered that no sign of
his father or of his mother was to be seen. "Father--mother!" he cried,
but he received no answer. Just then the Star cast its golden gleam
through the latticed window, and this strange, holy light fell and rested
upon the symbol of the cross that lay upon the floor. Seeing it, Claus
stooped and picked it up, and kissing it reverently, he cried: "Dear
talisman, be thou my inspiration evermore; and wheresoever thy blessed
influence is felt, there also let my works be known henceforth forever!"
No sooner had he said these words than Claus felt the gift of immortality
bestowed upon him; and in that moment, too, there came to him a knowledge
that his parents' prayer had been answered, and that Norss and Faia would
live in him through all time.
And lo! to that place and in that hour came all the people of Mist-Land
and of Dream-Land to declare allegiance to him: yes, the elves, the
fairies, the pixies,--all came to Claus, prepared to do his bidding.
Joyously they capered about him, and merrily they sang.
"Now haste ye all," cried Claus,--"haste ye all to your homes and bring to
my workshop the best ye have. Search, little hill-people, deep in the
bowels of the earth for finest gold and choicest jewels; fetch me, O
mermaids, from the bottom of the sea the treasures hidden there,--the
shells of rainbow tints, the smooth, bright pebbles, and the strange ocean
flowers; go, pixies, and other water-sprites, to your secret lakes, and
bring me pearls! Speed! speed you all! for many pretty things have we to
make for the little ones of earth we love!"
But to the kobolds and the brownies Claus said: "Fly to every house on
earth where the cross is known; loiter unseen in the corners, and watch
and hear the children through the day. Keep a strict account of good and
bad, and every night bring back to me the names of good and bad, that I
may know them."
The kobolds and the brownies laughed gleefully, and sped away on noiseless
wings; and so, too, did the other fairies and elves.
There came also to Claus the beasts of the forest and the birds of the
air, and bade him be their master. And up danced the Four Winds, and they
said: "May we not serve you, too?"
The snow-king came stealing along in his feathery chariot. "Oho!" he
cried, "I shall speed over all the world and tell them you are coming. In
town and country, on the mountain-tops and in the valleys,--wheresoever
the cross is raised,--there will I herald your approach, and thither will
I strew you a pathway of feathery white. Oho! oho!" So, singing softly,
the snow-king stole upon his way.
But of all the beasts that begged to do him service, Claus liked the
reindeer best. "You shall go with me in my travels; for henceforth I shall
bear my treasures not only to the children of the North, but to the
children in every land whither the Star points me and where the cross is
lifted up!" So said Claus to the reindeer, and the reindeer neighed
joyously and stamped their hoofs impatiently, as though they longed to
start immediately.
Oh, many, many times has Claus whirled away from his far Northern home in
his sledge drawn by the reindeer, and thousands upon thousands of
beautiful gifts--all of his own making--has he borne to the children of
every land; for he loves them all alike, and they all alike love him, I
trow. So truly do they love him that they call him Santa Claus, and I am
sure that he must be a saint; for he has lived these many hundred years,
and we, who know that he was born of Faith and Love, believe that he will
live forever.
1886.
+THE COMING OF THE PRINCE+
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE
I
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" said the wind, and it tore through the
streets of the city that Christmas eve, turning umbrellas inside out,
driving the snow in fitful gusts before it, creaking the rusty signs and
shutters, and playing every kind of rude prank it could think of.
"How cold your breath is to-night!" said Barbara, with a shiver, as she
drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed body.
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" answered the wind; "but why are you out
in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire."
"I have no home," said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and
something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue
eyes.
But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street to
throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was struggling along
with a huge basket of good things on each arm.
"Why are you not at the cathedral?" asked a snowflake, as it alighted on
Barbara's shoulder. "I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights there
as I floated down from the sky a moment ago."
"What are they doing at the cathedral?" inquired Barbara.
"Why, haven't you heard?" exclaimed the snowflake. "I supposed everybody
knew that the prince was coming to-morrow."
"Surely enough; this is Christmas eve," said Barbara, "and the prince will
come tomorrow."
Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how
beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the little
children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to tell Barbara
of the prince and his coming,--none but the little snowflake.
"I should like to see the prince," said Barbara, "for I have heard he was
very beautiful and good."
"That he is," said the snowflake. "I have never seen him, but I heard the
pines and the firs singing about him as I floated over the forest
to-night."
"Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" cried the wind, returning boisterously to where
Barbara stood. "I've been looking for you everywhere, little snowflake! So
come with me."
And without any further ado, the wind seized upon the snowflake and
hurried it along the street and led it a merry dance through the icy air
of the winter night.
Barbara trudged on through the snow and looked in at the bright things in
the shop windows. The glitter of the lights and the sparkle of the vast
array of beautiful Christmas toys quite dazzled her. A strange mingling of
admiration, regret, and envy filled the poor little creature's heart.
"Much as I may yearn to have them, it cannot be," she said to herself,
"yet I may feast my eyes upon them."
"Go away from here!" said a harsh voice. "How can the rich people see all
my fine things if you stand before the window? Be off with you, you
miserable little beggar!"
It was the shopkeeper, and he gave Barbara a savage box on the ear that
sent her reeling into the deeper snowdrifts of the gutter.
Presently she came to a large house where there seemed to be much mirth
and festivity. The shutters were thrown open, and through the windows
Barbara could see a beautiful Christmas tree in the centre of a spacious
room,--a beautiful Christmas tree ablaze with red and green lights, and
heavy with toys and stars and glass balls, and other beautiful things that
children love. There was a merry throng around the tree, and the children
were smiling and gleeful, and all in that house seemed content and happy.
Barbara heard them singing, and their song was about the prince who was to
come on the morrow.
"This must be the house where the prince will stop," thought Barbara. "How
I would like to see his face and hear his voice!--yet what would he care
for _me_, a 'miserable little beggar'?"
So Barbara crept on through the storm, shivering and disconsolate, yet
thinking of the prince.
"Where are you going?" she asked of the wind as it overtook her.
"To the cathedral," laughed the wind. "The great people are flocking
there, and I will have a merry time amongst them, ha, ha, ha!"
And with laughter the wind whirled away and chased the snow toward the
cathedral.
"It is there, then, that the prince will come," thought Barbara. "It is a
beautiful place, and the people will pay him homage there. Perhaps I shall
see him if I go there."
So she went to the cathedral. Many folk were there in their richest
apparel, and the organ rolled out its grand music, and the people sang
wondrous songs, and the priests made eloquent prayers; and the music, and
the songs, and the prayers were all about the prince and his expected
coming. The throng that swept in and out of the great edifice talked
always of the prince, the prince, the prince, until Barbara really loved
him very much, for all the gentle words she heard the people say of him.
"Please, can I go and sit inside?" inquired Barbara of the sexton.
"No!" said the sexton, gruffly, for this was an important occasion with
the sexton, and he had no idea of wasting words on a beggar child.
"But I will be very good and quiet," pleaded Barbara. "Please, may I not
see the prince?"
"I have said no, and I mean it," retorted the sexton. "What have you for
the prince, or what cares the prince for you? Out with you, and don't be
blocking up the doorway!" So the sexton gave Barbara an angry push, and
the child fell half-way down the icy steps of the cathedral. She began to
cry. Some great people were entering the cathedral at the time, and they
laughed to see her falling.
"Have you seen the prince?" inquired a snowflake, alighting on Barbara's
cheek. It was the same little snowflake that had clung to her shawl an
hour ago, when the wind came galloping along on his boisterous search.
"Ah, no!" sighed Barbara, in tears; "but what cares the prince for _me_?"
"Do not speak so bitterly," said the little snowflake. "Go to the forest
and you shall see him, for the prince always comes through the forest to
the city."
Despite the cold, and her bruises, and her tears, Barbara smiled. In the
forest she could behold the prince coming on his way; and he would not see
her, for she would hide among the trees and vines.
"Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" It was the mischievous, romping wind once more;
and it fluttered Barbara's tattered shawl, and set her hair to streaming
in every direction, and swept the snowflake from her cheek and sent it
spinning through the air.
Barbara trudged toward the forest. When she came to the city gate the
watchman stopped her, and held his big lantern in her face, and asked her
who she was and where she was going.
"I am Barbara, and I am going into the forest," said she, boldly.
"Into the forest?" cried the watchman, "and in this storm? No, child; you
will perish!"
"But I am going to see the prince," said Barbara. "They will not let me
watch for him in the church, nor in any of their pleasant homes, so I am
going into the forest."
The watchman smiled sadly. He was a kindly man; he thought of his own
little girl at home.
"No, you must not go to the forest," said he, "for you would perish with
the cold."
But Barbara would not stay. She avoided the watchman's grasp and ran as
fast as ever she could through the city gate.
"Come back, come back!" cried the watchman; "you will perish in the
forest!"
But Barbara would not heed his cry. The falling snow did not stay her, nor
did the cutting blast. She thought only of the prince, and she ran
straightway to the forest.
II
"What do you see up there, O pine-tree?" asked a little vine in the
forest.
"You lift your head among the clouds tonight, and you tremble strangely as
if you saw wondrous sights."
"I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds," answered the
pine-tree. "And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my
questionings he says, 'Snow, snow, snow,' till I am weary with his
refrain."
"But the prince will surely come to-morrow?" inquired the tiny snowdrop
that nestled close to the vine.
"Oh, yes," said the vine. "I heard the country folks talking about it as
they went through the forest to-day, and they said that the prince would
surely come on the morrow."
"What are you little folks down there talking about?" asked the pine-tree.
"We are talking about the prince," said the vine.
"Yes, he is to come on the morrow," said the pine-tree, "but not until the
day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east."
"Yes," said the fir-tree, "the east is black, and only the wind and the
snow issue from it."
"Keep your head out of my way!" cried the pine-tree to the fir; "with your
constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all."
"Take _that_ for your bad manners," retorted the fir, slapping the
pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.
The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his
largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there
were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.
"Hush!" cried the vine in a startled tone; "there is some one coming
through the forest."
The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop nestled
closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very tightly. All
were greatly alarmed.
"Nonsense!" said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery. "No one
would venture into the forest at such an hour."
"Indeed! and why not?" cried a child's voice. "Will you not let me watch
with you for the coming of the prince?"
"Will you not chop me down?" inquired the pine-tree, gruffly.
"Will you not tear me from my tree?" asked the vine.
"Will you not pluck my blossoms?" plaintively piped the snowdrop.
"No, of course not," said Barbara; "I have come only to watch with you for
the prince."
Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been treated
in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to come on the
morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt a great
compassion for her.
"Lie at my feet," said the pine-tree, "and I will protect you."
"Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs till
they are warm," said the vine.
"Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs," said
the snowdrop.
And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She rested
in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine chafed her
body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to her.
"Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" There was that noisy wind again, but this time it
was gentler than it had been in the city.
"Here you are, my little Barbara," said the wind, in kindly tones. "I have
brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from the city,
for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will have my fun
with them!"
Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara's cheek, the wind
whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare
pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as you
know, is no respecter of persons.
"Dear Barbara," said the snowflake, "I will watch with thee for the coming
of the prince."
And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so pure
and innocent and gentle.
"Tell us, O pine-tree," cried the vine, "what do you see in the east? Has
the prince yet entered the forest?"
"The east is full of black clouds," said the pine-tree, "and the winds
that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow."
"But the city is full of brightness," said the fir. "I can see the lights
in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the prince and his
coming."
"Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral," said Barbara,
sadly.
"But we shall see him first," whispered the vine, reassuringly.
"Yes, the prince will come through the forest," said the little snowdrop,
gleefully.
"Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory,"
cried the snowflake.
Then all at once there was a strange hubbub in the forest; for it was
midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl about and
to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great wonder and
trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of the forest,
although she had often heard of them. It was a marvellous sight.
"Fear nothing," whispered the vine to Barbara,--"fear nothing, for they
dare not touch you."
The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock
crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves and
the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their abiding-places in
the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the loose bark of the trees.
And then it was very quiet once more in the forest.
"It is very cold," said Barbara. "My hands and feet are like ice."
Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad
boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white
mantle.
"You will be warm now," said the vine, kissing Barbara's forehead. And
Barbara smiled.
Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet. And
Barbara said, "I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the prince comes
through the forest?"
And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.
III
"The bells in the city are ringing merrily," said the fir, "and the music
in the cathedral is louder and more beautiful than before. Can it be that
the prince has already come into the city?"
"No," cried the pine-tree, "look to the east and see the Christmas day
a-dawning! The prince is coming, and his pathway is through the forest!"
The storm had ceased. Snow lay upon all the earth. The hills, the forest,
the city, and the meadows were white with the robe the storm-king had
thrown over them. Content with his wondrous work, the storm-king himself
had fled to his far Northern home before the dawn of the Christmas day.
Everything was bright and sparkling and beautiful. And most beautiful was
the great hymn of praise the forest sang that Christmas morning,--the
pine-trees and the firs and the vines and the snow-flowers that sang of
the prince and of his promised coming.
"Wake up, little one," cried the vine, "for the prince is coming!"
But Barbara slept; she did not hear the vine's soft calling, nor the lofty
music of the forest.
A little snow-bird flew down from the fir-tree's bough and perched upon
the vine, and carolled in Barbara's ear of the Christmas morning and of
the coming of the prince. But Barbara slept; she did not hear the carol of
the bird.
"Alas!" sighed the vine, "Barbara will not awaken, and the prince is
coming."
Then the vine and the snowdrop wept, and the pine-tree and the fir were
very sad.
The prince came through the forest clad in royal raiment and wearing a
golden crown. Angels came with him, and the forest sang a great hymn unto
the prince, such a hymn as had never before been heard on earth. The
prince came to the sleeping child and smiled upon her and called her by
name.
"Barbara, my little one," said the prince, "awaken, and come with me."
Then Barbara opened her eyes and beheld the prince. And it seemed as if a
new life had come to her, for there was warmth in her body, and a flush
upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were divine. And she was
clothed no longer in rags, but in white flowing raiment; and upon the soft
brown hair there was a crown like those which angels wear. And as Barbara
arose and went to the prince, the little snowflake fell from her cheek
upon her bosom, and forthwith became a pearl more precious than all other
jewels upon earth.
And the prince took Barbara in his arms and blessed her, and turning round
about, returned with the little child unto his home, while the forest and
the sky and the angels sang a wondrous song.
The city waited for the prince, but he did not come. None knew of the
glory of the forest that Christmas morning, nor of the new life that came
to little Barbara.
_Come thou, dear Prince, oh, come to us this holy Christmas time! Come
to the busy marts of earth, the quiet homes, the noisy streets, the humble
lanes; come to us all, and with thy love touch every human heart, that we
may know that love, and in its blessed peace bear charity to all
mankind_!
1886.
+THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM+
THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM
Whilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-Soul, strange things happened;
but that I saw and heard them, I should never have believed them. The
clock stood, of course, in the corner, a moonbeam floated idly on the
floor, and a little mauve mouse came from the hole in the chimney corner
and frisked and scampered in the light of the moonbeam upon the floor. The
little mauve mouse was particularly merry; sometimes she danced upon two
legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always very daintily and always
very merrily.
"Ah, me!" sighed the old clock, "how different mice are nowadays from the
mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there was your grandma,
Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master Sniffwhisker,--how
grave and dignified they were! Many a night have I seen them dancing upon
the carpet below me, but always the stately minuet and never that crazy
frisking which you are executing now, to my surprise--yes, and to my
horror, too."
"But why shouldn't I be merry?" asked the little mauve mouse. "To-morrow
is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve."
"So it is," said the old clock. "I had really forgotten all about it. But,
tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?"
"A great deal to me!" cried the little mauve mouse. "I have been very good
a very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor have I gnawed any
holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I worried my mother by
running behind the flour-barrel where that horrid trap is set. In fact, I
have been so good that I'm very sure Santa Claus will bring me something
very pretty."
This seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact, the old clock fell
to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck twelve
instead of ten, which was exceedingly careless and therefore to be
reprehended.
"Why, you silly little mauve mouse," said the old clock, "you don't
believe in Santa Claus, do you?"
"Of course I do," answered the little mauve mouse. "Believe in Santa
Claus? Why shouldn't I? Didn't Santa Claus bring me a beautiful
butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely gingersnap, and a delicious
rind of cheese, and--and--lots of things? I should be very ungrateful if I
did _not_ believe in Santa Claus, and I certainly shall not
disbelieve in him at the very moment when I am expecting him to arrive
with a bundle of goodies for me.
"I once had a little sister," continued the little mauve mouse, "who did
not believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the fate that befell
her makes my blood run cold and my whiskers stand on end. She died before
I was born, but my mother has told me all about her. Perhaps you never saw
her; her name was Squeaknibble, and she was in stature one of those long,
low, rangy mice that are seldom found in well-stocked pantries. Mother
says that Squeaknibble took after our ancestors who came from New England,
where the malignant ingenuity of the people and the ferocity of the cats
rendered life precarious indeed. Squeaknibble seemed to inherit many
ancestral traits, the most conspicuous of which was a disposition to sneer
at some of the most respected dogmas in mousedom. From her very infancy
she doubted, for example, the widely accepted theory that the moon was
composed of green cheese; and this heresy was the first intimation her
parents had of the sceptical turn of her mind. Of course, her parents were
vastly annoyed, for their maturer natures saw that this youthful
scepticism portended serious, if not fatal, consequences. Yet all in vain
did the sagacious couple reason and plead with their headstrong and
heretical child.
"For a long time Squeaknibble would not believe that there was any such
archfiend as a cat; but she came to be convinced to the contrary one
memorable night, on which occasion she lost two inches of her beautiful
tail, and received so terrible a fright that for fully an hour afterward
her little heart beat so violently as to lift her off her feet and bump
her head against the top of our domestic hole. The cat that deprived my
sister of so large a percentage of her vertebral colophon was the same
brindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and anon into this room,
crouches treacherously behind the sofa, and feigns to be asleep, hoping,
forsooth, that some of us, heedless of her hated presence, will venture
within reach of her diabolical claws. So enraged was this ferocious
monster at the escape of my sister that she ground her fangs viciously
together, and vowed to take no pleasure in life until she held in her
devouring jaws the innocent little mouse which belonged to the mangled bit
of tail she even then clutched in her remorseless claws."
"Yes," said the old clock, "now that you recall the incident, I recollect
it well. I was here then, in this very corner, and I remember that I
laughed at the cat and chided her for her awkwardness. My reproaches
irritated her; she told me that a clock's duty was to run itself down,
_not_ to be depreciating the merits of others! Yes, I recall the
time; that cat's tongue is fully as sharp as her claws."
"Be that as it may," said the little mauve mouse, "it is a matter of
history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the cat
pined for Squeaknibble's life; it seemed as if that one little two-inch
taste of Squeaknibble's tail had filled the cat with a consuming passion,
or appetite, for the rest of Squeaknibble. So the cat waited and watched
and hunted and schemed and devised and did everything possible for a
cat--a cruel cat--to do in order to gain her murderous ends. One
night--one fatal Christmas eve--our mother had undressed the children for
bed, and was urging upon them to go to sleep earlier than usual, since she
fully expected that Santa Claus would bring each of them something very
palatable and nice before morning. Thereupon the little dears whisked
their cunning tails, pricked up their beautiful ears, and began telling
one another what they hoped Santa Claus would bring. One asked for a slice
of Roquefort, another for Neufchâtel, another for Sap Sago, and a fourth
for Edam; one expressed a preference for de Brie, while another hoped to
get Parmesan; one clamored for imperial blue Stilton, and another craved
the fragrant boon of Caprera. There were fourteen little ones then, and
consequently there were diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which
Santa Claus should best bring; still, there was, as you can readily
understand, an enthusiastic unanimity upon this point, namely, that the
gift should be cheese of some brand or other.
"'My dears,' said our mother, 'what matters it whether the boon which
Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec,
Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk? We should be content with
whatsoever Santa Glaus bestows, so long as it be cheese, disjoined from
all traps whatsoever, unmixed with Paris green, and free from glass,
strychnine, and other harmful ingredients. As for myself, I shall be
satisfied with a cut of nice, fresh Western reserve; for truly I recognize
in no other viand or edible half the fragrance or half the gustfulness to
be met with in one of these pale but aromatic domestic products. So run
away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus may find you sleeping.'